Up the Gulch

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Title:     Up the Gulch
Author: Elia W Peattie [More Titles by Peattie]

Up the Gulch

"GO West?" sighed Kate. "Why,
yes! I'd like to go West."

She looked at the babies, who were play-
ing on the floor with their father, and
sighed again.

"You've got to go somewhere, you know,
Kate. It might as well be west as in any
other direction. And this is such a chance!
We can't have mamma lying around on
sofas without any roses in her cheeks, can
we?" He put this last to the children,
who, being yet at the age when they talked
in "Early English," as their father called
it, made a clamorous but inarticulate reply.

Major Shelly, the grandfather of these
very young persons, stroked his mustache
and looked indulgent.

"Show almost human intelligence, don't
they?" said their father, as he lay flat on
his back and permitted the babies to climb
over him.

"Ya-as," drawled the major. "They do.
Don't see how you account for it, Jack."

Jack roared, and the lips of the babies
trembled with fear.

Their mother said nothing. She was on
the sofa, her hands lying inert, her eyes
fixed on her rosy babies with an expression
which her father-in-law and her husband
tried hard not to notice.

It was not easy to tell why Kate was
ailing. Of course, the babies were young,
but there were other reasons.

"I believe you're too happy," Jack some-
times said to her. "Try not to be quite so
happy, Kate. At least, try not to take
your happiness so seriously. Please don't
adore me so; I'm only a commonplace
fellow. And the babies -- they're not
going to blow away."

But Kate continued to look with intense
eyes at her little world, and to draw into
it with loving and generous hands all who
were willing to come.

"Kate is just like a kite," Jack explained
to his father, the major; "she can't keep
afloat without just so many bobs."

Kate's "bobs" were the unfortunates she
collected around her. These absorbed her
strength. She felt their misery with sym-
pathies that were abnormal. The very
laborer in the streets felt his toil less
keenly than she, as she watched the drops
gather on his brow.

"Is life worth keeping at the cost of a
lot like that?" she would ask. She felt
ashamed of her own ease. She apologized
for her own serene and perfect happiness.
She even felt sorry for those mothers who
had not children as radiantly beautiful as
her own.

"Kate must have a change," the major
had given out. He was going West on
business and insisted on taking her with
him. Jack looked doubtful. He wasn't
sure how he would get along without Kate
to look after everything. Secretly, he had
an idea that servants were a kind of wild
animal that had to be fed by an experienced
keeper. But when the time came, he kissed
her good-by in as jocular a manner as he
could summon, and refused to see the tears
that gathered in her eyes.

Until Chicago was reached, there was
nothing very different from that which
Kate had been in the habit of seeing.
After that, she set herself to watch for
Western characteristics. She felt that she
would know them as soon as she saw them.

"I expected to be stirred up and shocked,"
she explained to the major. But somehow,
the Western type did not appear. Common-
place women with worn faces -- browned
and seamed, though not aged -- were at
the stations, waiting for something or some
one. Men with a hurried, nervous air
were everywhere. Kate looked in vain for
the gayety and heartiness which she had
always associated with the West.

After they got beyond the timber country
and rode hour after hour on a tract smooth
as a becalmed ocean, she gave herself up to
the feeling of immeasurable vastness which
took possession of her. The sun rolled out
of the sky into oblivion with a frantic, head-
long haste. Nothing softened the aspect
of its wrath. Near, red, familiar, it seemed
to visibly bowl along the heavens. In the
morning it rose as baldly as it had set.
And back and forth over the awful plain
blew the winds, -- blew from east to west
and back again, strong as if fresh from the
chambers of their birth, full of elemental
scents and of mighty murmurings.

"This is the West!" Kate cried, again
and again.

The major listened to her unsmilingly.
It always seemed to him a waste of muscu-
lar energy to smile. He did not talk much.
Conversation had never appealed to him in
the light of an art. He spoke when there
was a direction or a command to be given,
or an inquiry to be made. The major, if
the truth must be known, was material.
Things that he could taste, touch, see,
appealed to him. He had been a volunteer
in the civil war, -- a volunteer with a good
record, -- which he never mentioned; and,
having acquitted himself decently, let the
matter go without asking reprisal or pay-
ment for what he had freely given. He
went into business and sold cereal foods.

"I believe in useful things," the major
expressed himself. "Oatmeal, wheat, --
men have to have them. God intended
they should. There's Jack -- my son --
Jack Shelly -- lawyer. What's the use of
litigation? God didn't design litigation.
It doesn't do anybody any good. It isn't
justice you get. It's something entirely
different, -- a verdict according to law.
They say Jack's clever. But I'm mighty
glad I sell wheat."

