by Zane Grey
“Wal, I’ll be doggoned. . . . Mebbe we will have peace. . . . Jeff, gimme some grub.”
The meal progressed without further interruptions, and with few words. Ernest was busy with his apple pie when the three cronies of Magill ended their meal and got up.
“If you’ll wait till I finish my pie, I’ll be happy to accommodate any or all of you,” said Ernest blandly. “Just in case you still think I took advantage of your pretty-faced pal Duke.”
“Go to hell, Howard,” replied Pollard.
Shep Davis gave Ernest a dangerous look. “Howard, I reckon you’re a countryjake prize fighter, or suthin’ like. But if you don’t clear out of heah you’ll be dodgin’ bullets.”
“Davis, you shut up,” ordered Siebert loudly. “Don’t let me heah any more talk like thet, or I’ll fire you.”
“Fire nuthin’,” sneered Steve Monell. “You’ll be gettin’ the sack yourself before long.”
“Is thet so?” snapped Siebert, leaping up. “Wal, I’m firin’ you before I lose my authority. Right now! An’ don’t give me any more of your gab.”
The three cowpokes stalked out. Pollard was heard to swear. “Blast you fellers anyhow. Givin’ it away–”
When they had passed out of hearing, Siebert returned to his seat and finished his cup of coffee. Ernest consumed the last morsel of his pie. Then the three looked at each other.
“Hawk, there’s shore a colored boy in the woodpile,” said Nebraskie.
“It do ’pear so,” replied the foreman thoughtfully. “But I’ve heahed such talk before.”
“Bones is only a blowhard. –Say, Ernie, what’d you do to him out there?”
“Nothing much. Just a punch or two. He’s full of wind, as you say,” rejoined Ernest, with a laugh.
“Pollard is mean. But you needn’t lose no sleep aboot him,” went on Siebert. “Shep Davis, though, is a bad hombre. I didn’t like his look.”
“Neither did I,” said Ernest shortly. “Well, I’m forewarned, and that’s a lot.”
“Boss, the Red Rock outfit is aboot to bust,” declared Nebraskie, “an’ fer my part I don’t give a damn.”
14
HAWK Siebert lingered with Ernest and Nebraskie long after supper was over. Plainly he was discouraged and moody, though he showed but little of his feelings. Finally he got up to go and said: “Wal, there won’t be much work till Hepford comes back. An’ then, I reckon, none at all for some of us, leastways round heah.”
After the foreman had left, Ernest asked Nebraskie what he made of the present situation. “Humph!” ejaculated that worthy. “Jest like the nose on your face, which in my case is shore plain. I’ve seen this sort of deal in many an outfit. Hyslip has undermined Siebert with the boss. Them cronies of Hyslip’s hev heerd it an’ couldn’t keep from shootin’ off their chins. Pretty soon you an’ me an Hawk will be lookin’ fer new jobs. I’m sorry. Fer we was gettin’ to be good friends.”
“Yes, I’d hate to see us split up,” returned Ernest. “But I don’t think we will.”
“What you mean, pard?”
“We’ll get a job together.”
“I’d like to know where. Shore I can go to Brooks. He needs me. But he cain’t use you an’ Hawk, too. An’ fer thet matter things don’t look rosy fer Brooks, either. He’s worried. Hepford has long threatened to throw him off his ranch. An’ I reckon now he’s aboot ready fer any devilment.”
“Nonsense. Hepford can’t put Brooks off,” declared Ernest in angry disgust
“Why cain’t he?” queried Nebraskie. “What you know aboot cattlemen an’ ranges? If Brooks cain’t be scared off he shore can be beat in court. Dais tells me he hasn’t any papers fer thet hundred acres of land. He’s got the water rights, though.”
“Nebraskie, I don’t know much about cattlemen or ranges,” acknowledged Ernest ruefully. “But I–I just sort of feel that everything will work out fine.”
“Ernie, you’re a good-hearted boy,” said Nebraskie soberly. “You make me feel more hopeful, somehow. Quittin’ never helped nobody. An’ mebbe it ain’t as bad as Hawk an’ me think. I shore hope not.”
