The Trail Horde, Charles Alden Seltzer [read out loud books .txt] 📗

horse. A Two Diamond man performed that service for him, and for Singleton. While Warden and Singleton were stamping their feet in an effort to restore circulation, the Two Diamond man called to them from the far end of the stable:

"You run into Miss Della?"

Warden wheeled toward the man. "What do you mean, Lefty? What about Miss Della? Isn't she at the ranchhouse?"

"She rode away about three hours ago—on that big roan of hers. Went to town, most likely. She didn't say. I reckoned that if she had gone to town, you'd have run into her."

Warden ran stiffly to the ranchhouse, where he came upon Aunt Hannah in the kitchen.

"Where's Della?" he demanded, excitedly.

The woman looked at Warden in mild surprise.

"Why, didn't she come with you, Mr. Warden? She told me she intended to." And then her face blanched at the wild excitement Warden betrayed.

"She isn't with you—you didn't meet her? Oh, she'll be frozen to death in this terrible storm!"

"Damn you!" cursed Warden, gripping the woman's arm until she cried out in pain; "didn't I tell you not to let her go alone—anywhere?"

He released the woman and plunged out, running blindly back to the stable. He collided with Singleton at the stable door. His face was ghastly, his eyes bulging.

"Della's gone, Singleton!" he gasped. "She went to town. For God's sake, get those saddles on again! We've got to go back!"

"Warden, it can't be done," said Singleton in a low voice; "you'd freeze to death before you went a mile. There ain't any man can face that storm an' live. Man," he added when Warden made a violent gesture of impatience; "use your reason. We've just come five miles, with the wind at our backs—an' we're half froze. Lefty just told me that Miss Della left about three hours ago. If that's the case she's likely in town, snug an' warm, somewheres. We'd ought to have nosed around a little before we left, but we didn't, an' mebbe she rode right by your place, thinkin' to stop in on the way back. You left early, you know. Anyway, Warden, if she's in town she'll stay there till the storm is over—snug an' warm. And if she didn't go to town there wouldn't be no use lookin' for her. Why, man, look out there! you can't see your hand before you!"

Warden raged insanely, stalking back and forth through the stable; and finally to the ranchhouse again, where he bitterly arraigned Aunt Hannah. But in the end he stayed in the ranchhouse, close beside a window, out of which he watched until the night came to shut off his view of the great, white world.

Over at the Circle L ranchhouse were other anxious watchers—men whose steady eyes held a haunting gleam of worry, and whose rugged faces grew grim and long as the days passed and the storm did not abate. From their bunkhouse they watched, day and night, for the end; their horses ready, heavy clothing at hand for a plunge into the white waste that stretched on all sides of them. Had they known which way Lawler had gone when he left the Circle L they would have searched for him despite the frigid danger that gripped the world. But Lawler had gone, leaving no word; and there was nothing the men could do.

Through a window in the Circle L ranchhouse anxious eyes peered also—those of a gray-haired woman with a kindly, gentle face into which, as the long days passed, came lines that had not been there before. And yet in the watching eyes was a gleam of hope—of calm confidence in the big son who was somewhere in the white waste—a conviction that he was safe, that he would survive and return to her.

CHAPTER XXIII A WOMAN'S WILES

From the ceiling of the cabin Lawler had suspended a spare blanket. It hung between the two tiers of bunks, thus providing a certain privacy for both Miss Wharton and Lawler.

Lawler had been scrupulously considerate, and with a delicacy that must have earned her applause—had she been serious-minded—he had sought to seem unaware or indifferent to the many inevitable intimacies forced upon them by the nature of their association.

He knew, however, that the girl was secretly laughing at him. Certain signs were convincing. On the first night of their enforced joint occupancy of the cabin, she had silently watched him tack the blanket to the ceiling; and though she had said nothing, he had noted a gleam in her eyes which had made him wonder if he should not have waited until she suggested it.

At other times he felt her gaze upon him—her eyes always glowing with the suggestion of silent mirth. She seemed to be amused over the delicacy he exhibited—to be wondering at it. Whether she appreciated it or not he did not know, or care. For he had noted other things that had increased his contempt of her. She was betraying absolutely no perturbation over her enforced stay in the cabin with him. On the contrary, her manner gave him the impression that she was enjoying herself and not thinking of the future. She was contented with the present.

Moreover, he could not fail to be aware of her interest in him; for the many signs were infallible. Glances, the intonations of her voice, a way she had of standing close to him, of touching his hands or his shoulders—all was evidence of the guile he had detected in her, convincing him that she thought him desirable, and that she had decided to win him.

But vanity in Lawler had long since been ruthlessly overwhelmed by the serious business of life. He had never had time—in his later years—to yield to the fatuous imaginings of youth. He had lived a rough, hard life, in which values were computed by the rule of sheer worth—a life that had taught him that performance, and not appearances, must be the standard by which all men and women must ultimately be judged.

