by Edna Ferber
edna ferber
GIANT
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Giant
About the Author
Other Books by Edna Ferber
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
1
This March day the vast and brassy sky, always spangled with the silver glint of airplanes, roared and glittered with celestial traffic. Gigantic though they loomed against the white-hot heavens, there was nothing martial about these winged mammoths. They were merely private vehicles bearing nice little alligator jewel cases and fabulous gowns and overbred furs. No sordid freight sullied these four-engined family jobs whose occupants were Dallas or Houston or Vientecito or Waco women in Paris gowns from Neiman-Marcus; and men from Amarillo or Corpus Christi or San Angelo or Benedict in boots and Stetsons and shirt sleeves.
All Texas was flying to Jett Rink’s party. All Texas, that is, possessed of more than ten million in cash or cattle or cotton or wheat or oil. Thus was created an aerial stampede. Monsters in a Jovian quadrille, the planes converged from the Timber Belt and the Rio Grande Valley, from the Llano Estacado and the Trans-Pecos; the Blacklands the Balcones Escarpment the Granite Mountains the Central Plains the Edwards Plateau the boundless Panhandle. High, high they soared above the skyscraper office buildings that rose idiotically out of the endless plain; above the sluggish rivers and the arroyos, above the lush new hotels and the anachronistic white-pillared mansions; the race horses in rich pasture, the swimming pools the drives of transplanted palms the huge motion picture palaces the cattle herds and the sheep and mountains and wild antelope and cotton fields and Martian chemical plants whose aluminum stacks gave back the airplanes glitter for glitter. And above the grey dust-bitten shanties of the Mexican barrios and the roadside barbecue shacks and the windmills and the water holes and the miles of mesquite and cactus.
There were, of course, a few party-goers so conservative or so sure of their position in society, or even so impecunious, as to make the journey by automobile, choosing to cover the distance at a leisurely ninety miles an hour along the flat concrete ribbon that spanned the thousand miles of Texas from north horizon to the Gulf.
Though the pitiless southwest sun glared down on the airborne and the groundling it met defeat in the vine-veiled veranda of Reata Ranch Main House. Even the ever present Gulf wind, arriving dry and dust-laden after its journey from the coast, here took on a pretense of cool moisture as it filtered through the green and spacious shade. Cushions of palest pastel sailcloth on couches and chairs refreshed the eye even before the heat-tortured body found comfort, and through the day there was always the tinkle of ice against glass to soothe the senses. Through the verdant screen one caught glimpses of a heaven-blue swimming pool and actually, too, a lake in this arid land. Radios yelped and brayed from automobiles and ranch houses, towns and cities throughout the length and breadth of this huge and lonely commonwealth from the Gulf of Mexico to the Oklahoma border, from the Rio Grande to Louisiana, but here at Reata Ranch no such raucous sounds intensified the heat waves. Jett Rink’s name splintered the air everywhere else, but not here. It stalked in black three-inch headlines across the front page of every newspaper from El Paso to Bowie. It stared out from billboards and newsreels. It was emblazoned on the very heavens in skywriting. Omnipresent, like Jett Rink’s oil derricks straddling the land. At every turn the ears and eyes were assaulted by the stale and contrived news of Jett Rink’s munificence.
The JETT RINK AIRPORT…gift of JETT RINK to the city of Hermoso…biggest airport in the Southwest…private pre-opening celebration…two thousand invited guests…magnificent banquet in the Grand Concourse…most important citizens…champagne…motion picture stars…Name Bands…millions…first Texas billionaire…orchids…caviar flown from New York…zillions…lobster flown from Maine…millions…oil…strictly private…millions…biggestmillionsbiggestbillionsbiggesttrillionsbiggest zillions.
Mrs. Jordan Benedict, dressed for the air journey—blue shantung and no hat—sat in her bedroom at Reata Ranch, quiet, quiet. She sat very relaxed in the cool chintz slipper chair, her long slim hands loosely clasped in her lap. The quiet and the cool laved her. She sat storing coolness and quiet against the time when her senses would be hammered and racked by noise and heat; big men and bourbon, the high shrill voices of Texas women, blare of brass, crash of china, odors of profuse foods, roar of plane motors.
