Union Pacific

by Zane Grey

  Neale began to quiver in the full presaging sense of a revelation.

  “My engineer, Tom Daley, reached Casey’s side just the instant before he died,” said General Lodge, resuming his story. “In fact, Daley was the only one of us who did see Casey alive . . . Casey’s last words were ‘ambush . . . Sooz . . . Deep Cut,’ and then . . . ‘me fri’nd Neale!’ We were at a loss to understand what he meant . . . that is, at first. We found Casey with this little notebook and his pipe tight between his teeth.”

  The chief gave the notebook to Neale, who received it with a trembling hand and wondering eye.

  “You can see the marks of Casey’s teeth in the leather. It was difficult to extract the book. He held on like grim death. Oh! Casey was grim death . . . We could not pull his black pipe out at all. We left it between his set jaws, where it always had been . . . where it belonged . . . I ordered him buried that way . . . So they buried him out there along the track.”

  The chief’s low voice ceased, and he stood motionlessly a moment, his brow knotted, his eyes haunted, yet bright with a glory of tribute to a hero.

  Neale heard the ticking of a watch and the murmur of the street outside. He felt the soft little notebook in his hand. And the strangest sensation shuddered over him. He drew his breath sharply.

  When General Lodge turned again to face him, Neale saw him differently—aloof, somehow removed, indistinct.

  “Casey meant the notebook for you,” said the general. “It belonged to the woman, Beauty Stanton. It contained a letter, evidently written while she was dying . . . This developed when Daley began to read aloud. We all heard. The instant I understood it was a letter intended for you, I took the book. No more was read. We were all crowded round Daley . . . curious, you know. There were visitors on my train . . . and your enemy Lee. I’m sorry . . . but, no matter. You see it couldn’t be helped . . . That’s all . . .”

  Neale was conscious of ignominy even in his dazed state of conjecture and dread. But he stood perfectly erect and gazed straight into the face of the old chief. “Thank you for you courtesy,” he said clearly. “Poor old Casey,” he murmured. Then he remembered Stanton dying. What had happened? He could not trust himself to read that message before Lodge, and, bowing, he left the room.

  But he had to grope his way through the lobby, so dim had become his sight. By the time he reached the street, he had lost his self-control that he had hidden from his former officers—that realization of his disgrace. Something burned his hand. It was the little leather notebook. He had not the nerve to open it. What had been the implication in General Lodge’s strange words?

  He gazed with awe at the tooth marks on the little book. How had Casey come by anything of Beauty Stanton’s? Could it be true that she was dying? Neale believed nothing, yet his whole nervous organization vibrated to the nearness of shock.

  Then again he was accosted in the street. A heavy hand, a deep voice arrested his progress. His eyes, sweeping up from the path, saw fringed and beaded buckskin, a stalwart form, a bronzed and bearded face, and keen, gray eyes warm with the light of gladness. He was gripped in hands of iron.

  “Son! Hyar you air . . . an’ it’s the savin’ of me!” exclaimed a deep, familiar voice.

  “Slingerland!” cried Neale, and he grasped his old friend as a drowning man at an anchor rope. “My God! What will happen next? Oh, I’m glad to find you! Slingerland, I’m in trouble!”

  “Son, I reckon I know,” replied the other.

  Neale shivered. Why did men look at him so? This old trapper had too much simplicity, too big a heart, to hide his pity.

  “Come! Somewhere . . . out of the crowd!” cried Neale, dragging at Slingerland. “Don’t talk. Don’t tell me anything. Wait! I’ve a letter here . . . that’s going to be hell’s fire!”

  Neale stumbled along out of the crowded street, he did not know where, and with death in his soul he opened Beauty Stanton’s book. And he read:

  You called me that horrible name. You struck me. You’ve killed me. I lie here dying. Oh, Neale! I’m dying—and I loved you. I came to you to prove it. If you had not been so blind—so stupid! My prayer is that someone will see this I’m writing—and take it to you.

  Ancliffe brought your sweetheart, Allie Lee, to me—to hide her from Durade. He told me to find you, and then he died. He had been stabbed in saving her from Durade’s gang. And Hough, too, was killed.

  Neale, I looked at Allie Lee, and then I understood your ruin. You fool! She was not dead, but alive. Innocent and sweet like an angel. Ah! The wonder of it in Benton! Neale, she did not know—did not feel the kind of a woman I am. She changed me—crucified me. She put her face on my breast. And I have that touch with me now, blessed, softening.

