Part 13 (1/2)
Suddenly gaining what seemed to be a plateau, she wheeled and waited the coming of this possible friend or foe. The thudding of hoofs through the inferno of darkness stopped, as the rider below considered the latest move of the horseman above. They were so near that Judith could hear the labored breathing of the sweating horse. The blackness of the night had become a tangible thing. The towering mountains were one piece with the gaping precipice, the trail, the scrub pines, the gauntlet on her hand.
The horse below resumed its stumbling gait. Judith crowded Dolly close to the rocky wall. If the chance comrade of the wilderness should pa.s.s her by in the darkness-G.o.d speed him!
”What the devil are you blocking the trail for?” sung out a voice from the darkness. At sound of it Judith's heart stopped beating. The voice was Peter Hamilton's.
XI
The Cabin In The Valley
And Judith, taken unawares by the unexpected turn of things, comforted as a lost child that is found, told all her feeling for him in the way she called his name. The easy tenderness of the man awoke; his senses swayed to the magic of her voice, the mystery of the night, the shadow world in which they two, 'twixt earth and sky, were alone. They rode without speaking. Peter's hand sought hers, and all her woman's terror of the desolation, her fear of the vague terrors of the dreadful night, spoke in her answering pressure. It was as if the desert had given them to each other as they groped through the silent darkness. In the great company of earth, sky, silence, and this great-hearted woman, Peter grew conscious of a real thrill. There were depths to life-vast, still depths; this woman's unselfish love for him made him realize them. He felt his soul sweeping out on the great tide of things. Farther and farther it swept; his patron saint, caution, beckoning frantically from the receding sh.o.r.e, was miles behind. ”Judith!” he said, and he scarce recognized his own voice.
”Judith!” he struggled as a swimmer in a drowning clutch. Then his patron saint threw him a life-line and he saved the situation.
”Judith!” he said, a third time, and now he knew his voice. It was the voice of the man who tilted at life picturesquely in a broad-brimmed hat, who loved his darling griefs and fitted them as a Rembrandt fits its background. And still, in the same voice, the voice he knew, he said: ”I feel as if we had died and our souls were meeting. You know Aldrich's exquisite lines:
”Somewhere in desolate, wind-swept s.p.a.ce, In twilight land-no man's land- Two hurrying shapes met face to face And bade each other stand.
”'And who are you?' cried one, agape, Shuddering in the gloaming light.
I know not,' said the other shape, 'I only died last night.'”
”'I only died last night!'” she repeated the line, slowly, significantly.
In her questioning she forgot the night, the desolation, the presence of the man. Had she died last night? Had youth, the joy of living, her infinite capacity for love, had they died when Peter, with the ugly haste of the man without a nice sense of the time that should elapse between the old and the new love, had spurred away cheerfully at the beck of another woman? And now the desert, this earth-mother as she called it, in the Indian way, had given him back to her, thrown them together as driftwood in the still ocean of s.p.a.ce. She drew a long breath, the breath of one waking from an anguished dream. A wild, unreasoning gladness woke in her heart, the joy of living swept her back again to life. She had not died last night, she was riding through the wilderness with Peter.
”Look!” she whispered. The sky had lost its forbidding blackness. The sharp notches of the mountains, faintly outlined in white, undulated through an eternity of s.p.a.ce. Venus hung in the west, burning softly as a shaded lamp. The trail they climbed seemed to end in her pale yellow light.
Peter had saved the situation, but the wild beauty of the night stirred in him that gift of silvery speech that was ever his tribute to the s.e.x, rather than the woman. He bent towards Judith. A loosened strand of her hair blew across his cheek. The breakneck ride to Kitty was already the madness of a dead and gone incarnation. He pointed to the pale star, and told her it was the omen of their destiny; the formless blackness through which they had groped was the way of life, but for such as were not condemned to eternal darkness Venus held high her lamp and they scaled the heights.
And Judith, listening, found her heart a battle-field of love and hate.
”Were women dogs, that men should play with them in idle moods, caress them, and fling them out for other toys?” she demanded of herself, even while the tones of his voice melted her innermost being to thankfulness for this hour that he was wholly hers.
