The Collected Western Classics & Adventures Novels. William MacLeod RaineЧитать онлайн книгу.
looked down on a land magically flooded with chill moonlight, the girl found that the transformation of Wyoming into this sense of silvery loveliness had toned the distant mountain line to an indefinite haze that made it impossible for her to distinguish one peak from another.
She wandered for hours, hungry and tired and frightened, though this last she would not confess.
“There's nothing to be afraid of,” she told herself over and over. “Even if I have to stay out all night it will do me no harm. There's no need to be a baby about it.”
But try to evade it as she would, there was something in the loneliness of this limitless stretch of hilltop that got on her nerves. The very shadows cast by the moonshine seemed too fantastic for reality. Something eerie and unearthly hovered over it all, and before she knew it a sob choked up her throat.
Vague fancies filtered through her mind, weird imaginings born of the night in a mind that had been swept from the moorings of reason. So that with no sensible surprise there came to her in that moonlit sea of desert the sound of a voice a clear sweet tenor swelling bravely in song with the very ecstacy of pathos.
It was the prison song from “Il Trovatore,” and the desolation of its lifted appeal went to the heart like water to the roots of flowers.
Ah! I have sigh'd to rest me.
Deep in the quiet grave.
The girl's sob caught in her breast, stilled with the awe of that heavenly music. So for an instant she waited before it was borne in on her that the voice was a human one, and that the heaven from which it descended was the hilltop above her.
A wild laugh, followed by an oath, cut the dying echoes of the song. She could hear the swish of a quirt falling again and again, and the sound of trampling hoofs thudding on the hard, sun-cracked ground. Startled, she sprang to her feet, and saw silhouetted against the skyline a horse and his rider fighting for mastery.
The battle was superb while it lasted. The horse had been a famous outlaw, broken to the saddle by its owner out of the sheer passion for victory, but there were times when its savage strength rebelled at abject submission, and this was one of them. It swung itself skyward, and came down like a pile-driver, camel-backed, and without joints in the legs. Swiftly it rose again lunging forward and whirling in the air, then jarred down at an angle. The brute did its malevolent best, a fury incarnate. But the ride, was a match, and more than a match, for it. He sat the saddle like a Centaur, with the perfect: unconscious grace of a born master, swaying in his seat as need was, and spurring the horse to a blinder fury.
Sudden as had been the start, no less sudden was the finish of the battle. The bronco pounded to a stiff-legged standstill, trembled for a long minute like an aspen, and sank to a tame surrender, despite the sharp spurs roweling its bloody sides.
“Ah, my beauty. You've had enough, have you?” demanded the cruel, triumphant voice of the rider. “You would try that game, would you? I'll teach you.”
“Stop spurring that horse, you bully.”
The man stopped, in sheer amazement at this apparition which had leaped out of the ground almost at his feet. His wary glance circled the hills to make sure she was alone.
“Ce'tainly, ma'am. We're sure delighted to meet up with you. Ain't we, Two-step?”
For himself, he spoke the simple truth. He lived in his sensations, spurring himself to fresh ones as he had but just now been spurring his horse to sate the greed of conquest in him. And this high-spirited, gallant creature—he could feel her vital courage in the very ring of her voice—offered a rare fillip to his jaded appetite. The dusky, long-lashed eyes which always give a woman an effect of beauty, the splendid fling of head, and the piquant, finely cut features, with their unconscious tale of Brahmin caste, the long lines of the supple body, willowy and yet plump as a partridge—they went to his head like strong wine. Here was an adventure from the gods—a stubborn will to bend, the pride of a haughty young beauty to trail in the dust, her untamed heart to break if need be. The lust of the battle was on him already. She was a woman to dream about,
“Sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes,
Or Cytherea's breath,”
he told himself exultantly as he slid from his horse and stood bowing before her.
And he, for his part, was a taking enough picture of devil-may-care gallantry gone to seed. The touch of jaunty impudence in his humility, not less than the daring admiration of his handsome eyes and the easy, sinuous grace of his flexed muscles, labeled him what he was—a man bold and capable to do what he willed, and a villain every inch of him.
Said she, after that first clash of stormy eyes with bold, admiring ones:
“I am lost—from the Lazy D ranch.”
“Why, no, you're found,” he corrected, white teeth flashing in a smile.
“My motor ran out of gasolene this afternoon. I've been”—there was a catch in her voice—“wandering ever since.”
“You're played out, of course, and y'u've had no supper,” he said, his quiet close gaze on her.
“Yes, I'm played out and my nerve's gone.” She laughed a little hysterically. “I expect I'm hungry and thirsty, too, though I hadn't noticed it before.”
He whirled to his saddle, and had the canteen thongs unloosed in a moment. While she drank he rummaged from his saddle-bags some sandwiches of jerky and a flask of whiskey. She ate the sandwiches, he the while watching her with amused sympathy in his swarthy countenance.
“You ain't half-bad at the chuck-wagon, Miss Messiter,” he told her.
She stopped, the sandwich part way to her mouth. “I don't remember your face. I've met so many people since I came to the Lazy D. Still, I think I should remember you.”
He immediately relieved of duty her quasi apology. “You haven't seen my face before,” he laughed, and, though she puzzled over the double meaning that seemed to lurk behind his words and amuse him, she could not find the key to it.
It was too dark to make out his features at all clearly, but she was sure she had seen him before or somebody that looked very much like him.
“Life on the range ain't just what y'u can call exciting,” he continued, “and when a young lady fresh from back East drops among us while sixguns are popping, breaks up a likely feud and mends right neatly all the ventilated feudists it's a corollary to her fun that's she is going to become famous.”
What he said was true enough. The unsolicited notoriety her exploit had brought upon her had been its chief penalty. Garbled versions of it had appeared with fake pictures in New York and Chicago Sunday supplements, and all Cattleland had heard and discussed it. No matter into what unfrequented canon she rode, some silent cowpuncher would look at her as they met with admiring eyes behind which she read a knowledge of the story. It was a lonely desolate country, full of the wide deep silences of utter emptiness, yet there could be no footfall but the whisper of it was bruited on the wings of the wind.
“Do you know where the Lazy D ranch is from here?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Can you take me home?”
“I surely can. But not to-night. You're more tired than y'u know. We'll camp here, and in the mo'ning we'll hit the trail bright and early.”
This did not suit her at all. “Is it far to the Lazy D?” she inquired anxiously.
“Every inch of forty miles. There's a creek not more than two hundred yards from here. We'll stay there till morning,” he made answer in a matter of course voice, leading the way to the place he had mentioned.
She followed, protesting. Yet though it was not in accord with her civilized sense of fitness, she knew that what he proposed was the common sense solution. She was tired and worn out, and she could see that his broncho had traveled far.
Having reached the bank of the creek, he unsaddled,