  I locked her in a room and hurried out to find you. For the first time in years I had a happy moment. I understood why you had never cared for me. I respected you. Then I would have gone to hell for you. It was my joy that you must owe your happiness to me—that I would be the one to give you back Allie Lee and hope, and the old, ambitious life. Oh, I gloried in my power. It was sweet. You would owe every kiss of hers, every moment of pride, to the woman you had repulsed. That was to be my revenge.

  And I found you, and in the best hour of my bitter life—when I had risen above the woman of shame, above thought of self—then you, with hellish stupidity, imagined I was seeking you—you for myself! Your annoyance, your scorn, robbed me of my wits. I could not tell you. I could only speak her name and bid you come.

  You branded me before that grinning crowd, you struck me! And the fires of hell—my hell—burst in my heart. I ran out of there—mad to kill your soul—to cause you everlasting torment. I swore I would give that key of Allie Lee’s room to the first man who entered my house.

  The first man was Larry Red King. He was drunk. He looked wild. I welcomed him. I sent him to her room.

  But Red King was your friend. I had forgotten that. He came out with her. He was sober and terrible. Like the mad woman that I was, I rushed at him to tear her away. He shot me. I see his eyes now. But, oh, thank God, he shot me! It was a deliverance.

  I fell on the stairs, but I saw that flaming-faced devil kill four of Durade’s men. He got Allie Lee out. Later I heard he had been killed and that Durade had caught the girl.

  Neale, hurry to find her. Kill that Spaniard. No man could tell why he has spared her, but I tell you he will not spare her long.

  Don’t ever forget Hough or Ancliffe or that terrible cowboy. Ancliffe’s death was beautiful. I am cold. It’s hard to write. All is darkening. I hear the moan of wind. Forgive me! Neale, the difference between me and Allie Lee—is a good man’s love. Men are blind to woman’s agony. She laid her cheek here—on my breast—I—who always wanted a child. I shall die alone. No—I think God is here. There is someone! After all, I was a woman. Neale I forgive . . .

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “Wor I there?” echoed McDermott as he wiped the clammy sweat from his face. “B’gosh, I wor!”

  It was half past five. There appeared to be an unusual number of men on the street, not so hurried and business-like and merry as generally, and given to collecting in groups, low-voiced and excited.

  General Lodge drew McDermott inside. “Come. You need a bracer. Man, you look sick,” he said.

  At the bar McDermott’s brown and knotty hand shook as he lifted a glass and gulped a drink of whiskey. “Gineral, I ain’t the mon I wuz,” complained McDermott. “Casey’s gone! An’ we had hell wid the Injuns gittin’ here. An’ thin jest afther I stepped off the train . . . it happened.”

  “What happened? I’ve heard conflicting reports. My men are out trying to get news. Tell me, Sandy,” replied the general eagerly.

  “Afther hearin’ of Casey’s finish, I was shure needin’ stimulants,” began the Irishman. “An’ prisintly I drhopped into that Durade’s Palace. I had my drink, an’ thin went into the big room where the moosic wuz. It shure wuz a palace. A lot of thim swells with frock co
ats wuz there. B’gorra, they ain’t above buckin’ the tiger. Some of thim I knew. That Misther Lee, wot wuz once a commissioner of the U.P., he wor there with a party of friends. An’ I happened to be close by thim whin the dancin’ gurl come out. She was shure purty with her bare arms an’ legs. But thot sad! Her eyes wor turrible hauntin’, an’ roight off I wanted to start a foight.

  “Wal, the minnit that Lee seen the gurl he acted strange. I wuz standin’ close an’ I went closer. ‘Most exthraordinary rezemblance,’ he kept sayin’. An’ thin he dug into his vest fer a pocketbook, an’ out of that he took a locket. He looked at it . . . thin at the little gurl who danced so tired and looked so sad. Roight off he turned the color of a sheet. ‘Gintlemen, look!’ he sez. They all looked, an’ shure wuz sthruck with somethin’. ‘Gintlemen,’ sez Lee, ‘me wife left me years ago . . . ran off West wid a gambler. If she iver hed a child . . . that gurl is thot child. Fer she’s the livin’ image of me wife nineteen years ago!’

  “Some of thim laughed at him . . . some of thim stared. But Lee wuz dead in earnest an’ growin’ more excited ivery minnit. I heerd him mutter low . . . ‘My Gawd, it can’t be. Her child . . . in a gamblin’ hell! But that face . . . Ah, where else could I expect the child of such a mother?’

  “An’ Lee went closer to the platform where the gurl danced. His party follered an’ I follered, too . . . Jest whin the moosic sthopped an’ the gurl looked up . . . thin she seen Lee. Roight out he sthepped away from the crowd. He wuz whiter’n a ghost. An’ the gurl she seemed paralyzed. Sthrange it wor to see how she an’ him looked alike thin.

