She discerned then a second figure skulking among the shadows, a very crestfallen Dabney Mills, brought hither evidently by no desire of his own.
“He came to the meeting,” went on Dan, “and gave us a long tale of how John Herrick’s past had come out at last, how he had got into disgrace back East and came here to lose himself and take another name. And from that he argues that it was John Herrick took the money we have all been looking for this long time. I thought it only best to come straight to you for the truth, since the fellow here was quoting you.”
Poor Beatrice’s teeth chattered with cold and misery as she leaned against the window-frame and, below her breath, tried to explain just how matters stood. Had Aunt Anna been wakeful, she would have been reading in the room below and would have overheard, but fortunately she was sleeping soundly on the sleeping-porch at the other side of the house.
“Some of what he said is half true,” Beatrice began, “and some of it is all false.” Dan O’Leary listened to the end of her story without comment.
“I was hoping you could give him the lie direct,” he said finally. “The men below are wild with anger and are coming up the hill to tax John Herrick with wrecking the company. They were walking and we had horses, but they’ll not be so long behind us. Well, I’ll go back and stop them if I can.”
“Couldn’t you—couldn’t you go up the hill and warn him?” Beatrice asked desperately.
“No, they’d call me traitor if I did, for, though I’m a good friend to John Herrick, after all I’m one with those below and pledged to help them. We’ll be going back now. I’ll do the best I can. Here,” to Dabney, “get on your horse and come along. It’s just such know-nothings as you that let loose most of the mischief in the world.”
After they had gone, Beatrice still stood, clinging to the window-frame, stunned and bewildered. This, then, was the result of her angry words; this was the mischief that she had set on foot. What could she do to make amends? She did not have to think long, but she turned from the window with a sigh that was nearer a groan. She must lay the whole matter before John Herrick, tell him the real truth of what she had said and what had been the result. He could never forgive her; of that she felt sure. She had put an end, all in a minute, to that new-found trust and friendliness that had been so hardly won. Yet it was the only thing to do.
Buck, who had been brought home a week before, sprang up from his straw bed at the sound of his mistress’s footsteps. He submitted, for once, to being saddled without protest, as though he had been too full of curiosity concerning this strange night adventure to make any delay.
Down the path to the gate they made their way, then up the trail as fast as Buck could be urged, with Beatrice’s head turned over her shoulder to peer down at the town below. One building was brilliantly lighted—the hall where the men’s meetings were held. There were lights in many of the houses, too, although it was so nearly midnight. Then, carried by the chill wind that blew up from the valley, came the far-off sound of shouting voices from the throng of angry men who were marching up the trail.