by Zane Grey
“Ruth Larey, I don’t love life or God—or anythin’ but you. I’d throw them away—like that—just to possess you one minute.”
“But Hal, think—think before it’s too late!” she entreated. “You cannot possess me, as you call it. Of course, as I’m unable to lift a hand, you can sink lower than a desert savage and—”
“Guerd Larey means to sink that low,” Stone interrupted, with flaming jealousy. “I read his mind.”
“Oh, there’s no hope to reach you,” cried Ruth, despairingly.
“Not that way, Ruth. So you might as well make up your mind to let yourself go.”
Ruth closed her eyes. How it beat into her weary brain—the littleness, bareness, intolerant mindless desire, the brutal instinct of man! How she prayed that God would pity her, and spare her the retribution her senseless, selfish woman’s deceit and vanity deserved!
“Listen. One more word and it’s the last, Hal Stone,” she began again. “I misled you. I didn’t realize the cost or didn’t care. But I did mislead you. I beg your forgiveness. I beg you to remember your sister, your mother, and spare me…. If you do not—if you lay an evil hand on me—I will find means sooner or later—to kill you myself!”
“And I tell you—I don’t care,” he replied, in his desperation. “I’d be willin’ to go to hell an burn forever!”
Ruth felt that she had spent her force in vain. What transformation a month had wrought in Stone! In her despair she wished she had remembered her decision to use all possible charm and blandishment and deceit to Stone’s undoing. But anger had dominated her. Anger—and the bitter mocking memory of this seductive trait in her that had often been exercised wittingly! She could not stoop to it again even to save her life.
It dawned suddenly upon Ruth that Stone was no longer staring at her. His head was turned to one side, lowered a little, in the attitude of intense listening.
Ruth’s tired heart quickened. She heard footsteps, then a knock upon a door, surely another door in this very house—then sharp quick Mexican voices.
Stone cursed under his breath, and leaping up he guardedly opened the door, which he had forgotten to lock. The voices came distinctly now, somehow different from natural conversation. They must have startled Stone for he glided out of the room, and turning whispered to Ruth: “If you yap it’ll go bad with you!” Then he closed and locked the door noiselessly; and his swift soft footfalls died away.
Ruth huddled there, trying to struggle against the rapture her intuition inspired. But she could not resist this thing that was stronger than her intelligence and reason. Deliverance was at hand. She divined it, she felt it. Adam and Merryvale were again on her trail. She could have cried out in her transport.
The voices ceased, other footsteps passed the door before which Ruth stood so wild with hope. Had she made some delirious mistake? Sudden cold despair beat her down. She tried to scream, but her tongue was dry, her lips stiff, her vocal cords paralyzed.
More footsteps—louder, coming back, the same Mexican voice, shrill, excited, answering deep tones that lifted Ruth’s sunken heart! Men had halted outside the door. A key clinked upon the pavement.
“Merryvale, pick it up. Open the door.”
The same dry tones! Ruth’s voice released itself in a cry.
The lock shot back with a rasp. Violently the door swung in. Then the black doorway seemed filled by a gigantic form. Adam strode in, dragging Stone by one great hand clutched in his shirt. Other men followed, closed the door. Adam gave Stone a fling. He catapulted against the wall and slid down.
Adam knelt before Ruth, bent close to search her face. She could not speak just then, but she met the gray lightning flash of his eyes, and smiled with all the gladness that filled her breast to bursting. He did not speak, but the relaxing of an iron tension spoke more eloquently than words.
Ruth lifted a shaking hand, which he instantly inclosed in his. Merryvale came to her side. “Wal, now lass, brace up. We’re heah’.”
The fourth man was a dark-browed Mexican who stood beaming down upon her, rubbing his hands. “Ah, Senorita, the Blessed Virgin be praised.” My grande senor has found his lily! The house of Augustine is at your service.”
Merryvale bethought him of a package he carried, and tearing it open he disclosed a long coat and veil.
“Ruth, I been packin’ these heah all over Yuma,” he said, trying to be gay. “Reckon you’d like the coat on anyhow. Sit up an’ let me help you…. There.”
“Thank you—oh, thank you,” was all Ruth could say.
