by Zane Grey
“Wal, for Gawd’s sake!” ejaculated Ray, exactly as before.
“Are there any more verses to that song?”
“Wal — for Gawd’s sake!”
“Third and last — I hope.”
“First time I ever seen an angel or heered one talk,” he declared.
“Please don’t call me an angel. Angels are good. I’m not. I’m wild. That’s why I’ve been dragged out West. Ask Dad, he knows. Say, that reminds me. I’m dying for a smoke. Dad’s old-fashioned and I don’t carry them when he’s around. Could you give me a cigarette?”
Ray merely stared.
“Please, handsome boy! Just one little cigarette.”
“Ain’t got nothin’ but the makin’s,” he finally ejaculated.
“Thanks. That’ll do,” replied Janey, receiving the little tobacco pouch he handed her.
It fascinated Ray to see Janey roll her own. He was so absorbed that he failed to note the entrance of a fourth cowboy, who was burdened with hatboxes and more grips. He was the handsomest of the lot. With his fine intent eyes straight ahead, not noticing Janey, he crossed the room and went into the hallway. Janey had watched him pass in a surprise that grew into pique. He had never looked once at her. He would have to pay for that slight.
“Wal! Yore shore some pert little dogie,” remarked Ray, lighting a match for her.
“Dogie!... Say, Mr. Cowboy, explain what you mean!”
“A dogie is a calf or a colt that ain’t got no mother.”
“Where did you learn anything about me?” asked Janey, a bit wary.
“Shore any kid with a ma couldn’t ever roll a cigarette an’ smoke it like you do.”
“Indeed! Ray, are you a desert preacher?” queried Janey, distantly.
“Sorry, Miss. Shore didn’t mean to hurt yore feelin’s. But it kind of got me — seein’ you smoke like thet. Yore so damn— ‘scuse me, I mean yore so shore pretty that it goes agin my grain to see you up to dance-hall tricks.”
“You don’t like women to smoke?” returned Janey, curiously.
“Perticular, I don’t like to see you smokin’.”
“Then I won’t,” decided Janey, and walking to the fireplace she threw the cigarette down.
“Jes-jes ‘cause I don’t like you to smoke?” ejaculated Ray, rapturously.
“Jes ‘cause you don’t like me to.”
“An’ you’ll forgive me fer talkin’ like I did?”
“Surely.”
“I’m askin’ you to prove thet.”
“How?”
“Go ridin’ with me tomorrow,” suggested Ray, breathlessly. “You can ride my pet hoss. He’s shore gentle. You don’t wanna ride any of these hombres, horses. You might get throwed an’ hurt. They’re shore mean.”
“I’d love to go with you,” responded Janey, dreamily.
At this moment the handsome cowboy returned, and was again crossing the room, straight-eyed and hurried, when Ray hailed him. “Rustle now, you cowboy. Fetch them bags in.”
Janey had taken a few steps forward. The cowboy glided round the table to avoid encountering her, and then bolted out of the room.
“Well, I never!” exclaimed Janey. “You’d think I was Medusa. He didn’t see me... He simply didn’t see me!... Who is he?”
“Thet’s Zoroaster. Mormon cowpuncher. Fine fellar, but awful scared of women. Ain’t never seen any but Mormon girls. He’ll never look at you!”
“Oh, he won’t!” replied Janey, with a threat in her voice.
“Shore not. An’ don’t you ever talk to him. He’d like as not drop dead. Last year a girl from the East asked him to dance, an’ he run right out of the hall. Didn’t show up for a week.”
“It’s an awful chance to take, but that boy needs reforming,” declared Janey. Ray stared at her a moment before he took to his defense— “Wal, for Gawd’s sake!”
Mohave came in with a sly grin on his ruddy face.
“Ray, Mr. Bennet is askin’ fer you,” he said.
“Where?” asked Ray, in both doubt and disgust.
“He’s gone out to the post and wants you pronto.”
Ray went out grumbling and Mohave approached Janey with evident profound satisfaction.
“Looks like you’re goin’ to be as popular as stickin’ paper with flies,” he said, meaningly.
“Mohave, after flies take to flypaper they struggle to get away. That’s not a pretty compliment.”
