Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 987
“Wal, so far as Gaines is concerned yu needn’t ask me,” replied Laramie, darkly. “We’re about at the end of our rope.”
“Now you’re talkin’. . . . Gaines would look good at the end of a rope, not to say Price. Huh?”
Laramie sat down on the bunk and eyed the stone floor. He could not understand why he had hoped and believed he could spare the Lindsays the ruthless reactions of range life. It would have been better not to allow troubles to accumulate.
“Shore. An’ Arlidge, too,” returned Laramie, slowly.
“No such luck. You’ll have to beat him to a gun, Laramie. . . . I’m glad Lindsay an’ the girls are goin’ to meet up with a lot of Western folks. They’ll get an earful. Then when we come back — —”
Lonesome ground his teeth over an unfinished statement. Laramie nodded his head gloomily.
“Pard, don’t take it so hard,” spoke up Lonesome, brightening as he watched his friend. “Shore the brunt of this will fall on you, as it always does. But don’t fool yourself about Hallie Lindsay. In the end she’ll be game.”
CHAPTER X
“CAN IT BE only nine days?” murmured Harriet, as she dropped her bags and packages on the floor of her room and flung herself upon the bed, where Lenta already sprawled in an abandoned posture of exhaustion.
“Nine wonderful days!” exclaimed Lenta, dreamily. “They’d been perfect but for that Lonesome Mulhall.”
“Don’t be so hard on the poor boy,” replied Harriet, wearily.
Lenta growled something which sounded like profanity.
“You treated Lonesome outrageously,” went on Harriet. “And but for him we. . . . Oh, well, what is the use?”
“No use, my locoed sister. Lonesome may have been the whole show, but for me he was a beastly jealous, drunken little bow-legged duffer.”
“All your fault. Lonesome was growing to be a nice dependable boy. Now look at him!”
“Don’t worry, Hallie. I won’t look at him,” retorted Lenta.
“Nonsense! You like him.”
“Me? Ump-umm! I did, but nix no more.”
“How can you change so suddenly?”
“A woman’s privilege, my dear.”
“Woman! You are a spoiled baby. . . . Lenta, I’ll tell you this. As soon as I’ve recovered from this trip you’re in for a lecture from me,” declared Harriet.
“Oh, you make me sick. Hallie, you used to be a good fellow. But since we came out West and you got moonstruck over that handsome dumb Laramie Nelson you’ve become a pill.”
Harriet wanted to sit up and roundly slap this impudent sister, but she did not have the energy.
“I hate to tell you what you’ve become — a shallow conscienceless flirt,” she substituted instead.
“I am not,” snapped Lenta. “Self-preservation is the first law of life. Catch me letting these range-riders get the best of me.”
“If you keep on, one of them will get the best of you,” rejoined Harriet, bitterly.
“Hal Lindsay!” exclaimed Lenta. But she did not deceive Harriet. She might be petulant and peevish, but there was no genuine ring of sincerity in her voice. Harriet had to face the apparent fact that her sister had become incorrigibly wild.
“I suppose you are sore because I coaxed that rider Stuart to come back with us?”
“No, not sore. Laramie said he would give Stuart a job. But I’m sorry for him.”
“You waste your pity, Hal. You don’t savvy these cow-punchers.”
“Yes I do. That’s just it. I do. And I know you can’t play fast and loose with them.”
“You’re worse than mother.”
“Lenta, somebody must beat sense into your head before it’s too late.”
“Reckon it is too late,” said Lenta with a giggle. “But, gosh! I’ve had a good time.”
“You carried on outrageously in La Junta. Especially at the dance.”
“All the same I didn’t elope with one of them, as our darling, proud sister did,” declared Lenta, scornfully.
“Ted Williams is different. He comes — —”
“Oh, pumpkin-seed sunfish! Ted is like all the rest of the riders. He’s got you all fooled, especially Flo. I’ve had six of them ask me to elope. And that’s not counting Mulhall.”
“Ted and Flo didn’t elope,” replied Harriet, weakly. “They were just afraid to ask father. But they did ask me.”
“Oh-ho! So that’s why you’ve championed them? Does dad know?”
