The riddle of Three-Way Creek

FOR the third time in his life Beelzebub was in the company of Molly’s pinto mare. The little creature was above herself. She was full of oats, and bored to extinction with the luxurious monotony of a barn to which she was quite unaccustomed. So she danced her way through the Gateway with a frivolity unbecoming her years, and her splendid companion looked on in dignified unconcern.

The morning was fresh. There was a nip in the air, which was calm with the promise of a later blazing day. The sun was rolling up the night mists, and with every passing moment fresh vistas of forest, and valley, and crag, were appearing through the thin grey of the lifting veil.

Molly had waited for nothing. She had risen that morning with the dawn, full of an intense yearning for the home that was hers, and the queer, disreputable old servant and friend for whom she entertained the gravest fears. Her anxiety was real. It was even a little more desperate than Blanche cared to see. So the older woman had urged her brother promptly.

Once beyond the barren crags of the Gateway, Jim and Molly were swallowed up by the forest. And somehow their earlier talk died out in harmony with the hush of their surroundings.

Jim’s whole thought was for the girl beside him. The meaning of their journey in his mind had little enough to do with Lightning, and the life or death of Andy McFardell. He knew well enough that they would find the farm to-day as he had found it yesterday. He had no hope that it would be otherwise. The trip in that respect was useless. It was worse than useless in so far as Molly’s peace of mind was concerned. Then it might undo so much that had already been accomplished. No. He felt it was all wrong. Yet the appeal of it was irresistible.

Molly wished to visit her home. Then Molly should do so. Molly desired to retake her place in those affairs of life which concerned her. So it must be. She was troubled. Well, his greatest desire was that he might be beside her to help her, to comfort her, to make clear to her that she was no longer alone, to face the life that had already treated her so hard; that, whatever chanced, whatever might befall the old man to whom she was so devoted, his own whole future was hers. He was hers—body and soul.

So he watched the girl as they rode through the shadowed forest beyond the Gateway. So he spoke ready words of comfort when her fears threatened to overwhelm her. He laughed her nightmare to scorn, and by sheer effort of will forced the return of her smile to her eyes. And through it all he knew he was fighting for himself as much as for her. Through it all he knew he was acting a lie. For, whatever Blanche believed, he had little enough hope that any of them would ever again set eyes on the grizzled creature, who, he felt certain, had set out on one final act of devotion.

They had long since breasted the hill overlooking the Gateway. At the summit Molly turned to gaze back on the blessed haven that had come to mean so much to her. And as she gazed a doubt flashed through her mind. Would she return to it? Would it be possible? Would not she be held at the farm to succour the man who was ready even to kill for her?

In that tense moment she cried out:

“Oh, I wish I could get it into my fool head I’d find him there cutting the harvest when I get home.”

“Don’t think about it, Molly,” Jim said gently. “There’s things no wish or act of ours can alter.” He smiled. “I guess Lightning’s one of ’em.”

Molly lifted her reins, and her impatient mare moved hastily on.

The last of the hill mists had been swept away. The great August sun was scorching the grass and woodlands with its brazen rays. It was a wide, rugged world, encircled by hills whose snow-capped summits reached up to the very clouds. It was a glorious arena, miles in extent, with lesser hills and stretches of forest littered throughout its length and breadth.

They kept to the bank of the creek which flowed eastward. They hugged its course over a trail that had become almost marked by the traffic of their horses. And an hour’s riding brought them to the point where they must leave the soft, springy soil of the creek bank and take to the bed of the stream itself. It was here that the whole nature of the country abruptly changed. It was the beginning of the gorge, which only terminated at the dark passage of the tunnel.

Molly hesitated as Jim indicated the water.

“It’s easy,” he said, with a smile. “I guess your pinto knows it, if her memory’s good. Maybe you don’t. Those grey eyes of yours couldn’t see a thing, Molly, when I carried you up this stream.”

Molly gazed downstream at the narrowing hills that lined it on either side. She shook her head.

“No,” she said quickly. “And I sort of don’t want to remember.” Then, in flat contradiction, she asked: “You—you carried me along—this?”