Ernest got the impression that Nebraskie was not confiding all of the facts of his chief source of trouble. He had a thoughtful brow and a sad eye. Ernest soon followed Nebraskie to bed, but it was to lie wakeful. Again the thought-provoking fact asserted itself–that he could at any hour precipitate a stunning denouement here at Red Rock, which would be fateful for his enemies and most welcome to his friends. But he was loth to do it. The situation was not yet ripe. He did not know enough about Hepford’s operations. If he did not secure direct evidence of dishonest dealing he would surely lose considerable money. Ernest decided to go slower than ever and to leave no stone unturned in securing his proofs. Only one thing would rush him into claiming his property, and that was for Hepford to attempt to get rid of more cattle. He was sure he could prevent that, now.
Furthermore he did not want any change in the present situation between Anne Hepford and himself. He had believed in her despite many acts and words that might well have engendered distrust. He wanted that faith to persist and grow. Sooner or later it would be put to a test. He sensed that when the day came when he had to show his hand she might be as cold and mean as she once had been warm and sweet. Yet he wanted to postpone that fateful day. She did not know herself. She needed a terrific shock. Ernest wanted her to get it, but he was hesitant to bring that very contingency about. The situation itself would develop it, he felt Love was blind, he knew, and he admitted that it must be particularly so in his case. Still his love thrived on the meager hopes that would not down that when the day came that her father’s thievery was revealed, she would take it like the thoroughbred he felt in his heart she must be.
Next day inaugurated a waiting period at Red Rock. The cowboys did what they liked. Selby noted particularly that Steve Monell did not take himself off the ranch. He and his partners, however, avoided contact with Ernest and Hawk. Early in the day Nebraskie had ridden toward Brooks’ place.
After cudgeling his brains Ernest evolved a perfectly valid excuse to go up to the ranch house. His ruse was so good that he chuckled. Wherefore he knocked at the wide-open front door and called: “Anybody home?”
“Who’s anybody?” called Anne, from the little room on the right of the hall, which Hepford used as an office.
Ernest stalked in, bareheaded, and if his eyes had not shone before he espied Anne, he knew they did a moment after. She looked as fresh as a rose.
“Oh, it’s you, handsome? I suspected as much,” she said gaily. “What you want?”
The visitor stated the reason for his errand, which she saw through as if it had been transparent glass. She laughed but she certainly was not displeased.
“Lordy, you’re a slick cowboy,” she declared admiringly. “I’ll bet you give me a jar someday.”
“I hope I do,” returned Ernest fervently, and laughed his relief. “What’re you doing?”
“A lot of pesky letters and accounts for Dad. I’m a month behind.”
“Then you won’t go riding with me today?”
“No, I cain’t. Dad may be home any day now. Perhaps tomorrow, Ernest.”
“Really? But you’d like to go, wouldn’t you, Anne?”
She smiled up at him. This was one of her unguarded moments, when she revealed more than she knew. Ernest gazed all around the little office, through the windows and door, then swiftly bent to kiss her.
“Ernest! You–you–” she expostulated, blushing scarlet, and pushing back her chair.
“I couldn’t help it. You look so–so perfectly sweet.”
She shook her red head dubiously. “It’s never safe to give a cowboy an inch. He’ll take a mile.”
“Anne, if I’m not mistaken you’ve given me a little more than an inch,” rejoined Ernest seriously.
“Perhaps I have,” she said, dropping her eyes. “But I’m not sorry–if you’re not.”
“Me?
I’m in the seventh heaven.”
She checked a movement to stretch a hand toward him. The Iowan felt that his presence was not at all distasteful to her, even when she said, “Go away, Ernest. You’re a most distracting boy. And I’ve a lot of work to do.”
“Tell me you love me and I’ll go.”
“Well! The idea! You can’t bribe me that way! I should say not!”
“Do you mean you’ll not tell me or that you do not love me?”
“Both. Please go, Ernest. I’ll get mad in a minute.”
“That won’t bother me. Let me help you at the work. I’m mighty handy with figures. Does your father trust you with his bookkeeping?”
