by Zane Grey
“Jan, I beg—yore pardon,” he went on, haltingly. “But that knocks me cold and sick, to my very gizzard. Worse than when I kill a man! . . . But damn June’s fickle heart! She loved me. She proved it . . . and then, all in no time—she shows yellow. . . . Henry Sisk? Fine chap, shore, but he was sweet on you, wasn’t he?”
“I thought so. He swore it.”
“So he throwed you down for June?” demanded Brazos, hotly.
“Something like that, darling.”
“Did you care?”
“Yes, I did. It hurt. I’m a vain creature. But I couldn’t marry Henry. On my soul of honor I couldn’t.”
“Why couldn’t you, Miss Neece?”
“Because I loved you. I never knew how well until you ran away.”
“Ahuh. You must forgive me. I’m shore upset. . . . And how did June take my runnin’ away?”
“I think—I know it broke her heart, too. . . . Then Dad died. That changed the world for us. J-June and I must be separated. All at once I found out. I had to find you—or just lie down to die.”
“Jan, I’ve misjudged you. I never gave you credit for bein’ so deep and true and fine. I reckoned you was the flirt and June the steady one. What a fool I was! . . . Gimme a little time to cuss this thing out of my haid.”
Brazos fell to striding the room, yielding to his jealous wrath, to the incredible thing that had happened. He had wanted to reverence June Neece all his life. Yet in a day, almost, she had betrayed him. She was not worth Jan’s little finger. And he cursed under his breath at her and her inconstancy. He had not expected June to remain loveless all her life on account of him. But hell! if she had loved him as she had sworn and he believed, like any locoed cowboy, she would not have married Sisk or anyone so soon. It was hardly decent. She was shallow. And he raged there for he knew not how long, until his wounded vanity and bitter heart had taught him another lesson of life. Then he turned to Jan, finding her watching him with what appeared an incomprehensible contrast to grief. Could Jan, being human, be glad to see her sister toppled from her pedestal?
“Wal, Jan, yore bein’ heah to tell me—to sustain me—keeps me from fallin’ to a low-down hombre of a greaser. Thet news would have just plumb knocked me forever.”
“Oh, Brazos—darling. Can I make up for the loss of June?”
“I reckon. But let me be straight with you, Jan. If June hadn’t turned out faithless and whatever else it was—neither you, however sweet and lovely you air, nor all the rest of the girls in the world, could have made up for the loss of her. Can you stand to heah thet?”
“Yes, Brazos, I—I can stand it,” faltered Jan, her face drooping.
“Don’t take it too hard, honey. I’m a queer duck. I always make amends. I always pay. You won’t never be sorry thet I worshiped June—reckoned she was an angel. After all she was a part of you.”
“Brazos, there’s more to tell,” went on Jan, hurriedly. “I’m afraid again. You are such a strange fellow. So honorable and fine and true! I’ll never forget you when, that night, J-June solved our problem by telling you to marry me—and you could have her, too.”
“I wish to heaven I could forget it. Mebbe I can now—thet she’s turned out so pore.”
“Brazos, can you stand another surprise?” asked Jan, fearfully.
He eyed her askance. But Jan did not look formidable just then or anything to be dubious about. He drew her into his arms, yet held her back, so he could study her face.
“Shoot, Jan. You cain’t knock me out again.”
“I’ll bet I can.”
“Ha! I won’t bet. But tell me. . . .”
She leaned back, toying with his scarf, provoking and adorable, but hiding her eyes.
“Could you stand a sweetheart—an’—and a—a wife—who is very, very rich?”
“Good—Lord!” exploded Brazos, and then succumbed to incredible fate.
“Could you?” she repeated. “Just because you ‘air a pore lone prairie cowboy,’ you won’t be too honorable and proud—to—to make those amends you spoke of?”
“What you got up yore sleeve?”
“Brazos, if I’m a very rich girl—that won’t make any difference to you?”
