The Perfect Ending
“Two
men so faithful to the memory of one woman could not meet—and live”
Lacey Amy
MacLean’s Magazine October 1 1929
In the Editor's Confidence
WITH publication
of “A Perfect Ending” comes word from Lacey Amy that he has found one to a
long, hot journey in the Pyrenees, looking for a place where an author can
write without having to import blocks of ice to sit on. La Rochesur-Foron, it
appears, is that place. And very nice, too, judging by Amy’s description. What
a friend for a stamp collector!
WHERE the old
Indian trail rounds over the Aletippi Pass, Terry Frollingham has built himself
a cabin. The new motor road, avoiding the climb, skirts the base of Mount
Beppo, leaving the Aletippi and Terry much to themselves. So does everyone
else, for that matter; for the Indian is scarce, the old-time packer is no
more, and the few tourists who stumble on the Mountain View Hotel seven miles
or so away have neither energy nor ambition to climb to Terry in his eyrie.
Even Markham, the optimist, gouging a precarious living from the little hotel,
has never heard of Terry.
So he remains
alone, his cabin hidden in the trees near the brink of the precipice
overlooking the deserted gold camp. Up there is only view—and Terry. And there
are so many other views more accessible. As for Terry, without his story he
counts nothing. And that story he has told to none but me.
I speak of him in
the present. But there is Jack Maybee to consider. Perhaps it is Jack lives
there now. It is one or the other. Two men so faithful to the memory of one
woman could not meet and both live. And before my eyes they met. I am not
curious. Simply I know that it was the perfect ending, whatever it was.
IT WAS the
tourists brought us together, Terry and me. Fleeing their noisy, desecrating
bridge on the hotel verandah, I stumbled on the old pack trail. Just a vestige
of ancient passings through the jackpines, treerubbed by the pack ponies,
winding along in the inexplicable way of paths. Vaguely I followed it.
It led finally to
the motor road, where it seemed to halt, for a screen of trees interposed
there. Pushing through, I saw across the road the ruins of a village—a dozen
dilapidated buildings grouped about a central cabin. Nothing surprising in
that—a hundred such ruins, relics of construction camps, gold camps, defunct
lumber concerns, were scattered through the mountains; yet without thinking,
something about the old village sent me creeping back to the cover of the
trees. Rallying there, I peered out once more. Uninhabited certainly, for
windows, doors and roofs were gone, the old paths untrodden, forest fungi
clotted on the log walls. Yet the place was not dead. A pulse beat there.
Something lived on—a memory—a hope—waiting, waiting. Something wistful and
pathetic seemed to return my stare, wondering a little.
I shook myself
back to reason and understood. The central cabin—that was it. Evidences of
recent repair there—a roof, infirm, but still a roof. A solid door, locked, I
felt certain, against a prying world. The windows, mere openings now, were set
higher in the walls than a man’s head. I noticed then that the forest wild
growth that so closely pursues the heels of man had been cleared away. An
inviolable sort of place, I thought. Private.
Impressed, I
retired to the slope behind me, deciding to climb and look down on the old
village, escaping that wistful stare.
THAT was how I
came on the garden and the cabin—Terry’s—away on the crest of the Pass.
Surprising garden, vegetables that even the industrious Markham had failed to
raise, protected from the devastating mountain rat by a fine-meshed wire fence
that seemed to extend under ground, and an array of empty grocery boxes for
covering at night. Beyond the garden was the cabin. As I stopped to look it
over, through a screen of trees to the right an old man hurried and disappeared
around the cabin. A door slammed.
I knew he had seen
me—I read the meaning of the slamming door. Yet I persisted. Rounding the wire
fence, I pushed through the screen of trees and came out on the edge of a
precipice that fell two hundred feet to the long slope extending to the valley,
in the heart of which lay the living death of the ruined village. For a moment
the precision of my course startled me. Then I saw the position of the sun, and
realized how time had passed. In something of a panic I turned for home.
As I circled the
cabin, the door opened narrowly and the old man spoke through to me.
“How did you get
here?”
It was not
impertinent, not resentful, not even uncivil. But a certain agitation about
it—concern—puzzled me.
“I’m sure I don’t
know,” I replied. “That’s why I’m hurrying back to the hotel.”
“You found the old
pack trail?”
