by Zane Grey
Soundlessly he slipped out of the bushes, peering all around him, listening like a hunted deer. Then he mounted the porch steps. The office door was locked. Evidently it had been locked while Anne was in there. Then he tried the window. It held fast. This was bad, but he was prepared for that eventuality. His hunting knife, which he wore at his belt, possessed a heavy, stout blade. He inserted this between the frame and sill, and pried. A crack followed, so loud that it startled him. Again he froze to a listening, watching posture. Nothing happened.
Again he bent to the window. It opened easily, but he had trouble in holding it up while he slipped inside. Then he lowered it. His next move was to feel at the door, to find the lock and unbolt it. Slowly and carefully he opened the door. He tiptoed to the desk and bent over it, feeling with careful, swift hands.
Suddenly they came in contact with a soft, damp object. A handkerchief! Anne had left it there. Ernest caught a faint well-remembered perfume. It shook his nerve, even more than had sight of her. The handkerchief was wet with her tears. On an impulse he stuffed the bit of linen inside his shirt.
Then to his task he bent swiftly. The desk was bare. He felt in the little open compartments. One article after another he touched, handled, discarded. At last his eager hand came in contact with a small ledger held shut by rubber bands. He put the book in his pocket. Yet to make doubly sure he went all over the desk again, outside and inside. He had what he wanted.
His exultation died a sudden violent death. Rapid hoofbeats transfixed him. Horses were approaching at a swift gait. Then he heard a halloa, so close at hand that his blood turned to ice in his veins.
He stepped to the door. In the gloom he saw the black team and buckboard come to a halt, right at the foot of the porch steps. A man leaped out.
“Tell the boys, pronto,” called Hepford harshly. “Send Pedro for the team. But tell him not to unhitch. Hurry now.”
The man ran off. Hepford moved to get out of the buckboard. Ernest’s mind worked with the swiftness of lightning. His first thought was to walk boldly down the steps to confront Hepford. But the rancher was excited. Something had happened. Ernest would have to kill him. Next he decided to cross the porch and leap off in the shadow. But this would not do. He took the only retreat left open.
Gliding out he slipped down the dark hallway. His intent was to go through the house and out at the back. But he bumped into a door that would not open. He felt like a trapped wolf.
Hepford’s quick footsteps sounded on the porch. Ernest advanced along the wall, feeling at the left side for a door. At the same moment he heard distant shouts. Suddenly his shaking hand came to an offset in the wall. A door! He found the door knob. Softly he turned it while peering down the hallway toward the porch. The door opened into a lighted room. Like a flash Ernest slipped in, and closing the door locked it behind him. Only then did he look up–in time to see Anne Hepford sit bolt upright in bed.
17
ERNEST made a sharp gesture, which ended with his fingers to his lips. But that did not prevent Anne from crying out: “Ernest!” He made a hissing sound as he whispered to her to keep still.
“What does this mean!” she exclaimed, her look of surprise turning into anger and indignation.
He advanced with long strides, to halt at the foot of her bed. Here the lamplight shone full on him. Anne’s big eyes widened as they swept from his bare head to his stocking feet, his menacing posture, his gun. She sank back with a gasp.
“In God’s name!. . . What’re you doing in my room? What are you going to do to me?”
Her fright gave Ernest a cue. He had nothing in mind on the instant but to keep her quiet.
“That depends,” he replied, very low and fiercely.
She sat up again, her red hair tumbling around her white face and bare shoulders. Her terror, her agitation, tended to make her appear more beautiful than Ernest had ever seen her. It occurred to him that his sudden entrance and his attitude might well have made her think he had broken into her room to revenge himself upon her for her cruelty to him.
“Ernest–you–you wouldn’t–” she began, and lifted a shaking hand.
“I’d do anything, Anne Hepford,” he whispered threateningly, bending over the bed, fixing her with his eyes. He meant to frighten her until she helped him out of this dilemma. “You made me love you to distraction. Then you betrayed me–scorned me before your father–and that damned blackguard!” he whispered hoarsely.
