by Zane Grey
He stared at Ina as if she were a new species, and when finally it dawned upon him that she actually would not go and was sweetly advising him to hunt up another girl, he betrayed in sulky resentment not only his egotism, but a manifest disillusion. The moment ended Ina’s tolerance and desire to do her duty to her father’s friends.
“I wanted to drive you over to Lakeville. Told some friends I’d fetch you. Well, next Sunday we’ll go,” he said, his petulance easing out to words of finality. It did not occur to him that Ina might again refuse.
After conversation had been renewed he began to question Ina about her college life and her relatives in Kansas. Ina replied fluently, for to her it was a pleasing subject; but very quickly she grasped that Mr. McAdam was not interested in anything concerning it except the men she had known. He was not adroit in concealing his jealous curiosity. Ina would have had more respect for him if he had deliberately asked her if she was engaged or had a sweetheart, or if she flirted promiscuously or at all. Promptly then she cut her discourse on college and Kansas, and led him to talk of himself. He required no urging. Suggestion was not imperative. All she needed to do was listen.
Sewell McAdam was a salesman. He sold commodities for money. Stores and people, no credit and quick turnovers of goods, long hours and small wages for employees — of these things he was glibly full. His little leisure he devoted to fast horses, adornment of person, pinochle, and pretty girls. Never had Ina felt so immensely flattered! He had no love for open country. Never had sat round a camp fire in his life! Hunting was too hard work and fishing a dirty waste of time. The draining of Tule Lake was a master stroke of business minds, of whom his father claimed to be one. He had never seen a wild horse or the purple-grey of the sage hills.
“Let’s go out for a little walk in the yard,” suggested Ina, rising. So she got him outdoors where there was air, but no escape. They inspected the corrals, sheds, barns, horses, with all of which Mr. McAdam found fault. He hated farm life anyway.
“You’ll like living in Klamath Falls,” he said, as if inspired.
“Indeed!” murmured Ina, stifling a laugh. If only Marvie would appear to the rescue! But certain it was that this favoured suitor from the city had been accorded a fair field.
Then to Ina’s dismay the voluble young gentleman spied the grove of large trees far back of the house and desired to go thither. In truth he was sentimental.- Ina suffered herself to be led there. It seemed a sacrilege — something she did not quite understand. But the sympathy and humour with which she had accepted her father’s company vanished under the old double pine tree. Here Sewell McAdam possessed himself of her hand, unobtrusively he made it appear on two occasions. On the third, however, Ina had to pull to release it.
“Mr. McAdam, I fear I do understand you,” she said. “But you don’t understand me. I’m not in the habit of letting young men hold my hand.”
“Aw, be sociable, Ina. What’s a little hand-holding?” he urged.
“It doesn’t amount to much, but I haven’t any desire for it,” she said, edging away.
“Say, I may strike you as pretty thick, but I’m not that big a fool,” he returned, frowning.
“As what?” queried Ina.
“Why — to believe you’re that uppish, when you’ve been away for years at school among a lot of Tom, Dick, and Harrys. Besides, it’s a bad start for us if you’re to be — if we’re — if things are — —”
Ina’s grave, questioning gaze brought him to a floundering halt.
“Mr. McAdam, you are labouring under some mistake,” said Ina. “We — if you mean you and I — have not made any kind of a start. Come, let us return to the house.”
He accompanied her sulkily. Ina was quick to give him an opportunity to say good-bye and make his departure. But he carried his petulance even into the presence of her father and mother, now sitting on the porch with other visitors, of whom Mr. Setter was one. Ina was relieved to join them. A few minutes later Kate and her escort drove into the yard. Presently Ina excused herself and went to her room.
An hour’s pondering alleviated her anger and disgust, but she did not intend to endure any more afternoons like this one. She did not feel sure of her father’s motive, but his action had been rather pointed. Ina had dim recollections of the trials of country girls whose fathers’ wishes were the law. She saw that the only course for her was to assert herself at once. Accordingly, when the company had departed and she was again in the presence of the family, she addressed her father.
“Dad, why did you all leave me alone with that Mr. McAdam?”
“Wha-at!” ejaculated Mr. Blaine, and when she repeated her query he said: “Reckon Sewell was callin’ on you.”