“I suppose I
did—stumbled on it. I wanted to get away from some very disagreeable tourists.”
His face softened.
“You’ll have to hurry. If you keep that slide in sight”—a distant gash in a
forested slope— “and turn left at a river down to the valley, you’ll find the
hotel in a few minutes.”
I started to thank
him, but the door shut in my face. This time, however, it did not slam.
I did not sleep
well. All night the strange old man and his garden and the ruined village
haunted me. Next day, with Markham’s lunch under my arm, I sought the old pack
trail again. Something led me unfalteringly. In three hours I was there, seated
on a rustic bench I found at the edge of the precipice.
No life had shown
about the cabin as I passed, but I knew I was observed. Across the valley half
a dozen peaks thrust into the sky, forest-green, broken at intervals by spots
of gray or brown cliff. Below, the gray worm of the motor road tangled through
the trees; and in the heart of the valley the old village. It interested me.
What was its story—its birth and close-following death? The sun beat
comfortably on my shoulders and a whisper of breeze stirred the trees
musically. I closed my eyes.
I opened them to
find the old man seated beside me, though I had heard no sound. Frankly he
regarded me, silent, but undisturbed by my return inspection. Closer now, he
seemed much younger. His hair was gray, his shoulders bent, his face haggard.
But not with years. Something of his story I read in his eyes. Anxiety there, a
trace of impatience, a muddled bewilderment. I looked down on the ruins below,
and back at my companion. An involuntary movement, yet he seemed to understand,
for he smiled.
“I hope I’m not
trespassing unforgiveably,” I apologized when I could stand the silence no
longer. “It’s the old village there—I was interested.”
“My village,” he
said, in the flat voice of one accustomed to silence. In the accent, in the
tone was a trace of truculent possessiveness, as if I had questioned his claim.
“No one lives
there now, I suppose?”
He shook his head.
“Not a grain of dust panned there these thirty years—and never will be again.”
“Oh, an old gold
camp?”
“Bepposite, one
time liveliest of ’em all,” he replied dreamily.
“A lovely spot for
a village,” I ventured.
His face lit up.
“What Sally and I always thought, lookin’ down from here.”
“You’re married?”
I asked, and instantly realized my blunder. I realized it more, when without a
word he rose and left me, disappearing among the trees.
Puzzling over it,
I was on my way back to the trail when the door opened again.
“You’re welcome to
the bench any time,” he called after me.
NEXT day rain held
me fidgeting at the hotel, but on the following day, despite Markham’s warning,
I set out for the cabin. The old man was standing in the doorway watching for
me. Shyly he invited me in. I knew then that the brushing of his elbow by the
outside world had touched a responsive chord in him. Something it could give
him after all . . . I wondered if he didn’t need me.
The trimness of
the interior of the cabin did not surprise me, but what it did do was to draw
my attention to something in its owner that I had been vaguely aware of. Even
the day I saw him first, he, too, had been trim—his clothes fresh, his shoes
polished, a daily shave. I wondered. The cabin was a real home, with its
comfortable home-made chairs, its newspaper and magazine-laden tables, its soft
curtains caught back across the windows. But the heart of the room was the
windowseat looking toward the cliff over the valley. A much used and usable
seat, with a convenient table littered with papers beside it —there, I felt
certain, my friend spent his indoor hours. I moved toward it—and started when,
through the glass, I looked down on the old gold camp. I felt that I had
uncovered something of a story I longed to hear.
I tried to cover
my start.
“You’re
comfortable here. Good enough for a woman.”
My new friend
smiled on me.
“I’m glad you said
that. You’re my first visitor. I’ve tried to make it as Sally would like it.
Even a shack can be a home.”
“I wouldn’t call
this a shack,” I protested, wondering who and where Sally might be.
“No, you’re right.
Sally never did. It was our home. Not this one, of course, the one they burnt
down—before this.”
I watched him
roaming about the room, touching things with gentle hands, tidying the papers.
As he came to the
table beside the window seat he jerked upright and leaned forward. I looked
over his shoulder.
