When Willock started up from the mattress in the covered wagon,the sun had set.Every object,however,was clearly defined in the first glow of the long August twilight,and it needed but a glance to recall the events that had brought him to seek shelter and slumber beside the dead woman.He sat up suddenly,staring from under his long black hair as it fell about his eyes.Accustomed as he was to deeds of violence,even to the sight of men weltering in their life's blood,he was strangely moved by that rigid form with the thin arms folded over the breast,by that white cloth concealing face and hair.A long keen examination of the prairie assured him that no human being was between him and the horizon.He turned again toward the woman.He felt an overpowering desire to look on her face.
For years there had been no women in his world but the abandoned creatures who sought shelter in the resorts of Beer City in No-Man's Land--these,and the squaws of the reservations,and occasionally a white terrified face among the wagon-trains.As a boy,before running away from home in the Middle West,he had known a different order of beings,and some instinct told him that this woman belonged to the class of his childhood's association.There was imperative need of his hurrying to the mountain,lest,at any moment,a roving band of Indians discover the abandoned wagon;besides this,he was very hungry since his rest,and the wagon was stocked with provisions;nevertheless,to look on the face of the dead was his absorbing desire.
But it was not easy for him to yield to his curiosity,despite his life of crime.Something about the majestic repose of that form seemed to add awe to the mystery of ***;and he crouched staring at the cloth which no breath stirred save the breath of evening.
He believed,now,the story that Henry Gledware had reiterated in accents of abject terror.Surely this was the last wagonin that train which Red Kimball had attacked the morning before.Impossible as it had seemed to the highwaymen,Gledware must have been warned of the attack in time to turn about and lash his horses out of danger of discovery.At this spot,Gledware had cut loose the horses,mounted one with his stepdaughter,leaving the other to go at will.This,then,was the mother of that child whose arm had lain in warm confidence about his neck.On hands and knees,Willock crept to the other mattress and lifted the margin of the large white cloth.
His hand moved stealthily,slowly.Catching sight of something that faintly gleamed at the collar of the dress,he hesitated;his determination to examine the countenance was as firm as ever,but his impulse to put it off as long as possible was even stronger.He bent down to look closer at the ornament;it was a round breastpin of onyx and pearl set in a heavy rim of gold.The warm wind,tempered by approaching night to a grateful balminess,stirred the cloth between his fingers.He stared as if lost in profound meditation.That pin resembled one his mother used to wear;and,somehow,the soothing touch of the wind reminded him of her hand on his forehead.He might have gone back home,if she had not died long ago.Now,in spite of the many years that had passed over her grave,the memory of her came as strong,as sweet,as instinct with the fullness of life,as,if he were suddenly wafted back into boyhood.
He did not lift the cloth,after all,but having replaced it gently,he searched the wagon for a spade.It was found in the box fastened to the end of the wagon,and with the spade,in the gathering darkness,he dug a grave near the mountainside.Between the strokes of the blade he sent searching glances over the prairie and along the sloping ridges of the overlooking range,but there were no witnesses of his work save the coyotes that prowled like gray shadows across the sands.When the grave was ready he carried thither in his giant's arms the body of the woman on the mattress,and laid it thus to rest.When the sand was smoothed over the place,he carried thither quantities of heavy stones,and broken blocks of granite,to preserve the body from wild beasts.
It was dark when the heap of stones had been arranged in the form of a low pyramid,but though he had not tasted food for twenty-four hours,he lingered beside the grave,his head bent as if still struggling with those unwonted memories of the long ago.At last,as if forced by a mysterious power against which he could no longer resist,he sank upon his knees.O God,he prayed aloud,take care of the little girl.
He waited,but no more words would come--no other thought.He rose,feeling strangely elated,as if some great good fortune had suddenly come into his possession.It had been like this when the sleeping child lay in his arms;he could almost feel her little cheek against his bosom,and hear the soft music of her breathing.
He went back to the wagon and sat on the tongue,still oblivious to any possible danger of surprise.He spoke aloud,for company:
She wouldn't have wanted me to look at her--she couldn't have looked natural.Glad I didn't.Great Scott!but that was a first-rate prayer!Wouldn't have thought after thirty years I could have done so well.And it was all there,everything was in them words!If she knew what I was doing,she couldn't have asked nothing more,for I reckon she wouldn't expect a man like ME to ask no favors for that white-livered cowardly second-husband of hers.I put in all my plea for the little girl.Dinged if I understand how I come to be so intelligent and handy at what's all new business to me!I just says,'O God,take care of the little girl,'--just them words.He rose with an air of great content and went around to the front in search of provisions.Presently he spoke aloud:
And as I ain't asked nothing for myself since I run off from home I guess God won't mind putting the little girl on my expense-account.