He didn't sell it as a speculator, how-
ever. That wasn't his way.

"I earn what I make," he often said; and
he had grown rich in the selling of his
wholesome foods.

. . . . . . .

Helena lies among round, brown hills.
Above it is a sky of deep and illimitable
blue. In the streets are crumbs of gold,
but it no longer pays to mine for these;
because, as real estate, the property is more
valuable. It is a place of fictitious values.
There is excitement in the air. Men have
the faces of speculators. Every laborer is
patient at his task because he cherishes a
hope that some day he will be a million-
naire. There is hospitality, and cordiality
and good fellowship, and an undeniable
democracy. There is wealth and luxurious
living. There is even culture, -- but it is
obtruded as a sort of novelty; it is not
accepted as a matter of course.

Kate and the major were driven over two
or three miles of dusty, hard road to a dis-
tant hotel, which stands in the midst of
greenness, -- in an oasis. Immediately
above the green sward that surrounds it the
brown hills rise, the grass scorched by the
sun.

Kate yielded herself to the almost absurd
luxury of the place with ease and compla-
cency. She took kindly to the great veran-
das. She adapted herself to the elaborate
and ill-assorted meals. She bathed in the
marvellous pool, warm with the heat of
eternal fires in mid-earth. This pool was
covered with a picturesque Moorish struct-
ure, and at one end a cascade tumbled, over
which the sun, coming through colored win-
dows, made a mimic prism in the white
spray. The life was not unendurable. The
major was seldom with her, being obliged
to go about his business; and Kate amused
herself by driving over the hills, by watch-
ing the inhabitants, by wondering about the
lives in the great, pretentious, unhomelike
houses with their treeless yards and their
closed shutters. The sunlight, white as
the glare on Arabian sands, penetrated
everywhere. It seemed to fairly scorch the
eye-balls.

"Oh, we're West, now," Kate said, exult-
antly. "I've seen a thousand types. But
yet -- not quite THE type -- not the imper-
sonation of simplicity and daring that I was
looking for."

The major didn't know quite what she
was talking about. But he acquiesced.
All he cared about was to see her grow
stronger; and that she was doing every day.
She was growing amazingly lovely, too, --
at least the major thought so. Every one
looked at her; but that was, perhaps, be-
cause she was such a sylph of a woman.
Beside the stalwart major, she looked like a
fairy princess.

One day she suddenly realized the fact
that she had had a companion on the
veranda for several mornings. Of course,
there were a great many persons -- invalids,
largely -- sitting about, but one of them
had been obtruding himself persistently
into her consciousness. It was not that he
was rude; it was only that he was thinking
about her. A person with a temperament
like Kate's could not long be oblivious to a
thing like that; and she furtively observed
the offender with that genius for psycho-
logical perception which was at once her
greatest danger and her charm.

The man was dressed with a childish
attempt at display. His shirt-front was
decorated with a diamond, and his cuff-
buttons were of onyx with diamond settings.
His clothes were expensive and perceptibly
new, and he often changed his costumes,
but with a noticeable disregard for pro-
priety. He was very conscious of his silk
hat, and frequently wiped it with a handker-
chief on which his monogram was worked
in blue.

When the 'busses brought up their loads,
he was always on hand to watch the new-
comers. He took a long time at his din-
ners, and appeared to order a great deal and
eat very little. There were card-rooms and
a billiard-hall, not to mention a bowling-
alley and a tennis-court, where the other
guests of the hotel spent much time. But
this man never visited them. He sat often
with one of the late reviews in his hand,
looking as if he intended giving his atten-
tion to it at any moment. But after he had
scrupulously cut the leaves with a little
carved ivory paper-cutter, he sat staring
straight before him with the book open, but
unread, in his hand.

Kate took more interest in this melan-
choly, middle-aged man than she would
have done if she had not been on the out-
look for her Western type, -- the man who
was to combine all the qualities of chivalry,
daring, bombast, and generosity, seasoned
with piquant grammar, which she firmly
believed to be the real thing. But notwith-
standing this kindly and somewhat curious
interest, she might never have made his
acquaintance if it had not been for a rather
unpleasant adventure.