Now, as she sat, little sounds came faintly to her ears, little accustomed soothing sounds. A light laugh from the far-off kitchen wing—one of the Mexican girls, Delfina probably, the gay careless one, the others were more serious about their work. The clip-snip of Dimodeo’s garden shears—Dimodeo and his swarming crew who seemed to spend their days on their knees clip-snipping, coaxing fine grass to grow green, and hedges to flower and water to spurt in this desert country. The muffled thud of a horse’s hoofs on sun-baked clay; one of the vaqueros who still despised the jeep or Ford as a means of locomotion. The clang of a bell, deep-throated, resonant, an ancient bell that announced the nooning at Reata Ranch schoolhouse. The soft plaint of the mourning doves. The town of Benedict, bustling and thriving, lay four miles distant but here at Reata Main House set back a mile from the highway there was no sound of traffic or commerce. So Leslie Benedict sat very still within this bubble of quiet suspended for the moment before it must burst at the onslaught of high-pitched voices and high-powered motors. For all the family was going, and all the guests up at the huge Guest House there at the other end of the drive. The big plane was in readiness at Reata Ranch airfield and the Cadillacs were waiting to take them all to the plane.
The giant kingdom that was the Reata Ranch lay dozing in the sun, its feet laved by the waters of the Gulf of Mexico many miles distant, its head in the cloud-wreathed mountains far far to the north, its gargantuan arms flung east and west in careless might.
2
Though they had been only an hour on the road the thought of this verdant haven tormented Mrs. Mott Snyth as she and her husband tore with cycloramic speed past miles and miles of Reata fence and field and range. The highway poured into the maw of the big car, the torrid wind seared the purpling face of Vashti Snyth and—now that he had removed his big cream Stetson—tossed the little white curls that so incongruously crowned the unlined and seemingly guileless face of Pinky, her husband. Vashti Snyth’s vast bosom heaved, her hands fluttered with the vague almost infantile gestures of the hypothyroid.
“My!” she whimpered in helpless repetition. “My! It’s a hot of a day!”
“March, what do you expect?” The tiny high-heeled boot on the accelerator, the small strong hands on the wheel, the bland blue eyes seeming focused on nothing in particular, he appeared relaxed, almost lethargic; those eyes saw everything to the right to left and ahead, he was as relaxed as a steel spring. “Reata looks good. Salubrious. Bick must have had the stinger over this section again, not a mesquite far’s you can see.”
“Mott, let’s st
op by the house a minute, can’t we?” This massive woman alone called him by his given name though to the rest of his world he was Pinky; she actually gave the effect of looking up at him though her elephantine bulk towered above his miniature frame; and in spite of the fact (or perhaps because of it) that she as Vashti Hake, inheritor of the third biggest ranch in all Texas, had years ago committed the unpardonable social crime of marrying one of her father’s cow hands.
“Not if you’re going to do a lot of shopping in Hermoso before we check in at the hotel we can’t. Mathematically speaking.”
“I’m only going to buy a little white mink cape throw.”
“How long will that take?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
“You said you didn’t want to take the plane. You said you wanted to drive because the bluebonnets would be so pretty. It’ll take us another five hours anyway to get to Hermoso. The dinner is seven. How do you figure——”
“I’m sick of bluebonnets. They’re right pretty, but I’m sick of ’em miles back. We can leave the car at Reata, hitch a ride in the big plane. I won’t come down in that little bitty old two-engine job, front of everybody in Texas.”
“We’d look good, wouldn’t we, just the two of us sitting in the four-engine job holds fifty! Crew of four, gas and all, cost us about five thousand dollars to go four hundred miles.”
“What of it!”
“How do you know how many they got going! Maybe they’re full up.”
“Company of course, up at the Guest House. But not more than ten or twenty, usually. Then there’s Bick and Leslie and young Doctor Jordy and his wife probably and Luz——”
“Luz! Thought she was at school there in Switzerland somewheres.”
“She quit it. Didn’t like it.”
