The Mysterious Rider

by Zane Grey

  CHAPTER XII

  November was well advanced before there came indications that winter wasnear at hand.

  One morning, when Wade rode up to Moore's cabin, the whole world seemedobscured in a dense gray fog, through which he could not see a rod aheadof him. Later, as he left, the fog had lifted shoulder-high to themountains, and was breaking to let the blue sky show. Another morning itwas worse, and apparently thicker and grayer. As Wade climbed the trailup toward the mountain-basin, where he hunted most these days, heexpected the fog to lift. But it did not. The trail under the hoofs ofthe horse was scarcely perceptible to him, and he seemed lost in adense, gray, soundless obscurity.

  Suddenly Wade emerged from out the fog into brilliant sunshine. In amazehe halted. This phenomenon was new to him. He was high up on themountain-side, the summit of which rose clear-cut and bold into the sky.Below him spread what resembled a white sea. It was an immensecloud-bank, filling all the valleys as if with creamy foam or snow,soft, thick, motionless, contrasting vividly with the blue sky above.Old White Slides stood out, gray and bleak and brilliant, as if it werean island rock in a rolling sea of fleece. Far across this strange,level cloud-floor rose the black line of the range. Wade watched thescene with a kind of rapture. He was alone on the heights. There was nota sound. The winds were stilled. But there seemed a mighty being awakeall around him, in the presence of which Wade felt how little were hissorrows and hopes.

  Another day brought dull-gray scudding clouds, and gusts of wind andsqualls of rain, and a wailing through the bare aspens. It grew colderand bleaker and darker. Rain changed to sleet and sleet to snow. Thatnight brought winter.

  Next morning, when Wade plodded up to Moore's cabin, it was through twofeet of snow. A beautiful glistening white mantle covered valley andslope and mountain, transforming all into a world too dazzlinglybrilliant for the unprotected gaze of man.

  When Wade pushed open the door of the cabin and entered he awakened thecowboy.

  "Mornin', Wils," drawled Wade, as he slapped the snow from boots andlegs. "Summer has gone, winter has come, an' the flowers lay in theirgraves! How are you, boy?"

  Moore had grown paler and thinner during his long confinement in bed. Aweary shade shone in his face and a shadow of pain in his eyes. But thespirit of his smile was the same as always.

  "Hello, Bent, old pard!" replied Moore. "I guess I'm fine. Nearly frozelast night. Didn't sleep much."

  "Well, I was worried about that," said the hunter. "We've got to arrangethings somehow."

  "I heard it snowing. Gee! how the wind howled! And I'm snowed in?"

  "Sure are. Two feet on a level. It's good I snaked down a lot offire-wood. Now I'll set to work an' cut it up an' stack it round thecabin. Reckon I'd better sleep up here with you, Wils."

  "Won't Old Bill make a kick?"

  "Let him kick. But I reckon he doesn't need to know anythin' about it.It is cold in here. Well, I'll soon warm it up.... Here's some lettersLem got at Kremmlin' the other day. You read while I rustle somegrub for you."

  Moore scanned the addresses on the several envelopes and sighed.

  "From home! I hate to read them."

  "Why?" queried Wade.

  "Oh, because when I wrote I didn't tell them I was hurt. I feel like aliar."

  "It's just as well, Wils, because you swear you'll not go home."

  "Me? I should smile not.... Bent--I--I--hoped Collie might answer thenote you took her from me."

  "Not yet. Wils, give the lass time."

  "Time? Heavens! it's three weeks and more."

  "Go ahead an' read your letters or I'll knock you on the head with oneof these chunks," ordered Wade, mildly.

  The hunter soon had the room warm and cheerful, with steaming breakfaston the red-hot coals. Presently, when he made ready to serve Moore, hewas surprised to find the boy crying over one of the letters.

  "Wils, what's the trouble?" he asked.

  "Oh, nothing. I--I--just feel bad, that's all," replied Moore.

  "Ahuh! So it seems. Well, tell me about it?"

  "Pard, my father--has forgiven me."

  "The old son-of-a-gun! Good! What for? You never told me you'd doneanythin'."

  "I know--but I did--do a lot. I was sixteen then. We quarreled. And Iran off up here to punch cows. But after a while I wrote home to motherand my sister. Since then they've tried to coax me to come home. Thisletter's from the old man himself. Gee!... Well, he says he's had toknuckle. That he's ready to forgive me. But I must come home and takecharge of his ranch. Isn't that great?... Only I can't go. And Icouldn't--I couldn't ever ride a horse again--if I did go."