Adam’s emotion seemed too deep for smile or word or movement. Yet his look was beautiful and soul-disturbing to Ruth. At last he released her hand and arose.
Then he gazed down upon her while he pointed to Stone.
“Why did he fetch you here?”
“He wanted to—to save me from Collishaw,” faltered Ruth.
“Did you come here of your own accord or did he force you?” went on Adam.
“Both. He frightened me into coming. Then on the way I tried to escape from him. Oh, I ran! But I had no shoes and the rough stones bruised my feet. And he caught me.”
“Stone,” began Adam, in a deadly calm. As he turned away Ruth caught his sleeve, stopped him.
“Adam, let him be,” she asked, not in any sense entreatingly. “At least he did save me from Collishaw’s utter brutality last night, and no doubt today, also.”
“I don’t want your pity, Ruth Larey,” declared Stone, flaring up.
Merryvale took a couple of steps in Stone’s direction. “Did you heah what I told you aboot Collishaw?”
“Yes, I did, you old ferret-face. An’ I don’t give a whoop in hell. I played my game an’ I lost.”
Adam turned once more to Ruth. “It is evident to me that you want Stone let off.”
“I do, Adam,” she replied, quickly. “Partly because I feel to blame for his downfall, but mostly because I would not have you do him injury.”
“Is he to blame for this plight of yours?” queried Adam, and his eloquent gesture not only intimated the disorder of her apparel, but her mental and physical state.
Ruth’s rallying wits had been gathering fortitude for this very question. For herself she could no longer have lied to Adam. But she could stand being flayed alive before confessing truth that would wreck the storm of Wansfell’s wrath upon his brother.
“Adam, I think I am to blame,” she said, as unflinckingly she met his stern sad gaze.
“You mean merely because you happened to be at Lost Lake when Stone came. But that’s too far-fetched. You are not to blame for being alive. You are not to find yourself guilty because you have wished men to find you fair. That is any woman’s right … But was not Stone only an instrument in this deal—and Collishaw another?”
Ruth lied, encompassing all the innocence that she could muster.
“Aw, hell, Wansfell,” burst out Stone, getting up. “You listen to me if you want the straight of this. Guerd Larey hatched this deal. He’d got a tip from Collishaw about how to fetch his wife to terms. Well, Larey didn’t want to figure in it. He had deep schemes at Lost Lake, an’ he was too smart to queer them. So he sends Collishaw off north as a blind. He got me to fit in with his game. That wasn’t hard to do, for I had a game of my own. Dabb was in it, too. I was to steal money from Larey’s desk. Then my part was to go to Ruth and beg her on my knees to come down and persuade Larey to let me off, because I was drunk or crazy. I did go, and Ruth fell into the trap. I daresay she didn’t dislike the idea of trying out her charms an’ tricks upon her husband. We went down the path. Collishaw was hidin’ with a blanket. He threw it over her head, an’ grabbed her up. We ran to the wagon waitin’, an’ got in. The Mex drove off.
“So far so good for Mr. Larey, but right there his deal ended. Ruth fought that one-eyed devil, like the little cat she is. He’d have tom her to pieces but for me. Then when she was beaten, lyin’ there white in the moonlight, with her dress nearly tom off, that da
mned Texan couldn’t keep his hands off her. If I’d had a gun I’d sure have bored him. But I hadn’t an’ I was afraid to snatch at his. I saw that he had doubled-crossed Larey. The sight of that girl was too much for him, the old buzzard. I cussed him an’ begged him an’ fought him all night to let Ruth alone. An’ so help me heaven, if I never did anythin’ good for her before, I did that.
“But my plan was to doublecross Larey myself. I was to get the money I stole. Larey—who thought he was so slick—believed I could be bought. But I loved the girl an’ I meant to fool him an’ take her away. An’ you can bet your life I’d have done it but for that bead-eyed Collishaw.”
Stone’s hurried, coarse and impassioned story had the ease and strength of veracity. If it impressed Wansfell he did not evince the slightest sign.
“Stone, you lack a good many things,” he said, coldly. “And one is that you can’t see ahead. I could crack your neck and think no more of it than to crack a stick by the camp fire. But this girl asks that I do you no injury. She misled you and that galls her…. Well, you go your way. But never cross my trail again.”
