by Zane Grey
“When is Linn sending out the cowboys?” inquired Heftral.
“Today,” replied Winters, with a meaning glance at his young friend. “It’ll be terrible for Cherry to be left without anybody to pick on. Heftral, suppose you knock off work and stay home to amuse her.”
“Very happy to,” returned the archaeologist. “I’m sure I can think up something that will amuse even the blasé Miss Winters.”
“You needn’t concern yourself about me,” Cherry said spiritedly. “And I’ll have you know I’m not blasé. Did you ever see me look old or bored?”
“Certainly not old, but bored…yes indeed, and with your humble servant, myself.”
“You don’t bore me any more, Stephen,” Cherry replied deliberately, giving him an inscrutable glance. “You have become a mystery. Your possibilities are unlimited.”
“Much obliged,” rejoined Heftral with nonchalance. “I hope I can live up to your idea of my development.”
“When will you start amusing me?” inquired Cherry with a provoking little smile.
“There’s no time like the present.”
“Very well, begin. You have only to be perfectly natural.”
“That is what I thought. So I need not exert myself. After breakfast come with me for a walk. I know where to find some horned toads.”
“How far is it?”
“Quite near. In the big wash over the ridge. But I advise you to change that child’s dress for something comfortable and protecting.”
“Goodness. This is a tennis skirt and blouse.”
“Who’d guess it,” Heftral returned dryly. “Be ready in about an hour.”
Cherry went to her room, prey to not a little inward excitation. Mr. Heftral had been quite business-like. She had fancied he would take her for a long ride someday, which would give him better opportunity to make off with her. Surely he would not attempt the abduction while on a short stroll near the post. But she felt uncertain about him. She had best be prepared. To this end she considered what it would be best to wear. If she donned riding clothes and boots, which she heartily wanted to do, it would rouse Heftral’s suspicions. Outside of that all her clothes were unsuitable for the kind of a jaunt she was likely to have. She gave Heftral about one day and one night before fetching her back to the post. That, however, was long enough for his purpose, though she remembered her father hinting otherwise. Cherry searched among her things, and finally found an old woolen outing skirt, absurdly short, as it had been made when style called for the most abbreviated dresses for girls. It would do despite that drawback. She selected as heavy stockings as she could find, which were thin at that, tennis shoes, a shirt waist with high collar and long sleeves. She put on a soft felt hat and gloves. Then as an afterthought she slipped a vanity case into the pocket of her short sport coat, and tried to choose among many other articles she would need badly, in case she were kidnaped. But pocket space was limited. Thus equipped, and full of suppressed mirth, yet not free from other agitation, she sallied forth to meet Mr. Heftral.
Cherry knew she had occupied more than an hour, yet she was surprised to find he was not waiting for her. Nor was her father to be found. “Nigger in the wood pile, all right,” soliloquized Cherry. She went out to see the cowboys ride away with Linn. They were a disconsolate lot, and gazed at her from afar.
Upon her return to the house she encountered Heftral. His boots were dusty, and his face heated from exertion. He looked too grim and tense for the mere prospect of a little walk. Unless he meant to propose to her. Or else carry out her father’s plan. Cherry knew it was one or the other, and she trembled. But Heftral seemed too concerned with himself to note that she was not wholly at ease. And in another instant Cherry regained composure.
“Here you are,” he said as he met her. “Glad you’re a little more sensibly dressed.”
“I thought maybe you’d have me digging around in the sand after horned toads,” she replied.
“Daresay you’ll be digging around for more than that before we get back.”
He led her out the side exit of the yard, where the foliage of peach trees and the house obscured their departure from anyone who might have been looking from the post.
“Horned toads are really one of the wonders of the desert,” he said as he walked briskly out toward the rise of ground. “They have protective coloration. It is very difficult to see them. They are beautiful, with eyes like jewels. At rare times when angry one will emit blood from its eyes.”
