by Zane Grey
“Mrs. Hoden, do not distress yourself any more,” said Miss Sampson. “I shall see you are well cared for. I promise you.”
“Miss Sampson, that’s fine!” exclaimed Steele, with a ring in his voice. “It’s what I’d have hoped—expected of you…”
It must have been sweet praise to her, for the whiteness of her face burned in a beautiful blush.
“And it’s good of you, too, Miss Langdon, to come,” added Steele. “Let me thank you both. I’m glad I have you girls as allies in part of my lonely task here. More than glad, for the sake of this good woman and the little ones. But both of you be careful. Don’t stir without Russ. There’s risk. And now I’ll be going. Good-by. Mrs. Hoden, I’ll drop in again tonight. Good-by!”
Steele backed to the door, and I slipped out before him.
“Mr. Steele—wait!” called Miss Sampson as he stepped out. He uttered a little sound like a hiss or a gasp or an intake of breath, I did not know what; and then the incomprehensible fellow bestowed a kick upon me that I thought about broke my leg. But I understood and gamely endured the pain. Then we were looking at Diane Sampson. She was white and wonderful. She stepped out of the door, close to Steele. She did not see me; she cared nothing for my presence. All the world would not have mattered to her then.
“I have wronged you!” she said impulsively.
Looking on, I seemed to see or feel some slow, mighty force gathering in Steele to meet this ordeal. Then he appeared as always—yet, to me, how different!
“Miss Sampson, how can you say that?” he returned.
“I believed what my father and George Wright said about you—that bloody, despicable record! Now I do not believe. I see—I wronged you.”
“You make me very glad when you tell me this. It was hard to have you think so ill of me. But, Miss Sampson, please don’t speak of wronging me. I am a Ranger, and much said of me is true. My duty is hard on others—sometimes on those who are innocent, alas! But God knows that duty is hard, too, on me.”
“I did wrong you. In thought—in word. I ordered you from my home as if you were indeed what they called you. But I was deceived. I see my error. If you entered my home again I would think it an honor. I—”
“Please—please don’t, Miss Sampson,” interrupted poor Steele. I could see the gray beneath his bronze and something that was like gold deep in his eyes.
“But, sir, my conscience flays me,” she went on. There was no other sound like her voice. If I was all distraught with emotion, what must Steele have been? “I make amends. Will you take my hand? Will you forgive me?” She gave it royally, while the other was there pressing at her breast.
Steele took the proffered hand and held it, and did not release it. What else could he have done? But he could not speak. Then it seemed to dawn upon Steele there was more behind this white, sweet, noble intensity of her than just making amends for a fancied or real wrong. For myself, I thought the man did not live on earth who could have resisted her then. And there was resistance; I felt it; she must have felt it. It was poor Steele’s hard fate to fight the charm and eloquence and sweetness of this woman when, for some reason unknown to him, and only guessed at by me, she was burning with all the fire and passion of her soul.
“Mr. Steele, I honor you for your goodness to this unfortunate woman,” she said, and now her speech came swiftly. “When she was all alone and helpless you were her friend. It was the deed of a man. But Mrs. Hoden isn’t the only unfortunate woman in the world. I, too, am unfortunate. Ah, how I may soon need a friend!
“Vaughn Steele, the man whom I need most to be my friend—want most to lean upon—is the one whose duty is to stab me to the heart, to ruin me. You! Will you be my friend? If you knew Diane Sampson you would know she would never ask you to be false to your duty. Be true to us both! I’m so alone—no one but Sally loves me. I’ll need a friend soon—soon.
“Oh, I know—I know what you’ll find out sooner or later. I know now! I want to help you. Let us save life, if not honor. Must I stand alone—all alone? Will you—will you be—”
Her voice failed. She was swaying toward Steele. I expected to see his arms spread wide and enfold her in their embrace.
“Diane Sampson, I love you!” whispered Steele hoarsely, white now to his lips. “I must be true to my duty. But if I can’t be true to you, then by God, I want no more of life!” He kissed her hand and rushed away.