“Oh–but wait–listen! Ernest,” she begged wildly. “I’m not so vile as you think. When we got back–from that ride we took everybody ridiculed me. I was furious anyhow–because I–I began to see I really cared. I wouldn’t give in to it. I encouraged Hyslip again. . . . And when I saw you at Brooks’ I wanted to make you feel as miserable as I was. . . . But I was sorry. That settled me. Tonight I wrote you–telling you how wrong I was to hurt you–how sorry I was that I had done all this to you. You must believe me, Ernest.”
“Anne Hepford, you’re lying,” he retorted, not needing now to feign anger.
“No, Ernest. I’ve got the letter under my pillow.” She turned and tumbling the pillows extracted a letter, which she held out.
The intruder eagerly leaned over the bed to snatch the letter from her fingers. A glance showed that it was addressed to him. The envelope was thick, and undoubtedly its contents occupied many pages. Slowly he dropped the missive into his pocket. His doubt of her remained as great as all the pain she had caused him. He willed himself not to yield to her charm, to her lies, only to be humiliated all over again. Yet the sweet loveliness of her, as she lay helpless there in bed, made him catch his breath.
“So you’ve taken to writing letters now? Why don’t you get the Dude to deliver them for you?” he asked harshly.
“Oh, please, Ernest,” she pleaded. “I know I deserve–oh, Ernest, I’ve been heartless. But I know how wrong I was. I don’t ask you to forgive me–just to believe me. It’s all in that letter. I confessed. I told the truth at last–how I found out that I really cared for you–hated myself for my blindness, my stubbornness–begged you to understand–asked you to come back to Bed Rock and I’d make everything all right.”
“Anne, what you say is impossible.”
“Indeed it’s not. It’s all in that letter–and if you just cain’t believe me, read it heah and now. I don’t blame you. I–I’ve been a liar–a flirt–a cat–a coward. But, Ernest, I didn’t know myself–I didn’t.”
“If it’s true–it’s too late!” he said, turning away in order that she might not see his face.
She sat up, and reaching for her dressing gown, she slipped the coverlet back and moved to the foot of the bed. Her glance fell to the floor. She was flushing scarlet now.
“Not too late, Ernest. Oh, don’t say that–not if you still–”
Heavy footsteps and a knocking on the door silenced her. Ernest drew back. He suddenly realized what an awkward position he was in, and what a compromising situation it must be for the girl.
“Anne, are you awake?” called her father’s voice.
“Oh! That you, Dad? Yes, I’m awake, but I’m in bed,” she replied in tones that sounded unnatural to Ernest.
“Let me in.”
It was then a subtle change passed over her. The startled look left her eyes.
“But, Dad, I told you. I’m in bed. I don’t want to get up.”
“Reckon you needn’t. You have that money safe?”
“Yes. I hid it away.”
“All right. Never mind now. I’ll probably be out all night. . . . Anne, somethin’ terrible’s happened.”
“What?”
“Young Howard killed Hyslip. . . . The cowboys think it was murder.”
Anne’s horrified gaze transfixed him. “Oh Dad–how awful!” she cried huskily.
“Wal, it was awful fer Hyslip an’ it’ll be awful fer Howard if we catch him,” responded Hepford grimly. “It’ll mean a lynchin’. I’m sorry to have to tell you, Anne. B
ut you had somethin’ to do with it. I told you to let that tenderfoot alone. I sensed that he was different from the start. Not a cowboy at all, not even a Westerner. He was out of his haid over you. . . . But no use to rail. It’s too late now. Let this be a lesson to you. Go to sleep, if you can. I’ll tell you everythin’ tomorrow.”
He ceased and his heavy footsteps sounded down the hall. Voices came from the porch. There were others outside.
Ernest’s heart, which had been in his throat, resumed its natural position. His consternation and then terror had all been for Nebraskie. In a flash he realized what had happened. Hepford and Hyslip had not gone to town. No doubt Hyslip had returned instead to Brooks’ ranch, there to run into Nebraskie. Then in some way Hepford, and perhaps others, deliberately had mixed up Ernest’s name in the case.