Gayly, with ready turns of speech and s.n.a.t.c.hes of song, trolled in his musical barytone, Peter rode through the night, even as he rode through life, a Sir Knight of the Joyous Heart, unbrushed by the wing of sorrow, loving his pale griefs for the values they gave the picture. And Judith understood by reason of that exquisite perception that was hers in all matters pertaining to him, and, knowing, only loved the more.
Down the valley came the sharp yelp of a coyote, and in a moment the towering crags had taken it up, the echo repeating it and giving it back to the valley, where the coyote barked again at the shadow of his voice.
The night was full of the eerie laughter. Peter put a restraining hand on Dolly's bridle, and, waiting for the coyote to stop, called Judith's name, and all the mountains made music of it. The echo sang the old Hebrew name as if it had been a psalm. Peter's voice gave it to the mountains joyously, but the mountains gave it back in the minor. And Judith was reminded of the soft, singing syllables that her mother, in the Indian way, had made of her daughter's Indian name. The remembrance tugged at her heart. In her joy at seeing Peter she had forgotten that the errand that had brought her was an errand of life and death-life and death for her brother!
But Peter's ready enthusiasms pressed him hard. Surely love-making was the business of such a night. ”Ah, Judith, G.o.ddess of the heights, if I could sing your name like the mountains, would you love me a little?”
For his pains he had a flash of white teeth in a smile that recalled his first acquaintance with Kitty, the sort of smile one would give to a ”nice boy” when his manoeuvres were a trifle obvious. ”Not if you sang my name as the chorus of all the Himalayas and the Rockies and Andes, and with the fire of all their volcanoes and the beauty of their snows and the strength of all their hills, for it's not my way to love a little!”
He bent towards her; to brush her cheek lightly as they rode was but to imply his appreciation of the scene as a bit of chiaroscuro, the panorama of the desert night, eternal romance typified by the man and woman scaling the heights, the G.o.ddess of love lighting them on their way by her flaming torch. But Judith, who said little because she felt much, was in no mood to brook such dalliance, and, urging the mare sharply, she cantered down the divide at peril of life and limb. Peter, cursing the heavy-footed beast he rode, came stumbling after.
Judith rode wildly through the night, leaving Peter laps behind, to beseech, to prophesy dire happening if she should slip, and to scramble after, as best he might, on the heavy-footed beast he repudiated, with all his ancestors, as oxen, to the fourth generation. But the woman kept her pace. She had stern questions to put to herself, and they were likely to have truer answers if Peter were elsewhere than riding beside her. Whither was he going? They had met casually on a trail known to few honest men. It led over a spur of the Wind River to a sort of no man's land, the hiding-place of horse and cattle thieves. She had gone to warn her brother. Could he be going there-She could not bring herself to finish.
Her heart was divided against itself. Within it were fought again the red and the white man's battles, bitterly, and to the finish. And now the white man, with his open warfare, won, and all her love rose up and scourged her little faith. She would wait on the trail for Peter, penitent and ashamed. And while she waited suspicions bred of her Indian blood stirred distrustfully, and she told herself that her mother's daughter made a worthy champion of the ways of white men. Did Hamilton hunt her brother gallowsward, making merry with her the meantime? He had not even been courteously concerned as to where she was going when they met on the divide. They had met and ridden together as casually as if it had been the most natural thing for them both to be taking the horse-thief trail as a summer evening's ride. And she had not thought to wonder at his possible destination, when the man from whom she rode in terror through the night proved to be Peter, because the lesser question of his errand had been swallowed up in the greater miracle of his presence.
She was by this time well down the divide. The temperature had risen perceptibly on the down grade. The heat of the plains had already mingled with the cool hill air; the heights, where Venus kept her love vigil, were already past. Judith gave Dolly a breathing spell, herself lounging easily meanwhile. She knew how to take her ease in the saddle as well as any cow-puncher on the range.
”The Hayoka has dominion over me,” she mused, with Indian fatalism. ”As well resign myself to sorrow with dignity. Hayoka, Hayo-ka!” and she began to croon softly a hymn of propitiation to the Hayoka, the Sioux G.o.d of contrariety. According to the legends, he sat naked and fanned himself in a Dakota blizzard and huddled, s.h.i.+vering, over a fire in the heat of summer. Likewise the Hayoka cried for joy and laughed for sorrow.