Stairs of Sand

by Zane Grey

  Ruth perused this amazing epistle twice, and then read it to Merryvale.

  “Wal, I’ll be doggoned!” he ejaculated, scratching his head. “Larey is too slick for me to follow. That shore rings like a gentleman. Yet we know his soul is blacker than the ace of spades. Ruth, what do you make of that?”

  “I can’t be fair to Larey,” she replied. “It’s not what I know, but what I feel.”

  “Wal, I believe in justice for any man. But Larey stands committed before us. An’ it sticks in my craw that he had somethin’ to do with your grandpa’s death. His takin’ Hunt back at the post on a new deal, lettin’ it be seen by all how friendly he’d got—that I shore never swallowed whole. An’ this heah letter is just another blind…. There, Ruth, you have an old deserthawk’s idee of Larey.”

  Ruth did not commit herself into betrayal of deductions more definitely inimical to Larey than Merryvale’s.

  “Adam will have to hear about grandfather,” she said, earnestly. “But don’t hint of your suspicions to him.”

  “No fear. I reckon I don’t want Wansfell spoilin’ my game,” declared Merryvale. “An’ that is to find out who did this dirty job.”

  Later when Adam came he sat with Ruth for many moments, while Merryvale paced his beat close by, and neither of them found courage to tell him. But he soon sensed Ruth’s stress, and bent low in the shadow to see the pallor of her face. Then the sad story had to come out. He sat silent for a long while, thinking—thinking. Then he threw off the spell, and talked so beautifully to Ruth about age and death and loss, and the desert, which was a mother to all who came to her at the end, that she wept away the tight clamping ice from around her heart. If Adam entertained suspicion of Guerd Larey he did not manifest it in the slightest.

  Ruth marveled anew at this human phenomenon of the desert. His mercy, his forbearance, his nature too great for suspicion, were in direct proportion to the avalanche of his terrible wrath and vengeance, when once they were loosed.

  “Ruth, this property is now yours,” he said, seriously. “Of course at this sad hour you do not want to think of the responsibilities and riches left you. Yet you must. This water right is very valuable now. If you held on to it for some years it would bring a fortune.”

  “What do you advise?” she asked.

  “I would sell it now.”

  “Then we could go far away?” she queried.

  “Yes. As far as you liked.”

  “Would you go with me?”

  “My dear, do you remember the vow of your Biblical namesake? That is mine to you.”

  “Oh, I would give the place away,” she cried.

  Merryvale heard and took strong exception to Ruth’s rash statement. Her grandfather had suffered and died for this desert water hole. She must never sacrifice it. She must never let Guerd Larey buy it for a song. Therefore she had still a duty, aside from the normal need of money to live upon in some happier environment.

  “Merryvale is right, Ruth,” added Adam. “You shall not throw this property away. Nor be robbed of it!”

  Between them they won Ruth’s mind from grief and indifference; and revived in her a spirit of defiance toward the man who would undoubtedly seek to coerce her.

  Adam at length felt satisfied that they had roused Ruth to an unconquerable state; and taking up his canteens he strode off into the dark lonely melancholy desert night.

  Chapter Fifteen

  RUTH, in going over her grandfather’s books and papers, was astounded at the written proof of the large sums of money he had from time to time advanced Larey.

  Caleb Hunt had always been very methodical and painstaking and sincere in all matters of business, never trusting to his memory or the other man’s, and always having deals, loans, debts and purchases put down in black and white. Ruth knew that if there were any debts, which she doubted, they would be as faithfully recorded as other details. Careful search and reading failed to discover anything owing to Guerd Larey.

  She made a mental reservation that she would have something to say to Larey when he presented the claims, which he would do sooner or later. Ruth likewise mastered the complicated bookkeeping of her grandfather in regard to the sale of water. Here another surprise awaited her. Hunt owned the only supply of water at Lost Lake, that was to say, the only spring, the fine flow of water called Indian Wells. The post had paid nothing for months. The stagecoach company had paid up to the first of the month. The freighters were also in arrears. Both the post and the freighting, so far as Lost Lake was concerned, were under the supervision of Larey and Hunt—according to the papers available. There was a new contract, made with the railroad construction contractors, upon which Larey’s name did not appear. Hunt had already received a considerable sum of money, which Ruth found intact. The water brought more money than she had any idea of. For the rest the few whites living at Lost Lake, and the Indians and Mexicans, were never charged anything for the water they used.