“You’re talkin’ riddles. But I reckon—if yu was a very rich girl—I wouldn’t feel turrible bad about it.”
She let out a sweet peal of glad laughter and caught him around the neck. “Brazos, listen. Henry bought my share of Twin Sombreros Ranch and two thousand head of cattle.”
Brazos sat mutely staring at this apparition—this angel of fortune—this living refutation of his vain judgment of women.
“You see it hasn’t turned out so badly, even if you have lost June.”
“How much?” queried Brazos, faintly.
“How much what? Oh, how much I love you? Oh, more than any girl ever loved any man.”
“Jan, my heart is weak. Don’t tease no more. . . . How much did you sell out for?”
“I made a pretty good deal, Hank Bilyen said. For the cattle I got forty dollars a head. Figure that out.”
“I cain’t—darlin’—I cain’t figger, or add—or anythin’.”
“Well, that comes to eighty thousand dollars. And I sold my half of the ranch for twenty thousand. I brought the money with me.”
“Mercy!” begged Brazos.
“I got a few thousand in cash. Bilyen said ‘Lord only knows what it’ll cost to find thet feller.’ And the rest in drafts on the Las Animas bank. Mr. Henderson fixed it up for me. I wasn’t worried about the drafts when those road agents almost held us up. These drafts cannot be negotiated by anyone except your little girl. Savvy? But I was afraid I’d lose the cash. . . . Now, Brazos, darling, now what are we going to do?”
“Now, Jan, darlin’, what air we goin’ to do?” mimicked Brazos, in consternation.
“You’re not exactly a poor cowboy down at his heels. You can do things.”
“Jan, I cain’t do nothin’ but love you,” replied Brazos, abjectly.
“Well, that’s grand. But I prefer you do a little besides loving me. . . . Brazos, those boys with Wess Tanner, especially the dark handsome lad, they were sweet on me. And you know I’m unreliable. It seems to me you had better put a halter on me while you have the chance. Dad always said that once I was haltered, I’d steady down.”
“Jan, at thet I believe you’ve changed—grown. But still the same old sweet devil.”
“Brazos, we were engaged, you know,” said Jan, seriously. “I told everybody. I don’t know how you really regarded our engagement. But if it hadn’t been for that I never could have followed you.”
“I savvy. And now thet you’ve come up with me . . .”
“You’re perfectly free, Mister Keene, unless you want me as terribly as you wanted June,” she interposed, her chin lifting and level searching eyes on him.
“Jan, will you take my solemn word?” asked Brazos.
“Yes, Brazos, I will.”
“Wal, before I entered thet door I knew I’d ask you to marry me—first, because thet old love came thunderin’ back—second, because I would have asked you if I hadn’t loved you, I was struck so deep by yore trailin’ me—and last because I could never let one word of range gossip get started about Jan Neece.”
She appeared enraptured, almost satisfied, yet there was a restraint, a doubt about her that puzzled Brazos. He caught his breath and asked her to marry him.
“Yes, darling,” she replied, and hid her face upon his shoulder.
“When?” he flashed, tense and keen, succumbing to the current of the great river that had swept him off his feet.
“Need we wait?” she asked. That indeed betrayed this frank and devilishly sweet Jan Neece at her truest.
“If I had my way we wouldn’t wait atall,” rang out Brazos.
“Your way is my way—and always shall be,” declared the girl, eloquently. And she arose to go to the window, where she peered out upon the prairie. Brazos saw that there was not
hing soft and tremulous about her then. “If it is possible I will marry you here.”
“Jan! . . . It’s shore possible. Doan told me they had a church heah. Course they’d have to have a minister.”
“Run darling—and find out. . . . Jan, you know, can change her mind.” She did not turn away from the window. Brazos leaped up, to forget his sombrero, and rush from the room. He encountered Doan and Tanner, both of whom received his onslaught in alarm.
“Tom! You said—you had a church—heah?”