Lawler was not flattered by Della Wharton's feminine blandishments. He was grimly amused—when he was not disgusted; though he continued to treat her with the utmost courtesy and gentleness, trying to keep her from divining his emotions.

Also, he had tried to lessen the dread monotony that encompassed them. There was nothing they could do. Beyond the mechanical tasks of eating, or of cooking and sleeping, of plunging outside to the water hole for water, or of caring for the horses and bringing wood for the fire, there was no diversion except that of talking. And, as the days dragged and the storm did not abate, even talking began to irk Lawler. There would be periods during which they would be silent, listening to the howling and moaning of the wind—hours at a stretch when the cold outside would seem to threaten, to tighten its constricting circle, when a great awe oppressed them; when it seemed that the whole world was snowbound, and that it would keep piling over and around them and all life would be extinct.

It was on the morning of the tenth day that Lawler began to notice that the dread monotony and the white, ever-present menace were beginning to affect the girl. Her face was white and in her eyes was a haunting gleam of fear. He noted how she clasped her hands; how she nervously twined and untwined her fingers, and how she kept pushing her chair toward him, as though for protection.

A swift sympathy seized him; he laughed, lowly, reaching out a hand and laying it lightly on her shoulder as she started at the sound of his voice and drew a quick, startled breath.

"Oh!" she said; "will it never end?"

"It can't last much longer, Miss Wharton," he smiled. "It has held on longer, now, than it should at this season."

The sound of his voice reassured her—it was calm, quiet, confident. Some color came back into her face, and she smiled.

"I believe I was beginning to get the doldrums," she said.

"That wouldn't be startling, Miss Wharton. Life in a line camp does become monotonous. It is to be expected. It becomes tragic. Also, it has a humorous side—viewed from a distance—chiefly afterward. In the fall, men go into line camps fast friends. We always pair them that way. Any other method would be fatal, for when the men come out in the spring they invariably are deadly enemies. You can imagine what would happen if we sent into a line cabin two men who did not think well of each other."

She shuddered and snuggled closer to him, letting her head fall to his shoulder. A pulse of pity stirred him, and he permitted her head to stay where she had laid it, while he gently smoothed her hair.

He would have done as much for any woman in her position; the emotion that filled him was entirely that of pity. She was vain and frivolous—employing every artifice, but she was a woman despite that, and entitled, in the present circumstances, to what comfort and sympathy he could give her.

However, to Della, the moment of victory was at hand. She had been a trifle worried just an instant before; and the white world outside had seemed to threaten to rush in and crush out her life—the life she loved so well—and she had been just a little afraid.

But she had not been too frightened to note Lawler's sympathy—the quick glow in his eyes, and the atmosphere of tenderness that suddenly seemed to envelop him. It was surrender, she thought, the breaking down of that quiet, steady reserve in him which had filled her with resentment.

She caught his free hand and held it tightly, while she turned her head so that she could look into his eyes.

"Lawler," she said then, in a low voice; "I lied to you."

"Lied?" He stiffened, dropped his hand from her head and looked straight at her.

She laughed, lightly. "Yes; I lied, Lawler. The day we met in Willets—you remember? Well, I loved you from that moment, Lawler. You looked so big and fine and strong. I just couldn't help it. I did overhear Gary Warden telling those two men to cut the fence; and I didn't want them to set all those cattle adrift. But I didn't intend to come here. I started out to find your ranch—the Circle L. I thought I would find you there, and I knew I wouldn't be able to go back to the Two Diamond right away—that you would have to keep me at your house until the storm was over. But I got lost, and when I saw the light in the window, here, I knew I had better go toward it. But I came because I wanted to be near you, Lawler. And now—" She laughed and tried to draw him toward her.

"Of course you are not in earnest, Miss Wharton," he said, slowly, his voice grave. "Such a confession——"

"It's the truth," she declared, shamelessly, holding tightly to him. "It is simple, isn't it? I love you—and I came to you. I came, because I had to—I wanted to. I had been thinking of you—dreaming of you. You were in my mind all the time.

"And you have been acting dreadfully distant. I had begun to believe that you didn't like me—that you wished I hadn't come——"

"That would be the truth, Miss Wharton," he interrupted. He grimly walked to the fireplace, standing with his back to it, looking at her. He was wondering how he could tell her that she had disgraced her sex; how he could, without being brutal, tell her how he abhorred women who pursued men.

Despite the impulse of charity that moved him, he could not veil the grim disgust that had seized him. It showed in the curve of his lips and in his eyes.

And Miss Wharton saw it. She had been watching him narrowly when he walked away from her; she was looking at him now, in resentful inquiry, her