by Zane Grey
“To come pronto?”
“Shore.”
“To meet Jim?”
“Wal, Jim is shore some cow wrastler, but he couldn’t drive twenty-two hundred haid of cattle alone.”
“You drove them here?”
“Lady, them eyes of yorn don’t look as if they could ever miss nothin’.”
A light began to dawn in Martha Ann’s bewildered brain. But for a moment her vocal powers were not equal to her curiosity. With a hand trying to steady her thumping heart she gazed down upon the four, from Bandy to Tully and back again. They stood at ease, warmly regarding her, already in their opinion personally and intimately known to her and happy because of it. Strong odors of dust and toil emanated from their soiled, shiny-leathered persons. The three older men packed guns in their belts.
“Whose cattle — are these?” Martha asked haltingly.
“Our new boss’s, of course.”
“Boss! Jim, you mean?”
“No. Jim’s only foreman.”
A loud halloo came from the house. Martha looked up to see Jim, her uncle and Sue, standing near the kitchen door. Jim was waving a gloved hand. Something about him seemed charged with importance. His lean brown face shone and his eyes were flashing.
“Lass, how you like our new ootfit?” he called.
Martha Ann leaped off the corral fence and ran over to the house.
“Jim!...Jim!...” she squealed, almost beside herself with joy. She hugged and kissed him. “Oh! but I’m — glad to see — you!” she panted. “But, what have you — put over — on me?”
“On us, Martha dear,” interposed Bligh with strong feeling. He was pale and somewhat agitated. “All a surprise. I never dreamed this was what Jim left for.”
“I told you that old fox had an idee,” chimed in Sue. She was crying.
Martha Ann gripped the old Arizonian’s vest with tight little hands. She shook him. “You’ve done it now! You deceiving, adorable wretch!...Are you a magician or a rustler?...Jim, is this herd ours?”
“Shore is, lass,” he replied proudly.
“How did you get it?”
“Bought every darn hoof. Fer cash an’ cheap. Shore is a bargain.”
“Where did you get the money?”
“Andrew Bonnin’. He’s gone in pardership with yore uncle.”
“An — drew?” faltered Martha Ann.
“I reckoned Andy would tell you. He wanted to surprise you. But I figgered he couldn’t keep it from you.”
“He — did...Jim, where did he — get so much money?”
“Wal, he had it.”
“All the time — since he’s been here?”
“So he says. Lord knows, he’s got me buffaloed. Sue swears he’s a millionaire jest masqueradin’ oot heah.”
“So that’s where my Buckskin came from?” whispered Martha Ann. “My Mexican saddle — my—”
“Lass, Andy made me promise not to give him away. But I can’t lie to you...There he comes now. Pitch into him, Martha.”
Andrew came strolling leisurely from his cabin, his hands in his pockets, apparently quite cool and unconcerned over all the hubbub. Martha Ann knew that her eyes were dim with tears, but that could hardly account for a magnified vision of an Andrew Bonning whom she could not face just then.
“Folks, little Martha Ann’d better fade out of the picture — for a spell,” she cried, and fled.
CHAPTER XV
“DARLING MOTHER,” WROTE Martha Ann. “Since you have forgiven your naughty child I will be dutiful and truthful and tell you all that has happed to her in these last wonderful days.
“I wrote you about receiving the money, that I wasn’t so happy, and couldn’t think of coming home yet awhile. I hope I thanked you. Anyway I bought the sweetest dress and underthings with that railroad fare. But first I paid my hero’s fine and got him out of jail, and then he paid me back.”
“If you still love me and if you want me excruciatingly I will come home for the holidays — and bring him. You are all going to go loco — dippy, I mean, over my Andrew, and the girls who used to be so catty to me will be green with jealousy, and my old beaus won’t ever again try to kiss me at the foot of the stairs in the hall — not after they see Andrew. To see him is enough. You don’t have to be told that he was an end on one of the big college football teams.
