CHAPTER IX

For a few moments Bud Childers, safely hidden in the undergrowth, studied Allston as he sat within a few feet of Wilmer Howe in that sunlit cove on the side of Green Mountain. His long, bony fingers grasped firmly the gun with which he meant to kill this man. He had awaited his opportunity and here it was. He would have gambled a hundred to one that no power on earth could swerve him from his purpose, for it was backed by deadly hatred and jealousy and the burning hunger for revenge for the deep humiliation he had been made to suffer before the woman he loved. It was possible, from his present strategic point, to shoot and vanish. His guilt might be suspected afterwards, but no one could definitely establish it. There were other men in these mountains besides himself ready enough to shoot at strangers when they wandered loosely among the coves. Too many hidden stills existed hereabouts to make outsiders welcome.

Bud’s face flushed as he watched Allston take leisurely puffs of the Turkish cigarette he held in his white fingers. And his lip curled in scorn as he noted the belted Norfolk jacket, the golf trousers and long stockings, the shiny, low shoes--all marks to him of effeminacy. But the smooth-shaven face, with its clear pink skin showing through the slight tan, seemed to irritate him more than anything else. His own was dark and tough as leather. So should every man’s be who was a man.

It was to this fellow Bud had seen Roxie cling in the moonlit road. How much she meant by it he did not know, but she had meant enough so that she had turned away from him on the very night he intended to claim her. She had turned away from her own kind to a stranger because of his store clothes and his lily-white fingers and his pink cheeks and his school-taught way of speaking. She liked ’um that way. He had taunted her with that and she made no reply.

Bud raised his gun with care not to disturb as much as a twig. He did not dare wait longer, for the sight of the man and the ugly memories he brought fresh to mind revived the old fever that blinded his eyes and unsteadied his hand. Blood-red anger does not make for sure shooting. And yet he must not hurry. He could not afford to risk more than one shot and he must not merely wound. To leave Allston crippled would be worse than nothing. That would excite only sympathy without definitely ending the affair. So he took his time.

Bud’s finger muscles had actually begun to press against the heavy trigger, his bead drawn fair on Allston’s heart, when he saw something that made him pause. It was a simple act; Allston suddenly tossed aside his cigarette and seized the girl’s hand. Bud could not catch the man’s words, but he saw Wilmer Howe spring to her feet. He saw Allston rise beside her.

Bud still had a good target--an even better target than before. And yet his gun began to lower. This situation interested him. He could catch Allston’s words now.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Wilmer,” he exclaimed. “But your hand was so near.”

Her face was scarlet.

“I didn’t expect that sort of thing from you,” she answered, avoiding his eyes.

“I didn’t expect it of myself,” he said. “Honest, I didn’t. I--I lost my head for a moment.”

“That is just what I didn’t expect.”

“I can’t explain it any further,” he confessed.

“It’s the sort of thing that can’t be explained,” she replied.

There was no quaver in her voice--only a note of deep regret.

“And yet,” went on Allston, passing his hand over his eyes--“and yet there was something. It was almost--almost as though I were in danger. Your fingers were near and I seized them. That sounds absurd, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” she answered steadily, “it does.”

“Perhaps I’m more used to absurd things than you,” he went on with a worried smile. “They were always happening--over there.”

“That sort?” she questioned.

“All sorts. You never knew. You just acted without knowing why.”

“It’s a rather dangerous way, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And it doesn’t make it easy for a woman to trust a man who--who acts in that way, does it?”

“No.”

“Then--perhaps we had best be going.”

“I’ve hurt you as deeply as that?” he exclaimed.

She started forward a step. Again Bud raised his gun and covered his man. And yet, even as he did so, he felt that here was a new development which he ought to consider. If he had time, he would consider it. If this man was sweet on Wilmer Howe, it eliminated him more effectively from Roxie’s life than his death would do. And this without the margin of danger that was bound to follow any shooting.

Allston hurried to her side with a cry that made the girl pause.

“Wilmer,” he said huskily, “Wilmer, if--if you go like this I can never forgive myself. I’ve acted like a cad, but you must show that you trust me again.”

“How can I do that?”

“Come back and sit down where you were. That’s all I ask. Sit here a little while longer with me and then--and then we’ll go back home and I’ll pack my bag.”

She met his eyes at that.

“You mean--?”

“I’ve overstayed in the Garden of Eden--by one day,” he answered.

“But dad--what will dad think?”

“You’re going to make it hard for me to face your father if you leave me with the feeling I’ve abused his generous hospitality.”

“I don’t want you to feel like that,” she protested.

“Then--”

Her face grew even more scarlet as she slowly moved back to the flat rock upon which she had been seated. Allston again took his place at her feet. Again Bud released the grip on his gun.

There was much here he did not understand; there was something here he did--even better than Allston. It was clear to him that the pink-cheeked fool had some one now in whom he was more interested than in Roxie. If he went to Roxie and told her this--reported how he had seen Allston hold Wilmer Howe’s hand and heard him speaking his school-taught talk to her up here alone in the cove--she might change her mind about this stranger. If he knew Roxie she would turn against the man as quickly as she had turned to him. She would hate him with as black a hate as he did. She would see him as he was.

Bud was not much given to diplomacy nor to much fine reasoning, but here was a suggestion that appealed to him. It was based first of all upon the idea of self-protection which in turn went back to his new-found zest in life. He wanted to live and he did not mean to take any unnecessary chances. With everything in his favor, a man who has killed is not in as secure a position as a man who has not killed. There is always the danger that something unforeseen may happen. The officers had rounded up Roge Enfield after he knifed Pete Calhoun in spite of every effort made to protect him.

Allston might get out of this country at once as he had hinted to Wilmer Howe, or he might stay long enough to marry this woman. He’d be going, anyhow, before winter. And either way he’d be leaving Roxie forever. He’d be leaving Roxie just as soon as Bud could get word to her of what he had seen.

Bud lowered his gun. It was too bad to miss a dead-sure thing like this, but the new plan was worth trying. If it was not as satisfactory in many ways as shooting, it was safer.

When Bud took his first careful step back through the bushes, it marked a significant stage in his development. For the first time in his life he had allowed Reason to dictate to passion. His impulse still was to kill. In not obeying it he was making a real personal sacrifice. And though fundamentally he was governed by selfish motives--perhaps reason makes for selfishness--he was also allowing the interests of another to play a part in his decision. However indirectly, he was considering Roxie to a degree. If his chief concern was with the happiness she would bring him, he was also honestly convinced that it was within his power to bring happiness to her. He was going to allow her to go to the village and buy whatever she wished--calico for dresses, ribbons for her hair, candy and everything. Within a week he had got his eye on another horse that would be good for her to ride. And he was going to wipe his feet whenever he came into the house. And wash his hands if she insisted upon it. All those hopes contributed towards his desire to live--made him willing to give up his desire to kill when this conflicted with those other interests.

Step by step Bud felt his way back to the road. And then, walking free and easy, undisturbed now by the noise of his firm feet crunching twig and rock, he returned to his shack on Big Laurel. He went about his farm work whistling. It was something of a relief not to care who heard him.