by Zane Grey
The parson took the ring, and straightway began to read the service. Ernest was keyed up tightly as he waited, his mouth dry, his veins bursting for the minister to begin. Presently came the query: “Do you, Ernest, take this woman–”
“Yes!” he burst out loudly, and to his joy the minister passed over the interruption, and went on. The end came swiftly. Anne held out a trembling hand to receive the ring on her finger, and her “Yes” came sweetly and demurely from her heart. It was over. She was his wife. The room seemed to whirl about him. He embraced Anne in a rush of love and gratitude, careless of the onlookers.
“Oh, it’s too good to be true!” he exclaimed softly. “Here, Anne, sit down and sign your name. . . . Hurry, dearest. . . . There! Sign there!” He hung over her, and she wrote her name without a glance at the contents of the document. Then Ernest lifted her up and took the paper from her hands, and as one beside himself, while the others smiled, he dashed his own name down and handed the certificate to the minister. In another moment the ceremony was ended without a hitch. Selby folded the precious paper and waved it at Anne.
“You’re my wife. Here’s my proof. And I’m the happiest man in the world.”
“Yes. I–I’m happy, too, but Ernest, we must go–you know. We must hurry.”
“Surely,” replied Ernest, as he buttoned his vest over the marriage certificate that now reposed safely in his pocket. “But we must have something to eat first. I’m starved. I didn’t feel it before, but I do now.”
“Same heah,” corroborated Nebraskie. “What’s the hurry? We’re all married now an’ nothin’ cain happen. There’s a hotel heah. Let’s eat.”
Anne still seemed to be a bit dazed. Between them they led her outdoors. The preacher followed as far as the gate, pleased with the happiness he had bestowed, and there he bade them good-by. Once seated again in the buckboard Anne begged: “Ernest, let’s not stop heah. We must hurry.”
“But child, there’s no risk. No one save Nebraskie and Daisy know we’re here.”
“Any minute some one might come.”
“Sure. Only the chance is slim. We can’t go without eating forever.”
So he prevailed upon her, and they drove to the hotel. While the girls went upstairs Ernest and Nebraskie took the horses round to the barn.
“Might as wal unhitch, pard,” said Nebraskie. “Well spend the night heah.”
“Suits me,” replied Ernest shortly.
“Say, you’re shore loco,” went on Nebraskie, his keen gray eyes on his friend. “What’s eatin’ you?”
“A lot,” replied Ernest.
“You heahed aboot me?”
“Not a damn word. I told you,” flashed Ernest.
“Wal, you needn’t jump down my throat. Doggone it, I reckon I done you a good turn.”
They saw to the needs of the horses; and then Nebraskie dragged Ernest into a stall, and after peering around to make sure they were alone, he whispered: “Now spill it, you blankfaced idjit!”
Ernest drew a long breath. “Yesterday afternoon–or when was it?–I saw Hepford and Hyslip drive by Brooks’ place. And I jumped at my chance to–to go down to Red Rock. I went. Waited till dark. Then I slipped down to the house. I–I busted into Anne’s room–”
“Whatinhell fer? My Gawd, Ernie, I’m worried aboot you,” interrupted Nebraskie, red in the face.
“Shut up. This is my turn to talk,” went on Ernest. “I busted into Anne’s room. She was in bed. She’d been reading. She was scared stiff. . . . Well, that was what I wanted. I was aiming to scare her–among other things. We were having it hot and heavy–she sure I had come to kill her–or worse–because she had treated me so rotten–when Hepford knocked on the door. It was good I’d locked it. He wanted to come in, but she wouldn’t let him. Then he said there had been hell to pay–in substance that I had killed Hyslip–that they were going to lynch me. He went away–and then–well, Nebraskie, I just can’t tell you what did happen. But it turned out that Anne really loved me and swore she would run off with me–get me across the state border. I never told her that I didn’t kill Hyslip. I knew you did and I was sure sick about it. But I let her believe I had because I wanted to see how she’d take it . . . She was great, Nebraskie. She helped me outside, met me down in the lane, she stole the buckboard, she drove all night–and here we are!”
Nebraskie gripped Ernest with stiff fingers. His eyes shone like fire.
“Didn’t I tell you she was game? Thet she’d come out true? But, Gawd Almighty man! You cain’t let her think thet you’re a murderer any longer. Fer I killed Hyslip an’ it was a job I’m shore proud of.”