  "Who says you couldn't?" queried Wade. "I never said so. I only saidyou'd never be a bronco-bustin' cowboy again. Well, suppose you're not?You'll be able to ride a little, if I can save that leg.... Boy, yourletter is damn good news. I'm sure glad. That will make Collie happy."

  The cowboy had a better appetite that morning, which fact mitigatedsomewhat the burden of Wade's worry. There was burden enough, however,and Wade had set this day to make important decisions about Moore'sinjured foot. He had dreaded to remove the last dressing becauseconditions at that time had been unimproved. He had done all he could toward off the threatened gangrene.

  "Wils, I'm goin' to look at your foot an' tell you things," declaredWade, when the dreaded time could be put off no longer.

  "Go ahead.... And, pard, if you say my leg has to be cut off--why justpass me my gun!"

  The cowboy's voice was gay and bantering, but his eyes were alight witha spirit that frightened the hunter.

  "Ahuh!... I know how you feel. But, boy, I'd rather live with one legan' be loved by Collie Belllounds than have nine legs for someother lass."

  Wilson Moore groaned his helplessness.

  "Damn you, Bent Wade! You always say what kills me!... Of course Iwould!"

  "Well, lie quiet now, an' let me look at this poor, messed-up foot."

  Wade's deft fingers did not work with the usual precision and speednatural to them. But at last Moore's injured member lay bare, discoloredand misshapen. The first glance made the hunter quicker in hismovements, closer in his scrutiny. Then he yelled his joy.

  "Boy, it's better! No sign of gangrene! We'll save your leg!"

  "Pard, I never feared I'd lose that. All I've feared was that I'd beclub-footed.... Let me look," replied the cowboy, and he raised himselfon his elbow. Wade lifted the unsightly foot.

  "My God, it's crooked!" cried Moore, passionately. "Wade, it's healed.It'll stay that way always! I can't move it!... Oh, but Buster Jack'sruined me!"

  The hunter pushed him back with gentle hands. "Wils, it might have beenworse."

  "But I never gave up hope," replied Moore, in poignant grief. "Icouldn't. But _now!_... How can you look at that--that club-foot, andnot swear?"

  "Well, well, boy, cussin' won't do any good. Now lay still an' let mework. You've had lots of good news this mornin'. So I think you canstand to hear a little bad news."

  "What! Bad news?" queried Moore, with a start.

  "I reckon. Now listen.... The reason Collie hasn't answered your note isbecause she's been sick in bed for three weeks."

  "Oh no!" exclaimed the cowboy, in amaze and distress.

  "Yes, an' I'm her doctor," replied Wade, with pride. "First off they hadMrs. Andrews. An' Collie kept askin' for me. She was out of her head,you know. An' soon as I took charge she got better."

  "Heavens! Collie ill and you never told me!" cried Moore. "I can'tbelieve it. She's so healthy and strong. What ailed her, Bent?"

  "Well, Mrs. Andrews said it was nervous breakdown. An' Old Bill wasafraid of consumption. An' Jack Belllounds swore she was only shammin'."

  The cowboy cursed violently.

  "Here--I won't tell you any more if you're goin' to cuss that way an'jerk around," protested Wade.

  "I--I'll shut up," appealed Moore.

  "Well, that puddin'-head Jack is more'n you called him, if you care tohear my opinion.... Now, Wils, the f
act is that none of them know whatails Collie. But I know. She'd been under a high strain leadin' up toOctober first. An' the way that weddin'-day turned out--with Old Billlayin' Jack cold, an' with no marriage at all--why, Collie had a shock.An' after that she seemed pale an' tired all the time an' she didn't eatright. Well, when Buster Jack got over that awful punch he'd got fromthe old man he made up to Collie harder than ever. She didn't tell methen, but I saw it. An' she couldn't avoid him, except by stayin' in herroom, which she did a good deal. Then Jack showed a streak of bein'decent. He surprised everybody, even Collie. He delighted Old Bill. Buthe didn't pull the wool over my eyes. He was like a boy spoilin' for anew toy, an' he got crazy over Collie. He's sure terribly in love withher, an' for days he behaved himself in a way calculated to make up forhis drinkin' too much. It shows he can behave himself when he wants to.I mean he can control his temper an' impulse. Anyway, he made himself sogood that Old Bill changed his mind, after what he swore that day, an'set another day for the weddin'. Right off, then, Collie goes down onher back.... They didn't send for me very soon. But when I did get tosee her, an' felt the way she grabbed me--as if she was drownin'--then Iknew what ailed her. It was love."

