"Pretty slick graft—preaching. Educated for it myself. Old Samuelson's rich. Christie goes over and pulls a long face, and sends up a hatful of prayers, and if he gets well Samuelson will hand him a nice fat check for the church. If he don't, the old woman kicks in. And you know, and I know how much of it the church ever sees. Did the soul-puncher have anything to say about me?"
"About you?" asked the girl in apparent surprise. "Why should he say anything about you?"
"Because they all take a crack at me!" said Bethune in an injured tone. "You just saw how Pierce answered a civil question. They all hate me because I have made money. They never made any, and they never will, and they're jealous of my success. They never lose a chance to malign and injure me in every way possible—but I'll show them! Damn them! I'll show them all!" They rode for a short distance in silence, then Bethune laughed. It was the ringing boyish laugh that held no hint of bitterness or sneer. "I hope you will pardon my outburst. I have my moments of irascibility, for which I am heartily ashamed. But—poof! Like a summer cloud, they are gone as quickly as they come. Why should I care what they say of me. They betray their own meanness of soul in their envy of my success. We part here for the time. I must ride over onto the east slope—a little matter of some horses." Again he laughed: "In a few days I shall return—I give you fair warning—return to win your love. And I will win—I am Monk Bethune—I always win!" Without waiting for a reply, the man drove his spurs into his horse's sides and, swerving abruptly from the trail, disappeared down a narrow rock chasm that led directly into the heart of the hills.
CHAPTER XIII
PATTY DRAWS A MAP
That evening after supper, Patty sat upon her doorstep and watched the slowly fading opalescent glow in which the daylight surrendered to encroaching darkness. "How wonderful it all is, and how beautiful!" she breathed. "The indomitable ruggedness of the hills—rough and forbidding, but never ugly. Always beckoning, always challenging, yet always repulsing. Guarding their secrets well. Their rock walls and mighty precipices frowning displeasure at the presumptuous meddling of the intruder, and their valleys gaping in sardonic grins at the puny attempts to wrest their secret from them. Always, the mountains mock, even as they stimulate to greater effort with their wonderful air, and soothe bitter disappointment with the soft caress of twilight's after-glow. I love it—and yet, how I hate it all! I can't hold out much longer. I'm like a general who has to withdraw his forces, not because he is beaten, but because he has run short of ammunition. It is August, and by the end of September I'll be done." She clenched her fists until the nails dug into her palms. "But I'll come back," she cried, defiantly. "I'll work—I'll find some way to earn some money, and I'll come back year after year, if I have to, until I have explored every single one of these mountains from the littlest foothill to the top of the highest peak. And someday, I'll win!"
"Mr. Bethune is rich." She started. The thought flashed upon her brain, vivid as whispered words. Involuntarily, she shuddered at the memory of his burning eyes, the hot touch of his lips upon her hand—her arm. She remembered the short, curt answers of the hard-eyed Pierce. And the thinly veiled distrust of Bethune, voiced by Vil Holland, Thompson, and the preacher whom he had affectionately referred to as "The Bishop of All Outdoors." Could it be possible—was it reasonable, that these were all so mean and contemptible of soul that their words were actuated by jealousy of Bethune's success? Patty thought not. Somehow, the characters did not fit the rôle. "If he'd have explained their dislike upon the grounds of his Indian blood, it might have carried the ring of truth—at least, it would have been reasonable. But, jealousy—as Mr. Vil Holland would say, 'I don't grab it.'"
She recalled the wolfish gleam that flashed into Bethune's eyes, and the malicious hatred expressed in his insinuations and accusations against these men. Could it be possible that her distrust of Vil Holland was unfounded? But no, there was the repeated searching of her cabin—and had not Lord Clendenning caught him in the act? There was the trampled grass of the notch in the hills from which he was accustomed to spy upon her. And the cut pack sack—somehow, she was not so sure about that cut pack sack. But, anyway—there is the jug! "I don't trust him!" she exclaimed, "and I don't trust Monk Bethune, now. I'm glad I found him out before it was—too late. He's bad—I could see the evil glitter in his eyes. And, how do I know that he told the truth about Lord Clendenning and Vil Holland?" Darkness settled upon the valley and Patty sought her bunk where, for a restless hour, she tossed about thinking.