by Zane Grey
Near at hand Lenore saw the short immature dirty-whitish wheat, and she realized that it was ruined.
“It’s been gettin’ worse, Jake,” remarked Anderson. “Most of this won’t be cut at all. An’ what is cut won’t yield seedlings. I see a yellow patch here an’ there on the north slopes, but on the most part the Bend’s a failure.”
“Father, you remember Dorn’s section, that promised so well?” asked Lenore.
“Yes. But it promised only in case of rain. I look for the worst,” replied Anderson, regretfully.
“It looks like storm-clouds over there,” said Lenore, pointing far ahead.
Through the drifting veils of heat, far across the bare, dreamy hills of fallow and the blasted fields of wheat, stood up some huge white columnar clouds, a vivid contrast to the coppery sky.
“By George! there’s a thunderhead!” exclaimed Anderson. “Jake, what do you make of that?”
“Looks good to me,” replied Jake, who was always hopeful.
Lenore bore the hot wind and the fine, choking dust without covering her face. She wanted to see all the hills and valleys of this desert of wheat. Her heart beat a little faster as, looking across that waste on waste of heroic labor, she realized she was nearing the end of a ride that might be momentous for her. The very aspect of that wide, treeless expanse, with all its overwhelming meaning, seemed to make her a stronger and more thoughtful girl. If those endless wheat-fields were indeed ruined, what a pity, what a tragedy! Not only would young Dorn be ruined, but perhaps many other toiling farmers. Somehow Lenore felt no hopeless certainty of ruin for the young man in whom she was interested.
“There, on that slope!” spoke up Anderson, pointing to a field which was yellow in contrast to the surrounding gray field. “There’s a half-section of fair wheat.”
But such tinges of harvest gold were not many in half a dozen miles of dreary hills. Where were the beautiful shadows in the wheat? wondered Lenore. Not a breath of wind appeared to stir across those fields.
As the car neared the top of a hill the road curved into another, and Lenore saw a dusty flash of another car passing on ahead.
Suddenly Jake leaned forward.
“Boss, I seen somethin’ throwed out of thet car—into the wheat,” he said.
“What?—Mebbe it was a bottle,” replied Anderson, peering ahead.
“Nope. Sure wasn’t thet.… There! I seen it again. Watch, boss!”
Lenore strained her eyes and felt a stir of her pulses. Jake’s voice was perturbing. Was it strange that Nash slowed up a little where there was no apparent need? Then Lenore saw a hand flash out of the side of the car ahead and throw a small, glinting object into the wheat.
“There! Seen it again,” said Jake.
“I saw!… Jake, mark that spot.… Nash, slow down,” yelled Anderson.
Lenore gathered from the look of her father and the cowboy that something was amiss, but she could not guess what it might be. Nash bent sullenly at his task of driving.
“I reckon about here,” said Jake, waving his hand.
“Stop her,” ordered Anderson, and as the car came to a halt he got out, followed by Jake.
“Wal, I marked it by thet rock,” declared the cowboy.
“So did I,” responded Anderson. “Let’s get over the fence an’ find what it was they threw in there.”
Jake rested a lean hand on a post and vaulted the fence. But Anderson had to climb laboriously and painfully over the barbed-wire obstruction. Lenore marveled at his silence and his persistence. Anderson hated wire fences. Presently he got over, and then he divided his time between searching in the wheat and peering after the strange car that was drawing far away.
Lenore saw Jake pick up something and scrutinize it.
“I’ll be dog-goned!” he muttered. Then he approached Anderson. “What is thet?”
“Jake, you can lambaste me if I ever saw the likes,” replied Anderson. “But it looks bad. Let’s rustle after that car.”
As Anderson clambered into his seat once more he looked dark and grim.
“Catch that car ahead,” he tersely ordered Nash. Whereupon the driver began to go through his usual motions in starting.
“Lenore, what do you make of this?” queried Anderson, turning to show her a small cake of some gray substance, soft and wet to the touch.
“I don’t know what it is,” replied Lenore, wonderingly. “Do you?”
“No. An’ I’d give a lot—Say, Nash, hurry! Overhaul that car!”