“Yes. I told him.”
“Gee! so everybody but me knows everything? How’d dad take it?”
“He was hurt and furious. Said he had a couple of fine dutiful daughters.”
“Couple! He’s liable to have three — if I don’t miss my guess. God help us, as ma prays, when you break out, Hal.”
“There is not much danger of me disgracing the family, sister dear,” rejoined Harriet.
“As I have disgraced it. And Flo, too. . . . Oh, fiddlesticks! — No! I don’t mean that. I mean — oh, well. . . . Laramie says I’ve saved the Lindsays from poverty, murder, and what not.”
“Laramie was humoring you. Even he is not impervious to your blandishments.”
“Jealous cat!” ejaculated Lenta, sweetly. “I shall certainly throw myself at Laramie.”
This dire threat was unanswerable, because Harriet knew that Lenta was capable of doing it.
“I’m sorry, Lent. I guess I’m — just all broken up,” faltered Harriet.
“Shore, we’re all broken up. I heard dad tell ma that the West had done for the Lindsay outfit. I had gone to the bad. You had turned out a mollycoddle. Neale had taken to the bottle. Flo had run off. And ma had become a fussy old fool.”
“Lenta, you are making that up,” replied Harriet, with all the vehemence she had left.
“Nope. I wasn’t. Dad had had a few drinks himself.”
“Mercy! What will become of us?”
“We’d turn out all right yet if only you would get acclimated,” drawled Lenta.
“I!” That was the most unkindest cut of all. Harriet succumbed under it. She got up, and dragging herself into the sitting-room she went to bed on the couch, only half undressed.
Still, tired as she was, her mind kept active and she lay thinking. Presently her resentment and consternation were swallowed up in memory of the past nine days that seemed packed full of nine weeks of experience. She could only dwell on the outstanding events: the myriad of lesser ones were kaleidoscopic. Although their effect had been tremendous. And out of the whole she deduced astounding facts. She liked Western people. She loved the West and surrendered to the bewildering assurance that it had claimed her. She would have fought against going back to Ohio, even if all her family were in favor of that. She had met other pioneer families and found them kindred spirits. The Colorado range was endless, the distances frightful obstacles, but there were neighbors, nice folk, kindly people, wholesome and attractive girls, splendid men, scattered all over the purple land. To realize this was a vast comfort. They were all in one category, most of them comparatively new to the range, dependent upon the boundless acres of grass, the streams, and the cattle. And likewise at the mercy of the rustlers as every cattleman realized! Harriet had gained more understanding of the complex situation. The striking thing about it was the fact that only few rustlers were known. Any cattleman, even her father, according to the mystery of the range, might be one of them. Harriet had been forced to accept the need of drastic treatment of these parasites of the country. She had tried, and failed, to make Laramie see a change in her. But that was his fault — the droll, aloof, incomprehensible and fascinating man! She felt that she was about to succumb to something appalling. And every time the conviction forced itself upon her she drove it away. Mollycoddle! So that was what they all thought her, and probably Laramie, too? She would show them presently.
But these weightier matters had to be given time. When they flooded back in memory Harriet laboriously put them aside for other things — the sudden passion she had conceived for horses and her resolve to learn to ride and manage them; her thrilling interest in the races and the tricks of the riders; the disturbing presence again of the bold Arlidge, who had hounded her at the dance; the shyness of Laramie in such strange contrast; the perplexing problem of the cattle and her failure to solve it; the undoubted confusion and let-down of all the Lindsays in this new environment; and lastly the perilous conquests of Lenta and the elopement of Florence.
They were sufficient to keep Harriet awake for a long time, without listening to the insistent call of her heart. At length she heard Lenta moving around in their bedroom, yawning and mumbling to herself. Then the light went out. Harriet was left in total darkness. It made a difference. Besides, she discovered that she was cold. Presently she slipped back into the other room and stealthily got into bed. Lenta was already locked in slumber. But half disturbed, she unconsciously reverted to her old childish habit of snuggling close to Harriet. Harriet, deeply grieved with Lenta, had the instinct of repulsion, but there came an intervention of an older, stronger feeling. It was not long thereafter that her pillow was wet with her tears.
