The Water Hole

by Zane Grey

  Cherry walked slowly by, calmly appraising them. How like Mojave, Zoroaster, Wess. Cowboys all resembled one another. Cherry expected to be noticed and commented upon. She was not disappointed.

  “Andy, did you see what I seen?” broke out one.

  “Wal, I reckon. An’ I’m shore dizzy,” was the reply.

  “Some looker, pards,” added the third.

  The encounter ordinarily would have ended there, but these cowboys, or some cowboys, at least, were indispensable to her plan. She had to have them. She was prepared to go to the limit of making eyes at them to carry her point. Thinking hard, Cherry decided to walk by them again, down the street, then return, and ask them to come into the post office. To that end she turned back. As she neared them, she was afraid she was smiling. What a warm feeling she had for these lean, hard-faced cowboys. She passed, with ears acute to catch any whispers.

  “My gawd…Andy, look at them legs,” hoarsely whispered one. “Wimmin ought to be arrested fer wearin’ them short skirts.”

  “Only seen her eyes, but thet was aplenty,” came the reply. “My pore little Susie! I’ll never love her any more.”

  Cherry did not hear the third man’s remark, and was glad she had not. Her face burned. What keen devils these cowboys. Right then and there Cherry’s plan, so far as they were concerned, went into eclipse. Still she would not give up. Crossing the street, she went into the department store, made a few purchases, and, going out, crossed the street again, at the other end of the block, and came down to enter the post office. She was cudgeling her brain. If those cowboys saw her and followed her into the post office, she would risk speaking to them. Most cowboys were chivalrous gentlemen at heart, for all their coarseness and deviltry.

  There appeared to be only two men in the post office. One was huge and dark, the other small and fair. Suddenly Cherry stood transfixed. She recognized bold black eyes in the giant and sly twinkling ones in the other. She knew these men.

  “Black Dick! Snitch!” she exclaimed in astonishment. “Oh, I’m glad to meet you.”

  “Same hyar, Miss Winters,” Dick replied, smiling broadly as he removed his ragged sombrero. “How about you, Snitch?”

  “Me? I never was so tickled in my life,” Snitch said, gallant and bareheaded. “It shore is fine of you to speak to us…after the deal we gave you.”

  “Never mind that. But aren’t you afraid to be in town? Aren’t you in danger of being arrested?”

  “Wal, miss, not that we know of. You see I’m not exactly the fellar you took me fer.”

  “Oh, then you’re not Black Dick, the outlaw?” Cherry asked in disappointment.

  “I’m awful sorry, miss, but I ain’t. Honest. Didn’t your father tell you aboot us?”

  “My father! No,” Cherry replied ponderingly. “Wal, he shore ought to have. Fer he hired me an’ Snitch to give you a scare.”

  “Ah, I see…And it was no accident that you left Missus Sarland’s jewel bag behind?”

  “Accident? I should smile not. I jest hung it on a tree where she’d bump her haid on it.”

  “Well! Well! My Dad’s the limit, isn’t he?”

  “If you want my idee, miss, I think he’s a prince,” Dick replied heartily.

  “You’ll always be Black Dick and Snitch to me. But I’m indeed glad you’re not real desperadoes. What a trick you played on us.” Suddenly a thought like a bright flash struck Cherry into radiance. “Come here, both of you,” she whispered, and drew the grinning men away from the door into a corner. Here they were out of sight of the post office employees. No others had yet entered. What luck! Cherry felt a gush of riotous blood heat her veins. “Will you do me a favor? Do you want to make fifty dollars apiece?”

  “Well, Miss Winters, your voice is sweet music,” whispered Dick.

  “Lady, I’ll lay down my life fer you fer nothin’,” Snitch declared.

  “Listen,” began Cherry hurriedly, “I am no longer Miss Winters. I was married to Mister Heftral today. Never mind congratulating me. Listen, Father and I leave tonight on the Limited. Mister Heftral…my husband…I’m afraid he doesn’t want to go East with me very bad. But I want him to go. I want him terribly. Will you help me kidnap him?”

  “Wal, we’ll hawg-tie the cold-hearted scoundrel an’ throw him on thet train,” Dick declared, his eyes rolling.

  “I never heard of the like,” added Snitch most forcefully. “The lucky son-of-a-gun! But them archaeologists are plumb queer ducks. Lady, we’ll shore do anythin’ fer you.”

  “Splendid. Can you get another trusty man…a friend…one who is big and strong? Heftral will fight.”

  “Shore. I know a fellar who’s bigger’n a hill. He can throw a barrel of flour right up into a wagon. Reckon the three of us can put Heftral on thet train in less’n a couple of winks.”