Outside it was
raining softly, not like a mountain storm. Over the valley hung a thin mist
through which the ruined camp showed clear in the forest obscurity. In the camp
clearing a Ford had pulled up, and the usual Ford mob was tumbling from it to
spread out pryingly through the village. As the father of the family started
toward the main cabin the man before me wheeled abruptly and dashed through the
door. For a moment or two I could hear him plunging down the mountainside. I
turned to watch the scene below.
The tourists were
poking about—no rain could dampen their insolence. The father, trying the door
of the main cabin and finding it locked, struggled with it a moment, then,
returning to the car, seemed to recall the family, for they came tumbling and
in a mass fell on the laden running-boards and bumpers. In a few minutes a tent
was spread on the ground. The father found a pole, and setting it up between a
roofless wall and a post that had once probably held a sign, with the
assistance of the whole family threw the canvas over it. Leaving the family to
complete the work he returned to the main cabin. He, too, was curious.
I found myself
resenting their impudence, cursing the road that made their presence possible.
With an uncomfortable laugh I realized that my new friend’s excitement had
spread to me. I wondered why.
The hands of the
man below had fallen on the high sill of a window of the main cabin to draw
himself up, when suddenly the whole family turned toward the road, and from
among the trees my new friend came running. Probably he had shouted. Straight
for the father beside the central cabin he made his way, and for a moment they
seemed to argue. Side by side, then, they returned to the car. The children,
clustered about their mother, watched in evident fright. With a sweep of his
arm the old man tore down the tent and kicked it to a heap. And the father,
stepping forward to protest, found a gun poking in his ribs . . .
In five minutes
they were gone, family and outfit spilling over the sides of the car. The old
man watched them disappear and, after a slow look about, approached the central
cabin and let himself in with a key. I seated myself on the window seat and
picked up a newspaper.
The cabin door
opened softly and the old man entered. “It’s stopped rainin’,” he said, a
little breathlessly. “I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything to eat.”
I took the hint.
“Thank you, I’ll have to go. I’d hate to be lost in the mountains.”
“You don’t
understand the mountains,” he told me with a smile. “If you’d lived in ’em
thirty-two years . . .” He stopped in some confusion. “It’s thirty-two years
since I came first. I’ve lived here only twelve.”
“One might well
envy you,” I assured him, trying to cover his embarrassment. “I’m coming every
year.”
His tanned face
flushed with pleasure. “My name’s Frollingham—Terry Frollingham. Christened
‘Terence,’ I guess. Wasn’t ever called it. Everyone has something to be
thankful for,” he added whimsically. “I couldn’t live anywheres else. It’ll be
better here when—when the account’s settled.”
I asked no
questions—his story was bursting to tell. I gave him my name and he repeated it
after me, as if he liked the sound of it.
“Are you
Canadian?” he asked. And when I said I was, his face lit up. “Then you’d know
something of the Great War.”
“Too darn much.”
He did not seem to
hear. “I couldn’t go. I was in jail—for murder.” Seeing me start, he smiled,
and I smiled back; it all sounded so fantastic.
“If you’d care to
come again,” he pleaded timidly.
“I’ll be here
tomorrow—Terry.” He touched me lingeringly on the arm. “A life sentence it was
—and I was guilty, you know. They let me out in twenty years.” His eyes bored
into mine.
I laughed and left
him. I was late for supper at the hotel, and Markham, politely curious,
questioned me in vain.
TERRY was waiting
for me on the rustic bench beside the cliff. Scattered clouds freckled the sky,
sending shadows racing over the valley. Far away against a brown cliff a pair
of huge birds soared. Terry pointed.
“Eagles. They’re
gettin’ scarce. I like to think they’re the ones I used to see thirty years
ago.” One of the shadows struck the central cabin below and seemed to linger.
The man beside me winced. Fumblingly he drew a pipe and commenced to pack it.
“Down there—it’s
where she lived,” he murmured. He stopped to light up. “Sally Saunders. Pretty
name, don’t you think? But not pretty enough for Sally— Sally and Bepposite.
They lived and died together. When Sally—went, the other gold went, too. Forme,
too. I’ll tell you about it.” He pressed the fire from the pipe and returned it
to his pocket. I was puzzled. Sally Saunders! She’d been all the world to him.
I knew that, and yet he could speak of her with such detachment. Not
indifference—no, indeed. Acceptance—that was it. A fatalist, Terry Frollingham.
With this addition, that things were as they should be with him. He was
speaking again.
