by Zane Grey
“Oh, you mustn’t! It wouldn’t be safe!” she cried.
“Molly, I think we turned the table on Slinger, too. That fellow is no clod...Darling, do you know you told him — you loved me?”
“What else could I do?” wailed Molly.
“But, Heavens, tell me you didn’t lie!”
She turned away her face. “No, Jim.”
“You do love me?” he implored, drawing her close.
“I cain’t help it...But don’t ask me — never no more — what you did.”
“I shan’t, if you’re going to be distressed. But, Molly Dunn, that offer stands!”
“Don’t! — What do you think I’m made of, anyhow?...But, Jim, the wonderfullest thing I ever lived was when you hatched that lie to save Slinger...That Prentiss boy is a real hombre. He’d have shot Slinger in the wink of an eye. An’ my brother knew it...Jim, if I hadn’t loved you before that I’d have done it after...Perhaps it’s all for some good. You shore have changed me. Who knows? Maybe even Slinger Dunn might be made to see.”
“I had the same thought, Molly,” said Jim, earnestly. “And some day I’ll follow it up...Now you must go, Molly.”
He released her, won to solicitude by the gray hue and strain of face she betrayed. But suddenly she surprised him by flinging her arms around his neck and pressing lips and cheeks to his. “Oh — Jim! Jim!...” Then she rose and ran into the spruce.
Jim lay back spent, elated, conscious of recurring pangs in his wounds, overcome by his feelings. So that sooner or later, when the cowboys returned of their own accord, it was no wonder they were concerned.
“Lemme see where he got plugged?” growled Curly, and with Bud assisting, he untied the bandages. “Wal, Bud,” he continued, presently, “it’s only a groove, an’ we could do no better by it...Reckon it’s the gurl thet took the sap out of him.”
“Ahuh. Anyone could see he was light-haided,” replied Bud, plaintively. “Ain’t it funny what a lovely female can do to a fellar? But, my Gawd! if I’d been Jim—”
“Idiots!” burst out Jim, opening his eyes and sitting up. “Shut up and get me to camp.”
“Ex-coose us, boss,” said Curly, hastily. “You see, we was comin’ back — reckonin’ your — the little lady had gone — but jest then she pounced on you, an’- -”
“Curly, you needn’t explain,” interrupted Jim. “You are a couple of two- faced demons from Hades. Find my horse. He’s hobbled here somewhere.”
“Wal, boss, I understand you,” drawled Curly, as he got up.
“My conscience has stung me more’n once fer mistrustin’ friends on account uv a gurl.”
They ambled away into the woods, snickering and talking low, and presently Curly’s mellow laugh rolled out. Jim had to love them, realizing they were secretly delighted with his conquest of Molly Dunn. But what would his Uncle Jim say? Jim decided to withhold the matter until some time when he could contrive to have the old bachelor cattleman see Molly in that white dress. Then the rest would be easy. Just here, however, he happened to remember Molly had refused him and importuned him not to ask her “never no more.” The poor harassed, conscientious, adorable child!
Presently Jim’s reverie was disrupted by the advent of the cowboys with his horse and their own. Bud found his saddle, and then came into the lean-to for the blankets.
“Come on, you boss of the Diamond,” he said, making no effort to help Jim up.
Jim slowly crawled to a post of the lean-to and using that as a support he laboured to a standing position. For a moment he felt dizzy. Then it passed.
“Fetch this medicine and towel,” he said, as he walked out.
Bud was singing one of his Texas ditties: “When a boy falls in love with a pretty turtle dove, He will linger all around her under jaw—”
They made no move to help Jim on his horse, and he certainly gave no hint that their aid would have been most helpful. This cowboy school was a hard one. Jim remembered something about the Spartans, and concluded that Curly’s and Bud’s mothers had been Spartans. He swung up into the saddle to fierce shooting pangs through his shoulder.
They rode off, with Bud leading the way, and Curly beside Jim.
“Boss,” he said, abruptly, “are you shore Slinger Dunn didn’t shoot you?”
“Say! Whatever gave you that idea?” queried Jim, who did not need to feign surprise.
