by Zane Grey
“Of course I’ll be overjoyed to go. But Anne, do you really think I should?”
“Why not? I often go riding with cowboys, though seldom with one alone, I’ll admit. But Dad is away.”
“What other cowboys have done or do is no concern of mine.”
“You’re thinking we might be seen and it would cause talk around heah?”
“Yes.”
“Ernest, I thank you for thinking of it. No one else ever did. And just for that I shore won’t care who sees us. And I’ll tell Dad when he comes back. And if he fires you I’ll meet you in the hills. So there, Ernest Howard!”
“Anne, you make me proud,” he said huskily. “You scare me a little, too. But I’d feel a coward if I felt I couldn’t go anywhere with you, or do anything for you–after what you said.”
“I’m the coward,” she murmured, and removing her arm she rose from the hammock.
Ernest got up then, knowing that the spell was broken. Together they walked around to the steps. He went down a step or two, then turned. She stood above him, her face pale in the starlight, her dark eyes unfathomable.
“I cain’t help but I-like you,” she said, and the grave way she spoke the words stirred him more deeply than anything in all his life.
“We’re in the same boat,” he said briskly, and left her standing there.
“Tomorrow mawnin’, don’t forget!” she called after him.
13
LIKE a man pursued by the furies Ernest ran back through the pine woods to his bunkhouse. He was fated to find that its seclusion and the mantle of darkness were not protection against the conflicting tides of his feelings.
Only while removing his clothes was he suddenly conscious of the soreness of his body and of his many contusions and abrasions. Then he lay in the dark, trying to bring order out of chaos in his thoughts. But there was no order. There seemed to be nothing save love, to which he dared not and could not let himself succumb. So for hours he tossed in his bunk as in a nightmare. At last, exhausted mentally and physically he fell asleep.
He was awakened by Siebert’s cheery call through the window: “Hey, son, air you daid? I been yellin’ at you fer some time.”
“That you, Hawk?” groaned Ernest.
“No one else. Will you get up an’ have some breakfast? The outfit’s gone.”
“Course I’ll get up. . . . that is, I guess I will. . . . Ouch! . . . Awww! ... Stiffer than a board. Sore as a million boils.”
“Haw! Haw! Don’t look in the glass, Ioway. You’ve shore got the awfulest mug I ever seen.”
Despite that admonition Ernest hobbled over to the mirror, from which he recoiled as though confronted by an apparition.
“O my Lord!” he wailed.
“Ioway, I’ll let you off ridin’ today,” said the foreman consolingly.
“But I’ve got to ride,” declared Ernest.
“I’m layin’ you off, idiot. You got back from town two days early, so you’ve got some time coming.”
“Hawk, I savvy. And much obliged. But I’m riding up to Agua d’Oro today.”
“Oho! With our boss’s daughter, I’ll bet. You’d have a nerve, even if your face was fit to look at in broad daylight.”
“Hawk, I’ve a notion Anne is sick of pretty men.”
“Gawd, it’s aboot time. . . . Ioway, I reckon you wouldn’t listen to no advice.”
“Not if it was against this ride.”
“Wal, I wouldn’t either if I was in your place. Only I hate to see you made a jackass of. Us western hombres can stand thet. But you’re different, Ioway. It’ll jest knock you plumb out when the time comes.”
“What will?” queried Ernest, trying to get into a pair of new levis.
“Aw, don’t hand me thet kind of talk. You know what I mean. I’m tryin’ to give you an honest hunch. Pretty soon you’re gonna fall in love with Anne. An’ then the trouble’ll start.”
“Gonna?. . . Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!. . . No, I’m not, Hawk, old man. Nope, not, nix, never! Not gonna!”
“Wal, I’m darned glad to heah thet,” said Siebert, perplexed, but not completely relieved.
“Not gonna. Not if I hung around Red Rock for years. I have!”
The anxious foreman threw up his hands. “I was afeared so. You’ve no more haid than any one else. . . . Ioway, we’re busted. Yesterday mawnin’ I had an awful row with Hepford. Swore he’d fire me an I said I hoped he would. He rode off to town mad as a Gila monster. Hyslip didn’t come back. His hoss did. Nebraskie ain’t come in neither. Bones Magill an’ Lunky Pollard are fightin’ sore over somethin’. Looks like my outfit’s gone to hell.”