In the silence that ensued Stone made for the door, opened it and passed out. The light flared upon him, dogged and sullen of mien, and then he vanished in the gloom.
Adam, at Stone’s departure, seemed to be released from stem and implacable absorption. Perhaps while Stone was present he could not get away from the side of him that was Wansfell. Only Merryvale knew how Stone had been edging a precipice.
“We will go now,” said Adam.
Ruth put her bruised feet gingerly to the floor and rose to rest her weight upon them. She flinched, but managed to limp a few steps, when Adam stopped her with an encircling arm.
“I’m afraid I can’t walk very well,” she replied.
“You need not walk.”
Stone had left the door open. The Mexican, smiling and eager, backed out.
“I hope Stone doesn’t go tell Collishaw. I—I’ve had about all—” said Ruth, breaking off falteringly.
Adam lifted Ruth in his arms. She wondered at the sphinx-like impassiveness of his face.
“Wal, lass, shore you needn’t worry none aboot Collishaw,” spoke up Merryvale, in a voice that held an unfamiliar cold note.
Ruth sagged against Adam. She felt only an exaggeration of her weakness, but she knew what Merryvale meant. What little strength she had left was scarcely enough to resist a stealing faintness. Then her mind seemed vague. She had a sensation of resting laxly in Adam’s arms, of being moved out into the night, of gloomy walls and dim lights, of whispering voices.
Gradually that spell passed. Adam was striding swiftly, carrying her as if she were a child. Merryvale and the Mexican strode ahead a few paces, stopped a moment here and there, then went on. They crossed the street, with Adam following; they kept to the deep shadow of trees; passed on into an open park or square; entered a black passage between high walls. Ruth heard voices and laughter of persons near at hand, but she did not see any of them.
It required effort for her to hold her head erect. As she dropped it back, her hair, always unruly, massed against Adam’s face. She smoothed it down and her hand touched his cheek. It was cold, like marble. She turned her palm against it.
Again Ruth heard the low hum of Yuma’s night life. She was being taken back into the heart of the town. The passageway led into a patio. Then they were mounting steps. Adam carried her through dim-lit halls and rooms, at last to let her gently down. Their Mexican guide appeared to be issuing orders. Soft sandled footsteps sounded through the house; the darkness of this room gave place to light. Ruth found herself given into the kindly hands of Senora Augustine and her two daughters.
“We will be near you—in the next room,” Adam said.
“Senorita, it is well for you here,” added the Mexican, courteously. “Augustine has many friends. They are yours. Be happy again.”
“Ruth, I’ll fetch the things I bought for you. I did my best. Promise you won’t laugh,” said Merryvale.
“If I ever laugh again, it’ll not be at you, my friend,” replied Ruth. “You were good to think of my comfort.”
Merryvale went out with the other men, and presently returned with several packages, which he deposited on the floor beside Ruth’s chair.
“Heah you are, lass,” he said, with a smile that wrinkled his lean face. “It shore was a mighty job, but I never enjoyed one more.”
She gave him her hand, and drew him closer, whispering: “What did you mean—about Collishaw?”
The smile smoothed out and the keen kindly blue eyes clouded.
“Wal, now, Ruth dear, haven’t you had enough shocks for one day?”
“I shall not be shocked,” she went on, clinging to him. “At least anything is better than uncertainty—for me. You said I—I need not worry about Collishaw.”
“Wal, you shore needn’t.”
“Just tonight—or—or—?”
“Never again in this heah world,” he replied, solemnly and stalked out.
Ruth sank back, to close her eyes and surrender to the Mexican women. She scarcely felt their ministrations. All within her breast seemed stilled, frozen. It passed, leaving a numb sickness. Slowly the horror faded out of her mind, like a spectre retreating down an empty hall, where mournful winds of darkness blew.
Wansfell had killed another vulture of the desert. Many times during the last forty-eight hours Ruth had prayed for Adam to come and free her. Her fierce rage had been one of the factors in the havoc wrought in her. But when the mood had passed she was not the same. Must Adam again become a fugitive? His present actions would not presuppose such a thing. The death of a man in a fight was common on the desert, and an event of no moment in Yuma. Yet dread again came to haunt Ruth’s thought; and it seemed to concern the future more than the present, a far-reaching ill omen, a harbinger of the fate she had brought upon herself.