  Ruth did not see fit to make any changes in Hunt’s way of conducting business, except to demand prompt payment from the post and freight company. She sent Merryvale with the bill, rather puzzled at the expression on his face as he left her. Upon his return he looked as black as a thundercloud.

  “Ruth, I busted right into the post where Larey was drinkin’ with some men,” declared Merryvale. “You should have seen his look when I handed him the envelope. Why, his hands jest trembled. Ruth, that villain shore loves you…. Wal, he read the bill, turned red as a beet, an’ cussed somethin’ awful. Then he haw-hawed like a gleeful devil.”

  “But what did he say?” queried Ruth, curiously, as Merryvale ended.

  “Wal, that’s what riled me,” rejoined Merryvale. “He tore up the bill, an’ right before those men, strangers to me an’ a hard-lookin’ crew, he said: “Tell my wife she’ll soon be usin’ her precious water to bathe my feet!’ ”

  Ruth felt blank for an instant, and then, as her blood boiled, she restrained the outburst that flashed so swiftly to her lips.

  “Merryvale, is there any way to make him pay?” she asked.

  “Heah on this desert? Lord no! There’s no law except might.”

  “Very well. You turn off the water that’s piped to the post.”

  “Shore. I can do that. But Larey will only have it turned on again. An’ then, if I turn it off a second time—wal, I’ll need to look round pretty pert to keep from gettin’ knocked in the haid.”

  “Try it anyway. If necessary I’ll go down there myself, and stand by that pipe.”

  “Lass, you could, an’ I reckon it’d have effect, but you caint hang around the pipes an’ water-trough all the time.”

  “I could until Larey’s outfit got good and thirsty,” retorted Ruth.

  “Wal, shore Larey himself ain’t drinkin’ much water these heah days. Ruth, his thinkin’ is done. His mind is made up…. An’ heah’s another idee aboot the water you never figgered on. Suppose the freighters an’ the hosses come in off that desert, most daid of thirst. Could you keep from lettin’ them have water to drink?”

  “No! Of course I couldn’t,” cried Ruth, fierce with the hopelessness of her situation. “But no matter. I’ll fight for my rights.”

  “See heah, Ruth, ain’t it all narrowin’ down to Adam?” shot Merryvale, with squinted gleaming eyes on her.

  Ruth felt the blood rushing back to her heart, leaving her chilled; and she looked her mute distress.

  “What’s the use? We caint do anythin’ with this Larey. We caint keep his deviltry from Adam much longer. ‘Pears to me we are jest playin’ tag with somethin’ stronger’n us.”

  “Merryvale, when I think facts, I get the same reaction as you,” asserted Ruth, stem with herself. “But I live on hopes, prayers—on feeling that can’t be put in words.”

  “Shore, but you caint stave this off much longer,” returned Merryvale, stubbornly.

  “This what?”

  “Wal—this all, which ain’t nothin’ else but Guerd Larey.
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  “Dear friend, I must sacrifice everything, even myself, if necessary, to keep Adam from killing this brother he loves.”

  “Ruth Virey, you shore won’t get far with me on such talk as that. I mean this heah sacrificin’ yourself talk. Don’t let me heah that no more, or I’ll fail you, one way or another.”

  “Merryvale! … Forgive me. But you know how wrought up I become, when that dreadful possibility threatens. It—it forces me to a logical, inevitable conclusion. But I will not be logical. I’ll never let Adam face Guerd.”

  “Ruth, I’ll tell you somethin,” replied Merryvale. “I ketched Adam the other night peepin’ into the post He wanted a glimpse of Guerd. An’ he got it, for I seen Guerd, too. I walked most a mile with Adam after that, an’ he never knowed I was near.”

  “Oh, how strange!” exclaimed Ruth, with trembling lips. “Why did Adam do that?”