The major was "closing up a deal" and
had hurried away after breakfast, and Kate,
in the luxury of convalescence, half-reclined
in a great chair on the veranda and watched
the dusky blue mist twining itself around
the brown hills. She was not thinking
of the babies; she was not worrying about
home; she was not longing for anything, or
even indulging in a dream. That vacuous
content which engrosses the body after long
indisposition, held her imperatively. Sud-
denly she was aroused from this happy con-
dition of nothingness by the spectacle of
an enormous bull-dog approaching her with
threatening teeth. She had noticed the
monster often in his kennel near the sta-
bles, and it was well understood that he was
never to be permitted his freedom. Now he
walked toward her with a solid step and an
alarming deliberateness. Kate sat still and
tried to assure herself that he meant no mis-
chief, but by the time the great body had
made itself felt on the skirt of her gown she
could restrain her fear no longer, and gave
a nervous cry of alarm. The brute answered
with a growl. If he had lacked provocation
before, he considered that he had it now.
He showed his teeth and flung his detestable
body upon her; and Kate felt herself grow-
ing dizzy with fear. But just then an arm
was interposed and the dog was flung back.
There was a momentary struggle. Some
gentlemen came hurrying out of the office;
and as they beat the dog back to its retreat,
Kate summoned words from her parched
throat to thank her benefactor.

It was the melancholy man with the new
clothes. This morning he was dressed in
a suit of the lightest gray, with a white
marseilles waistcoat, over which his glitter-
ing chain shone ostentatiously. White
tennis-shoes, a white rose in his button-
hole, and a white straw hat in his hand com-
pleted a toilet over which much time had
evidently been spent. Kate noted these
details as she held out her hand.

"I may have been alarmed without cause,"
she said; "but I was horribly frightened.
Thank you so much for coming to my res-
cue. And I think, if you would add to your
kindness by getting me a glass of water --"

When he came back, his hand was trem-
bling a little; and as Kate looked up to
learn the cause, she saw that his face was
flushed. He was embarrassed. She decided
that he was not accustomed to the society
of ladies. "Brutes like that dog ain't no
place in th' world -- that's my opinion.
There are some bad things we can't help
havin' aroun'; but a bull-dog ain't one
of 'em."

"I quite agree with you," Kate acqui-
esced, as she drank the water. "But as
this is the first unpleasant experience of
any kind that I have had since I came
here, I don't feel that I have any right to
complain."

"You're here fur yur health?"

"Yes. And I am getting it. You're
not an invalid, I imagine?"

"No -- no-op. I'm here be -- well, I've
thought fur a long time I'd like t' stay at
this here hotel."

"Indeed!"

"Yes. I've been up th' gulch these fif-
teen years. Bin livin' on a shelf of black rock.
Th' sun got 'round 'bout ten. Couldn't
make a thing grow." The man was look-
ing off toward the hills, with an expression
of deep sadness in his eyes. "Didn't
never live in a place where nothin' 'd
grow, did you? I took geraniums up thar
time an' time agin. Red ones. Made me
think of mother; she's in Germany. Watered
'em mornin' an' night. Th' damned things
died."

The oath slipped out with an artless un-
consciousness, and there was a little moist-
ure in his eyes. Kate felt she ought to
bring the conversation to a close. She
wondered what Jack would say if he saw
her talking with a perfect stranger who used
oaths! She would have gone into the house
but for something that caught her eye. It
was the hand of the man; that hand was
a bludgeon. All grace and flexibility had
gone out of it, and it had become a mere
instrument of toil. It was seamed and
misshapen; yet it had been carefully mani-
cured, and the pointed nails looked fantastic
and animal-like. A great seal-ring bore an
elaborate monogram, while the little finger
displayed a collection of diamonds and
emeralds truly dazzling to behold. An
impulse of humanity and a sort of artistic
curiosity, much stronger than her discretion,
urged Kate to continue her conversation.

"What were you doing up the gulch?"
she said.

The man leaned back in his chair and
regarded her a moment before answering.
He realized the significance of her question.
He took it as a sign that she was willing
to be friendly. A look of gratitude, almost
tender, sprang into his eyes, -- dull gray
eyes, they were, with a kindliness for their
only recommendation.

"Makin' my pile," he replied. "I've
been in these parts twenty years. When I
come here, I thought I was goin' to make a
fortune right off. I had all th' money that
mother could give me, and I lost everything I
had in three months. I went up th' gulch."
He paused, and wiped his forehead with his
handkerchief.

There was something in his remark and the
intonation which made Kate say softly:

"I suppose you've had a hard time of it."