“For Lord’s sake, tell me!” cried Ernest passionately.
“I came back to the ranch aboot four o’clock,” began Nebraskie, cool and easy. “Sam an’ Hawk was with me, but they put the hosses away while I went to the house. I heahed Dais cry out. An’ I heahed a tusslin’. The door was shet. I peeped in the winder, an’ there was Dude Hyslip with Dais in his arms. I looked long enough to make shore Dais was fightin’ him. An’ pard, thank Gawd she was–like a little wildcat! Hyslip always had Dais locoed, but when it come to the pinch she was game. . . . Wal, I was lookin’ around fer somethin’ to bust in the door when Sam an’ Hawk arrived. ‘What’s up,’ they says. An’ I said, ‘Bust open thet door damn quick!’ When the two of them flopped agin it–smash! It gave in. Sam lodged agin the doorpost, but Hawk fell in. An’ thet crazy fool shot him. I had just enough sense left not to face the open door. So I ran to the winder. I shot Hyslip through the glass, but hit him low down. He came out a yellin’. An’ he shot at Sam jest as I bored him agin. Funny how nervous I was, pard. It turned out afterward thet either of them shots would hev done fer him, in time. But Hyslip was shore waivin’ his gun on me when I killed him.”
“Good Lord!” ejaculated Ernest, in mingled relief and horror. “But don’t say he killed Hawk?”
“Nope, Hawk got it through the shoulder an’ a madder man I never seen. Dais was in a faint. Wal, we fixed Hawk up temperary. Meanwhile Dais come round of her own accord. Brooks hitched up the wagon an’ packed Hawk off to Holbrook, tellin’ us to foller. After Dais an’ I’d thought it over we decided to come over heah an’ git married, so’s to have thet done when we got to town. . . . We left Hyslip lyin’ where he fell. . . . I reckon now thet heah’s whut happened. Hyslip an’ Hepford split up fer some reason. Hyslip went back to Brooks’ house, an’ findin’ Dais alone he lost his haid agin. Then Hepford must hev come back later, an’ he jest put the blame on you. Or mebbe Magill an’ Davis or Pollard did thet little job. An’ I reckon thet’s aboot all.”
“It’s bad enough, but thank Heaven you can’t be held! . . . Nebraskie, you’re going on to Holbrook, then?”
“Shore. It’ll save some investigatin’.”
“Hepford put a posse after me, sure as you’re born. Suppose they happen along here?”
“Wal, I’d stop them darn pronto. Reckon, though, thet ain’t likely. Let’s go in an’ tell Anne the truth.”
“Perhaps Daisy has already.”
“No siree. I told Dais to keep mum.”
Upon returning to the hotel Ernest and his friend found their wives in their separate rooms. Anne had her hat and coat on and seemed nervously anxious to leave Snowflake without delay.
“Well, let’s see Nebraskie and Daisy first. Then if you still want to hurry away, we’ll start pronto,” replied her husband.
“Ernest–how you talk! I’m shore Daisy knows. She acted so strange. She couldn’t keep the tears out of her eyes.”
Ernest crossed the hall with Anne and led her into the presence of Daisy and Nebraskie. It was a large light room. Nebraskie looked cool and relaxed, Daisy nervously solicitous.
Anne opened the conversation. “Daisy, you and your husband are on a honeymoon. . . . But Ernest and I–are fleeing for his life. As he won’t tell you I must. He–”
“Now, Anne, jest wait a little,” interposed Nebraskie, in his dr
awling voice. “Shore there’s a mistake around heah somewheres. There cain’t be any need of you two fleein’. Cause–”
“But Nebraskie, my dad has set his men on Ernest’s trail,” cried Anne, her eyes desperate and dark with anxiety. “They hate Ernest. They’ll hang him!”
“Aw, thet’s a bit exaggerated, Anne. What on earth fer?”
“Ernest killed Hyslip. It–was my fault. Oh, I was rotten to Ernest. I know he’s innocent of murder. He shot Hyslip in selfdefense. But they won’t believe that. They won’t give my–my husband a chance. We won’t be safe until we’re across the line.”
“Anne, darling, wait. Let us say a word. You haven’t considered that maybe–perhaps your father–made a mistake,” interrupted Ernest.
