by Zane Grey
He sat on the porch bareheaded, and watched the moving clouds of dust come down to a level and fade into the grey sage along the lake. Black dots appeared and grew in size, and at length took the shape of horses. Watching them, Ben experienced a familiar old thrill — the vague boyish emotion he had learned to associate with sight of the wild lonely country and the smell of sage and whistle of mustangs, sunrise and the long day ahead. But happiness no more attended this fleeting state. He had thought too much; he had grown older; he had realised that he must find something more significant to live for. Not that the wild open country did not suffice! But he was unsatisfied and could not divine why.
Horsemen and pack-horses wound along the grey sage-slope shore line, splashed through the shallow mouth of Forlorn River, and climbed to the level shady patch in front of the cabin.
A stout square-faced Indian, dressed like a cowboy and wearing his hair short, was in the lead. The other rider was a striking figure. He sat his saddle as if he had grown there. His hair was long and black, showing under a dilapidated old sombrero. He had a lean face, clean and brown, a long nose, and piercing dark eyes, and an expression of reckless good nature. He wore a checkered blouse, a flowing scarf of red, a silver-buckled belt about his lean waist, and rough leather chaps. From a pocket of these, low down, protruded the brown handle of a heavy gun.
“Howdy, Ben!” he called, as he slid out of his saddle. “Made a jim-dandy deal with the hosses. Paid all your debts an’ got six months’ grub. How about that, old timer?”
“Nevada, if you’re not lying, it’s sure great,” replied Ben, heartily.
“It’s true, Ben, I’m dam glad to say,” said Nevada. “An’ here’s a letter from your sister. I just rode over to the ranch, sent a kid in to tell Hettie, an’ waited.”
“Oh, but you’re a life-saver!” declared Ben, as he eagerly grasped the thick envelope Nevada held out. “I was feeling pretty blue.”
“We had supper in town, an’ have been ridin’ ever since,” returned Nevada, wearily.
“Say, you must be tired and hungry.... And how’re you, Modoc?”
“Bad. Town no good for Indian,” replied Modoc, with a grin.
“Ben, I wouldn’t trade this camp for any town on earth,” declared Nevada.
“Neither would I, if you and Modoc were here. It’s been lonesome,” said Ben, as he set to the task of unpacking the three laden horses. Presently Modoc led away the smoking wet animals.
“Nevada, this is an awful lot of stuff,” continued Ben, surveying the large assortment of boxes, bags, and bales.
“Bought every dam thing I could think of,” rejoined Nevada mildly.
‘First time I’ve felt rich for years. Now I’ll pack this outfit inside and then get some breakfast.”
It took all of the small storeroom, the kitchen shelves, and half of the loft of Ben’s cabin to hold the new supplies. While Ben worked at this task Nevada lay on one of the narrow red-blanketed couches and talked.
“Got an all-fired lot of news,” he said, complacently, “if I can only remember. Reckon though it won’t make any difference how it comes.... Ben, your dad has made a pile of money. Sold two thousand acres that used to be under water, they said. The drainin’ of Tule Lake made your dad rich. But he ain’t the only one. Hart Blaine had the most of that low land. I loafed around Hammell in the saloons an’ stores, waitin’ for it to get dark, so’s I could sneak over to your dad’s ranch. An’ I shore asked questions. All the ranchers livin’ away from Tule Lake drains have been hard hit by the drought. Stock poor an’ grass scarce. It’s an ill wind that blows nobody good. This dry spell hasn’t hurt your dad or Blaine, or any of them farmers in the middle of the basin. But if Forlorn River dries up this summer they’re goin’ to be in the same boat with the others.... I run into that McAdam guy an’ he wasn’t overly civil askin’ about you. I strung him good an’ plenty when all the time I wanted to slam him on his slick jaw. One of the waitresses told me he had a cinch on the Blaine girl — I forget her name — the one that’s been away to school. An’—”
“Was it Ina?” interrupted Ben, quickly.
“Yep, shore was. Sort of pretty little handle to Blaine, huh?”
“Ina Blaine,” said Ben, dreamily, pausing in his task. “She ought to be nineteen now.”