  “Very well. Then it’s settled,” went on Cherry, now calm and serene. “Here are your instructions. The three of you be at the station when the Limited comes in. Keep sharp look-out for me. I’ll be with father and Mister Heftral. Follow us a little behind…not too close…and when we reach our Pullman, you wait a little aside. I’ll stop at the car entrance nearest the drawing room. I’ll wait until the conductor calls all aboard. When I step up, that will be your signal to seize Heftral and carry him after me. Be quick. And don’t be gentle. Remember, he is powerful and will fight. I want this to go off just like that.” And Cherry snapped her fingers.

  “Lady, say them instructions over,” Dick replied earnestly.

  She repeated them word for word.

  Black Dick lifted his shaggy black head. “Jest like thet,” he said, snapping huge fingers. “Lady, it’s as good as done.”

  “Then here’s your money in advance,” Cherry said, producing some bills. “You won’t fail me?”

  “I wish my chanst fer heaven was as good,” Dick rejoined fervently.

  “Lady, you shore picked the gentlemen fer thet job,” added Snitch warmly.

  “You are my very good friends,” concluded Cherry, all smiles. “You are helping me more than you can guess. I’ll never forget you. Good bye.”

  She left them there, rooted to the spot, and swept out of the post office in a state of supreme bliss. The gods had favored her. Suddenly she saw the three cowboys not far ahead, standing expectantly. They had seen her come out. Cherry checked a wild impulse to break across the street in the middle of the block, so she would not have to pass them. Then, very erect, with chin tilted, she went on and by, as if she had never seen them.

  “Say, Andy, did you feel a cold wind round heah?” asked one in disgust.

  “Huh? I been stabbed with a pitchfork of ice,” came the reply.

  “Pard, she’s a goddess, an’ I like ’em hard to win,” said the third.

  If they could have seen Cherry’s convulsed and happy face, when she reached the corner, they would have had more cause to wonder about the female species.

  The afternoon passed like a happy dream. Cherry spent most of it trying to think of things to say to Stephen when the revelation came. She changed it a hundred times. How could she tell what to say? But every moment that brought the climax closer found Cherry’s state more intense. She must hold out. She must stay to the finish. When the porter knocked, she leaped up with a start.

  “Mister Winters is waiting,” he announced. “The Limited is in the block.”

  “Where is…Mister Heftral?” Cherry asked with lips that trembled.

  “He’s waiting, too. I’ll fetch your baggage…all of it, right after,” he replied, and he winked at her.

  Cherry hurriedly got into hat and coat, and omitted the veil. How white she was. Her eyes looked like great dark gulfs. She went downstairs. Her father looked exceedingly uncomfortable. Heftral had not a vestige of color in his face. She joined them, and they went out in silence. Dark had fallen. The street lamps
were lit. The air had mountain coolness in it. On the moment the Limited pulled into the station, and slowed down to a stop, steam blowing, bell clanging.

  It was only a brief walk from the hotel to the broad platform where the Pullmans stood. Cherry had the glance of a hawk and saw every group of persons there. Not until she spied Black Dick and his comrades did the tension in her break. What a stupendous man the third one was. He made Dick look small. Cherry knew Dick had seen her, though he seemed not to notice. He and his allies kept outside the platform, where Heftral was oblivious of them. Indeed he seemed oblivious of everything.

  “Here’s our car,” Winters spoke up with an effort.

  “See if our drawing room is at this end,” replied Cherry, and she stepped to face around. That made her confront Heftral. Over his shoulder she saw her three accomplices scarcely a rod away, and Black Dick was watching. It was going to be a success. Cherry felt a blaze within her—an outburst that had been smothered.

  Her father touched her arm. He looked miserable, shaken. “Drawing room at this end. I’ll go in. So long, Stephen.” And he fled.

  Cherry edged nearer to Heftral, close, and peered up at him, knowing that a blind man could have read her eyes. But he was more than blind. She pulled at a button on his coat, looking down, and then she flashed her eyes into his again. “Stephen, I’m sorry. Promise me you’ll never…never kidnap another girl.”

  “God! I’d do it tomorrow if I thought it’d hurt you,” he returned hoarsely.

  The engine bell rang, to echo in Cherry’s heart.

  “All aboard!” yelled the conductor somewhere forward.

  Cherry wheeled and ran up the car steps and, turning, was in time to see three dark burly forms rush Heftral, and literally throw him up the steps, onto the platform. Cherry ran into the hallway, shaking in her agitation. She heard loud exclamations, the tussling of bodies, the thud of boots. Then the men appeared half dragging, half carrying the fiercely struggling Heftral. Cherry fled to the door of the drawing room. They were coming.

  “Soak him, Bill. He’s a bull,” Dick said, low and hard.

  Cherry heard a sodden blow. The struggle ceased. The men came faster. They were almost carrying Heftral. Cherry’s heart leaped to her throat.

  “In…here,” she choked, standing aside.

  They thrust Heftral into the drawing room, and rushed back toward the exit. Black Dick turned, his big black eyes rolling merrily. Then he was gone. The train started—gathered momentum. Outside the porter was yelling. He slammed the vestibule doors and came running.

