by Zane Grey
‘I haven’t seen Courtot,’ Howard told him carelessly, ‘and I’m beginning to believe that he has other calves to brand and has pretty well forgotten all about me. I’m shy a horse, Chuck. Scare one up for me to ride back to the ranch, will you?’
By the time Chuck on his own horse had roped a mount for Howard the little party was ready. They rode down into the valley four abreast and across the fields to the ranch-house. Helen seemed a new creature this morning, utterly tantalizing and not a little perverse. Howard did not know what a proud and independent little person she was, nor did he know that each day during the week she had expected him to ride over, and had finally told herself point-blank that it did not matter the least snap of her fingers whether he ever came or not. Naturally, she did not know what had kept him away or that he had even wanted to come. Now that she had heard his remark about a lost horse and a long walk she was burning with curiosity. But that was another matter hidden from Alan.
She did remark the big revolver at his hip and when opportunity arose mentioned it to Carr. Wasn’t it rather strange, she wanted to know, and even somewhat absurd that a man should go about armed like that? Carr evaded and made a vague remark about a man riding across the Bad Lands perhaps with money in his pocket. But John Carr was a blunt, straightforward type of a man, little given to finesse in circumlocution, and Helen fixed her frank, level gaze upon him and knew that he was holding back something. Still higher rose her curiosity about a man whom she did her feminine best to ignore this morning.
Before they came to the ranch-house Helen and her father were riding ahead, while the two friends dropped further and further back. Carr listened with keen interest as Alan sketched the happenings of the last few days. He whistled softly at what he learned of the man on the trail of Jim Courtot. But he shook his head when Alan predicted that, soon or late, Kish Taka would kill the gambler.
‘It’s white man and Indian, Al,’ he said. ‘The thing always works out the same way. Jim got one of the two of them, didn’t he? Well, he’ll get the other. And what I know of the breed of your friend Kish Taka, they’re a pretty low-lived bunch and there’d be precious little harm done if they killed each other.’
But Alan shook his head. ‘Kish Taka is a pretty deep shade of dark on the outside, but he’s white clean through under the hide of him. And I’ve got it clear in my head that he’ll never quit on the trail until he’s squared accounts with Courtot.’
‘By the way,’ said Carr carelessly after a moment, ‘the professor seems all excited about something or other this morning. What’s it all about?’
‘What do you mean?’ countered Howard.
‘Oh, nothing. Only from the way he grabbed on to you I fancied that he had told you. I thought that if there were anything I could do for him——’
‘No. There’s nothing. He did tell me, but he asked me not to say anything about it. I’ll tell you as soon as I can, John. To-night, maybe, or to-morrow.’
‘Oh,’ said Carr. ‘I didn’t mean to stampede in on a secret.’ He turned to other matters and presently they fell silent, jogging along together, their eyes for the most part upon the girl riding ahead of them.
‘Papa,’ Helen was saying at her first opportunity, ‘where has Mr. Howard been?’
‘I have no idea, my dear,’ said her father placidly.
‘What! You mean to tell me that you two have done all the talking you have, and that he hasn’t said a word about where he has been hiding himself all this week?’
‘Not a word.’
‘H’m,’ said Miss Helen, ‘that’s funny.’ And then, ‘Papa, do you know if he has had trouble with anyone lately?’
‘What makes you ask that?’ he queried uneasily, and Helen sat straighter in the saddle and looked him full in the face. For now she was positive that Alan had had trouble and that her father knew about it.
Longstreet hesitated. He had no desire to recount his experience at Moraga’s saloon in Big Run. He had judged himself fortunate since the affair that Helen had been so absorbed in her new environment that she had not thought to call upon him for an accounting of the family funds. But even so, all along he had had a sort of fatalistic fear that in the end she would know everything; she always did.
‘Well,’ said Helen commandingly, ‘tell me all about it.’
‘Eh?’ He started guiltily. ‘About what?’
‘About Mr. Howard’s trouble with another man.’
