by Zane Grey
“Is this supposed to be a movie or a leg show?” she queried bitingly.
“I can’t help it if you’ve no decent clothes,” he replied.
“Why didn’t you suggest I wear my riding clothes?”
“I didn’t think of that. But you’d have suspected something.”
“Me? No. I’m much too stupid. If I had been capable of thinking, I’d have known you were a villain…To force a girl to ride a horse with her dress up to her neck!”
“I don’t care how you look,” he flashed hotly, stung at her retort. “At that you don’t look much worse than usual.” He picked up Cherry’s coat, which she had dropped, and hung it on the pommel, and draped it over her knees. “That’ll keep you from sunburn, at least.”
“You’re very thoughtful and kind, Mister Heftral,” said Cherry sweetly. “Where do we go from here?”
“Up the wash,” he rejoined gruffly. “You take the lead.”
“Want to watch me, eh? You think I might run off? I note you’ve given me a plug of a horse that probably never ran in its life.”
“You might do anything, Miss Winters,” he said.
“What wonderful trust you have in me!” exclaimed Cherry.
Whereupon she rode on up the deepening gully. Heftral followed her, leading the pack horse.
So the great adventure was actually on. Cherry could not have believed it but for the bruises she had sustained in the fight with Heftral, and her torn blouse, and this ridiculous skirt that had begun to have resemblance to a ballet dancer’s.
After she had taken stock of her physical state, she delved a bit into the mental. She found she was still trembling ever so slightly. Her heart beat high. And her mind was racing. She was stirred by bitterness toward her father, and resentment toward this man who had been led to believe she was no good and needed this kind of a lesson. They thought they had her number, mused Cherry defiantly. Pretty but vain. Intelligent, yet too languorous to think or work. Adorable though probably immoral. Modern, still there were hopes.
An alarming thought struck her that she had experienced vaguely before. It was barely possible that these accusations were justified. Cherry swore, and refused to listen to such a treacherous voice.
Something more pleasant to dwell upon was a genuine pity for Heftral. He had been a perfectly straightforward, fine, and promising young man until he encountered her father. He was now in line to become a first-rate villain. No doubt when Cherry finally divorced him there would be no hope whatever. She decided, in order to make it impossible that he ever could recover, she would delay the divorce proceeding for a time—and meanwhile be very sweet and sorrowful and might-have-been-loving to him, so that he would be abjectly crushed.
Her meditations on this phase of the experience were decidedly pleasant. And it was most agreeable to be on horseback again. She had been rather unjust to the horse, for he was turning out to be docile, easy-gaited, and willing. He had struck into a trail that wound up the gorge.
The walls were perceptibly higher and changing their character somewhat. The sand slopes were disappearing. Presently this wash turned at right angles and opened into a cañon. It was deep, yellow-walled, and rugged, and through the center of it meandered a thin stream of water. Cherry believed this creek was the Sagi, which she had crossed a number of times above. But she had not seen this cañon. The very sight of it was exciting and disturbing. There was sure to be quicksand. Cherry hoped she would have some narrow escapes, so that she would find out what Heftral was made of. If no risks came along naturally, she would make some.
The sand in the creekbed, however, was disappointingly solid. In the next hour Cherry crossed this water a dozen or more times, without a mishap. Her horse was a good deal better judge of places than she. Meanwhile the cañon grew wider and deeper.
It also grew hot. Cherry began to feel the burn of the sun. And as the movement of the horse often jolted her coat from its protective service, her knees began to get red. This was a novelty, and she was divided between concern and a satisfaction that she could presently show Heftral more objective proofs of his cruelty.
Unobtrusively, at moments when the trail made a short turn, she saw Heftral in the rear. He did not look in the least like a bold bad man. He drooped. Apparently he did not see her, let alone watch closely against any attempt she might make to escape. Perhaps he was disgusted now with the case and hoped she would run off. This was embarrassing. Cherry did not want to escape. She was getting a tremendous kick out of being kidnaped. But she would not let him know that. She considered the advisability of attempting to get away. It did not strike her favorably. If Heftral did not or would not catch her, there would be something of a different predicament. She would be lost, unless she could go back as they had come.
