Just as I reached the door it opened, an' the strange woman came in with old Melisse, who was makin' queer throaty noises like a dog. Her veil was raised, an' I stepped back in surprise. She was an elderly woman with gray hair, white at the temples, an' dark eyes that rested for a moment on Dick, for a longer second on Barbie, an' then stopped when they met the starin' eyes of of Cast Steel, who had staggered to his feet.

He stood there with his hands clutchin' the side of his head, an' his lips movin' rapidly, but not a sound comin' through 'em, an' then his knees gave way beneath him, an' Friar Tuck eased him back to the little padded bench. The hands of the strange woman were clasped on her breast; but even when the rest of us started for Jabez she didn't move.



CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

THE FINAL RECKONING

It hurts me inside to see anything plumb beaten. I've hunted a lot, an' I'm as keen on the trail as a terrier dog an' durin the fight I don't have no disturbin shudders; but after I've won an' I see the light of joy an' hope an' freedom fadin' out of eyes that have been so bright an' fearless, the' 's allus somethin' 'at swells inside o' my breast an' makes me half sorry 'at all fights can't end in a draw. The' 's one kind of nature which I never yet was able to figger out, an' that's the nature that can rub it in on a fallen foe.

Poor old Jabez, I'd judged him an' I'd judges him harsh; but when I saw him go to pieces there on the padded bench I just seemed to go to pieces with him. When I saw the strength leave him like the steam from an engine as the flood reaches its fire-box; when I saw the hands that thought they was strong enough to shape the future danglin' between his crooked knees, an' the eyes that had never before asked mercy lookin' up glazed an' pitiful, why, it felt to me as if I was just tryin' to send the strength out of my own body into his. Poor ol' Jabez, he was cast steel to the finish, no spring, just simply rigid an' stiff, till at last he broke.

But runnin' the universe is no job for a human; every man would choose to look his best when he's to meet the one woman; but if Jabez had still been standin' like a rock an' lookin' out at the world through eagle-eyes the woman at the door wouldn't never have spoke to him. When she saw him tired an' broken an' heart-sick of life itself, the mother in her finally tore out all the wrongs o' the past, an' she crossed the room an' took one of his hands an' said, "George, you mustn't give up, you mustn't give up now."

Barbie was holdin' his other hand, an' the ol' man looked first from one to the other while big tears gathered in his open eyes an' rolled slowly down his cheeks. I tell you it was a touchy sight, an' I was sweatin' like a fish when ol' Friar Tuck tip-toed over an' put one hand on my shoulder an' the other on Jim's, an' said: "They'll get along better without us, boys. Let's just step outside till they call us."

Oh, I tell you that Friar Tuck was a sky-pilot for true! We sneaked stealthily to the door, passin' ol' Melisse on the way. She was huddled up on the floor prayin' in Spanish, an' Friar Tuck rested his hand on her head a second, an' then we went out into the night air—I can taste my first breath of it yet.

He went over to see how the crowd was doin' in the storeroom, sayin' that he thought he'd get some eatin'-things under way to sort of ease the strain—he knew a human all right, the Friar did. Jim an' I walked out together under the stars, an' I told him my side of it; an' he told me that he had met Jack Whitman when he was runnin' a gamblin' place close to the New Mexico line. Whitman ran it on the square an' he had saved Jim a lot o' money one night, an' then afterwards Jim had helped to stand off a hold-up gang, an' a strong feelin' had grew up between 'em. Whitman had told part of the story, but made out that Barbie's mother was his own sister. When she had left Jabez an' the child—I don't know, myself, just why she left him. It started when she found out how he had lied to Whitman an' mighty near killed him; but just all that happened, before she burned out her brand and skipped, I don't know to this day, but they was both purty high-headed an' nervy in their youth, an' I've often suspected that Jabez' conscience didn't get to workin' smooth until after he was left alone with the child on his hands. It sometimes happens that way.

Well, anyhow, when she had left him she had gone to the southern part of California, where she'd got a job teachin' school. Whitman had located her, an' when her health gave out he had sent her money without lettin' her know where it came from. Whitman had follered minin' till his wife died, an' then he got to speculatin' in stocks, finally gettin' cleaned out full an' proper, an' then he started to gamblin' in earnest. It was from him that Jim had picked up most of his idees about business an' gamblin'. When Whitman himself had died he had turned Barbie's mother over to Jim.

She was livin' on a ranch in northern Colorado at this time, on account of her health. When Jim got cleaned out by the cattle crowd, an' opened his joint in Laramie, he brought her over to keep house an' be company for him. He pertended to be the son of a wild uncle she'd had, an' he fixed up a believable tale to go with it. All the while he'd been at the Diamond Dot he had supposed that she was Whitman's sister—she went by her maiden name of Miss Garrison, an' she had never told him her full story, simply hintin' enough at times to let him know that she had gone through the mill.

He had never pieced things together until I had sent him my letter, an' then he guessed how it was, an' puttin' what I told him onto what she an' Whitman had told him, he saw it all. He didn't know what had made her leave Judson, or rather Jordan; but he said he was positive it was his fault, as she was some the finest woman he had ever met, exceptin' of course her own daughter.