“Pard, was this Ina Blaine an old girl of yours?” queried Nevada, with great interest. But as there was no reply forthcoming he went on: “Reckon she was only a kid when you left home.... Well, to resoom, I hired a lad to take me over to your dad’s place, while Modoc rode on with the pack outfit. Smart little fellar, keen about wild-hoss huntin’. No use talkin’, Ben, there’s somethin’ about a wild hoss that gets even a boy. He rode behind me an’ we got to the ranch before dark. I hid outside in a grove of trees an’ sent the kid in. It was just a gamble, you know, because there was ten to one he’d run into somebody else beside Hettie. But, by golly! she came to the door, he said, an’ we waited. Hettie slipped out with the letter I gave you.... Ben, she’s grown up. I couldn’t see her as well as I’d have liked, but it was enough. She was nice, Ben, soft-voiced an’ sweet — an’ it got me. Reckon I’d better not pull this letter stunt for you again.
But she asked me to come an’ I was fool enough to promise.
... So I took the kid back to Hammell, an’ hung around some more.... Ben, there’s an outfit of wild-hoss hunters over here between Silver Meadow an’ the Nevada line that’s takin’ to stealin’ cattle.”
“Who said so?” demanded Ben, suspiciously.
“Common gossip round Hammell,” continued Nevada. “But after buyin’ some drinks for two cowboys I got a hunch who’d branded wild-hoss hunters as cattle thieves. Nobody else but Less Setter. You know we run into some of his deals last summer, an’ he rode right in here one day when you was away. Ben, I’m tellin’ you Less Setter is not on the level.”
“How do you know?” queried Ben, sharply.
“How do you know a hoss that’s thoroughbred from one that ain’t? But it’s only fair for me to admit that I knowed Less Setter before he came to California.”
“Ahuh!” ejaculated Ben, with intent gaze on his friend’s mask-like face. That statement of Nevada’s was absolutely the first he had ever made in reference to his past. Years before, one night back in the sage hills, Nevada had ridden up to Ben’s lonely camp fire. He had a wound in his arm: he was exhausted and almost starved; his horse limped. Ben expressed himself twice: “Get down and come in, stranger,” and, “Where are you from?” The answer had been “Nevada.” Ben had succoured this rider and had never asked another question. Nevada had become attached to Ben and had never mentioned his past “What’s more to the point,” went on Nevada, calmly, “Less Setter knowed me. An’ it’s a good bet he has never gabbed about me. If he had — your folks might reckon I wasn’t fit company for you.”
“Ha! Ha!” laughed Ben, bitterly. “Nevada, don’t talk in riddles. Tell me anything or not, just as you like. I love you for what you are, not what you might have been.”
“Ben, you’re talkin’ strong,” said Nevada, with his piercing eyes softening. “Reckon-no one ever loved me in all my life till now — if you really do. I wouldn’t want you to throw around such talk careless, you know.”
“Well, I do,” declared Ben, stoutly.
“All right, pard,” replied Nevada, and there was a beautiful light in the gaze he bent on Ben. “We make a good or bad pair to draw to, accordin’ to the draw.... I get queer hunches sometimes. Not many, but when I get one I can tie to it. An’ I’ve had a hunch your bad luck has changed. It came to me when Hettie put that letter in my hands. Funny feelin’, Ben. It’s not a thought. It just comes from somewhere outside.”
At this moment the Indian entered with his slow silent tread and taking up the water pails he went out. Ben replenished the fire in the wide stone fireplace, and then set swiftly to the preparation of biscuits, coffee, bacon. His mind worked as swiftly as his hands.
“I
’d like to believe the tide of my fortune has turned,” he said, seriously. “It sure was lucky I sent you. I’m no fellow to sell or buy, to make deals and carry them out. But you’re as smart as a whip, Nevada, and for me at least you drive good bargains.”
“Ben, have you noticed anythin’ particular about me?” inquired Nevada, complacently.
“Can’t say I do,” returned Ben, looking up from his work. “You’ve got a nice clean shave an’ a new scarf.”
“No good. You lose. Ben, I didn’t have one single solitaree drink at Klamath or Hammell. The reason was I had a hunch I might see your sister Hettie, an’ I didn’t want her to smell whisky on me.”
“That’s to your credit, Nevada. I’ll bet it would please Hettie.... But what about it?”