* * * * *
When Harriet awoke the sun had long climbed above the wall of the opposite wing of the ranch-house and she wanted to leap out of bed in the excitement of a dawn that was new and strange. But she restrained herself. Lenta’s tanned and rosy face showed on the far pillow. How arresting in its sweetness! Harriet marveled that the girl could possess such a guileless sweet face and be such a devil. But Harriet did not gaze long at her sister. She had troubles of her own. She owned to a rebellious heart and she knew she had awaked another Harriet Lindsay. It thrilled her. The old self ventured feeble protests that were cried down. No longer would she be an obstacle to the success of Spanish Peaks Ranch. And that last triumphant decision landed her on her feet in the middle of the room.
Harriet donned riding garb that she had tried on only once, to her intense embarrassment. Her cheeks burned as she vowed she did not care. The summer days were growing hot and thin clothes were desirable. What would Laramie Nelson think of a young woman, twenty-five years old, in such a rig? It gave her a panicky feeling, which incensed her only the more. Then, snatching gloves and sombrero, she sallied forth in full possession of the realization that she was going out to meet disaster of one kind or another. Nevertheless, she would meet it and hide her feelings or die in the attempt.
At breakfast, Jud, who was devoted to Harriet and liked to talk, divulged much information. Mrs. Lindsay had had her breakfast in bed. Lindsay, glad to get back to the ranch, had whistled himself off early. Neale’s drinking and failure to return from La Junta, Florence’s elopement, and Lenta’s incorrigibleness, Laramie’s dark face that boded trouble, Lonesome’s bottle, and the news of another cattle raid during their absence — all these had rested lightly on the head of John Lindsay.
“So dad’s done with worry!” ejaculated Harriet. “Thank goodness! But, Jud, how do you account for it?”
“Wal, Laramie said the old boy was feelin’ his oats,” replied Jud, with a grin. “An’ I say thet trip to La Junta done him good. He found out half a dozen stiff drinks of red likker couldn’t phase him. He’s goin’ to be a well man. Thet’s my hunch.”
“I believe you are right, Jud,” said Harriet, earnestly. “In the light of the blessed truth of returned health and growing strength all these troubles are nothing.”
“Wal, I reckon myself they ain’t much.”
Harriet deferred seeing her mother for the present, and hurried out into the court to tarry a moment under the great green cottonwoods. How cool and shady under their spreading canopy! The brook went sparkling and singing down the stone steps. Blackbirds and mockingbirds, catbirds and swallows, were melodiously in evidence. This was a restful, beautiful, strength-giving spot, so old and thought-provoking. She would never tire of it, nor of the strip of purple rangeland visible through the wide portal between the walls.
On her walk down to the valley below she espied Lenta’s latest acquisition, the younger rider, Stuart, approaching up the cottonwood-lined road. He was leading two saddle horses. Harriet stepped aside into the cover of the brush so as to avoid meeting him. If she had encountered him she would either have had to greet him civilly or have advised him to return to La Junta; and she felt that she did not know which she ought to do. So she let him pass. He certainly was a handsome young stripling. Besides Stuart, poor Lonesome would have resembled a little banty rooster. It was too bad that Lonesome appeared to be the only ugly, insignificant boy in Laramie’s outfit. They were all absurdly attractive, young, red-cheeked, fire-eyed, lithe, and graceful chaps. Harriet thought she would like to have liked this newcomer Stuart. He was whistling gaily. He had not a care in the world. Probably he had not a dollar, nor anything but a horse. It pleased Harriet to observe that Stuart did not pack a gun. And this reminded her of Laramie. She both desired and feared to see him. Stuart passed on up the road, no doubt to keep an engagement with Lenta made the day before. And Lenta was in bed sound asleep.