An hour later Ruth entered the room where Adam and Merryvale waited. She had been bathed, and her many bruises had been anointed with some soothing Mexican balm, and her tangled dust-laden hair combed and brushed, and she had dressed in the garments Merryvale had provided.
She halted in the lamplight with a curtsey. She had expected to create a sensation and was not disappointed. The Mexican girls were giggling in the doorway. Merryvale was stroking his chin in great perturbation while Adam’s face slowly broke into his rare smile.
“Wal, shore I might have done wuss,” remarked Merryvale, trying to bolster up his judgment.
“Little old lady!” exclaimed Adam.
Ruth laughed merrily: “You hit it right,” she said. “Merryvale bought me a little old lady’s dress!…. And look, sir, you unflattering wretch—look at my new shoes. Spanish, with buckles! And my feet are lost in them.”
She lifted the hem of the black dress and extended her foot for them to see. Merryvale’s eyes popped out.
“Them big things? Why, Ruth, I swore they’d be too small,” he said, in distress.
“Never you mind,” replied Ruth. “Everything is splendid, especially the shoes. If they were tight I couldn’t wear them at all, my feet are so sore.”
“You should not have dressed,” remonstrated Adam.
“I feel better, but I’m very tired.”
“Can you eat something? Tomorrow will be a long hard day.”
“Perhaps I can—a little…. Adam, are you taking me home to Lost Lake?”
“Of course. Where else could I take you?”
“The world is wide,” she replied, gazing steadily at him.
“Ruth, there’s your grandfather to look after.”
“I know. It’s my duty. But—if I have to go through all this again!”
“My hope is this will end your trouble,” returned Adam.
“If my trouble isn’t ended it’ll end me … But, Adam, don’t look so. I’ll go willingly. I want to do my duty. I’ll pray to learn to love the desert. I’ll crush that rebellious savage in me…. Pro
vided you are near me all the time.”
“But Ruth!” he expostulated. “That is impossible—all the time.”
“You think the situation will be different at Lost Lake—now?” she queried, with gravity.
“It can’t help but be.”
“That is my opinion. Different and worse!” returned Ruth, unable to repress what she felt to be the truth.
At this juncture they were called to supper. It was Merryvale who gallantly stepped to Ruth’s assistance. Adam apparently had not heard the summons.
“Come Adam,” said Ruth, from the door, reproaching herself for the bitterness that would crop up. Merryvale helped her to a seat at the table. But Adam did not join them. Ruth heard rapid footsteps coming down the hall. They recalled her nervous dread. Adam was not yet safely back in the confines of the desert.
Someone entered the other room to greet Adam, and Merryvale hurriedly went back.
“Senor Adam, it is well,” said a man Ruth took for Augustine. His voice was low, sibilant, but she could hear: “Sanchez is my friend and therefore yours. He told the sheriff that Collishaw had at last met one old enemy too many. ‘It was an even break’—And to his friends he said: ‘Wansfell, the Wanderer, has made a call on Yuma. May he live to come again!’ ”
In the darkness of a cool stone-walled room Ruth lay, prey to conflicting thoughts and emotions that stubbornly resisted the encroaching sleep.
Many of them rushed on to oblivion, but some lingered. Genie Linwood and her story! The face of Tanquitch, the god, bright like the sun, which no Indian maiden could look upon without love! The faith of Mrs. Linwood, who said God abided in the desert, and when she prayed—a saviour had come. The desert Indians who could liken a man to an eagle! The thunderbolt that swooped down from the heights!
Ruth now had objective proof of the meaning desert men gave to Wansfell. He was a wanderer, an obscure name, a mystery, a force, they believed, more mythical than real, a man in whom the natural elements of solitude and loneliness and wilderness were mixed. He had become to Ruth what Tanquitch had been to Genie.
Outside, the hum of the street grew fainter and farther away. She heard the moan of the wind—desert wind—seldom idle—from off the great open wastes. She could smell the sand and the heat that was moving away. The moon crossed the window, an orange-colored, misshapen, strange orb, not pitiless like the white stars, but melancholy, a lifeless desert planet of the heavens.