Then Longstreet told her what he must. How, while he was with Barbee, a man named Jim Courtot had joined them. How Howard had happened along, looking for him, and had said that Jim Courtot was no gentleman. Ahem!—he had said it very emphatically, very. Longstreet did not recall the exact terms employed, but their purport was that Courtot was a crook and a—a man-killer. Courtot had whipped out a revolver, Howard had hurled himself upon him and had knocked him down. Table and chairs were overturned, and at first Longstreet thought that Courtot was dead. He was still unconscious when they left.
‘Table?’ said Helen. ‘And chairs? Where were you? In whose house? For this didn’t happen at the hotel and there was no table in the store.’
‘In the—the house of a man named Moraga, I believe,’ Longstreet answered hurriedly.
Helen looked at him severely.
‘A saloon, wasn’t it?’ she asked, quite as a school teacher may put a leading question to a squirming little boy. When he did not answer immediately, Helen did not wait.
‘I think,’ she informed him judicially, ‘that it will be better for you if I don’t lose sight of you in these cattle and mining towns after this. And it would be a better thing for Mr. Howard if he did not frequent such places.’
‘But you sent him for me!’
Helen merely sniffed at him. She was wondering if Jim Courtot really were a man-killer? She shuddered. Then she set her brain to work upon the name—Jim Courtot. It had a familiar ring; certainly she had heard it before. She and her father rode on in silence. She could hear Alan and Carr talking together again. Suddenly she remembered. It had been that afternoon when they went to Big Run. The two men had spoken of Mrs. Murray, remarking that she was in town. It had been Alan who had said on the heels of this remark:
‘I’ll bet you Jim Courtot has turned up again!’
That was it! Sanchia Murray—Jim Courtot. What had the one to do with the other? Had the enmity of the two men, Howard and Courtot, begun over Sanchia Murray?
When they came to the ranch-house and Alan was at her side to help her to the ground, Helen said, ‘No, thank you,’ quite stiffly and slipped down unaided.
CHAPTER XVI
Sanchia Schemes
Chance had it that the very first individual they saw in Big Run was Sanchia Murray. She was in white and looked fresh and cool and girlish and inviting as she sat idling upon the porch at the hotel. When she saw them, she smiled engagingly.
Only a minute ago as they turned into the hot, deserted street Alan
Howard had suggested:
‘We’d better have lunch at the hotel and ride on to San Ramon afterwards.’ Helen now told herself wisely that he had known Mrs. Murray would be at the hotel. She turned to wave to John Carr, who had said good-bye at the outskirts of Big Run; he claimed that he had been away from home long enough and had some business waiting on his return.
‘He’s perfectly splendid, don’t you think, Mr. Howard?’ Helen asked brightly, quite as if she had not yet seen Sanchia.
‘Yes,’ he rejoined warmly. ‘He’s the best friend a man ever had.’
They dismounted, and Sanchia Murray was not to be ignored longer. She hurried forward and gave both hands at the same time, one to Helen, one to Longstreet. Howard, who held back a pace, fully occupying his own hands with the reins of the three horses, she treated to a quick, friendly nod. He turned away to the stable as the
Longstreets and Sanchia took chairs on the porch. Helen was cool but civil; she did not like the woman and yet she had no sufficient cause to be downright rude as she was inclined to be. Longstreet, on the other hand, as he made himself comfortable, considered Sanchia Murray as nice and friendly and pleasant.
They chatted about this, that and the other thing, all inconsequential, and Helen had to admit that Sanchia had her charm, that she was vivacious and clever and pretty. Helen contented herself for the most part with a quiet ‘Yes’ or ‘No,’ and sat back and made her judgments. In the first place, Sanchia was no woman’s woman, but the type to lead a heedless man to make a fool of himself. In the second place, and even when she was laughing, her dark eyes were quick and filled with a look of remarkable keenness. And, finally, it appeared that she felt a very strong interest in Longstreet.
‘She’s nothing but a flirt,’ thought Helen with something of disgust and utterly without realization that she herself had come perilously close to flirting with John Carr not so long ago—though of course with ample reason! ‘She’d look like that at any man, were he in knee-breeches or as old as Dad.’