“Say! Did you know you called me Mohave?” he asked, in amazement.
Janey feigned surprise. “Did I?”
Then she was electrified at the entrance of still another cowboy.
“‘S-s-scuse me, f-f-folks, w-w-w-where’s Ray?”
“Tay-Tay, he’s gone to the post an’ I wish you wouldn’t.”
“Like h-h-hell he has,” interrupted Tay-Tay.
“Bennet is lookin’ fer him.”
“L-l-last I saw of Bennet he was runnin’ the car in the shed.”
“Good. Then he won’t be right back an’ Ray’ll have to find him.”
Janey stood fascinated by Tay-Tay’s struggle with words.
“B-b-b-bad I’d say! For you an’ Ray! The cows are yore job, an’ yore both locoed b-by this d-d-dame. It’s g-g-goner rain like hell!”
Janey turned to Mohave. “Perhaps you b-b-better go...Well, I hope to die if I’m not stuttering too!”
Here Diego, filling the doorway, struck a dramatic pose and fixed sentimental eyes on Janey.
“Por ultimo! Señorita mia!” he said eloquently.
“Too many languages around here for me,” returned Janey.
“Here’s Diego to give a hand. I was jest tellin’ Miss Endicott how you could ride. An’ she’s shore ailin’ to see you round up the cows.”
Diego’s look of fiery pride slowly changed to one of suspicion; and Tay- Tay stared from him to Mohave. The next thing to happen was Ray shoving Diego into the room, and stalking after him, to transfix Mohave with menacing eyes.
“Wal, for Gawd’s sake! So you was jest gettin’ me out of the way. Said Bennet was lookin’ for me. Wal, cowboy, he ain’t.”
“Don’t you accuse me of no sneakin’ trick,” replied Mohave, flaring up.
“Bennet was askin’ fer you. He’s plumb forgot. He’s gettin’ absent- minded, you know. Ask Tay-Tay here if Bennet didn’t send him lookin’ fer you to fetch in the cows.”
“S-s-smatter with you, Mohave?” retorted Tay-Tay. “B-B-Bennet didn’t send me nowhere. I c-c-ame fer myself.”
“Tay-Tay, yore tongue’s not only more tied since you seen Miss Endicott, but yore mind is wuss,” complained Mohave.
Then followed a silence which Janey hugely enjoyed. What a time she was going to have! Wouldn’t she turn the tables on her tricky father? Mohave backed away from the threatening Ray. The other boys edged nearer to Janey, who thought it wise to retreat to the window seat. The suspense of the moment was broken by the entrance of Zoroaster, who swung two pairs of boxing gloves in his hands. Behind him entered the Indian maid.
“Mees, your room ees ready,” she announced, and retired.
Janey was in no hurry to follow. Something might happen here too good to miss.
“Thar you are!” announced Zoroaster, indicating Tay-Tay. He might be a Mormon, but he was certainly good to look at, decided Janey.
“W-w-what y-y-you w-w-want me for?” stuttered Tay-Tay, rebelliously.
“Yore time’s come. I’ve been layin’ fer you. An’ right now we can have it out,” returned the grim Mormon.
“W-w-why right now more’n another time?” asked Tay-Tay.
“Wal,” spoke up Ray, “I reckon a blind man could see thet. Lope on outdoors, Tay, an’ get yours.”
Diego showed his white teeth in a gleaming smile.
“Geeve the gloves to Ray an’ Mohave. They’re lookeen for trouble.”
“It’s me who’s lookin’ fer trouble, an’ after I’m through with Tay I’ll take any of you on. Savvy?”
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br /> “B-b-but if I w-w-want to q-q-quit in the m-m-middle of a round I won’t be able to say s-s-s-stop,” replied Tay-Tay.
“Aw, yore jest plain backin’ out before this lady...Wal, who of you will put them on?”
Zoroaster looked from one to the other. They all appeared to have become absentminded. Janey had an inspiration, and rose, radiant, from the window seat.
“I will, Mr. Zoroaster,” she said.
The Mormon cowboy’s face turned redder than his hair. He was dumbfounded, and plainly fought to keep from running. But Janey’s smile chained him. If she saw in the boxing bout an opportunity to get acquainted with Zoroaster, he evidently saw one to outdo the other zealous suitors for her favor. Awkwardly he thrust a pair of gloves at her.