“Mistake! What aboot?” returned Anne, nonplussed. She gazed from one to the other. And when Daisy began to cry she turned to comfort her.
“Why shore–aboot this heah killin’ of Hyslip,” said Nebraskie, feeling his way. “My pard Ernie, now, he couldn’t hev done it, Anne. He jest couldn’t.”
“Why–why not?” she implored weakly, a terrible hope in her eyes.
“Wal, in the first place Ernie wasn’t around when it happened.... I was the one who killed Hyslip.”
Anne gave a gasp, and reeling, would have fallen if Nebraskie had not caught her in his arms.
19
STRICKEN with remorse Ernest took his wife’s unconscious form out of Kemp’s arms and laid her on the bed. Daisy removed her hat, and the two of them managed to get her coat oft, after which they bathed her white face with cold water. At length her eyelids flickered, then opened, to reveal two tragic green wells of consciousness.
“There! She’s come to,” whispered Daisy.
“Aw, I’m shore glad. She looked daid. Think of Anne Hepford keelin’ over like thet.”
“Anne, darling–you fainted,” said Ernest, greatly relieved, as he held her hands.
Nebraskie drew Daisy away. “Say, folks, we’ll go have a special dinner fixed up.” And he left with Daisy in a haste that gave evidence of his great concern.
“All right, but not too soon,” called the Iowan after them, and then closed the door. When he returned to the bed it was to discover a new Anne Hepford.
“Ernest, is–it–true?” she faltered.
“Is what true, honey?”
“That you didn’t–kill Hyslip?”
“Certainly it’s true, I’m happy to confess. But, darling, I never said I did.”
“You didn’t deny it.”
“No. I let you think so.”
“Oh, why did you deceive me?” she asked, reproachfully.
Ernest leaned over, holding her hands, and gazing deep int the eyes that at last expressed her true soul.
“Well, you took it for granted. You were so shocked, yot blamed yourself so passionately that I just couldn’t bear to tell you,” explained Ernest.
“Ernest, you are pretty wonderful, too. I don’t know just how–but you are,” she replied dreamily, and she slipped a hand free to touch his cheek tenderly. “You were cruel. You’ve no idea of the torture I endured.”
“I endured some myself, little wife,” he said, significantly.
“I’d forgotten. I am your wife . . . . Oh, thank God you didn’t kill that cowboy. Ernest, I’m no chickenhearted girl. I’m western. I’m not afraid of death–or of a man who takes a life in a just cause. But the fact that I thought I was to blame is what crucified me.”
“I might have done it. I packed a gun for that very reason.”
“But you didn’t . . . . Let me up, dear . . . . I feel giddy.”
Ernest led her to a big chair, and sitting down he drew Anne into his lap. It was not many moments before the natural ruddy color had been restored to her cheeks.
“They might come back,” she whispered, protesting.
“Who cares? Anne, I can’t get used to the idea you love me and that I’ve the right to embrace you and kiss you whenever I like,” he rejoined.
“If I remember correctly you did something of–of that sort before you had any right at all. . . . Oh, I tried to fight against you. To my shame I confess it–after that first time I–I was crazy for your kisses.”
“Glory be! And you never let me guess it!” cried Ernest ruefully.
“You acted as if you did . . . . Ernest, please tell me where, why and how Nebraskie killed Hyslip?”
Ernest took rather a long time for his recital of Nebraskie’s story.
“Served him right!” she flashed, with green fire in her eyes. “Ernest, I was always afraid of him. When I rode with him I was careful never to get off my horse. I rode, and that’s all, believe me. . . . I’m sorry for Daisy. Poor kid! She shore was hypnotized by that cowboy . . . . It might have been worse. I think Nebraskie is a noble fellow. He must love her dearly. It will come out all right in the end.”
“I hope so . . . . And that our love and marriage does the same.”
“We shore have a lot to think of,” she said, with an arm around his neck. “Reckon I ought to be scared stiff of what’s ahaid of us. But I’m not. I can work. You’d never believe it, Ernest, but I can cook, bake, wash, sew. Honest, I can. Reckon I was born to be a cowboy’s wife. We’ll pioneer it somewhere. I can chop wood, too, and I believe I could handle a plow.”