  “The crowd seen somethin’ amiss, an’ went quiet, starin’ an’ nudgin’ . . . Gineral, domn me if the gurl’s face didn’t blaze. I niver seen the loike. An’ she sthepped off the platform an’ come straight fer Lee. An’ whin she sthopped she wuz close enough to touch him. Her eyes wor great burnin’ holes an’ her face shone somethin’ wonderful.

  “Lee put up a shakin’ hand. ‘Gurl,’ he sez, ‘did yez iver hear of Allison Lee?’

  “An’ all her body seemed to lift. ‘He is my father!’ she cried. ‘I am Allie Lee!’

  “An’ thin that crowd wuz split up by a mon wot hurried through. He wuz a greaser . . . one of thim dandies on dress an’ diamonds . . . a handsome, wicked-lookin’ gambler. Seein’ the gurl, he snarled . . . ‘Go back there!’ . . . an’ he pointed. She niver even looked at him.

  “Somewan back of me sez thot’s Durade. Wal, it wor. An’ sudden he seen who the gurl wuz watchin’ . . . Lee. Thot Durade turned green an’ wild-eyed an’ stiff. But thot couldn’t hold a candle to Lee. Shure he turned into a fiend. He bit out a Spanish name, nothin’ loike Durade. An’ loike a hissin’ snake Durade sez . . . ‘Allison Lee!’

  “Thin there wuz a deadlock between thim two men, wid the crowd waitin’ fer hell to pay. Life-long inimies, sez I, to meself, an’ I hed the whole story.

  “Durade began to limber up. Anywan what knows a greaser would have been lookin’ fer blood. ‘She . . . wint . . . back . . . to yez,’ panted Durade.

  “‘No . . . thief . . . Spanish dog! I have not seen her for nineteen years,’ sez Lee.

  “The gurl spoke up. ‘Mother is dead! Killed by Injuns!’

  “Thin Lee cried out . . . ‘Did she leave him?’

  “‘Yes, she did,’ sez the gurl. ‘She wuz goin’ back. Home! Takin’ me home. But the caravan wuz attacked by Injuns. An’ all but me wor massacred.’

  “Durade cut short the gurl’s speech. If I iver seen a reptoile it wuz thin. ‘Lee, they both left me,’ he hisses. ‘I tracked them. I lost the mother, but caught the daughter.’

  “Thin thot Durade lost his speech fer a minnit, foamin’ at the mouth wid rage. If yez niver seen a greaser mad, thin yez niver seen the rale thin’. His face changed yaller an’ ould an’ wrinkled, wid spots of red. His lip curled up loike a wolf’s, an’ his eyes . . . they wint down to little black points of hell’s fire. He wuz crazy. ‘Look at her!’ he yelled. ‘Allie Lee! Flesh an’ blood yez can’t deny! Her baby! An’ she’s been my slave . . . my dog to beat an’ kick! She’s been through Benton. A bare-legged dancer an’ toy fer the riff-raff of the camps! She’s as vile an’ black an’ lost as her treacherous mother!’

  “Allison Lee shrunk under thot shame. But the gurl . . . Lord! She niver looked wot she was painted by thot devil. She stood white an’ still, loike an angel above judgment. Durade drew one of thim little Derringers. An’ sudden he hild it on Lee, hissin’ now in his greaser talk. I niver seen sich hellish joy on a human face. Murder was nothin’ to thot look.

  “Jist thin I seen Neale an’ Slingerland, an’, by Gawd, I thought I’d drop. They seemed to loom up. The girl screamed, wild-loike, an’ she swayed about to fall. Neale leaped in front of Lee. ‘Durade!’ he spit out, an’ domn me if I didn’t expect to see the roof fly off.”

  McDermott wiped his moist face and tipped his empty glass to his lips, and swallowed hard. His light-blue eyes held a glint.

  “Gineral,” he went on, “yez know Neale. How big he is! Wot nerve he’s got! There niver wor a mon his equal on the U.P., ’ceptin’ Casey . . . But me, nor anywan, nor yez, either, ever seen Neale loike he wuz thin. He niver hesitated an inch, but wint roight fer Durade. Any domn’ fool, iven a crazy greaser, would hev seen his finish in Neale. Durade changed quick from hot to cold. An’ he shot Neale. Neale laughed. Funny ringin’ sort of laugh, full of thot same joy Durade hed sung out to Lee. Hate an’ love of blood it wor. Yez would hev thought Neale felt wonderful happy to sthop a bullet.

