Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 1036
“Wal, I reckon somethin’ like this. If Fred wasn’t somehow implicated it’d be nothing for Ames to shoot the leader of this outfit an’ scare the rest so bad they’d never show up in Yampa again. But if Fred is in it, why, it’ll be serious. Take what Arizona said: “Tell Esther if Fred’s got drunk or otherwise been dragged into this dirty deal thet I’ll clear his name, one way or another.”
“My God! How could he? What else did — he say?” gasped Esther.
“That was all. He jest rode off,” responded Joe, with a cool finality.
“Did you tell dad?”
“Wal, I jest did. He wasn’t bothered much, though. He’s come to be somethin’ like a real Westerner lately. . . . An’ thet reminds me, Miss Esther. Did you know your dad offered to make Arizona his pardner in this ranch?”
“No. I didn’t.”
“Wal, he did. An’ thet g — er — thet dog-goned, white-headed cowboy refused.”
“Refused!” echoed Esther.
“It ain’t believable, but he did. I was there. Halstead got mad an’ used some language thet’d do Joe Cabel credit. Ha! Ha! . . . Wal, Arizona admitted he thought it was a fair bargin — thet he was worth it — an’ thet the two of them could make two fortunes here on the Troublesome. But he says, ‘I jest cain’t.’
“Why in the hell can’t you — if you see it as I do?’ roared Halstead.
“Arizona got sort of pale round the gills. ‘See heah, Halstead,’ he says, slow an’ cool — you know how he talks— ‘I love this heah girl of yours an’ I cain’t stand it much longer. I’ll stay heah till I’ve got you out of this mess an’ fixed to make it a big success — then I’ll ride away. I’ve had a pretty sad, lonely life. An’ if I hang round heah much longer the rest of my life won’t be worth livin’. For I’m afraid I’d love Esther more’n I loved Nesta — my twin sister, an’ I’ll tell you, boss, thet was a whole lot. . . . I’m thirty-two years old an’ I’ve got a gun record. Esther couldn’t care for me, even if you sanctioned it, which shore you cain’t. So let’s have no more of this pardner talk.’”
Esther seemed to have merged into the stone upon which she was sitting. But inside her stormed whirlwind and lightning and heartbeats that pounded thunderously in her ears. The flowers fell off her lap, unnoticed. If outward feeling came to her it was with Joe’s gentle touch.
“Aw! I told you too sudden!” ejaculated Joe, remorsefully. “I done it on purpose, Esther. But forgive me.”
“Oh, Joe! — I’m so — silly! There’s nothing — to forgive.”
“Wal, there jest is. I’ve found out your secret an’ it was a dirty trick.”
“Secret?”
“Yes. But I reckon I knowed before you gave yourself away. Joe Cabel is a pretty smart fellar. . . . Esther, you like Arizona a little now, don’t you?”
“I — I’m afraid — I do.”
“Wal, don’t you, quite a little?”
“I — maybe — perhaps I do.” She was leaning against Joe’s rough-garbed shoulder with drooping head.
“Now, lass, your secret is safe with me. Don’t you savvy thet? Sure I could double-cross Arizona any day for you. An’ I’m doin’ it now. But never you, Esther.”
“What secret? Oh, Joe — don’t make me talk,” she whispered.
“Wal, now, I won’t. . . . But don’t you love Arizona a little? Poor devil thet he is! Driven from range to range, not because he was bad but good. No home — none but men like me to see an’ care. Never a sweetheart! True to thet sister for whom he rode out on his long bloody trail! . . . Don’t you love him a little, Esther?”
Her head fell on his shoulder.
“I — I’m afraid I — —”
“Wal, now, thet’s jest wonderful. It sure fetches my prayer home. You see, I’m a lonely old codger an’ I got as fond of you as if you’d been my own lass. Then I always had a weakness for Arizona. — Esther, this West breeds men. I’ve knowed more than I could remember. It makes them wild an’ wicked an’ then jest the opposite, too. Men like your dad could never find homes here but for men like Arizona. . . . I reckon now you love him — more’n a little?”
“I reckon I do,” confessed Esther, and hid her face.
“How much, lass?”
“Swear you’ll never tell?”
“I’d swear thet on a stack of Bibles.”