“Nothin’, only I feel better. Reckon I’ll quit drinkin’,” rejoined Nevada thoughtfully. “Ben, if I ketch California Red for you—”
“What?” shouted Ben, jumping as if he had been struck. “Excoose me, pard. I meant if I help you ketch that darned wild stallion you’re so dotty about, will you listen to some sense?”
“Yes, Nevada. I’ll listen to that right now. But see here, you’ve heard something about California Red.”
“Sure have, an’ it’ll keep. I want some breakfast an’ if I told you where that red hoss is you’d chuck everythin’ an’ run.” Ben thrilled at the words and at the bright light in Nevada’s eyes, but he smothered his burning eagerness.
“Reckon I don’t know whether this is sense or the hunch I mentioned,” said Nevada. “But it’s got me, pard. Now listen. We’ve homesteaded three hundred an’ twenty acres of this sage. There are three homesteads we can buy for almost nothin’. That acreage takes in the best of Forlorn River Valley an’ gives control of the range beyond. Right here under our noses is a big cattle country. Let’s go in for cattle, Ben.... Damn! Don’t look like that. I tell you I’ve had a hunch. Now’s the time to buy cattle, when there’s no water or grass. Let’s make up our minds an’ get the money afterwards. When the rains come this Clear Lake country is goin’ to boom. The wild hosses have got to go. You admit that, Ben. Well, let’s ketch California Red an’ a thousand head, an’ keep them for ourselves, an’ settle down to ranchin’ on a big scale.”
“Nevada, you said you didn’t have one drink.”
“I swear I hadn’t.”
“What’s got into you then?”
“Sense an’ hunch.”
“Nevada, how long did you talk to my sister?” queried Ben gravely.
“It seemed like a few swift seconds, but I reckon it might have been longer,” replied Nevada, with unconscious revelation of enchantment.
“What did Hettie say?” continued Ben, hungrily.
“She remembered me, but all the same she asks, ‘You’re Ben’s friend, Nevada?’ an’ I answers I was. Then she fired a beltful of questions at me, all about how you were, an’ I shore answered quick. After that she looked square up at me — reckon it was then I fell — an’ she asks, ‘Nevada, if you’re Ben’s friend you’re mine, too. Tell the truth. Are you an’ Ben livin’ honest?’ An’ I says, ‘Miss Hettie, I wouldn’t lie to no girl, let alone you. Me an’ Ben are shore livin’ honest!’... She squeezed my hands an’ cried. It was awful for me. Then she fired up. ‘Aren’t you two boys ashamed to be thought — what you are? This is a new country. It’ll be big. You’re young, strong. You’re great riders. Why don’t you do somethin’? Chase wild hosses, if you must, but ketch them. Sell them. Buy cattle. Homestead land. Study an’ think an’ plan, an’ work. Fool these hard-shelled old people! Make big ranchmen out of yourselves.’... Pard Ben, you could have roped me with a cobweb. An’ there I stood, burstin’ to talk, but couldn’t say a word. She told me how to fetch word from you an’ then she ran off.”
“Hettie! God bless her!” exclaimed Ben, heartily. “I’m not surprised. Even as a kid she was big-hearted. Hettie has grown up. She’s sixteen. And to think I’ve not seen her for two years!”
Modoc returned with the pails of water. Ben soon had breakfast ready, and when his companion sat down at the rude table he went outside to read Hettie’s letter. He threw himself in the shade and with trembling fingers tried to open the envelope quickly yet not tear it.
“THE RANCH.
“DEAREST ΒEN,
“I’m in a terrible rush and won’t be able to write half what I want to, as the little boy said ‘Nevada’ is waiting for me outside and I must hurry. Oh, how I wish it were you!
“Dad is away. He went to Klamath Falls with Mr. Setter. They’re making big cattle deals. So many poor ranchers are failing on account of the dry season. I think it’d be more to dad’s credit if he helped some of these little fellows, instead of taking advantage of their bad luck. I don’t like Mr. Setter, and when I see you I’ll tell you why.
“Ben, it’s a long time since I wrote you last. Nearly a year. I’m through high school. Dad wants me to go to college and mother wants me to stay home. Dad and Mr. Blaine and several more of the old lake pioneers have made an awful lot of money since the government drained Tule Lake. I don’t know whether it’s good or not. In a few ways it’s nice, but there’s something gone. Dad always was hard, you know, and now he has gotten ‘stuck up.’ And I’m afraid I must tell you that your brothers and sisters (except me) are almost as bad. I’d like to write you just what they do, but you must wait until I can tell you. And that brings me to the important thing in this letter.