  “Lady…what’s wrong?” he asked in alarm. “Three men upset me. I couldn’t do nothin’.”

  “It’s all right, porter,” replied Cherry. “My…my husband had to be assisted on the train.”

  “Aw, now, I was scared.”

  Cherry’s father appeared from down the aisle. “What was that row?” he asked nervously.

  Cherry barred the door into the drawing room. “Dad…I’ve kidnaped Stephen,” she said, very low and clear.

  Winters threw up his hands. “Holy Mackerel!” he gasped.

  Cherry closed and locked the door. The drawing room was dark. She turned on the light. Heftral was breathing hard. He had been dazed, if not stunned. There was grime on his face and a little blood. The bruise Wess had left over his eye, and which had not wholly disappeared, had been raised again. Cherry darted to wet her handkerchief. She wiped his face—bathed his forehead. She had told that ruffian Dick not to be gentle. Remorse smote her. Suddenly she touched Stephen’s face.

  He was staring with eyes that appeared about to start from his head. He grasped her with shaking hands. He gaped at the car window and the lights flashing by. Then he seemed to realize what had happened.

  “They threw me on the train,” he burst out incredulously.

  Cherry rose to stand before him.

  “You…you…”

  “Yes, I’ve kidnaped you,” she interrupted.

  “My God! Cherry, could you carry revenge so far? Oh, how cruel. You pitiless woman!” He fell face down against the cushion.

  “Stephen,” she said, trying to stay the trembling hands that leaped toward him. When he did not look or speak, she went on softly: “Stephen.” No response. Her head fluttered to his shoulder. “Husband.”

  At that, his haggard face lifted and his terrible eyes stared as those of a man who knew not what he saw.

  “I have kidnaped you…yes…forever!”

  He fell on his knees to clasp her blouse with plucking hands. “Cherry, if I am not drunk or mad…make me understand,” he implored.

  She locked her hands behind his head. “Indeed you are hard to convince. Have we not been married? Are you not my captive on this train? Is this not the eve of our honeymoon?”

  “It’s too good to be true,” he replied huskily. “I can’t believe it.”

  She bent to kiss the bruise on his forehead. “Will that do?”

  “No!”

  She kissed his eyes, his cheeks, and lastly, as he seemed rapt and blind, his lips. “Stephen, I love you,” she said.

  “Oh, my darling, say that again.”

  “I love you. I love you. I love you…It was what you did to me. Oh, I confess. I deserved it. I was no good…and, if not actually bad, I was headed for bad. Oh, Stephen, you spanked some sense into me in time, and your desert changed and won me. I bless you for making me a woman. I will give up what was that idle, useless, wasteful life…and work with you…for you…to make a home for you. Forgive this last little deceit. Oh, you should have seen Dad’s face…Kiss me! Come, let us go tell him I’m your Beckyshibeta.”

  THE END

  About the Author

  Zane Grey was born Pearl Zane Gray at Zanesville, Ohio in 1872. He was graduated from the University of Pennsylvania in 1896 with a degree in dentistry. He practiced in New York City while striving to make a living by writing. He married Lina Elise Roth in 1905 and with her financial assistance he published his first novel himself, Betty Zane (1903). Closing his dental office, the Greys moved into a cottage on the Delaware River, near Lackawaxen, Pennsylvania. Grey took his first trip to Arizona in 1907 and, following his return, wrote The Heritage of the Desert (1910). The profound effect that the desert had had on him was so vibrantly captured that it still comes alive for a reader. Grey couldn’t have been more fortunate in his choice of a mate. Trained in English at Hunter College, Lina Grey proofread every manuscript Grey wrote, polished his prose, and later she managed their financial affairs. Grey’s early novels were serialized in pulp magazines, but by 1918 he had graduated to the slick magazine market. Motion picture rights brought in a fortune and, with 109 films based on his work, Grey set a record yet to be equaled by any other author. Zane Grey was not a realistic writer, but rather one who charted the interiors of the soul through encounters with the wilderness. He provided characters no less memorable than one finds in Balzac, Dickens, or Thomas Mann, and they have a vital story to tell. “There was so much unexpressed feeling that could not be entirely portrayed,” Loren Grey, Grey’s younger son and a noted psychologist, once recalled, “that, in later years, he would weep when re-reading one of his own books.” Perhaps, too, closer to the mark, Zane Grey may have wept at how his attempts at being truthful to his muse had so often been essentially altered by his editors, so that no one might ever be able to read his stories as he had intended them. It may be said of Zane Grey that, more than mere adventure tales, he fashioned psycho-dramas about the odyssey of the human soul. If his stories seem not always to be of the stuff of the mundane world, without what his stories do touch, the human world has little meaning — which may go a long way to explain the hold he has had on an enraptured reading public ever since his first Western novel in 1910.