Cherry rejected the idea. Too much risk. And she adopted another, equally feminine, and very much better. When a turn of the trail hid her from Heftral’s sight, she selected a soft place in the sand and slid off her horse, careful to make it look as if she had fallen.
Presently she heard the hoofs of Heftral’s horse padding closer. Then Cherry made herself look as much like a limp sack as she could. From under the brim of her sombrero she saw him come into sight. He gave a violent start. Leaping out of the saddle, he ran to her. His action, his look were unaccountably sweet to Cherry. It was hard to close her eyes.
Evidently he stopped to gaze down upon her a moment, for there was a silence, then he kneeled to lay a hand on her shoulder.
“Now, what’s the matter?” he inquired with more doubt than sympathy.
Cherry stirred and sat up. “I fell off my horse,” she said.
“What for?”
“Guess I got dizzy or something. You must have hurt me internally. Or I wrenched my side…anyway I had a terrible pain.”
“That’s too bad. I’m sorry. I never calculated on any weakness, physical or mental.” He was studying her face with deep inscrutable eyes, and despite his words he was not sympathetic.
“Weak! Why I’m bordering on nervous collapse right now,” returned Cherry.
“Yes, I observed how weak you were…physically,” he said. “You could probably throw me in a catch-as-catch-can wrestling match. And when you hit me on my nose…with your fist…well, you came very near being alone for a while.”
Cherry gave him a searching look. “Will you take me back to the post?”
“Certainly not.”
“But if I’m hurt or ill.”
“You’re going to Beckyshibeta in any event.”
“Beckyshibeta? Why, that’s a long way, you told me.”
“Sure. It’s far away, and lonely, too, believe me. No one will find us there.”
“How long do we…do you mean to keep me prisoner there?”
“I have no idea how long it will take for you to change…or die.”
“Oh! Very well, you can bury me at Beckyshibeta,” concluded Cherry, getting up wearily.
She refused his proffered assistance, and made a fine effort at mounting, as if some of her bones were broken. And she rode on, thinking that the weak-sister stuff would not do with Stephen Heftral. She must slowly recover her strength and become a veritable Amazon. Perhaps there would occur some accident that might be calculated to frighten even her, though she could not imagine what it could be. Then she would try the clinging vine. Even Stephen Heftral would fall for that. But it must be something over which a modern girl could safely lose her nerve. A terrible storm or a flood. Cherry prayed for both. Stephen Heftral must be reduced to a state of perfect misery.
Cherry rode on, gradually recovering her poise in the saddle. The cañon opened wide, with the walls far away. There were flats of green grass and cedar groves to cross. In one place she saw several deserted hogans. Indians had lived there. She had a desire to peep in at the dark door, facing the east.
The trail c
ame to a point where it forked. Cherry waited for Heftral to come up.
“Which way, Sir Geraint?” she inquired.
“Left,” he said. “And I don’t think you’re a bit like Enid. She was meek. Besides, she was Geraint’s wife.”
“Well, Geraint drove Enid ahead, so she would encounter all the risks and dangers first. No doubt the similarity of our ride to theirs ends right there.”
“The only danger here, Miss Winters, is the one I’m incurring. And it’s too late to avoid that.”
Danger! What did he mean? Perhaps the wrath of the cowboys, for it was certain they could not have been let into the secret. How would they take this stunt of Heftral’s? Cherry began to wonder why she had not thought of that before. True, they had ridden away with a herd of cattle, but they must return sooner or later, and find out. Here was a factor her father had not considered. Even if he did have to tell them, she knew the cowboys, especially Wess, would not stand for it. On the other hand, perhaps Heftral had meant the danger to be love of her. And he had said it was too late to avoid it. She was very glad, and, if it were actually true, she would see to it that he suffered more and more.
