by Zane Grey
While he saw and felt all this his mind scintillated with thoughts of Lucy Blake. He would see her presently, have the joy of surprising her into betrayal of love. He fancied her wide eyes of changing dark blue, and the swift flame of scarlet that so readily stained her neck and cheek.
He would tell her about the great good fortune that had befallen him; and about the beautiful mare, Little Bay, he had captured for her; and now they could talk and plan endlessly, all the way down to Siccane.
When would Lucy marry him? That was a staggering question. His heart swelled to bursting. Had he the courage to ask her at once? He tried to see the matter from Lucy’s point of view, but without much success.
Dreaming thus, Pan rode along without being aware of the time or distance.
“Hey, pard,” called Blinky, in loud banter. “Are you goin’ to ride past where your gurl lives?”
With a violent start Pan wheeled his horse. He saw that he had indeed ridden beyond the entrance to a farm, which upon second look he recognized. It was, however, an angle with which he had not been familiar. The corrals and barn and house were hidden in trees.
“I’m loco, all right,” he replied with a little laugh.
Through gate and lane they galloped, on to the corral, and round that to the barn. This was only a short distance to the house. Pan leaped from his horse and ran.
With an uplift of his heart that was almost pain, he rushed round the corner of the house to the vine-covered porch.
The door was shut. Stealthily he tiptoed across the porch to knock. No answer! He tried the door. Locked! A quiver ran through him.
“Strange,” he muttered, “not home this early.”
He peered through the window, to see on floor and table ample evidence of recent packing. That gave check to a creeping blankness which was benumbing Pan. He went on to look into his mother’s bedroom. The bed looked as if it had been used during the night and had not been made up. Perhaps his mother and Lucy had gone into Marco to purchase necessities.
“But — didn’t I tell Lucy not to go?” he queried, in bewilderment.
Resolutely he cast out doubtful speculations. There could hardly be anything wrong. Hurriedly he returned to the barn.
“Wal, I’ll tell you,” Blinky was holding forth blandly, “this heah grubbin’ around without a home an’ a woman ain’t no good. I’m shore through. I’m agoin’—”
“Nobody home,” interrupted Pan.
“Well, that’s nothin’ to make you pale round the gills,” returned his father. “They’re gone to town. Mother had a lot of buyin’ to do.”
“But I particularly told Lucy to stay here.”
“S’pose you did,” interposed Blinky. “Thet’s nothin’. You don’t expect this heah gurl to mind you.”
“No time for joking, Blink,” said Pan curtly. “It just doesn’t set right on my chest. I’ve got to find Lucy pronto. But where to go!”
With a single step he reached his stirrup and swung into his saddle.
“Pan, Lucy an’ the wife will be in one of the stores. Don’t worry about them. Why, they did all our buyin’.”
“I tell you I don’t like it,” snapped Pan. “It’s not what I think, but what I feel. All the same, wherever they are it doesn’t change our plans. I’ll sure find them, and tell them we’re packing to leave pronto....Now, Dad, buy three wagons and teams, grain, grub, and whatever else we need for two weeks or more on the road. Soon as I find Lucy and Mother I’ll meet you and help you with the buying.”
“I ought to talk it over with Ma before I buy grub,” replied his father, perplexedly scratching his head. “I wish they was home.”
“Come on, Blink,” called Pan, as he rode out.
Blinky joined him out in the road.
“Pard, I don’t get your hunch, but I can see you’re oneasy.”
“I’m just loco, that’s all,” returned Pan, forcing himself. “It’s — such — such a disappointment not to see — her...Made me nervous. Makes me think how anything might happen. I never trusted Jim Blake. And Lucy is only a kid in years.”
“Ahuh,” said Blinky, quietly. “Reckon I savvy. You wouldn’t feel thet way fer nothin’.”
“Blink, I’m damn glad you’re with me,” rejoined Pan feelingly, turning to face his comrade. “No use to bluff with you. I wish to heaven I could say otherwise, but I’m afraid there’s something wrong.”
“Shore. Wal, we’ll find out pronto,” replied Blinky, with his cool hard spirit, “an’ if there is, we’ll damn soon make it right.”