"Thar you were!" he cried. "Thar was
th' rock -- risin', risin', black! At th'
bottom wus th' creek, howlin' day an'
night! Lonesome! Gee! No one t' talk
to. Of course, th' men. Had some with
me always. They didn't talk. It's too --
too quiet t' talk much. They played cards.
Curious, but I never played cards. Don't
think I'd find it amusin'. No, I worked.
Came down here once in six months or
three months. Had t' come -- grub-staked
th' men, you know. Did you ever eat salt
pork?" He turned to Kate suddenly with
this question.

"Why, yes; a few times. Did you have
it?"

"Nothin' else, much. I used t' think of
th' things mother cooked. Mother under-
stood cookin', if ever a woman did. I'll
never forget th' dinner she gave me th' day
I came away. A woman ought t' cook. I
hear American women don't go in much
for cookin'."

"Oh, I think that's a mistake," Kate
hastened to interrupt. "All that I know un-
derstand how to serve excellent dinners. Of
course, they may not cook them themselves,
but I think they could if it were necessary."

"Hum!" He picked up a long glove that
had fallen from Kate's lap and fingered it
before returning it.

"I s'pose you cook?"

"I make a specialty of salads and sor-
bets," smiled Kate. "I guess I could roast
meat and make bread; but circumstances
have not yet compelled me to do it. But
I've a theory that an American woman can
do anything she puts her mind to."

The man laughed out loud, -- a laugh
quite out of proportion to the mild good
humor of the remark; but it was evident
that he could no longer conceal his delight
at this companionship.

"How about raisin' flowers?" he asked.
"Are you strong on that?"

"I've only to look at a plant to make
it grow," Kate cried, with enthusiasm.
"When my friends are in despair over a
plant, they bring it to me, and I just pet it
a little, and it brightens up. I've the most
wonderful fernery you ever saw. It's green,
summer and winter. Hundreds of people
stop and look up at it, it is so green and
enticing, there above the city streets."

"What city?"

"Philadelphia."

"Mother's jest that way. She has a gar-
den of roses. And the mignonette --"

But he broke off suddenly, and sat once
more staring before him.

"But not a damned thing," he added, with
poetic pensiveness, "would grow in that
gulch."

"Why did you stay there so long?" asked
Kate, after a little pause in which she man-
aged to regain her waning courage.

"Bad luck. You never see a place with
so many false leads. To-day you'd get a
streak that looked big. To-morrow you'd
find it a pocket. One night I'd go t' bed
with my heart goin' like a race-horse.
Next night it would be ploddin' along like
a winded burro. Don't know what made
me stick t' it. It was hot there, too! And
cold! Always roastin' ur freezin'. It'd
been different if I'd had any one t' help me
stand it. But th' men were always findin'
fault. They blamed me fur everythin'. I
used t' lie awake at night an' hear 'em
talkin' me over. It made me lonesome, I
tell you! Thar wasn't no one! Mother
used t' write. But I never told her th'
truth. She ain't a suspicion of what I've
been a-goin' through."

Kate sat and looked at him in silence.
His face was seamed, though far from old.
His body was awkward, but impressed her
with a sense of magnificent strength.

"I couldn't ask no woman t' share my
hard times," he resumed after a time. "I
always said when I got a woman, it was
goin' t' be t' make her happy. It wer'n't
t' be t' ask her t' drudge."

There was another silence. This man
out of the solitude seemed to be elated past
expression at his new companionship. He
looked with appreciation at the little pointed
toes of Kate's slippers, as they glanced from
below the skirt of her dainty organdie. He
noted the band of pearls on her finger. His
eyes rested long on the daisies at her waist.
The wind tossed up little curls of her warm
brown hair. Her eyes suffused with inter-
est, her tender mouth seemed ready to lend
itself to any emotion, and withal she was
so small, so compact, so exquisite. The
man wiped his forehead again, in mere
exuberance.

"Here's my card," he said, very solemnly,
as he drew an engraved bit of pasteboard
from its leather case. Kate bowed and
took it.

"Mr. Peter Roeder," she read.
"I've no card," she said. "My name is
Shelly. I'm here for my health, as I told
you." She rose at this point, and held out
her hand. "I must thank you once more
for your kindness," she said.

His eyes fastened on hers with an appeal
for a less formal word. There was something
almost terrible in their silent eloquence.

"I hope we may meet again," she said.

Mr. Peter Roeder made a very low and
awkward bow, and opened the door into the
corridor for her.

That evening the major announced that he
was obliged to go to Seattle. The journey
was not an inviting one; Kate was well
placed where she was, and he decided to
leave her.

