After Custer left her, Shannon entered the bungalow
and sat for a long time before the table on which stood
a framed photograph of her mother. Never before had
she felt the need of loving counsel so sorely as now. In
almost any other emergency she could have gone to Mrs.
Pennington, but in this she dared not. She knew the
pride of the Penningtons. She realized the high altar
upon which they placed the purity of their women in
the sacred temple of their love, and she knew that none
but the pure might enter.
In her heart of hearts she knew that she had the right
to stand there beside his mother or his sister; but the
pity of it was that she could never prove that right, for
who would believe her? Men had been hanged upon
circumstantial evidence less damning than that which
might be arrayed against her purity. No—if ever they
should learn of her association with Wilson Crumb, they
would cast her out of their lives as they would put a leper
out of their home.
Not even Custer’s love could survive such a blow to his
honor and his pride. She did not think the less of him
because of that, for she was wise enough in the ways of
the world to know that pride and virtue are oftentimes
uncompromising, even to narrowness.
Her only hope, therefore, lay in avoiding discovery by
Wilson Crumb during his stay at Ganado. Her love,
and the weakness it had induced, permitted her to accept
the happiness from which an unkind fate had hitherto
debarred her, and to which even now her honor told
her she had no right.
She wished that Custer had not loved her, and that she
might have continued to live the life that she had learned
to love, where she might be near him, and might constantly
see him in the happy consociation of friendship;
but with his arms about her and his kisses on her lips
she had not had the strength to deny him, or to dissimulate
the great love which had ordered her very existence
for many months.
In the brief moments of bliss that had followed the
avowal of his love, she had permitted herself to drift
without thought of the future; but now that the sudden
knowledge of the approaching arrival of Crumb had
startled her into recollection of the past and consideration
of its bearings upon the future, she realized only too
poignantly that the demands of honor required that
sooner or later she herself must tell Custer the whole
sordid story of those hideous months in Hollywood.
There was no other way. She could not mate with a
man unless she could match her honor with his. There
was no alternative other than to go away forever.
It was midnight before she arose and went to her
room. She went deliberately to a drawer which she kept
locked, and, finding the key, she opened it. From it she
took the little black case, and, turning back the cover, she
revealed the phials, the needles, and the tiny syringe that
had played so sinister a part in her past.
What she was doing to-night she had done so often
in the past year that it had almost assumed the proportions
of a rite. It had been her wont to parade her
tempters before her, that she might have the satisfaction
of deriding them, and of proving the strength of the new
will that her love for Custer Pennington had been so
potent a factor in developing. To-night she went a little
further. She took a bit of cotton, and, placing it in the
bowl of a spoon, she dissolved some of the white powder
with the aid of a lighted match held beneath the spoon,
and then she drew the liquid into the syringe.
Her nerves were overwrought and unstrung from the
stress of the conflicting emotions they had endured that
evening and the risk she took was greater than she
guessed. And yet, as she looked at the syringe, and realized
that its contents held surcease of sorrow, that it
held quiet and rest and peace, she felt only repugnance
toward it. Not even remotely did she consider the possibility
of resorting again to the false happiness of
morphine.
She knew now that she was freer from its temptations
than one who had never used it; but she felt that after
to-night, with the avowal of Pennington’s love still in
her ears, she must no longer keep in her possession a
thing so diametrically opposed to the cleanliness of his
life and his character. For months she had retained it
as a part of the system she had conceived for ridding
herself of its power. Without it she might never have
known whether she could withstand the temptation of
its presence; but now she had finished with it. She needed
it no longer.
With almost fanatical savagery she destroyed it,
crushing the glass phials and the syringe beneath her
heel and tearing the little case to shreds. Then, gathering
up the fragments, she carried them to the fireplace
in the living room and burned them.
