The Zane Grey Megapack, page 437
“Shore you’re mighty kind,” drawled Larry, recovering. “More ’n I reckoned on from a fellar who’s shore lost his haid.”
“I’ve lost more ’n that,” retorted Neale, “and I’m afraid a certain wild young cowboy I know has lost as much.”
“Wal, I reckon somethin’ abbot this heah place of Slingerland’s draws on a fellar,” admitted Larry, resignedly.
Allie did not long stay embarrassed by their sallies.
“Neale, tell me—”
“See heah, Allie, if you call me Reddy an’ him only Neale—why he’s a-goin’ to pitch into me,” interrupted Larry, with twinkling eyes. “An’ he’s shore a bad customer when he’s r’iled.”
“Only Neale? What does he mean?” inquired Allie.
“Beyond human conjecture,” replied Neale, laughing.
“Wal, don’t you know his front name?” asked Larry.
“Neale. I call him that,” she replied.
“Haw! Haw! But it ain’t thet.”
“Allie, my name is Warren,” said Neale. “You’ve forgotten.”
“Oh!… Well, it’s always been Neale—and always will be.”
Larry rose and stretched his long arms for the pipe on the rude stone chimney.
“Slingerland,” he drawled, “these heah young people need to find out who they are. An’ I reckon we’d do wal to go out an’ smoke an’ talk.”
The trapper came forth from the shadows, and as he filled his pipe his keen, bright gaze shifted from the task to his friends.
“It’s good to see you an’ hyar you,” he said. “I was a youngster once I missed—but thet’s no matter.… Live while you may!… Larry, come with me. I’ve got a trap to set yit.”
Allie flashed a glance at them.
“It’s not so. You never set traps after dark.”
“Wal, child, any excuse is better ’n none. Neale wouldn’t never git to hyar you say all thet sweet talk as is comin’ to him—if two old fools hung round.”
“Slingerland, I’ve throwed a gun for less ’n thet,” drawled Larry. “Aboot the fool part I ain’t shore, but I was twenty-five yesterday—an’ I’m sixteen today.”
They lit their pipes with red embers scraped from the fire, and with wise nods at Neale and Allie passed out into the dark.
Allie’s eyes were upon Neale, with shy, eloquent intent, and directly the others had departed she changed her seat to one close to Neale; she nestled against his shoulder, her face to the fire.
“They thought we wanted to make love, didn’t they?” she said, dreamily.
“I guess they did,” replied Neale.
He was intensely fascinated. Did she want him to make love to her? A look at her face was enough to rebuke him for the thought. The shadows from the flickering fire played over her.
“Tell me all about yourself,” she said. “Then about your work.”
Neale told all that he thought would interest her about his youth in the East with a widowed mother, the home that was broken up after she died, and his working his way through a course of civil engineering.
“I was twenty when I first read about this U. P. railroad project,” he went on. “That was more than three years ago. It decided me on my career. I determined to be an engineer and be in the building of the road. No one had any faith in the railroad. I used to be laughed at. But I stuck. And—well, I had to steal some rides to get as far west as Omaha.
“That was more than a year ago. I stayed there—waiting. Nothing was sure, except that the town grew like a mushroom. It filled with soldiers—and the worst crowd I ever saw. You can bet I was shaky when I finally got an audience with General Lodge and his staff. They had an office in a big storehouse. The place was full of men—soldiers and tramps. It struck me right off what a grim and discouraged bunch those engineers looked. I didn’t understand them, but I do now.… Well, I asked for a job. Nobody appeared to hear me. It was hard to make yourself heard. I tried again—louder. An old engineer, whom I know now—Henney—waved me aside. Just as if a job was unheard of!”
Neale quickened and warmed as he progressed, aware now of a little hand tight in his, of an interest that would have made any story-telling a pleasure.
“Well, I felt sick. Then mad. When I get mad I do things. I yelled at that bunch: ‘Here, you men! I’ve walked and stole rides to get here. I’m a surveyor. You’re going to build a railroad. I want a job and I’m going to get it.’