  "Love!" gasped Moore, breathlessly.

  "Sure. Jest love for a dog-gone lucky cowboy named Wils Moore!... Herheart was breakin', an' she'd have died but for me! Don't imagine, Wils,that people can't die of broken hearts. They do. I know. Well, allCollie needed was me, an' I cured her ravin' and made her eat, an' nowshe's comin' along fine."

  "Wade, I've believed in Heaven since you came down to White Slides,"burst out Moore, with shining eyes. "But tell me--what did youtell her?"

  "Well, my particular medicine first off was to whisper in her ear thatshe'd never have to marry Jack Belllounds. An' after that I gave herdaily doses of talk about you."

  "Pard! She loves me--still?" he whispered.

  "Wils, hers is the kind that grows stronger with time. I know."

  Moore strained in his intensity of emotion, and he clenched his fistsand gritted his teeth.

  "Oh God! this's hard on me!" he cried. "I'm a man. I love that girl morethan life. And to know she's suffering for love of me--for fear of thatmarriage being forced upon her--to know that while I lie here a helplesscripple--it's almost unbearable."

  "Boy, you've got to mend now. We've the best of hope now--for you--forher--for everythin'."

  "Wade, I think I love you, too," said the cowboy. "You're saving me frommadness. Somehow I have faith in you--to do whatever you want. But howcould you tell Collie she'd never have to marry Buster Jack?"

  "Because I know she never will," replied Wade, with his slow, gentlesmile.

  "You _know_ that?"

  "Sure."

  "How on earth can you prevent it? Belllounds will never give upplanning that marriage for his son. Jack will nag Collie till she can'tcall her soul her own. Between them they will wear her down. My friend,_how_ can you prevent it?"

  "Wils, fact is, I haven't reckoned out how I'm goin' to save Collie. Butthat's no matter. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. I will doit. You can gamble on me, Wils. You must use that hope an' faith to helpyou get well. For we mustn't forget that you're in more dangerthan Collie."

  "I _will_ gamble on you--my life--my very soul," replied Moore,fervently. "By Heaven! I'll be the man I might have been. I'll rise outof despair. I'll even reconcile myself to being a cripple."

  "An', Wils, will you rise above hate?" asked Wade, softly.

  "Hate! Hate of whom?"

  "Jack Belllounds."

  The cowboy stared, and his lean, pale face contracted.

  "Pard, you wouldn't--you couldn't expect me to--to forgive him?"

  "No. I reckon not. But you needn't hate him. I don't. An' I reckon I'vesome reason, more than you could guess.... Wils, hate is a poison in theblood. It's worse for him who feels it than for him against whom itrages. I know.... Well, if you put thought of Jack out of yourmind--quit broodin' over what he did to you--an' realize that he's notto blame, you'll overcome your hate. For the son of Old Bill is to bepitied. Yes, Jack Belllounds needs pity. He was ruined before he wasborn. He never should have been born. An' I want you to understand that,an' stop hatin' him. Will you try?"

  "Wade, you're afraid I'll kill him?" whispered Moore.

  "Sure. That's it. I'm afraid you might. An' consider how hard thatwould be for Columbine. She an' Jack were raised sister an' brother,almost. It would be hard on her. You see, Collie has a strange an'powerful sense of duty to Old Bill. If you killed Jack it would likelykill the old man, an' Collie would suffer all her life. You couldn'tcure her of that. You want her to be happy."

  "I do--I do. Wade, I swear I'll never kill Buster Jack. And for Collie'ssake I'll try not to hate him."

  "Well, that's fine. I'm sure glad to hear you promise that. Now I'll goout an' chop some wood. We mustn't let the fire go out any more."

  "Pard, I'll write another note--a letter to Collie. Hand me theblank-book there. And my pencil.... And don't hurry with the wood."