  “Thin his hand shot out an’ grabbed Durade . . . He jerked him off his feet an’ swung him around. The little Derringer flew, an’ Sandy McDermott wuz the mon who picked it up. It’ll be Neale’s whin I see him . . . Durade jabbered fer help. But no wan come. Thot big trapper, Slingerland, stood there with two guns, an’ shure he looked bad. Neale slung Durade around, spillin’ some fellers who didn’t dodge quick, an’ thin he jerked him up backwards. An’ Durade come up with a long knife in the wan hand he had free.

  “Neale yelled . . . ‘Lee, take the gurl out!’

  “I seen thin she hed fainted in Lee’s arms. He lifted her . . . moved away . . . an’ thin I seen no more of thim. Durade made wild an’ wicked lunges at Neale, only to be jerked off his balance. I heerd the bones crack in the arm Neale held. The greaser screamed. Sudden he wuz turned ag’in an’ swung backwards so thot Neale grabbed the other arm . . . the wan wot held the knife. It wuz a child in the grasp of a giant. Neale shure looked beautiful. I niver wished so much in me loife fer Casey as thin. He would hev enjoyed thot foight, fer he bragged of his friendship fer Neale. An’ . . .”

  “Go on, man, end your story!” ordered the general breathlessly.

  “Wal, b’gorra, there wuz more crackin’ of bones, an’ sich screams as I niver heerd from a mon. Turrible, bloodcurdlin’! Neale held both Durade’s hands an’ wuz squeezin’ thot knife handle so the greaser couldn’t let go. Thin Neale drew out thot hand of Durade’s . . . the wan wot held the knife . . . an’ made Durade jab himself, low down. My Gawd, how thot jenteel Spaniard howled! I seen the blade go in an’ come our red.

  “‘Dance!’ yelled Neale, cold an’ hard. Domn me, Gineral, the boy wuz so mad and so powerful that he jigged the greaser over the floor, here an’ there, all the time stickin’ that long blade in and yellin’ . . . ‘Dance’! No wan had nerve enough to go near him. No wan wanted to, with that buckskin trapper prancin’ around like an Indian.

  “Durade danced after he wuz dead, that’s domn’ certain. He had been made to dance an’ cut himself to pieces. Neale dragged him to that platform where the poor little gurl . . . Allison Lee’s daughter, b’gorra . . . had been forced to dance. An’ Neale stood him up ag’in’ the wall an’ left him there, his own knife run clear through him . . . shure the bloodiest an’ awfulest sight I iver seen.”

  McDermott looked at the empty glass. “That’s all, Gineral. An’ if it’s jist the same to yez, I’ll have
another drink.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Sight of Warren Neale had transformed life for Allie Lee. The shame of being forced to dance before bold men, the pain from Durade’s blows, the dread that every hour he would do the worst by her or kill her, the sudden and amazing recognition between her and her father—these became dwarfed and blurred in the presence of the glorious truth that Neale lived.

  She had seen him with reeling senses and through darkening eyes. She had seen him leap before her father to confront that glittering-eyed Durade. She had neither fear of him nor pity for the Spaniard.

  Sensations of falling, of being carried, of the light and dust and noise of the street, of men around her, of rooms and the murmur of voices, of being worked over and spoken to by a kindly woman, of swallowing what was put to her mouth, of answering questions, of letting other clothes be put upon her—all these sensations were felt by her during a great and overwhelming joy in which it seemed she must only listen and watch for him.

  She was as if in a trance, aware of all going on about her, but with consciousness riveted upon one stunning fact. When she was left alone, this state gradually wore away, and there remained a throbbing, quivering suspense of love. Her despair had ended. The spirit that had upheld her through all the long, dark hours had reached its fulfillment.

  She lay on a couch in a small room curtained off from another, the latter large and light, and from which presently came a sound of low voices. She heard the quick tread of men; a door opened.

  “Lee, I congratulate you. A narrow escape!” exclaimed a deep voice, with something sharp, authoritative in it.

  “General Lodge, it was indeed a narrow shave for me,” replied another voice, low and husky.

  Allie slowly sat up, with the dreamy waiting abstraction less strong. Her father, Allison Lee, and General Lodge, Neale’s chief, who had once been so kind to her, were there in the other room.

  “Neale killed Durade! Cut him all to pieces!” said the general, with agitation. “I had it from McDermott, one of my spikers . . . reliable man . . . Neale was shot . . . perhaps cut, too . . . But he doesn’t seem to know it.”