Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 741
John’s face bent down to hers. “I don’t understand.”
She saw what he said in his eyes. His face, so beautiful in its rugged strength, was very close. She wanted to caress it. She wanted him to draw closer, she wanted to draw closer to him, to lift her lips for his kisses. She clung to the table with hands that were still numb from his clasp and fought down the mad desire.
“Wilbur’s come back to the reservation,” she said, delivering the announcement in tones as final as her words.
“Wilbur never left the reservation,” John returned quietly.
Mary weighed his remark. It had no meaning. Words — that was all — just words. She felt lightheaded. Her feet were on the ground but she seemed to have to pull at her mind to hold herself steady. “You must be wrong. He went away, but he’s reconsidered. He’s on his way back to me now.”
John was looking at her gravely, tenderly, trying perhaps to read what was taking place behind her imploring eyes.
“Do you want to think that,” he asked, “or do you prefer the truth?”
“Why? Is there something that you know?” parried Mary, conscious that her question was superfluous.
“Wilbur Newton never left the reservation. He’s opened a post at Sage Springs.”
Mary smiled wryly. “That’s awfully strange! Opened a post at Sage Springs? He has no money. No credit. How could he finance a post? Tell me, did you see him at Sage Springs?”
“No, but Beany told me about it. You remember Beany from the Snake Dance trip? And MacDonald knows. He says he wasn’t spreading it because it would be known in Taho soon enough.”
“And Billy knows. That’s what he wouldn’t tell,” said Mary. “He is sparing me. He is kind.” While she spoke she was searching her mind, which rejected and accepted alternately the news Curry had brought and the others substantiated. There was the matter of money. “How could he finance a post?” she repeated to herself. Groping through obscurity, she came upon the idea that Wilbur might have inherited some money of which she knew nothing. It could have happened, as had the unforeseen good fortune which that day had visited her. Besides there was that five-hundred-dollar draft from Texas coming soon after he had left her. He might have taken her change and jewelry because he had no ready cash.
She presented the idea to John. “Perhaps Wilbur has money. Perhaps I was mistaken about his resources.”
Mary sat down then. She had to from sheer weakness. John remained standing. “I received a draft for five hundred dollars in November,” she went on. “It came from Texas. Just a draft. No word. I scoffed at the idea that he had sent it. Now I feel that he must have sent it.”
Because she was looking at John so intently, she saw the confusion which overcame him as she spoke, the way he drew his glance from her as he replied in a tone that was unconvincing, “Anything’s possible.”
In a flash of divination she realized the truth. John Curry was her benefactor! The realization overwhelmed her with exasperation for her stupidity. “Anything is possible but that, is what you mean,” she said bitterly.
“I don’t understand,” he exclaimed, more embarrassed than before.
Mary forced him to look at her. And when their eyes met squarely she returned, “Only this minute it came to me that you sent that draft.”
It seemed at first that he would deny it, but at last with a smile and a nod he confessed. “If you knew how I wanted to help, you wouldn’t hold a little thing like that against me. It’s awkward sometimes when one needs money. I’ve known what it means. If ever a day of need came to you, I wanted you to have a little reserve at hand.”
Mary looked down at her hands for a moment. Then she spoke. “I did need it, not for myself, but for the sick children in the hospital during the influenza epidemic. I cashed the draft. I gave it all away.”
“It was yours to do with as you pleased.”
“No, no! It wasn’t, but I was desperate for the sake of the children.”
Curry strode to the window, then he turned, and coming back to the place he had abandoned he drew up a chair.
“Mary, if the need was so urgent, I would have wanted to help. You did it for me. You’ve made me very happy. You must forgive my blundering ways. Perhaps I am stupid compared to the men you knew in the East; perhaps I’m a fool when it comes to knowing the right thing to do, but you must not be hurt by that. Just try to forgive my blundering ways.”
He was condemning himself. Mary could not stand that. His deed of mistaken kindness had been one of love. She longed to tell him that she understood, but she could only say, “I’m not hurt. In fact, there’s no harm done. I can return the money. I have money now. Today I received word that my father died leaving me a comfortable legacy.”