On the following day the horses and several loads of
properties from the K. K. S. studio arrived at Ganado,
and the men who accompanied them pitched their camp
well up in Jackknife Cañon. Eva was very much excited,
and spent much of her time on horseback, watching their
preparations. She tried to get Shannon to accompany
her, but the latter found various excuses to remain away,
being fearful that even though Crumb had not yet arrived,
there might be other employees of the studio who
would recognize her.
Crumb and the rest of the company came in the
afternoon, although they had not been expected until
the following day. Eva, who had made Custer ride up
again with her in the afternoon, recalled to the actor-director
the occasion upon which she had met him, and
they had danced together, some year and a half before.
As soon as he met her, Crumb was struck by her
beauty, youth, and freshness. He saw in her a possible
means of relieving the tedium of his several weeks’ enforced
absence from Hollywood—though in the big
brother he realized a possible obstacle, unless he were
able to carry on his purposed gallantries clandestinely.
In the course of conversation he took occasion to remark
that Eva ought to photograph well. “I’ll let them
take a hundred feet of you,” he said, “some day when
you’re up here while we’re working. We might discover
an unsung Pickford up here among the hills!”
“She will remain unsung, then,” said Custer curtly.
“My sister has no desire to go into pictures.”
“How do you know I haven’t?” asked Eva.
“After Grace?” he asked significantly.
She turned to Crumb.
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t make much of an actress,” she
said; “but it would be perfectly radiant to see myself in
pictures just once!”
“Good!” he replied. “We’ll get you all right some day
that you’re up here. I promise your brother that I won’t
try to persuade you into pictures.”
“I hope not,” said Custer.
As he and Eva rode back toward the house, he turned
to the girl.
“I don’t like that fellow Crumb,” he said.
“Why?” she asked.
“It’s hard to say. He just rubs me the wrong way;
but I’d bet almost anything that he’s a cad.”
“Oh, I think he’s perfectly divine!” said Eva with her
usual enthusiasm.
Custer grunted.
“The trouble with you,” announced Eva, “is that you’re
jealous of him because he’s an actor. That’s just like
you men!”
Custer laughed.
“Maybe you’re right,” he said; “but I don’t like him,
and I hope you’ll never go up there alone.”
“Well, I’m going to see them take pictures,” replied
the girl; “and if I can’t get any one to go with me, I’m
going alone.”
“I don’t like the way he looked at you, Eva.”
“You’re perfectly silly! He didn’t look at me any
differently than any other man does.”
“I don’t know about that. I haven’t the same keen
desire to punch the head of every man I see looking at
you as I had in his case.”
“Oh, you’re prejudiced! I’ll bet anything he’s just
perfectly lovely!”
Next morning, finding no one with the leisure or inclination
to ride with her, Eva rode up again to the camp.
They had already commenced shooting. Although Crumb
was busy, he courteously took the time to explain the
scene on which they were working, and many of the
technical details of picture making. He had a man
hold her horse while she came and squinted through the
finder. In fact, he spent so much time with her that he
materially delayed the work of the morning. At the
same time the infatuation that had had its birth on the
preceding day grew to greater proportions in his diseased
mind.
He asked her to stay and lunch with them. When
she insisted that she must return home, he begged her to
come again in the afternoon. Although she would have
been glad to do so, for she found the work that they
were doing novel and interesting, she declined his invitation,
as she already had made arrangements for the
afternoon.
He followed her to her horse, and walked beside her
down the road a short distance from the others.
“If you can’t come down this afternoon,” he said,
“possibly you can come up this evening. We are going to
take some night pictures. I hadn’t intended inviting any
one, because the work is going to be rather difficult and
dangerous, and an audience might distract the attention
of the actors; but if you think you could get away alone,
I should be very glad to have you come up for a few
minutes about nine o’clock. We shall be working in
the same place. Don’t forget,” he repeated, as she started
to ride away, “that for this particular scene I really
ought not to have any audience at all; so if you come,
please don’t tell any one else about it.”
“I’ll come,” she said. “It’s awfully good of you to
ask me, and I won’t tell a soul.”
Crumb smiled as he turned back to his waiting company.