Harriet resumed her walk toward the stables and likewise her thought of Laramie. She had not laid eyes on him since the dance at La Junta. That, however, had been the last event of the several days’ entertainment, and they had all driven away next morning early. But the hours seemed long. Laramie had reason to avoid her. Had he not transgressed? Once could have been forgiven. But a second and unpardonable offense! Harriet felt her veins swell with heat that ran along them tinglingly to culminate in a hot wave on neck and face. She was ashamed and furious that she had unwittingly yielded to memory, yet once admitted, the incident augmented in her mind. Indeed there was no use to deny her pleasure at that dance. She had actually held her own with Lenta. Florence, probably, would have eclipsed them both, but Florence had eloped with Ted. Most of the riders had been atrociously poor dancers; not so Laramie Nelson. Early in the evening he had asked for a dance with her and had waited for it. So had she, with a pleasurable expectancy. She might be his boss, but all such distinctions were leveled this night. Laramie had not talked while he danced. And after Harriet had made a few attempts at conversation she had desisted. This was no ordinary dance. Laramie was no ordinary partner. Not until the dance began had she thought of being held in a man’s embrace. And then after two turns around the thronged hall she had discovered why. Laramie was holding her close. She had hoped it might be merely accident. But presently she realized it was not. Then she protested: “Laramie, you’re holding me — too tight!” His reply had been a cool drawling: “Aw, excuse me, lady. I shore haven’t danced for years.” And he had loosened the coil of his powerful arm. Again Harriet had fallen under the spell of the dreamy waltz. She did not remember how soon, but presently she felt that almost imperceptible drawing of the muscle-corded arm around her. The incomprehensible thing was that she had wanted to surrender to it. And she had done so for a moment, long enough to feel her throbbing breast flatten against his. Then: “Laramie — you — you’re — hugging me!” she panted, and halting she drew away. “Aw, no! I wasn’t atall, Hallie,” he expostulated. “Don’t yu reckon I’d know?” Harriet gazed up at him, feeling that a woman’s eyes, intuition, intelligence must go far with this man. “Well, if you didn’t know it—” Then the music stopped, saving her from she knew not what. Laramie had begged for another dance and she had promised it. But that second dance had never transpired. Harriet, in her excitement and pleasure at being so importuned by Westerners of all ages, had lost her head a little. This, with an intense added embarrassment when Luke Arlidge had accosted her, had resulted in a dance she did not actually desire or accept. In truth, Arlidge had simply swept her away from another partner. The enormity of her offense had not dawned upon Harriet until the dance was over, when she met Laramie’s glance. Never had he looked that way at her. Recollection of the enmity between these two Westerners flooded over her then and she anathematized her stupidity. It chilled her, too. She had waited for Laramie to come to claim her, but she had not seen him again.
“Laramie was surprised — disgusted with me — and cold. . . . Uggh!” mused Harriet, as she walked on. “But what could the darned Southerner expect? I couldn’t make a scene.” She felt contrition, but she was not greatly concerned that Laramie might not come around. Still she did not really know him. She caught her breath and then she laughed. Always she could resort to what Lenta called a woman’s prerogative. If she said to him, “Laramie, I’ll go with you to the next dance and dance a lot with you — no matter how you hold me,” he would fall all over himself accepting, as these young riders did for Lenta. Here Harriet caught her unbridled imagination and concluded her reverie with, “I’m getting what they call loco.”
She espied several of the riders in the distance, but caught no glimpse of either her father or Laramie. That afforded her relief. At the stables a Mexican lad, Pedro, saddled a gentle horse she had ridden before. Harriet took the bridle and led the animal away across the green valley to a secluded sandy spot shaded by cottonwoods and surrounded by brush, where she felt safe from prying eyes. Here she took the initial step in a procedure she had resolved upon — to overcome her fear of a horse, to learn to mount and to ride. First she led the horse to a high rock from which she could easily get into the saddle, and rode around the enclosure a number of times. She trotted Moze, cantered him, galloped him, and finally rode him running. It was a goodly space, so she had ample room. There were thrills and fun, and also fright in this speed. But she stuck on, and finally established a permanent relation between her and the saddle. It was not impossible, where no critical eyes were seeing her. Once warmed up, she got the swing of it. So far as Moze was concerned, all she needed now was practice.
Then she reined him in and slid off in one step as she had seen the riders do. That was easy. She felt elated. Presently she meant to boss this ranch from the back of a horse instead of an office chair.
