The Voice at Johnnywater by B. M. Bower - HTML preview

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
 LET’S LEAVE THEM THERE

Love adapts itself to strange conditions when it must, and men and maids never find it less alluring. Eight days Gary had been imprisoned in the crosscut, and thought it a lifetime of misery. Yet the four days which he remained still a prisoner, but with Patricia perched upon the bowlder practically all of the time, the entombment became an adventure, something to tell about afterward as a bit of red-blooded pioneering that seldom falls to the lot of men nowadays.

It is true that Monty was there, pecking away at the bowlder with single-jack and gadget much of the time; but Patricia during those hours moved just far enough away to escape the swing of Monty’s hammer, and the dialogue went on—mostly of things altogether strange to Monty Girard. Gossip of the city, plans for “The Pat Connolly” mine—in which Monty was of course included.

“I shall put three names on that location,” Patricia announced, in the tone that went with the squared chin. “Whatever possessed you, Gary Marshall, to leave your name out of it—or Monty’s? Do you think I’m a—a pig?”

Monty dissented to the plan, and so did Gary—but precious little good that did them. Patricia left the bowlder then, while the matter was fresh in her mind, and made the trip down to the cabin after her fountain pen so that she could have the mine as she wanted it.

“There! If the thing is worth anything—half as much as you think, Gary—two thirds of it is as much as we could ever spend and keep decently sane on the subject. And I’m sure, Gary Marshall, you’d think Monty was earning a share, if you knew how hot it is out here in the sun. The perspiration is just rolling off him!”

“Let up a while, old son,” Gary generously implored. “I’m doing all right in here—it’s a cinch, with the eats passed in to me regularly, and not a thing in the world to do. You can send out for a preacher, Monty, and I can offer my good right hand to Pat any time. Great scene, that would make! Handsome Gary entombed——”

“For pity’s sake, Gary, don’t j-joke about it!” wailed Patricia. When Monty sent a warning frown and a “sh-sh” through to the irrepressible, Gary subsided.

“Car’s coming,” Monty announced, glad to have the distraction for Patricia, who was crying silently with her face hidden. “If that’s Joe, he’s had better luck than is possible, or he’s laid down on the job. I better go down and make shore. I’ll bring up whatever yuh-all want to eat, when I come. If it’s in the cañon,” he added cautiously, remembering some of the things Gary had perversely insisted upon.

“I’m sorry, Pat,” Gary murmured, when Monty’s steps could no longer be heard on the rocks. “Can’t you put your face right up to the opening now? Monty knocked quite a chunk of rock off a few minutes ago. And, Pat, if you knew how I wanted to kiss my girl on the lips!”

So Patricia wiped her eyes and put her face to the opening.

It happened to be the sheriff’s car from Tonopah, with three other men deputized to come along and see what was taking place away over here in Johnnywater. In a little while they came puffing up the bluff to look in upon the man who had been trapped underground for considerably more than a week. They were mighty sympathetic and they were deeply concerned and anxious to do something, poor men. But they were not welcome, and it was difficult for the leading man and his lady to register gratitude for their presence.

Gary finally thought of a way out. He told the sheriff that, since there was nothing to be done at present to release him, he would suggest that they investigate the grave under the juniper. He said he thought they might be able to identify the remains of a man which he had buried there.

They took the bait and went trooping down the bluff again to do their full duty. And the last hat-crown had no more than disappeared when Patricia again leaned forward and put her face to the opening, this time without being asked.

There is nothing in the world like love, is there? When it can brighten a situation such as this and turn tragedy into romance—why, then, there’s mighty little more to be said.

THE END