Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 857
“Wal, we’ll hawg-tie the cold-hearted scoundrel an’ throw him on thet train,” declared Dick, his eyes rolling.
“I never heard of the like,” added Snitz, most forcefully. “The lucky son- of-a-gun! But them archaeologists are plumb queer ducks. Lady, we’ll shore do anythin’ fer you.”
“Splendid. Can you get another trusty man — a friend — one who is big and strong? Randolph will fight.”
“Shore. I know a fellar who’s bigger’n a hill. He can throw a barrel of flour right up into a wagon. Reckon the three of us can put Randolph on thet train in less’n a couple of winks.”
“Very well. Then it’s settled,” went on Janey, now calm and serene. “Here are your instructions. The three of you be at the station when the Limited comes in. Keep sharp lookout for me. I’ll be with father and Mr. Randolph. Follow us a little behind — not too close — and when we reach our Pullman you wait a little aside. I’ll stop at the car entrance nearest the drawing room. I’ll wait until the conductor calls all aboard. When I step up that will be your signal to seize Randolph and carry him after me. Be quick. And don’t be gentle. Remember, he is powerful and will fight. I want this to go off just like that.”
And Janey snapped her fingers.
“Lady, say them instructions over,” replied Dick, earnestly.
She repeated them word for word.
Black Dick lifted his shaggy black head.
“Jest like thet,” he said, snapping huge fingers. “Lady, it’s as good as done.”
“Then here’s your money in advance,” said Janey, producing some bills. “You won’t fail me?”
“I wish my chanst fer heaven was as good,” rejoined Dick, fervently.
“Lady, you shore picked the gentlemen fer thet job,” added Snitz, warmly.
“You are my very good friends,” concluded Janey, all smiles. “You are helping me more than you can guess. I’ll never forget you. Good-by.”
She left them there, rooted to the spot, and swept out of the post office in a state of supreme bliss. The gods had favored her. Suddenly she saw the three cowboys not far ahead, standing expectantly. They had seen her come out. Janey checked a wild impulse to break across the street in the middle of the block, so she would not have to pass them. Then, very erect, with chin tilted, she went on and by, as if she had never seen them.
“Say, Andy, did you feel a cold wind round heah?” asked one, in disgust.
“Huh! I been stabbed with a pitchfork of ice,” came the reply.
“Pard, she’s a goddess, an’ I like ’em hard to win,” said the third.
If they could have seen Janey’s convulsed and happy face, when she reached the corner, they would have had more cause to wonder about the female species.
The afternoon passed like a happy dream. Janey spent most of it trying to think of things to say to Phillip when the revelation came. She changed it a hundred times. How could she tell what to say? But every moment that brought the climax closer found Janey’s state more intense. She must hold out. She must stay to the finish. When the porter knocked she leaped up with a start.
“Mr. Endicott is waiting,” he announced. “The Limited is in the block.”
“Where is — Mr. Randolph?” asked Janey, with lips that trembled.
“He’s waiting, too. I’ll fetch your baggage — all of it, right after,” he replied, and he winked at her.
Janey hurriedly got into hat and coat, and omitted the veil. How white she was! Her eyes looked like great dark gulfs. She went downstairs. Her father looked exceedingly uncomfortable. Randolph had not a vestige of color in his face. She joined them, and they went out in silence. Dark had fallen. The street lamps were lit. The air had mountain coolness in it. On the moment the Limited pulled into the station, and slowed down to a stop, steam blowing, bell clanging.
It was only a brief walk from the hotel to the broad platform where the Pullmans stood. Janey had the glance of a hawk and saw every group of persons there. Not until she spied Black Dick and his comrades did the tension in her break. What a stupendous man the third one was! He made Dick look small. Janey knew Dick had seen her, though he seemed not to notice. He and his allies kept outside the platform, where Randolph was oblivious of them. Indeed he seemed oblivious of everything.
“Here’s our car,” spoke up Endicott, with an effort.
