by Zane Grey
Anderson came in early from the fields that day. He looked like a farm-hand, with his sweaty shirt, his dusty coat, his begrimed face. And when he kissed Lenore he left a great smear on her cheek.
“That’s a harvest kiss, my lass,” he said, with his big laugh. “Best of the whole year!”
“It sure is, dad,” she replied. “But I’ll wait till you wash your face before I return it. How’s the harvest going?”
“We had trouble today,” he said.
“What happened?”
“Nothin’ much, but it was annoyin’. We had some machines crippled, an’ it took most of the day to fix them.… We’ve got a couple of hundred hands at work. Some of them are I.W.W.’s, that’s sure. But they all swear they are not an’ we have no way to prove it. An’ we couldn’t catch them at their tricks.… All the same, we’ve got half your big wheat-field cut. A thousand acres, Lenore!… Some of the wheat’ll go forty bushels to the acre, but mostly under that.”
“Better than last harvest,” Lenore replied, gladly. “We are lucky.… Father, did you hear any news from the Bend?”
“Sure did,” he replied, and patted her head. “They sent me a message up from Vale.… Young Dorn wired from Kilo he’d be here today.”
“Today!” echoed Lenore, and her heart showed a tendency to act strangely.
“Yep. He’ll be here soon,” said Anderson, cheerfully. “Tell your mother. Mebbe he’ll come for supper. An’ have a room ready for him.”
“Yes, father,” replied Lenore.
“Wal, if Dorn sees you as you look now—sleeves rolled up, apron on, flour on your nose—a regular farmer girl—an’ sure huggable, as Jake says—you won’t have no trouble winnin’ him.”
“How you talk!” exclaimed Lenore, with burning cheeks. She ran to her room and made haste to change her dress.
But Dorn did not arrive in time for supper. Eight o’clock came without his appearing, after which, with keen disappointment, Lenore gave up expecting him that night. She was in her father’s study, helping him with the harvest notes and figures, when Jake knocked and entered.
“Dorn’s here,” he announced.
“Good. Fetch him in,” replied Anderson.
“Father, I—I’d rather go,” whispered Lenore.
“You stay right along by your dad,” was his reply, “an’ be a real Anderson.”
When Lenore heard Dorn’s step in the hall the fluttering ceased in her heart and she grew calm. How glad she would be to see him! It had been the suspense of waiting that had played havoc with her feelings.
Then Dorn entered with Jake. The cowboy set down a bag and went out. He seemed strange to Lenore and very handsome in his gray flannel suit.
As he stepped forward in greeting Lenore saw how white he was, how tragic his eyes. There had come a subtle change in his face. It hurt her.
“Miss Anderson, I’m glad to see you,” he said, and a flash of red stained his white cheeks. “How are you?”
“Very well, thank you,” she replied, offering her hand. “I’m glad to see you.”
They shook hands, while Anderson boomed out: “Hello, son! I sure am glad to welcome you to ‘Many Waters.’”
No doubt as to the rancher’s warm and hearty greeting! It warmed some of the coldness out of Dorn’s face.
“Thank you. It’s good to come—yet it’s—it’s hard.”
Lenore saw his throat swell. His voice seemed low and full of emotion.
“Bad news to tell,” said Anderson. “Wal, forget it.… Have you had supper?”
“Yes. At Huntington. I’d have been here sooner, but we punctured a tire. My driver said the I.W.W. was breaking bottles on the roads.”
“I.W.W. Now where’d I ever hear that name?” asked Anderson, quizzically. “Bustin’ bottles, hey! Wal, they’ll be bustin’ their heads presently.… Sit down, Dorn. You look fine, only you’re sure pale.”
“I lost my father,” said Dorn.
“What! Your old man? Dead?… Aw, that’s tough!”
Lenore felt an almost uncontrollable impulse to go to Dorn. “Oh, I’m sorry!” she said.
“That is a surprise,” went on Anderson, rather huskily. “My Lord! But it’s only round the corner for every man.… Come on, tell us all about it, an’ the rest of the bad news.… Get it over. Then, mebbe Lenore n’ me—”
But Anderson did not conclude his last sentence.