Esther lifted her face and opened blurred eyes. This kind and crafty Joe had been her undoing, yet through him she had found herself. She bent to gather up the fallen flowers. Then she stood before her friend unabashed, to give her answer some semblance of dignity.
“So much, Joe — that if you hadn’t told me what you have — I couldn’t have borne the fear for Fred — and him.”
* * * * *
On the third sunset after that, Jed returned, driving the buckboard up to the ranch house. When he halloed, Esther went out to see her father and Joe helping Stevens to get down. He could not stand alone. His right arm was in a sling.
Then Esther espied Fred, his face almost as white as the wide bandage that passed round his head under his chin.
“Boss, we’re back the wuss for wear,” Jed was saying, “an’ Ames is down at the barn.”
For once the children were not clamoring at the return of anyone from town. They stood owl-eyed and mute.
“Halstead, me an’ Jed will take care of Stevens,” said Joe.
The rancher had not found his voice.
“Dad, come in the house,” said Fred. “And you, too, Esther. I’ve a good deal to tell.”
They went in, and Esther closed the door.
“Fred! You’ve been injured?” she cried, when she could find her voice.
“Yes. But it’s nothing to what — it might have been. — Only a hole through my ear!”
“Hole!” ejaculated Halstead, blankly.
Fred fell into a chair, which limp action and his shaking hands attested to spent strength.
“Bullet hole! I’ve been shot,” he said, with a weak smile.
“Who shot you?”
“Ames.”
Esther, feeling turned to stone, could not utter a sound.
“My God! boy, what’re you saying?” demanded his father, incredulously.
“It’s the truth. The bloody devil!” replied Fred, hoarsely. “Oh, he was terrible! . . . But, dad, he didn’t know me. He thought I was — just one of Bannard’s men. The only accident about it was — when he missed me. His bullet tore off my hat — went through my ear. — I’m marked for life. When he saw my face he recognized me and he said, ‘Hellsfire!’”
“Augh! — What’s this all about?” queried Halstead, thickly.
Esther, finding the seat next to the fireplace behind her, slowly sank and slipped into it. If some kind of transformation had not come over Fred Halstead she was indeed mad.
“Listen, Dad. I’ll make a clean breast of the whole thing,” began Fred, shaken by deep agitation. “Saturday I went over to see Biny Wood. I found Jess Thuber there. It made me sore, though I knew Biny didn’t care particular about him. But it just struck me bad. Hadn’t seen her for weeks — was crazy to — and I had some fool notion of asking her to believe in me and stick to me.”
“Son, that wasn’t no fool notion,” said Halstead, as Fred paused for breath.
“Well, when I left her I happened to fall in with Barsh Hensler, Mecklin, and Jim Coates. It was unlucky for me. They had a bottle. I knew I shouldn’t drink. I fought it. If I hadn’t been so hurt, so sore at Biny, I’d not weakened. Anyway, I did — and that set me on fire. I got drunk. It was on Saturday afternoon. I didn’t get sober enough to know anything till they stole your cattle from Stevens. I remember riding. I remember Stevens was yelling when Mecklin shot him . . . I had to help drive the cattle down. They took a lot of driving. It was late at night when we got them in a corral. There was a cabin. Next morning I was sober and sick enough to die. It was that old homestead off the road, ten miles beyond Wood’s.”
Fred covered his pale face a moment as if to hide it as well as shut out the picture in mind. “I realized then Mecklin could make me out a thief. I was ruined. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to shoot myself, but didn’t have the nerve. Then I swore I’d shoot Mecklin. . . . We stayed there waiting. Mecklin went down the road to meet Bannard and the rest of the outfit. . . . But he ran into Ames — who beat him half to death and made him confess the whole rotten deal. But I didn’t know that until later. . . . Bannard came with only two men. He was mad. And when he saw we’d only half a hundred head of cattle he cursed and raved. . . . It got late in the day and we went outside on the porch to go on with our gambling. Four of us. Hensler half drunk. Bannard mean. All of a sudden Ames came round the cabin, pushing Mecklin ahead of him with a gun. I said, ‘My God! — it’s—’ and I choked on his name. I pulled my hat low over my face and sunk down. Aw, I was scared. Mecklin was all bloody and so weak he could hardly walk. Ames knocked him down with the gun. Then he looked us over and picked out Hensler. ‘The game’s up, Hensler. Your two-bit cattle-thievin’ ends right heah. Mecklin has squealed on you.’