She was well enough now to take longer
drives; and she found strange, lonely can-
yons, wild and beautiful, where yellow
waters burst through rocky barriers with roar
and fury, -- tortuous, terrible places, such
as she had never dreamed of. Coming back
from one of these drives, two days after
her conversation on the piazza with Peter
Roeder, she met him riding a massive roan.
He sat the animal with that air of perfect
unconsciousness which is the attribute of
the Western man, and his attire, even to
his English stock, was faultless, -- faultily
faultless.

"I hope you won't object to havin' me
ride beside you," he said, wheeling his
horse. To tell the truth, Kate did not
object. She was a little dull, and had been
conscious all the morning of that peculiar
physical depression which marks the begin-
ning of a fit of homesickness.

"The wind gits a fine sweep," said
Roeder, after having obtained the permis-
sion he desired. "Now in the gulch we
either had a dead stagnation, or else the
wind was tearin' up and down like a wild
beast."

Kate did not reply, and they went on
together, facing the riotous wind.

"You can't guess how queer it seems t'
be here," he said, confidentially. "It seems
t' me as if I had come from some other
planet. Thar don't rightly seem t' be no
place fur me. I tell you what it's like.
It's as if I'd come down t' enlist in th'
ranks, an' found 'em full, -- every man
marchin' along in his place, an' no place
left fur me."

Kate could not find a reply.

"I ain't a friend, -- not a friend! I ain't
complainin'. It ain't th' fault of any one
-- but myself. You don' know what a
durned fool I've bin. Someway, up thar in
th' gulch I got t' seemin' so sort of impor-
tant t' myself, and my makin' my stake
seemed such a big thing, that I thought I
had only t' come down here t' Helena t'
have folks want t' know me. I didn't
particular want th' money because it wus
money. But out here you work fur it, jest
as you work fur other things in other places,
-- jest because every one is workin' fur it,
and it's the man who gets th' most that
beats. It ain't that they are any more
greedy than men anywhere else. My pile's
a pretty good-sized one. An' it's likely to
be bigger; but no one else seems t' care.
Th' paper printed some pieces about it.
Some of th' men came round t' see me;
but I saw their game. I said I guessed
I'd look further fur my acquaintances. I
ain't spoken to a lady, -- not a real lady,
you know, -- t' talk with, friendly like, but
you, fur -- years."

His face flushed in that sudden way again.
They were passing some of those preten-
tious houses which rise in the midst of
Helena's ragged streets with such an extra-
neous air, and Kate leaned forward to look
at them. The driver, seeing her interest,
drew up the horses for a moment.

"Fine, fine!" ejaculated Roeder. "But
they ain't got no garden. A house don't
seem anythin' t' me without a garden.
Do you know what I think would be th'
most beautiful thing in th' world? A
baby in a rose-garden! Do you know, I
ain't had a baby in my hands, excep' Ned
Ramsey's little kid, once, for ten year!"

Kate's face shone with sympathy.

"How dreadful!" she cried. "I couldn't
live without a baby about."

"Like babies, do you? Well, well.
Boys? Like boys?"

"Not a bit better than girls," said Kate,
stoutly.

"I like boys," responded Roeder, with
conviction. "My mother liked boys. She
had three girls, but she liked me a damned
sight the best."

Kate laughed outright.

"Why do you swear?" she said. "I
never heard a man swear before, -- at least,
not one with whom I was talking. That's
one of your gulch habits. You must get
over it."

Roeder's blond face turned scarlet.

"You must excuse me," he pleaded.
"I'll cure myself of it! Jest give me a
chance."

This was a little more personal than Kate
approved of, and she raised her parasol to
conceal her annoyance. It was a brilliant
little fluff of a thing which looked as if it
were made of butterflies' wings. Roeder
touched it with awe.

"You have sech beautiful things," he
said. "I didn't know women wore sech
nice things. Now that dress -- it's like
-- I don't know what it's like." It was a
simple little taffeta, with warp and woof of
azure and of cream, and gay knots of ribbon
about it.

"We have the advantage of men," she
said. "I often think one of the greatest
drawbacks to being a man would be the
sombre clothes. I like to wear the prettiest
things that can be found."

"Lace?" queried Roeder. "Do you like
lace?"

"I should say so! Did you ever see a
woman who didn't?"

"Hu -- um! These women I've known
don't know lace, -- these wives of th' men
out here. They're th' only kind I've seen
this long time."