“All right, Miss. You’re shore showin’ these hombres up. But I’ll be careful not to hurt you.”
Janey was athletic and, as it happened, was the best boxer in her club. Pretending unfamiliarity with boxing gloves she begged someone to help her put them on. All save Ray rushed to her assistance.
He stared, open-mouthed, and finally ejaculated, “Wal, for Gawd’s sake!”
“There! Now, Mr. Zoroaster, give me a few pointers, please,” suggested Janey, winningly.
“It’s easy, Miss,” he said, extending his gloved hands. “Keep one foot forward, an’ lead with your left hand. Keep yore eyes on my gloves an’ duck.”
Janey affected practice while Zoroaster circled her. Plainly he was not a scientific boxer; and Janey, who had had many a bout with the club instructor, saw some fun ahead. Suddenly she ceased her pretense and went for Zoroaster, swift and light as a cat, and grasped at once that she could hit him when and where she pleased.
“Ride ’em, cowgirl. Oh, my!” cried Mohave.
“Thet’s placin’ one, Miss,” shouted Ray, in great glee.
“S-s-s-soak him fer me,” stuttered Tay-Tay, in delight.
“Señorita, you ees one grande boxer,” declared Diego, dramatically.
Zoroaster’s fear and amazement helped to put him at Janey’s mercy. She danced around the transfixed Mormon, raining taps upon his handsome nose. Finally she struck him smartly with her left, and followed that up with as hard a right swing as she could muster. It landed square on Zoroaster’s nose and all but upset him.
The cowboys, instead of roaring, seemed suddenly paralyzed. Janey, glowing and panting, turned to see what was wrong. Her father stood in the doorway, horrified, completely robbed of the power of speech. Zoroaster bolted out of the front door, followed by his cowboy comrades.
Janey’s mirth was not one whit lessened by the sight of her father’s face. Gayly she ran to him, extending the gloves to be untied.
“Weren’t they something? I love ’em all, and that handsome red-headed devil best. Oh, bless you, Dad. I’ll stay here forever!”
CHAPTER 2
FROM THAT MOMENT events multiplied. Janey could not keep track of them. She was having the time of her life. And every now and then it burst upon her what really innocent fun it was, compared to the high pressure of life in the East.
She had disrupted the even tenor of the trading post. Bennet averred that something must be done about it. His cowboys had gone crazy. If they remembered their work it was to desert it or do it wrong. They manufactured the most ridiculous excuses to ride away from the ranch, when it chanced that Janey was out riding. When she was at home they each and every one fell victim to all the ailments under the sun.
Janey saw very little of Randolph during her first days at the post. He always left before she got up in the morning, and returned from his excavating work late in the afternoon. She met him, of course, at dinner, when they all sat at a long table, and in the living room afterward, but never alone. Janey was quite aware of the humor with which he regarded her flirtation with the cowboys. She did not like his attitude, and wasted a thought now and then as to how she would punish him.
On the whole, however, she was too happy to even remember her father’s reason for fetching her out to the desert. The actual reasons for her peculiar happiness she had not yet analyzed.
It was all so new. She rode for hours every day, sometimes alone, which was a difficult thing to maneuver — and often with her father, and the cowboys. The weather was glorious; the desert strangely, increasingly impelling; the blue sky and white clouds, the vivid colors and magnificent formations of the rock walls had some effect she was loath to acknowledge.
When had she been so hungry and tired at nightfall? She went to bed very early because everybody did so; and she slept as never before. Her skin began to take on a golden brown, and she gained weight. Both facts secretly pleased her. The pace at home had kept her pale and thin. Janey gazed in actual amazement and delight at the face that smiled back at her from the mirror. Once she mused, “I’ll say this Painted Desert has got the beauty shops beaten all hollow.”
Her father had asked her several times to ride over to Sagi Canyon, where Randolph was excavating. But Janey had pretended indifference as to his movements. As a matter of fact, she was curious to see what his work was like — what in the world could make a young man prefer digging in the dust to her company? There was another reason why she would not go, and it was because the more she saw of Philip Randolph and heard about him from the cowboys and Bennet — who were outspoken in their praise the better she liked him and the more she resented liking him.
