She was not without the wiles and tact of her sex. “You go now, and come back, Abe,” she said in a soft voice. “Come back in an hour. Come back then, and I’ll tell you which way I’m going from here.”
He was all right again. “It’s with you, Nancy,” he said eagerly. “I bin waiting four years.”
As he closed the door behind him the “college pup” entered the room again. “Oh, Abe’s gone!” he said excitedly. “I hoped you’d get rid of the old rip-roarer. I wanted to be alone with you for a while. I don’t really need to start yet. With the full moon I can do it before daylight.” Then, with quick warmth, “Ah, Nancy, Nancy, you’re a flower—the flower of all the prairies,” he added, catching her hand and laughing into her eyes.
She flushed, and for a moment seemed almost bewildered. His boldness, joined to an air of insinuation and understanding, had influenced her greatly from the first moment they had met two months ago, as he was going South on his smuggling enterprise. The easy way in which he had talked to her, the extraordinary sense he seemed to have of what was going on in her mind, the confidential meaning in voice and tone and words had, somehow, opened up a side of her nature hitherto unexplored. She had talked with him freely then, for it was only when he left her that he said what he instinctively knew she would remember till they met again. His quick comments, his indirect but acute questions, his exciting and alluring reminiscences of the East, his subtle yet seemingly frank compliments, had only stimulated a new capacity in her, evoked comparisons of this delicate-looking, fine-faced gentleman with the men of the West by whom she was surrounded. But later he appeared to stumble into expressions of admiration for her, as though he was carried off his feet and had been stunned by her charm. He had done it all like a master. He had not said that she was beautiful—she knew she was not—but that she was wonderful, and fascinating, and with “something about her” he had never seen in all his life, like her own prairies, thrilling, inspiring, and adorable. His first look at her had seemed full of amazement. She had noticed that, and thought it meant only that he was surprised to find a white girl out here among smugglers, hunters, squaw-men, and Indians. But he said that the first look at her had made him feel things-feel life and women different from ever before; and he had never seen anyone like her, nor a face with so much in it. It was all very brilliantly done.
“You make me want to live,” he had said, and she, with no knowledge of the nuances of language, had taken it literally, and had asked him if it had been his wish to die; and he had responded to her mistaken interpretation of his meaning, saying that he had had such sorrow he had not wanted to live. As he said it his face looked, in truth, overcome by some deep inward care; so that there came a sort of feeling she had never had so far for any man—that he ought to have someone to look after him. This was the first real stirring of the maternal and protective spirit in her towards men, though it had shown itself amply enough regarding animals and birds. He had said he had not wanted to live, and yet he had come out West in order to try and live, to cure the trouble that had started in his lungs. The Eastern doctors had told him that the rough outdoor life would cure him, or nothing would, and he had vanished from the college walls and the pleasant purlieus of learning and fashion into the wilds. He had not lied directly to her when he said that he had had deep trouble; but he had given the impression that he was suffering from wrongs which had broken his spirit and ruined his health. Wrongs there certainly had been in his life, by whomever committed.
Two months ago he had left this girl with her mind full of memories of what he had said to her, and there was something in the sound of the slight cough following his farewell words which had haunted her ever since. Her tremendous health and energy, the fire of life burning so brightly in her, reached out towards this man living on so narrow a margin of force, with no reserve for any extra strain, with just enough for each day’s use and no more. Four hours before he had come again with his team of four mules and an Indian youth, having covered forty miles since his last stage. She was at the door and saw him coming while he was yet along distance off. Some instinct had told her to watch that afternoon, for she knew of his intended return and of his dangerous enterprise. The Indians had trailed south and east, the traders had disappeared with them, her brother Bantry had gone up and over to Dingan’s Drive, and, save for a few loiterers and last hangers-on, she was alone with what must soon be a deserted post; its walls, its great enclosed yard, and its gun-platforms (for it had been fortified) left for law and order to enter upon, in the persons of the red-coated watchmen of the law.
Out of the South, from over the border, bringing the last great smuggled load of whiskey which was to be handed over at Dingan’s Drive, and then floated on Red Man’s River to settlements up North, came the “college pup,” Kelly Lambton, worn out, dazed with fatigue, but smiling too, for a woman’s face was ever a tonic to his blood since he was big enough to move in life for himself. It needed courage—or recklessness—to run the border now; for, as Abe Hawley had said, the American marshals were on the pounce, the red-coated mounted police were coming west from Ottawa, and word had winged its way along the prairie that these redcoats were only a few score miles away, and might be at Fort Fair Desire at any moment. The trail to Dingan’s Drive lay past it. Through Barfleur Coulee, athwart a great open stretch of country, along a wooded belt, and then, suddenly, over a ridge, Dingan’s Drive and Red Man’s River would be reached.
The Government had a mind to make an example, if necessary, by killing some smugglers in conflict, and the United States marshals had been goaded by vanity and anger at one or two escapes “to have something for their money,” as they said. That, in their language, meant, “to let the red run,” and Kelly Lambton had none too much blood to lose.
He looked very pale and beaten as he held Nance Machell’s hands now, and called her a prairie-flower, as he had done when he left her two months before. On his arrival but now he had said little, for he saw that she was glad to see him, and he was dead for sleep, after thirty-six hours of ceaseless travel and watching and danger. Now, with the most perilous part of his journey still before him, and worn physically as he was, his blood was running faster as he looked into the girl’s face, and something in her abundant force and bounding life drew him to her. Such vitality in a man like Abe Hawley would have angered him almost, as it did a little time ago, when Abe was there; but possessed by the girl, it roused in him a hunger to draw from the well of her perfect health, from the unused vigour of her being, something for himself. The touch of her hands warmed him, in the fulness of her life, in the strong eloquence of face and form, he forgot she was not beautiful. The lightness passed from his words, and his face became eager.
“Flower, yes, the flower of the life of the West—that’s what I mean,” he said. “You are like an army marching. When I look at you, my blood runs faster. I want to march too. When I hold your hand I feel that life’s worth living—I want to do things.”
She drew her hand away rather awkwardly. She had not now that command of herself which had ever been easy with the men of the West, except, perhaps, with Abe Hawley when—
But with an attempt, only half-meant, to turn the topic, she said: “You must be starting if you want to get through to-night. If the redcoats catch you this side of Barfleur Coulee, or in the Coulee itself, you’ll stand no chance. I heard they was only thirty miles north this afternoon. Maybe they’ll come straight on here to-night, instead of camping. If they have news of your coming, they might. You can’t tell.”
“You’re right.” He caught her hand again. “I’ve got to be going now. But Nance—Nance—Nancy, I want to stay here, here with you; or to take you with me.”
She drew back. “What do you mean?” she asked. “Take me with you—me—where?”
“East—away down East.”
Her brain throbbed, her pulses beat so hard. She scarcely knew what to say, did not know what she said. “Why do you do this kind of thing? Why do you smuggle?” she asked. “You wasn’t brought up to this.”
“To get this load of stuff through is life and death to me,” he answered. “I’ve made six thousand dollars out here. That’s enough to start me again in the East, where I lost everything. But I’ve got to