Dorn’s face began to work as he began to talk, and his eyes were dark and deep, burning with gloom.
“Bad news it is, indeed.… Mr. Anderson, the I.W.W. marked us.… You’ll remember your suggestion about getting my neighbors to harvest our wheat in a rush. I went all over, and almost all of them came. We had been finding phosphorus everywhere. Then, on the hot day, fires broke out all around. My neighbors left their own burning fields to save ours. We fought fire. We fought fire all around us, late into the night.… My father had grown furious, maddened at the discovery of how he had been betrayed by Glidden. You remember the—the plot, in which some way my father was involved. He would not believe the I.W.W. meant to burn his wheat. And when the fires broke out he worked like a mad-man.… It killed him!… I was not with him when he died. But Jerry, our foreman was.… And my father’s last words were, ‘Tell my son I was wrong.’… Thank God he sent me that message! I think in that he confessed the iniquity of the Germans.… Well, my neighbor, Olsen, managed the harvest. He sure rushed it. I’d have given a good deal for you and Miss Anderson to have seen all those big combines at work on one field. It was great. We harvested over thirty-eight thousand bushels and got all the wheat safely to the elevators at the station.… And that night the I.W.W. burned the elevators!”
Anderson’s face turned purple. He appeared about to explode. There was a deep rumbling within his throat that Lenore knew to be profanity restrained on account of her presence. As for her own feelings, they were a strange mixture of sadness for Dorn and pride in her father’s fury, and something unutterably sweet in the revelation about to be made to this unfortunate boy. But she could not speak a word just then, and it appeared that her father was in the same state.
Evidently the telling of his story had relieved Dorn. The strain relaxed in his white face and it lost a little of its stern fixity. He got up and, opening his bag, he took out some papers.
“Mr. Anderson, I’d like to settle all this right now,” he said. “I want it off my mind.”
“Go ahead, son, an’ settle,” replied Anderson, thickly. He heaved a big sigh and then sat down, fumbling for a match to light his cigar. When he got it lighted he drew in a big breath and with it manifestly a great draught of consoling smoke.
“I want to make over the—the land—in fact, all the property—to you—to settle mortgage and interest,” went on Dorn, earnestly, and then paused.
“All right. I expected that,” returned Anderson, as he emitted a cloud of smoke.
“The only thing is—” here Dorn hesitated, evidently with difficult speech—“the property is worth more than the debt.”
“Sure. I know,” said Anderson, encouragingly.
“I promised our neighbors big money to harvest our wheat. You remember you told me to offer it. Well, they left their own wheat and barley fields to burn, and they saved ours. And then they harvested it and hauled it to the railroad.… I owe Andrew Olsen fifteen thousand dollars for himself and the men who worked with him.… If I could pay that—I’d—almost be happy.… Do you think my property is worth that much more than the debt?”
“I think it is—just about,” replied Anderson. “We’ll mail the money to Olsen.… Lenore, write out a check to Andrew Olsen for fifteen thousand.”
Lenore’s hand trembled as she did as her father directed. It was the most poorly written check she had ever drawn. Her heart seemed too big for her breast just then. How cool and calm her father was! Never had she loved him quite so well as then. When she looked up from her task it was to see a change in Kurt Dorn that suddenly dimmed her eye
s.
“There, send this to Olsen,” said Anderson. “We’ll run into town in a day or so an’ file the papers.”
Lenore had to turn her gaze away from Dorn. She heard him in broken, husky accents try to express his gratitude.
“Ah-huh! Sure—sure!” interrupted Anderson, hastily. “Now listen to me. Things ain’t so bad as they look.… For instance, we’re goin’ to fool the I.W.W. down here in the valley.”
“How can you? There are so many,” returned Dorn.
“You’ll see. We’re just waitin’ a chance.”
“I saw hundreds of I.W.W. men between her and Kilo.”
“Can you tell an I.W.W. from any other farm-hand?” asked Anderson.
“Yes, I can,” replied Dorn, grimly.
“Wal, I reckon we need you round here powerful much,” said the rancher, dryly. “Dorn, I’ve got a big proposition to put up to you.”
