Louisiana Lou. William West Winter
was vanishing rapidly. Her naïve assumption swept away the last vestiges of his awe.
“Why do you wear that veil?” he asked abruptly.
She raised her hand to it doubtfully. “Why?” she echoed.
“If I am to marry you, is it to be sight unseen?”
“It is merely because—it is because there is something that causes comment and makes it embarrassing to me. It is nothing—nothing repulsive, monsieur,” she was pleading, now. “At least, I think not. But it makes the soldiers call me——”
“Morgan la fée?”
“Yes. Then you must know?” There was relief in her words.
“No. I have merely wondered why they called you that.”
“It is on account of my eyes. They are—queer, 63 perhaps. And my hair, which I also hide under the cap. The poor soldiers ascribe all sorts of—of virtues to them. Magic qualities, which, of course, is silly. And others—are not so kind.”
In De Launay’s mind was running a verse from William Morris’ “Earthly Paradise.” He quoted it, in English:
| “The fairest of all creatures did she seem; So fresh and delicate you well might deem That scarce for eighteen summers had she blessed The happy, longing earth; yet, for the rest Within her glorious eyes such wisdom dwelt A child before her had the wise man felt.” |
“Is that it?” he murmured to himself. To his surprise, for he had not thought that she spoke English, she answered him.
“It is not. It is my eyes; yes, but they are not to be described so flatteringly.” Yet she was smiling and the blush had spread again to cheeks and chin, flushing them delightfully. “It is a superstition of these ignorant poilus. And of others, also. In fact, there are some who are afraid.”
“Well,” said De Launay, “I have never had the reputation of being either ignorant or afraid. Also—there is Ogier?”
“What?”
“Who plays the rôle of the Danish Paladin?”
Mademoiselle blushed again. “He is not in the story this time,” she said. 64
“I hardly qualify, you would say. Perhaps not. But there is more. Where is Avalon and what other names have you? You remember
| “Know thou, that thou art come to Avalon, That is both thine and mine; and as for me, Morgan le Fay men call me commonly Within the world, but fairer names than this I have—— |
“What are they?”
“I am Solange d’Albret, monsieur. I am from the Basses Pyrenees. A Basque, if you please. If my name is distinguished, I am not. On the contrary, I am very poor, having but enough to finance this trip to America and the search that is to follow.”
“And Avalon—where is that? Where is the place that you go to in America?”
She opened a small hand bag and took from it a notebook which she consulted.
“America is a big place. It is not likely that you would know it, or the man that I must look for. Here it is. The place is called ‘Twin Forks,’ and it is near the town of Sulphur Falls, in the State of Idaho. The man is Monsieur Isaac Brandon.”
In the silence, she looked up, alarmed to see De Launay, who was clutching the edge of the table and staring at her as though she had struck him.
“Why, what is the matter?” she cried.
De Launay laughed out loud. “Twin Forks! Ike 65 Brandon! Mademoiselle, what do you seek in Twin Forks and from old Ike Brandon?”
Mademoiselle, puzzled and alarmed, answered slowly.
“I seek a mine that my father found—a gold mine that will make us rich. And I seek also the name of the man that shot my father down like a dog. I wish to kill that man!” 66
CHAPTER IV
HEADS! I WIN!
De Launay turned and called the waiter, ordering cognac for himself and light wine for mademoiselle.
“You have rendered it necessary, mademoiselle,” he explained. Mademoiselle’s astounding revelation and the metallic earnestness of murder in her voice alike took him aback. He saw that her sweet mouth was set in a cruel line and her cameo chin was firm as a rock. But her homicidal intentions had not affected him as sharply as the rest of it.
Mademoiselle took her wine and sipped it, but her mouth again relaxed to scornful contempt as she saw him toss off the fiery liquor. She was somewhat astonished at the effect her words had had on the man, but she gathered that he was now considering her bizarre proposal with real interest.
The alcohol temporarily enlivened De Launay.
“So,” he said, “Avalon is at Twin Forks and I am to marry you in order that you may seek out an enemy and kill him. There was also word of a gold mine. And your father—d’Albret! I do not recall the name.”
“My father,” explained Solange, “went to America 67 when I was a babe in arms. He was very poor—few of the Basques are rich—and he was in danger because of the smuggling. He worked for this Monsieur Brandon as a herder of sheep. He found a mine of gold—and he was killed when he was coming to tell about it.”
“His Christian name?”
“Pedro—Pierre.”
“H’m-m! That must have been French Pete. I remember him. He was more than a cut above the ordinary Basco.” He spoke in English, again forgetting that mademoiselle spoke the language. She reminded him of it.
“You knew my father? But that is incredible!”
“The whole affair is incredible. No wonder you have the name of being a fairy! But I knew your father—slightly. I knew Ike Brandon. I know Twin Forks. If I had made up my mind to return to America, it is to that place that I would go.”
It was mademoiselle’s turn to be astonished.
“To Twin Forks?”
“To Ike Brandon’s ranch, where your father worked. It must have been after my time that he was killed. I left there in nineteen hundred, and came to France shortly afterward. I was a cow hand—a cowboy—and we did not hold friendship with sheepmen. But I knew Ike Brandon and his granddaughter. Now, tell me about this mine and your father’s death.” 68
Mademoiselle d’Albret again had recourse to her hand bag, drawing from it a small fragment of rock, a crumpled and smashed piece of metal about the size of one’s thumb nail and two pieces of paper. The latter seemed to be quite old, barely holding together along the lines where they had been creased. These she spread on the table. De Launay first picked up the rock and the bit of metal.
He was something of a geologist. France’s soldiers are trained in many sciences. Turning over the tiny bit of mineral between his fingers, he readily recognized the bits of gold speckling its crumbling crystals. If there was much ore of that quality where French Pete had found his mine, that mine would rank with the richest bonanzas of history.
The bit of metal also interested him. It had been washed but there were still oxydized spots which might have been made by blood. It was a soft-nosed bullet, probably of thirty caliber, which had mushroomed after striking something. His mouth was grim as he saw the jagged