“See if our drawing room is at this end,” replied Janey, and she stepped to face round. That made her confront Randolph. Over his shoulder she saw her three accomplices scarcely a rod away, and Black Dick was watching. It was going to be a success. Janey felt a blaze within her — an outburst that had been smothered.
Her father touched her arm. He looked miserable, shaken.
“Drawing room at this end. I’ll go in. So long, Phil.”
And he fled. Janey edged nearer to Randolph, close, and peered up at him, knowing that a blind man could have read her eyes. But he was more than blind. She pulled at a button on his coat, looking down, and then she flashed her eyes into his again.
“Phillip, I’m sorry. Promise me you’ll never — never kidnap another girl.”
“God! I’d do it tomorrow if I thought it’d hurt you,” he returned, hoarsely.
The engine bell rang, to echo in Janey’s heart.
“All aboard!” yelled the conductor somewhere forward.
Janey wheeled and ran up the car steps, and turning, was in time to see three dark burly forms rush Randolph, and literally throw him up the steps, onto the platform. Janey ran into the hallway, shaking in her agitation. She heard loud exclamations, the tussling of bodies, the thud of boots. Then the men appeared half dragging, half carrying the fiercely struggling Randolph.
Janey fled to the door of the drawing room. They were coming.
“Soak him, Bill. He’s a bull,” said Dick, low and hard.
Janey heard a sodden blow. The struggle ceased. The men came faster. They were almost carrying Randolph. Janey’s heart leaped to her throat.
“In — here,” she choked, standing aside.
They thrust Randolph into the drawing room, and rushed back toward the exit. Black Dick turned, his big black eyes rolling merrily. Then he was gone. The train started — gathered momentum. Outside the porter was yelling. He slammed the vestibule doors and came running.
“Lady — what’s wrong?” he asked, in alarm. “Three men upset me. I couldn’t do nothin’.”
“It’s all right, porter,” replied Janey. “My — my husband had to be assisted on the train.”
“Aw now, I was scared.”
Janey’s father appeared from down the aisle.
“What was that row?” he asked, nervously. Janey barred the door into the drawing room.
“Dad — I’ve kidnaped Phillip,” she said, very low and clear. Endicott threw up his hands.
“Holy Mackali!” he gasped.
Janey closed and locked the door. The drawing room was dark. She turned on the light. Randolph was breathing hard. He had been dazed, if not stunned. There was grime on his face and a little blood. The bruise Ray had left over his eye, and which had not wholly disappeared, had been raised again. Janey darted to wet her handkerchief. She wiped his face — bathed his forehead. She had told that ruffian Dick not to be gentle. Remorse smote her. Suddenly she touched Phillip’s face.
He was staring with eyes that appeared about to start from his head. He grasped her with shaking hands. He gaped at the car window and the lights flashing by. Then he seemed to realize what had happened.
“They threw me on the train,” he burst out, incredulously.
Janey rose to stand before him.
“You — you—”
“Yes, I’ve kidnaped you,” she interrupted.
“My God! — Janey, could you carry revenge so far? Oh, how cruel! You pitiless woman!”
He fell face down against the cushion.
“Philip,” she called, trying to stay the trembling hands that leaped toward him.
When he did not look or speak, she went on softly: “Phil.”
No response. Her head fluttered to his shoulder.
“Husband!”
At that, his haggard face lifted and his terrible eyes stared as those of a man who knew not what he saw.
“I have kidnaped you — yes — forever!” He fell on his knees to clasp her blouse with plucking hands.
“Janey, if I am not drunk or mad — make me understand,” he implored.
She locked her hands behind his head. “Indeed you are hard to convince. Have we not been married? Are you not my captive on this train? Is this not the eve of our honeymoon?”
“It’s too good — to be true,” he replied, huskily. “I can’t believe it.”
She bent to kiss the bruise on his forehead. “Will that do?”
“No!”
She kissed his eyes, his cheeks, and lastly, as he seemed rapt and blind, his lips. “Phillip, I love you,” she said.