Lenore, thrilling at her father’s words, turned once more. Dorn appeared more composed.
“Have you?” he inquired, in surprise.
“Sure. But there’s no hurry about tellin’ you. Suppose we put it off.”
“I’d rather hear it now. My stay here must be short. I—I—You know—”
“Hum! Sure I know.… Wal then, it’s this: Will you go in business with me? Want you to work that Bend wheat-farm of yours for me—on half shares.… More particular I want you to take charge of ‘Many Waters.’ You see, I’m—not so spry as I used to be. It’s a big job, an’ I’ve a lot of confidence in you. You’ll live here, of course, an’ run to an’ fro with one of my cars. I’ve some land-development schemes—an’, to cut it short, there’s a big place waitin’ for you in the Northwest.”
“Mr. Anderson!” cried Dorn, in a kind of rapturous amaze. Red burned out the white of his face. “That’s great! It’s too great to come true. You’re good!… If I’m lucky enough to come back from the war—”
“Son, you’re not goin’ to war!” interposed Anderson.
“What!” exclaimed Dorn, blankly. He stared as if he had not heard aright.
Anderson calmly repeated his assertion. He was smiling; he looked kind; but underneath that showed the will that had made him what he was.
“But I am!” flashed the young man, as if he had been misunderstood.
“Listen. You’re like all boys—hot-headed an’ hasty. Let me talk a little,” resumed Anderson. And he began to speak of the future of the Northwest. He painted that in the straight talk of a farmer who knew, but what he predicted seemed like a fairy-tale. Then he passed to the needs of the government and the armies, and lastly the people of the nation. All depended upon the farmer! Wheat was indeed the staff of life and of victory! Young Dorn was one of the farmers who could not be spared. Patriotism was a noble thing. Fighting, however, did not alone constitute a duty and loyalty to the nation. This was an economic war, a war of peoples, and the nation that was the best fed would last longest. Adventure and the mistaken romance of war called indeed to all red-blooded young Americans. It was good that they did call. But they should not call the young farmer from his wheat-fields.
“But I’ve been drafted!” Dorn spoke with agitation. He seemed bewildered by Anderson’s blunt eloquence. His intelligence evidently accepted the elder man’s argument, but something instinctive revolted.
“There’s exemption, my boy. Easy in your case,” replied Anderson.
“Exemption!” echoed Dorn, and a dark tide of blood rose to his temples. “I wouldn’t—I couldn’t ask for that!”
“You don’t need to,” said the rancher. “Dorn, do you recollect that Washington official who called on you some time ago?”
“Yes,” replied Dorn, slowly.
“Did he say anythin’ about exemption?”
“No. He asked me if I wanted it, that’s all.”
“Wal, you had it right then. I took it upon myself to get exemption for you. That government official heartily approved of my recommendin’ exemption for you. An’ he gave it.”
“Anderson! You took—it upon—yourself—” gasped Dorn, slowly rising. If he had been white-faced before, he was ghastly now.
“Sure I did.… Good Lord! Dorn, don’t imagine I ever questioned your nerve.… It’s only you’re not needed—or rather, you’re needed more at home.… I let my son Jim go to war. That’s enough for one family!”
But Dorn did not grasp the significance of Anderson’s reply.
“How dared you? What right had you?” he demanded passionately.
“No right at all, lad,” replied Anderson. “I just recommended it an’ the official approved it.”
“But I refuse!” cried Dorn, with ringing fury. “I won’t accept exemption.”
“Talk sense now, even if you are mad,” returned Anderson, rising. “I’ve paid you a high compliment, young man, an’ offered you a lot. More ’n you see, I guess.… Why won’t you accept exemption?”
“I’m going to war!” was the grim, hard reply.
“But you’re needed here. You’d be more of a soldier here. You could do more for your country than if you gave a hundred lives. Can’t you see that?”
“Yes, I can,” assented Dorn, as if forced.
“You’re no fool, an’ you’re a loyal American. Your duty is to stay home an’ raise wheat.”
“I’ve a duty to myself,” returned Dorn, darkly.