“Yu bet we have.”
“Then you’ve got a pastor.”
“Naturally. An’ a fine chap he is.”
Brazos gulped. “Can he marry—Jan an’ me—right away?”
“Wal, pard, yu’re shore ridin’ high, wide an’ handsome now,” declared Wess, his bronze face shining.
“Go fetch him,” cried Brazos, excitedly, hanging on to both his friends. “Fetch him. Tell him to bring papers . . . and whatever I gotta have. . . . Wess, you go with Tom. And call me when you get back.”
“Brazos, I always knowed when yu got this way over a gurl yu’d be a ravin’ lunatic,” drawled Wess. “An’ holy mavericks, am I glad?”
“Cowboy, air yu shore yu won’t go out of yore haid before we can get back?” asked Doan, half in earnest and half in jest.
Not waiting to reply Brazos ran back to Mrs. Doan’s door, halting when he came to it. He sensed a mysterious portent beyond that threshold. It checked him—held him with abated breath. But he knocked. There was no reply. Uncertain and strangely agitated he entered the room. Jan was lying facedown on the couch.
Brazos ran to kneel beside her, his hands eager to gather her up, but lost their strength when they came in contact with her quivering form.
“Jan, dear, what ails you?”
“Oh, Brazos. . . . I—I can’t go through with it. I can’t. . . . I’m a little fourflush. I have none of the nerve you—you credited me with,” burst from her in smothered tones.
Brazos’ heart sank like lead. He suffered a moment of despair. But she must be overwrought. . . . The suspense, the long trip, the ordeal with him had been beyond her.
“Darlin’, you cain’t what?” he asked, tenderly. “I reckon you mean—marry me?”
“No! No!” she cried, frantically, raising her face, to disclose it tear-wet and shamed, with tragic eyes dark upon him. “I’m crazy to—to marry you. I’ll die if you won’t have me. . . . And, oh, misery, you’ll hate me now!”
“Ump-umm, honey. I cain’t hate you, no matter what you’ve done, so long as you’re crazy to marry me.”
“Brazos, I didn’t know it’d be so hareful. I was just wild for you. I’d have done anything . . . anything. But now, you’ve been so sweet—and wonderful—I can’t go through with it.”
“Jan Neece, will you come out with it?” demanded Brazos, in desperation.
“That’s—just—it. . . . I’m not Jan Neece. . . . I’m June!”
“Lord Almighty! Am I drunk or crazy?” burst out Brazos, tearing his hair, and staring incredulously at her. “Who air you?”
“Oh, Brazos! Don’t look so—so awful at me. . . . It’s I! June—June Neece! Not Jan. . . . I couldn’t live without you. It was Jan who eloped with Henry. And I thought you loved her most—that she could do anything with you—and I came down here to find you . . . make you marry me first—then tell you afterward.”
“You damned—devilish little cat!” declared Brazos, astounded beyond passion. “I don’t believe you.”
“Oh—Brazos,” she wailed.
“I—don’t—believe—you.”
“But, darling, I am June. I swear to heaven I am. Jan couldn’t have done this rash thing. She hadn’t the nerve. She didn’t love you enough. Why, I’m ashamed to admit she was on Henry’s neck as soon as you left. . . . Brazos, you must see I’m telling the truth. If I were Jan, intending to get you by hook or crook—would I be betraying my plot now? No! I’d wait till we were—married.”
There was incontestable logic in this passionate confession. But Brazos chose to hide the ecstasy which was waving through him. He believed her now. Only those kisses had deceived him. She had acted them faithfully enough, though perhaps, once June had cast restraint and decorum aside, they had at last expressed her true fervor.
“I cain’t believe you,” said Brazos, solemnly.
“But you must. Brazos, no girl ever before did such a thing. Oh! I’m not ashamed. I’d glory in it, if you just—just. . . . Didn’t I offer to let you marry Jan, and give myself to you, in the bargain. . . . Brazos, darling, for God’s sake, don’t say you won’t marry me now!”
