Part 43 (1/2)
She turned a strange face, but he knew her eyes, saw the swift transition, the darkening, widening. How white she turned! What was this! Agony in recognition! A swift unuttered blaze of joy that changed terror. He saw her lips frame his name, but no sound came.
”_Lucy_!” he cried. ”What does this mean? Where are you going?”
She could not speak. But under her pallor the red of shame began to burn. Pan saw it, and he recognized it. Mutely he gazed at the girl as her head slowly sank. Then he asked hoa.r.s.ely: ”What's it mean?”
”Pard, take a peep round heah,” drawled Blinky in slow cool speech that seemed somehow to carry menace.
Pan wheeled. He had the shock of his life. He received it before his whirling thoughts recorded the reason. It was as if he had to look twice. d.i.c.k Hardman! Fas.h.i.+onably and wonderfully attired! Pan got no farther than sight of the frock coat, elaborate vest, flowing tie, and high hat. Then for a second he went blind.
When the red film cleared he saw Hardman pa.s.s him, saw the pallor of his cheek, the quivering of muscle, the strained protruding of his eye.
He got one foot on the stage step when Pan found release for his voice.
”_Hardman_!”
That halted the youth, as if it had been a rope, but he never turned his head. The shuffling of feet inside the coach hinted of more than restlessness. There was a scattering of men from behind Pan.
He leaped at Hardman and spun him round.
”Where are you going?”
”Frisco, if it's--any of your business,” replied Hardman incoherently.
”Looks like I'll make it my business,” returned Pan menacingly. He could not be himself here. The shock had been too great. His mind seemed stultified.
”Hardman--do you mean--do you think--you're taking _her_--away?”
queried Pan, as if strangling.
”Ha!” returned Hardman with an upfling of head, arrogant, vain for all his fear. ”I know it.... She's my wife!”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Destruction, death itself seemed to overthrow Panhandle Smith's intensity of life. He reeled on his feet. For a moment all seemed opaque, with blurred images. There was a crash, crash, crash of something beating at his ears.
How long this terrible oblivion possessed Pan he did not know. But at Hardman's move to enter the stage, he came back a million times more alive than ever he had been--possessed of devils.
With one powerful lunge he jerked Hardman back and flung him sprawling into the dust.
”There! Once more!...” cried Pan, panting. ”Remember--the schoolhouse? That fight over Lucy Blake! d.a.m.n your skunk soul!...
Get up, _if_ you've got a gun!”
Hardman leaned on his hand. His high hat had rolled away. His broadcloth suit was covered with dust. But he did not note these details of his abas.e.m.e.nt. Like a craven thing fascinated by a snake he had his starting eyes fixed upon Pan, and his face was something no man could bear to see.
”Get up--_if_ you've got a gun!” ordered Pan.
”I've no--gun--” he replied, in husky accents.
”Talk, then. Maybe I can keep from killing you.”
”For G.o.d's sake--don't shoot me. I'll tell you anything.”