“My voice quieted the hubbub. The old engineer, Henney, looked queerly at me.
“‘Young man, there’s not going to be any railroad.’
“Then I blurted out that there was going to be a railroad. Some one spoke up: ‘Who said that? Fetch him here.’ Pretty soon I was looking at Major-General Lodge. He was just from the war and he looked it. Stern and dark, with hard lines and keen eyes. He glanced me over.
“‘There is going to be a railroad?’ he questioned sharply.
“‘Of course there is,’ I replied. I felt foolish, disappointed.
“‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘and I’ll never forget his eyes.’
“‘I can use a few more young fellows like you.’ And that’s how I got on the staff.
“Well, we ran a quick survey west to the Bad Lands—for it was out here that we must find success or failure. And Allie, it’s all been like the biggest kind of an adventure. The troops and horses and camps and trails—the Indian country with its threats from out of the air—the wild places with their deer, buffalo, panthers, trappers like Slingerland, scouts, and desperadoes. It began to get such a hold on me that I was wild. That might have been bad for me but for my work. I did well. Allie, I ran lines for the U. P. that no other engineer could run.”
Neale paused, as much from the squeeze Allie suddenly gave him as for an instant’s rest to catch his breath.
“I mean I had the nerve to tackle cliffs and dangerous slopes,” he went on. Then he told how Larry Red King had saved his life, and that recollection brought back his service to the cowboy; then naturally followed the two dominating incidents of the summer.
Allie lifted a blanched face and darkening eyes. “Neale! You were in danger.”
“Oh, not much, I guess. But Red thought so.”
“He saved you again!… I—I’ll never forget that.”
“Anyway, we’re square, for he’d have got shot sure the day the Indian sneaked up on him.” Allie shuddered and shrank back to Neale, while he hastily resumed his story. “We’re great pards now, Red and I. He doesn’t say much, but his acts tell. He will not let me alone. He follows me everywhere. It’s a joke among the men.… Well Allie, it seems unbelievable that we have crossed the mountains and the desert—grade ninety feet to the mile! The railroad can and will be built. I wish I could tell you how tremendously all this has worked upon me—upon all the engineers. But somehow I can’t. It chokes me. The idea is big. But the work—what shall I call that?… Allie, if you can, imagine some spirit seizing hold of you and making you see difficulties as joys—impossible tasks as only things to strike fire from genius, perils of death as merely incidents of daring adventure to treasure in memory—well that’s something like it. The idea of the U. P. has got me. I believe in it. I shall see it accomplished.… I’ll live it all.”
Allie moved her head on his shoulder, and, looking up at him with eyes that made him ashamed of his egotism, she said, “Then, when it’s done you’ll be chief of engineers or superintendent of maintenance of way?”
She had remembered his very words.
“Allie, I hope so,” he replied, thrilling at her faith. “I’ll work—I’ll get some big position.”
Next day ushered in for Neale a well-earned rest, and he proceeded to enjoy it to the full.
The fall had always been Neale’s favorite season. Here, as elsewhere, the aspect of it was flaming and golden, but different from what he had known hitherto. Dreaming silence of autumn held the wildness and loneliness of the Wyoming hills. The sage shone gray and purple, the ridges yellow and gold; the valleys were green and amber and red. No dust, no heat, no wind—a clear, blue, cloudless sky, sweet odors in the still air—it was a beautiful time.
Days passed and nights passed, as if on wings. Every waking hour drew him closer to this incomparable girl who had arisen upon his horizon like a star. He knew the hour was imminent when he must read his heart. He fought it off; he played with his bliss. Allie was now his shadow instead of the faithful Larry, although the cowboy was often with them, adapting himself to the changed conditions, too big and splendid to be envious or jealous. They fished down the brook, and always at the never-to-be-forgotten ford he would cross first and turn to see her follow. She could never understand why Neale would delight in carrying her across at other points, yet made her ford this one by herself.
“It’s such a bother to take off moccasins and leggings,” she would say.