“Sally Saunders—though
that was before she married Jack Maybee—before I knew her. But Sally Saunders
she was to the camp to the end. Odd, too, when you know. ’Cause she always
loved Jack—that was why she wouldn’t never marry me—me, who took her. She was
that kind of a girl.”
A subtle change
had come over him—a burden of silence lifted, long-closed chambers thrown open
to the light. How he must have longed to talk during these many years!
“I was young in
them days. But Bepposite was younger. In years only. I’m only fifty now,
though—well, when you’ve served twenty years—and been waitin’ for ten more . .
. Things had happened back home, nasty things. They thought I was no good and I
set out to show ’em—And the first I saw of Bepposite, the new gold camp, was
the one good thing it had—Sally.”
He looked about
with soft, distant eyes.
“Right here it
was.” He sighed. “So much has happened here. First, Sally. Then—that other—the
awful thing. And I’m only waitin’ for the last—I’d lost my way and I heard a
woman singin’. She’d climbed up here to get away from the noise and dirt o’ the
camp, like she always liked to. Yes, I know—just a girl from a gold camp—and
runnin’ a faro table. But you don’t know Sally Saunders.
“I heard her
singin’. And she could sing, Sally could. They don’t sing like her nowadays.
I’ve heard most o’ the big ones on the machines, and I know singin’ when I hear
it. From the time I was a kid I sang in the choir back home. We got third prize
once at the county show. But Sally beat anything. You know that little trill
they used to know how to get at the end of a line. They’ve forgot it now. Well,
Sally could do it so your heart would jump in your throat and choke you.
“She didn’t sing
much after that. Too much happened—and too fast—I don’t know—maybe she was
happier in them days. But what I did—what we did—was for the best, as we saw
it. Maybe I was wrong. I’ll know some day.
“I saw her before
she did me—she was standin’ right there—but she just took one glance at me, and
that was through me. I was raw from the country, you see. She was frightened
somehow. ‘You shouldn’t oughta be here,’ she said; and she looked down on the
camp. ‘Nor you neither,’ I said back, looking the same direction.
“ ‘It’s my home,’
she said, and she threw up her head. ‘My husband lives there—runs the gamblin’
room. And I run the faro table.’
“ ‘Then gamblin’
ain’t what we thought back home,’ I said, tryin’ to think I meant it.
“And her eyes went
all soft, because, I guess, she saw I was in love already. She touched me on
the arm. ‘He’s my husband,’ she said, ‘and I love him still—and always will.’
“I wasn’t too raw
to see what that ‘still’ meant, though I knew she didn’t know she said it.
‘Gamblin’,’ I said, ‘is a reg’lar business in a gold camp, I guess, so it’s
better bein’ run by nice people.’ And when I looked at her again there was
tears in her eyes. ‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘it won’t be my business. I’m goin’ to dig
gold.’
“She laughed at
that, and she told me I wouldn’t dig it, because this was placer mining. Then
she looked through me, dreamy-like, and she told me I would make my fortune,
two or three o’ them. ‘And you’ll lose them,’ she warned. ‘They all do. That’s
what makes our fortune, Jack’s and mine.’ A bit bitter she sounded.
“She only smiled
when I said I wouldn’t gamble, and the dimples dancin’ in her cheeks—God, she
was pretty, the kind o’ prettiness that knocks a man silly—golden hair, all
fluffy and nice, and a skin smoother than velvet, and dark eyes and brows and
dark red lips—I didn’t know till afterwards. But you can’t blame a girl for
makin’ the most of herself, can you? Sort o’ duty.”
Poor Terry! Part
of his unhappiness was his memory of Sally in these days of wider experience.
“I told her all
about myself, then. Most men did. And she listened as if I mattered. She was
that way. I’ve seen her let a drunk pile his troubles on her—and his dust, too,
for safe keepin’. As if she hadn’t worries enough of her own. And then some of
them—the brutes—they’d imagine when they got sober that they’d given her more
than she gave back. Men are like that in a gold camp—just beasts. Don’t know a
lady when they see one. That’s something you learn on a farm as good as
anywheres, is a lady.”
“And when I was
through, she looked so sober it sort o’ frightened me. ‘If only you’ll help
me,’ I begged.