“That’d be a blamed good thing,” replied Ernest cheerily. “I’ll tell you why someday.”
“Wal, you beat me, Ioway,” declared Siebert soberly, and left the bunkhouse, shaking his head.
Ernest got into his boots, a task that brought the cold sweat to his brow. He ventured another glance in the mirror. His eyes were wide open and uninflamed, and his nose, though scratched, did not look so very bad. Knots and bruises stood out everywhere else; his left eur was a swollen mass; one lip was puffed up and the other cut; his front teeth were sensitive.
“Well, all I can say is–if Anne Hepford can stand to look at that face in broad daylight–she loves me,” he muttered. “That’s all there is to it. . . . Damn the luck, I can’t wash. I can’t shave, I can’t comb my hair. And I’ll bet two bits I can’t button my shirt.”
His hands pained him most of all. His stiff fingers were like frozen members. He had been quite right about buttoning his shirt: he let it go open. But he managed to button the two lowest buttons of his vest. He labored over his necktie, and abandoned that for a new scarf. Then he went out to the cookshack for breakfast. Jeff was exceedingly nice to him this morning, very solicitous and very curious. He had as much trouble with eating as he had had with dressing, and finally he gave it up as a bad job. From there he went to the stables and got Pedro to saddle his horse. Leading the animal he walked up to the ranch house. He saw Anne waiting on the porch. Her pony stood, bridle down, by the fence.
“Ernest, I’ve been waiting an hour,” she announced petulantly, as he reached the porch steps.
“Good morning, Anne. I’m sorry to be late. But I’m in pretty bad shape,” replied Ernest, essaying a smile, which was a pain ful effort.
“Come up heah. Let me look at you,” Anne demanded.
Ernest slowly mounted the steps. Anne looked like a slim rider in her blue overalls, boots and spurs. Her blouse was gray and she wore a red scarf. She somehow seemed vastly less dangerous in this garb.
“You look perfectly horrible,” she cried.
“I feel worse than I look,” he responded.
“Reckon I’ll have to doctor you. I should have done it last night. Come in.”
Ernest followed her into the dining room where she bade him sit by the table. She left the room to return presently, her hands full of bottles and tins and towels. A pleasant-faced Mexican woman brought in a pan of warm water. Anne threw aside her sombrero and, rolling her sleeves up to her shapely elbows, she managed to look very businesslike.
“Tough luck some hombres have,” she said dryly.
“Ahuh. But I wonder where Hyslip is,” replied Ernest.
“I’d shore hate to say right out where I hope he is. . . . Let’s see your hands first.”
Ernest spread the ugly members out on the table. And without more ado Anne set to work. She washed the dirt and sand from the dried abrasions on his knuckles. They hurt about as fiercely as Ernest cared to be hurt. But when she felt him flinch she proceeded more tenderly. “I’ll bet it hurts.”
“Not so bad as some internal hurts I have,” said he.
“Did Dude kick you in the ribs–or anything like?” she queried with sweet solicitude. But she had understood perfectly what Ernest meant.
“No. I was speaking of an emotional hurt. Something you wouldn’t savvy, Anne Hepford.”
“M
aybe it’s just as well for me that I’m a rowdy, a western hussy without any fine feelings, or the delicacy to diagnose emotional hurts,” she replied with feigned sarcasm.
“Pardon me. I didn’t mean anything of the kind,” said Ernest stiffly.
“Then what did you mean?”
“You’re a heartless, soulless girl.”
She sighed. “That’s all you know.”
The soothing lotion she applied to Ernest’s bruised right hand, and the soft bandages she carefully wound and tied expertly rendered this member once more human. Then she attended likewise to the other hand.
She proceeded to bathe his face and applied the aromatic salve to the sundry cuts and bruises.
“Doctor, have a look at that bump on my head,” suggested Ernest.
“Gracious! It’s as big as a goose egg. There’s a cut, too, Ernest. The blood has matted your hair and dried. . . . This shore won’t hurt at all.”
The pain, as she said, was not unbearable, but it grew to be something of an ordeal to feel her hands on his head and brow.
“You’ve a well-shaped haid anyways, Iowa. . . . Excuse me, I forgot what I was supposed to remember. Yes, a good haid of nice wavy hair.”
“Empty, though, you’re thinking?”
