The Branding Iron. Katharine Newlin Burt
river.” Yes, he would be gone. She might have been going with him. She felt the urgent pressure of his hand on her arm, in her heart. It shook her with such a longing for love, for all the unknown largesse of love, that she cried. The next morning, pale, she came down and went about her work. Pierre was not at breakfast, and she felt a sinking of heart, though she had not known that she had built upon seeing him again. Then, as she stepped out at the back to empty a bucket, there he was!
Not even the beauty of dawn could lend mystery to the hideous, littered yard, untidy as the yards of frontier towns invariably are, to the board fence, to the trampled half-acre of dirt, known as “The Square,” and to the ugly frame buildings straggled about it; but it could and did give an unearthly look of blessedness to the bare, gray-brown buttes that ringed the town and a glory to the sky, while upon Pierre, waiting at his pony’s head, it shed a magical and tender light. He was dressed in his cowboy’s best, a white silk handkerchief knotted under his chin, leather “chaps,” bright spurs, a sombrero on his head. His face was grave, excited, wistful. At sight of Joan, he moved forward, the pony trailing after him at the full length of its reins; and, stopping before her, Pierre took off the sombrero, slowly stripped the gauntlet from his right hand, and, pressing both hat and glove against his hip with the left hand, held out the free, clean palm to Joan.
“Good-bye,” said he, “unless—you’ll be comin’ with me after all?”
Joan felt again that rush of fire to her brows. She took his hand and her fingers closed around it like the frightened, lonely fingers of a little girl. She came near to him and looked up.
“I’ll be comin’ with you, Pierre,” she said, just above her breath.
He shot up a full inch, stiffened, searched her with smouldering eyes, then held her hard against him. “You’ll not be sorry, Joan Carver,” said he gently and put her away from him. Then, unsmiling, he bade her go in and get her belongings while he got her a horse and told his news to Mrs. Upper.
That ride was dreamlike to Joan. Pierre put her in her saddle and she rode after him across the Square and along a road flanked by the ugly houses of the town.
“Where are we a-goin’?” she asked him timidly.
He stopped at that, turned, and, resting his hand on the cantle of his saddle, smiled at her for the first time.
“Don’t you savvy the answer to that question, Joan?”
She shook her head.
The smile faded. “We’re goin’ to be married,” said he sternly, and they rode on.
They were married by the justice, a pleasant, silent fellow, who with Western courtesy, asked no more questions than were absolutely needful, and in fifteen minutes Joan mounted her horse again, a ring on the third finger of her left hand.
“Now,” said Pierre, standing at her stirrup, his shining, smoke-blue eyes lifted to her, his hand on her boot, “you’ll be wantin’ some things—some clothes?”
“No,” said Joan. “Maud went with me an’ helped me buy things with my pay just yesterday. I won’t be needin’ anything.”
“All right,” said he. “We’re off, then!” And he flung himself with a sudden wild, boyish “Whoopee!” on his pony, gave a clip to Joan’s horse and his own, and away they galloped, a pair of young, wild things, out from the town through a straggling street to where the road boldly stretched itself toward a great land of sagebrush, of buttes humping their backs against the brilliant sky. Down the valley they rode, trotting, walking, galloping, till, turning westward, they mounted a sharp slope and came up above the plain. Below, in the heart of the long, narrow valley, the river coiled and wandered, divided and came together again into a swift stream, amongst aspen islands and willow swamps. Beyond this strange, lonely river-bed, the cottonwoods began, and, above them, the pine forests massed themselves and strode up the foothills of the gigantic range, that range of iron rocks, sharp, thin, and brittle where they scraped the sky.
At the top of the hill, Pierre put out his hand and pulled Joan’s rein, drawing her to a stop beside him.
“Over yonder’s my ranch,” said he.
Joan looked. There was not a sign of house or clearing, but she followed his gesture and nodded.
“Under the mountains?” she said.
“At the foot of Thunder Cañon. You can see a gap in the pines. There’s a waterfall just above—that white streak. Now you’ve got it. Where you come from ’s to the south, away yonder.”
Joan would not turn her head. “Yes,” said she, “I know.”
Suddenly tears rushed to her eyes. She had a moment of unbearable longing and regret. Pierre said nothing; he was not watching her.
“Come on,” said he, “or your father will be takin’ after us.”
They rode at a gallop down the hill.
CHAPTER III
TWO PICTURES IN THE FIRE
The period which followed had a quality of breathless, almost unearthly happiness. They were young, savage, simple, and their love, unanalyzed, was as joyous as the loves of animals: joyous with that clear gravity characteristic of the boy and girl. Pierre had been terribly alone before Joan came, and the building-up of his ranch had occupied his mind day and night except, now and again, for dreams. Yet he was of a passionate nature. Joan felt in him sometimes a savage possibility of violence. Two incidents of this time blazed themselves especially on her memory: the one, her father’s visit, the other, an irrelevant enough picture until after events threw back a glare upon it.
They had been at Pierre’s ranch for a fortnight before John Carver found them. Then, one morning, as Pierre opened the door to go out to work, Joan saw a thin, red pony tied to the fence and a small figure walking toward the cabin.
“Pierre, it’s Father!” she said. And Pierre stopped in his tracks, drew himself up and waited, hands on his cartridge belt.
How mean and old and furtive her father looked in contrast to this beautiful young husband! Joan was entirely unafraid. She leaned against the side of the door and watched, as silent and unconsulted as any squaw, while the two men settled their property rights in her.
“So you’ve took my gel,” said John Carver, stopping a foot or two in front of Pierre, his eyes shifting up and down, one long hand fingering his lips.
Pierre answered courteously. “Some man was bound to hev her, Mr. Carver, soon or late. You can’t set your face ag’in’ the laws of natur’. Will you be steppin’ in? Joan will give you some breakfast.”
Carver paid no heed to the invitation. “Hev you married her?” said he.
The blood rose to Pierre’s brown face. “Sure I hev.”
“Well, sir, you hev married the darter of a——” Carver used a brutal word. “Look out fer her. If you see her eyes lookin’ an’ lookin’ at another man, you kin know what’s to come.” Pierre was white. “I’ve done with her. She kin never come to me fer bite or bed. Shoot her if you hev to, Pierre Landis, but when she’s kotched at her mother’s game, don’t send her back to me. That’s all I come to say.”
He turned with limber agility and went back to his horse. He was on it and off, galloping madly across the sagebrush flat. Pierre turned and walked into the house past Joan without a word.
She still leaned against the door, but her head was bent.
Presently