Howard came, and presently they went into the darkened dining-room. Sanchia was entertaining Longstreet with an account of her first coming into this perfectly dreadful country, and so it came about that Helen and Alan entered together and found chairs side by side. Since for the greater part of the meal Sanchia monopolized the university man, Alan and Helen were left largely to themselves. And, largely, they were silent. He sought to engage her in talk some two or three times, found her quiet and listless, and in the end gave up all attempt at conversation. After lunch, while Mrs. Murray’s tongue was still racing merrily for the benefit of the professor, Howard succeeded in getting Helen alone at the far end of the porch.
‘Look here, Helen,’ he said after his outright style, ‘what’s the matter? What have I done?’
‘Helen?’ she repeated after him.
‘Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss Helen, or Miss Longstreet, or Your Ladyship. That Helen just slipped out.’
‘So I noticed. Is it a little habit of yours calling girls by their first names when——’
‘I don’t know any girls,’ he cut in vigorously.
She lifted her brows at him.
‘How about Sanchia Murray? Isn’t she——’
‘Damn Sanchia Murray,’ he said savagely.
‘I’m talking about you! You and me.’
Helen gasped. Either his oath shocked her or she gave a very excellent imitation of a maiden thunder-stricken by such language as she had never dreamed a man could employ. Certainly not a man who had the slightest claim to the title of a gentleman.
‘I beg your pardon again,’ muttered Howard. ‘That’s twice. And now tell me, will you, what I’ve done?’
Just what had he done? Helen had to think fast. He was tall and straight and manly, he stood looking honestly into her eyes, he was good to look upon and he struck her as very much of a man all the way through. Further, he had said ‘Damn Sanchia Murray,’ quite as though he meant it with all his heart. Just what had he done?
‘Are you going to tell me?’ he was asking again. ‘That’s only fair, you know.’
‘Don’t you know?’ countered Helen. She looked the part of a girl who knows very well herself, but is in doubt whether or not she should speak about it.
‘No,’ he told her vigorously, ‘honest to grandma, I don’t. But I’m sorry, just the same.’
Then, all suddenly and with no premeditation, Helen smiled and Alan Howard’s heart grew warm.
‘Maybe sometime I’ll tell you,’ she informed him. ‘If you didn’t mean it, we’ll forget it now. And I’ll try to believe that you didn’t mean anything.’
He was considerably puzzled. He scratched his head and wondered. So there was something, then, that he had done to offend her? Then he was a low-lived dog and should have been choked to death. He couldn’t know that there was really nothing in the world wrong, and never had been anything wrong; that merely Helen had been musing upon a mare’s name, and that she had missed him, and did not intend that he should know it, and had resorted to the ancient womanly trick of smiling upon another man. At least Howard was relieved. The day grew bright again and he could find it in his heart to thank God for Sanchia Murray, who still monopolized Helen’s father.
This monopoly was one which continued into the afternoon. For when time came to ride on to San Ramon, Longstreet stated that Mrs. Murray was going with them. It appeared that she had seen a most adorable hat there in the milliner’s window and had planned since early morning upon riding over for it. So when Alan brought the other horses he led hers with them, a beautiful white mare, glossy and well-groomed, trim as a greyhound and richly accoutred in Mexican saddle and Spanish bit. Mrs. Murray kept them waiting a moment, hardly more. Then she appeared dressed in a distracting riding habit. They saw her leave an envelope with the hotelkeeper; they did not hear her instructions. Then all mounted, and again Howard had it in his heart to be grateful for Sanchia. For now he and Helen rode together and far enough in advance to be in a world by themselves.
Until this moment Mrs. Murray had talked about nothing in the world that mattered. But now, her eyes watchful, her manner that of one who has waited long enough and is impatient, she said quickly:
‘You are still looking for your gold mine?’
‘Yes,’ said Longstreet. ‘Oh, yes.’
But on the instant in his eye was that look of a man with the ace buried. Perhaps Mrs. Murray had played poker; clearly she knew something of poker faces.