They took the left-hand fork of the trail and entered an interconnecting cañon, which narrowed until the crumbling walls seemed ready to tumble down upon her. Soon the trail became so rough that Cherry had to pay heed to it and have a care for her horse. The ascent increased until it was steeper than any Cherry had ridden. As she climbed, the trail took to a zigzag course up the slope and often she could look directly down upon Heftral, who was not having the best of luck with the pack animal.
Presently it took Cherry’s breath to gaze down and she quit it. The trail sometimes led along a ledge so narrow that she wondered how the horse could stick to it. But he never made a misstep or a slip, and appeared unconcerned about the heights. Cherry christened him Surefoot.
At last the trail led up to a level again, from which Cherry gazed back and down at the red slope, the huge rocks, the slides of weathered stone, the cedars, and the winding dry streambed at the bottom. Cherry had to look quite a while to locate Heftral. It was no trail for a pack horse, or rather the horse was not one for such a narrow steep obstructed trail. Heftral was walking, dragging at the animal. When he finally reached the summit, he was red-faced and panting.
“I note the way of a transgressor is hard,” observed Cherry.
“Why…didn’t you…run off?” he asked.
“I’d only have got lost. Besides, I think it’d be unwise to leave the commissary department. Also, I have an absorbing desire to see what is going to happen to you.”
“That’ll be nothing compared to what’s coming to you,” he returned as he mounted again. “Oh, by the way, how is that internal injury I gave you?”
“It’s better. But I can bear it for your sake, Stephen. I want so much to help you make a success of this cradle-snatching stunt.”
“Say, you flatter yourself,” he retorted.
“Well, yes, I’m not exactly an infant. But I’ll be good practice for you, so that later, when the tourists come, you may be able to manage some flapper pretty well.”
“Would you mind riding on, and not talking so much,” he said with asperity.
“I certainly wouldn’t have waited for you, if there’d been any trail. But it’s disappeared.”
“Ride straight toward those red rocks,” he returned, pointing.
Cherry did as she was bidden, glad to be able once more to let her horse look out for himself, so that she could attend to the surroundings. The sun was slanting westward, toward a high wall that ran away to the northward. The desert stretched level ahead of her, with a horizon line notched by red rocks. Not far in front, a growth of purple brush began to show sparsely and to thicken in the distance. It was very fragrant and beautiful. Presently Cherry recognized the fragrance of sage.
Huge clouds had rolled up, and except in the west they were black and stormy. Dark curtains hung down from them to the floor of the desert. They must be rain. The afternoon was hot and sultry, without a breath of wind. By and by the clouds hid the sun and turned duskily red.
Cherry was somewhat surprised to have Heftral catch up and pass her.
“Better trot your horse, if you’re not too weak to hang on,” he said. “It’s going to storm and we must reach the shelter of the rocks.”
“How lovely. I hope it rains cats and dogs,” she returned amiably.
“Don’t worry. You’ll be scared stiff when night comes, if it gives.”
Cherry was about to laugh him to scorn, but happened to remember that she really was afraid of storms.
“Are desert storms bad?” she inquired anxiously.
“Terrible. You can’t see. You get half drowned. Rocks roll down the cliffs and floods roar down the washes.”
“How lovely…I imagine one of your brilliant ideas to keep me interested.”
Surefoot had an easy trot, for which Cherry was devoutly thankful. She had begun to realize that she was not made of leather. And the faster gait had a business-like look of getting somewhere.
Meanwhile, the sun disappeared wholly behind massing clouds, and thunder rolled in the distance. Drops of rain began to fall, and the warm air perceptibly cooled. Cherry put on her coat, and was once more reminded of the annoying brevity of her skirt. What a picture she must make. How her Central Park riding friends would have howled to see her mounted in this rig. She wondered what Heftral would do if it rained heavily. Cherry had a sneaking suspicion that he would let her get as wet as if she were under Niagara. But after all a warm rain would not be such a hardship. Thunder and lightning, however, made her nervous, even indoors.