“Wal, when he turned round he shore expected to be bored. An’ fact is, I come damn near borin’ him.”
“You’d have made a terrible mistake, Curly,” rejoined Jim. seriously.
Jim managed fairly well in the saddle on the level ground, and even up the first gradual ascent of the trail, but when they reached the steep and rough part he had to hold on to the pommel. And he had never before suffered such sickening weakness and pain. But he stuck it out. He realized that he could do it, else these cowboys would never have let him tackle it alone. Nevertheless, he ground his teeth to keep from calling out. If anything in the world could have kept Jim Traft from falling out of his saddle, upon arriving in camp, it would have been the warwhoop the cowboys let out when they saw him. But even that could not do it.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A WHOLE WEEK had to pass by before Molly Dunn came out of her trance. “I shore been walkin’ in my sleep,” she said.
Good luck facilitated an otherwise insupportable situation. Her parents never learned she had been away from home nearly the whole of two days. Slinger had arrived at the cabin before Molly, and Molly had a suspicion it had been through him, somehow, that their mother had not become aware of her absence. She felt Slinger’s eyes upon her, at times when she was not looking at him, but he never spoke to her, never gave any indication that he heard her. More significant of his mental chaos were the hours he spent sitting idle. Sometimes he would go into the field and work, careful to take a rifle along. Molly would catch a glimpse of him, leaning motionless on a spade, looking off into the forest.
“Whatever ails your brother?” inquired Mrs. Dunn. “I hear him walkin’ the porch at nights.”
“Ma, I reckon he’s in love,” replied Molly, mischievously, “Folks get queer when they’re that way.”
“You know, don’t you?” said her mother.
Molly nursed a calamitous conviction that she did. And she became grief- stricken.
She fell into a state in which there were no moments of relaxation, or dream, or relief from misery. Her heart was broken and she wanted to die. She thought of drowning herself in the great Maple Spring, and pictured herself lying at the edge, down in the clear water, her face white and her hair waving, and her eyes wide open, staring up at the cruel world which she had chosen to relinquish. There was some consolation in this picture. Arch would find her and suffer sorrow that he had been partly the cause of her demise. The thought of a conscience-stricken mother was not unpleasant. And then Jim might be the first to discover her lying cold and dead in the spring. Where he had driven her! The aching ecstasy of this thought vanished in sudden pain and self-reproach. Why should she make Jim suffer? He had done nothing but fall in love with her — nearly lose his life through her. He had lifted her out of obscurity. He had exalted her. No! She could not make him any unhappier than he was already. She had to forswear thought of suicide.
She could not do her work, which involved her in trouble with her mother. She moped all day, most of it in some corner; and she chose the dark and bare and squalid places, that seemed to be in harmony with her moods. At dusk she sat out in the clearing, on a stump, and watched the bats and the night-hawks. She did not sleep well. Many hours she crouched at her little window in the loft, and during those when the gloom and silence of dawn seemed like her life she suffered most.
A second Sunday came. Would she date all the rest of her life from that last day in the woods with Jim Traft? What would become of her? When Andy called she begged him to excuse her. “Why, gurl, you’re sick! You look turrible!” he said, anxiously.
Then
in the afternoon young Keech came on horseback. He was very mysterious, and Molly felt she would presently be rude, but he whispered to her that he had brought something for her which he had left outside by the fence. He gave no explanation and departed even more mysteriously than he had come, even winking at her.
“Darn fool!” muttered Molly, who had no patience these days. “Whatever is he up to?”
Nevertheless, curiosity consumed her and she went out by the gate and searched in the bushes. There she stumbled upon a large package, neatly tied in paper, the like of which she had seen in the big Flagerstown store. Molly was puzzled. Had young Keech begun to “spark” her in this romantic manner? It was highly improbable, because if he had fetched her presents he would most assuredly want to see her reaction to them.
No! That package was Jim Traft’s first message. Molly divined it, and passionately she reproached herself for her doubt of him. Still, he might have forgotten her. This might be a joke, or anything.