“He does, with some of it,” she answered. “But he’s mighty finicky aboot some things. Look at that little blue book there. He forgot to lock it up before he left. I wouldn’t dare look into it.”
“Why not?”
“Because he forebade me–and he trusts me.”
Ernest picked up the little blue book, which had rubber bands around it. His bandaged hands shook. This little book, he had a premonition, contained the information he needed to unmask Hepford’s peculations. Anne snatched the book out of his hands.
“You’re a nosey impertinent cowboy. Get out of heah,” she burst, almost angrily.
“No offense, Anne. I’m just teasing. I should think though that you’d be keener to know all about your father’s business.”
“Why?” she queried sharply.
“Well, because he’s so lax–so careless in his methods. So irresponsible, I might say. Any dumbhead of a cowboy can see that.”
“You’re no dumbhaid of a cowboy,” she denied thoughtfully, her bright eyes studying him.
“Thanks. That’s sure a compliment from you. I’ll go now,” he replied, and sauntered out.
“Ernest,” she called.
He returned, but not saunteringly.
“I hope you’ve changed your mind about riding with me,” he said.
“No. It was just–oh, well, never mind. I’ll tell you tomorrow” she replied, and bent over the desk, with a tinge of color in her cheek.
“Fine. I won’t have to think of an excuse to come tomorrow.”
“You need never do that, Ernest. Only–I can’t promise–anything more.”
“Anne, that in itself is a promise. And it means a lot.”
“You make too much of–of–little things,” she protested.
“Is a kiss little?”
“But you stole that.”
“Today, yes. But the other time?”
“I–I don’t remember any other time....Please go away.”
Ernest left then, his blood racing, his head in a whirl. He strode off into the pine woods and sat under a great tree, trying to understand the green-eyed girl–and himself. If she did not care for him, if she was not affected somehow by his presence and talk, then he was either a conceited fool or she was the greatest dissembler in all the world–the unconscious, that betrayed Anne. It simply was not reasonable that she could be that way with all young men. Still, did he not have proof of the fact that she could? He suffered the sting of jealousy.
When that perturbing mood passed, however, he remembered the little blue book, which Anne had told him she had been forbidden to open. Of course it had never occurred to Hepford that his daughter would disclose its existence. The Iowan determined to see what was inside that little blue book, if he had to resort to most arbitrary means to get possession of it. After all, the book belonged to him, as well as the fixtures in the office, and the ranch house itself. He wished that Anne Hepford, too, belonged to him! Every turn of his mind led back to her.
All the next morning Ernest was on pins and needles, waiting for the afternoon, his hopes now soaring to the skies and then again cast down. Early in the afternoon he saw a stable boy leading Anne’s pinto saddled and bridled, up to the ranch house. Immediately Ernest rushed to saddle his own horse, which he had ready in a corral.
He could not avoid riding by the bunkhouse, where Monell and Davis were sitting on the porch, eagle-eyed and bitter.
“Ridin’ fer a fall, tenderfoot!” called Monell.
“There’s one born every minnit!” added Davis.
The Iowan gave them eye for eye, and halted his horse to call out:
“Say, you soreheads. Go take a look at Magill’s mug. And then don’t forget I’m always ready to accommodate if you want the same operation on yours.”
They let the retort pass. But Ernest did not miss the gleam in Shep Davis’ cold eye. He rode on, thoughtfully enough, and not until he espied Anne on the porch steps did he forget the disgruntled cowboys. He hurried to reach her side and dismounted.
“So heah you are. I thought you’d forgotten again,” she said, in pretended pique.
“No chance of me ever forgetting anything that concerns you.”
“Ernest! You’re pale. . . . What has happened?” she asked, quickly, her green eyes widening.
“I just got sore at some of your cowboys, Monell and Davis.”
“They’re not my cowboys. I detest them both. What did they say?”
“Oh, never mind. It doesn’t matter. I’m sorry my face gave me away. I’m not upset anymore, Anne.”
“Ernest, please tell me,” she cried imperiously.
At first he decided against telling her of his recent altercation, but he changed his mind, and related what had happened.