“I can’t stop here,” she told herself. “I am only hurting him more.” So she floundered recklessly on. “If I had this money long ago things might have been different. And now, who knows, it may not be too late. Wilbur might return if I let him know about it.”
She was filling in time — words, words, words! But when they echoed in her ears, out of their seeming emptiness came a suggestion. Why not send for Wilbur? If money did not bring him back nothing could, and she would know that he had gone from her life forever. The waiting, the fear, the uncertainty would end. She would have to give Wilbur his chance. It was best to force his intentions; if he returned she would resign herself to her lot, and if he did not come — and her longing for John spoke passionately from her heart, “Pray God he won’t” — then there might be happiness for her in the days to come. She was conscious that as she meditated, John was staring at her sharply.
“You would let him know about it?” he asked incredulously.
Mary faced him. “Yes. I want him to know at once. The sooner the better. I want to see how much he cares.... You’ve always declared you wanted to help me. Now is your chance.” Her voice rose hysterically. “Take a letter to Wilbur for me. It will be safe in your keeping. I know it will get to him. I want to be sure that it gets to him.”
John sprang to his feet. “Are you crazy? Are you going to buy that man back?”
How horrible it sounded! Yet it was true. She was trying to buy him back in the hope that she would find she was rid of him forever. No more uncertainty, no more fear! “Yes, since you put it so cruelly,” she said. “If he can be bought, and my purpose is—”
She stopped. John was laughing without mirth. He towered over her, eyes ablaze, lips drawn, a scornful John she had never seen before. “Oh, he’ll be bought all right. You’ll have him back. Husbands — so much per head for the keeping! My God! You! And here I’ve held you in the same reverence I had for my mother. She wouldn’t violate her soul and body that way. Buy back a man whose love is dead, who, God knows, cares only for such bribes as you’re willing to hold out to him now! You’re Mary, are you? My Mary who was with me throughout the lonely watches on the desert, who lived in everything beautiful I saw, who seemed so near perfection that I almost worshiped her! Indeed I am a fool, a blundering fool.... My mistake was only that I made you something that you never were.”
A numbness possessed Mary. Her powers of speech and movement were gone. She was like a person who had witnessed a harrowing play and was waiting for some chance for a happy ending although the final curtain had fallen.
“Write your letter,” the outraged man went on, breaking through her silence. “I’ll take it to him. I don’t go back on my word. If you think that’s the best thing I can do for you, I’ll do it.”
“It will be the last thing,” Mary heard herself say, in a voice that was little more than a whisper.
“Very well! I’ll go. I’ll send someone for the letter. I wish you whatever it is you want.”
He had snatched his hat, yet still stood towering before her.
She rose to her feet unsteadily. Her head was high and her blazing eyes gave him no quarter for his angry outburst. But restrained beneath the agony of her resentment was the agony of longing.
He hesitated. He was breathing as if from the effort of violent physical exercise. His eyes were shot with pain. Suddenly he was close upon her, enveloping her in his powerful arms, gathering her in a close embrace. His face loomed over hers, his eyes like darts of flame were burning into hers. She felt her strength give way to his, and flutteringly shut him from her sight. Then came his kisses, hard, demanding, again and again and again. She swayed as he thrust her from him.
“I’ve taken my payment beforehand,” he cried hoarsely. “And now you’ll never see me again.”
She watched him, a blurred object moving toward the door. Then the door slammed. He was gone.
Mary felt the floor sway beneath her. The walls were spinning round. When she reached for the table it seemed to move from her. The flame that had swept over John had consumed her too, with all its devastating power. She called his name, but her anguished cry was wasted on the empty room.
* * * * *
There was no break in the violence that possessed John. He strode down the avenue grinding the sand as he went, his sense of outraged love growing far beyond the bounds of reason. He, who had always been master of his passions, always had obeyed them, now he was their captive. He went straightway to the room at MacDonald’s which he shared with High-Lo. He found the room in grand disarray and High-Lo at the mirror shaving. He flung himself face down on the bed.