“Like it! I should think if anybody didn’t like it it’d be Bick. Heard her schooling there was costing him a heifer a day.”
“Well, anyway, she’s home and tearing up the place as usual, driving the jeeps like they were quarter horses they say, jumping mesquites with ’em, practically. You know Luz. But that’s neither here nor there. Mott, I want to see what Leslie’s wearing.”
The cool blue eye turned from its task of pouring the road into the car to glance briefly at the beige mound palpitating beside him. “Whatever Leslie’s wearing I want to tell you it’s away yonder better than that sorry outfit you’re carrying.”
“Why Mott Snyth! This! What’s wrong with it?”
“Plain. Plain as a fence post.”
“Plain is the smart thing this year,” Vashti boomed with the hauteur of one who knows her ground. “Shows what you men know. Neat and plain and expensive as all hell, like those pictures in Harper’s Bazaar of the Duchess. That’s the thing. Ask anybody. Ask Leslie. Nobody in Texas or anywhere knows better than Leslie what’s being worn, she doesn’t have to be told, she knows by instinct, the way you can pick a horse. Simple and girlish—” she flicked an imaginary speck off her big beige bosom—“is the keynote of this year’s styles.”
A flash of amusement wrinkled Pinky’s guileless face. “Simple and girlish is all right for Leslie, maybe, ganted the way she is. But you’re packing plenty tallow, Vash.”
Mischievously he pronounced the abbreviation of her name so that it became a French noun unflattering to her figure. She heard, she understood, she chose momentarily to ignore it. Blandly she resumed her description of the mode of the day.
“Everything but jewelry, that is. You’re supposed to wear a hunk of a bracelet like this one I got on, no matter what, even with a sweater or a cotton wash dress. And a big clip with a lot of good stones or a flock of diamond or ruby or sapphire scatter pins is smart worn just stuck somewhere offhand like you’d jab safety pins into the front of your dress diapering a baby. But not even your engagement ring.”
“How about wedding rings, Vash? Wedding rings still okay?”
“Oh sure. But no other jewelry daytimes. Only evenings.”
He threw intense anxiety into his tone. “You got stuff with you, I hope?”
“Mott Snyth, I got enough rocks in that little bitty old handbag back there I’ll bet if they take us on board Bick and the crew’ll have to jettison some before they can lift the plane up in the air. Yes sir! Tonight I’m really going to rise and shine!”
Again Pinky Snyth turned a brief instant to survey the tentlike mound beside him. His glance was affectionate and possessive.
“Ruffles,” he said. “I like ruffles on a female. But no matter what you wear you’re sassy. You’re as sassy as pink shoes.”
Vashti, taking advantage of this rare approval, pressed her point. “Well then, we’ll stop by like I said, see who’s going and all and maybe catch a ride. And let me tell you, Mott Snyth, don’t you go calling me Vash, like that, front of company. You and I ain’t the only two in Texas know the French for cow. And one compliment don’t cover an insult, either.” But she was smiling upon him indulgently. “Look! There’s the tower of the Big House. I bet it’s crammed with company. We’re not a mile away from the ranch.”
“No place in all of Texas,” Pinky announced without bitterness, “is more than a mile away from Reata Ranch somewheres.”
Vashti bridled. “We are so! House to house we’re more than ninety miles.”
“House to house maybe. But fence lines, that’s what counts. Fence lines you adjoin as you know well and good. Like I said, nothing’s a far piece from Reata, including Oklahoma one side and Mexico another and the Gulf and Louisiana throwed in. Here we are. My, those palms have took hold. Never know they’d been set in.”
Any Texan overhearing this artless chitchat would have known that these two were talking Texas. Both had had a decent education, yet their conversation sounded like the dialogue in a third-rate parody of Texans. This was due partly to habit and partly to affectation born of a mixture of superiority and inferiority, as a certain type of Englishman becomes excessively Oxford or a Southern politician intensifies his drawl. Each was playing a role, deliberately. It was part of the Texas ritual. We’re rich as son-of-a-bitch stew but look how homely we are, just as plain-folksy as Grandpappy back in 1836. We know about champagne and caviar but we talk hog and hominy.
