Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 860
Suddenly another memory picture flashed upon her inward eye. She and Ben Ide had quarrelled only once and this had been the scene of that youthful difference. What had been the cause? Ina blushed as she leaned between the tree trunks. It had been because of Ben’s one and only departure from their tranquil Platonic comradeship. The thought held a pervading sweet melancholy, somehow disturbing. She would meet Ben presently, as she expected to meet all her other schoolmates. And she wanted to, yet, as far as Ben was concerned, she guessed she would rather not see him very soon. About the old pine tree clung vague haunting scenes, dim and imperfect, all of which Ben shared.
Ina’s prolonged walk brought her at length to the picturesque old corral and barn, which, strange to note, had not been altered with the advent of newer structures. Hart Blaine had, unconsciously perhaps, preserved some of the old atmosphere of Tule Lake Ranch.
She espied her father’s tall spare form, not quite familiar in severe shiny black. She remembered him in soiled overalls and top boots. He was bareheaded now and his grey locks waved in the breeze. He was talking to a man seated in a buckboard, holding the reins of a spirited team. They did not observe Ina’s approach. The several cowboys near by, however, were keen to see her, and as she passed them, frankly interested in their presence, they appeared to be strangely disrupted from their work.
“... tell you, Setter, it’s a deal I don’t like,” her father was saying, impatiently, as Ina approached.
Then the man in the buckboard sat up quickly and Blaine turned to see Ina. His seamed, hard face lost its cragginess in a smile of surprise, love, pride. Ina was the apple of his eye.
“Hello, Dad!” she said gaily. “I’m poking around to see what you’ve done to my Tule Lake Ranch.”
“Mawnin’, lass,” he replied, extending his long arm. He had big, grey eyes, still keen, a hooked nose like the beak of an eagle, and a large mouth showing under a grizzled moustache.
“Ina, this is one of my pardners, Less Setter, from Nevada,” went on Blaine. Then he faced the man, drawing Ina forward with arm round her shoulder. “My blue-ribbon lass, just home from school.”
“Proud to meet you, Miss Ina,” returned Setter, gallantly, with a gloved hand touching his sombrero. As Ina acknowledged the introduction she looked up into a yellow-bearded mask of a face, with almond-shaped, heavily-lidded eyes that seemed to devour her. Setter did not appear young, yet he looked vigorous, intense, different from men Ina had been in the habit of seeing. Even in that casual moment, when she was not interested, he made such impression upon her that it broke her mood of gaiety. She felt instant distrust of her father’s partner, and she had impatiently to force herself from intuitive womanly convictions. Suddenly Marvie’s talk about horses flashed into her mind, and she grasped with relief at something to say.
“Dad, I want a saddle horse,” she said, brightly, turning to him.
“Lass, you can have a string of horses,” he replied. “We’ve got in a lot of stock. Mr. Setter just sold me a hundred head, all from Nevada, an’ some of them are beauties. I’ve a big order from Seattle, so you must take your pick.”
“But, Dad, I always dreamed of a really grand horse,” went on Ina, which was telling the truth.
“Lass, I don’t recollect you bein’ keen over any kind of horses,” observed her father.
“We were very poor,” she said softly. “You must recollect that I walked to school, winter and summer.”
“Haw! Haw! Yes, Ina, I sure do, an’ somehow it’s good to think of.... Wal, my daughter, we’re not poor now, an’ if you want the best hoss in all this country, you’ve only to say so.”
“Dad, I want California Red,” she rejoined, swiftly. “What! That wild stallion?” ejaculated Blaine, in amaze. “Why, lass, all the hoss outfits in three States have swallowed the dust of that sorrel.”
“Oh, he must be grand!” exclaimed Ina, now thrilled about what had grown out of a joke.
“Miss Ina, he is indeed a grand horse,” interposed Setter. “I saw him once, two years ago. He’s a racy, fine; cleanlimbed animal, red as fire, with a mane like a flame. An’ he’s not a killer of horses, as so many stallions are. Most of the riders an’ hunters think he’d break gentle. So you get your dad to promise.... I’m witness, Blaine, mind you, of your word.”