“Pack up! We’re moving!” he mumbled.
High-Lo pirouetted, razor suspended in action. “My God! What’s happened to you? Did you get the go-by?”
“I’m going after Newton,” John returned. “I’m to send him back to his wife. She’s been left some money and she wants me to bring him a letter telling him all about it. The money’ll fetch him. She knows it.”
High-Lo flung the razor down, and forgetting the lather on his face came over to John. “Do you mean that straight?”
“It’s true. It’s knocked me for a loop.” Unable to relax, Curry moved to a sitting position. “It means the end of things for me here. I couldn’t stay. I’ll deliver the letter and then we’ll go to Mexico.”
“Mañana land — where there’s nothin’ to do till tomorrer every day of your life ‘cept watch that someone doesn’t spike you in the back.” High-Lo laughed a little grimly. “John, you sure you want to go down there? Doesn’t seem like a place for a man of your ambition.”
“We might make some money in the cattle business,” said Curry, and he rose wearily and began to pace up and down like a lion in too small a cage. “Guess I’m loco, talking about packing tonight,” he said after a while. “Forgot I didn’t get the letter. Go ahead. Shave. Go to your dance. You’ll have to get the letter for me in the morning.”
“Dance be damned! Think I’m goin’ to a dance, do you, when you’re feelin’ like hell? Why don’t you let me go over an’ talk Mrs. Newton out of this thing? Lordy, I can’t imagine anyone wantin’ Newton back after he left without a by-your-leave. Sure she’s not up to payin’ him to stay away? Sure you got the straight of it?”
John halted. “Please keep away from Mrs. Newton. You’ll see her tomorrow morning. And I’m trusting you to say only one thing when you see her — that you’d like that letter Mr. Curry is to deliver for her.” He reached for High-Lo’s arm and swung him around so they stood face to face. “I told you some time ago that Mary Newton was the woman I loved. I was deluding myself then. She isn’t. I never knew her till tonight. I must have been loco. I don’t want to hear her name again. That’s why I’m clearing out.”
High-Lo’s hand fell heavily on John’s shoulder. “Look-a-here, old man. Mebbe I don’t understand all that’s happened. But I know you’re shore kiddin’ yourself now. This stuff about not lovin’ her is all wrong. Don’t I know I can make you mad as blazes an’ have you cussin’ me to hell an’ back, an’ all the time you don’t mean it? Don’t I know that there ain’t a thing I could do that you wouldn’t be overlookin’ soon, no matter how bad it was? Do you think you can make me think that it’s different with this poor girl that got herself hitched to Newton? You’re lovin’ her so damn hard this minute that you’re knocked clear out of yourself.”
Moved by the boy’s earnestness, John turned away. Suppose what High-Lo said were true? It took but a moment’s thought to repudiate the suggestion, and the fierce wrath to possess him again. Why had he forced his embraces if not to show her that he no longer cared?
“You don’t get it,” he cried vehemently. “She’s buying back a man who doesn’t love her. She’s going to live with him. My God! Don’t you know what marriage means?”
“I reckon I do. An’ it’s because you love her that you’re tormentin’ yourself. An’ what kind of a wizard do you think you are anyway to be understandin’ women? Maybe she loves this damn fancy cowboy.”
High-Lo’s final words were staggering to John. “You may be right,” he said. “She may love Newton after all, but — God — to want to buy him back, after he left her flat!”
* * * * *
On the morning of the next day John rode ahead out of town while High-Lo called on Mary Newton. It was the second time he had come to Taho to stay, only to leave abruptly! He thought grimly how in one moment a man’s world could fall in ashes about him, and every prospect change. The desert was a forbidding, desolate place, as unyielding as life itself. It was the burial ground of his hopes. Better to seal off the past quickly. His back to Taho! God! Why were the stars out of reach?
Time seemed interminable before High-Lo appeared.
