Chapter XIII

The days which followed fulfilled all Mrs. Harrington's prophecies so far as gaiety was concerned. One round of pleasure succeeded another. The days were filled with picnics and rides and the evenings with merry makings of all descriptions at all the houses in the region round about Hawk Valley. There were not wanting many young officers and others who were eager to teach the sweet young stranger from the east to ride. Horses especially trained and gentled for her use were brought as offerings at her shrine, and flowers from near and far were sent to her. The Harrington children were in danger of becoming chronic dyspeptics on the surplus of the confections with which she was constantly supplied; and there was no opportunity for her to become lonely or morbid as the summer days sped by in a round of pleasure.

Yet through it all Jean moved, lovely and serene as a summer morning.

"She acts as if she had been in society for years," complained Eleanor to her husband. "Nothing moves her out of her quiet dignity. She doesn't gush or become enthusiastic at anybody. The sky and the flowers and the children please her more than all the adulation she receives. One would almost judge her engaged or married already. I wonder if it can be there is a sweetheart at home that we don't know about. I must write and ask mamma. I can't make it out. I thought Captain Hawthorne would surely make an impression, he has such charming manners, and is so deferential to women; but she looked at him to-day with that sweet far-away expression, exactly as she might have looked at her grandfather. Of course it made him desperately determined to get her attention, but she never seemed to know nor care. One would almost think it was a studied pose to get as many at her feet as possible, if one didn't know Jean better."

"Did you ever think that perhaps her thoughts are with that scoundrel Holt?" her husband asked.

"Nonsense!" said his wife sharply. "She never mentions him. She has forgotten all about him. I think she was extremely annoyed at our making so much of his bringing her home."

"Well, don't you be too sure. I wonder where the deuce he is. I'll be willing to bet he's up to some mischief."'

"Don't worry," said his wife, "I'm only too glad he's taken himself away. I hope he'll keep hidden until Jean is safely home again so we won't be annoyed."

"I hope he'll come back and let us see what he's up to," growled her husband as she left the room.

And at last one day shortly before Jean was to return to her father's house, Holt came back.

With him appeared Scathlin, riding into town daily, side by side with the younger man, on one of Holt's horses; looking older, with a sheepish expression and a shifty eye that failed to meet men's gaze. It was rumored that Holt had found him with a broken leg, nursed him into strength again and brought him home. Those who knew Scathlin felt that Holt's power over him was more than that of gratitude.

It happened that Jean was riding with the Captain one morning when they came down to the post-office together, and the glad smile with which she greeted Holt was followed by a frightened expression as she recognized Scathlin. Her escort was so astonished at having to lift his hat to Holt that he failed to notice her startled glance.

No one could have told by Holt's grave bow that he was meeting the one of all the earth to him. Only the light in his eyes told of his joy in seeing her once more, and reassured the girl as she glanced from Scathlin back to his own face. It was Captain Hawthorne's annoyed drawl that recalled her to the present out of the whirl of joy that the sight of Holt brought.

"Where in the world did you ever meet that scoundrel that he should presume to speak to you?"

A flush of indignation rose to her cheeks, her chin tilted just the slightest bit haughtily, and her eyes held a dangerous light in them.

"Excuse me, Captain Hawthorne, Mr. Holt is my friend. He did me the greatest service one can do for another. He saved my life."

"I beg your pardon, Miss Grayson, I didn't mean to offend you. That alters the case of course. One is always grateful for one's life, and may thank even a dog. You can afford to be generous, sometimes, but have a care! You do not know Holt! It's the only good thing I ever heard of him, that he saved your life. I would it had been my privilege instead of his."

"Thank you, Captain Hawthorne," Jean spoke frigidly, "but you misunderstand me. I am not speaking to Mr. Holt because I am grateful or generous, but because I honor and trust him as a friend."

"You do not know him, Miss Grayson. He is not a man whom anyone trusts."

"It is you who do not know him, Captain Hawthorne. I know him better than you, and I trust him entirely. During our terrible experience together at the time of the wreck I had ample opportunity to test Mr. Holt, and I found him a gentleman and a true friend in every trying situation."

And now indeed Jean's tone was unmistakable, and the alarmed Captain, who had congratulated himself that he was making pretty good headway with the fair lady, made hasty apologies.

"I beg your pardon, of course," he said humbly. "I'm sure I'm glad to hear that he behaved decently. To tell you the truth I don't know much personally about Holt. I've only taken what others say; and I've always thought his reckless appearance bore out their insinuations. Forgive me if I have annoyed you, and try to forget what I've said. This day is perfect and the road is particularly fine. Shall we try a gallop?"

