offshoot was Butte Creek. Weeping Woman fell in just above. But from that point the crack curved the wrong way, and Denver had an impatient desire to get up to the ceiling and correct the error. He closed his eyes again, groaning. "If I ever get off my back I'll sleep on my stomach the rest of my life."
Once he had thought this bedroom to be a pretty nice place. After the dreary hours in it he decided he had never seen a more barren room in all his days; and suddenly it occurred to him his own life was equally barren. What sort of a game had he been playing all these years—and where did it lead? What was he fighting for, why was he building up the ranch? Who cared, other than himself, whether he had a dime or a fortune? Always until now the day and its work had been sufficient. His own energy had carried him along, from the first flush of dawn until dark. Up and away in the saddle, riding the trails, standing over the hot brand fire, full in the brawl of the dusty, bellowing herds. Into town to watch his accounts, to meet with the Association, to drink and joke a while among men of his kind. And home to eat and sleep. That was all the ranch house meant—a place to go to and to depart from. Nothing more.
In such a day there was no time for reflection, no need of long brown thoughts. Nor was he a man given to introspection. His own vitality, his own love of rough life sufficed; the primitive pleasure of feeling the rain slash his cheeks or the sight of the sun exploding riotously into a crimson setting—these things were enough for a pagan. They had filled his day.
Until now. The house was too quiet, too empty. The cook's footfalls echoed too blankly. With a growing uneasiness he reflected that his own career was much the same—full of sounds echoing into blank corners. It surprised him to find he had blank corners. He thought he had done very well by himself. It surprised him to find this strange disquietude running through his body. Actually it was like hunger, a hunger for something he had never had—something he couldn't even place.
His turning thoughts skipped the gap, and he recalled the evenings he now and then spent at Leverage's. Jake Leverage seemed to mellow and take his ease inside the walls of that pleasantly warm and comfortable house. No blank corners there—none whatsoever. And in another abrupt jump Denver saw Eve standing at the door, smiling out of her steady eyes, the fragrance of perfume in her hair faintly crossing the shadowed porch to perplex him. A serene, boyish figure with lurking laughter about her; yet this was the Eve who had taken a gun to fire on Dann. Denver closed his fists and glowered at the ceiling.
"That pack of dogs has got to be wiped off the earth," he muttered. "They might have hurt her. I've been the Lord's worst fool to stand aside all this time and let Redmain get enough power in his hands to be able to do that. Leverage was right. It didn't make any difference to him if there was crooked influences back of the vigilante idea. He was fightin' to keep his women safe. Bein' married, bein' a father made him see that. I didn't. I'm just a half-wild rider, nothin' more. Good God, I wish I was up!"
His head was so tangled with all this thinking that he lost trace of what he was trying to unravel. He closed his eyes, and the extra exertion of the morning put him to sleep.
When he awoke, alert and startled, there was the sound of singing out in the big room. A woman singing. He had no need to guess; only Lola Monterey's voice carried that husky, infinitely sad pitch—only Lola had the power of throwing herself into words until the very air vibrated with her personality. The song was in Spanish, and the melody of it seemed to blend all the ancient wisdom of love and life and tragedy. It swayed hauntingly, fell to a whisper, and rose like a clear call. And suddenly broke off, to leave the silence bleak and tense. Denver lay immovable. A quick step tapped over the big room's floor. She spoke.
"David."
She was at his door, her hand brushing it lightly. Denver watched the knob, suspended between a desire to call and the grim need of being silent. But he never had the opportunity of deciding. Lola cried, "David!" again. The door flew open. She paused, tall and beautiful and supremely moved. Then she threw herself into the room and fell beside him, head on his chest, choking out her words.
"David—I sang to wherever you were! To call you back, my love! And then I knew you were not dead!"
One of the hands appeared in the door and motioned apologetically. "She jest wanted—"
"Get out of here," said Dave. He put his hand on the jet and shining head. Saying nothing for a while, knowing nothing ought to be said. The pound of her heart lessened; the trembling of her body died away, and it was as if she slept, hands tight on his shoulders. He had no idea how long a time passed, for his thoughts traveled the old bitter pathway backward, and he was lost in a memory that was fire and flame, laughter and quarrel—like sunlight flashing intermittently through storm clouds. Then Lola sprang up, tipped her chin; and through the film of tears her eyes were smiling.
"So I live always, David. From hurt to joy. Never even, never serene. Why did you do it—why did you?"
He shook his head. "I can't tell you, Lola. All I say now is that when you go out of this house you've got to carry yourself just the same as when you came in. Not by a single look or thought or word must you be changed. I'm publicly dead—and so I remain until—"
"There is only one reason," said Lola, whose eyes never left his face. "You hope to get Lou Redmain."
He had no reply. Lola spoke swiftly. "Lou is deadly."
"I'm not exactly skimmed milk, Lola. Wasn't there a time when you called me a hard man?"
"I know, but Lou never gave anybody a fair chance in all his life—except me. There's something in him that warps every good impulse. He will tell you he is your friend. He will actually mean to be honest and fair and straight. But after a little while he turns aside. I never realized that until I had thought back from the very beginning of when I'd known him. He tricked you up in the hills, didn't he? Dave, he will do it again. And you'll go straight ahead, as you always do, and—"
"Not with Redmain," grunted Denver. "I fight him as dirty as he fights me. I expect nothin' and I give nothin'."
She was silent a moment. Then: "Does Eve know—"
"Lord forgive me, no! She thinks I'm dead."
Very softly she added a question: "And how about me, David? Did it occur to you I might be hurt too?"
"I reckon I've always hurt you, Lola."
"The light of day," said she in a half whisper, "died out." But she shifted to gayety on the instant. "I must not carry on. Who wants to see Lola Monterey in tears? Only women who are loved can afford to show unhappiness. David, my dear, get well. You are scowling because you can't be on your feet, because you are not the old domineering David Denver."
"Not sure," he mused. "A man does some powerful thinkin', flat on his back. The little round world don't look the same. Maybe I've been a fool. Maybe I've rode alone too long. It's lonely."
"Then there is hope for you," said she, her red lips dimpling at the corners. "And perhaps some hope even for me." Leaning swiftly down she kissed him. "For old times, David. Be good."
"You've got to forget I'm alive," he warned her. "You've got to hide your feelings."
"What have I been an actress for all my life? Isn't that just what I always must do—seem sad when I'm so happy I want to cry out, and seem glad when there's nothing in me but an ache?"
She went out, trailing grace and vivid color. And the room was again four shabby walls.
Doc Williamson, returning in the late afternoon, found his patient locked in gray rebellion.