“ ‘That isn’t my
business, Terry,’ she said, bitter again.
“ ‘Anyway, you’ll
never have a chance to cheat me,’ I bragged, feelin’ big about it.
“ ‘Terry
Frollingham,’ she said low, just sayin’ my name. ‘It sounds like you. Mine’s
Sally. And, Terry, the faro table will always treat you square.’ Then she
closed her lips tight, like as if she’d said too much.
“I just laughed;
and then I told her it was gettin’ dark, and I asked her the best I knew how if
I could see her home—like we did with the girls back home. She looked as if she
wanted to cry, but what she said hurt terrible. ‘You can see me down the
mountainside, Terry, then I’ll go into the camp alone.’
“And I—fool . . .
thought she was ashamed to be seen with the tenderfoot, so I left her. ‘You’ll
understand only too soon, Terry,’ she called after me—and I did.”
FOR a long time he
was silent. I, too, for I wanted his story exactly as he wished to give it. His
emotions told as much as his words.
“Bepposite,” he
went on. “Just fever and nastiness—Sally was right. I got the fever—gold and
faro. Maybe if Sally hadn’t been runnin’ the faro table . . .
But that isn’t
fair to her; I did what I did with my eyes open. Sally was all there was decent
about Bepposite. Like a water lily in a scummy pond—And there wasn’t one of us
didn’t hope to pick that lily—some day. You ought to heard her sing, ‘In the
Baggage Coach Ahead,’ and ‘After the Ball.’ Make you swallow hard, I tell you.
Big Bill Carew shot a guy for laughin’ once. Drunk, or he couldn’t ’a’ done
it—the guy, I mean. Sally about ran the place.
“ ’Course there
was Jack Maybee, her husband. Likable chap, Jack was, sort that could make
friends collectin’ taxes, even. We made him Mayor first show o’ hands; and it
wasn’t true we was afraid to vote against him, like some said. Head and shoulders
above the run o’ jointkeepers, Jack was. Wouldn’t stand for no rough-house—not
when Sally was around. Once he kicked a man out for callin’ her ‘Sal.’ And the
other—the one that clapped her on the back—drunk he was or he wouldn’t ’a’
dared—we buried him next day out back; and we didn’t have the nerve to borrow
from Jack the only book in camp to do things like that decent like.
“ ’Member the
first fight I seen. A dago and a big Swede it was. Jack tried to stop it
quiet-like; but dagoes and Swedes don’t stop easy. They got nasty, and I—raw
fool I was yet—I chipped in to help Jack. Well, he just brushed me away, and
hustled Sally into their own rooms. After that there wasn’t anything but the
doctor for the other two. Great with his fists, Jack was. Gun, too. But he
wouldn’t use a gun on them—they was new guys in camp and didn’t know no
better—Jack always got Sally out o’ the way before a row. Most always. I’m
cornin’ to the times he forgot. When a man loves like Jack did Sally, he’s bound
to forget sometimes.
“But what he’d ’a’
done without Sally I don’t know. She was always where the rows started.
Nobody’d think o’ startin a row about the other girls in camp. We knew a lady,
we did. And Sally sure was one. You could tell it by the crook of her little
finger when she et, so graceful and cute, and the way she used a toothpick. You
just got one squint o’ Sally, and went and bought a comb and a necktie. Jack
Maybee kept a stock o’ things like that for spiffin’ up. Sally didn’t expect
the impossible.
“Handsome pair,
Jack and Sally. And different. Jack’s hair was black as the ace o’ spades, and
all oiled smooth and shiny. And his mustache waxed into a nice circle. Gent
from the city, you’d say, maybe a banker or somebody. And how he did love Sally!
My love wasn’t that kind, but I sort o’ understand. And she loved him just as
much, Sally did—right to the end. That’s what makes it all the stranger—because
she wasn’t the sort o’ girl to fit into the life he made her lead. There wasn’t
nobody else he could trust to run the faro, so what else could she do? It paid,
too. Always a crowd waitin’ to break in at Sally’s table— And Jack standin’
behind the counter just glarin’ at us.