“Mother, I’m so happy that I’m crying like a baby right now. And you know I never was the weepy kind. Uncle was just about ruined. What with cattle thieves (Oh, Honey, I caught one of them myself, and I reformed him, and he — but that’s another story) and in a crazy deal Uncle made with a rancher here, he lost nearly everything. I was ready to die. Uncle was down in the depths, like Father got when the bills used to come in. Then something strange happened. Jim Fenner, our man — he’s an old Arizonian — left mysteriously for parts unknown, supposedly to try to raise money to save Uncle. Sue, that’s Jim’s wife and the dearest soul, suddenly perked up, and so did Uncle. Andrew, however, slowly and surely sank to the depths of despair. That was my doing, and had absolutely nothing to do with the ranch problem.
“I began to think that little Martha Ann had been so blue — so love-sick — yes, love-sick, herself that she would never be able to understand what was going on. I began to do a tall lot of cogitating. But for once I was on the wrong track.
“One day a boy came along with the most wonderful pony, and the most gorgeous silver-mounted Mexican saddle, bridle, etc. for me. I was dazed, then enraptured, then scared. Jim was fond of me, and I feared the old fellow had turned rustler or bank robber just to get me what I had yearned for so long.
“Then on another day along came a great herd of cattle, almost running over our house. They chased me to the top of the corral fence, where I nearly strangled with dust. When the herd passed, four cowpunchers appeared to face me up on my perch. Mother, they were the most thrilling, the toughest, the fiercest, the most enchanting, the funniest human beings I ever saw. At first they had me buffaloed (that means stampeded), and I’m afraid I was sort of upstage. They turned out to be old cronies of Jim Fenner’s, when he rode the wild range in Arizona, and they had come with Jim, and had driven that great herd of cattle here for Uncle Nick.
“I was dumbfounded. I was thunderstruck — I was scared stiff. I couldn’t understand it. Then Jim showed up to whoop at me. I tumbled off the fence and rushed to him. It all came out then. Jim had really bought the herd and sent for his cowboys — all for Uncle Nick! Andrew had supplied the money — thousands of dollars — and he and Jim had hatched the deal to surprise Uncle Nick and me. They darn near killed me of heart failure.
“Now, Mother, here’s where we dig in, and try to get serious.
“I met Andrew Bonning on the night of May 13th at 7:35 on a lonely road. Some tramps had waylaid your not so dutiful daughter and one of them had collared me. I didn’t have time to let out a squawk when up comes a Ford, out jumps Big Boy, and wham! that tramp must be falling yet. Well, it was 7:36 when I looked up at my savior and that moment was curtains for Martha Ann. I fell terribly in love with him right on the spot. But I didn’t know it then.
“He gave me a lift. He took me for a wild little jayhawker, crazy to hitchhike the lonely roads to get kicks out of meeting men. Oh, Mother! I was sunk — and so mad that I saw red. He dropped me at the next town, and I know he hoped he’d never see me again. But I was crazy to meet him. Well, I did. Worse luck! I was picked up by a nice kid, was having a perfectly lovely time driving his car into a town, when all of a sudden I saw my rescuer. Oh, Mother! His eyes looked daggers at me. They said as plain as print that I had vamped this callow youth. I had a funny feeling around my heart. We met in the dining room. I don’t know why I was so — so flip. But he infuriated me. He looked so disappointed in me. Well, for once in my life I flirted. I sure flirted. I can understand now why girls like that line. But it was the only time I can remember that I ever tried deliberately, and I did it to prove to that big handsome prude that I was e
xactly what he took me to be. All the same, that night I cried myself to sleep.
“I went on my way. I had a wonderful time during all the rest of my hike, except for one horrible experience out of which I kicked myself — literally kicked myself free — the dirty bully — and which right there taught me the error of my innocent hitchhiking ways, and why Andrew was so absolutely right. This is hard to say, Mother honey, and I say it here for the first time, because I’ll have to be on the level and say it to Andrew too. There are some things a girl simply cannot do. Spirit and virtue and religion and training — and nerve are not enough to see a girl through situations that she should never have gotten into. All this new woman, modern-century stuff is the bunk. Women cannot be as free as men. A girl is restricted — that is, a good girl — by her sex. She has a responsibility a boy does not have. She is the mother of the race, and if the race is to progress instead of retrogress, she has to hold herself more sacred than men do.