She stood a moment as if blindly watching the place where he had vanished, and then as a sister might have turned to a brother, she reached for me.
CHAPTER 8
THE EAVESDROPPER
We silently rode home in the gathering dusk. Miss Sampson dismounted at the porch, but Sally went on with me to the corrals. I felt heavy and somber, as if a catastrophe was near at hand.
“Help me down,” said Sally. Her voice was low and tremulous.
“Sally, did you hear what Miss Sampson said to Steele?” I asked.
“A little, here and there. I heard Steele tell her he loved her. Isn’t this a terrible mix?”
“It sure is. Did you hear—do you understand why she appealed to Steele, asked him to be her friend?”
“Did she? No, I didn’t hear that. I heard her say she had wronged him. Then I tried not to hear any more. Tell me.”
“No Sally; it’s not my secret. I wish I could do something—help them somehow. Yes, it’s sure a terrible mix. I don’t care so much about myself.”
“Nor me,” Sally retorted.
“You! Oh, you’re only a shallow spoiled child! You’d cease to love anything the moment you won it. And I—well, I’m no good, you say. But their love! My God, what a tragedy! You’ve no idea, Sally. They’ve hardly spoken to each other, yet are ready to be overwhelmed.”
Sally sat so still and silent that I thought I had angered or offended her. But I did not care much, one way or another. Her coquettish fancy for me and my own trouble had sunk into insignificance. I did not look up at her, though she was so close I could feel her little, restless foot touching me. The horses in the corrals were trooping up to the bars. Dusk had about given place to night, although in the west a broad flare of golden sky showed bright behind dark mountains.
“So I say you’re no good?” asked Sally after a long silence. Then her voice and the way her hand stole to my shoulder should have been warning for me. But it was not, or I did not care.
“Yes, you said that, didn’t you?” I replied absently.
“I can change my mind, can’t I? Maybe you’re only wild and reckless when you drink. Mrs. Hoden said such nice things about you. They made me feel so good.”
I had no reply for that and still did not look up at her. I heard her swing herself around in the saddle. “Lift me down,” she said.
Perhaps at any other time I would have remarked that this request was rather unusual, considering the fact that she was very light and sure of action, extremely proud of it, and likely to be insulted by an offer of assistance. But my spirit was dead. I reached for her hands, but they eluded mine, slipped up my arms as she came sliding out of the saddle, and then her face was very close to mine. “Russ!” she whispered. It was torment, wistfulness, uncertainty, and yet tenderness all in one little whisper. It caught me off guard or indifferent to consequences. So I kissed her, without passion, with all regret and sadness. She uttered a little cry that might have been mingled exultation and remorse for her victory and her broken faith. Certainly the instant I kissed her she remembered the latter. She trembled against me, and leaving unsaid something she had meant to say, she slipped out of my arms and ran. She assuredly was frightened, and I thought it just as well that she was.
Presently she disappeared in the darkness and then the swift little clinks of her spurs ceased. I laughed somewhat ruefully and hoped she would be satisfied. Then I put away the horses and went in for my supper.
After supper I noisily bustled around my room, and soon stole out for my usual evening’s spying. The night was dark, without s
tarlight, and the stiff wind rustled the leaves and tore through the vines on the old house. The fact that I had seen and heard so little during my constant vigilance did not make me careless or the task monotonous. I had so much to think about that sometimes I sat in one place for hours and never knew where the time went.
This night, the very first thing, I heard Wright’s well-known footsteps, and I saw Sampson’s door open, flashing a broad bar of light into the darkness. Wright crossed the threshold, the door closed, and all was dark again outside. Not a ray of light escaped from the window. This was the first visit of Wright for a considerable stretch of time. Little doubt there was that his talk with Sampson would be interesting to me.