They rode horseback up and down the trails that Slingerland assured them were safe. And it was the cowboy Larry who lent his horse and taught her a flying mount; he said she would make a rider.
In the afternoons they would climb the high ridge, and on the summit sit in the long whitening grass and gaze out over the dim and purple vastness of the plains. In the twilight they walked under the pines. When night set in and the air grew cold they would watch the ruddy fire on the hearth and see pictures of the future there, and feel a warmth on hand and cheek that was not all from the cheerful blaze.
Neale found it strange to realize how his attachment for Larry had changed to love. All Neale’s spiritual being was undergoing a great and vital change, but this was not the reason he loved Larry. It was because of Allie. The cowboy was a Texan and he had inherited the Southerner’s fine and chivalric regard for women. Neale never knew whether Larry had ever had a sister or a sweetheart or a girl friend. But at sight Larry had become Allie’s own; not a brother or a friend or a lover, but something bigger and higher. The man expanded under her smiles, her teasing, her playfulness, her affection. Neale had no pang in divining the love Larry bore Allie. Drifter, cowboy, gun-thrower, man-killer, whatever he had been, the light of this girl’s beautiful eyes, her voice, her touch, had worked the last marvel in man—forgetfulness of self. And so Neale loved him.
It made Neale quake inwardly to think of the change being wrought in himself. It made him thoughtful of many things. There was much in life utterly new to him. He had listened to a moan in his keen ear; he had felt a call of something helpless; he had found a gleam of chestnut hair; he had stirred two other men to help him befriend a poor, broken-hearted, half-crazed orphan girl. And, lo! the world had changed, his friends had grown happier in their unloved lives, a strange strength had come to him, and, sweetest, most wonderful of all, in the place of the helpless and miserable waif appeared a woman, lovely of face and form, with only a ghost of sadness haunting her eyes, a woman adorable and bright, with the magic of love on her lips.
October came. In the early morning and late afternoon a keen cold breath hung in the air. Slingerland talked of a good prospect for fur. He chopped great stores of wood. Larry climbed the hills with his rifle. Neale walked the trails hand in hand with Allie.
He had never sought to induce her to speak of her past, though at times the evidence of refinement and education and mystery around her made strong appeal to him. She could, tell her story whenever she liked or never—it did not greatly matter.
Then,—one day, quite naturally, but with a shame she did not try to conceal, she confided to him part of the story her mother had told her that dark night when the Sioux were creeping upon the caravan.
Neale was astounded, agitated, intensely concerned.
“Allie!… Your father lives!” he exclaimed.
“Yes.”
“Then I must find him—take you to him.”
“Do what you think best,” she replied, sadly. “But I never saw him. I’ve no love for him. And he never knew I was born.”
“Is it possible? How strange!… If any man could see you now! Allie, do you resemble your mother?”
“Yes, we were alike.”
“Where is your father?” Neale went on, curiously.
“How should I know? It was in New Orleans that mother ran off from him. I—I never blamed her—since she said what she said.… Do you? Will this—make any difference to you?”
“My God, no! But I’m so—so thunderstruck.… This man—this Durade—tell me more of him.”
“He was a Spaniard of high degree, an adventurer, a gambler. He was mad to gamble. He forced my mother to use her beauty to lure men to his gambling-hell.… Oh, it’s terrible to remember. She said he meant to use me for that purpose. That’s why she left him. But in a way he was good to me. I can see so many things now to prove he was wicked.… And mother said he would follow her—track her to the end of the world.”
“Allie! If he should find you some day!” exclaimed Neale, hoarsely.
She put her arms up round his neck. And that, following a terrible pang of dread in Neale’s breast, was too much for him. The tide burst. Love had long claimed him, but its utterance had been withheld. He had been happy in her happiness. He had trained himself to spare her.
“But some day—I’ll be—your wife,” she whispered.
“Soon? Soon?” he returned, trembling.
The scarlet fired her temples, her brow, darkening the skin under her bright hair.
“That’s for you to say.”
She held up her lips, tremulous and sweet.