Anderson turned to see why his order had not been obeyed. He looked angry. Nash made hurried motions. The car trembled, the machinery began to whir—then came a tremendous buzzing roar, a violent shaking of the car, followed by sharp explosions, and silence.
“You stripped the gears!” shouted Anderson, with the red fading out of his face.
“No; but something’s wrong,” replied Nash. He got out to examine the engine.
Anderson manifestly controlled strong feeling. Lenore saw Jake’s hand go to her father’s shoulder. “Boss,” he whispered, “we can’t ketch thet car now.” Anderson resigned himself, averted his face so that he could not see Nash, who was tinkering with the engine. Lenore believed then that Nash had deliberately stalled the engine or disordered something, so as to permit the escape of the strange car ahead. She saw it turn off the long, straight road ahead and disappear to the right. After some minutes’ delay Nash resumed his seat and started the car once more.
From the top of the next hill Lenore saw the Dorn farm and home. All the wheat looked parched. She remembered, however, that the section of promising grain lay on the north slope, and therefore out of sight from where she was.
“Looks as bad as any,” said Anderson. “Good-by to my money.”
Lenore shut her eyes and thought of herself, her inward state. She seemed calm, and glad to have that first part of the journey almost ended. Her motive in coming was not now the impelling thing that had actuated her.
When next the car slowed down she heard her father say, “Drive in by the house.”
Then Lenore, opening her eyes, saw the gate, the trim little orchard with its scant shade, the gray old weatherbeaten house which she remembered so well. The big porch looked inviting, as it was shady and held an old rocking-chair and a bench with blue cushions. A door stood wide open. No one appeared to be on the premises.
“Nash, blow your horn an’ then hunt around for somebody,” said Anderson. “Come, get out, Lenore. You must be half dead.”
“Oh no. Only half dust and half fire,” replied Lenore, laughing, as she stepped out. What a relief to get rid of coat, veils, bonnet, and to sit on a shady porch where a faint breeze blew! Just at that instant she heard a low, distant rumbling. Thunder! It thrilled her. Jake brought her a cold, refreshing drink, and she sent him back after another. She wet her handkerchief and bathed her hot face. It was indeed very comfortable there after that long hot ride.
“Miss Lenore, I seen thet Nash pawin’ you,” said the cowboy, “an’ by Gosh! I couldn’t believe my eyes!”
“Not so loud! Jake, the young gentleman imagines I’m in love with him,” replied Lenore.
“Wall, I’ll remove his imagining’,” declared Jake, coolly.
“Jake, you will do nothing.”
“Ahuh! Then you air in love with him?”
Lenore was compelled to explain to this loyal cowboy just what the situation meant. Whereupon Jake swore his amaze, and said, “I’m a-goin’ to lick him, anyhow, fer thet!” And he caught up the tin cup and shuffled away.
Footsteps and voices sounded on the path, upon which presently appeared Anderson and young Dorn.
“Father’s gone to Wheatly,” he was saying. “But I’m glad to tell you we’ll pay twenty thousand dollars on the debt as soon as we harvest. If it rains we’ll pay it all and have thirty thousand left.”
“Good! I sure hope it rains. An’ that thunder sounds hopeful,” responded Anderson.
“It’s been h
opeful like that for several days, but no rain,” said Dorn. And then, espying Lenore, he seemed startled out of his eagerness. He flushed slightly. “I—I didn’t see—you had brought your daughter.”
He greeted her somewhat bashfully. And Lenore returned the greeting calmly, watching him steadily and waiting for the nameless sensations she had imagined would attend this meeting. But whatever these might be, they did not come to overwhelm her. The gladness of his voice, as he had spoken so eagerly to her father about the debt, had made her feel very kindly toward him. It might have been natural for a young man to resent this dragging debt. But he was fine. She observed, as he sat down, that, once the smile and flush left his face, he seemed somewhat thinner and older than she had pictured him. A shadow lay in his eyes and his lips were sad. He had evidently been working, upon their arrival. He wore overalls, dusty and ragged; his arms, bare to the elbow, were brown and muscular; his thin cotton shirt was wet with sweat and it clung to his powerful shoulders.