  “Wal, I can figger only one reason. Adam was jest crazy to see Guerd’s face once more.”

  “Let us—talk of other things,” replied Ruth, haltingly. “We’ve work to do…. What was it?—Merryvale, you must have a room in the house. I will take Grandads, and you may have mine. Get some tools and a man to help you. There’s an Indian who’s a good carpenter. I want a door cut through the wall. Then I’ll use grandad’s room as a sitting-room, and have my bedroom open into it.”

  That evening made up for the trying day. Ruth always found strength in Adam. It was like looking up at a mountain. Many of her perplexities she had meant to confide in him, but when the opportunity afforded she forgot them. They began at first to discuss her problem there at Lost Lake, but soon left it for inconsequential talk that was yet the relief and happiness she needed. And they ended, with Ruth’s arm locked in his, gazing silently out over the black spell-binding desert, and up at the magnificent blue dome with its myriads of white stars.

  Two days of work and bustle around the house, with a woman’s pleasure and satisfaction in fixing up new quarters for her comfort, passed swiftly, while Ruth gave but scant time to worry. Merryvale took up quarters in the little room that had been Ruth’s.

  “Reckon I’m gettin’ old enough to sleep under a roof,” he remarked. “My days on the desert are aboot spent.”

  On the morning of the third day Merryvale did not as usual putter round the house, working on repairs badly needed. He absented himself until nearly noon, and when he returned, one look at him made Ruth’s heart sink.

  “Ruth, I hate to be a black buzzard soarin’ around,” he complained, almost coldly. “But I caint keep all the bad news to myself.”

  “Let me share it,” she replied, bravely.

  “Wal, I’ve been nosin’ around an’ carryin’ a bottle to more’n one greaser an’ Injun. An’ I’ve got results. I’ve loosened the tongue of a greaser, an’ found out enough to verify my suspicions. Larey was no doubt responsible for the murder of your grandfather. It caint never be laid at his door, because the half-breeds who committed the crime came from Yuma an’ went back there. Neither fire nor whip could make this greaser tell their names. But I know enough. When I have more time I’ll explain in detail how I’ve worked all this out.”

  “It doesn’t shock me. It doesn’t surprise me,” replied Ruth, through tight cold lips.

  “Wal, heah’s some news that will,” he went on, as if driven. “There’s a bunch of hombres, riders from across the Arizona line scourin’ the desert for Wansfell.”

  “Merryvale!” cried Ruth, leaping up.

  “Yes, an’ it come straight from Indian Jim, who heard Larey say it.”

  “Go at once! Warn Adam!”

  “Shore, I’m goin’ pronto. But Adam’s a fox, an’ leaves few tracks. You remember the soft sand an’ the hard rock we crossed to go to his camp? Wal, he cain’t be tracked. An’ that canyon is the best hidin’ place I ever seen. So I’m not worryin’ aboot them findin’ him yet.”

  “Why would Larey want to put men on Adam’s trail?” queried Ruth, fearfully.

  “Reckon Larey figgers he caint carry out his plans with this heah Wansfell alive. An’ so help him Gawd, he shore caint!”

  “Wansfell—alive?” she whispered.

  “Shore. Larey reckons your new spunk comes from this Wansfell who killed Collishaw an snatched you from Stone. That’s why he’s left you alone. He’s afraid of Wansfell. An’ he wants him daid!”

  “You must hurry to warn Adam.”

  “I’ll be there in less’n an hour…. An’ Ruth, neither you nor I—nor anythin’ can keep Adam away from heah any longer.”

  “But those Arizona riders!”

  “Wal, Ruth, there’s a heap of difference between them hombres huntin’ to surprise Wansfell, an’ Wansfell huntin’ them.”

  “Find him—tell him I said—come!” burst out Ruth, wildly.

  Merryvale wheeled down the path. And the moment he was out of sight Ruth bit her lips to keep from screaming for him to come back. What was it that had happened? The lull before the storm had ended. The vague misgivings—the strange dreams, the random intuitions, the intelligent reasonings, all had their answer.

