He put it in the mail, with a special delivery stamp, and watched the endless hours creep by. She was there in Pinal, running her scales, practicing 252her exercises, singing arias from the operas at night; and he was shut in by the gray concrete walls where the guards looked down from the towers. He could not trust himself now outside of the yard, his nerve was gone and he would head for Pinal like a homing bird to its mate. And then it came, quicker than he had ever thought or hoped for, though he had offered the Silver Treasure in return for it–a full pardon from the Governor, with his citizenship restored and a letter expressing confidence in his innocence. Denver clutched it to his breast and started out across the desert with his eyes on distant Pinal.
It lay in the shadow of Apache Leap, that blue wall that loomed to the east, and he hardly stopped to shake hands with the Warden in his haste to get out on the road. There he stopped the first automobile that was going up the canyon and demanded a ride as his right, and so earnest was his manner that the driver took him in and even speeded up his machine. But at the fork of the ways, where the new road turned off to Murray, Denver thanked him and got off to walk. The sun was low but he did not hurry–he had begun to doubt his welcome. A hot shame swept over him at his convict’s shirt, his worn shoes and battered hat; and he wondered suddenly if it was not all a mistake, if he had not thrown his mine away. She was an opera singer now, returning from a season which must have given her a taste of success–what use would she have for him?
253Up the wash to the west, where the automobile road went, a big camp had sprung up in his absence; but when he topped the hill and gazed down on Pinal nothing had changed, it was just the same. The street was broad and empty, the houses still in ruins, his cave still there across the creek; and from the chimney of Bunker’s house a column of smoke mounted up to show that supper was being cooked. Yes, it was the same old town that he had entered the year before when Old Bunk had taken him for a hobo; but now he was hobo and ex-convict both, though the pardon had restored him to citizenship. His broad shoulders drooped, he turned back and crossed the creek and slunk like a thief to his cave.
The door was chained but he wrenched it open and slipped in out of sight. Bunker Hill had closed up the cave and covered all his things, and his bed was spread with clean, white sheets; the floor was swept and the dishes washed, and he knew whose hands had done it. It was Mrs. Hill’s, that kindest of all women; who had even invited him to their home. Denver started a fire and cooked a hasty supper from the canned goods that were left in his boxes and then he looked down on the town. The sun had set now and a single bright star glowed solemnly in the west, but the valley was silent except for the frogs that made the air palpitate with their chorus. Old Bunk came out and went over to the store; someone struck a chord in the house, 254and as Denver listened hungrily a voice rose up, clear and flute-like, yet somehow changed.
It was her’s, it was Drusilla’s, and yet it was not; the year had made a change. There was a difference in her singing; a new note of tenderness, of yearning, of sadness, of love. Yes, he recognized it now, it had the quality of the Cradle Song that she had listened to so enviously on his phonograph. She had caught it, at last, that secret, subtle something which gives Schumann-Heink her power; and which comes only from love–and suffering. Denver rose up, startled; he had not thought of it before, but Drusilla must have suffered, too. Not as tragically as he but in other ways, fighting her way against the whole world. He went in hastily and lit his lamp but even when he was dressed his courage failed him and he bowed his head on the table. He dared not face her–now.
The singing had ceased, the frog chorus seemed to mock him, to din his convict’s shame into his ears; but as he yielded to despair a hand fell on his shoulders and he looked up to see Drusilla. She was more beautiful than ever, dressed in the soft yellow gown that she had worn when first he saw her, but her eyes were reproachful and near to tears and she drew her hand away.
“What is it?” she asked. “Can’t you ever care for me? Must I make every single advance? Oh, Denver, after I’d come clear home to see you–why wouldn’t you come down to the house?”
255He roused up startled, unable to comprehend her, his mind in a whirl of emotions.
“I was afraid you didn’t want me,” he said at last and she sank down on the bench beside him.
“Not want you?” she repeated. “Why, haven’t I done everything to get you out of prison? Didn’t I go to the Professor and beg and plead with him and sing all my German songs; didn’t I go to the Governor and take him with me, and go through everything to have you pardoned?”