CHAPTER 37
When she first glimpsed Bear Valley from the summits of the Blue Mountains, it seemed to her a small paradise. And as she rode lower and lower among the hills, the impression gathered strength. So she came out onto the road and trotted her cow-pony slowly under the beautiful branches of the silver spruce, and saw the bright tree shadows reflected in Bear Creek. Surely here was a place of infinite quiet, made for happiness. A peculiar ache and sense of emptiness entered her heart, and the ghost of Terry Hollis galloped soundlessly beside her on flaming El Sangre through the shadow. It seemed to her that she could understand him more easily. His had been a sheltered and pleasant life here, half dreamy; and when he wakened into a world of stern reality and stern men, he was still playing at a game like a boy—as Denver Pete had said.
She came out into view of the house. And again she paused. It was like a palace to Kate, that great white facade and the Doric columns of the veranda. She had always thought that the house of her father was a big and stable house; compared with this, it was a shack, a lean-to, a veritable hovel. And the confidence which had been hers during the hard ride of two days across the mountains grew weaker. How could she talk to the woman who owned such an establishment as this? How could she even gain access to her?
On a broad, level terrace below the house men were busy with plows and scrapers smoothing the ground; she circled around them, and brought her horse to a stop before the veranda. Two men sat on it, one white-haired, hawk-faced, spreading a broad blueprint before the other; and this man was middle-aged, with a sleek, young face. A very good-looking fellow, she thought.
“Maybe you-all could tell me,” said Kate Pollard, lounging in the saddle, “where I'll find the lady that owns this here place?”
It seemed to her that the sleek-faced man flushed a little.
“If you wish to talk to the owner,” he said crisply, and barely touching his hat to her, “I'll do your business. What is it? Cattle lost over the Blue Mountains again? No strays have come down into the valley.”
“I'm not here about cattle,” she answered curtly enough. “I'm here about a man.”
“H'm,” said the other. “A man?” His attention quickened. “What man?”
“Terry Hollis.”
She could see him start. She could also see that he endeavored to conceal it. And she did not know whether she liked or disliked that quick start and flush. There was something either of guilt or of surprise remarkably strong in it. He rose from his chair, leaving the blueprint fluttering in the hands of his companion alone.
“I am Vance Cornish,” he told her. She could feel his eyes prying at her as though he were trying to get at her more accurately. “What's Hollis been up to now?”
He turned and explained carelessly to his companion: “That's the young scapegrace I told you about, Waters. Been raising Cain again, I suppose.” He faced the girl again.
“A good deal of it,” she answered. “Yes, he's been making quite a bit of trouble.”
“I'm sorry for that, really,” said Vance. “But we are not responsible for him.”
“I suppose you ain't,” said Kate Pollard slowly. “But I'd like to talk to the lady of the house.”
“Very sorry,” and again he looked in his sharp way—like a fox, she thought—and then glanced away as though there were no interest in her or her topic. “Very sorry, but my sister is in—er—critically declining health. I'm afraid she cannot see you.”
This repulse made Kate thoughtful. She was not used to such bluff talk from men, however smooth or rough the exterior might be. And under the quiet of Vance she sensed an opposition like a stone wall.
“I guess you ain't a friend of Terry's?”
“I'd hardly like to put it strongly one way or the other. I know the boy, if that's what you mean.”
“It ain't.” She considered him again. And again she was secretly pleased to see him stir under the cool probe of her eyes. “How long did you live with Terry?”
“He was with us twenty-four years.” He turned and explained casually to Waters. “He was taken in as a foundling, you know. Quite against my advice. And then, at the end of the twenty-four years, the bad blood of his father came out, and he showed himself in his true colors. Fearful waste of time to us all—of course, we had to turn him out.”
“Of course,” nodded Waters sympathetically, and he looked wistfully down at his blueprint.
“Twenty-four years you lived with Terry,” said the girl softly, “and you don't like him, I see.”
Instantly and forever he was damned in her eyes. Anyone who could live twenty-four years with Terry Hollis and not discover his fineness was beneath contempt.
“I'll tell you,” she said. “I've
“H'm!” said Vance. “I'm afraid not. But—just what have you to tell her?”
The girl smiled.
“If I could tell you that, I wouldn't have to see her.”
He rubbed his chin with his knuckles, staring at the floor of the veranda, and now and then raising quick glances at her. Plainly he was suspicious. Plainly, also, he was tempted in some manner.
“Something he's done, eh? Some yarn about Terry?”
It was quite plain that this man actually wanted her to have something unpleasant to say about Terry. Instantly she suited herself to his mood; for he was the door through which she must pass to see Elizabeth Cornish.
“Bad?” she said, hardening her expression as much as possible. “Well, bad enough. A killing to begin with.”
There was a gleam in his eyes—a gleam of positive joy, she was sure, though he banished it at once and