Neale realized the moment had come. There had never been but the one kiss between them—that of the meeting upon his return in September.
“Allie, I love you!” He spoke thickly.
“And I love you,” she replied, with sweet courage.
“This news you’ve told—this man Durade,” he went on, hoarsely, “I’m suddenly alive—stinging—wild!… If I lost you!”
“Dear, you will never lose me—never in this world or any other,” she replied, tenderly.
“My work, my hope, my life, they all get spirit now from you… Allie! You’re sweet—oh, so sweet! You’re glorious!” he rang out, passionately.
Surprise momentarily checked the rising response of her feeling.
“Neale! You’ve never before said—such-things!… And the way you look!”
“How do I look?” he queried, seeing the joyousness of her surprise.
Then she laughed and that was new to him—a sound low, unutterably rich and full, sweet-toned like a bell, and all resonant of youth.
“Oh, you look like Durade when he was gambling away his soul… You should see him!”
“Well, how’s that?”
“So white—so terrible—so piercing!”
Neale drew her closer, slipped her arms farther up round his neck. “I’m gambling my soul away now,” he said. “If I kiss you I lose it—and I must!”
“Must what?” she whispered, with all a woman’s charm.
“I must kiss you!”
“Then hurry!”
So their lips met.
In the sweetness of that embrace, in the simplicity and answering passion of her kiss, in the overwhelming sense of her gift of herself, heart and soul, he found a strength, a restraint, a nobler fire that gave him peace.
Allie was to amaze Neale again before the sun set on that memorable day.
“I forgot to tell you about the gold!” she exclaimed, her face paling.
“Gold!” ejaculated Neale.
“Yes. He buried it—there—under the biggest of the three trees together. Near a rock! Oh, I can see him now!”
“Him! Who? Allie, what’s this wild talk?”
She pressed his hand to enjoin silence.
“Listen! Horn had gold. How much I don’t know. But it must have been a great deal. He owned the caravan with which we left California. Horn grew to like me. But he hated all the rest.… That night we ended the awful ride! The wagons stalled!… The grayness of dawn—the stillness—oh, I feel them now!… That terrible Indian yell rang out. All my life I’ll hear it!… Then Horn dug a hole. He buried his gold.… And he said whoever escaped could have it. He had no hope.”
“Allie, you’re a mine of surprises. Buried gold! What next?”
“Neale, I wonder—did the Sioux find that gold?” she asked.
“It’s not likely. There certainly wasn’t any hole left open around that place. I saw every inch of ground under those trees.… Allie, I’ll go there tomorrow and hunt for it.”
“Let me go,” she implored. “Ah! I forgot! No—no!… There must be my mother’s grave.”
“Yes, it’s there. I saw. I will mark it.… Allie, how glad I am that you can speak of her—of her past—her grave there without weakening. You are brave! But forget… Allie, if I find that gold it’ll be yours.”
“No. Yours.”
“But I wasn’t one of the caravan. He did not give it to any outsider. You escaped. Therefore it will belong to you.”
“Dearest, I am yours.”
Next day, without acquainting Slingerland or Larry with his purpose, Neale rode down the valley trail.
He expected the road to cross the old St. Vrain and Laramie Trail, but if it did cross he could not find the place. It was easy to lose bearings in these hills. Neale had to abandon the hunt for that day, and turning back, with some annoyance at his failure, he decided that it would be best to take Larry and Slingerland into his confidence.
Allie was waiting for him at the brook ford.
“Oh, it was gone!” she cried.
“Allie, I couldn’t find the place. Come, ride back and let me walk beside you.… We’ll have fun telling Larry and Slingerland.”
“Neale, let me tell them,” she begged.
“Go ahead. Make a strong story. Larry always had leanings toward gold-strikes.”
And that night, after supper, when the log fire had begun to blaze, and all were comfortable before it, Allie glanced demurely at Larry and said:
“Reddy, if you had known that I was heiress to great wealth, would you have proposed to me?”
Slingerland roared. Larry seemed utterly stricken.
“Wealth!” he echoed, feebly.