"Oh, of course, but I mean --"

"I know what you mean. My mother has
a chest full of linen an' lace. She showed
it t' me th' day I left. 'Peter,' she said,
'some day you bring a wife home with you,
an' I'll give you that lace an' that linen.'
An' I'm goin' t' do it, too," he said quietly.

"I hope so," said Kate, with her eyes
moist. "I hope you will, and that your
mother will be very happy."

. . . . . . .

There was a hop at the hotel that night,
and it was almost a matter of courtesy for
Kate to go. Ladies were in demand, for
there were not very many of them at the
hotel. Every one was expected to do his
best to make it a success; and Kate, not at
all averse to a waltz or two, dressed herself
for the occasion with her habitual striving
after artistic effect. She was one of those
women who make a picture of themselves as
naturally as a bird sings. She had an opal
necklace which Jack had given her because,
he said, she had as many moods as an opal
had colors; and she wore this with a crépe
gown, the tint of the green lights in her
necklace. A box of flowers came for her as
she was dressing; they were Puritan roses,
and Peter Roeder's card was in the midst
of them. She was used to having flowers
given her. It would have seemed remark-
able if some one had not sent her a bouquet
when she was going to a ball.

"I shall dance but twice," she said to
those who sought her for a partner.
"Neither more nor less."

"Ain't you goin' t' dance with me at
all?" Roeder managed to say to her in the
midst of her laughing altercation with the
gentlemen.

"Dance with you!" cried Kate. "How
do men learn to dance when they are up a
gulch?"

"I ken dance," he said stubbornly. He
was mortified at her chaffing.

"Then you may have the second waltz, "
she said, in quick contrition. "Now you
other gentlemen have been dancing any
number of times these last fifteen years.
But Mr. Roeder is just back from a hard
campaign, -- a campaign against fate. My
second waltz is his. And I shall dance my
best."

It happened to be just the right sort of
speech. The women tried good-naturedly
to make Roeder's evening a pleasant one.
They were filled with compassion for a man
who had not enjoyed the society of their sex
for fifteen years. They found much amuse-
ment in leading him through the square
dances, the forms of which were utterly
unknown to him. But he waltzed with a
sort of serious alertness that was not so bad
as it might have been.

Kate danced well. Her slight body
seemed as full of the spirit of the waltz as
a thrush's body is of song. Peter Roeder
moved along with her in a maze, only half-
answering her questions, his gray eyes full
of mystery.

Once they stopped for a moment, and he
looked down at her, as with flushed face she
stood smiling and waving her gossamer fan,
each motion stirring the frail leaves of the
roses he had sent her.

"It's cur'ous," he said softly, "but I keep
thinkin' about that black gulch."

"Forget it," she said. "Why do you
think of a gulch when --" She stopped
with a sudden recollection that he was not
used to persiflage. But he anticipated what
she was about to say.

"Why think of the gulch when you are
here?" he said. "Why, because it is only
th' gulch that seems real. All this, -- these
pleasant, polite people, this beautiful room,
th' flowers everywhere, and you, and me as
I am, seem as if I was dreamin'. Thar
ain't anything in it all that is like what I
thought it would be."

"Not as you thought it would be?"

"No. Different. I thought it would be
-- well, I thought th' people would not be
quite so high-toned. I hope you don't mind
that word."

"Not in the least," she said. " It's a mu-
sical term. It applies very well to people."

They took up the dance again and waltzed
breathlessly till the close. Kate was tired;
the exertion had been a little more than she
had bargained for. She sat very still on the
veranda under the white glare of an electric
ball, and let Roeder do the talking. Her
thoughts, in spite of the entertainment she
was deriving from her present experiences,
would go back to the babies. She saw them
tucked well in bed, each in a little iron crib,
with the muslin curtains shielding their rosy
faces from the light. She wondered if Jack
were reading alone in the library or was at
the club, or perhaps at the summer con-
cert, with the swell of the violins in his
ears. Jack did so love music. As she
thought how delicate his perceptions were,
how he responded to everything most subtle
in nature and in art, of how life itself was
a fine art with him, and joy a thing to be
cultivated, she turned with a sense of deep
compassion to the simple man by her side.
His rough face looked a little more unat-
tractive than usual. His evening clothes
were almost grotesque. His face wore a
look of solitude, of hunger.

"What were you saying?" she said,
dreamily. "I beg your pardon."

"I was sayin' how I used t' dream of
sittin' on the steps of a hotel like this, and
not havin' a thing t' do. When I used t'
come down here out of the gulch, and see
men who had had good dinners, an' good
baths, sittin' around smokin', with money
t' go over there t' th' bookstan' an' get any-
thin' they'd want, it used t' seem t' me
about all a single man could wish fur."