“I will if you prove you’re June,” replied Brazos, relentlessly. “I’ve had about all I can stand of takin’ Jan for June—and June for Jan.”
“Prove I’m June?” she echoed. “Of course I can. I am June. My name June is on the drafts for all that money.”
Brazos sagged desperately under that potential proof. Bank presidents did not make colossal mistakes about making out drafts, especially when Henderson knew the Neece girls.
“Aw, you could fool Henderson just as easy as me. Haven’t you fooled everybody under the sun? Yore own dad even. . . . No, Miss Neece, you gotta prove you’re June.”
“Wait till we’re married,” she pleaded, so sweetly and humbly that Brazos smothered another wild desire to snatch her to his breast. Then an idea flashed into his rapturous mind.
“No. And let me remind you thet pastor with Doan and Wess, and I reckon everybody heah at this post, will be comin’ pretty pronto.”
“Beloved! Trust me!” she whispered, beseechingly. “I would die of shame if they came now.’’
“Listen. June Neece had a birthmark like a bluebell . . . on her laig . . . didn’t she?”
“Who told you that?” cried the girl, blushing scarlet.
“I heahed that when I first came to Las Animas. Everybody knew about it. The only way the Neece twins could be told apart! . . . Wal, if you air June you shore have thet birthmark. Now haven’t you?”
“Yes, Brazos Keene. I have,” she retorted, at bay. “Will you trust me—until . . . ?”
“I’ll trust you afterward, forever. I reckon you deserve to suffer a little shame.”
“Shame! I have nothing to be ashamed of, unless it’s chasing an unchivalrous cowboy all over the south.”
“Thet’s a heap, I’m bound to admit. . . . There! Girl, I reckon I heahed Wess’s loud laugh out there. They’ve come with the parson. You better rustle or you may lose a husband.”
“Brazos Keene, if you force me I—I won’t have you for a husband,” she cried, loftily. She was white of face again and her eyes burned with reproach.
“I’ll risk thet, darlin’. You cain’t get out of marryin’ me now, if only to save yore good name and yore pride.”
“Very well, cowboy! Come over to the light,” she returned, with what seemed a calm disdain. Brazos followed her haltingly to the window. He felt her gaze upon him and dared not meet it. Moreover his eyes were glued to her shapely capable hands as they grasped her gown at each side. She lifted it and her white skirts. Her trim ankles, her slender graceful legs, her rounded knees and pink garters sharply outlined against her black stockings led Brazos’ fascinated gaze to her white thighs.
“You should know this would be apple pie for Jan,” she said, with a suppressed giggle that belied her haughty scorn of this exacting lover. “I’ve forgotten which leg it’s on . . . the left, I’m sure. Look. . . .”
Merry voices outside preceded knocks on the door. Brazos, with the wonderful swiftness of that right hand, snatched her skirts down.
“Aw, darlin’, I was only foolin’,” he whispered.
“Yes you were,” she taunted. “Did you see it?”
“No. I couldn’t see nothin’. Besides, June, I shore knew you all the time.”
“Liar! I could have fooled you . . . I wish . . . Oh!”
Louder and more impatient knocks sound
ed upon the door. June smoothed her ruffled gown.
“Brazos, we’re heah, all ready to make yu the happiest cowboy in Texas,” called Wess, his voice ringing.
“Can we come in?” Doan’s booming voice attested to the joy he felt. “Parson, papers, witnesses, an’ all.”
“Just a minnit more, Tom,” drawled Brazos. “The lady has consented to become Mrs. Keene. But, doggone it! she hasn’t proved yet which one of the Twin Sombrero twins she really is!”
Zane Grey, author of over 80 books, was born in Ohio in 1872. His writing career spanned over 35 years until his death in 1939. Estimates of Zane Grey’s audience exceed 250 million readers.