“I haven’t got you figured at all, Ernest,” she said thoughtfully.
“Well, can I help you in your figuring?”
“No. It’s rather pleasant to be kept guessing. . . . There. Thet’s aboot all I can do in the way of easing your hurts, Ernest.”
He placed a hand over his heart. “How about this hurt?” he asked.
She dropped her eyes. “I’m not a heart-doctor, Ernest.”
“The cowboys call you a heartbreaker.”
“How flattering!. . . I reckon you’re in no danger with yours.”
“Thanks for your kindness, Anne. I feel easier, especially my hands.”
“Ernest, I reckon we’d better not ride today,” she said. “Let’s put it off until day after tomorrow.”
“All right, just as you say,” rejoined Ernest, somewhat puzzled. “It’d be better so far as I’m concerned. Are you sure it’s not because you just couldn’t bear looking at me?”
“What a kid you are!” she laughed, but still there seemed to be a vague aloofness, an evasiveness about her.
“Will you ride out alone?” he asked.
“No. I won’t be that mean, Io– –. I keep forgetting not to call you Ioway. . . . Go rest up, Ernest. If Siebert wants you to work– and he shore is a driver–tell him you’re laid off till Dad comes home. We’ll have our ride Monday mawnin’. Adios.”
She went with him into the hall, but no further. Ernest left, pondering what had suddenly come over her. It had surprised him to have her postpone the ride. He had thought that she really wanted to go. There was no understanding any woman, much less Anne Hepford.
When he got back to his room, and had removed boots and shirt, to lie back on his bunk, he discovered that he was extremely fatigued and a trifle feverish. Perhaps Anne had observed his condition. He stretched out for a long rest and meditation, but he soon fell asleep.
Upon opening his eyes again he saw Nebraskie tiptoeing around the room, trying to be noiseless. The day was far spent, as Ernest could tell by the westering sun, shining through the window.
“Howdy, Nebraskie. Glad you’re back.”
“Aw, pard, I must hev waked you up,” returned the cowboy, coming to the bunk and sitting down beside Ernest. “How air you?”
“Had a long sleep. I feel tiptop.”
“Who tied your hands all up so nice an neat?”
“Anne.”
“Ahuh. How’d she take your looks?”
“She was so–so darned sweet that I’m completely off my nut again.”
“Say, boy, you ain’t never got back on it again. Wal, I’m darned glad. I always reckoned thet I savvied Anne better than these soft calves over in the other bunkhouse. They think she’s–wal, you know. I’m tellin’ you, Ernie, thet when it comes to the rub, Anne Hepford will surprise you. She’ll turn out true western blue.”
“Gosh, but you’re a comforting fellow,” returned Ernest fervently. “Almost you make me trust Anne.”
“You’ll be a damn fool if you don’t, thet’s all. No man gets nowhere with a gurl if he thinks she’s only what the rest of them think.”
“Nebraskie–did you find Daisy–all right?” asked Ernest, hesitantly.
“Yes, but shaky on her laigs. I wouldn’t let her tell me nuthin’. I told her it didn’t make a damn bit of difference to me what had happened.”
“Nebraskie, you’re one man in a thousand!” exclaimed Ernest admiringly. “And what did Dais say to that?”
“She’s got spunk. She swore she’d tell me sometime. Then she flopped into my arms. An’ cry–my, how thet kid did cry! Scared me, but I reckoned it was good fer her. So I jest held her, an’ when she got over it I packed her into her room an’ laid her on her bed. Then I went out an’ tried to do somethin’ with Brooks. But he was still daid to the world. I slept on his bed while he snored on the floor. He woke up sober, an’ cross as a wet hen. I told him he’d better go out an’ hunt up Hyslip. Wal, he went, an’ I didn’t see him fer a good while. In fact it was Dais who saw him fust. She’d got up an’ was in the kitchen. I went in there when she called an she pointed through the door. There was Brooks helpin’ Hyslip on one of Brooks’ hosses. It was pretty fur away, but Ernie, I shore saw what you done to thet hombre. I could hev yelled like an Injun. Dais jest shook at sight of him, I don’t know what with. Thet worries me, pard. . . . Wal, we watched Hyslip ride away, slumped in his saddle, an’ he went toward town instead of Red Rock. Shore he’s in no shape to ride to Holbrook. But mebbe he’d make Fisher’s cabin. Hell hole up there. After thet Brooks sneaked away, red-faced an’ ashamed, an’ I stayed on with Dais. . . . An’ pard, considerin’ everythin’, I’m not so blue.”.