They rode rapidly until they reached the outskirts of town, when Blinky called Pan to a halt.
“Reckon you’d better not ride through Main Street,” he said significantly.
They tied their horses behind a clump of trees between two deserted shacks. Pan removed his ragged chaps, more however to be freer of movement than because they were disreputable.
“Now, Blink, we’ll know pronto if the town is friendly to us,” he said seriously.
“Huh! I ain’t carin’ a whoop, but I’ll gamble we could own the town. This fake minin’, ranchin’, hoss-dealin’ Hardman was a hunk of bad cheese. Pard, are you goin’ to deny you killed him? Fer shore they’ve been told thet.”
“No. Wiggate can do the telling. All I want is to find Lucy and send her back home, then buy our outfit and rustle.”
“Sounds pretty. But I begin to feel hunchy myself. Let’s have a drink, Pan.”
“We’re not drinking, cowboy,” retorted Pan.
“Ain’t we? Excuse me. Shore I figgered a good stiff drink would help some. I tell you I’ve begun to get hunches.”
“What kind?”
“No kind at all. Just feel that all’s not goin’ the way we hope. But it’s your fault. It’s the look you got. I’d hate to see you hurt deep, pard.”
They passed the wagon shop where Pan’s father had been employed, then a vacant lot on one side of the street and framed tents on the other. Presently they could see down the whole of Main Street. It presented the usual morning atmosphere and color, though Pan fancied there was more activity than usual. That might have been owing to the fact that both the incoming and outgoing stages were visible far up at the end of the street.
Pan strained his eyes at people near and far, seeking first some sign of Lucy, and secondly someone he could interrogate. Soon he would reach the first store. But before he got there he saw his mother emerge, drag Bobby, who evidently wanted to stay. Then Alice followed. Both she and her mother were carrying bundles. Pan’s heart made ready for a second and greater leap — in anticipation of Lucy’s appearance. But she did not come.
“Hello, heah’s your folks, pard, figgerin’ from looks,” said Blinky. “What a cute kid!...Look there!”
Pan, striding ahead of Blinky saw his mother turn white and reel as if about to faint. Pan got to her in time.
“Mother! Why, Mother,” he cried, in mingled gladness and distress. “It’s me. I’m all right. What’d you think?...Hello, Bobby, old dirty face...Alice, don’t stare at me. I’m here in the flesh.”
His mother clung to him with hands like steel. Her face and eyes were both terrible and wonderful to see. “Pan! Pan! You’re alive? Oh, thank God! They told us you’d been shot.”
“Me? Well, I guess not. I’m better than ever, and full of good news,” went on Pan hurriedly. “Brace up, Mother. People are looking. There...Dad is out home. We’ve got a lot to do. Where’s Lucy?”
“Oh, God — my son, my son!” cried Mrs. Smith, her eyes rolling.
“Hush!” burst out Pan, with a shock as if a blade had pierced his heart. He shook her not gently. “Where is Lucy?”
His mother seemed impelled by his spirit, and she wheeled to point up the street.
“Lucy! There — in that stage — leaving Marco!”
“For God’s — sake!” gasped Pan. “What’s this? Lucy! Where’s she going?”
“Ask her yourself,” she cried passionately.
; Something terrible seemed to crash inside Pan. Catastrophe! It was here. His mother’s dark eyes held love, pity, and passion, which last was not for him.
“Mother, go home at once,” he said swiftly. “Tell Dad to rush buying those wagons. You and Alice pack. We shake the dust of this damned town. Don’t worry. Lucy will leave with us!”
Then Pan broke into long springy strides, almost a run. Indeed Blinky had to run to keep up with him. “I told you, pard,” said his comrade. huskily. “Hell to pay! —— —— the luck!”
Pan had only one conscious thought — to see Lucy. All else seemed damming behind flood gates.
People rushed into the street to get out of the way of the cowboys. Others stared and made gestures. Booted men on the porch of the Yellow Mine stamped noisily as they trooped to get inside. Voices of alarm and mirth rang out. Pan took only a fleeting glance into the wide doorway. He saw nothing, thought nothing. His stride quickened as he passed Black’s store, where more men crowded to get inside.