“ ’Course it
couldn’t go on long. A man can’t last only so long with jealousy eatin’ his
heart out—He picked on me early. You see, Sally sort o’ mothered me, me bein’
so raw and all that—
“ ’Member the
first night I tr.ed to play. I’d panned out pretty well that day, and a part of
it had gone over the counter. I’d crowded in close to Sally’s chair, and when
the openin’ came I butted in. But Sally nodded to the man behind me. I just was
drunk enough to put up a howl, but Sally only raised her eyebrows and went on
with the game. And then Jack Maybee was reachin’ for me . . .
“I saw by his eyes
he’d been layin’ for me, and I was fool enough to welcome a fight. Seemed to be
fightin’ for Sally, and I’d have walked through hell for her. But Sally spoke
up sharp, ‘Stop it, Jack.’ It almost knocked the wind out of him. Me, too, and
when I got my wits back I was outside, and three friends holdin’ me.
“But it only put
off the end. It had to come, that fight. Nobody could butt in between Jack
Maybee and Sally, and get away with it. Two days after that I squeezed into the
game—Bally didn’t dare keep me out again. And right from the start I had
beginner’s luck. They were mad, I tell you. Then—well, I thought I saw Sally
doin’ tricks to make me lose—wanted to make me quit, I know now—and I put up
another howl. You know how I felt—like as if she’d gone back on me.
“Then something
happened. A gun slid over the table, and there was Big Bill Carew behind it.
And Bill was never known to argue—or miss. It scared me. Bang!—and I thought I
was a goner. But it wasn’t Bill’s gun. No, Bill just gave a groan and slumped
over sideways off his chair. And next second Jack Maybee and Sally and I was
standin’ together, watchin’ the room over our guns. Big Bill’s friends hadn’t a
chance to draw.
“ ‘Who did that?’
Jack ast. One of Big Bill’s friends, it was, said, ‘Ask Sally.’ And, sure
enough, there was a wisp o’ smoke curlin’ up from under the table where Sally’d
been sittin’. That did it. For the second time in two minutes I was helpless.
But Sally saved me again— struck Jack’s gun back over the counter so the bullet
went wild into the ceilin’ . . .”
TERRY was leaning
forward, staring down on the old cabin. I took a steadier breath. Conventional
scene in a gold camp—conventional characters. Yet somehow it gripped me.
Something different, something unexpected, was coming. I knew it.
“I’m glad I didn’t
shoot. Jack Maybee has a right to his chance. He ain’t done nothin’ wrong.
Maybe I did—just lovin’ Sally, and wantin’ her so bad. Jack’s got to have his
chance—and Bepposite.”
“Is he alive—Jack
Maybee?” I asked. He did not seem to hear.
“That brought
things to a head. I don’t know exactly what happened—Sally never would tell. He
must ’a’ used her a bit rough. Couldn’t help it, lovin’ her the way he did, and
knowin’ how I loved her, and what she done and all that. I see his side. Love
was hurtin’ him, so the other’s got to be hurt, too. Sally stuck it a week,
then she—came to me.”
He stirred
uneasily. “Nothin’ else for her to do, was there? Sally’s never been brought up
to make a livin’ for herself—she wasn’t that sort of a girl. God made her the
lady she was—maybe He sent her to me. You see, somebody might ’a’ got her that
didn’t understand her love for Jack, and they’d ’a’ made her marry them. I
didn’t—often she cried herself to sleep in my arms—she loved Jack Maybee so.
“I’d made a bit,
and we cleared out. Took her right home to Iowa. I thought the folks’d be proud
o’ her and me. But they weren’t. They ast if we were married—closed the door on
us. It was terrible. You see, Sally was goin’ to have a baby. It was born five
months after. She couldn’t ’a’ known when she left Jack. ’Member this was
thirty years ago, when even flappers didn’t know everything about motherhood
but the pangs . . . I was proud as sin to father her kid when she needed a
father most. But that didn’t help Sally much—And my people could think! God,
they could think that o’ Sally!”
His lips worked.
“She was straight, Sally was. Comin’ to me was nothin’. It was either that
or—or worse—So little Betty was born in a hospital, with nobody but me to
comfort her mother. And after that—you know how it is—the money went quicker’n
we thought. Sally was unhappy. It hurt me more because she seemed to be wantin’
all the time to make up to me for something—I don’t know what. See how lucky I
was—not another man in the world—except Jack—she’d ’a’ let do for her what I
was able to do—And so when the money was ’most gone, ‘There’s that new camp in
Nevada,’ I said, not lookin’ at her. And she only laughed for the first time
for weeks, and pinched me. ‘We’ll go right back, Terry. Jack won’t be there.’