We talked it all over there in the starlight, until ol' Melisse came an' called us in. I didn't want to go; I was tryin' to cut myself out of the game entirely an' forget that I even existed; for the' was a cry in my heart that wouldn't hush, an' I wanted to be alone; but when Jim insisted I braced up an' went in.

Ol' Jabez looked a heap better, but still shaky; his wife had a tender half sad smile on her face, while Barbie was radiant with the joy she had waited for so long; she had kept her father, she had found her mother, an' she was about to meet—her lover. I saw the Sioux Injuns doin' the dance once, where they tie thongs through their breast muscles an' circle around a pole. Every now an' again they'd fling back their full weight on the thongs, an' their faces would light with savage joy. That was the kind of joy I felt when I saw Barbie's face.

Her mother smiled into Jim's eyes when he came in, an' Jabez stood up an' held out his hand. "Do you want to marry her?" he said.

"That's the only wish I have," sez Jim.

"Then she's yours, an' I thank God she's got a true man," sez Jabez, puttin' Barbie's hand into Jim's. I turned my face away.

The first thing I knew I felt a hand on my shoulder an' another hand taken' hold of mine. I turned an' looked down into Barbie's face, but I couldn't bear the light in her eyes. I turned my face away again—an' my lips were tremblin', the blasted traitors.

But she turned me around until my eyes looked down into hers, an' they were swimmin' in tears. Her little soft hand clasped my big rough one, tight an' warm, an' her voice was husky as she whispered, "You—you won't care much, will you, Happy?"

"No, Barbie," I sez between my set teeth, "not much"; an' by God, I smiled.

"An', Happy," she went on, "my home will allus be your home, an' anything that is mine is yours; but my heart ain't mine, ol' pal; an' so—an' so we can't help it."

"No," I sez, an' I was back in the saddle again this time. "No, little gel, we can't help it; but we can allus make the best of it; so I vote that we don't disappoint the crowd; but go on an' have a weddin'."

She backed away from me a little, while her face took the color of a rose, an' her eyes went to the floor; an' then I turned to Jabez an' said: "Jabez, I've took a mighty sight off you in my time without ever puttin' up one little squeal; but if you send this gang away to-night without a weddin', why, I quit you for good."

The' was all so wrought up that I was about the steadiest in the room; an' in about two minutes I had 'em lined up, an' the crowd back in place an' Friar Tuck in full regimentals under the tissha paper bell.

Before we could begin, however. Jabez mounted on a chair an' said in a new, soft voice: "Friends, in all my life I never told but one black lie. I may have spoken falsely through ignorance, or to spare sorrow to my child; but I never fought through the temptation but once, an' got whipped by it. I told one black lie, an' it was the blackest one ever told, I reckon. It brought me my money an' my wife; an' my load of shame an' sin an' contempt—it lost me the best friend I ever had, an' it led to my losin' my wife for most o' my journey. All my life I've tried to live down that lie an' to fill every man I met with a reverence for the truth, an' that's what makes me so blame ashamed of the way I've treated Dick. I ought to have seen quicker'n anybody else the kind of a fight he was a-makin', an' pitched in an' helped him instead of findin' him guilty, on the first suspicion, an' tryin' to make his life as sour as mine has been. But"—here Jabez put his arm about Barbie's shoulder, an' looked down on her a moment—"it was all on account o' this little girl."

Then we all gave a cheer an' Friar Tuck tied the knot, after which every one opened the sluice-gates o' their hearts an' let the sociability gush forth in a torrent. I stuck around until the dancin' began, an' then I flopped myself on a hoss an' rode, an' rode, an' rode. The air was cool an' crisp as it swept over my face; but it was a long time before it took the fever out of my blood. Finally I circled back to of Monody's grave an' got off an' sat there till the sun came up, fresh an' strong. Ol' Monody had taken the burden 'at had been handed to him, an' had borne it along to a mighty fire finish; an' it made me ashamed of myself, so I got to my feet, gave myself a shake, an' rode back to the ranch house.



CHAPTER THIRTY

THE AFTERGLOW

I didn't look for anybody to be about that early after the night that outfit had put in; but just before I reached the corral I saw Barbie an' Jim ridin' slowly toward the stable. They was ridin' close together an' lookin' into each other's eyes, an' I'm glad to say that even that soon I felt nothin' but joy in the sight. A little farther on I spied Jabez an' his wife standin' on a knoll, lookin' at the sunshine, an' before I reached the house I saw two others swingin' up the trail on a lope. In a minute I made out Bill Hammersly an' Jessamie. For just one second I did feel a little bit out o' the world; but by the time they rode up I was able to welcome 'em with a joke.

"We lost our way," sez Bill. "Is it too late?"

"It's never too late," sez I. "But I'm right down sorry that you didn't arrive last evenin'. We had about as stirrin' a weddin' here as ever you see."

"Who was it that Barbie married?" asked Jessamie.

Just then Jim an' Barbie came around the corner o' the house, an' I sez: "Mr. an' Mrs. Bill Hammersly, allow me to make you introduced to the Earl o' Clarenden an' his bride."