“How’s that, Muth, for little Martha?
“Well, imagine! When I got to Randall at last, I found that Uncle Nick had moved way out into western Wyoming. I forgot to tell you that Andrew nicknamed me Wyoming Mad. I hated it — and very consistently ended by loving it. The blow nearly killed Martha. But I went on, and had the marvelous luck to get to Uncle Nick’s ranch on the Sweetwater in less than two days, without hiking a step.
“Now brace yourself, old dear. Listen! I’ve already told you about Uncle Nick and the ranch. But not this. I hadn’t been there an hour when I ran around a corner of the barn and plump into — Andrew Bonning. Right into his arms, in fact!
“He had become Uncle’s hired man, working for his board. No accident! Not chance! It was fate, Mother, and it sure floored me. From that moment on we were at dagger’s points. Then came a day when a horse pitched me off and I sprained my ankle. Andrew found me. He was kind, sorry, worried — insisted on helping me. But I was nasty — I didn’t want him to carry me in his arms. But he did, and during that ride he kissed me...Oh, dear! It was then that I found out I loved him madly. And that was where I started to backslide. I didn’t want him to find it out. Things went on happening. I met young people; nice folk, wholesome Western girls, and some bad cowboys. They all took to me, especially the bad ones. Andrew came to the first dance I attended. That night I saw that he was no Missouri garage hand, as he had tried to palm himself off. He looked what he really is, and he danced my poor heart right out of my bosom. It has never come back.
“You couldn’t expect your child to be anywhere without starting trouble. (Mother, I really ought to be married. I’m a menace to society.) It happened. Andrew caught me riding home with the cowboy cattle thief I told you I reformed. They were like a couple of gamecocks. Did they fight over me? Did they? They did. Andrew gave Texas Jack a terrible whipping. And then I had to go on my knees to Andrew to keep him from fighting the cowboy with guns. Another time at a rodeo (that’s a cowboy circus) Andrew beat up four cowboys at one time because one of them had insulted me. Also he punched the sheriff on the beezer. Oh, Sir Galahad never had anything on my darling! This was when Andrew got arrested and I had to pay his fine.
“I flirted some more, Mother. I let the boys hold my hand, and once I let Texas Jack kiss me. If I had known then what I know now, I’d have let him hug me, too. All this when Andrew was in sight! To torture him! Because I knew by then how much he cared for me. All the same, Mother, despite my mad temptation to bring that proud boy to his knees, I did not lose my head over the other boys.
“At last my hour came. One night after supper Andrew called me out — and he — well, never mind what, except that he told me in as beautiful and manly and humble a way as any girl could ask, that he loved me, that despite disapproving of me he worshipped me, and he begged me to marry him.
“How I ever kept myself out of his arms, I have no idea. But I was a demon. I made him confess that he had thought me a vamp, a flirt, a necker, a — oh, almost everything that was bad — that he still thought so and would marry me in spite of it. To reform me! I told him honestly what I was and am. Poor Andrew, that was a tough night for him. I thanked him for the honor and said I wouldn’t marry him if he were the last man on earth. Like some royal lady I stalked away. But when I got in bed in the dark I thought I would die.
“That ended my play with the young fellows, and it was a relief, believe me. Since Andrew found out his blunder he has gradually gone downhill. I had my revenge. Little-souled as it seems of me it was sweet. Because, oh, how he had hurt me! And oh, how I loved him! I watched him. I gloated over his misery. I saw his heart breaking inch by inch. And all this while I worked, played, sang, made merry — I was a perfect angel. Mother, there is a sadistic streak in all women.
“Then came the unexpected — the thing that devastated me — that makes this letter to you possible — that bends the knees and bows the head of little Martha Ann. Andrew sent me that adorable pony — that magnificent saddle. But I was supposed never to know that they came from him. Only Jim could not keep the secret. Ah! but that old boy is a matchmaker!