“Nebraskie, if I hadn’t weakened for you long ago I would now, for your loyalty to that little girl,” replied Ernest warmly.
“Wal, we’re shore havin’ hell with our gurls, ain’t we, but we’ll stick. . . . How aboot supper?”
“I’ll go in. I didn’t get up this morning, so missed seeing the outfit. Siebert told me he’d had a row with Hepford, who threatened to fire him when he got back from Holbrook. I’ll tell you, Hawk was mighty upset. He said Magill and Pollard were sore, and in fact the whole outfit had gone to hell.”
They went in to supper. Jeff, standing beyond the kitchen door, gave Ernest a knowing and warning wink. It failed to check the Iowan’s desire to make a facetious remark, which was prompted, no doubt, by the ill-concealed resentment on the faces of the cowboys. All of them glared at him, except Bones Magill, who bent a surly visage over his plate. Before he had fairly seated himself across the table Magill leaped up.
“Fellers, I’ll hev it out with him right heah,” he declared sullenly.
“Wal, you damn rooster, if you want to get beat up same as Dude was, why we cain’t stop you,” replied Pollard in disgust.
“Say, you cowpokes, we wanta eat,” said Nebraskie dryly, giving Ernest a nudge. “After thet we’re willin’ fer most anythin’.”
Magill shook a fist across the table. “Howard, I’m gonna liek the daylights out of you.”
“Indeed. News to me. May I ask what for?” replied Ernest, whose surprise was genuine.
“’Cause you ketched my pard Hyslip drunk an’ hammered him half to death,” answered Bones belligerently.
“Who says I did?”
“It’s all over, an’ Jerry Blake rode in to tell us. He seen Hyslip an’ heerd how you did it.”
“Bones, you’re a liar. So’s Jerry Blake. And Hyslip is a blanketyblank liar,” retorted Ernest.
“All right. Come on outside.”
“Delighted to oblige you, Bones. But you’ll have to wait until after supper.”
The cook came in carrying steaming victuals, th
e savory fragrance of which added considerably to Ernest’s hunger.
“I ain’t agonna eat or nuthin’ till I lick you,” shouted Magill, pushing back from the table.
Ernest, quick as a flash, reached and swung a long arm. His open hand smacked Bones such a forceful blow on the side of his head and cheek that the cowboy staggered back over the bench and fell to the floor. At this juncture Hawk Siebert came stalking in.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“’Pears to me it’s down,” drawled Nebraskie, indicating the scrambling Magill. When he got to his feet to exhibit a flaming face, few questions were necessary.
“Who hit you, Bones?”
“It was thet d---Ioway tenderfoot,” yelled Magill. “An’ I’m gonna mop up this heah floor with him.”
“Oh, you air. Wal, thet’ll be interestin’,” returned the foreman satirically. Then he looked at Ernest.
“Howard, did you hit him?”
“I slapped him, boss.”
“What fer?”
“He accused me of beating Hyslip when he was drunk. And he got otherwise offensive. I politely said I’d fight him after supper. Then he yowled across the table at me, so I slapped him one.”
“Ahuh. . . . Wal, did you beat Hyslip when he was drunk?”
“No, I didn’t,” replied Ernest indignantly.
“Did you beat him at all?”
“That’s different. Besides it’s nobody’s business.”
Here Magill manifested most violently that he considered it his, and supplemented his assertion by some irritating profanity.
Ernest got up. “All right, if you feel that bad. Come on out.”
Magill stamped at his heels, out of the door, and off the porch.
The outfit followed the two men out of the cookshack. But what ensued on the turf in front of the kitchen ended as quickly as it had begun. The Iowan strode back into the messroom, examining his bandaged hands, and straddled the seat.
“Now, fellows, let’s eat in peace.”
There came a muffled sound from the kitchen, very much like a suppressed laugh. Nebraskie bowed over his plate, his haste most obvious. The three other cowboys gazed blankly from Ernest to the door. Bones Magill did not appear. Siebert had been staring hard at Ernest, and his hawk eyes held a baffled expression. Once he glanced back to see if Magill was coming.