Anderson surveyed the young man with friendly glance.
“What’s your first name?” he queried, with his blunt frankness.
“Kurt,” was the reply.
“Is that American?”
“No. Neither is Dorn. But Kurt Dorn is an American.”
“Hum! So I see, an’ I’m powerful glad.… An’ you’ve saved the big section of promisin’ wheat?”
“Yes. We’ve been lucky. It’s the best and finest wheat father ever raised. If it rains the yield will go sixty bushels to the acre.”
“Sixty? Whew!” ejaculated Anderson.
Lenore smiled at these wheat men, and said: “It surely will rain—and likely storm today. I am a prophet who never fails.”
“By George! that’s true! Lenore has anybody beat when it comes to figurin’ the weather,” declared Anderson.
Dorn looked at her without speaking, but his smile seemed to say that she could not help being a prophet of good, of hope, of joy.
“Say, Lenore, how many bushels in a section at sixty per acre?” went on Anderson.
“Thirty-eight thousand four hundred,” replied Lenore.
“An’ what’ll you sell for?” asked Anderson of Dorn.
“Father has sold at two dollars and twenty-five cents a bushel,” replied Dorn.
“Good! But he ought to have waited. The government will set a higher price.… How much will that come to, Lenore?”
Dorn’s smile, as he watched Lenore do her mental arithmetic, attested to the fact that he already had figured out the sum.
“Eighty-six thousand four hundred dollars,” replied Lenore. “Is that right?”
“An’ you’ll have thirty thousand dollars left after all debts are paid?” inquired Anderson.
“Yes, sir. I can hardly realize it. That’s a fortune—for one section of wheat. But we’ve had four bad seasons.… Oh, if it only rains today!”
Lenore turned her cheek to the faint west wind. And then she looked long at the slowly spreading clouds, white and beautiful, high up near the sky-line, and dark and forbidding down along the horizon.
“I knew a girl who could feel things move when no one else could,” said Lenore. “I’m sensitive like that—at least about wind and rain. Right now I can feel rain in the air.”
“Then you have brought me luck,” said Dorn, earnestly. “Indeed I guess my luck has turned. I hated the idea of going away with that debt unpaid.”
“Are you—going away?” asked Lenore, in surprise.
“Yes, rather,” he replied, with a short, sardonic laugh. He fumbled in a pocket of his overalls and drew forth a paper which he opened. A flame burned the fairness from his face; his eyes darkened and shone with peculiar intensity of pride. “I was the first man drafted in this Bend country.… My number was the first called!”
“Drafted!” echoed Lenore, and she seemed to be standing on the threshold of an amazing and terrible truth.
“Lass, we forget,” said her father, rather thickly.
“Oh, but—why?” cried Lenore. She had voiced the same poignant appeal to her brother Jim. Why need he—why must he go to war? What for? And Jim had called out a bitter curse on the Germans he meant to kill.
“Why?” returned Dorn, with the sad, thoughtful shadow returning to his eyes. “How many times have I asked myself that?… In one way, I don’t know.… I haven’t told father yet!… It’s not for his sake.… But when I think deeply—when I can feel and see—I mean I’m going for my country.… For you and your sisters.”
Like a soldier then Lenore received her mortal blow facing him who dealt it, and it was a sudden overwhelming realization of love. No confusion, no embarrassment, no shame attended the agony of that revelation. Outwardly she did not seem to change at all. She felt her father’s eyes upon her; but she had no wish to hide the tumult of her heart. The moment made her a woman. Where was the fulfilment of those vague, stingingly sweet dreamy fancies of love? Where was her maiden reserve, that she so boldly recognized an unsolicited passion? Her eyes met Dorn’s steadily, and she felt some vital and compelling spirit pass from her to him. She saw him struggle with what he could not understand. It was his glance that wavered and fell, his hand that trembled, his breast that heaved. She loved him. There had been no beginning. Always he had lived in her dreams. And like her brother he was going to kill and to be killed.
Then Lenore gazed away across the wheat-fields. The shadows came waving toward her. A stronger breeze fanned her cheeks. The heavens were darkening and low thunder rolled along the battlements of the great clouds.
