STORM CLOUDS

A dispirited creature made its way down to the Setons' house that same evening. Big Brother Bill felt there was not one single clear thought in his troubled head, at least, not one worth thinking. He was weighted down by a hazy conception of the position of things, in a manner that came near to destroying the very root of his optimism.

One or two things settled upon his mind much in the manner of mental vampires. He knew that Charlie was threatened, and he knew that Charlie knew it, and made no attempt to protect himself. He knew that Charlie was also scared--frightened out of all control of himself in a manner that was absurdly contradictory. He knew that he was now at the saloon for the purpose of drowning his hopeless feelings in the maddening spirit O'Brien dispensed. He knew that his own baggage had at last arrived from Heaven only knew where, and he wished it hadn't, for it left him feeling even more burdened than ever with the responsibilities of the pestilential valley. He knew that he was beginning to hate the police, and Fyles, almost as much as Charlie did. He knew that if prevailing conditions weren't careful he would lose his temper with them, and make things hot for somebody or something. But, more than all else, he knew that Helen Seton was more than worth all the worry and anxiety he was enduring.

In consequence of all this he arrayed himself in a light tweed suit, a clean, boiled shirt and collar, a tie, that might well have startled the natives of his home city, and a panama hat which he felt was necessary to improve the tropical appearance of his burnt and perspiring features, and hastened to Helen's presence for comfort and support.

The girl had been waiting for him. She looked the picture of diaphanous coolness in the shade of the house, lounging in an old wicker chair, with its fellow, empty, drawn up beside her. There were no feminine eyes to witness her little schemes, and Bill?--why, Bill was delighted beyond words that she was there, also the empty chair, also, that, as he believed, while she was wholly unconscious of the fact, the girl's att.i.tude and costume were the most innocently pleasing things he had ever beheld with his two big, blue, appreciative eyes.

He promptly told her so.

"Say, Hel," he cried, "you don't mind me calling you 'Hel,' do you?--you see, everything delightful seems to be a.s.sociated with 'h.e.l.l' nowadays. If you could see yourself and the dandy picture you make you'd kind of understand how I feel just about now."

The girl smiled her delight.

"Maybe I do understand," she said. "You see, I don't always sit around in this sort of fancy frock. Then, no girl of sense musses herself into an awkward pose when six foot odd of manhood's getting around her way. No, no Big Brother Bill. That chair didn't get there by itself.

Two carefully manicured hands put it there, after their owner had satisfied herself that her mirror hadn't made a mistake, and that she was looking quite her most attractive. You see, you'd promised to come to see me this evening, and--well, I'm woman enough to be very pleased. That's all."

Bill's sun-scorched face deepened its ruddy hue with youthful delight.

"Say, you did all this for--for me?"

Helen laughed.

"Why, yes, and told you the various details to be appreciated, because I was scared to death you wouldn't get them right."

Bill sat himself down, and set the chair creaking as he turned it about facing her. He held out his hands.

"I haven't seen the manicuring racket right, yet," he laughed.

Helen stretched out her two hands toward him for inspection. He promptly seized them in his, and pretended to examine them.

"The prettiest, softest, jolliest----"

But the girl s.n.a.t.c.hed them away.

"That's not inspection. That's----"

"Sure it's not," retorted Bill easily. "It's true."

"And absurd."

"What--the truth?"

Bill's blue eyes were widely inquiring.

"Sometimes."

The smile died out of the man's eyes, and his big face became doleful.

"Yes, I s'pose it is."

Helen set up.

"What's gone wrong--now? What truth is--absurd?" she demanded.

The man shrugged.

"Oh, everything. Say, have you ever heard of a disease of the--the brain called 'partly hatched'?"

The girl's eyes twinkled.

"I don't kind of remember it."

"No, I don't s'pose you do. I don't think anybody ever has it but me.

I've got it bad. This valley's given it me, and--and if it isn't careful it's going to get fatal."

Helen looked around at him in pretended sympathy.

"What's the symptoms? Nothing outward? I mean that tie--that's not a symptom, is it?"

Bill shook his head. He was smiling, but beneath his smile there was a certain seriousness.

"No. There's no outward signs--yet. I got it through thinking too--too young. You see, I've done so much thinking in the last week. If it had been spread over, say six months, the hatching might have got fixed right. But it's been too quick, and things have got addled. You see, if a hen turned on too much pressure of heat her eggs would get fried--or addled. That's how my brain is. It's addled."

Helen nodded with a great show of seriousness which the twitching corners of her pretty mouth belied.

"I always thought you'd got a trouble back of your--head. But you'd best tell me. You see, I don't get enough pressure of thinking to hatch anything. Maybe between us we can fix your mental eggs right."

Bill's big eyes lit with relief and hope.

"That's bright of you. You surely are the cutest girl ever. You must have got a heap of brain to spare."

Helen could no longer restrain her laughter.

"It's mostly all--spare. Now, then, tell me all your troubles."

The great creature at her side looked doubtful and puzzled.

"I don't know just where to begin. There's such a heap, and I've worried thinking about it, till--till----"

Helen sat up and propped her chin in her hands with her elbows on her knees.

"When you don't know where to begin just start with the first thought in your head, and--and--ramble."

Bill brightened up.

"Sure that's best?"