“Kind of funny the way she took it when I asked her for the letter,” High-Lo said. “It wasn’t writ. She kind of balked a little at first, an’ then set down to the job. Say, she’d be wonderful pretty if she had some color. She’s awful sad-lookin’. Have you ever seen her smile?”
High-Lo handed John the letter with a labored breath that might have been a sigh.
John had no answer for him. He said to himself, pocketing the letter, “The order for my execution.”
CHAPTER XVI
ON THE EVENING of the second day John and High-Lo rode up to Black Mesa post. It seemed deserted, no horses nor cowboys about, no Indians idling near the door. Attracted by a light, they went into the store where they took Mr. Weston by surprise.
“Thought you were in Colorado!” he exclaimed. “What’s the matter? Sheriff drive this kid out?”
“It was a hankerin’ for a holiday that drove us,” said High-Lo. “We’re not lookin’ for work. We’re on our way to God-knows-where.”
Weston looked from one to the other. “Not pullin’ out for good?” he asked in dismay.
John, grasping that High-Lo depended on him to reply, said, “There’s Hicks to take my place if we keep heading south. It’s almost sure we’ll not be back.”
“Oh, come now, ain’t you satisfied here!” ejaculated Mr. Weston. “Wages unsatisfactory? You ought to know you were in for a raise. I’d be treed without you. Hicks is good, but he’s not in your class. Can’t hear of it, John.” Mr. Weston spat his tobacco with a gesture of finality.
John stared through the trading post door over the legions of miles that beckoned him. “Got the wanderlust, partner. I’d like to stay for old times’ sake, but you couldn’t get ten per cent efficiency out of me if I did.”
“You’re ailin’!” declared Weston. “I’m not takin’ you serious. What you need is some of Ma’s home cookin’.” He went to the door and called, “Hey, Ma! Fix up for John and High-Lo. They’ve come to stay.”
Mrs. Weston’s voice carried across the yard, “It’s sure fine to have my boys home. Glad they didn’t wait the month. Bring them in right away.”
“Better be moving over,” was Weston’s laconic comment after John had exhausted his protests.
High-Lo lifted his pack to comply. “Things dead right now, are they?” he asked.
“Indians not buyin’ so well. They sure dug themselves in while I was away, accordin’ to Beany. It don’t seem that Sage Springs post should hurt me any. But something’s wrong.”
“Bad winter? Indians had the flu up this way?” John queried.
“No. Flu didn’t get this far.”
“Heard about it and were scared, I’ll bet,” John added.
“I don’t know!” Weston replied speculatively. “Can’t get to the bottom of it. Remember Magdaline? She’s here. Come in a couple of days ago. Seemed to have gotten around this part of the reservation a lot this winter. Talked to her about the loss of trade and she says in the funniest way, ‘You don’t keep the right sort of stuff, Hosteen Weston.’ Then she wouldn’t say nothin’ more. Newton can’t have in any better stock than I have. I’ve always treated the Indians fair. But he’s sure tradin’ in on rugs an’ silver, an’ even sheep, awful fast.”
What was a mystery to Weston was plain as day to John. Liquor brought the trade. Magdaline was enough Indian to keep their wretched secret. Her scorn for the white man, he figured, must have increased a hundredfold.
Mr. Weston had forgotten his impulse to go at once to the house. “Could you size the situation up if I sent you over to Sage Springs?” he asked, biting off a fresh chew of tobacco.
Before High-Lo could admit that they had intended to go there, John quickly replied that they would ride out in the morning.
“Newton’s hard to get talkin’ — not over sociable,” Weston explained.
“See if you can get a meal from him. Jolly him up about the place. Make him wag that stiff tongue of his. You can pretend I sent you over to see Magdaline’s uncle. He’s promised rugs to me this long while. But don’t say nothin’ to Hosteen Athlata about Magdaline’s bein’ sick. She’s in a bad way. Looks husky enough. But she fainted yestiddy an’ sure scared hell out of the missus. She’s hankerin’ to go to Flaggerston now, right when the missus would be glad for company. She’d make a good hand for the summer. But if she’s made up her mind there’s none of us can hold her. Now maybe a word from you, John—”
