a moment the sun shone down upon the wondering group. The clouds had broken completely, and were scattering in every direction as though eager to escape observation after their recent shameful display. No one seemed to think of moving out into the rapidly warming open. They were content to gather about Buck’s tall figure and gape down at the beautiful face of the girl lying in his arms.
It was Beasley Melford who first became practical.
“She’s alive, anyway,” he said. “Sort o’ stunned. Mebbe it’s the lightnin’.”
Pete turned, a withering glance upon his foxy face.
“Lightnin’ nuthin’,” he cried scornfully. “If she’d bin hit she’d ha’ bin black an’ dead. Why, she – she ain’t even brown. She’s white as white.” His voice became softer, and he was no longer addressing the ex-Churchman. “Did y’ ever see sech skin – so soft an’ white? An’ that ha’r, my word! I’d gamble a dollar her eyes is blue – ef she’d jest open ’em.”
He reached out a great dirty hand to touch the beautiful whiteness of the girl’s throat with a caressing movement, but instantly Buck’s voice, sharp and commanding, stayed his action.
“Quit that!” he cried. “Ke’p your durned hands to yourself,” he added, with a strange hoarseness.
Pete’s eyes lit angrily.
“Eh? What’s amiss?” he demanded. “Guess I ain’t no disease.”
Beasley chuckled across at him, and the sound of his mirth infuriated Buck. He understood the laugh and the meaning underlying it.
“Buck turned wet nurse,” cried the ex-Churchman, as he beheld the sudden flush on the youngster’s face.
“You can ke’p your durned talk,” Buck cried. “You Beasley – and the lot of you,” he went on recklessly. “She’s no ord’nary gal; she’s – she’s a lady.”
Curly and Ike nodded agreement.
But Beasley, whatever his fears of the storm, understood the men of his world. Nor had he any fear of them, and Buck’s threat only had the effect of rousing the worst side of his nature, at all times very near the surface.
“Lady? Psha’! Write her down a woman, they’re all the same, only dressed different. Seems to me it’s better they’re all just women. An’ Pete’s good enough for any woman, eh, Pete? She’s just a nice, dandy bit o’ soft flesh an’ blood, eh, Pete? Guess you like them sort, eh, Pete?”
The man’s laugh was a hideous thing to listen to, but Pete was not listening. Buck heard, and his dark face went ghastly pale, even though his eyes were fixed on the beautiful face with its closed, heavily-lashed eyes. Pete’s attention was held by the delicate contours of her perfect figure and the gaping, bedraggled white shirt-waist, where the soft flesh of her fair bosom showed through, and the delicate lace and ribbons of her undergarments were left in full view.
No one offered Beasley encouragement and his laugh fell flat. And when Curly spoke it was to express something of the general thought.
“Wonder how she came here?” he said thoughtfully.
“Seems as though the storm had kind o’ dumped her down,” Abe Allinson admitted.
Again Beasley chuckled.
“Say, was ther’ ever such a miracle o’ foolishness as you fellers? You make me laff – or tired, or something. Wher’d she come from? Ain’t the Padre sold his farm?” he demanded, turning on Buck. “Ain’t he sold it to a woman? An’ ain’t he expectin’ her along?”
Buck withdrew his eyes from the beautiful face, and looked up in answer to the challenge.
“Why, yes,” he said, his look suddenly hardening as he confronted Beasley’s face. “I had forgotten. This must surely be Miss – Miss Rest. That’s the name Mrs. Ransford, the old woman at the farm, said. Rest.” He repeated the name as though it were pleasant to his ears.
“Course,” cried Curly cheerfully. “That’s who it is – sure.”
“Rest, eh? Miss – Rest,” murmured the preoccupied Pete. Then he added, half to himself, “My, but she’s a dandy! Ain’t – ain’t she a pictur’, ain’t she – ?”
Buck suddenly pushed him aside, and his action was probably rougher than he knew. But for some reason he did not care. For some reason he had no thought for any one but the fair creature lying in his arms. His head was throbbing with a strange excitement, and he moved swiftly toward the door, anxious to leave the inquisitive eyes of his companions behind him.
As he reached the door Beasley’s hateful tones arrested him.
“Say, you ain’t takin’ that pore thing up to the fort, are you?” he jeered.
Buck swung about with the swiftness of a panther. His eyes were ablaze with a cold fire.
“You rotten outlaw parson!” he cried.
He waited for the insult to drive home. Then when he saw the fury in the other’s face, a fury he intended to stir, he went on —
“Another insinuation like that an’ I’ll shoot you like the dog you are,” he cried, and without waiting for an answer he turned to the others. “Say, fellers,” he went on, “I’m takin’ this gal wher’ she belongs – down to the farm. I’m goin’ to hand her over to the old woman there. An’ if I hear another filthy suggestion from this durned skunk Beasley, what I said goes. It’s not a threat. It’s a promise, sure, an’ I don’t ever forgit my promises.”
Beasley’s face was livid, and he drew a sharp breath.
“I don’t know ’bout promises,” he said fiercely. “But you won’t find me fergittin’ much either.”
Buck turned to the door again and threw his retort over his shoulder.
“Then you sure won’t forgit I’ve told you what you are.”
“I sure won’t.”
Nor did Buck fail to appreciate the venom the other flung into his words. But he was reckless – always reckless. And he hurried through the doorway and strode off with his still unconscious burden.
CHAPTER VII
A SIMPLE MANHOOD
All thought of Beasley Melford quickly became lost in feelings of a deeper and stronger nature as Buck passed out into the open. His was not a nature to dwell unnecessarily upon the clashings of every-day life. Such pinpricks were generally superficial, to be brushed aside and treated without undue consideration until such time as some resulting fester might gather and drastic action become necessary. The fester had not yet gathered, therefore he set his quarrel aside for the time when he could give it his undivided attention.
As he strode away the world seemed very wide to Buck. So wide, indeed, that he had no idea of its limits, nor any desire to seek them. He preferred that his eyes should dwell only upon those things which presented themselves before a plain, wholesome vision. He had no desire to peer into the tainted recesses of any other life than that which he had always known. And in his outlook was to be witnessed the careful guidance of his friend, the Padre. Nor was his capacity stunted thereby, nor