They turned in at the open gateway with the Reata Ranch brand, the lariat—la reata as the Mexican vaquero wove it himself out of rawhide—copied in artful iron as an ornament for the gateposts. You saw its twists and coils over the gatehouse too, as it could be seen a thousand thousand times throughout this ranch empire with its millions of acres. Over the door of the Main House, the Big House, countless bunkhouses, line houses; burned into the hide of hundreds of thousands of bulls, steers, cows, calves; embroidered on the silks of the jockeys who rode the Reata race horses; monogramming the household linen, the table silver; wrought into andirons for the fireplaces; adorning the ranch business stationery and Leslie’s own delicate blue-grey; stamped on the jeeps, the pickups, the station wagons, the Cadillacs, the saddles. A simple brand but difficult to distort. No cattle rusder of the old Texas days could successfully burn this braided loop into another pattern or symbol. It was for this reason that shrewd old Jordan Benedict had chosen it in 1855 with his first thousand acres of Texas land.
The nose of the Snyth car had not passed the gateway before Ezequiel was out of the gatehouse and into the road, barring the way with his outstretched left arm, his right hand close to his body. The black eyes pierced the windshield. Then the tense dark face relaxed, the arm dropped, the right hand came up in a gesture that was less a salute than an obeisance.
Pinky Snyth lifted his hand from the wheel, open-palmed. “Cómo estás, Ezequiel?”
The white teeth flashed. “Bienvenido! Señor Snyth! Señora!” He waved them on.
Vashti tossed her head. “About time Bick Benedict got over guarding his country like he was royalty.”
“Now Vashti, you know he tried it and the place was stampeded like a fat stock show, the okies were fixing barbecue under every mesq
uite.”
Up the long drive beneath the date palms so incredibly rich under the white-hot blaze. They stood row on orderly row, green-topped, mammoth, like pillars in a monumental cathedral. Only a brush-country Texan could even dimly realize what had gone into the planting and sustaining of these trees in this land. Between the rows were the clean straight lines of irrigation ditches. The fertilized soil lay in tidy ridges at the base of the tree trunks.
“Bick sets out to do something can’t be done, why, he’s possessed till he does it better than anybody,” Pinky observed. “Be putting in a ski jump next, shouldn’t wonder, middle of August middle of the range, bringing snow by air lift from Alaska.”
Past the old whitewashed adobe schoolhouse, the Big House with its towers and intricate grillwork, past the old carriage house and the vast garage. But no cars stood waiting there, only the vine leaves stirred in the hot wind as the visitors drew up before the Main House and peered toward the shaded enclosure.
Vashti essayed a “Yoo-hoo!” It emerged a croak from her parched throat. “Either they’re gone or they’re all dead. Can’t be gone, this hour.” With amazing agility she climbed out of the car, smoothing her crumpled skirts, adjusting her belt, wiping her flushed face as she want toward the porch, her feet and ankles slim and small and neat beneath the ponderous superstructure.
“Leslie! Bick! Where’ve you all got to, anyway?”
Instantly it was as though the enchantment under which Reata Ranch had lain now was broken. The volley of shouts as the Mexican children were freed from the schoolroom; the crunch of gravel under heavy tires; a telephone ringing and a man’s voice answering it; Dimodeo rising from where he had knelt near the pool and calling in Spanish to his men. “El mediodia! Noon!” A distant hum of noonday sounds from the houses of the Mexican section on the outskirts of the headquarters building.
Leslie Benedict emerged from the house, cool, slim; about her a sort of careless elegance. The Paris buyer at Neimans in Dallas had said of Leslie Benedict that she wore indistinct clothes with utter distinction. The buyer was rather proud of this mot. Sometimes she elaborated on it. “What she wears never hits you in the eye. It sneaks up on you. No tough colors, ever. And no faddy stuff. You know. Never too long or too short or too full or too tight or bustles or busy doodads. My opinion, Mrs. Jordan Benedict’s the best-dressed woman in Texas and doesn’t even know it. Or care.”