“Sure.”

“My!”

Molly’s eyes were smiling. For one moment her nightmare had left her, and a soft light shone in her eyes.

“I must have been mighty heavy,” she said.

Then, almost at once, she frowned. Again the purpose of their journey flooded her mind.

Jim ignored the frown and laughed.

“Mostly feather-weight,” he said easily. “You see, I’m not old. I got white hair, but I wouldn’t say there’s many years between us. Say, Molly——”

But that which he would have added remained unspoken. Perhaps Molly guessed. Perhaps her little mare’s eagerness was real. At any rate, the pinto recklessly took to the shallow water of the creek, and its chill set her sporting with apparent delight.

There was a moment in which Beelzebub watched her curiously. He stood on the bank with his head raised and his nostrils a-quiver. Then he moved. He stepped down into the water, which covered little more than his fetlocks, and his manner was completely dignified. But the gallant creature knew what was due to his sex. He went ahead of the mare and led the way.

They were at the mouth of the cavern, gazing down at the waters of the lagoon. A few yards ahead of them the stream hurled itself, tumbling and splashing, to the depths below. The full light of the sun blazed athwart the cavern entrance, and the rugged beauty of the valley of Three-Way Creek lay spread out in full view.

The pinto had drawn abreast of the black. And the two creatures stood together like statues. They stood with ears pricked and heads thrown up, and their soft eyes were far gazing, while their sensitive nostrils quivered with a scarcely expressed equine greeting.

It was neither the cascading waters, nor the beauty of daylight after the darkness of the tunnel, nor the mysterious depths of the waters of the lagoon, that preoccupied the riders as well as their horses. Molly and Jim were startled into complete silence, while their horses apparently regarded that which they beheld as a revelation of the intensest interest. A big sorrel horse, saddled and bridled, was down there beyond the waters of the lagoon, searching amongst the boulders, cropping hungrily at the green, ripe tufts of grass that grew about them.

Even at that distance there was no mistaking the identity of the horse; its size, rich colour, its short, staunchly-ribbed body. It was Pedro. And he was roaming free, even though he remained saddled, and it looked as though his bit had not been removed from his mouth.

It was Molly who drew attention to the latter detail. Perhaps Jim was less observant. Perhaps his mind was more deeply absorbed in the significance of the apparition. At any rate, he had given no sign from the moment he reined in Beelzebub and permitted Molly’s mare to come abreast.

“Do you see?” the girl asked, in a low, hushed tone, as she raised a hand, pointing. “Pedro’s tight cinched, and his bit’s still fixed.” She shook her head. “That sure isn’t Lightning. Lightning doesn’t set a horse grazing that way. Where is he? Lightning? Do you see him—anywhere?”

For some moments Jim made no reply. He was searching in every direction for a sign of the man who should have been there with his horse. There was none that he could discover.

“I don’t see him around,” he said. “I don’t see a sign of a noon camp.” He drew a deep breath. Then he added, with a decision that was unforced: “But he’s there, sure. He’s right down there—somewhere.”

He glanced round at the girl beside him as he spoke, and discovered something of the effect which the sight of Pedro had had upon her. She was deathly pale in the sunlight, and her eyes had widened with a look of deep concern.

“You think that?” she cried. “You guess he’s—down there? Then,” she went on, as Jim inclined his head, “something bad’s happened. He’s—he’s sick, or it’s a fall. Maybe—he’s—— Oh, say, Jim, we can get right down there? Yes, sure we can. I know. Oh, let’s get right on down. Maybe he’s hurt. Maybe——”

But Jim waited for no more. He had caught the infection of Molly’s fears. To Molly it seemed that Lightning must be sick. It was even possible he had had a fall. To Jim it was neither of these things which had left Pedro still saddled and bridled, grazing free. Surely there was more lying behind their discovery. And it was the thought of grave possibilities that set him hastily moving on to the descent to the lagoon.