“Save your — wind, pard,” warned Blinky. “You might — need it.”
They reached the end of the street and across the wide square stood the outgoing stage, before the express office. There was no driver on the front seat. Smith, the agent, was emerging from the office with mailbags.
“Slow up, pard,” whispered Blinky, at Pan’s elbow.
Pan did as he was advised, though his stride still retained speed. Impossible to go slowly! There were passengers in the stagecoach. When Pan reached the middle of the street he saw the gleam of golden hair that he knew. Lucy! Her back was turned to him. And as he recognized her, realized he had found her, there burst forth in his mind a thundering clamor of questioning voices.
A few more strides took him round the stage. Men backed away from him. The door was open.
“Lucy!” he called, and his voice seemed to come piercingly from a far-off place.
She turned a strange face, but he knew her eyes, saw the swift transition, the darkening, widening. How white she turned! What was this! Agony in recognition! A swift unuttered blaze of joy that changed terror. He saw her lips frame his name, but no sound came.
“Lucy!” he cried. “What does this mean? Where are you going?”
She could not speak. But under her pallor the red of shame began to burn. Pan saw it, and he recognized it. Mutely he gazed at the girl as her head slowly sank. Then he asked hoarsely: “What’s it mean?”
“Pard, take a peep round heah,” drawled Blinky in slow cool speech that seemed somehow to carry menace.
Pan wheeled. He had the shock of his life. He received it before his whirling thoughts recorded the reason. It was as if he had to look twice. Dick Hardman! Fashionably and wonderfully attired! Pan got no farther than sight of the frock coat, elaborate vest, flowing tie, and high hat. Then for a second he went blind.
When the red film cleared he saw Hardman pass him, saw the pallor of his cheek, the quivering of muscle, the strained protruding of his eye.
He got one foot on the stage step when Pan found release for his voice.
“Hardman!”
That halted the youth, as if it had been a rope, but he never turned his head. The shuffling of feet inside the coach hinted of more than restlessness. There was a scattering of men from behind Pan.
He leaped at Hardman and spun him round.
“Where are you going?”
“Frisco, if it’s — any of your business,” replied Hardman incoherently.
“Looks like I’ll make it my business,” returned Pan menacingly. He could not be himself here. The shock had been too great. His mind seemed stultified.
“Hardman — do you mean — do you think — you’re taking her — away?” queried Pan, as if strangling.
“Ha!” returned Hardman with an upfling of head, arrogant, vain for all his fear. “I know it...She’s my wife!”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
DESTRUCTION, DEATH ITSELF seemed to overthrow Panhandle Smith’s intensity of life. He reeled on his feet. For a moment all seemed opaque, with blurred images. There was a crash, crash, crash of something beating at his ears.
How long this terrible oblivion possessed Pan he did not know. But at Hardman’s move to enter the stage, he came back a million times more alive than ever he had been — possessed of devils.
With one powerful lunge he jerked Hardman back and flung him sprawling into the dust.
“There! Once more!...” cried Pan, panting. “Remember — the schoolhouse? That fight over Lucy Blake! Damn your skunk soul!...Get up, if you’ve got a gun!”
Hardman leaned on his hand. His high hat had rolled away. His broadcloth suit was covered with dust. But he did not note these details of his abasement. Like a craven thing fascinated by a snake he had his starting eyes fixed upon Pan, and his face was something no man could bear to see.
“Get up — if you’ve got a gun!” ordered Pan.
“I’ve no — gun—” he replied, in husky accents.
“Talk, then. Maybe I can keep from killing you.”
“For God’s sake — don’t shoot me. I’ll tell you anything.”
“Hardman, you say you — you married my — this girl?” rasped out Pan, choking over his words as if they were poison, unable to speak of Lucy as he had thought of her all his life.
“Yes — I married her.”
“Who married you?”
“A parson from Salt Lake. Matthews got him here.”
“Ah-uh! — Matthews. How did you force her?”