Brought up in the atmosphere that had surrounded
her since birth, unacquainted with any but honorable men,
and believing as she did that all men are the chivalrous
protectors of all women, Eva did not suspect the guile
that lay behind the director’s courteous manner and fair
words. She looked upon the coming nocturnal visit to
the scene of their work as nothing more than a harmless
adventure; nor was there, from her experience, any
cause for apprehension, since the company comprised
some forty or fifty men and women who, like any one
else, would protect her from any harm that lay in their
power to avert.
Her conscience did not trouble her in the least, although
she regretted that she could not share her good fortune
with the other members of her family, and deplored the
necessity of leaving the house surreptitiously, like a thief
in the night. Such things did not appeal to Pennington
standards; but Eva satisfied these qualms by promising
herself that she would tell them all about it at breakfast
the next morning.
After lunch that day Custer went to his room, and,
throwing himself on his bed with a book, with the intention
of reading for half an hour, fell asleep.
Shortly afterward Shannon Burke, feeling that there
would be no danger of meeting any of the K. K. S. people
at the Pennington house, rode up on the Senator to keep
her appointment with Eva. As she tied her horse upon
the north side of the house, Wilson Crumb stopped his
car opposite the patio at the south drive. He had come
up to see Colonel Pennington for the purpose of arranging
for the use of a number of the Ganado Herefords in
a scene on the following day.
Not finding Eva in the family sitting room, Shannon
passed through the house and out into the patio, just as
Wilson Crumb mounted the two steps to the arcade.
Before either realized the presence of the other they
were face to face, scarce a yard apart.
Shannon went deathly white as she recognized the man
beneath his make-up, while Crumb stood speechless for
a moment.
“My God, Gaza. You!” he presently managed to
exclaim. “What are you doing here? Thank God I
have found you at last!”
“Don’t!” she begged. “Please don’t speak to me. I
am living a decent life here.”
He laughed in a disagreeable manner.
“Decent!” he scoffed. “Where you getting the snow?
Who’s putting up for it?”
“I don’t use it any more,” she said.
“The hell you don’t! You can’t put that over on me!
Some other guy is furnishing it. I know you—you can’t
get along two hours without it. I’m not going to stand
for this. There isn’t any guy going to steal my girl!”
“Hush, Wilson!” she cautioned. “For God’s sake keep
still! Some one might hear you.”
“I don’t give a damn who hears me. I’m here to tell
the world that no one is going to take my girl away from
me. I’ve found you, and you’re going back with me, do
you understand?”
She came very close to him, her eyes blazing wrathfully.
“I’m not going back with you, Wilson Crumb,” she
said. “If you tell, or if you ever threaten me again in
any way, I’ll kill you. I managed to escape you, and I
have found happiness at last, and no one shall take it
away from me!”
“What about my happiness? You lived with me two
years. I love you, and, by God, I’m going to have you, if
I have to——”
A door slammed behind them, and they both turned to
see Custer Pennington standing in the arcade outside his
door, looking at them.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, his voice chilling. “Did
I interrupt?”
“This man is looking for some one, Custer,” said
Shannon, and turned to reënter the house.
Confronted by a man, Crumb’s bravado had vanished.
Intuitively he guessed that he was looking at the man
who had stolen Gaza from him; but he was a very big
young man, with broad shoulders and muscles that his
flannel shirt and riding breeches did not conceal. Crumb
decided that if he was going to have trouble with this
man, it would be safer to commence hostilities at a time
when the other was not looking.
“Yes,” he said. “I was looking for your father, Mr.
Pennington.”
“Father is not here. He has driven over to the village.
What do you want?”
“I wanted to see if I could arrange for the use of some
of your Herefords to-morrow morning.”
Pennington was leading the way toward Crumb’s car.
“You can find out about that,” he said, “or anything
else that you may wish to know, from the assistant foreman,
whom you will usually find up at the other end,
around the cabin. If he is in doubt about anything, he
will consult with us personally; so that it will not be
necessary, Mr. Crumb, for you to go to the trouble of
coming to the house again.”