  Ruth faced the desert with the gathering might of a passion that for weeks had been fostered and kindled and damned in the unplumbed depths of her. The wasteland out there seemed to leap at her with all its ferocity. In the far distance the red ranges burned with dark and sinister fire; the mirages gleamed and paled and shimmered, and burned white, to fade and gleam again; the yellow dust-devils rose and whirled like furies across the barrens; the silver stairs of sand shone dim through the heat veils, unreal, illusive, deceitful, calling, treacherous.

  Ruth had reached the end of trust in chance, hope, faith, in the mystery of retribution working out. It was imperative to match the spirit and brutality of the desert against the wretches who had thrived thereon, upon the men into whom had entered the flint and fire, the cactus and the poison sap.

  That day or the next, or as soon as it pleased his snake-like patience, Guerd Larey would come to her and reveal himself, his lust, his belief in the success of his evil machinations. When that hour struck Ruth would be steeled to meet it. The longer Larey delayed the stronger, colder, fiercer she would be.

  Meanwhile she could only wait.

  The hours lengthened. Sunset, and Merryvale did not come! Night, and Adam failed her! She waited until a late hour, pacing the porch, and lastly her room, darkened and barred. She slept but little, and the voice of the desert haunted her.

  The gray casement, dawn, and the sunrise! Wideeyed she waited, and drove herself to those ministrations her physical being demanded. She saw her cheeks grow wan and thin, her eyes darken to bottomless gulfs. But night fell again, and wore on endlessly, without her friends coming.

  When another day dawned Ruth stood at the parting between her fear and her faith. Between the intelligence that spelled catastrophe and the sixth sense that sublimely held Wansfell as invulnerable!

  She waited. It was one of the unbearable days—torrid with heat, ghastly with its white wraiths, destroying to flesh, maddening to mind. She drunk water copiously, yet could not allay her thirst. She waited. Yet there were moments which broke the strain.

  What the day foreshadowed came at last. Quick ringing footsteps of a man who brooked no opposition to his will!

  Ruth’s door was open. She had halted by the table. She had hidden something in a drawer. With a hand that had no tremor she opened it part way.

  “Pedro, set my bags here,” Guerd Larey’s resonant voice. Ruth heard the thud of heavy articles being deposited upon the porch. An amazed query tried to wedge into her mind. It was dispeîled by a shadow at the door.

  Larey rapped. Ruth did not move so much as a flicker of an eyelash. She was close to the table. One movement of hand! The heat of the room swirled around her, entered her veins.

  “Howdy, Ruth,” he said, coolly. “I’ve fetched up my things to stay.”

  His effrontery seemed more than Ruth could bear. It whirled her to face him, h
er eyes blazing.

  “What do you mean?” she demanded.

  He did not reply. His brilliant green eyes were taking her in from face to feet, lingering over her. He was clean shaven, and he wore immaculate white, and knee-high Mexican boots, embroidered in flowery design. His silver-buckled belt did not hold a weapon. His shirt was open at the neck, exposing his magnificent breast, matted with hair. The flush on the olive tan of his face was not from drink. Shades and lines of dissipation were there, but almost obliterated by a glow, a radiance, a wonderful outward shining of an inward flame. Handsome still, like an evil god, he stood there, possessing Ruth with his snaky eyes.

  “What do you mean?” repeated Ruth, cold level gaze on his.

  “Its too noisy and uncomfortable at the post for me any more,” he replied, leaning against the door. “So I’ve come up here to stay.”

  “You can’t stay here.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because this is my house and I will not have you in it.”

  “Wrong, Ruth. The property is mine, land, water, and house. Your grandfather owed me money. So I take possession right now.”

  “You lie, Guerd Larey. Can you show me any proof of my grandfather’s owing you?”

  “My word is proof enough.”

  “Your word? Good God, the vanity, the brazenness of you!”

  Ruth’s quick wit grasped the subtle and remarkable assurance of the man. He had played his cards and from his standpoint the game was won. He was but a cat toying with a mouse. No sentiment, no tenderness, no genuine longing, such as she had often before divined, emanated from his presence this day.