“Mother is not well, Ben. There’s no use to dodge the truth. She’s failing. It breaks my heart. You were her favourite, Ben, and she has pined in secret. I believe dad’s bitter hardness about you, his injustice to you, has broken mother. Anyway, she is ailing and I know longs to see you. She’d obey dad, of course, and not ask you to come. But you can surprise her. And, Ben, dearest, if you could only prove to mother that you were not wasting your life — that these vile things Mr. Setter and others have told dad are lies — I think she might improve. So the day you get this ride in to the ranch. I’ll be looking for you down the lane just about dusk. You can see mother for a little, and then you and I will go out in the grove and have a long, long talk.
“I’ve a lot to tell you, Ben, about what’s going on here. And I’m going to put some pretty plain questions to you. Dare say you’ll know some of them before you see me, because if I have a minute with this ‘Nevada’ I’ll sure put some to him.
“Ben, I mustn’t end this without a word about Ina Blaine. She’s home from school. I was afraid to meet her, but, oh! Ben, she’s as sweet and nice as ever she was when you and she were kid sweethearts and I was for ever pestering you. And she’s lovely. School has improved her, that’s certain, and if it weren’t for mother I’d grasp my opportunity and go.
“I’ve seen Ina three times. I believe we’re going to be friends. We think the same about a lot of things. Ina isn’t crazy about money, and I’ll miss my guess if she goes in for the town gaiety that has struck the Blaine family.
“Ben, she remembers you. I’m not in her confidence yet but I can feel how she feels. She likes you, Ben. I don’t believe the years of school have made any difference in her, except to improve. The difference in her looks, though, is tremendous. You’ll not know Ina. Already she’s heard this village gossip about you. For she asked me straight out. I told her no, that you had your choice and took it. She wants to help you, and says we are arch-plotters. She was awfully curious about that terrible wild horse they say you’re mad to catch. Brother, you know I wouldn’t mislead you, and I’m telling you I couldn’t make a mistake about how I feel — or mother — or Ina Blaine. And if we care for you still you’ve got to do something. She’ll be the richest and most popular girl in this whole valley of towns and ranches. Do you imagine that’ll ever change her? No! Ben, you’ve more to catch around these sage hills than a beautiful wild mustang. You’ve your boyhood’s sweetheart, Ina Blaine. So there!
“I must close now, but it’s hard. Don’t let anything keep you f
rom coming. I’m quite capable of riding out to Forlorn River.
“With love,
“HETTIE.”
When Ben finished the letter his eyes were blurred and he had a hard, dry contraction of his throat, a pang deep in his breastbone. Wave after wave of emotion had swept over him. And then he sat there motionless, the open letter in his hands, his gaze across the grey melancholy river to the dim grey hills of sage. He did not see them. The eyes of his mind were fixed on the dear familiar scenes of boyhood, home and mother, and freckled-faced Hettie with her big, loving, blue eyes, on the miles of wind-swept swamp land along Tule Lake, on the schoolhouse at Hammell and the long lane that led from the Ide ranch down to Blaine’s. He saw a girl of fourteen with a chestnut braid down her back, a white pearly skin that even the summer sun could not tan, and dark eyes of velvet softness. Then the heart-numbing pictures faded for the stalwart figure of his father, iron of muscle and of mind, the grey, clear eye like sunlight on ice, and the weathered wrinkled face, a record of labour and strife.
A second and more thoughtful perusal of Hettie’s letter fixed Ben’s mind upon the most poignant and unavoidable fact of it — that pertaining to his mother. She was failing. What a terrible sickening shock ran through him! Then he was gripped in the cruel clutches of remorse. It was a bitter moment, but short because, his decision to go was almost instantaneous. Folding Hettie’s letter, Ben went into the cabin.
“Modoc, saddle the grey,” he said shortly.
The Indian laid down pan and dishcloth and abruptly glided out. Nevada looked up quickly from his task, with swift, curious gleam of eyes searching Ben’s face.
“Bad news, pard?” he queried.