‘You have found it!’ she cried softly. ‘Oh, I am so glad!’
He looked at her wonderingly.
‘What makes you say that?’ he stammered.
‘That I am glad? Why shouldn’t I be? Why shouldn’t every one be glad? When one’s friend—oh, but we are friends, dear Mr. Longstreet! There is the one glorious thing to be said about this country, about all of the West back from the railroads, that two persons don’t have to know each other a year to become real, true friends. For your sake and for the sake of your wonderful daughter, am I not to be genuinely glad?’
He had to wait to the end of the rushing words to correct her:
‘I meant, what made you say that I had found it?’
She opened her big eyes at him like a baby.
‘But you have, haven’t you? You came to find gold; you brought to bear upon the situation your scientific knowledge instead of a prospector’s poor brain; and you have found gold, I am sure!’ She smiled upon him brightly as she concluded with a semblance of trustfulness and artlessness: ‘Tell me the truth; haven’t you found it?’
Suddenly he found himself hard beset. She had gauged him pretty accurately and therefore had asked him the question pointedly. He must either say yes or no; true, he might be rude to her and refuse an answer, but that would be equivalent to an admission. If he said ‘No,’ he would be lying. There was no other word for it.
‘Well?’ persisted Sanchia. She still smiled, she was still extremely kind and friendly, but it was plain that she would have her answer.
Still he hesitated. What were his reasons for secrecy, after all? Just to spring a surprise for Helen on her birthday. He had already told Alan. A secret is a rather dull and stupid affair unless it is shared. Mrs. Murray was all that was sympathetic; she would rejoice with him.
‘I had not planned to say anything about it yet,’ he began hesitatingly.
‘Oh!’ she cried joyously. ‘It’s wonderful, wonderful, wonderful! I am so glad! Tell me about it. All about it, every word.’
Longstreet’s smile answered her own. And, of course, he told.
‘Only,’ he warned her, ‘I am keeping it a secret for a little. Helen doesn’t know. Next week is her birthday. I am going to g
ive it to her then.’
Mrs. Murray dropped her reins long enough to clap her gauntleted hands. Then she elicited the whole story. She asked to be informed how he knew he had really found gold; she expressed her child-like wonder at his great wisdom; she was breathless with admiration after a fashion which made him glow; and meantime she learned exactly where the place was and saw his specimens. As she took them into her own hands her eyes were lowered so that they were hidden; but when she looked up they were shining.
‘Give me one of them, just one,’ she pleaded. ‘Won’t you? I should so dearly love to keep it for a souvenir of this happiness which is coming to you.’ She sighed. Then, in a faint, quiet little voice: ‘Maybe I am asking too much?’
‘No, no,’ returned Longstreet stoutly. He selected the finest specimen and presented it to her quite as a kind father might have given a stick of candy to his little girl. ‘It is very kind of you to rejoice with us in the good fortune which is beginning to come our way. Just beginning,’ he added with grave assurance.
‘I’ll have a locket made of it,’ said Sanchia. Now for a little it was Longstreet who did the talking. She grew thoughtful, nodding now and then or answering absent-mindedly.
‘You’ll begin work soon?’ she asked abruptly.
‘Immediately. That’s what I’m going into San Ramon to-day for. There are certain necessary papers to be drawn, you know, in order to file properly. Then I’m going to get some men and teams and explosives and tools and begin development to-morrow.’
More thoughtful still grew Sanchia, biting her lips, frowning, hiding her eyes under her wide hat. Once she looked up quickly and studied his eager face, her eyes keen and searching. Then, still watching him for the slightest change of expression, she said:
‘Maybe I can be of assistance to you. You will be busy enough getting your crew and implements. I know everybody in San Ramon; George Harkness, at the court-house, is the man to arrange your papers and he is an old friend of mine. I am going to see him anyway to-day, and if you like I can have him do everything for you and send you your papers next week. It requires several days, you know,’ and by now her intent regard had assured her that he knew absolutely nothing in the world about it.