“California Red is yours, Ina, if he can be caught,” replied her father.
“He can be, I reckon,” said Setter, meditatively. “There’s only a few outfits after him. That is, they claim to be wild-horse hunters, but it’s only a blind to hide their thieving of cattle and range horses. Hall an’ his outfit are workin’ close to Silver Meadow now. Probably the only hunters really chasin’ Red, are this Ide boy an’ his pards. They’re leanin’ to crooked deals too, but I reckon, Ide wants Red so bad—”
“Ide!” interrupted Ina, quickly. “Do you mean Ben Ide?”
“Yes, his name’s Ben,” replied Setter.
“You lie! Ben Ide is no horse thief,” flashed Ina, hotly. “See here, lass, easy, easy,” interposed her father. “You’ve been away from home a long time. Much has happened to others, as well as to your folks. Bad as well as good!”’
Then he addressed Setter.
“You see, Less, it’s news to Ina. She an’ Ben went to school together. They used to play here as kids. An’ I reckon it’s a kind of a blow to learn—”
“Dad, I don’t believe it,” spoke up Ina, still with heat, her voice breaking.
“It’s too bad, Miss Ina,” said Setter. “I’m sorry I was the one to hurt your feelin’s. But it does appear your boy schoolmate has gone to the bad.”
Ina turned her back upon Setter, suddenly gripped by an unfamiliar fury and pain. Surprise at these feelings had a part in her agitation.
“Dad,” she said, striving to hide it, “has any — any dishonest thing ever been traced to Ben Ide?”
“Lass, there’s been a lot of talk,” replied her father. “Soon after you left home Ben took to the hills, crazy about wild hosses. Amos Ide, if you remember, was a religious man, an’ I reckon Ben represented to him somethin’ you do to me. Anyway, Amos couldn’t break the boy — make him settle down to work. They had a final quarrel. Ben’s been gone ever since. I’ve never seen him, though others have. Mrs. Ide takes it hard, they say. I drop in to see them now an’ then. But Ben’s name ain’t never mentioned. The last two years we’ve begun to run cattle out in the valleys an’ flat along Forlorn River. Ben lives over there. An’ a good many cattle an’ hosses have — wal, disappeared. So Ben had worse said about him. But I can’t say anythin’ has ever been proved.”
“It’s not easy to fix rustlin’ an’ hoss stealin’ on anyone in an unsettled country,” cut in the cold voice of Setter, with its note of authority. “Stock missed by your father or other ranchers is never seen again. That means it goes over the line into Nevada or down across the high Sierras.”
“All the more reason a young man of good family — once a neighbour and — and friend of ours — should not be accused of being a—”
As Ina halted over the unspeakable word Setter flicked the ash from his cigar and then bent his inscrutable colourless eyes upon her.
“Any man is known by the company he keeps,” he asserted. “Young Ide lives with a renegade Modoc Indian, an’ a cowboy who was run out of Nevada for bein’ a horse thief.” The pointed positiveness of the man struck Ina strangely even while his information made her heart sick. She stared at Setter until his cool assurance seemed slightly to change. Ina caught a glimpse of what hid behind that mask. She was fascinated by something impossible to grasp. Forced to listen to damning statements, she was unconsciously peering, with a woman’s strange inconsistency, at a man whose face and voice and look struck antagonism from her. There was no reason in the attitude of her mind.
“Dad, what Mr. Setter said does not strike me quite right,” she declared, frankly. “It makes me remember Ben Ide more than I thought I did. Dad, I don’t believe Ben would steal to save his life. How could any boy change so in a few years?” Then she deliberately faced her father’s new partner.
“Mr. Setter, if I remember Ben Ide at all you will have to prove what you say. I shall certainly see him and tell him.”
“Ina, what’re you talkin’ about?” queried Blaine, impatiently. “That’s ‘most an insult to Setter. An’ you can’t hunt up this Ide boy. I wouldn’t let you be seen talkin’ to him.”
“I should think you would take me to see Ben, so I — —” Ina saw the leap of red to her father’s craggy face and suddenly remembered his temper; she also saw several cowboys that had edged closer and now stood gaping.