Jean was glad of the relief from conversation, and kept her horse on a wild gait the most of the way; for her mind was in a tumult. How was she to get that paper to Holt and what should she say in explanation of its being in her possession? The question had been much in her mind during Holt's absence, and she had been unable to decide just what she should do when he returned, but now it must be decided at once, for there ought to be no delay about the paper. The sinister look in the faded blue eye of Scathlin as he looked at her made her fear to keep it in her possession any longer.

The ride at last was ended. It had not been a very great success from the Captain's point of view and he went away dejected, while Jean hurried to her room and tried to plan what to do. The sight of Scathlin worried her. If the old man knew what papers the wallet had contained he probably knew the significance of each. The conversation she had overheard seemed to include him in the plot, if plot there was, against Holt. Of course, since he had returned, he would seek out the other two men and explain why he had sent the wallet; and perhaps he had the other missing paper himself, the one that contained valuable information about the location of ore. It was even possible that he knew already that she, his unwilling messenger, had the water contract. He must have known it was in the wallet when he gave it to her and it would be entirely natural for him to think she had taken it out. Something in the gleam of his eye as he looked at her had made her tremble; and she longed to fly straight to Holt and give him the paper frankly and openly, but it was a matter that could not be handled openly, and she was not a diplomat, therefore she trembled.

Finally, after careful thought, and much writing and tearing up of what she had written she framed a brief note to Holt.

On the morning that she mailed it Scathlin happened to be in the village.

Holt had gone away very early in the morning, on a matter of business, leaving word that he might not return until the next day, and Scathlin felt like a prisoner let out of jail. It was his first opportunity to go about without Holt's eyes upon him. True, he was under oath to do and not to do certain things, with penalty of a judgment which he knew would not be light. Yet his natural cunning found many ways to carry on his schemes without violating the letter of his contract with Holt. He knew that Holt had brought him there as a witness against his enemies in the case of the stolen papers--he knew this, though Holt had said no word of it to him--and he knew that Holt would watch him closely--that he probably had him under espionage even during this brief absence; yet he longed to outwit his keeper and get the better of him. If it only had not been for the loss of that water contract his way would have been plain. He had already managed an interview with Harrington and learned the facts without revealing all the facts in his own possession. He professed to Harrington that all the original papers were in the wallet when he gave it to the girl, and that it had been his only hope of saving them from Holt. That Holt had managed to save the girl and bring her home only proved that he was as hard to get away from as the devil himself. This explanation Scathlin devised while he listened to Harrington's story, secretly realizing, with bitterness, his own blunder in leaving the water contract in the wallet. His excuse was that he had no time to take out another paper and secrete it safely before Holt saw him.

Might and day Scathlin worried over that water contract, coming always back to the conclusion that Holt must have it or know where it was; and he had searched every available hiding place in Holt's house for it, but failed as yet to discover it. When they met Jean riding, the old man had noted carefully the expression on his companion's face as he touched his hat to her, and the lighting up of the girl's face. His keen little eyes searched, and found an idea.

Therefore, that first morning of his freedom from Holt, when he sat on the curbstone with one of the men from the Divide, talking over the latest cattle stealing, his eye took in with keen interest the figure of Jean coming down the street accompanied by her little niece, a bundle of letters in her hand to be mailed. He watched her furtively as she passed him, though she did not see him, and as soon as she was inside the post-office door he got up hurriedly and followed her, professing that he had an errand.

He watched her slipping her letters one by one into the post box, and kept his eye upon her as she turned and went out again.

He made a small purchase at the counter on the other side of the post-office room, and went out, but an hour later, when he returned that way, the postmaster leaned from his window and called him. "Hey, there, Scathlin, goin' up home? Here's a letter fer Holt."

Scathlin, wary as any fox, concealed the start he almost gave, and turned with indifference.

"'Spose I might's well take it," he said, and receiving the letter, went on his way toward home.

The way was long and bright and hot, and Scathlin was not feeling up to a hard walk yet after his weeks in bed; but he managed it in an incredibly short space of time, and as he walked he studied that letter.

It was dainty and white, the writing unmistakably feminine, and mailed in Hawk Valley. Scathlin's imagination stirred within him, and he was almost sure he needed to know what was in that letter. He held it up to the light but nothing was revealed. He tried to pry open a corner of the flap that was not closely sealed, and squint in, but not a glimpse of writing was visible. He went home, laid it on the desk in Holt's office and sat down to watch it and think. Then just before the return for dinner of the other two men who were about the place he quietly put it in his pocket. He preferred to think about that letter awhile longer before any one else saw it. When they came in Scathlin had the fire going and a fine steam ascending from the tea-kettle, an unusual attention on his part toward other members of his group, unless he was pressed to service.

