CHAPTER III
TWO PICTURES IN THE FIRE
The period which followed had a quality of breathless, almost unearthly happiness. They were young, savage, simple, and their love, unanalyzed, was as joyous as the loves of animals: joyous with that clear gravity characteristic of the boy and girl. Pierre had been terribly alone before Joan came, and the building-up of his ranch had occupied his mind day and night except, now and again, for dreams. Yet he was of a passionate nature. Joan felt in him sometimes a savage possibility of violence. Two incidents of this time blazed themselves especially on her memory: the one, her father’s visit, the other, an irrelevant enough picture until after events threw back a glare upon it.
They had been at Pierre’s ranch for a fortnight before John Carver found them. Then, one morning, as Pierre opened the door to go out to work, Joan saw a thin, red pony tied to the fence and a small figure walking toward the cabin.
“Pierre, it’s Father!” she said. And Pierre stopped in his tracks, drew himself up and waited, hands on his cartridge belt.
How mean and old and furtive her father looked in contrast to this beautiful young husband! Joan was entirely unafraid. She leaned against the side of the door and watched, as silent and unconsulted as any squaw, while the two men settled their property rights in her.
“So you’ve took my gel,” said John Carver, stopping a foot or two in front of Pierre, his eyes shifting up and down, one long hand fingering his lips.
Pierre answered courteously. “Some man was bound to hev her, Mr. Carver, soon or late. You can’t set your face ag’in’ the laws of natur’. Will you be steppin’ in? Joan will give you some breakfast.”
Carver paid no heed to the invitation. “Hev you married her?” said he.
The blood rose to Pierre’s brown face. “Sure I hev.”