She knew it was always Bepposite for both of us.
“I came back alone
first and scouted about. Jack was gone—just pulled out. Lookin’ for us, I knew.
And the camp had got together and run the gamblin’ room. Payin’, too, it was.
They were glad when Sally turned up to take the money. I knew better than to
show up. Some things you can’t explain to a gold camp any easier than back in
Iowa. Rules, you know. So I built a cabin—right where this one is now. And she
and Betty used to come up to me o’ nights.
“For a month
things went fine, and we began to think our troubles over. But some o’ Big Bill
Carew’s friends was there. I blame it on them, what happened. But
maybe—sometimes I don’t know—maybe it was God. A man can’t run away with another
man’s wife and not pay for it; no, not even if it’s the only thing to do. Maybe
I had to pay for wantin’ her so bad. I’m ready to pay. But Sally—that’s what
beats me. I don’t see—But maybe a woman ought to stick . . .”
“What happened?” I
asked.
He rose and,
stepping to the edge of the cliff, pointed down. Two hundred feet below I saw a
small cairn of rock.
“He found us here.
It was a lovely evening, soft and balmy, and we were sittin’ here watchin’ the
lights comin’ out in the camp—Sally with Betty in her arms leanin’ against me
like I loved her to do. We weren’t talkin’—just dreamy and happy. A whisper o’
wind in the trees, like music. One o’ the wonderful mountain evenings I get so
often now, alone—and then there was another sound, and Jack was here.”
Terry shivered and
moistened his lips with his tongue.
“He had his gun,
so there wasn’t nothin’ I could do but watch my chance. He was crazy wild. Said
things—awful things—about Sally—about little Betty, his own child. I was
bracin’ myself to jump him, and then I saw two o’ Big Bill’s friends had me
covered behind. And there was Sally and Betty to think of, if shootin’ began.
“Sally didn’t say
a word—just seemed frozen, starin’ up at Jack. And when he stopped she groaned
and hugged Betty closer. And then she was up facin’ him, holdin’ Betty out.
“ ‘You can think
that, Jack?’ she wailed. ‘You? Look at her—your own Betty!’ Seemed as if her
heart was broke. But Jack was too mad to notice. He said more things—worse
things. Sally seemed to wilt, and just when I had made up my mind to take a
chance, she broke away with a moan.
“Both Jack and I
tried to stop her. He was nearest and he got his fingers on her dress, but she
tore loose. I saw red then. I heard the thud—and then I was shootin’. Not at
Jack—somehow I could not hurt him, just standin’ there starin’ like he was
crazy. No, not Jack, the other two—Big Bill’s friends. Just two shots. I ‘member
the double flash of my gun, and then I ran. I looked back once. Jack was
watchin’ me. He didn’t shoot. Feels like I do—some day we’ll settle our account
decent and fair.”
He fumbled for his
pipe, breathing deeply.
“So that was the
murder?” I scoffed. “Why, any lawyer could have got you off. Self-defense . . .”
“I didn’t want to
get off. Sally and Betty—Too awful to end easy like that. Neither Jack nor I
would tell—Jack took a life sentence, too.” He saw my bewilderment and smiled.
“You don’t know Jack Maybee. Good sport, he always was. When they got me he
gave himself up. Said he’d shot one of ’em. It didn’t look square to him for me
to get it all when he’d been a bit to blame—in a way. Besides, he wanted to
keep track o’ me.”
“Why, what—”
“The settlement.
It’s got to come—for both our sakes. For Sally’s sake. For Bepposite’s, the old
gold camp. Jack’s lookin’ for me.” His face clouded. “But it’s ten years. I
don’t understand.” The shadow of the mountain opposite fell across us. “You’d
best be goin’, my friend.”
IT WAS late next
day—lost my way—and Terry was on the bench looking for me. He welcomed me with
that wistful smile of his. In all these years he had grown so little beyond the
old farm days in Iowa. He had, I noticed, taken more pains than ever with his
appearance—goatee trimmed, gray hair glossy with oil, and a new suit in its
original creases. “You expect visitors?” I enquired.