“But I did not know him; I didn’t ask him.”
“That makes no difference. I asked him.”
Ina saw him then, somehow transformed from the loving though hard parent she had cherished in memory. He had been as powerfully affected by the touch of money and his false position as had her mother, only in a vastly different way.
“Why did you?” went on Ina, aware that her composure and spirit were inimical to her father’s temper.
“Sewell’s a fine young chap. His father’s my friend, an’ maybe partner. Reckon I thought you an’ Sewell would take a shine to each other.”
“Thank you. That explains Mr. McAdam. He seemed pretty sure that I’d take a shine to him, as you call it.”
At this juncture Marvie exploded into a rapturous: “Haw! Haw! Haw!”
“Shet up, an’ leave the table,” ordered Mr. Blaine. Then turning to Ina with face somewhat reddened, he continued: “Ina, I ain’t denyin’ I told Sewell you’d sure like him.”
“I’m sorry, for I don’t.’
“Wal, that’s too bad, but I reckon you will when you get acquainted.”
“It’s quite improbable, Father,” returned Ina, unconscious that for the first time she omitted the familiar dad.
“Sewell’s father an’ me are goin’ into a big business deal,” said Mr. Blaine, laboriously breathing, and his huge hands held up knife and fork. “They’re mighty proud folks. If you snubbed Sewell it’d hurt my stand with them.”
“I’ll not snub him or any of your friends or partners,” replied Ina. “I’ll be respectful and courteous, as one of your family, when they call here. But I do not want to be left alone again with Mr. Sewell McAdam or any other man. And I won’t be, either.”
“Paw, Ina is still sweet on Ben Ide,” interrupted Kate, spitefully.
All the blood in Ina’s heart seemed to burn in her face. The name of Ben Ide, spoken aloud, had inexplicable power to move her. This was so thought-provoking that it rendered her mute.
“You ought to be grateful for the attentions of Sewell McAdam,” declared Kate, with a flare in her eyes.
“Listen, Kate, I’m not so susceptible as you are to the blarney of city men,” returned Ina, goaded beyond restraint. “They might be actuated by the change in our fortunes.”
This precipitated the imminence of a family quarrel, which was checked by Mrs. Blame’s bursting into tears and Marvie’s yelling derisively at Kate from the hall. Mr. Blaine stamped after him. Kate, white-faced and shaken, sat there in silence. Ina endeavoured to soothe her mother; and presently, when Mr. Blaine returned with fire in his eye muttering, “That damn youngster’s goin’ to be another Ben Ide!” they all resumed their supper, jointly ashamed of the upset.
That night Ina sat alone in her dark room beside the open window. Spring frogs were piping plaintively. How the sweet notes made Ina shiver! They too flooded her mind with memories of the home she had cherished in her heart, of childhood and youth. Of Ben Ide! She could make out the dim high black hills beyond which lay Forlorn River. Dropping her head on the window-sill, she wept.
CHAPTER IV
BEN MOUNTED HIS grey horse, and splashing across Forlorn River, he headed north, his mind teeming with poignant thoughts. He timed this ride to get him into Hammell late
in the afternoon, but the grey was not a slow traveller, and Ben, lost in vain regrets and hopeless longings, forgot to hold him to a walk At noon, from the divide between the sage mountains, Ben looked back and down at Clear Lake, shining like a green jewel set in the grey-purple of sage, and far across to the dot that was his cabin home, “What a country! I’d hate to see it settled. But that’ll come, and my chance to get possession of Forlorn River Valley.”
Northward down the other side of the pass spread the vast level range land of California and Oregon, green and gold, square-patched in brown, threaded by bright ribbons of water, bordered by the black lava beds and buttes. Far beyond glittered snow-clad Shasta, solemn and white in the sky. Survey of both east and west was blocked by the bulk of the grey mountains.
It was Ben’s habit to look and think while he rode along the trails; and this day his sensorial perceptions were abnormally active while grief, resolve, hope, dream, and doubt possessed his heart in turn. That part of Hettie’s letter referring to Ina Blaine recurred and recurred despite stem effort to dismiss it. Hettie was faithful, brother-worshipp’ng, and she had allowed her imagination to run riot. Ben gave no credence to her wild beliefs. Yet what smothering sweetness overcame him! Madness lay in mere dreaming of what Hettie suggested. No, Ina Blaine was not for a poor, lonely, wild-horse hunter.