“That was sweet of Andrew. But the noble thing, the great deed was for him to save Uncle Nick and back him in a cattle deal that in this country is far from being a sure success. Jim and Sue imagine Andrew is a millionaire in disguise. I don’t. I take him to be a boy of fine family, who came west for much the same reason as I. He had told me he had a little money. He never said how much, and of course I never dreamed that it was enough to save us and start us anew. Evidently it was.
“That’s my tale, Martha Dixon, as Uncle Nick calls you. The sequel is on the knees of the gods. I have yet to crawl to Andrew, to confess I loved him all the time — that when I swore I hated him I was a liar. Telling him will give me the greatest kick of all my life. This letter is my preparation.
“It would serve me right if he scorned me. I have a cold, sick feeling at the bottom of my heart when I think of it. But he, too, has found himself in this wonderful country. He could not change. He would not hate. He can only love.
“And so I dare to hope. I pray I do not hope in vain. You may be assured, dearest, best, most loving, long-suffering Mother, of your unworthy daughter’s happiness — and through that the promise that she will be worthy. I will write again as soon as my fate is decided. But lest your distress yourself anew I give you my word here that I shall come home with Andrew for Christmas.
“Martha Ann.
“P. S. I think I’ll steal unawares upon Andrew, when he is brooding before his fire, and slip in quietly and up behind him. Maybe I will plump right down in his lap. (I’ll be pretty weak in the knees by then.) Maybe I won’t have to, because if he is any good on earth he’ll grab me.
“M. A.”
The night was dark and cool, with stars obscured, and a misty rain beating out of the north. Out there the open range gloomed like a vast windy hall, from whence came the bawling of cattle and the wailing of coyotes.
Martha Ann ran with light feet and lighter heart. Her hour had struck. It had been propelled by the long letter to her mother, and precipitated by Uncle Nick’s startling news that Andrew thought he would go to California for a while. Never would Andrew Bonning leave for California without Martha Ann! She meant to make sure of that tonight.
A flickering light shone out of his window upon the bare boughs of the trees.
Martha Ann felt eager, cool, brave, happy to capitulate at last. But when she saw Andrew through the tiny aperture between the logs, all but her love deserted her. He was dozing in his chair, and with the mask off, his face appeared terrifyingly tragic and sorrowful. She had gone too far. Always too little or too much — she knew no happy medium! Was it too late? She must not lose another moment.
She drew back trembling. The cloak dropped from her head. She felt the cool rain drops upon her burning face.
Like a shadow she crept up onto the porch and tiptoed to the door. It was slightly ajar. She stood there, fighting for breath, in the grip of a strong s
weet happiness that slowly replaced her terror. Her fingers shook when she flipped them inside the door. She opened it a little and glided in. The room was in shadow except for a ruddy circle before the forgotten fire. She smelled the pungent wood smoke. Andrew’s dark head showed above the back of his chair. He stirred.
That broke the strain under which Martha Ann had labored. A shuddering gladness engulfed her. She had not lacked courage or strength, but she had not bargained for a failure of her heart, her breath, her thought, her sight.
She crept to the chair, laid a supporting hold upon it. She moved around beside him. Into his half-closed eyes came some change of perception, as if he were dreaming a dream. Martha Ann slid over the arm of the chair upon his lap, and as he started violently, she put an arm around his neck and hid her face from him. She felt him touch her, lightly, then with a hungry convulsive clasp.
“My God!...This is no dream,” he cried hoarsely. “No — Andy...You wouldn’t think so — if you’d had to do it,” she replied quickly.
“Martha Ann!”
“Yes. I hope you were not dreaming of Connie.”
“What?...Oh, you would!...Martha, you have come to thank me. Please don’t! Don’t!” he begged.
“I haven’t come for anything of the sort,” she retorted.
He plied her with incoherent queries, all the time trying to raise her to the arm of the chair. But Martha Ann clung to him all the tighter.
“Listen, tenderfoot. Don’t ask questions.”
“Good Heavens! Are you mad? Wyoming Mad!...What does this last mad prank mean?”
“What does this — mean?” and she kissed him on the cheek. He sank back. All his rigidity left him. His hands fell limp to the arms of the chair. She felt a vast heave of his broad breast and she heard a thumping there.
“Martha, have you no heart — no conscience?...After all, are you only—”