He nodded. “One of
you already.”
“Oh, but I’m no
visitor; you’ll see me every nice day till I leave.”
He smiled, pleased
but uncomfortable at the frankness of my friendship. I came to the point. All
night I had fretted.
“You mustn’t stay,
Terry. It’s tempting disaster. Jack Maybee will look for you here.”
He nodded. “I’ve
been waitin’. Ten years. Accounts like ours have to be settled.”
“Rank sentiment,”
I stormed. “Bosh !”
“What else is
there to live for?” he countered simply.
I gave it up. “Oh,
well,” I reasoned with my fears, “he may be dead—or found another woman.”
“Not Jack Maybee.
You forgot Sally, I guess. Anyway, I had to come. They burnt down the old
cabin.” He looked back through the trees. “It’ll suit either of us—the new one—whichever’s
left—If only the folks back home would believe—about Sally!”
To Terry
Frollingham the thirty years were as a day. Such simplicity, such love, such
faith . . .
Something stirred
behind me. I swung about, my heart pounding.
The sun had
dropped behind a mountain peak. Long shadows lay across the deserted camp. A
wind whispered mysteries among the trees. A large, broadshouldered man stood
over us, his clothes immaculate but extreme, his graying hair oiled flat, his
mustache waxed to a circle. One who had lived hard, eyes bulging a little, lips
thick but controlled. His face, oddly pale and flabby, told of recent
suffering. Terry had not turned, but he had heard; a happy smile on that gentle
face bewildered me. The man over us did not seem to see me.
“The old spot,
Terry. I knew I would find you here. I was impatient and they kept me seven
years longer. It told on me—hospital most of the time since. You were always a
good sport, Terry. Let’s get on with it. The sun is going down—the hour she
loved.”
I caught him by
the arm. “For God’s sake, Jack Maybee, can’t you ever forget?”
“Does Terry?” he
asked softly, smiling almost affectionately on Terry’s back. He tossed me aside
and his face hardened. “Would any man forget the friend who ran away with his
wife—murdered her?”
“But he didn’t do
either. You know—”
But neither of
them was listening.
“You have your
gun, Terry?” Maybee asked quietly.
Terry nodded and
made for the house. For a foolish moment I hoped he would escape—and was
ashamed of myself. Maybee took no notice of me—he was looking down on the old
camp. A smile creased his cheeks. Then Terry was back, an old revolver in his
hand. Maybee drew two beautiful, new, blue steel guns from his pocket.
“That would be
foolish, Terry. Take your pick.”
“Thanks, Jack, I like
the old gun.”
“Have you
another?”
Terry left us
again, and as he returned with the two old guns, Maybee hurled his pair far out
over the cliffs. They smiled at each other and started away.
One last effort I
made. “Terry, Terry, don’t do it. You’ll let him kill you.”
Terry
straightened. “I’ll do the best I know how. If I didn’t, it’d mean I’d done
wrong. And that’d mean Sally did, too. It’s for Sally’s honor.”
“Both of us,” said
Maybee. “Sally never did wrong. It’s one of us.”
Terry hesitated.
“One thing, friend—back in Iowa—I wish they could know how straight Sally was.”
I dropped
helplessly to the bench. Terry returned and laid a hand on my shoulder.
“You’ve done a lot
for me, my friend. You’ve listened. You’d best go now. It’ll be dark soon. I
don’t think you want to know, do you?”
Then they were
gone.
I had to grip
myself to keep from running after them. Their affair, this, and it had to be
settled. Better one man’s conscience at rest than two in misery. Dull thud of
feet keeping step—then silence. Far below they emerged on the road, crossed the
empty camp side by side, and disappeared behind the old gambling room. A shaft
of evening sunlight struck through a gap in the mountain wall and fell gently
across the rotting roof. I waited, scarcely breathing. Seconds only, but it
seemed a lifetime. Two shots that would have been one, had I not known. And
while the echoes still rattled through the mountains, the roof of the old faro
room collapsed in a cloud of brown dust; the door flew open and swung in the wind.
I ran.
Next morning I
left the mountains. Martin wondered. I have never been back. I am not curious,
but sometimes I wonder in my dreams who is living up there in the little cabin
on the Aletippi Pass.
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