“Girl, you’ve come back with queer ideas,” declared Blaine. “If that’s all school’s done for you I’m sorry I sent you.”
“Dad, I have a mind of my own — I can think,” replied Ina, feelingly.
“Wal, you needn’t do any thinkin’ about seein’ Ben Ide, an’ that’s all there is to that.”
“My dear father, I shall most certainly see Ben Ide,” said Ina.
“Go in the house,” ordered Blaine, harshly.
Ina strode away with her head high and face burning, and it was certain that she looked straight at the cowboys.
She heard Setter say: “Spunky girl, Hart, an’ you have your hands full.”
“Why’d you rub it in about young Ide?” demanded her father, angrily. “Seems you’re set on it, blowin’ at Hammell an’ all over—”
Ina passed out of hearing, and when she was also out of sight she slipped through the bars of a gate and went back to the grove. Here she found a seat under the double pine tree, and the act of returning there established a link between the past and the lamentable news she had just heard. Whereupon she went over the whole conversation. It left her with a desire to feel grieved at instantly distrusting a man close to her father, and at the ensuing clash, but she could not feel in the least sorry. Instead, she found she was angry and hurt.
“If it’s — true,” she faltered, “I’ll — I’ll — somehow I’ll bring Ben back to his old self.”
CHAPTER III
INA SPENT THE rest of the morning under the pine tree in the grove; and after she had recovered her equanimity she applied some solid and tolerant thought to the problem which, confronted her.
The complexity of that problem would have to be understood and dealt with as it became obvious. She would not try to cross any bridges before she came to them. Disappointment must not be allowed to get a hold on her.
She had lunch alone with her mother. Kate had gone to Hammell with Mr. Blaine. Ina exerted herself to be amusing and sympathetic, to reach her mother, and was not wholly unsuccessful. She had quickly sensed that if she let herself be guided by the desires and whims of her family there would be no strife. Mrs. Blaine seemed preoccupied with the innumerable duties of a rancher’s wife, when these duties had mostly been made impossible for her. For thirty years she had been a slave to labour, early and late, to the imperative need of saving. She now occupied a position where these things, though fixed in habit and mind, must not be thought of at all. It was impossible to forget them, and her trouble rose from the consequent bewilderment. The truth was, she was a sorely puzzled and unhappy woman because the circumstances of the Blaines had vastly changed. Yet she did not know this. It would have been natural for her to talk to Ina about the past, and their trials and joys, about all the homely tasks that had once been and were now no more, about neighbours as poor as they used to be, gossip, blame, worries, praise, and the possibility of a manly young rancher who might come wooing Ina. But as she had to talk of things relating to this new and different life, she was no longer natural. Ina thought her mother a rather pathetic person, yet recalling the severe toil and endless complaint of earlier years she concluded this was to be preferred.
“Mother, tell me about the Ides,” asked Ina among other casual queries.
“Well, I’m sorry to say the Blames and the Ides are not the neighbours they used to be,” replied Mrs. Blaine, reflectively. “I reckon it’s your father’s fault. Amos Ide has made money, but it’s never got him anywhere. He thinks we’re stuck up. Mrs. Ide these late years has kept more to herself. She used to go to church regular. But since the parson preached about prodigal sons she has stayed away. I haven’t been over there in ages. But I’ve seen Hettie. She has grown up. Fred was sweet on her once, but lately he’s taken to a town girl.”
“How about Ben?” inquired Ina.
“He’s a wild-horse hunter now, the cowboys say.”
“Sort of a — an outcast, isn’t he?” went on Ina.
“The story goes that Amos Ide gave Ben a choice between ploughin’ fields an’ livin’ his wild life in the hills. Ben preferred to leave home. It was hard on his mother.”
Ina gained some little grain of comfort from her mother’s talk, and she decided to go over and call on Mrs. Ide and Hettie some day. But once the idea had come, it gave her no peace. Ina spent the early part of the afternoon unpacking her belongings and changing her room into a more comfortable and attractive abode. Books, photographs, pennants, served her in good stead, and were reminders of happy college days. While she was thus occupied her mind was busy with the Ides, and when she had finished she decided to go that very afternoon to visit them.