“‘Who in hell are you?’ yelled back Bannard.
“‘My name is Ames.’
“‘You this Arizona fellar?’ asked Bannard, and he turned green.
“‘No matter. I take it you’re Clive Bannard?’
“But Bannard went so yellow he couldn’t even tell his own name. Then Barsh Hensler, the damn fool, got up and bawled: ‘Ban, it’s this here Arizona Ames. Haw! Haw! Watch me bore him!’ . . . And the idiot grabbed his gun.”
Fred writhed in his seat; his eyes shut; his tight skin blanched.
“Then it happened. I can’t tell just how. But when that clumsy drunken madman pulled out his gun there came an awful crack. I saw a little hole show up right in the middle of Hensler’s forehead. He looked queer. His gun banged. And he knocked the box over. I was paralyzed. But I heard the shooting . . . the last shot got me — knocked me flat. ‘Hellsfire!’ yelled Ames and dragged me up and shoved me against the wall. If he hadn’t held me up I’d dropped, for I thought he meant to kill me. He was terrible. But he’d recognized me. . . . Then I saw those men — Hensler dead on the box — Bannard dead, too, I thought then — one crawling away screaming in agony — another flopping off like a crippled chicken — an’ Mecklin groaning on the porch. . . . . Ames had been hit once, a cut in the shoulder that he made me tie up. And while I did it he said some things to me I — I’ll never forget till I’m dead or even after. . . . We went out to the road, and when Jed came along with the wagon Ames had him go back to the cabin. Mecklin had sneaked away. Bannard wasn’t dead, but near so. They loaded him in the wagon. We went on to Yampa, where Ames told that Hensler and Bannard had forced me to help steal my father’s cattle. Then he said there’d been a little fight back at Harris’ cabin. . . . That’s all, Dad. It turned out Bannard didn’t die, but he’ll never be any good again. When he’s well enough they’ll take him away to jail.”
“So, my lad, Arizona Ames saved your name?” thundered Halstead.
“He did — Dad — he did,” replied Fred, huskily. “But I wasn’t a thief — never! Please — for God’s sake, don’t believe that.”
“I didn’t. . . . Fred, is this lesson going to make a man out of you?”
Fred gulped and put a hand to his bandaged ear. “It will, Dad, unless Arizona scared all the man out of me forever.”
Esther dragged herself away and hid in her room, her mind at a standstill, her emotions chaotic; and she did not venture out until dusk. Then, watching her chance from the porch, she waylaid Ames, unmindful of the fact that Joe was with him.
Back somewhere in the hazy murk of the past awful hours she had pondered a thought of how impossible it would ever be to touch this bloody-handed monster. But when she confronted him, when she spoke she knew not what, and he gazed down upon her with eyes that always had and always would have power to stop her heart, she took hold of him.
“There’s only one thing I want to know,” she whispered, hurriedly and low.
“An’ I can just aboot guess what that is,” he drawled in the old unforgetable accent. How could he speak so casually? “Shore I knew Fred when I saw him. I let on I took him for one of the gang. It was a good chance to scare some sense into his haid. Don’t you ever give me away.”
* * * * *
October brought cold nights, frosty mornings, and the falling of the aspen leaves and the fading of the flowers.
Esther had gone feverishly at the work of sewing, and helping Joe put up fruit for the winter, and other tasks of the season. The Sunday that Fred fetched saucy little Biny Wood home, and imitated the cool, easy speech of an important member of Halstead’s household while announcing their engagement, was a decisive one for Esther. It broke the spell of days, and happiness trembled like a wraith on the threshold.
Perhaps a contagious spirit of good worked its will that day in other quarters. Halstead calmly announced at dinner that Ames had accepted a partnership in Troublesome Ranch.
“Whoopee!” screeched Brown, brandishing his fork. “Now I’ll ketch every —— —— —— trout in — —”
“Brown, leave the table at once!” ordered Esther, sternly.
“Aw, Ess!” he importuned.
“You broke your word. You promised never to swear again.”
“But, Ess, this here is different. It oughtn’t count. Arizona is goin’ to live with us. I’ll bet dad wouldn’t mind if you swore, too.”
