_ CHAPTER XX. APPROACHING THE TRIBUNAL
The sun was mounting royally in the eastern sky. There was not a breath of air to temper the rapidly heating atmosphere. The green grassland rolled away on every hand, a fascinating, limitless plain whose monotony drives men to deep-throated curses, and yet holds them to its bosom as surely as might a well-loved mistress. It was a morning when the heart of man should be stirred with the joy of life, when lungs expand with deep draughts of the earth's purest air, when the full, rich blood circulates with strong, virile pulsations, and the power to do tingles in every nerve.
It was no day on which a man, branded with the worst crime known to a cattle country, should set out to face his fellow men. There should have been darkening clouds on every horizon. There should have been distant growlings of thunder, and every now and then the heavens should have been "rent in twain with appalling floods of cruel light," to match the hopeless gloom of outraged innocence.
But the glorious summer day was there to mock, as is the way of things in a world where the struggles and disasters of humanity must be counted so infinitesimal.
This was the morning when Jim Thorpe turned his stiffly squared back upon the "AZ" ranch. He wanted no melodramatic accompaniment. He wanted the light, he wanted the cheering sun, he wanted that wealth of natural splendor, which the Western prairie can so amply afford, to lighten the burden which had so suddenly fallen upon him.
It was another of Fate's little tricks that had been aimed at him, another side of that unfortunate destiny which seemed to be ever dogging him. Well might he have cried out, "How long? How long?" Whatever the fates had done for him in the past, whatever his disappointments, whatever his disasters, crime had found no place in the accusations against him. It almost seemed as though his destiny was working its heartless pranks upon him with ever-growing devilishness.
With subtle foresight, and knowledge of its victim it timed its efforts carefully, and directed them on a course that could hurt his spirit most. Even when his inclinations, his sensibilities were at their highest pitch, down came the bolt with unerring aim, and surely in the very direction which, at the moment, could drive him the hardest, could bow his head the lowest.
Four years in the cattle world had ingrained in him the instincts of a traffic which possesses a wholesome appeal to all that is most manly in men. Four years had taught him to abhor crime against that traffic in a way that was almost as fanatical as it was in such men as McLagan and those actually bred to it. He was no exception. He had caught the fever; and the cattleman's fever is not easily shaken off. As McLagan would show no mercy to his own brother were he a proven cattle-thief, so Jim loathed the crime in little less degree. And he was about to face the world, his world, branded with that crime.
It was a terrible thought, a hideous thought, and, in spite of his squared shoulders, his stiffened back, his spirit, for the time, was crushed under the burden so unjustly thrust upon him. He thought of Peter Blunt, and wondered vaguely what he would say. He wondered what would be the look in the kindly gray eyes when he spoke the words of comfort and disbelief which he knew would await him. That was it. The look. It was the thought behind the words that mattered--and could so hurt.
As the miles swept away under his horse's raking stride, he tried to puzzle out the riddle, or the "nut" he had set out to crack, as McLagan had been pleased to call it. He could see no explanation of it. Why his brand? He knew well enough that cattle rustlers preferred to use established brands of distant ranches when it was necessary to hold stolen cattle in hiding before deporting them from the district. But
his brand. It was absurd from a rustler's point of view. Everybody knew his small bunch of cattle. Any excessive number with his brand on would excite suspicion. It was surely, as he had said, the work of a prentice hand. No experienced thief would have done it.
He thought and thought, but he could see no gleam of light on the matter.
As the miles were covered he still floundered in a maze of speculation that seemed to lead him nowhither. But his efforts helped him unconsciously. It kept his mind from brooding on the disaster to himself, and, to a man of his sensibilities, this was healthy. He had all the grit to face his fellow men in self-defense, but, to his proud nature, it was difficult to stand up under the knowledge of a disgrace which was not his due.
He was within a few miles of Barnriff when his mind suddenly lurched into a fresh channel of thought. With that roving, groping after a clue to the crime of which he was morally accused, Eve suddenly grew into his focus. He thought with a shudder what it would have meant to her had she married him instead of Will. He tried to picture her brave face, while she writhed under the taunts of her sex, and the meaning glances of the men-folk. It was a terrible picture, and one that brought beads of perspiration to his brow.
It was a lucky--yes, in spite of Will's defections--thing for her she had married the man she did. Besides, Will had mended his ways. He had kept to the judgment that Peter Blunt had passed on him. Well, he would have the laugh now.
Then there was Will's success. Everything had gone his way. Fortune had showered her best on him, whether he deserved it or not. She apparently found no fault in him. And they said he was turning out thousands of dollars. But there, it was no use thinking and wondering. The luck had all gone Will's way. It was hard--devilish hard.
Poor Eve! He caught himself pitying her. No, he had no right to pity her. The pity would have been had she married him. And yet--perhaps this would never have happened had she married him. No, he told himself, it would never, could never have happened then. For, in the fact of having won her, would not his luck have been the reverse of what it was?
Suddenly he wondered what she would think when he told her--or when others told her, as, doubtless by this time, they had already done. He shuddered. She was in a cattle country. She was ingrained with all its instincts. Would she condemn him without a hearing? When he went to speak to her, would she turn from him as from something unclean? Again the sweat broke out at his thought. She might. The facts were deadly against him. And yet--and yet somehow---- No, he dared not speculate; he must wait.
There was the humble little village on ahead of him, nestling like some tiny boat amidst the vast rollers of the prairie ocean. There, ahead, were his judges, and amongst them the woman who was still more to him than his very life. He must face them, face them all. And when their verdict was pronounced, as he knew it would be in no uncertain manner, then, with girded loins, he must stand out, and, conscious of his innocence, fight the great battle. It was the world--his world--against him, he knew. What--what must be the result? _