While he talked, he was leading Cherry up the ridge. Then in a few moments they were over and going down on the other side, out of sight of the post. He talked horned toads until manifestly he had exhausted his fund of natural history, then he switched to desert scenery. Cherry knew he was only marking time, endeavoring to absorb her so that she would scarcely notice the distance they had come and that it was still far to any break in the floor of the desert. She helped him by listening intently. It was a full ten miles to the wash.
“Stephen, didn’t you say it was only a little walk?” she asked innocently.
“Why, yes. Isn’t it?”
“If you’d ask me, I’d say it was long. Where do we go from here?” returned Cherry, gazing down into the sandy void. There was no trail she could see, though in the sand just below she espied horse tracks.
Heftral jumped down off the bank to the slope, which was several feet under the level. “Come,” he said, and Cherry detected a slight change of tone.
“Gee. I can’t get down there,” she replied fearfully.
“If you won’t let me lift you down, why, slide.”
“Slide! Mister Heftral, I’m not a baseball player.”
Quick as a flash, then, he reached for her, clasped her knees, and lifted her so that she fell over his shoulder.
“Oh!” Cherry cried in a surprise that was not feigned. How powerful he was. She might have been a sack of potatoes. He carried her several strides down before Cherry began to protest and squirm. She would have kicked if her legs had been free. At any rate her struggle and the steep soft slope of sand caused Heftral to lose his balance and fall sidewise. Cherry rolled off his shoulder and sat up. Heftral floundered erect and, seeing her sitting there, wide-eyed and blank, he burst into laughter. Cherry could not help following suit.
“Mister Heftral, is this how you hunt horned toads?” she queried.
“No. But why did you overbalance me? I could have packed you down to the bottom.”
“My position was scarcely dignified. In the future if it is necessary to pack me, as you call it, please give me a moment to prepare.”
“All right. Come on. Let’s see if you’re any good on seven-league boots,” he said, and strode down with giant steps.
Cherry engaged to do likewise, succeeded admirably, and reached the bottom of the wash in good time. “My shoes are full of sand,” she announced, and sat down to remove them.
“Don’t let a little thing like that fuss you. It may happen again.”
“You’re quite gay, all of a sudden,” Cherry remarked as she shook the sand out of her shoes.
“Yes. Why not? It’s something to see Miss Cherry Winters as she is this moment,” he responded, eying her with a glint of admiration.
“I suppose you mean me in this short skirt. It is indecent,” she returned calmly. “But you needn’t look. It was the only old thing I had.”
Soon she was following him down the wash. It appeared to be quite deep, with a dry streambed of rock and gravel at the bottom. Desert plants grew sparsely along the banks. Heftral did not look back or speak, and he walked a little too swiftly for Cherry who lost a few paces. Presently they turned a corner, and Cherry espied what she had been expecting—two saddled horses. There was more, in shape of a mule carrying a pack.
Cherry plodded on, pretending not to see them. In fact, on the moment, she was conscious
of hot and cold sensations, of an emotion that recalled childhood. It was fear. How foolish! Nevertheless she was aware of a palpitating heart, of a rush of blood, of prickling skin. A quick glance showed Heftral had halted beside the horses. If Cherry had not been in on the secret of this affair, she would have been mystified by the man’s look. He was pallid and grim, under strong restraint. Cherry strove to find nerve to meet this situation as she had planned. Where was her anger? It had oozed out of her trembling fingertips. But that was only momentary. Sight of Heftral rallied her courage. She would deceive him, punish him and her father if it took all the spirit and endurance she could muster.
“Whose horses?” Cherry inquired as she reached Heftral, and sat down on the slope of sand. She did not look at him directly. “It’s pretty warm…for a short walk. When do we hunt horned toads?”
As he did not answer, she glanced up at him. Assuredly he was laboring under some deep emotion. Cherry suddenly divined that despite what he had undertaken, he was afraid of her and of the outrageous indignity he had been persuaded to attempt. That acted as a spur to her. It was the stimulus she needed.