For the present, however, the cowboys were more than sufficient for Janey. They were an endless source of interest, fun and wholesome admiration.
In ten days not a single one of them had attempted to hold her hand, let alone kiss her. Janey would rather have liked them, one and all, to hold her hand; and she would not have run very far to keep from being kissed. But it began to dawn upon her that despite an utter prostration of each cowboy at her feet, so to speak, there was never even a hint of familiarity, such as was natural as breathing to the young men of her set.
First it struck Janey as amusing. Then she sought to break it down. And before two weeks were up she began to take serious thought of something she had not supposed possible to the genus Homo, young or old, East or West.
Janey did not care to be forced to delve into introspection, to perplex herself with the problem of modern youth. She had had quite enough of that back East. Papers, magazines, plays, sermons, and lectures, even the movies, had made a concerted attack upon the younger generation. It had been pretty sickening to Janey. How good to get away from that atmosphere for a while! Perhaps here was a reason why she liked the West. But there seemed to be something working in her, which sooner or later she must face.
One afternoon Janey returned from her ride earlier than usual, so that she did not have to hurry and dress for dinner. She had settled herself in the hammock when her father and Randolph rode in from the opposite direction. The hammock was hidden under the vines outside the living-room window. They did not see Janey and she was too lazy or languid to call to them.
A little later she heard them enter the living room. The window there was open. “Janey must be dressing,” said Endicott.
“She’s back. I saw her saddle. We have time for a little chat. I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”
“Go ahead. I’m glad our ride didn’t tire you. By the way, what did you think of my Sagi?”
“Beautiful but dumb, as Janey would say. Quietest place I ever saw. Why, it was positively silent as a grave.”
“Yes. It is a grave. That’s why I dig around there so much,” replied Randolph, with a laugh. Janey remembered that laugh, though she had heard it very seldom. It was rather rich and pleasant; and scarcely fitted the character she had given him. She had two sudden impulses, one to make them aware of her presence, and another not to do anything of the kind. Second impulses were mostly the stronger with Janey.
“Randolph, I’m very curious about you. What is there in it for you — in this grave-digging work, I mean?”
“Oh, it’s treasure hunting in a way.
I suppose an archaeologist is born. I seldom think of reward. But, really, if I discovered the prehistoric ruin I know is buried here somewhere it would be a big thing for me.”
“Any money in it?” inquired the New York businessman.
“Not directly. At least not at once. I suppose articles and lectures could be translated into money. It would give me prestige, though.”
“Hum. Well, prestige is all right for a young man starting in life but it doesn’t produce much bread and butter. Do you get a salary, in addition to your remuneration for articles and lectures?”
“You could call it a salary by courtesy. But besides bread-and-butter fare of the simplest kind, it wouldn’t buy stockings for a young lady I know,” returned Randolph, and again he laughed, the same nice infectious laugh.
“Now you’re talking,” responded Endicott, with animation. “The young lady, of course, being Janey... Randolph, we’re getting to be good friends. Let’s be confidential. Did you ever ask my daughter to marry you?”
“Lord, no!” ejaculated Randolph.
“Well, that’s a satisfaction. It’s good for a young man to have individuality. I’m glad you’re different from the many... May I ask — forgive my persistence; the awful responsibility of being this girl’s father, you know — weren’t you in love with her?”
There was quite a long silence in which Janey’s heart beat quickly and her ears tingled. She had never really been sure of Randolph. That, perhaps, was his chief charm.
“Yes, Mr. Endicott,” replied the archaeologist, constrainedly. “I was in love with Janey. Not, however, as those young men were in the East. But very terribly, deeply in love.”
“Fine!... Oh, excuse me, Phillip,” rejoined Endicott. “I mean — that’s what I thought. That’s why I liked you. These young lounge lizards play at love. They make me sick. Between you and me I’ve a sneaking suspicion they make Janey sick, too... Now, Phil, here’s the vital question. Is all that past tense?”
Janey made the discovery that she was trembling, and imagined it was from the shame of being an unwitting eavesdropper. How impossible now to call out! Yet she might have slipped away. But she did not.