  Wade went outdoors with his two-bladed ax and shovel. The wood-pile wasa great mound of snow. He cleaned a wide space and a path to the side ofthe cabin. Working in snow was not unpleasant for him. He liked thecleanness, the whiteness, the absolute purity of new-fallen snow. Theair was crisp and nipping, the frost crackled under his feet, the smokefrom his pipe seemed no thicker than the steam from his breath, the axrang on the hard aspens. Wade swung this implement like a born woodsman.The chips flew and the dead wood smelled sweet. Some logs he choppedinto three-foot pieces; others he chopped and split. When he tired alittle of swinging the ax he carried the cut pieces to the cabin andstacked them near the door. Now and then he would halt a moment to gazeaway across the whitened slopes and rolling hills. The sense of hisphysical power matched something within, and his heart warmed with morethan the vigorous exercise.

  When he had worked thus for about two hours and had stacked a pile ofwood almost as large as the cabin he considered it sufficient for theday. So he went indoors. Moore was so busily and earnestly writing thathe did not hear Wade come in. His face wore an eloquent glow.

  "Say, Wils, are you writin' a book?" he inquired.

  "Hello! Sure I am. But I'm 'most done now.... If Columbine doesn'tanswer _this_ ..."

  "By the way, I'll have two letters to give her, then--for I never gaveher the first one," replied Wade.

  "You son-of-a-gun!"

  "Well, hurry along, boy. I'll be goin' now. Here's a pole I've fetchedin. You keep it there, where you can reach it, an' when the fire needsmore wood you roll one of these logs on. I'll be up to-night beforedark, an' if I don't fetch you a letter it'll be because I can'tpersuade Collie to write."

  "Pard, if you bring me a letter I'll obey you--I'll lie still--I'llsleep--I'll stand anything."

  "Ahuh! Then I'll fetch one," replied Wade, as he took the little bookand deposited it in his pocket. "Good-by, now, an' think of your goodnews that come with the snow."

  "Good-by, Heaven-Sent Hell-Bent Wade!" called Moore. "It's no joke of aname any more. It's a fact."

  Wade plodded down through the deep snow, stepping in his old tracks, andas he toiled on his thoughts were deep and comforting. He was thinkingthat if he had his life to live over again he would begin at once tofind happiness in other people's happiness. Upon arriving at his cabinhe set to work cleaning a path to the dog corral. The snow had driftedthere and he had no easy task. It was well that he had built an inclosedhouse for the hounds to winter in. Such a heavy snow as this one wouldput an end to hunting for the time being. The ranch had ample supply ofdeer, bear, and elk meat, all solidly frozen this morning, that wouldsurely keep well until used. Wade reflected that his tasks round theranch would be feeding hounds and stock, chopping wood, and doing suchchores as came along in winter-time. The pack of hounds, which he hadthinned out to a smaller number, would be a care on his hands. Kane hadbecome a much-prized possession of Columbine's and lived at the house,where he h
ad things his own way, and always greeted Wade with a look ofdisdain and distrust. Kane would never forgive the hand that had hurthim. Sampson and Jim and Fox, of course, shared Wade's cabin, andvociferously announced his return.

  Early in the afternoon Wade went down to the ranch-house. The snow wasnot so deep there, having blown considerably in the open places. Someone was pounding iron in the blacksmith shop; horses were cavorting inthe corrals; cattle were bawling round the hay-ricks in the barn-yard.

  The hunter knocked on Columbine's door.

  "Come in," she called.

  Wade entered, to find her alone. She was sitting up in bed, propped upwith pillows, and she wore a warm, woolly jacket or dressing-gown. Herpaleness was now marked, and the shadows under her eyes made them appearlarge and mournful.

  "Ben Wade, you don't care for me any more!" she exclaimed,reproachfully.

  "Why not, lass?" he asked.

  "You were so long in coming," she replied, now with petulance. "I guessnow I don't want you at all."

  "Ahuh! That's the reward of people who worry an' work for others. Well,then, I reckon I'll go back an' not give you what I brought."

  He made a pretense of leaving, and he put a hand to his pocket as if toinsure the safety of some article. Columbine blushed. She held out herhands. She was repentant of her words and curious as to his.

  "Why, Ben Wade, I count the minutes before you come," she said. "What'dyou bring me?"

  "Who's been in here?" he asked, going forward. "That's a poor fire. I'llhave to fix it."

  "Mrs. Andrews just left. It was good of her to drive up. She came in thesled, she said. Oh, Ben, it's winter. There was snow on my bed when Iwoke up. I think I am better to-day. Jack hasn't been in here yet!"