Custer’s voice was level and low. It carried no suggestion
of anger, yet there was that about it which convinced
Crumb that he was fortunate in not having been
kicked off the hill physically rather than verbally—for
kicked off he had been, and advised to stay off, into the
bargain.
He wondered how much Pennington had overheard
of his conversation with Gaza. Shannon Burke, crouching
in a big chair in the sitting room, was wondering the
same thing.
As a matter of fact, Custer had overheard practically
all of the conversation. The noise of Crumb’s car had
awakened him, but almost immediately he had fallen into
a doze, through which the spoken words impinged upon
his consciousness without any actual, immediate realization
of their meaning, of the identity of the speakers. The
moment that he became fully awake, and found that he
was listening to a conversation not intended for his
ears, he had risen and gone into the patio.
When finally he came into the sitting room, where
Shannon was, he made no mention of the occurrence, except
to say that the visitor had wanted to see his father.
It did not seem possible to Shannon that he could have
failed to overhear at least a part of their conversation,
for they were standing not more than a couple of yards
from the open window of his bedroom, and there was
no other sound breaking the stillness of the August noon.
She was sure that he had heard, and yet his manner indicated
that he had not.
She waited a moment to see if he would be the first to
broach the subject, but he did not. She determined to
tell him then and there all that she had to tell, freeing her
soul and her conscience of their burden, whatever the
cost might be.
She rose and came to where he was standing, and,
placing a hand upon his arm, looked up into his eyes.
“Custer,” she said. “I have something to tell you. I
ought to have told you before, but I have been afraid.
Since last night there is no alternative but to tell
you.”
“You do not have to tell me anything that you do not
want to tell me,” he said. “My confidence in you is implicit.
I could not both love and distrust at the same
time.”
“I must tell you,” she said. “I only hope——”
“Where in the world have you been, Shannon?” cried
Eva, breaking suddenly into the sitting room. “I have
been away down to your place looking for you. I thought
you were going to play golf with me this afternoon.”
“That’s what I came up for,” said Shannon, turning
toward her.
“Well, come on, then! We’ll have to hurry, if we’re
going to play eighteen holes this afternoon.”
Custer Pennington went to his room again after the
girls had driven off in the direction of the Country Club.
He wondered what it had been that Shannon wished to
tell him. Round and round in his mind rang the words
of Wilson Crumb:
“You lived with me two years—you lived with me two
years—you lived with me two years!”
She had been going to explain that, he was sure; but
she did not have to explain it. The girl that he loved
could have done no wrong. He trusted her. He was
sure of her.
But what place had that soft-faced cad had in her life?
It was unthinkable that she had ever known him, much
less that they had been upon intimate terms.
Custer went to his closet and rummaged around for a
bottle. It had been more than two weeks since he had
taken a drink. The return to his old intimacy with Shannon,
and the frequency with which he now saw her had
again weaned him from his habit; but to-day he felt the
need of a drink—of a big drink, stiff and neat.
He swallowed the raw liquor as if it had been so
much water. He wished now that he had punched
Crumb’s head when he had had the chance. The cur!
He had spoken to Shannon as if she were a common
woman of the streets—Shannon Burke—Custer’s
Shannon!
Feeling no reaction to the first drink, he took another.
“I’d like to get my fingers on his throat!” he thought.
“Before I choked the life out of him, I’d drag him up
here and make him kiss the ground at her feet!”
But no, he could not do that. Others would see it,
and there would have to be explanations; and how could
he explain it without casting reflections on Shannon?
For hours he sat there in his room, nursing his anger,
his jealousy, and his grief; and all the time he drank and
drank again. He went to his closet, got his belt and
holster, and from his dresser drawer took a big, ugly-looking
forty-five—a Colt’s automatic. For a moment
he stood holding it in his hand, looking at it. Almost
caressingly he handled it, and then he slipped it into the
holster at his hip, put on his hat, and started for the
door.