She flushed. “I don’t blame you. What they think of me–” she stopped. Then she turned toward her horse.
“Let’s forget it, Anne,” he urged. “I want this to be a happy ride. I may never have another with you.”
“Why not?”
“I’m to be discharged, so they say.”
“Indeed. They know a lot. . . . Even so, Ernest, I’m worried. Things have changed heah. I don’t understand Dad. He’s changed, too. There’s much kept from my ears. . . . But some things I don’t understand get to my ears, too! Well, let’s ride.”
Ernest helped her to mount, despite her protest. “How many times have I told you I’m a western girl?” she asked with a pout.
“I know you are much better around horses than I’ll ever be, but I can’t help wanting to help you, no matter how awkward I am.”
She gave him a long, quizzical look. “It isn’t–I wonder if that isn’t why I–I like you.”
They rode off side by side, walking their horses through the pines. As they rode, Anne asked him many questions about himself, his family, and his life in Iowa. Ernest happily did not have to lie or evade queries, for fortunately she did not ask him anything embarrassing–why he had come to Arizona, for instance.
“Then your family and connections were not so poor as those of most boys who run away to make their fortunes?”
“No, not so very.... But I didn’t run away.”
“I’m sure you didn’t, Ernest Howard. You must have a nice family.”
“Yes. I think you’ll love my mother and sister when you get to know them someday,” he returned, looking at her out of the corner of his eyes.
“How you talk!” she exclaimed. Then she spurred her horse and galloped on ahead of him. He did not catch up with her for a long while. Then he was to find that her mood had changed. Once more she had become strange and capricious. She would not ride up the mountain to the famous spring. She would not dismount to rest. She did not seem even to want to talk. But Ernest liked this mood. He had the feeling that something he had said must have touched her, and that she was ashamed of the wild, shallow, vain side of her nature.
On the return trip, which she started disappointingly soon, they rode through a dark pine grove when Ernest managed to reach her hand. She struggled to get free. But he held on. Suddenly she desisted and for a while they rode hand in hand, silent, she with pensive face, and he wondering if he were not wise and right to trust this gentle side of her. At any rate it emboldened him, and at the shadiest place in the grove he let go her hand and put h
is arm around her and drew her close. The horses halted stirrup to stirrup. Anne swayed so that her head rested on his shoulder, her face upturned, with eyes closed and lips parted Ernest kissed her gently.
A long silent moment passed. Ernest knew that he ought not to disrupt it, but he had to speak. “Anne, I love you,” he said, smiling down at her. “You must know it already. If not, you know it now!”
She gave a little start and then righted herself in the saddle.
“Oh, you’ve broken the spell!” she exclaimed, spurring her mount forward. This time the Iowan on his slower pony could not catch the fleet pinto. He was content to be beaten in that race, since he felt in his heart he had almost won in another.
But when he drew up at the porch he was amazed to see Anne confronting her father and Dude Hyslip. Hepford had a worn and harried look, which turned into a scowl at sight of Ernest. The dude cowboy preserved his reputation as to the neatness of his attire, but his visage was something else again. Selby was swift to grasp that it had excited Anne’s pity. Anne’s evident sympathy caused him to bow stiffly to Hepford.
“Howard, didn’t I tell you not to go riding with Anne?” demanded the rancher.
“I don’t remember it, sir.”
“Dad, whether you did or not doesn’t matter. I asked him to ride with me,” spoke up Anne. “I’m old enough to choose my companions.” Then she turned to Ernest. “Are you responsible for Hyslip’s appearance?”
“Certainly not,” retorted Ernest nettled. “If I were I’d be ashamed of myself.”
“But he said you beat him!”
“We had a fight. He was responsible for that.”
The Iowan was at a loss to understand Anne’s obvious annoyance. Something had been said to her before his arrival. Then he observed Magill, Davis and Monell sitting in a row up on the porch. He had the feeling that one has when he has been caught in some act of guilt, and it made him coldly furious.
“Hyslip claims you found him asleep, after he had been drinking, and that you pounded him into senselessness,” continued Anne in a coldly accusing voice.