The storm quartered slowly across the desert, a wonderful sight to eyes used to close walls and crowded streets. Cherry breathed deeply. The sage fragrance seemed to intoxicate her. The misty rain felt sweet on her hot cheeks. The growing breeze brought a breath of wet dust.
Heftral was trotting his horse at as fast a clip as the pack animal could keep up. Cherry set Surefoot to a lope. Then she experienced an exhilaration. She was astounded that she was not thinking about the possibility of being wretchedly wet and uncomfortable.
It turned out, however, that they beat the gray pall of rain that moved behind them across their trail. Heftral led down among the strange scrawled rocks Cherry had seen for so long into the shelter of a shelving cliff. Clumps of cedar and patches of sage dotted the slope in front, and, opposite, a high wall of rock shut out the horizon.
“Throw your saddle,” Heftral said practically, as he dismounted.
When Cherry had accomplished this, Heftral was at hand to hobble her horse and turn him loose.
“If there isn’t a water hole in this cañon, there sure will be one pronto,” he said.
“You think it will storm?” she asked dreamily.
“Storm? You’re to see your first real storm. Say, are you any good at camp work?”
“You mean chopping sticks, cooking stuff, and washing dishes?”
“Well, not exactly. We don’t chop sticks…But you have grasped my meaning.”
“I’m perfectly helpless,” Cherry assured him, which was a lie.
“Fine wife you’ll make,” he replied.
“Mister Heftral, I’m used to being waited upon,” said Cherry, elevating her chin. “And I didn’t coax you to fetch me on this…this camping trip.”
“Good heavens!” he expostulated, spreading his hands wide. “I know that…But I didn’t figure on what we’re up against.”
“You should combine study of weather conditions with your archaeological and girl pursuits.”
“Damn it,” he returned doggedly. “I can’t get rid of the idea that you’d be a thoroughbred…a real sport in any kind of a fix.”
Heftral turned away then, unconscious that he had brought delight to Cherry’
s heart. She hoped she had deserved what he had said. And there appeared to be signs that she would be tested to the utmost. She decided, however, to allow him to labor under doubts for a while longer.
Finding a seat where she could lean against the wall, Cherry watched her captor with interest. He unpacked with swift hands. Then he strode to the cedars and fetched back an enormous load of firewood, which he threw down with a crash. His next move was to start a fire, and wash his hands. Following this, with a speed and facility that astonished Cherry, he mixed biscuit dough in a pan. There were several canteens full of water, and a number of canvas sacks, all bulging. He had two small iron ovens in the fire and a coffee pot. If Cherry had been blind, she would soon have been pleasantly aware of steaming coffee and frying bacon. Presently Heftral straightened up and glanced in her direction.
“Of course you can swear you’ll starve to death. But you won’t do it. And you can save your face by not making the bluff…Will you have supper?”
“Yes, Professor Heftral, I’m hungry. And besides, I’m curious to see if you can cook. You have such varied accomplishments.”
He brought her supper and laid it on the level rock beside her. Cherry had told the truth about being hungry, but she did not tell him how good everything tasted. The hot biscuits, well-buttered, were delicious. And when had she tasted such coffee? For dessert she had a cup of sliced canned peaches. And altogether the meal was most satisfying. Cherry was ashamed to ask for more, but she could have eaten it.
Meanwhile, the afternoon had waned, and twilight shadows were filling the hollows below. A steady rain set in. The campfire lighted up the shelving roof of the cliff. Cherry walked to and fro, around the corner of projecting wall, and explored some of the niches. She felt pretty tired and sore. Her knees burned from their exposure to the sun. Her cheeks felt pleasantly warm.
Heftral was packing loads of firewood. He did not appear to mind the rain, for he certainly was wet, and did not take the trouble to put on his coat. It was seeing him in a different light. Cherry remembered a good many of her gentlemen friends and acquaintances who could dress and talk and dance and grace social occasions in the great city, who she doubted would have been her selection for service and protection in the desert.