“Oh, my darling, say that again!”
“I love you. I love you. I love you... It was what you did to me. Oh! I confess. I deserved it. I was no good — and if not actually bad I was headed for bad... Oh, Phillip, you spanked some sense into me in time, and your desert changed and won me. I bless you for making me a woman. I will give up what was that idle, useless, wasteful life — and work with you — for you — to make a home for you... Forgive this last little deceit. Oh, you should have seen Dad’s face... Kiss me!... Come, let us go tell him I’m your Beckyshibeta.”
THE END
Forlorn River
First serialised in Ladies Home Journal in 1926, Forlorn River introduces the character Ben Ide, who spends his time chasing wild horses in Northern California, accompanied by the wanderer Nevada and his Indian companion, Modoc. Rather than catching horses, he has earned the reputation of being a cattle rustler. But Ina Blaine, his childhood sweetheart, knows this is impossible. She defends Ben against the suspicions of her newly-rich father and his mysterious associate, Les Setter, who has a previous connection to Nevada.
Looking toward the future, Ben Ide and his companions buy out a couple of ranchers in a severe drought and proceed to catch a group of wild horses, hoping to find one in particular, California Red, whom Ina’s father had promised as a present for her, if any man should catch him.
The story is set in a remote wilderness valley located in northern California. The author accurately describes the geography of the region throughout the novel, identifying Mount Shasta, Tule Lake and the landscape in and around Lava Beds National Monument. The “Forlorn River” that flows through the area is the Lost River which flows out of Clear Lake Reservoir in California and into Oregon near Klamath Falls, eventually flowing back into California and emptying into Tule Lake.
The Lost (Forlorn) River near Bonanza, Oregon
The first edition
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
The 1937 film adaptation of the novel
CHAPTER I.
BEN IDE NAMED this lonely wandering stream Forlorn River because it was like his life.
Ben was well-born and had attended school until sixteen years of age, but from the time he had given up to his passion for the open country and the chase of wild horses he had gotten nowhere. That seemed the way of Forlorn River. It had its beginning in Clear Lake, a large body of surface water lying amid the Sage Mountains of north-western California. It had begun well enough at its source under the beautiful rounded bare mountains of grey sage, and flowed bravely on for a few miles, then suddenly it became a lost river. That was what it was called by the Indians.
It meandered around the foothills with their black fringe of juniper, into the wide, grey valleys where thousands of wild horses roamed; to and fro across the open country as if seeking escape, on toward the dark pine-timbered ranges of Nevada; and back again, a barren little stream without creeks or springs to freshen it, a wilderness waterway, dear to the Indian and horse hunter and cowboy; slackened by the thirsty Clay Flats to the west, and crowded away on the north by the huge red bluff that blocked entrance into Wild Goose Basin, forced at last to describe a wandering hundred-mile circle and find on the other side of the sage hills, not far from its source, a miserable sand-choked outlet into the vast level ranch and pastureland which had been once the bottom of Tule Lake.
Ben’s grey weather-beaten cabin partook somewhat of the melancholy austerity of the country, yet it was most picturesquely located on the south shore of the big lake, on the only elevated and wooded cape that jutted out into the wind-ruffed waters. Forlorn River was born just under his door, for his cabin did not face the lake, but the river and the west. Ben could watch the aimless windings of the stream for many a mile. Scattered juniper trees saved this slight eminence of land from the baldness of the irregular shore line. Clear Lake was ten miles round, and everywhere but at this point the grey sage reached down to the white high-water line. Back from the cabin where the cape widened stood a large well-built bam, which adjoined an enormous corral. Spirited horses kicked up the dust, and whistled, perhaps to their wild kindred in plain sight on the distant grey slopes, swelling toward the blue sky. Bam and corral, presenting such marked contrast to the little grey cabin, might have told an observant eye that Ben Ide loved horses and thought little of himself.