“I swear to God she was willing,” went on Hardman. “Her father wanted her to.”
“What? Jim Blake left here for Arizona. I sent him away.”
“But he never went — I — I mean he got caught — put in jail again. Matthews sent for the officers. They came. And they said they’d put Blake away for ten years. But I got him off...Then Lucy was willing to marry me — and she did. There’s no help for it now...too late.”
“Liar!” hissed Pan. “You frightened her — tortured her.”
“No, I — I didn’t do anything. It was her father. He persuaded her.”
“Drove her, you mean. And you paid him. Admit it or I’ll—” Pan’s move was threatening.
“Yes — yes, I did,” jerked out Hardman in a hoarser, lower voice. Something about his lifelong foe appalled him. He was abject. No confession of his guilt was needed.
“Go get yourself a gun. You’ll have to kill me before you start out on your honeymoon. Reckon I think you’re going to hell...Get up...Go get yourself a gun...”
Hardman staggered to his feet, brushing the dirt from his person while he gazed strickenly at Pan.
“My God, I can’t fight you,” he said. “You won’t murder me in cold blood...Smith, I’m Lucy’s husband...She’s my wife.”
“And what is Louise Melliss?” whipped out Pan. “What does she say about your marriage? You ruined her. You brought her here to Marco. You tired of her. You abandoned her to that hellhole owned by your father. He got his just deserts and you’ll get yours.”
Hardman had no answer. Like a dog under the lash he cringed at Pan’s words.
“Get out of my sight,” cried Pan, at the end of his endurance. “And remember the next time I see you, I’ll begin to shoot.”
Pan struck him, shoved him out into the street. Hardman staggered on, forgetting his high hat that lay in the dust. He got to going faster until he broke into an uneven half-run. He kept to the middle of the street until he reached the Yellow Mine, where he ran up the steps and disappeared.
Pan backed slowly, step by step. He was coming out of his clamped obsession. His movement was now that of a man gripped by terror. In reality Pan could have faced any peril, any horror, any physical rending of flesh far more easily than this girl who had ruined him.
She had left the stage and she stood alone. She spoke his name. In the single low word he divined fear. How long had she been that dog’s wife? When had she married him? Yesterday, or the day before — a we
ek, what did it matter?
“You — you!” he burst out helplessly in the grip of deadly hate and agony. He hated her then — hated her beauty — and the betrayal of her fear for him. What was life to him now? Oh, the insupportable bitterness!
“Go back to my mother,” he ordered harshly, and averted his face.
Then he seemed to forget her. He saw Blinky close to him, deeply shaken, yet composed and grim. He heard the movement of many feet, the stamping of hoofs.
“All aboard for Salt Lake,” called the stage driver. Smith the agent passed Pan with more mailbags. The strain all about him had broken.
“Pard,” Pan said, laying a hand on Blinky. “Go with her — take her to my mother...And leave me alone.”
“No, by Gawd!” replied Blinky sullenly. “You forget this heah is my deal too. There’s Louise...An’ Lucy took her bag an’ hurried away. There, she’s runnin’ past the Yellow Mine.”
“Blink, did she hear what I said to Hardman about Louise?” asked Pan bitterly.
“Reckon not. She’d keeled over aboot then. I shore kept my eye on her. An’ I tell you, pard—”
“Never mind,” interrupted Pan. “What’s the difference? Hellsfire! Whisky! Let’s get a drink. It’s whisky I want.”
“Shore. I told you thet a while back. Come on, pard. It’s red-eye fer us!”
They crossed to the corner saloon, a low dive kept by a Chinaman and frequented by Mexicans and Indians. These poured out pellmell as the cowboys jangled up to the bar. Jard Hardman’s outfit coming to town had prepared the way for this.
“Howdy,” was Blinky’s greeting to the black bottle that was thumped upon the counter. “You look mighty natural...heah’s to Panhandle Smith!”
Pan drank. The fiery liquor burned down to meet and coalesce round that gnawing knot in his internals. It augmented while it soothed. It burned as it cooled. It inflamed, but did not intoxicate.