“Haw! Haw! Haw!” burst out Halstead, who had turned purple in the face. “I sure wouldn’t. . . . But, lad, obey your sister and try harder next time.”
“Aw, I shore can take my medicine,” drawled Brown, sturdily. “I reckon it’s worth it.”
* * * * *
Esther felt herself the last to capitulate to this scion of the range and she surrendered royally. She had known, even before Joe had informed her, that Arizona Ames could never of his own mind imagine she loved him.
For a time after the tragedy he had kept aloof, eating with Joe in the kitchen, seldom visible; and when he was, stern, silent, unapproachable. Then had come a sudden change, which, it turned out, had been caused by a letter Jed had brought from Craig. Ames seemed transformed, and Esther had vast curiosity about that letter, and that old hateful recurrent fire along her veins. Nesta! Yet Esther was happy for him. She waited days longer than she had ever thought she could wait. Then on a Sunday afternoon while her father snored in his room and the children played outside, and Joe, with a knowing wink to her, basely deserted his friend, Esther found herself alone with this Arizona Ames, late stranger on the Troublesome, who had now become imperatively necessary to their happiness. She would drive that sadness from his face, that haunting thought or memory of she knew not what, if it lay in a woman’s power. But she could not face him just yet.
Presently from behind, she glided upon him and before he could move she encircled his drooping head with her arms, and pressing her hands over his eyes, she held him closely. It had taken all the courage she could muster. But when she felt him shake, all through that lithe strong form, something flashed up out of her, imperious and exultant.
“Arizona, are you a good guesser?” she asked.
“Me! Poorest guesser you ever saw,” he replied, suddenly relieved. “What kind of a game is this heah?”
“It’s a game of — Pretend.”
“Ahuh. An’ I got to be blind?”
“Oh, this holding my hands over your eyes is just pretense. You are blind.”
He was silent at that, relaxing ever so little.
“Well, then,” she continued, with forced animation, “In this game you are to pretend — as a matter of fact you’ll not have to act very much — to pretend you are a shy, bashful, innocent cowboy — —”
“Say, there shore never was such an animal,” broke out Ames, uneasily.
“I said pretend, didn’t I? . . . A very shy cowboy — who had never had a — a sweetheart. He’d had a hard, lonely life, riding here and there, among those awful range people who think nothing of battle, blood, murder, and sudden death. . . . So he’d never had time to find a sweetheart and win her.”
She drew his head backward ever so gently until it rested upon her unquiet breast.
“Arizona, are you listening very closely, so you’ll understand how to play this game?”
“I’m shore listenin’, you witch,” he replied, in growing perturbation. “Esther, is this heah a square game? Aren’t you stackin’ the cairds on me?”
“Oh, you’ll see. It’s a perfectly honest game,” she replied, hurriedly. His head against her breast threatened to disrupt her audacity. But she resumed, thrilling to the consciousness of her power, turning a deaf ear to a still small voice. “Now, my part in this game of Pretend is very, very difficult — much more so than yours. I have to play being a bold brazen girl, ter — terribly in love with the shy cowboy. Secretly, horribly, shamefully in love with him! . . . Shall I go on with instructions?”
“Shore, go on, Miss Halstead, anyway, until I’m daid,” he said, in a strangled voice.
“Oh, I don’t believe it will quite kill you,” she resumed, demurely. “Now the game is that this girl, this brazen creature, will slip behind the cowboy, like this, and hide his eyes like this . . . and pretty soon, according to the game, she must take one hand from one of his eyes, so that he can see it’s not exactly a dream — and caress his cheek — like this — and smooth his hair — like this — and then kiss the tip of his ear . . . l — like that! . . . and then — whi — whisper . . .”
“What?” he rang out, in a terror of incredulity.
Esther wavered on the brink. Her heart was pounding in her throat. No way back, and she had to go on! But if it had not hurt her so to torture him — what delicious fun! What surprise for him and bliss for her!
Suddenly an iron hand seized hers and began to draw her.
“Then she has to whisper,” went on Esther, now scarcely coherent— “to whisper — in his ear — like this. . . . Arizona Ames, guess!”
He seized her other hand and drew it down, so that presently her arms were round his neck, and he was trying to bend his head back to see her face.