Spring had come late, the driest of six successive dry springs. Clear Lake was lower than ever before in the memory of the Modoc Indians, who had lived there always. The white baked earth spread a long distance down from the sage line to the water. Flocks of ducks dotted the yellow surface of the lake. Wild geese tarried here on the way north, and every hour of day or night Ben heard their resonant and melodious honk, honk, honk. It was high country. Frost glistened on the roof of the barn and ice glinted along the shores of Forlorn River. Snow peaks notched the blue sky above the black-timbered range of Nevada mountains. The air was cold and crisp, fragrant with the scent of sage.
Ben Ide came out on the porch to gaze across the river and the long grey slope that led up to a pass between two of the Sage Mountains. His keen eye followed the winding thread that was a trail disappearing over the notch.
“No use to worry. But they ought to have got back last night,” he muttered, as he again scanned the trail.
Then from force of habit he looked on up the vast heave and bulge of the mountain, so softly and beautifully grey and purple in the morning sunlight. Here he did not meet with disappointment. Nine wild horses were in sight, two pure white that shone wonderfully in the clear air, and the rest all black. They lived on that mountain-top. They had been there all the four years Ben had lived at Forlorn River. During the first year of his sojourn there he had often chased them, as much for sport as for profit. But the advantage had always been theirs, and as they could not be driven from the great dome of this mountain, he let them alone, and came at last to watch for them in pleasure and love. When there was snow on the slopes they never left the mountain, and in summer, when they ventured down to the lake to drink, it was always at night. They never raised a colt and never took a strange horse into their band.
Just the mere sight of them had power to thrill Ben Ide. He hailed them gaily, as if they were as near as his own whistling horses in the corral. He gloried in their beauty, freedom, and self-sufficiency. He understood them. They were like eagles. They could look far away and down, and see their kindred, and their enemy, man. Years had taught them wisdom.
“Oh, you wild horses, just how long will you last up there?” he cried, poignantly. “Another dry year means your doom! Nothing to eat but sage, and the water going fast!”
That reminded Ben of his own long-unrealised hopes. If he were ever to catch a valuable string of wild horses and prove to his father that wild-horse hunting was not profitless, not the calling of a wanderer and outlaw, he must do it this year. If he were ever to catch California Red, the sorrel stallion that more than anything had lured him into this wild lonely life, he must accomplish the almost hopeless task before another dry season killed all the horses or drove them far out of the country.
Fifteen thousand wild horses grazed in that sage country between the grey California mountains and the Nevada ranges. They were the bane of the cattlemen who had begun to work back into the wild country. Horses were so plentiful and cheap in Oregon and California that there was no sale of any except good stock. Ben Ide was chasing a rainbow and he knew it. Yet something irresistible bound him. He would rather catch one beautiful wild mustang and keep it for himself than sell a hundred common horses at a profit. That very failing had ruined him. Ranchers had made attractive deals with Ben Ide, deals calculated to earn him money and free their ranges from these pests of wild horses, but Ben had always fallen short of success. At the crucial times he had loved the horses, not the money. He could not be brutal to the fiercest stallion, and he could not kill the meanest mustang.
Along the winding trail below the notch between the Sage Mountains appeared low rolling clouds of yellow dust.
“Nevada and Modoc. Good!” ejaculated Ben, as he watched with squinting eyes. “Travelling along right pert, too. That means they’ve sold my horses.... Wonder if I’ll hear from home.”
Ben Ide had never failed to look and hope for some word from home, though seldom indeed did he get any. Sometimes his sister Hettie, who alone remained true to him, contrived to send him a letter. The last one had been received six months ago. With the return of spring dormant feelings seemed to revive in Ben. During the long cold winter he had lived somewhat like a hibernating bear. The honk of the wild geese and the new fragrance of sage, the grey slopes coming out of the snow, and the roving bands of wild horses — these stirred in his heart the old wandering urge to get into the hills, and along with it awakened keener memories of mother and sister, of his stem father, of the old ranch home and spring school days.