They was totally devoid of remarks for some time. Jim was the first to speak, an' he seemed a trifle put out. "What do you mean by such nonsense, Happy?" sez he. Then they all looked at him on account of him usin' the tone he had. I turned to Barbie an' sez easily: "I was tellin' Bill down at Frisco about a month ago that I rather doubted if Jim here would take the job; but if so be that he wants it, it's open for him. If not, that Hawthorn thing has the next chance."

I stepped back a few paces after this an' let 'em talk it out. Jim was the most flabbergasted of any, Barbie looked a little bit frightened; but Jessamie sez: "If Happy Hawkins sez 'at you're the Earl of Clarenden, why you might as well give up. He has inside information on every given subject, an' things don't never happen until he's had his finger in it somewhere." Jessamie allus was a good feller.

An' that's the way it turned out. Jim an' Barbie went back to Clarenden on their honeymoon, an' Barbie's taken the lead over there the same as she'd do anywhere. I stayed right at the Diamond Dot 'cause Jabez didn't seem able to get along without me; an' I hit work harder than ever. Now I oversee the Diamond Dot, Jim's place down in the Pan Handle, which is full stocked an' runnin' easy with the ex-governor's backin', an' also the ol' Colonel Scott ranch which Bill and Jessamie fell heir to.

Jim an' Barbie an' the children come back every summer; Bill an' Jessamie an' their outfit hop in on me most any time, Ches an' his bunch drop in for a week or so now an' again, an' if I ever do get lonesome I just sneak my full-dress uniform out o' the hay an' go down to Frisco for a little easin' off o' the guy-ropes. Oh, I haven't had to petition to congress to have my name changed; I'm Happy. I'm happier than any human ever had a right to be, an' life never drags none—at least not in the daytimes. The' 's dozens o' boys named after me, an' only the recordin' angel knows how many dogs an' ponies. Take it as a big gatherin', an' if any one yells, "Happy, you rascal, get out o' here," Why the' 's a general stampede.

Barbie's allus extra kind to me, as if she still felt that the' was somethin' left for me to forgive her; but my goodness, the' ain't a thing. It wasn't her fault—she couldn't never have loved me—not in the only way I wanted her to. And it ain't my fault—I couldn't help but love her, an' the' was only one way that I could love her, an' that was world without end. I'm not sorry I loved her; why, the' ain't nothin' in life I'd take for this love of mine—and it is mine. The' ain't nothin' can ever take it away from me, the' ain't nothin' can ever put a limit to it; an' though it has burned in my heart like fire, I reckon the worst it has ever done was to burn up the natural-born evil I started out with. I ain't mean-hearted nor jealous—I can't even understand it.

I can easy see how a feller would kill a man for ill-treatin' the woman he loved; but I can't see how he could marry a girl who didn't love him with all her heart. An' Jim, he's been square. They're happy, an' I stand afar off watchin' 'em; an' some way when I'm out in the starlight—when it seems that I ain't lyin' on the earth at all, but floatin' slow an' easy like an eagle restin' on his wings—I seem to share in their love, an' I don't seem to grow old.

I don't reckon I ever will grow old, 'cause love is—love is—some way MY love is like the starlight itself; an' the starlight don't scorch an' weaken an' pester like the sun; it soothes an' softens an' lifts a man up where it's calm an' steady and—and pure.

The longer I live the fonder I grow o' the stars. It don't take as much sleep for me now as it used to, an' I never was dopey; so the' 's mighty few nights 'at I don't have a little visit with 'em. I know now 'at they keep whirlin' an' circlin' away up there; but they never deceive a body. You can allus keep track of 'm, an' when the seasons change an' you can't see 'em for a while, you know 'at they're tendin' to their duties just the same; an' somehow it kind o' holds a man to the trail when the trail is gettin' rougher than he thinks he can stand.

I've got a heap o' friends, men an' women of all kinds; an' when they come to me ragin' an' bitter, I just take 'em out an' show 'em the stars; tell 'em the ones who are about to go on a long journey, but who will come back again when they're due, an' not a minute late. The' 's something about the stars 'at allus seems to take the wickedness out of a human. I've had 'em come to me—men an' women both—with murder in their hearts; but after we've visited a while with the stars they either sigh or sob—but they allus go away clean an' rested.

It's a funny notion; but sometimes I feet like as if I'd like to be a star myself; away up above the worry an' selfishness of the world, an' helpin' to bring peace an content to those who look up to me. It's a funny notion—especially for a feller what's follered the trail I have.

Me an' the preachers lock horns purty often; but they're all right, most of 'em, when you treat 'em like humans an' make 'em play fair. One of 'em happened out here on a visit, to sort o' rest up, an' he called me some kind of a Persian name an' read me a little book called The Other Wise Man. I reckon I know that book, all except the big names, by heart; an' if one of my stars would ever cut out o' the herd an' go off, slow an' stately on a new trail, why I'd foller that star—God knows I'd foller; an'—I wouldn't let on to no one else except you—but, way down, deep in my heart, I'm hopin' that sometime I'll get the chance.

THE END