“I hope you don’t have to be a drudge for me. Maybe we’ll find a way. Don’t you think you could make a rancher out of me?”
“I shore could. Only,” she sighed, “it can’t be Red Rock now! When I think of how I love Red Rock–that always it seemed mine–I feel sort of sick. Imagine, Ernest. When the news first came that the new owner of Red Rock was coming out to take charge–I–made up my mind to marry him! Young or old, I meant to. That shows you how I love that ranch. And now–”
“My, what a calculating creature you were! And I’ll bet you’d have done it, too. No man could resist you, Anne. But you married me, a poor cowboy instead,” he ended exultantly.
“So it appears. I’m not sorry, Ernest. I’ll never have any regrets. It’ll be the making of me.”
“It’ll have to be the making of us both. But Anne, let’s postpone talking about all them serious things for the present. At least until–”
“How can we, you goose? Our problems begin now. I feel so free–so happy at the release from that terror for you–why, I can face anything.”
“Even life with a poverty-stricken, would-be cowboy?” he asked smilingly.
“Yes, as long as that poverty-stricken, would-be cowboy is you,” she nodded gravely, smoothing his hair.
“You make me feel very humble–and very proud, my dear,” said her husband in a voice that was little above a whisper.
“Ah–I–I–reckon it doesn’t make–any difference now,” whispered Anne, surrendering to his embrace.
The simplicity of Anne’s statement brought Ernest sharply to his senses.
“Anne, I–I must tell you something–we can’t be really husband and wife truly–until–”
“What do you mean?” she queried, aghast, while the red mantled from neck to temples.
“Simply this. I won’t–I can’t take advantage of your love and your becoming my wife–in all that implies–until I can do so honestly. It’s a horrible temptation to continue as we are. But–”
“Ernest!” she cried, clasping him wildly.
“Anne, I’ve deceived you–basely.”
“Aboot Hyslip? But I know now.”
“Not that. Something very much worse. I hope youll still love me–but you might not.”
“Oh, what is it?”
“I can’t tell you yet.”
“Ernest, it’s not–you love some one else?”
“No, not that.”
“You never loved any other girl?”
“Honestly, I never did.”
“There’s no reason why I cain’t be your wife?”
“No, indeed.”
“Then what in the world have you done?�
�
“I won’t tell you now.”
“When?”
“Well, in a few days. After we go to Holbrook and disprove the charge your father laid upon me. And have it out with him.”
“Pooh! You’re afraid of Dad?” she exclaimed, in sudden relief.
“Yes, I am, a little. He’ll be a bad customer. He never liked me. And Hyslip and his cronies hated me. Naturally that set Hepford even more against me. Then the day we came back from our ride–I was mighty upset. I was determined to find out something to his discredit. Siebert’s talk told me a lot.”
“Shore it told me a lot, too,” rejoined Anne bitterly. “It justified my fears. If I’d had any sense I’d have realized Dad was being dishonest. I knew in my heart, when he drew all that cash out of the bank, and told me we’d leave Red Rock presently– I knew he was dishonest. Siebert knew it, too.”
“Well, dear, I know it, also,” returned Ernest. “He had discharged me. You had flouted me. I determined to get proof of my suspicions. It was partly for that reason that I broke into your house. . . . Anne, I stole the little blue book you wouldn’t let me look into. I stole it that night. Here it is in my pocket now.”
“So that was it!” she murmured.
“Yes. Hepford drove up to the porch. Almost surprised me in his office. I couldn’t get by, so I ran down the hall. That was how I happened to come into your bedroom. Oh, what a lucky thing for me! But if you’d only known it–my heart was in my throat.”
“Then it was not to–to revenge yourself on me that you came?”
“Indeed it was not.”
“How things come aboot! But I’m glad–Ernest–glad . . . . When you burst in there–white as a sheet–with eyes like black blades– I just wilted. I thought you’d come to–well–to do something after Hyslip’s style. And now that I’m your wife I can confess.... No! I won’t confess that. Someday, maybe.”
“Anne, I think I can guess. And talk about your savages! But I loved you too deeply for revenge–or anything like that. No, I went to the ranch house to steal this little book.”
As he took it out of his pocket a thick envelope came with it. “What’s this? Oh, your letter. I must read it. But I no longer need it to prove to me that you are true blue. I’ll never need any proof of that any more, darling.”