Molly watched her chance to carry the parcel in unobserved, and up to the sanctity of her attic. Then, with trembling hands and beating heart, she opened it. Inside were three smaller parcels, and some books, one old and several new. One parcel was a box of candy tied with ribbons. Another contained the most beautiful silk scarf Molly had ever seen. The third was a little sewing-kit, containing everything imaginable.
“Shore it’s from Jim — bless his heart!” she murmured, and searched frantically for a note. There appeared to be none, and her wild hopes subsided. She examined the books and thrilled at their titles. The old book was a school grammar and had the look of long thumbing. Then on the fly-leaf she discovered handwriting: “James Traft. Wellsville High School. Sept. 1, 1878.”
“Wal, I’ll be dog-goned! He’s sent me his school-book, of ten years ago!...Now what in the dickens does he mean by that?”
Molly was thrilled, puzzled, and then suddenly dismayed. “It’s a hint for me to study how to talk correct,” she muttered, resentfully. But anger would not abide with her. One single query drove it away. Why should Jim Traft want her to make up for her lack of education? There could be only one answer. And straightway Molly was lifted to the skies and plunged into the depths. She had imagined — most absurdly — that he had repented of his rash offer, and had let her go at her own valuation. But he had not. He wished her to study. He believed in her. He meant — But Molly dared not follow on that thought.
Molly hugged the grammar, miserably sure of her mingled pain and joy. She put it under her pillow. She kissed the silken scarf and tied it round her neck. And all the rest of that afternoon she sat by her window, devouring both the candy and the story-books. A hundred times she rooked dreamily out, to whisper: “Why didn’t he write me a letter?” and after a while it dawned upon her wondrously that Jim Traft, despite his demands, was trying to make it easy for her.
All during the next week Molly studied, day after day, until her eyes ached. She taunted herself, but she could not help it. The brooding thoughts of making away with herself recurred, but they could not gain any hold in this new and strange consciousness. There seemed to be a joy even in her torment. Why could not her life be like that of the girls in the story-books? When she had punished herself greatly with their power over her, then she went back to the grammar.
The next Sunday Molly waited all day for another possible visit from young Keech. But he did not come and she had to fight bitter disappointment. Reason came back to her, however, after she had become thoroughly wretched. Keech would have to ride to Flagerstown — a whole day, and another back home. Then it would take the same time to make the trip down the Cibeque and back. Four days out of one week! That was too much. But he might come again the following Sunday, and she lived on hope of that.
Meanwhile September was far on its way. The golden flowers of autumn had begun to line the trails and fields. In the glen the ferns were turning brown. High up in the notches under the Diamond the scarlet, and purple, and gold had begun to burn in the sunlight. Fall had come — the season Molly loved best.
Slinger still stayed at home, though now he went to the village; and Molly detected that he drank. Once or twice he had spoken gruffly to her. And he had cut the corn and packed it into the crib; he had repaired the fence to keep the hogs out; he had begun to haul and chop the winter supply of firewood.
Molly marvelled and sadly divined the torment in him. No doubt he had expected a visit from the Flagerstown sheriff, or the cowboys of the Diamond. But they did not appear. And no word of Jim Traft having been shot by fence- cutters had yet reached West Fork. Molly believed now that it never would, and so she told her brother.
Other news and rumours were rife, however, some of which might be true. Work on the drift fence had not progressed beyond Tobe’s Well. All the labour that the Diamond put in was in repairing sections that had been laid low. Small herds of stock had been reported on the trails, driven by riders whose names were not even whispered in West Fork. Money appeared plentiful in the village. There had been several shooting frays, of small consequence, one of which had been an attack on Andy Stoneham while walking the trail to Molly’s home.
Another Sunday arrived, and with it, after Molly had waited long, agonizing hours, young Keech with more of a mysterious air, more assurance that he shared a great secret, more winks and grins. He nearly drove Molly mad. He stayed for a whole insupportable hour, during which, before her drooping father and her inquisitive mother, and once or twice her sharp-eyed brother, Molly had to maintain her equilibrium as well as the demeanour of a village maiden entertaining a visitor. At last Keech said he wanted to run down to West Fork, and Molly accompanied him as far as the lane that led out from the barn, where he had left his horse.