Lightning stirred uneasily. A muffled sound escaped him that terminated in an almost soundless, choking cough. The weak movement of his head and chest, as the fit went on, had utter helplessness in it. But it ceased at last, and his lips were dyed with crimson, and a trickle of blood had found its way to the corners of his mouth.

The cattleman was sprawled in the shade of an up-standing boulder. He was propped against it, with his long legs spread out towards the lapping waters of the lagoon, which were almost within reach of the hand that lay palm upwards on the bed of stone upon which he was lying. It was the identical boulder that had once sheltered Molly.

He looked to have slipped down from the sitting position he had originally taken up. Now only his shoulders rested against the water-smoothed sides of the stone. He was lying over, almost on his side. His grizzled, bare head was lolling forward, till his tatter of whisker was pressed down on his blood-stained shirt. His eyes were closed, and his sunken cheeks were ghastly. Then, too, his lower jaw was slightly sagging, in the grievous fashion of a creature whose last will-power is exhausted.

But, whatever his appearance, exhaustion of will was not yet. The shattered body was living in a soul that refused to yield. Lightning was near enough to death. But the work he had designed was not yet completed, and so he battled to hold together the dregs of his life.

The flies were swarming, lured by the sanguinary ooze from the man’s two wounds. But their aggravation left him indifferent. His remaining purpose was too precious to permit of irritation from so small a thing. Molly was somewhere up there in the hills. He had yet miles of difficult trail to make before he reached her. He must reach her. He must reach those who were caring for her. There was that splendid horse he had borrowed. Then there was his news for the men-folk. Faint with bodily exhaustion, gasping and choking at intervals, he pondered these things.

He had ridden so far since—since—— Yes, and he had no intention of failing in the rest. He would lie where he was till his breathing got better. Then he would get up and ride on. Yes, he would get up. Of course, he would get up as soon as his breath got better. It was nothing but darn laziness, lying around with work still to be done.

It was a great thought he was going to see Molly again so soon. How long was it? Yes, it was days. And somehow he couldn’t count them. But it didn’t matter—now he was going back to her. He guessed she’d be well by now. But he wouldn’t tell her about—about—— No. It was good news, but he best not tell her. He wouldn’t unless—unless she forced him to.

But he would tell the others. Oh, yes. He would tell Jim Pryse. Jim Pryse would need to know, because he hadn’t a thing to worry about—now. He was a bully feller. A great boy. It was queer his hair was white. But it didn’t matter. A feller who could act the way he had for a brother was the boy to see Molly right.

Something broke in on the man’s disjointed thought.

He stirred uneasily. A far-off sound had startled him. It was the sound of voices that broke through his misty comprehension. He wondered dully who it could be talking. Who could be around? But he made no attempt to move. He made no attempt even to open his eyes. There seemed to be no need. And then he could think better, and hear better, with his eyes closed. Darkness seemed to help him. He wanted to think clearly. He wanted so badly to think of—Molly.

His movement again bestirred his helpless coughing, and he forgot all about the voices. Then again, with the passing of his agony, his thoughts went back to other things. The farm again came into his dazing mind, and he thought of the harvest he meant to begin cutting as soon as he had taken Molly back home.

It was a swell crop. The ear was long and heavy. And there had been no early frosts to damage it. What a bunch of money Molly would collect for it in Hartspool. Yes, it was Hartspool. A queer name for a prairie town. But it was fine now that she was free of that— She mustn’t work too hard. No. She’d been sick. Of course she’d been sick. He’d almost forgotten about it. And she was feeling bad. He wondered why she felt bad. There wasn’t need. Not now that—that——

Ah! What was that? That was his name. Lightning? Of course it was his name. Who was calling?

A moment passed while he summoned his will. Then his eyes slowly opened.

“Molly!” he cried.

Lightning made a tremendous effort. By sheer will-power he lifted himself and made his dying body obey him. He sat up. He drew up his knees and clasped his lean hands about. Only a moment before they had lain limp and inert upon his stone bed. But the cost was great. Greater than he knew. He paid for it in a terrible fit of that hideous, soundless cough.