"Well, you've got it all now."

"But I didn't any of th' time suppose
that would satisfy a man long. Only I was
so darned tired I couldn't help wantin' t'
rest. But I'm not so selfish ur s' narrow
as to be satisfied with THAT. No, I'm not
goin' t' spend m' pile that way -- quite!"

He laughed out loud, and then sat in
silence watching Kate as she lay back
wearily in her chair.

"I've got t' have that there garden," he
said, laughingly. "Got t' get them roses.
An' I'll have a big bath-house, -- plenty of
springs in this country. You ken have a
bath here that won't freeze summer NOR
winter. An' a baby! I've got t' have a
baby. He'll go with th' roses an' th'
bath." He laughed again heartily.

"It's a queer joke, isn't it?" Roeder
asked. "Talkin' about my baby, an' I
haven't even a wife." His face flushed and
he turned his eyes away.

"Have I shown you the pictures of my
babies?" Kate inquired. "You'd like my
boy, I know. And my girl is just like me,
-- in miniature."

There was a silence. She looked up
after a moment. Roeder appeared to be
examining the monogram on his ring as if
he had never seen it before.

"I didn't understand that you were mar-
ried," he said gently.

"Didn't you? I don't think you ever
called me by any name at all, or I should
have noticed your mistake and set you right.
Yes, I'm married. I came out here to get
strong for the babies."

"Got a boy an' a girl, eh?"

"Yes."

"How old's th' boy?"

"Five."

"An' th' girl?"

"She'll soon be four."

"An' yer husband -- he's livin'?"

"I should say so! I'm a very happy
woman, Mr. Roeder. If only I were
stronger!"

"Yer lookin' much better," he said,
gravely, "than when you come. You'll be
all right."

The moon began to come up scarlet
beyond the eastern hills. The two watched
it in silence. Kate had a feeling of guilt,
as if she had been hurting some helpless
thing.

"I was in hopes," he said, suddenly, in a
voice that seemed abrupt and shrill, "thet
you'd see fit t' stay here."

"Here in Helena? Oh, no!"

"I was thinkin' I'd offer you that two
hundred thousand dollars, if you'd stay."

"Mr. Roeder! You don't mean --
surely --"

"Why, yes. Why not?" He spoke
rather doggedly. "I'll never see no other
woman like you. You're different from
others. How good you've been t' me!"

"Good! I'm afraid I've been very bad
-- at least, very stupid."

"I say, now -- your husband's good t'
you, ain't he?"

"He is the kindest man that ever lived."

"Oh, well, I didn't know."

A rather awkward pause followed which
was broken by Roeder.

"I don't see jest what I'm goin' t' do
with that thar two hundred thousand dol-
lars," he said, mournfully.

"Do with it? Why, live with it! Send
some to your mother."

"Oh, I've done that. Five thousand
dollars. It don't seem much here; but it'll
seem a lot t' her. I'd send her more, only
it would've bothered her."

"Then there is your house, -- the house
with the bath-room. But I suppose you'll
have other rooms?"

Peter laughed a little in spite of himself.

"I guess I won't have a house," he said.
"An' I couldn't make a garden alone."

"Hire a man to help you." Kate was
trembling, but she kept talking gayly. She
was praying that nothing very serious would
happen. There was an undercurrent of som-
breness in the man's manner that frightened
her.

"I guess I'll jest have t' keep on
dreamin' of that boy playin' with th' roses."

"No, no," cried Kate; "he will come
true some day! I know he'll come true."

Peter got up and stood by her chair.