I tiptoed to the door and listened, but I could hear only a murmur of voices. Besides, that position was too risky. I went round the corner of the house. Some time before I had made a discovery that I imagined would be valuable to me. This side of the big adobe house was of much older construction than the back and larger part. There was a narrow passage about a foot wide between the old and new walls, and this ran from the outside through to the patio. I had discovered the entrance by accident, as it was concealed by vines and shrubbery. I crawled in there, upon an opportune occasion, with the intention of boring a small hole through the adobe bricks. But it was not necessary to do that, for the wall was cracked; and in one place I could see into Sampson’s room. This passage now afforded me my opportunity, and I decided to avail myself of it in spite of the very great danger. Crawling on my hands and knees very stealthily, I got under the shrubbery to the entrance of the passage. In the blackness a faint streak of light showed the location of the crack in the wall.
I had to slip in sidewise. It was a tight squeeze, but I entered without the slightest sound. If my position were to be betrayed it would not be from noise. As I progressed the passage grew a very little wider in that direction, and this fact gave rise to the thought that in case of a necessary and hurried exit I would do best by working toward the patio. It seemed a good deal of time was consumed in reaching my vantage-point. When I did get there the crack was a foot over my head. If I had only been tall like Steele! There was nothing to do but find toe-holes in the crumbling walls, and by bracing knees on one side, back against the other, hold myself up to the crack.
Once with my eye there I did not care what risk I ran. Sampson appeared disturbed; he sat stroking his mustache; his brow was clouded. Wright’s face seemed darker, more sullen, yet lighted by some indomitable resolve.
“We’ll settle both deals tonight,” Wright was saying. “That’s what I came for. That’s why I’ve asked Snecker and Blome to be here.”
“But suppose I don’t choose to talk here?” protested Sampson impatiently. “I never before made my house a place to—”
“We’ve waited long enough. This place’s as good as any. You’ve lost your nerve since that Ranger hit the town. First, now, will you give Diane to me?”
“George, you talk like a spoiled boy. Give Diane to you! Why, she’s a woman and I’m finding out that she’s got a mind of her own. I told you I was willing for her to marry you. I tried to persuade her. But Diane hasn’t any use for you now. She liked you at first; but now she doesn’t. So what can I do?”
“You can make her marry me,” replied Wright.
“Make that girl do what she doesn’t want to? It couldn’t be done, even if I tried. And I don’t believe I’ll try. I haven’t the highest opinion of you as a prospective son-in-law, George. But if Diane loved you I would consent. We’d all go away together before this damned miserable business is out. Then she’d never know. And maybe you might be more like you used to be before the West ruined you. But as matters stand you fight your own game with her; and I’ll tell you now, you’ll lose.”
“What’d you want to let her come out here for?” demanded Wright hotly. “It was a dead mistake. I’ve lost my head over her. I’ll have her or die. Don’t you think if she was my wife I’d soon pull myself together? Since she came we’ve none of us been right. And the gang has put up a holler. No, Sampson, we’ve got to settle things tonight.”
“Well, we can settle what Diane’s concerned in right now,” replied Sampson, rising. “Come on; we’ll go ask her. See where you stand.”
They went out, leaving the door open. I dropped down to rest myself and to wait. I would have liked to hear Miss Sampson’s answer to him. But I could guess what it would be. Wright appeared to be all I had thought of him, and I believed I was going to find out presently that he was worse. Just then I wanted Steele as never before. Still, he was too big to worm his way into this place.
The men seemed to be absent a good while, though that feeling might have been occasioned by my interest and anxiety. Finally I heard heavy steps. Wright came in alone. He was leaden-faced, humiliated. Then something abject in him gave place to rage. He strode the room; he cursed.
Sampson returned, now appreciably calmer. I could not but decide that he felt relief at the evident rejection of Wright’s proposal. “Don’t fume about it, George,” he said. “You see I can’t help it. We’re pretty wild out here, but I can’t rope my daughter and give her to you as I would an unruly steer.”
“Sampson, I can make her marry me,” declared Wright thickly.
“How?”
“You know the hold I got on you—the deal that made you boss of this rustler gang?”
“It isn’t likely I’d forget,” replied Sampson grimly.