Ben rode into Hammell ahead of the hour he had set, and tying the grey to the hitching rail in front of Ketcham’s big store he went in. How good to feel free of debt! Ketcham’s greeting was cordial enough to please even Ben. He exchanged bits of news with the genial merchant, and then crossed the wide street to the high board-faced saloon. He found welcome here, too, from Smatty McGill and his bar-tender, to loungers, cowboys, gamblers, most of whom knew Ben.
“Soft drinks only for me, fellows,” he said, inviting them all to the bar. “But have what you like on me. And tell me all that’s going on around.”
He spent an hour there, hearing again all Nevada had told him, and more besides. He had worked with one of the cowboys. When Ben was about through with his pertinent questions, Strobel, the county sheriff, strolled in. Ben knew him well and was sure of his stand with this lean-jawed, narrow-eyed officer.
“Howdy, Ben!” replied Strobel, to Ben’s greeting. “Haven’t laid eye on you for a year. Tell me aboot yourself.”
It was then that Ben realised the subtle transition which had taken place in his affairs. All in one day! Ben had to draw upon Nevada’s queer ideas and auguries about the future. When spoken out, frankly, Ben felt that they became fact.
“Wal, Ben, I feel I ought to tell you there’s queer talk floatin’ around aboot you,” drawled Strobel, confidentially, and he proceeded to acquaint Ben with some unsavoury gossip.
“Charlie, they’re the dirtiest kind of lies,” declared Ben, with sincere heat. “You’ve known me since I was a kid. Don’t you ask me to deny I’m a horse thief.”
“Wal, I reckon I never took much stock in it, far as you’re concerned,” went on Strobel. “But how aboot your pards?
That Modoc had a bad name before he went to ridin’ fer you. An’ Less Setter swears Nevada is a thief an’ a gun fighter of note in other parts.”
“I knew about Modoc.” replied Ben, earnestly. “But I know as little about Nevada before he came to this country as you do. Since they’ve been with me they’ve been straight, Charlie. They couldn’t do anything crooked without me finding out. What’s more, I intend to live this talk down.”
“Wal, Ben, I’m dog-gone glad to hear you say that,” responded the sheriff. “I always felt close to your father till he fell into a gold mine. It’s my idea lie was hard on you. Now don’t go blowin’ aboot it, but you can count on Charlie Strobel.”
“You bet that makes me proud, Charlie,” responded Ben, feelingly.
“Wal, keep this under your hat. I’ve been jacked up considerable lately ‘cause I can’t lay my hands on this thievin’ outfit back in the sage hills. An’ I’m het up aboot it. Your father an’ Hart Blaine both are on the Council. Reckon you know what that means. Now, Ben, come over to my office and I’ll swear you in as a deputy, secret, of course. Then you keep your eye peeled out in the hills an’ if you run acrost any fellers you’re not sure of you can arrest them on the spot.”
“Thanks for your trust, Charlie, but I can’t bind myself. I’ll keep my eye peeled, though, and post you in no time.”
“Good. I’ll take it as a favour, Ben.”
“Wait a minute, Charlie,” added Ben, as the sheriff shook hands with him. “Tell me, who is this Less Setter?”
“Wal, come to think of it, darn if I know,” rejoined Strobel, musingly. “He hails from east of the range somewhere. Talks big. Spends lots of money. Makin’ deals all the time — cattle, hosses, land. Particular friend of Hart Blaine’s, now.”
“Sounds like a whole lot,” returned Ben, thoughtfully in turn. “All the same, Charlie, I’m giving you a hunch. Watch this Less Setter. Dig quietly into his deals. It can’t do any harm and it may surprise you.”
“Ben, you’ve got your nerve,” said Strobel, his narrow eyes like slits over blue fire. “But I’m a son-of-a-gun if you haven’t hit me plumb centre.”