  At this Wade laughed, and Columbine followed suit.

  "Well, you look a little sassy to-day, which I take is a good sign,"said Wade. "I've got some news that will come near to makin' you well."

  "Oh, tell it quick!" she cried.

  "Wils won't lose his leg. It's gettin' well. An' there was a letter fromhis father, forgivin' him for somethin' he never told me."

  "My prayers were answered!" whispered Columbine, and she closed her eyestight.

  "An' his father wants him to come home to run the ranch," went on Wade.

  "Oh!" Her eyes popped open with sudden fright. "But he can't--he won'tgo?"

  "I reckon not. He wouldn't if he could. But some day he will, an' takeyou home with him."

  Columbine covered her face with her hands, and was silent a moment.

  "Such prophecies! They--they--" She could not conclude.

  "Ahuh! I know. The strange fact is, lass, that they all come true. Iwish I had all happy ones, instead of them black, croakin' ones thatcome like ravens.... Well, you're better to-day?"

  "Yes. Oh yes. Ben, what have you got for me?"

  "You're in an awful hurry. I want to talk to you, an' if I show whatI've got then there will be no talkin'. You say Jack hasn't beenin to-day?"

  "Not yet, thank goodness."

  "How about Old Bill?"

  "Ben, you never call him my dad. I wish you would. When you _don't_ italways reminds me that he's really _not_ my dad."

  "Ahuh! Well, well!" replied Wade, with his head bowed. "It is just queerI can never remember.... An' how was he to-day?"

  "For a wonder he didn't mention poor me. He was full of talk about goingto Kremmling. Means to take Jack along. Do you know, Ben, dad can't foolme. He's afraid to leave Jack here alone with me. So dad talked a lotabout selling stock an' buying supplies, and how he needed Jack to go,and so forth. I'm mighty glad he means to take him. But my! won'tJack be sore."

  "I reckon. It's time he broke out."

  "And now, dear Ben--what have you got for me? I know it's from Wilson,"she coaxed.

  "Lass, would you give much for a little note from Wils?" asked Wade,teasingly.

  "Would I? When I've been hoping and praying for just that!"

  "Well, if you'd give so much for a note, how much would you give me fora whole bookful that took Wils two hours to write?"

  "Ben! Oh, I'd--I'd give--" she cried, wild with delight. "I'd _kiss_you!"

  "You mean it?" he queried, waving the book aloft.

  "Mean it? Come here!"

  There was fun in this for Wade, but also a deep and beautiful emotionthat quivered through him. Bending over her, he placed the little bookin her hand. He did not see clearly, then, as she pulled him lower andkissed him on the cheek, generously, with sweet, frank gratitude andaffection.

  Moments strong and all-satisfying had been multiplying for Bent Wade oflate. But this one magnified all. As he sat back upon the chair heseemed a little husky of voice.

  "Well, well, an' so you kissed ugly old Bent Wade?"

  "Yes, and I've wanted to do it before," she retorted. The darkexcitation in her eyes, the flush of her pale cheeks, made herbeautiful then.

  "Lass, now you read your letter an' answer it. You can tear out thepages. I'll sit here an' be makin' out to be readin' aloud out of thisbook here, if any one happens in sudden-like!"

  "Oh, how you think of everything!"

  The hunter sat beside her pretending to be occupied with the book he hadtaken from the table when really he was stealing glances at her face.Indeed, she was more than pretty then. Illness and pain had enhanced thesweetness of her expression. As she read on it was manifest that she hadforgotten the hunter's presence. She grew pink, rosy, scarlet, radiant.And Wade thrilled with her as she thrilled, loved her more and more asshe loved. Moore must have written words of enchantment. Wade's hungryheart suffered a pang of jealousy, but would not harbor it. He read inher perusal of that letter what no other dreamed of, not even the girlherself; and it was certitude of tragic and brief life for her if shecould not live for Wilson Moore. Those moments of watching her wereunutterably precious to Wade. He saw how some divine guidance haddirected his footsteps to this home. How many years had it taken him toget there! Columbine read and read and reread--a girl with her firstlove-letter. And for Wade, with his keen eyes that seemed to see thesenses and the soul, there shone something infinite through her rapture.Never until that unguarded moment had he divined her innocence, nor hadany conception been given him of the exquisite torture of her maidenfears or the havoc of love fighting for itself. He learned then much ofthe mystery and meaning of a woman's heart.