All of a sudden Ernest became aware of Anne. While those thoughts had flashed through his mind he had forgotten her and where he was. She came sliding unsteadily along the bed, and reaching the footboard she raised herself to her knees and clasped Ernest with nerveless hands. Her face was ghastly white, her eyes were strained and full of dark terror.
“Oh, my God, I know now–why you said it’s too late,” she moaned. “I drove you to do it. I don’t blame you. I’m to blame. Oh, Ernest why, why didn’t you wait? Why didn’t you come to me sooner? I can see it all now. Hyslip crowed over you. Aboot me! The damned conceited fool! And you killed him! Oh, may God forgive me!”
Ernest put his arms around her and held her close, doubting his own senses. But he could feel her throbbing heart; he could see the tragic despair in her great eyes.
“Anne, hush. Your father–or someone else may hear you. My life is in danger,” he whispered. “You heard what he said about a lynching.”
“Yes–yes.” She clung to him then straining and trembling and shivering as with a chill. It was on Ernest’s lips to tell her that he had not killed Hyslip, to assure her of his innocence, but he was powerless to resist the moment. What more would she say? What would she do? Again he was finding himself convinced that in spite of all that had happened, this beautiful girl truly loved him. It seemed preposterous, incomprehensible, yet she might. She might prove it in some glorious way.
She drew back from him a little, and he could see her gathering her courage.
“We must leave Red Rock at once,” she whispered.
“You would go with me?”
“Heaven help us! Yes, I’ll go. Once across the territory line you’ll be safe. But if you’re caught now–Dad and his outfit will hang you. Oh, they hate you, Ernest, for some reason I can’t figure out. . . . We must go at once.”
“Anne, you’d really–run off with me?” he asked wonderingly.
“I told you. Yes, yes. I will. I must. I’d never let you go alone.”
“But why?”
“Because I’ve ruined you. . . . And because I–I love you, Ernest.” She put her arms around his neck and kissed him.
“But Anne. Think. Don’t take a step like this–just out of remorse or sense of pity. You’d have to marry me.”
“I’d want you to, of course, Ernest. But I’ll go whether you marry me or not. I’ll give my life. I’ll pay. I’m a new Anne Hepford. And I know what I’m doing. You killed a man because of me. But he deserved to die. I want you to live–for me.”
“We’d be very poor, Anne. You’ve been used to everything you wanted. If you do this rash thing and afterward regret it–”
“I ask only to get you away from them. . . . Ernest, you do love me still? I didn’t make you despise me?”
No dream of love he had ever had could equal the sweetness and passion of her voice, the entreaty in her face.
“Anne, I love you more madly than ever. Still, I beg you once again. Think of what you’re doing.”
“Kiss me,” she whispered, holding up her mouth. Her lips clung to his. Then with a quick movement she broke from him.
“I’ll let you out this window,” she said swiftly. “Keep in the dark. Find your shoes. I’ll dress, pack a few things and meet you in fifteen minutes. Let’s see. I’ll go through the grove, down by the road. Wait for me near the big pine. I must try to get horses, if I can.”
She turned down the lamp till the room was almost dark. Then she slid up the blind. The window was open. All appeared dark and quiet outside. “Now,” she whispered, “and for my sake don’t let anyone see you.”
Without a word more Ernest slipped out, while she knelt to help him, clasp him, and kiss him once more. As her lips left his cheek they formed the word: “Darling.” Then her hold loosened. Ernest dropped to the soft turf. The dim light from the window vanished.
He stood there for an instant like a man in a trance. How dark the night! How still! He was trembling all over. He listened. The sound of faint hoof beats came to his listening ears. Stealthily he moved, making no sound. He parted the leaves of the shrubbery and moved noiselessly through them, away from the house, into the grove. He found his shoes and put them on. He had to feel for the trunks of the pines. One by one he passed through them, gradually gaining control over his faculties, as he crept toward the road. At the edge of the grove he stopped to make sure of his further course. He knew the way as well as if it had been daylight. Across the open to the left several of the bunk-houses showed lights from their windows. He crossed the wide dark space to the right of the grove, and gained the high vine-covered fence. He slipped along this to the end, where it turned at right angles, forming one side of the barnyard. He had only to go round the barn to the lane. Then as he listened the sound of hoofs came again, louder now, followed by the crunch of wheels on gravel. Someone was bringing the blackboard from the house. It was coming too slowly to be driven. Suddenly the sounds were drowned by the rush of horses from the other direction. Several riders galloped by, toward the ranch house. Ernest saw the dark forms.
