"Well, Auntie, it's Belle Boyd. I want you to take care of me till the morning. I will tell you all about it later," this to the inquiring head that emerged from an upper window. So Belle was left and the doctor went to his hotel.
Up very early next morning, Belle went at once to the stable of the Temperance House. Yes, there he was, Blazing Star, in all his beauty. Then she went into the hotel and mounted guard in the little parlour. Dr. Carson came down and was sent to sit out of doors. At length the sound of the foot she awaited came from the stairs and she heard the landlady say:
"There's some one in the parlour waiting for you." For a moment there was no sound; then the footsteps approached.
Belle was at the window looking out, partly hidden by the cheap lace curtains. As the Preacher entered, she turned fully toward him. Her back was to the light and he did not immediately perceive her. Then with a gasp:
"Belle!" and, sinking into a chair, he covered his face with his hands.
She went to him, laid her hand on his shoulder, and stood there in silence. The great broad shoulders began to shake under that soft touch. There was no sound uttered for long, then, brokenly, his one refrain: "Oh, Belle!"
She sat down beside him, and took his hand—the first time she had ever done so—and waited in silence.
He wanted to tell her all, but found no words.
She said, "Never mind that now. Tell me what you are here for."
He tried again but in a wild, incoherent way. The sum of it all was that he was "ruined, degraded, and lost. He would go down to the Big Cheyenne and get a job as a cowboy."
"Now listen, Jim," she said. "You have made a bad mistake; but a man may make one big, bad mistake and still be all right. It is the man that goes on making a little mistake every day that is hopeless."
There was a long pause. Then she continued: "What is it you of all people admire most in a man? Is it not courage to see things through, no matter how black they look?"
In his then frame of mind Hartigan had expected drunkenness to be singled out as the worst of all sins; there was a ray of comfort in this other thought; he nodded and grunted an inarticulate assent.
"Jim, I don't doubt your courage. I know you too well, believe in you too much. I want you to drop the idea of the Big Cheyenne. Turn right around and go back to Cedar Mountain at once; and the sooner you get there the easier it will be."
He shook his head, and sat as before, his face buried in his hands. "I—cannot—do—it." He forced out the words.
"Jim Hartigan cannot—isn't brave enough?" she asked, her voice a little tremulous with sudden emotion.
In all his life, he had never been charged with cowardice. It stung. Of all things he most despised cowardice, and here it was, brought squarely home to him. He writhed under the thought. There was a dead silence in the little parlour.
Then Belle spoke: "Is this the only answer I am to have—after coming so far?" she asked in a low voice.
Oh, blind, stupid, cowardly fool that he was! He had not thought of that. How much was she braving for him! He was rated a man of courage among his friends, yet now he was yielding to miserable cowardice.
Then his impulsive nature responded. He blurted out: "Belle, I will do anything for you; I will do anything you tell me to." It was an unconditional surrender, and the wise victor gave the honours of war to the vanquished by changing the subject.
"Then come to breakfast," she said in a lighter tone and led him to Aunt Collins's house, whither the doctor had already gone.
A day's rest, a forty-mile ride in the wind, a change of scene, good friends, a buoyant disposition, a flush of youth, and Belle, absorbed in all he did and said—who would not respond to such a concentration of uplifting forces?
Hartigan's exuberance returned. His colour was back in his cheeks. His eyes sparkled and his wit sparkled, too. He won the heart of Mrs. Collins. She said he was "the beautifullest man she had ever seen." Even John Collins, a plough- and wagon-dealer by trade, was impressed with the mental gifts and manly appearance of the young preacher, and Belle knew that the thing she had set out for was won.
Instead of discussing plans she announced them as if they were settled. The doctor wished to stay a day or two in Deadwood, but that did not suit Belle at all. She was quite clear about it. Her aunt must drive back with her at once. The doctor and the Preacher must come, too, but arrive a little later in Cedar Mountain. So they boarded their buckboards, waved good-bye, and set their faces to the south.
The sun shone as it knows how in Dakota. The great pine-clad hills were purple in the lovely morning haze as the little party left Deadwood that day on the buffalo trail for Cedar Mountain. The doctor drove first in his buckboard, not without misgivings, for the good horse had had little rest since that forty-five mile drive. Next came the horseman on the gold-red horse that men turned to look after. Last, the prairie buckboard of the house of Collins with Aunt Anna driving and Belle at her side.
The prairie larks sang from low perches or soared a little way in the air to tell the world how glad they were on that bright summer morning. The splendour of the hills was on all things, and Jim on Blazing Star was filled with the glad tonic. For five miles they ambled along, and when the doctor stopped at a watering place—he had been told to stop there—the others caught up with him. Hereupon there was a readjustment, and their next going found the Collins rig leading with Blazing Star behind, and Belle with Hartigan in the second buckboard.
That was a drive of much consequence to two of the party. In that second buckboard the fates laid plans, spun yarns, and rearranged many things. Hartigan opened his heart and life. He told of his mother, of his happy childhood; of his losses; of his flat, stale, unprofitable boyhood; of Bill Kenna and his "word as a man"; of his own vow of abstinence, kept unbroken till he was eighteen. He gave it all with the joyous side alone in view, and when a pathetic incident intruded, the pathos was in the things, not in the words of the narrator. The man had a power of expression that would have made a great journalist. His talk was one continuous entertainment, and lasted unbroken to the half-way house, where they were to stay an hour for rest and food.
How sweet it is to tell one's history to a woman who takes in every word as of large importance! How pleasant it is to confess to a keen and sympathetic hearer. The twenty-five miles passed far too soon. It was short, but long enough for large foundations to be laid.
Belle was only twenty-two, but hers was a wise head. Hartigan had spoken freely about himself and thus had conferred in some large sort a right to advise. She had deliberately constructed a new mood for his thoughts, so that the horrors of the Bylow cabin were forgotten. The questions now for him and for her were, how to set him right with the church, and how begin all over again. Hartigan's idea was to go openly before the whole congregation with a humble apology, and publicly promise to abstain from drink forever. Belle vetoed this emphatically.
"Never rub your head in the mud," she said. "You make your peace with God first, then with Dr. Jebb, and the deacons. Pay no attention to any one else. There will be some talk for a while, but it will die away.
"You don't know the Black Hills as I do, Jim. People out here don't take things quite so seriously as eastern folk. Many a western preacher carries a flask of brandy as snakebite antidote or chill cure. Not long ago I heard of a minister up north who was held for horse-stealing. Yes, more than once. And how he explained it, I don't know: but he is preaching yet. I don't mean to make light of these things, Jim, but I want to keep you from a kind of reparation which will be more of a shock to the people than what they now know. We must have some sense of proportion. Since there was no public scandal, you will find that the whole matter will be overlooked."