But Scathlin had exhausted his capacity for work with putting on the teakettle, for he sat dreamily meditating in a chair tilted back against the wall, his feet on the rounds, a straw in his mouth, and his eyes narrow and gleaming.

"Dear friend: I have something that I am sure belongs to you. Is it safe for me to send it to you through the mail? I think it must be valuable. Please let me know quickly for I am going home in a few days."

Those were the magic words the steam had revealed to Scathlin, and on which he meditated with his eyes half closed while his companions scornfully cooked the corn bread and bacon and cursed him for a lazy good-for-nothing. He continued his meditations unmoved until the men had eaten and were gone on their way. When they were out of sight he arose with alacrity and prepared a hasty meal, keeping his eye on the clock. He ate hurriedly, cleaned and loaded a pistol which he took from a hiding place behind a loose brick of the chimney, and went out the back door toward the woods.

About the same time Jean Grayson mounted the pony that had been set aside for her use while in Hawk Valley, and started out for her daily call on an old lady who had taken a great fancy to her, because of her likeness to a daughter long since dead. She was fond of the sweet old lady, and found her quiet little home a refuge from the round of society that sometimes became almost oppressive at her sister's house. She had discovered that she could avoid certain annoyingly frequent callers by being thus absent a little while, and especially during the last two weeks she had made this pleasant pilgrimage almost every day. Perhaps a part of the pleasantness of the trip was in the fact that the road lay back of Holt's land, and his house, though almost a mile from where she had to pass, was plainly to be seen at one high point on the road, as it stood boldly against the sky, its wide verandas shrouded in rose vines.

Jean never ventured on the road that led past the house itself, for it was off the general highway; but she had often longed to see the spot where he lived at closer range.

As she rode along she mused about the letter she had written and whether that had been the right way and the only way to do about getting the paper into the hands of its owner.

She had once heard a great speaker say that there was never a situation where there was not a right thing to do next. She felt sure she had done the right thing so far as her light showed her; and yet she could not lay it aside and be at peace, but was in a tremor of excitement awaiting Holt's reply.

As she reached the high point in the road she looked as usual off toward the rose-vined dwelling, half hoping to see a sign of the master of the house; but the vines lay shimmering in the sun of the warm mid-day, and nothing seemed stirring about the place. She walked the pony slowly along until the house was out of sight, and the road entered the shady quiet where wooded land on either side hid the glare of the afternoon. Just beyond the woods a few rods away was the home of the old lady. It was early yet and Jean lingered, the pony nothing loath to follow her will.

They had gone perhaps fifty feet into the shadow of the wooded road when suddenly, out from behind a great tree with stocky, brushwood growth around it, slunk forth Scathlin, close to the pony, and laid hands upon his bridle.

"I beg pardon, Miss, but Mr. Holt sent me on a message," lied Scathlin, shifting his eyes hastily from the clear ones that looked in horror upon him.

Jean's heart was beating wildly, not reassured by his words.

"He said would you please give me the paper you had for him. It would be safer for me to get it, as no one would suspect."

A great doubt seized Jean's soul. Holt had not sent this bad old man. Hold could never trust such a man as this. But if he did trust him, she did not.

"Did Mr. Holt send me a letter?" Jean looked keenly into the old cunning face.

"Mr. Holt had to go away in a hurry and so he sent me," said Scathlin glibly. "He didn't have no time to write letters. He said you knowed me; that you'd seen me with him, an' you'd know 'twas all right."

"Tell Mr. Holt, please," said Jean, making up her mind hurriedly, "that there is nothing, and no message I can give to anyone. I wish to speak with him. If that is not possible we will have to let the matter pass."

She drew the rein and signed to her horse to go on, but Scathlin jerked the birdie sharply:

"Not much, you don't go on," he threatened, "not till I get that paper. I was sent here to get it and I mean to have it. You can't come any of your pretty little tricks on me. I want that paper and I mean to have it. Ef I can't get it one way I kin another!" His voice and eyes were ominous, and Jean was so frightened that her throat trembled and she could scarcely control her lips to speak.

"Of what paper are you speaking?"

"That there paper you wrote about in the letter. You know well enough what I mean. You've got it about you now. I know you dassent go off and leave it to home, where that fine brother-in-law of yours could find it. Come, are you going to fork over, or do you want me to search you for it? I'll find it quick enough."