“Son, your fortune stares you right in the face—here. Are you goin’ to turn from it?”
“Yes.”
“You want to get in that war? You’ve got to fight?”
“Yes.”
“Ah-huh!” Anderson threw up his hands in surrender. “Got to kill some Germans, hey?… Why not come out to my harvest fields an’ hog-stick a few of them German I.W.W.’s?”
Dorn had no reply for that.
“Wal, I’m dog-gone sorry,” resumed Anderson. “I see it’s a tough place for you, though I can’t understand. You’ll excuse me for mixin’ in your affairs.… An’ now, considerin’ other ways I’ve really helped you, I hope you’ll stay at my home for a few days. We all owe you a good deal. My family wants to make up to you. Will you stay?”
“Thank you—yes—for a few days,” replied Dorn.
“Good! That’ll help some. Mebbe, after runnin’ around ‘Many Waters’ with Le—with the girls—you’ll begin to be reasonable. I hope so.”
“You think me ungrateful!” exclaimed Dorn, shrinking.
“I don’t think nothin’,” replied Anderson. “I turn you over to Lenore.” He laughed as he pronounced Dorn’s utter defeat. And his look at Lenore was equivalent to saying the issue now depended upon her, and that he had absolutely no doubt of its outcome. “Lenore, take him in to meet mother an’ the girls, an’ entertain him. I’ve got work to do.”
Lenore felt the blushes in her cheeks and was glad Dorn did not look at her. He seemed locked in somber thought. As she touched him and bade him come he gave a start; then he followed her into the hall. Lenore closed her father’s door, and the instant she stood alone with Dorn a wonderful calmness came to her.
“Miss Anderson, I’d rather not—not meet your mother and sisters tonight,” said Dorn. “I’m upset. Won’t it be all right to wait till tomorrow?”
“Surely. But I think they’ve gone to bed,” replied Lenore, as she glanced into the dark sitting-room. “So they have.… Come, let us go into the parlor.”
Lenore turned on the shaded lights in the beautiful room. How inexplicable was the feeling of being alone with him, yet utterly free of the torment that had possessed her before! She seemed to have divined an almost insurmountable obstacle in Dorn’s will. She did not have her father’s assurance. It made her tremble to realize her responsibility—that her father’s earnest wishes and her future of love or woe depended entirely upon what she said and did. But she felt that indeed she had become a woman. And it would take a woman’s wit and charm and love to change this tragic boy.
“Miss—Anderson,” he began, brokenly
, with restraint let down, “your father—doesn’t understand. I’ve got to go.… And even if I am spared—I couldn’t ever come back.… To work for him—all the time in love with you—I couldn’t stand it.… He’s so good. I know I could care for him, too.… Oh, I thought I was bitterly resigned—hard—inhuman. But all this makes it—so—so much worse.”
He sat down heavily, and, completely unnerved, he covered his face with his hands. His shoulders heaved and short, strangled sobs broke from him.
Lenore had to overcome a rush of tenderness. It was all she could do to keep from dropping to her knees beside him and slipping her arms around his neck. In her agitation she could not decide whether that would be womanly or not; only, she must make no mistakes. A hot, sweet flush went over her when she thought that always as a last resort she could reveal her secret and use her power. What would he do when he discovered she loved him?
“Kurt, I understand,” she said, softly, and put a hand on his shoulder. And she stood thus beside him, sadly troubled, vaguely divining that her presence was helpful, until he recovered his composure. As he raised his head and wiped tears from his eyes he made no excuses for his weakness, nor did he show any shame.
“Miss Anderson—” he began.
“Please call me Lenore. I feel so—so stiff when you are formal. My friends call me Lenore,” she said.
“You mean—you consider me your friend?” he queried.
“Indeed I do,” she replied, smiling.
“I—I’m afraid I misunderstood your asking me to visit you,” he said. “I thank you. I’m proud and glad that you call me your friend. It will be splendid to remember—when I am over there.”
“I wonder if we could talk of anything except trouble and war,” replied Lenore, plaintively. “If we can’t, then let’s look at the bright side.”
“Is there a bright side?” he asked, with his sad smile.