He did not have a great while to think and plan. Absolutely, beyond any equivocation he would take Anne at her word, elope with her, marry her, and let the rest take care of itself. Exultation swelled his heart. But they could not walk. He must procure horses. Perhaps it would not be the best course to wait until Anne joined him. Nevertheless he waited. Soon in the gloom dim forms appeared–Pedro leading the team, still hitched to the buckboard. The Mexican lad was humming a tune. He went by, continuing on into the barnyard.
Ernest took advantage of his opportunity, and passing the barn, hurried down the lane. The customary quiet of the ranch at this hour appeared to have been disrupted. The sound of distant voices came to his ear and the pounding of boots on wooden floors. The cowboys were moving to and fro. Ernest worried about the three horsemen who had passed. He wished they would return. However, he reflected, they could have gone on toward Springertown.
He did not proceed more than halfway to the big pine that stood close to the road, but waited just out of sight of the barn, and listened with all his might, peering impatiently into the gloom. He was sure Anne would come. He had dispelled his last doubt of her. And he thanked God that his faith had persisted, despite all appearances, despite his own weak pretenses up to the very end. Yet how wrong he had been that day at Brooks’ farm. She had only been distraught. Her vanity and her pride had succumbed to her love for a tenderfoot masquerading as a penniless cowboy. Ernest blessed the deception he had practiced. Otherwise he might never have won her. It had taken the tragedy of Hyslip’s killing to make a woman of her.
Suddenly his keen ear caught the sound of light swift steps. His blood raced. She was coming. Sure as the stars shone she was coming to meet him, to go away with him, to share what she deemed would be his vicissitudes. Then a dark flitting shadow emerged from the gloom. He waited until he recognized it. She wore a black coat and carried a small bag. Ernest stepped out from his hiding place. She shied like a frightened colt. Then he spoke her name softly, reassuring her. Joining her, he took her bag.
“I’m late. But I had–some narrow–escapes,” she whispered, her breath com
ing in little gasps. “I got out easy enough. Dad has men there. I–I listened a moment–at my door. . . . Now, we must have horses.”
“Pedro just led the buckboard into the barnyard,” said Ernest.
“Good. I’ll get it. Wait at the gate for me. Have it open.” She was gone before Ernest had a reply ready. He obeyed her, hurrying down the lane. She could do anything with Pedro, or any of the other hired hands for that matter. Before he reached the gate he heard the buckboard coming, the horses at a brisk trot Ernest ran to open the gate.
The black team approached almost to where he stood. Anne slowed up, but did not stop. “Jump in!” she called, with an excited little laugh. Ernest leaped aboard. Then with Anne grasping the reins they went at a rapid clip down the road. “I told Pedro not to tell until the team was missed. And then that I was going to Springertown. That’ll put Dad off the track. He’ll be wild–but not half as wild as he’ll be when he discovers the loss of something else.”
Ernest put his arm around her slender waist. “We’re off. I don’t care where. Oh, Anne, it’s too wonderful to be true.”
“Well, it’s true enough,” she replied grimly. “You talk sort of funny for a man who’s being hunted for a murder.”
“What could you expect? It’s turned out you don’t hate me–but love me.”
“Ernest, you’ve got to use your haid now, love or no love,” she replied seriously. “I’m hoping in the excitement that the cowboys won’t think of tracking the buckboard but haid straight for Springertown. But even if they do they cain’t catch us. Well have an all night start.”
“Where are we going, Anne?” he asked.
“We turn off aboot ten miles beyond Brooks’ ranch. It’s a fairly good road, but not much used. Short cut to Snowflake, Showdown, Pine Hill and the New Mexico line. I reckon it’ll be pretty safe. No word can reach those towns of your–your fight with Hyslip, before we get there. And once across the line we’ll be safe from Dad’s outfit.”