“Say, Kurt, what do you make of this?” asked Anderson. Lenore, turning, saw her father hold out the little gray cake that Jake had found in the wheat-field.
Young Dorn seized it quickly, felt and smelled and bit it.
“Where’d you get this?” he asked, with excitement.
Anderson related the circumstance of its discovery.
“It’s a preparation, mostly phosphorus,” replied Dorn. “When the moisture evaporates it will ignite—set fire to any dry substance.… That is a trick of the I.W.W. to burn the wheat-fields.”
“By all that’s ——!” swore Anderson, with his jaw bulging. “Jake an’ I knew it meant bad. But we didn’t know what.”
“I’ve been expecting tricks of all kinds,” said Dorn. “I have four men watching the section.”
“Good! Say, that car turned off to the right back here some miles.… But, worse luck, the I.W.W.’s can work at night.”
“We’ll watch at night, too,” replied Dorn.
Lenore was conscious of anger encroaching upon the melancholy splendor of her emotions, and the change was bitter.
“When the rain comes, won’t it counteract the ignition of that phosphorus?” she asked, eagerly, for she knew that rain would come.
“Only for the time being. It’ll be just as dry this time tomorrow as it is now.”
“Then the wheat’s goin’ to burn,” declared Anderson, grimly. “If that trick has been worked all over this country you’re goin’ to have worse ’n a prairie fire. The job on hand is to save this one section that has a fortune tied up in it.”
“Mr. Anderson, that job looks almost hopeless, in the light of this phosphorus trick. What on earth can be done? I’ve four men. I can’t hire any more, because I can’t trust these strangers. And how can four men—or five, counting me, watch a square mile of wheat day and night?”
The situation looked hopeless to Lenore and she was sick. What cruel fates toyed with this young farmer! He seemed to be sinking under this last crowning blow. There in the sky, rolling up and rumbling, was the long-deferred rain-storm that meant freedom from debt, and a fortune besides. But of what avail the rain if it was to rush the wheat to full bursting measure only for the infernal touch of the foreigner?
Anderson, however, was no longer a boy. He had dealt with many and many a trial. Never was he plunged into despair until after the dread crisis had come to pass. His red forehead, frowning and ridged wi
th swelling blood-vessels, showed the bent of his mind.
“Oh, it is hard!” said Lenore to Dorn. “I’m so sorry! But don’t give up. While there’s life there’s hope!”
He looked up with tears in his eyes.
“Thank you.… I did weaken. You see I’ve let myself believe too much—for dad’s sake. I don’t care about the money for myself.… Money! What good will money be to me—now? It’s over for me.… To get the wheat cut—harvested—that’s all I hoped.… The army—war—France—I go to be—”
“Hush!” whispered Lenore, and she put a soft hand upon his lips, checking the end of that bitter speech. She felt him start, and the look she met pierced her soul. “Hush!… It’s going to rain!… Father will find some way to save the wheat!… And you are coming home—after the war!”
He crushed her hand to his hot lips.
“You make me—ashamed. I won’t give—up,” he said, brokenly. “And when I’m over—there—in the trenches, I’ll think—”
“Dorn, listen to this,” rang out Anderson. “We’ll fool that I.W.W. gang.…It’s a-goin’ to rain. So far so good. Tomorrow you take this cake of phosphorus an’ ride around all over the country. Show it an’ tell the farmers their wheat’s goin’ to burn. An’ offer them whose fields are already ruined—that fire can’t do no more harm—offer them big money to help you save your section. Half a hundred men could put out a fire if one did start. An’ these neighbors of yours, some of them will jump at a chance to beat the I.W.W.… Boy, it can be done!”
He ended with a big fist held aloft in triumph.
“See! Didn’t I tell you?” murmured Lenore, softly. It touched her deeply to see Dorn respond to hope. His haggard face suddenly warmed and glowed.
“I never thought of that,” he burst out, radiantly. “We can save the wheat.… Mr. Anderson, I—I can’t thank you enough.”
“Don’t try,” replied the rancher.
“I tell you it will rain,” cried Lenore, gaily. “Let’s walk out there—watch the storm come across the hills. I love to see the shadows blow over the wheat.”