“Thar’s a pack fer you inside, hid in the corner,” he informed her, with a meaning grin. “I’ll drop in on my way back, in case you want to send a letter.”
“Letter!” faltered Molly. “How — how soon’ll you he hack?”
“Reckon aboot sundown. I’ll whistle,” he returned, and rode off down the lane.
Molly watched him guiltily. He seemed to take it for granted that she was a party to this courtship of Jim Traft’s. The affair certainly could not be kept secret very long, even if young Keech justified the trust Jim had in him. Molly knew these younesters. Soon everybody would learn that she was accepting gifts from the nephew of rich old Traft, and that would only be another black mark for Molly Dunn of the Cibeque. Not that Molly cared on her own account — she was thinking of Jim, and how her people and neighbours of West Fork would only have more against him. It would never enter their heads that he might have honourable intentions. Oh, if she could only let them know his honesty — his goodness!
She went in the barn and found the pack. Three times as large and heavy as the first one! Molly’s fingers burned to open it, but she resolutely hid it and ran back to the house. She would return it. But no, she had not the strength to do that, let alone hurt Jim’s feelings. She would write and tell him not to send any more.
Up by her loft window, Molly laboured over that letter and her tears fell upon it. She was aware that she was placing in Jim’s hands documental proof of her lack of education. It hurt her, but she was not ashamed, and she wrote as she would have talked. She had meant to make it short, which intention turned out to be impossible. For she had to explain to Jim why he must not send more presents, why he must forget her. And then she seemed driven to add more, the content of which she scarcely realized and that she dared not read over.
She was sad while she waited in the lane for Keech, yet conscious of something she had not felt before. She was proving to herself and to Jim that she did not wholly lack decency and consideration. A melancholy consolation came to her. This was the end of her brief little romance.
Keech trotted down the lane, and received the letter as a matter of course. “I’ll rustle along, Molly. I’m stoppin’ at the head of the Cibeque. Have a little sparkin’ to do on my own hook. Haw! Haw!..
.Good-bye till next time.”
Molly watched him ride away into the gloom of the forest. And when he had gone she stood there, looking up at the grand bulk of the Diamond, from the rugged rim of which the afterglow of sunset was fading, and felt vaguely that somehow she was a forlorn little soul, cheated of love and happiness. Yet she was glad she had arisen to the heights, even if for ever afterwards she must be plunged into the depths.
Under cover of the thickening dusk she secured the pack and carried it to the cabin and up to her secluded abode. There was at least one exceedingly good feature about her room, and it was that nobody ever got up there. Molly could not remember when anyone, except Arch, who had patched the roof, had invaded her retreat.
Panting, Molly sat down by her window, with her hand on the precious pack. She would revel in opening it, and in its contents, which must do for all time. Little chance of her ever having another suitor and less of her ever wanting one!
Dusk had settled down now. Her window was open, and a cool air began to move down from the mountain. The pines stood up like a black fringe. She could see the hideous dead trees in the clearing, and the pale blot of the bare fields. A cowbell tinkled, and somewhere a hound bayed. It seemed very sweet and peaceful there. Molly felt that strife and anguish were matters of the heart.
At last she lighted her lamp, and in its uncertain light she opened the pack, ashamed of her rapture, yet utterly victim to it. Carefully she assorted the parcels, little and big, searching for a letter. But again there was none. And Molly was glad. If she read written words of love and hope and demand from him she would be as unstable as water. Suppose he should take exception to her letter of renunciation and boldly come to see her? Her heart gave a wild leap, then subsided proportionately. He would not come. He had pride and he would never stand more than a second refusal from Molly Dunn.
More books, and these from St. Louis! To her amaze all the parcels were marked with the name of that distant Eastern city. He had sent for things. The Flagerstown stores were not good enough for her. How could she ever resist his way of making somebody of her? Then for the ensuing hour she marvelled at and gloated over a multiplicity of pretty and useful little presents. He did not submerge her with an overwhelming sense of great expenditure. He had tact and taste. “Oh, the darlin’,” she murmured, “if he ever sees me again — it’s shore all day with me!” Then she crawled into bed and cried herself to sleep.