“I can go to Diane—tell her that—make her believe I’d tell it broadcast, tell this Ranger Steele, unless she’d marry me!” Wright spoke breathlessly, with haggard face and shadowed eyes. He had no shame. He was simply in the grip of passion. Sampson gazed with dark, controlled fury at his relative. In that look I saw a strong, unscrupulous man fallen into evil ways, but still a man. It betrayed Wright to be the wild and passionate weakling.
I seemed to see also how, during all the years of association, this strong man had upheld the weak one. But that time had gone forever, both in intent on Sampson’s part and in possibility. Wright, like the great majority of evil and unrestrained men on the border, had reached a point where influence was futile. Reason had degenerated. He saw only himself.
“But, George, Diane’s the one person on earth who must never know I’m a rustler, a thief, a red-handed ruler of the worst gang on the border,” replied Sampson impressively.
George bowed his head at that, as if the significance had just occurred to him. But he was not long at a loss. “She’s going to find it out sooner or later. I tell you she knows now there’s something wrong out here. She’s got eyes. And that meddling cowboy of hers is smarter than you give him credit for. They’re always together. You’ll regret the day Russ ever straddled a horse on this ranch. Mark what I say.”
“Diane’s changed, I know; but she hasn’t any idea yet that her daddy’s a boss rustler. Diane’s concerned about what she calls my duty as mayor. Also I think she’s not satisfied with my explanations in regard to certain property.”
Wright halted in his restless walk and leaned against the stone mantelpiece. He squared himself as if this was his last stand. He looked desperate, but on the moment showed an absence of his usual nervous excitement. “Sampson, that may well be true,” he said. “No doubt all you say is true. But it doesn’t help me. I want the girl. If I don’t get her I reckon we’ll all go to hell!” He might have meant anything, probably meant the worst. He certainly had something more in mind.
Sampson gave a slight start, barely perceptible like the twitch of an awakening tiger. He sat there, head down, stroking his mustache. Almost I saw his thought. I had long experience in reading men under stress of such emotion. I had no means to vindicate my judgment, but my conviction was that Sampson right then and there decided that the thing to do was to kill Wright. For my part, I wondered that he had not come to such a conclusion before. Not improbably the advent of his daughter had put Sampson in conflict with himself.
Suddenly he
threw off a somber cast of countenance and began to talk. He talked swiftly, persuasively, yet I imagined he was talking to smooth Wright’s passion for the moment. Wright no more caught the fateful significance of a line crossed, a limit reached, a decree decided, than if he had not been present. He was obsessed with himself.
How, I wondered, had a man of his mind ever lived so long and gone so far among the exacting conditions of Pecos County? The answer was perhaps, that Sampson had guided him, upheld him, protected him. The coming of Diane Sampson had been the entering wedge of dissension.
“You’re too impatient,” concluded Sampson. “You’ll ruin any chance of happiness if you rush Diane. She might be won. If you told her who I am she’d hate you forever. She might marry you to save me, but she’d hate you.
“That isn’t the way. Wait. Play for time. Be different with her. Cut out your drinking. She despises that. Let’s plan to sell out here, stock, ranch, property, and leave the country. Then you’d have a show with her.”
“I told you we’ve got to stick,” growled Wright. “The gang won’t stand for our going. It can’t be done unless you want to sacrifice everything.”
“You mean double-cross the men? Go without their knowing? Leave them here to face whatever comes?”
“I mean just that.”
“I’m bad enough, but not that bad,” returned Sampson. “If I can’t get the gang to let me off I’ll stay and face the music. All the same, Wright, did it ever strike you that most of our deals the last few years have been yours?”
“Yes. If I hadn’t rung them in, there wouldn’t have been any. You’ve had cold feet, Owens says, especially since this Ranger Steele has been here.”
“Well, call it cold feet if you like. But I call it sense. We reached our limit long ago. We began by rustling a few cattle at a time when rustling was laughed at. But as our greed grew so did our boldness. Then came the gang, the regular trips, and one thing and another till, before we knew it—before I knew it, we had shady deals, hold-ups, and murders on our record. Then we had to go on. Too late to turn back!”
