Joan’s eyes lit with a startled look as she listened to the man’s words. They made her wonder at the change in him. Had that terrible cataclysm impressed him with a new view of the life by which he was surrounded? It might be. Then, suddenly, a fresh thought occurred to her. A memory rose up and confronted her, and a sudden joyous anxiety thrilled her.
“Do you really think that, Buck?” she cried eagerly. “Do you? Do you?”
“Things seem changed, little gal,” he said, half ruefully. “Seems to me the past week’s been years an’ years long.” He laughed. “Maybe I got older. Maybe I think those things now, same as most folks think ’em—when they get older.”
But Joan was full of her own thought, and she went on eagerly, passing his reasons by.
“Listen, Buck, when Aunt Mercy told me all my troubles, she told me something else. But it seemed so small by the side of those other things, that I—that I almost forgot it. What was it? Her words? Yes, yes, I asked her, was there no hope for me? No means by which I could be saved from my fate? And she said that my only hope lay in finding a love that was stronger than death. These were her words——
“‘I loved your father with a passion nothing, no disaster could destroy. Go you, child, and find you such a love. Go you and find a love so strong that no disaster can kill it. And maybe life may still have some compensations for you, maybe it will lift the curse from your suffering shoulders. It—it is the only thing in the world that is stronger than disaster. It is the only thing in the world that is stronger than—death.’”
Her words dropped to a whisper as she finished speaking, and she waited, like a criminal awaiting sentence, for the man’s judgment on them. Her eyes were downcast, and her rounded bosom was stirring tumultuously. What would he say? What would he think? And yet she must have told him. Was he not the one person in the world who held her fate in his hands? Yes, he must know all there was in her mind. And she knew in her heart that he would understand as she wanted him to understand.
Buck suddenly reined Cæsar in, and brought him to a standstill, turning him about so that he looked back upon the world they were leaving behind them forever. In silence Joan responded to his movement, and her horse closed up against the other.
“Guess your auntie’s notions were all queer, so queer they’re mighty hard to understand,” he said reflectively. “But seems to me she’s hit a big truth some way. That curse is sure lifted—sure, sure.”
He pointed at the grim outline of Devil’s Hill, now fading in the distance.
“Look ther’ yonder. Yonder’s the disaster, yonder is—death. An’ we—we’ve sure passed through it. She’s right. Our love is stronger than disaster—stronger than death.”
Then he turned and gazed ardently into her upturned face. “Guess we sure found that love together, little gal. An’ it’s ours to keep forever an’ ever. Ther’ ain’t no other love comin’ around. I’m yours fer jest so long as I have life, an’ you—wal, you’re jest my whole, whole world.”
He leant toward her, his dark eyes shining with his great love. Reaching out he drew her toward him, his strong, protecting arm encircling her slim waist.
“Say, little gal,” he went on urgingly, “we’re goin’ right on now to Leeson Butte. Ther’s a passon ther’ who can fix us right. An’ when that’s done, an’ ther’ ain’t nuthin’ in the world can come between us, why, then I sure got two mighty strong hands yearnin’ to git busy handin’ you those things which can make a woman’s life easy, an’—an’ happy. Will you come, little Joan? Will you sure come?”
His eager young face was close to hers, and his deep breath fanned her warm cheek. She gave him no verbal reply. At that moment she had no words. But she turned toward him. And, as she turned, her lips met his in one long, passionate kiss. He needed no other reply. She was giving him herself. It was the soul of the woman speaking.
Some moments later their horses were again heading for Leeson Butte. The eyes of the girl were shining with a happiness such as she had never known before, and Buck sat with head erect, and the light of a great purpose in his eyes. For a while they rode thus. Then the man’s eyes twinkled with a sudden thought. For a moment he glanced at the golden head so close beside him. Then he smiled.
“Say, little Joan,” he cried, “guess you’re that gal-hero after all.”
Joan responded to his look.
“How?” she inquired, with a heightened color.
“Why, jest git a look at me. Me! You’re goin’ to marry me! I’d sure say you’ve a heap more grit than any gal-hero I’ve heard tell of.”
Joan surveyed his unkempt figure,—the torn clothing, his unshaven face; the bandages made of her own undergarments, which he still wore,—and the happy smile on her young face broadened.
“Well, you see, Buck, dear,” she said joyously, “you can’t be a proper hero if you don’t carry the scars of battle on you.” She sighed contentedly. “No, I’m afraid it doesn’t need much ‘grit’ to marry you.”
Transcriber’s Note:
Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters’ errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author’s words and intent.