Once upon a time there had been a well-trodden path between Tule Lake Ranch and the farm of the Ides. Ina had observed that it had been ploughed up in places and fenced in others. She would take the lane out to the road, and upon her return wait for Dall and Marvie to pick her up on their way home from school.
While changing her dress Ina suddenly realised that she was being rather particular about her appearance, something which since her arrival home had not caused her concern. She could not deny that she had unconsciously desired to look well for the Ides. “What Ide? Do I mean Mrs. Ide or Hettie?” she asked, gravely, of the dark-eyed, fair-faced girl in the mirror. The answer was a blush. Ina became somewhat resentful with her subtle new self.
It happened that Kate saw Ina come down the front stairs. “For the land’s sake!” she ejaculated, in genuine surprise. “Goin’ to a party?” Her hawk eyes swept over Ina from head to toe and a flush and a twinge appeared on her sallow face.
The look and the tone completely inhibited Ina’s natural frank impulse, which was to tell where she was going.
“Like my dress, Kate?” she asked coolly. “Aunt Eleanor got it for me in St. Louis. It’s only a simple afternoon dress, but quite up-to-date.”
“I’m not crazy about it,’ snapped Kate.
Ina laughed and went out. Her elder sister bade fair to be quite amusing. Ina’s genuine love of home and family had buried for the whole of her school period certain irritating traits, especially peculiar to Kate. They were recalled.
“It almost looks as if Kate does not like my coming home, and especially my clothes. Wait till she sees my graduation dress!”
There was a clean footpath along one side of the lane, and when Ina started down it she found herself facing the sage mountains, far across the level lake basin land, and the bulge of red rocky ground beyond. The afternoon sun, low in the sky, cast a soft light upon the round, grey domes and the beautiful slopes. Suddenly her heart beat quicker and fuller. An old love of the open country, of lonely hills, of the wind in her face, and the fragrance of sage revived in her. That was another reason for her inward joy at returning to the scenes of her childhood. Moreover, as she gazed intently, these mountains of grey, with the shadows of purple in the clefts, seemed to call to her. It was a distinct sensation almost like an audible voice. The beckoning hills! Then it occurred to her that beyond them lay Forlorn River. She checked her thought and hurried on, with pensive gaze on the black buttes of lava to the west.
Before she realised it she had come to the Ide farm. The same old barred gate! The untrimmed hedge! The green shady yard and the lane that led into the old house seemed exactly to fit her expectations. Almost she expected to see Rover, Ben’s dog, come bounding out to meet her. But Rover did not come. Ina entered the gate, and found that habit led her round to the back door. Yard and house had the homely appearance of use and comfort. Ina crossed the wide porch and knocked on the door.
It opened at once, revealing a pleasant-faced girl with fine blue eyes and curly hair. She had freckles that Ina remembered. She wore a gingham apron; her sleeves were rolled up to firm round elbows; in one hand she held a broom. For a moment she stared at Ina.
“Hettie, don’t you know me?” asked Ina.
“I — I do and — I don’t,” gasped the girl, with her face lighting.
“I’m Ina Blaine.”
“Oh — of course — I knew you were, but you’re so different — so — so changed and lovely,” replied Hettie in charming confusion. “We heard you were home. I’m glad to see you. Come in. Mother is here.”
“Hettie, you’ve grown up wonderfully, much more than Dall or Marvie,” said Ina, as she entered the big, light kitchen that made her remember raids on the cupboard. “And I can return your compliment.”
“Thanks,” replied Hettie, blushing. “You always used to say nice things, Ina. Come in and see mother.” She led the way into the large sitting-room.
“Mother,” announced Hettie, to the sad, sweet-faced woman who rose from beside a table, “this is Ina Blaine, come to call on us the very next day after she got home.”
“Mrs. Ide, I hope you remember me,” said Ina, advancing with a little contraction of her heart. Faintly she grasped at an affinity that brought her close to this woman.