Jim Pryse was standing over him. His pitying gaze was for that grievous, unkempt figure. He saw the blood-stains on the shirt, and on the stone on which Lightning had been lying. He beheld the ooze dying the corners of his hard old mouth. And he knew. There could be no mistaking the sign. Death was very near. The man’s superb courage alone supported him and carried him through the fierce effort he was making.

Molly was kneeling on the stone beside him. Already one of her arms was flung about the lean shoulders of the dying man. She, too, understood. And her action was less a support than a caress.

In that supreme moment Lightning looked to need no support. He squatted on his old haunches in a fashion so familiar. His lower jaw was no longer sagging. His head was erect, and a queer sort of smile looked back into the girl’s passionately troubled eyes. It was the moment of his life.

“I was comin’ right—along—up,” he gasped. Then a queer look replaced his smile. “You hadn’t need to—butt in—Molly, gal. I ain’t needin’—no sort o’ help,” he complained.

Molly looked into the dying eyes; she saw the blood ooze at his mouth, the poor, sunken cheeks so ghastly. She wanted to cry out. She was swept to her soul by passionate pity.

“But you’re hit, Lightning,” she cried. “You’re wounded. Oh, God? You’re wounded to—death.”

A flash of storm lit the old man’s eyes.

“Ther’—ain’t—no—feller,” he gasped, “wi’ the guts to shoot up ‘Two-gun’ Rogers. You’re—wrong, Molly, gal. I ain’t—shot up. He couldn’t—shoot up a—buck louse. I left him feed for the coyotes. I ain’t—shot—up,” he cried obstinately. “Jest grazed. That’s all. It’s this—darn cough.”

Molly looked away. Her agony of mind was terrible. The sight nearly broke her heart. She gazed up at Jim in helpless appeal, and the man dropped on his knees beside her.

“Isn’t ther’ a thing we can do?” she cried. “Oh, Jim, tell me. Can’t——”

“Cut it—out, Molly, gal,” Lightning mumbled, as his body rocked. “Ther’ ain’t goin’—to be—no bleatin’.”

His choking attacked him again. It was ghastly. Then came the blood ooze afresh, and the poor old creature gasped out his words through it. His eyes were on Jim. And their eagerness suggested that anxiety was pressing.

“You’re—clear—of—him,” he spluttered. “I shot him cold at the fork—o’ the Calford trail. I gave him a chanct—that was no—darn chanct. We stood up at fifty—wi’ two shots each. He dropped—cold. I come along up—to—to tote Molly, gal, home. Guess—I won’t make it, though. This darn cough——”

Again Lightning choked. And it was moments before he recovered sufficiently to go on. When he did, however, his hands had parted from about his knees. He would have fallen heavily back against the stone but for Molly’s support.

His eyes were half closed now, but they still gazed urgently up at the white-haired man.

“Say,” he cried, with a spasm of dying energy, “it’s up to—you.” He gasped. Now, curiously, his cough made no return. “You’ll fix—her right? Guess I’m—failin’ through. She ain’t got no one but me. An’ I guess—I’m—done. You will? You’re clear o’ that skunk. So’s she. You’ll——”

Jim nodded. In that moment of the old man’s agony he was glad enough to help him. But he knew that, even at the moment of death, the old creature was contriving another service.

“Lightning, old feller,” he said earnestly, “you don’t need to worry a thing for Molly, gal. I’m crazy to marry her, if she’ll have me. And I’ll make good for her, too, same as you’d have me do. Don’t go, old feller,” he said, thrusting his arm about the dying man for added support. “Just ask her yourself. Then you’ll know.”

There was a moment without response. The cattleman’s eyes rolled ominously. But finally they found Molly’s face, and remained looking into it.

“You’ll—mate—up with him?” he mumbled, in a faint whisper.

The girl was powerless to hold back the flood of tears which rolled all unheeded down her cheeks. But she steadied herself to reply.

Her simple “Yes” came in a low tone no louder than the old cattleman’s whisper. And, though her face was deliberately turned from the man beside her, it reached his keenly intent ears.

But, alas, it fell without meaning upon the dead ears of the faithful Lightning.

THE END