“What’s the matter, Stephen? You look strange. Your eyes. You’re staring at me. I can’t complain of lack of attention right now the second time.”
“Better late than never.”
“Come here, Mister Archaeologist. I won’t hurt you,” said Cherry, beckoning.
“You want me? Over there?”
“Ah-huh!”
“You’re taking a chance. I’ve become a…a bad man,” he returned doggedly, as if he needed to convince himself.
“Since when? Since that episode at the cave? Well, if you repeat that, your end will be near…I asked you who these horses belonged to?”
“They’re mine.”
“Yours! What are they doing here…saddled? And that pack animal?” Cherry queried in surprise. “Surely we don’t need this outfit to hunt horned toads.”
“Cherry, that about the toads…was a lie,” he returned haltingly. “It was a trick to get you away from the post.”
“A trick? How thrilling! Well, now you’ve so basely deceived me and got me here…what are you going to do with me?”
“I’ve…kidnaped…you,” he declared huskily.
Cherry uttered a merry laugh. “Oh, I remember. You were to amuse me. Fine, Stephen. I suppose you planned a little ride and picnic for me. But, my dear man, I can’t ride in this skirt.”
“You can’t walk, so you’ll have to ride,” he returned.
“Have to? Say, Stephen, this is getting to be more than a joke. I can stand a lot of fun. But horseback in this knee-high skirt? Nothing doing!”
“It’s not a joke, Cherry. I’m in deadly earnest. You’re going with me willingly…or otherwise.”
“Indeed! Isn’t that sweet of you? Lovely little all-day party, eh?”
“We will not return tonight.”
Cherry rose with a divinely startled movement. “Mister Heftral!” she exclaimed in cold amaze.
That was the crucial moment for Stephen Heftral. He turned white to the lips.
“Are you drunk or mad?” she added icily.
“Both! Drunk with your beauty…mad for love of you,” he replied hoarsely.
“It would seem so,” said Cherry. She turned her back upon him in contempt and started to walk away. She heard his footsteps thud in the sand. Then he seized her by the shoulders, whirled her around, and forced her back to the shade.
“If you run, it’ll only be the worse for you,” he warned, releasing her.
“You ruffian!” cried Cherry, wheeling. “Let me pass.”
Heftral confronted her, and, when she tried to get by, he put his hands on her shoulders and gave her a good hard shove. Cherry staggered backward. The sand was soft and deep. She lost her balance and suddenly sat down upon the slope, thus losing coat and sombrero. The feelings she called upon were reinforced by genuine ones. This was most undignified. Yet Cherry wanted to laugh. She sat there, blazing up at him, in a gathering might of wrath.
“Ruffian or anything you like,” Heftral said darkly. “But you go with me, if I have to throw you on that horse.”
“Father will beat you for this.”
“No doubt. But it will be too late.”
“And the cowboys will do worse.”
“Yes. But I shall have queered you with them.”
Cherry got to her feet and stepped close to Heftral. There was now a dangerous gleam in his eye—a wild dark light. He had gotten by the most difficult part for him—the announcement of his intention. Cherry saw that he did not expect any serious trouble with her. How she would fool him!
“Don’t you dare lay a hand on me again,” she said passionately.
“I hope it won’t be necessary. But you get on this horse.”
“No!”
“I tell you…”
Cherry rushed to pass him, yet was not quick enough. He caught her arm. As he swung her around, she gave him a terrific slap on the side of the face. Heftral dropped her arm. His hand went to his cheek which was as red as fire. It seemed realization was upon him, augmenting shame and fury. Cherry divined that but for her blow he might have betrayed himself and given up this outrageous affair.
“You…you struck me,” he said hoarsely, and suddenly snatched out and caught her left arm.
“Sure I did, Mister Hoodlum,” rejoined Cherry. “And I’ll do it again. Did you think you’d get away with this so easy? There!” And she struck him quick and hard, this time with a tight little fist.