"You don't know nothin' about it," he
said. "You don't know, an' you can't know
what it's bin t' me t' talk with you. Here
I come out of a place where there ain't no
sound but the water and the pines. Years
come an' go. Still no sound. Only
thinkin', thinkin', thinkin'! Missin' all
th' things men care fur! Dreamin' of a
time when I sh'd strike th' pile. Then I
seed home, wife, a boy, flowers, everythin'.
You're so beautiful, an' you're so good.
You've a way of pickin' a man's heart right
out of him. First time I set my eyes on
you I thought you were th' nicest thing I
ever see! And how little you are! That
hand of yours, -- look at it, -- it's like a
leaf! An' how easy you smile. Up th'
gulch we didn't smile; we laughed, but
gen'ly because some one got in a fix. Then
your voice! Ah, I've thought fur years
that some day I might hear a voice like
that! Don't you go! Sit still! I'm not
blamin' you fur anythin'; but I may
never, 's long's I live, find any one who
will understand things th' way you under-
stand 'em. Here! I tell you about that
gulch an' you see that gulch. You know
how th' rain sounded thar, an' how th'
shack looked, an' th' life I led, an' all th'
thoughts I had, an' th' long nights, an'
th' times when -- but never mind. I know
you know it all. I saw it in yer eyes. I
tell you of mother, an' you see 'er. You
know 'er old German face, an' 'er proud
ways, an' her pride in me, an' how she
would think I wuz awfully rich. An' you
see how she would give out them linens, all
marked fur my wife, an' how I would sit
an' watch her doin' it, an' -- you see every-
thing. I know you do. I could feel you
doin' it. Then I say to myself: 'Here is
th' one woman in th' world made fur me.
Whatever I have, she shall have. I'll
spend my life waitin' on her. She'll tell
me all th' things I ought t' know, an' hev
missed knowin'; she'll read t' me; she'll
be patient when she finds how dull I've
grown. And thar'll be th' boy --'"

He seized her hand and wrung it, and was
gone. Kate saw him no more that night.

The next morning the major returned.
Kate threw her arms around his neck and
wept.

"I want the babies," she explained when
the major showed his consternation. "Don't
mind my crying. You ought to be used to
seeing me cry by this time. I must get
home, that's all. I must see Jack."

So that night they started.

At the door of the carriage stood Peter
Roeder, waiting.

"I'm going t' ride down with you," he
said. The major looked nonplussed.

Kate got in and the major followed.

"Come," she said to Roeder. He sat
opposite and looked at her as if he would
fasten her image on his mind.

"You remember," he said after a time,
"that I told you I used t' dream of sittin' on
the veranda of th' hotel and havin' nothin'
t' do?"

"Yes."

"Well, I don't think I care fur it. I've
had a month of it. I'm goin' back up
th' gulch."

"No!" cried Kate, instinctively reaching
out her hands toward him.

"Why not? I guess you don't know me.
I knew that somewhere I'd find a friend. I
found that friend; an' now I'm alone
again. It's pretty quiet up thar in the
gulch; but I'll try it."

"No, no. Go to Europe; go to see your
mother."

"I thought about that a good deal, a
while ago. But I don't seem t' have no
heart fur it now. I feel as if I'd be safer
in th' gulch."

"Safer?"

"The world looks pretty big. It's safe
and close in th' gulch."

At the station the major went to look
after the trunks, and Roeder put Kate in
her seat.

"I wanted t' give you something " he
said, seating himself beside her, "but I
didn't dare."

"Oh, my dear friend," she cried, laying
her little gloved hand on his red and knotted
one, "don't go back into the shadow. Do
not return to that terrible silence. Wait.
Have patience. Fate has brought you
wealth. It will bring you love."

"I've somethin' to ask," he said, paying
no attention to her appeal. "You must
answer it. If we 'a' met long ago, an' you
hadn't a husband or -- anythin' -- do you
think you'd've loved me then?"

She felt herself turning white.

"No," she said softly. "I could never
have loved you, my dear friend. We are
not the same. Believe me, there is a
woman somewhere who will love you; but
I am not that woman -- nor could I have
ever been."

The train was starting. The major came
bustling in.

"Well, good-by," said Roeder, holding
out his hand to Kate.

"Good-by," she cried. "Don't go back
up the gulch."

"Oh," he said, reassuringly, "don't you
worry about me, my -- don't worry. The
gulch is a nice, quiet place. An' you know
what I told you about th' ranks all bein'
full. Good-by." The train was well under
way. He sprang off, and stood on the
platform waving his handkerchief.

"Well, Kate," said the major, seating
himself down comfortably and adjusting his
travelling cap, "did you find the Western
type?"

"I don't quite know," said she, slowly.
"But I have made the discovery that a
human soul is much the same wherever you
meet it."

"Dear me! You haven't been meeting
a soul, have you?" the major said, face-
tiously, unbuckling his travelling-bag. "I'll
tell Jack."

"No, I'll tell Jack. And he'll feel
quite as badly as I do to think that I could
do nothing for its proper adjustment."

The major's face took on a look of com-
prehension.

"Was that the soul," he asked, "that just
came down in the carriage with us?"

"That was it," assented Kate. "It was
born; it has had its mortal day; and it
has gone back up the gulch."

-THE END-
Elia W. Peattie's short story: Up the Gulch

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