They parted at the door, Strobel plodding thoughtfully down the road, and Ben wrapped in a profound study, starting to cross to where he had tied his horse. As he approached the hitching rail he saw a buckboard and a spirited team in front of the store. He heard the gay voices of young people. Untying his horse, he was about to step into the saddle when he remembered he wanted matches. So, leading the grey, he walked toward the steps.
Someone, a girl in blue, came tripping down. Ben saw her trim feet halt. Then he looked up into a face that was an older, sweeter image of the one cherished in his heart. Ina Blaine, tall, slim, stood gazing at him with the velvety, dark eyes that had been her greatest charm.
After the shock of recognition, whirling thoughts and feelings crowded Ben’s mind.
“Ben Ide! Don’t you know me?” she asked. The gladness, the reproach in look and voice, upheld him from utter confusion. He became aware of people in front of the store, of those in the buckboard. Before them he must not be awkward; and that, with the spur of her undoubted intention to meet him as an old friend, inspired him to cool, easy dignity; “It’s Ina,” he said, meeting her outstretched hand.
“Oh, Ben — how you’ve grown!” she exclaimed, running an appraising glance from his boots to his bare head. “Why, you’re a man!... Older, Ben, and —— She studied his face with dark eyes growing troubled. ‘But I knew you. Are you well, Ben, and — and all right?”
“I reckon I was both until about a minute ago,” he replied.
“Same old Ben,” she said, gaily, yet she blushed.
With that, restraint seemed to seize upon them both. Ben tried to break it. “You look wonderful, Ina. I hope your homecoming made you happy.”
“Ben, it did, and then it didn’t,” she rejoined. “I’ve so much to tell you. And we can’t talk here. When can you see me?”
“That’s for you to say, Ina,” he answered, his eyes on hers.
She looked away, hesitated, and then, as if with a happy thought, turned to him: “I’m to meet your sister to-night at eight o’clock, in the lane between the house and the road. Won’t you come?”
“Ina, I’m on my way to see Hettie and mother. I’m afraid you’d risk a good deal, meeting me.”
“Risk? In what way, Ben?”
“People would gossip if they saw you with me. Then your father—”
“I’ll welcome the risk, Ben. Say you’ll come with Hettie to meet me.”
“If you really — wish it — yes — I’ll—” he replied, thickly, halting over the last words.
“Thank you. Good-bye till eight,” said Ina, and turned away.
Ben strode up the steps, passing men whose faces blurred, on into the store where with difficulty he remembered what it was he wanted to purchase. His mind was in a whirl.
&n
bsp; “That was young McAdam in the Blaine buckboard,” announced Ketcham, confidentially, as he waited for Ben to make known his wants.
“Didn’t see him. McAdam? Who’s he?” returned Ben.
“Father’s a big merchant in Klamath. This boy Sewell is a high-stepper. He’s runnin’ after Ina pretty keen, an’ folks say Hart Blaine would like him as son-in-law.”
Ben moved away as quickly as possible from a radius of such gossip. He scouted it with strange savage intensity, but that did not assuage the hurt. Then he recalled what Nevada had said about this fellow McAdam.
Ben, suffering a division of mood, went outside and led his horse to a livery stable to get him grain and water. Then the bethought himself of his own needs, though hunger seemed far from him. But he headed toward a restaurant. The hour was near sunset. A cool wind came down from the hills. Wild geese were honking overhead.
Dusk had fallen over the Tule Lake basin when Ben Ide rode into the lane that had once known the imprint of his bare feet. Over the distant range a brightness attested to the rising of the moon. Half-way down the lane, in the shadow of a clump of trees, Ben halted his horse and proceeded to walk.
The smell of freshly ploughed earth filled the cool air. A sadness, fitting the gloaming hour, pervaded the level land.
All Ben’s boyhood flooded back in swift memories. It seemed long past. None of it could ever return. He was an outcast, sneaking home in the absence of his father. Yet with the shame of it burned a righteous wrath. Somehow the fault had not been all his.
As he turned off the lane toward a gate, indistinct in the shade, the figure of a girl approached him noiselessly.
“Ben?” she called, in a shrill whisper.
“Yes, I’m here,” he replied.
She ran into his arms and held him closely, crying low and incoherently. He returned the embrace instinctively. Of course it was his sister. But she was tall, a woman grown, firm and strong of build, and a stranger, except in her voice.