“Wildcat!” shouted Heftral, roused to battle, and then he closed with her. Cherry was strong, lithe, supple as a panther, and she fought him fiercely. It was no longer pretense. The rough contact of his hands and her own violent action brought her blood up, gushing and hot. He was endeavoring to subdue her and she was struggling to get away. At the same time she beat and tore at him with all her might. She scratched his face. She got both hands in his hair and pulled. Naturally the fight could not last long, for he was overpowering her. When he got his left arm under her right and around her waist to grasp her left, he had her nearly helpless. Then he put his other arm under her knees and lifted her.
His hair stood up like the mane of a lion; his face was bloody from the scratches; his eyes gleamed with fire.
“My God!” he panted. “Who’d have…thought it in you.”
“Let me down!” cried Cherry, straining and writhing.
“Will you get…on that horse?”
“No…you Wild West boob!”
The epithet pierced his mind. “Boob? Ha! Ha! You’ve hit it,” he replied wildly. “Very well…my Eastern princess…take this from the Western boob.”
He bent his head and kissed her quickly—then again, crushing his hot lips on hers.
“I’ll…kill…you!” gasped Cherry, when she could speak.
“Kill and be damned. I wish you would,” he returned passionately. Then he surrendered to the contact and possession of her. Clasping her tightly, he rained kisses on her lips and neck. Cherry felt the wet blood from his scratched face on her cheek. Her muscles grew rigid. She was like bent steel about to spring. Suddenly she sank limply. His passion had overcome her where his strength had failed. But Cherry did not lose her wits. It was as if she knew she had to keep playing her part. Yet her collapse and the shaking of her relaxed body had nothing to do with reasoning. He had surprised her into the primitiveness of a savage. The change in her reaction struck him, and he released her.
Cherry slipped down, as it chanced, to her knees. The thing could not have happened better.
“I…I…understand now,” gasped Cherry. “You mean…to…”
“My God!” cried Heftral, staggering back in horror.
“Mister Heftral,” went on Cherry piteously. “I…I’m not the brazen girl I…I�
��ve made you believe. This is as much…my fault…as yours. But have mercy. Don’t be a brute.”
“Shut up!” shouted Heftral, his face changing to a dusky red. He backed against a stone and sat down, to cover his face with his hands, deeply and terribly shaken.
Cherry sank back herself, to rest a moment, and to straighten her disheveled apparel. Her rage had died a sudden death. She was still conscious of disturbing unfamiliar sensations, which, however, were gradually subsiding. Much had happened that had not been down on the program. She divined that Heftral had not intended even the least insult, let alone his assault on her lips. And certainly in her plan Cherry had not dreamed of making him think she believed him capable of the basest things. Even at that troubled moment Cherry realized that more could come of this incident than had been expected. Both of them were trifling with deep and unknown instincts. They might pass from jest to earnest. But Heftral had not the slightest inkling of Cherry’s duplicity.
“You’ve blood on your face,” Heftral said suddenly.
“Yes, it’s yours. If I had my way, I’d have your blood on my hands,” returned Cherry murderously.
“Wipe it off,” he ordered, getting up.
Cherry produced a wisp of a handkerchief. “Where is it?” she asked.
“On your cheek…the left one. Here, let me rub it off. That inch-square rag is no good.” He had a silk scarf, which he used to remove the blood from her cheek. He applied considerable force, and his action was that of a man trying to remove a stain of guilt.
“You scratched me like…like a wildcat,” he said harshly.
“Did you expect me to purr?” she returned with sarcasm. Then she rose to her feet. “You tore my sleeve half off. I hope you happen to have a needle and thread.”
Ignoring her facetiousness, he picked up her coat and sombrero, and handed them to her.
“Get on that horse,” he ordered.
Five
Without comment and as one subdued Cherry went up to the horse and mounted. Her skirt slipped halfway above her knees. She stood in the stirrups and pulled it down, but at best it was so short that it exposed several inches of bare skin above her stockings.
