The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  “Because she loves you.… I could never reveal myself to Collie. I couldn’t win her love with a lie. An’ I’d have to lie, to be false as hell.… False to her mother an’ to Collie an’ to all I hold high! I’d have to tell Collie the truth—the wrong I did her mother—the hell I visited upon her mother’s people.… She’d fear me.”

  “Ahuh!… An’ you’ll never change—I reckon that!” exclaimed Bellounds.

  “No. I changed once, eighteen years ago. I can’t go back.… I can’t undo all I hoped was good.”

  “You think Collie’d fear you?”

  “She’d never love me as she does you, or as she loves me even now. That is my rock of refuge.”

  “She’d hate you, Wade.”

  “I reckon. An’ so she must never know.”

  “Ahuh!… Wal, wal, life is a hell of a deal! Wade, if you could live yours over again, knowin’ what you know now, an’ that you’d love an’ suffer the same—would you want to do it?”

  “Yes. I love life, with all it brings. I wouldn’t have the joy without the pain. But I reckon only men who’ve come to our years would want it over again.”

  “Wal, I’m with you thar. I’d take what came. Rain an’ sun!… But all this you tell, an’ the hell you hint at, ain’t changin’ this hyar deal of Jack’s an’ Collie’s. Not one jot!… If she remains my adopted daughter she marries my son.… Wade, I’m haltered like the north star in that.”

  “Bellounds, will you take a day to think it over?” appealed Wade.

  “Ahuh! But that won’t change me.”

  “Won’t it change you to know that if you force this marriage you’ll lose all?”

  “All! Ain’t that more queer talk?”

  “I mean lose all—your son, your adopted daughter—his chance of reformin’, her hope of happiness. These ought to be all in life left to you.”

  “Wal, they are. But I can’t see your argument. You’re beyond me, Wade. You’re holdin’ back, like you did with your hell-bent story.”

  Ponderously, as if the burden and the doom of the world weighed him down, the hunter got up and fronted Bellounds.

  “When I’m driven to tell I’ll come.… But, once more, old man, choose between generosity an’ selfishness. Between blood tie an’ noble loyalty to your good deed in its beginnin’.… Will you give up this marriage for your son—so that Collie can have the man she loves?”

  “You mean your young pard an’ two-bit of a rustler—Wils Moore?”

  “Wils Moore, yes. My friend, an’ a man, Bellounds, such as you or I never was.”

  “No!” thundered the rancher, purple in the face.

  With bowed head and dragging step Wade left the room.

  * * * *

  By slow degrees of plodding steps, and periods of abstracted lagging, the hunter made his way back to Moore’s cabin. At his entrance the cowboy leaped up with a startled cry.

  “Oh, Wade!… Is Collie dead?” he cried.

  Such was the extent of calamity he imagined from the somber face of Wade.

  “No. Collie’s well.”

  “Then, man, what on earth’s happened?”

  “Nothin’ yet.… But somethin’ is goin’ on in my mind.… Moore, I’d like you to let me alone.”

  At sunset Wade was pacing the aspen grove on the hill. There was sunlight and shade under the trees, a rosy gold on the sage slopes, a purple-and-violet veil between the black ranges and the sinking sun.

  Twilight fell. The stars came out white and clear. Night cloaked the valley with dark shadows and the hills with its obscurity. The blue vault overhead deepened and darkened. The hunter patrolled his beat, and hours were moments to him. He heard the low hum of the insects, the murmur of running water, the rustle of the wind. A coyote cut the keen air with high-keyed, staccato cry. The owls hooted, with dismal and weird plaint, one to the other. Then a wolf mourned. But these sounds only accentuated the loneliness and wildness of the silent night.

  Wade listened to them, to the silence. He felt the wildness and loneliness of the place, the breathing of nature; he peered aloft at the velvet blue of the mysterious sky with its deceiving stars. All that had been of help to him through days of trial was now as if it had never been. When he lifted his eyes to the great, dark peak, so bold and clear-cut against the sky, it was not to receive strength again. Nature in its cruelty mocked him. His struggle had to do with the most perfect of nature’s works—man.

  Wade was now in passionate strife with the encroaching mood that was a mocker of his idealism. Many times during the strange, long martyrdom of his penance had he faced this crisis, only to go down to defeat before elemental instincts. His soul was steeped in gloom, but his intelligence had not yet succumbed to passion. The beauty of Columbine’s character and the nobility of Moore’s were not illusions to Wade. They were true. These two were of the finest fiber of human nature. They loved. They represented youth and hope—a progress through the ages toward a better race. Wade believed in the good to be, in the future of men. Nevertheless, all that was fine and worthy in Columbine and Moore was to go unrewarded, unfulfilled, because of the selfish pride of an old man and the evil passion of the son. It was a conflict as old as life. Of what avail were Columbine’s high sense of duty, Moore’s fine manhood, the many victories they had won over the headlong and imperious desires of love? What avail were Wade’s good offices, his spiritual teaching, his eternal hope in the order of circumstances working out to good? These beautiful characteristics of virtue were not so strong as the unchangeable passion of old Bellounds and the vicious depravity of his son. Wade could not imagine himself a god, proving that the wages of sin was death. Yet in his life he had often been an impassive destiny, meting out terrible consequences. Here he was incalculably involved. This was the cumulative end of years of mounting plots, tangled and woven into the web of his pain and his remorse and his ideal. But hope was dying. That was his strife-realization against the morbid clairvoyance of his mind. He could not help Jack Bellounds to be a better man. He could not inspire the old rancher to a forgetfulness of selfish and blinded aims. He could not prove to Moore the truth of the reward that came from unflagging hope and unassailable virtue. He could not save Columbine with his ideals.

  The night wore on, and Wade plodded under the rustling aspens. The insects ceased to hum, the owls to hoot, the wolves to mourn. The shadows of the long spruces gradually merged into the darkness of night. Above, infinitely high, burned the pale stars, wise and cold, aloof and indifferent, eyes of other worlds of mystery.

  In those night hours something in Wade died, but his idealism, unquenchable and inexplicable, the very soul of the man, saw its justification and fulfilment in the distant future.

  The gray of the dawn stole over the eastern range, and before its opaque gloom the blackness of night retreated, until valley and slope and grove were shrouded in spectral light, where all seemed unreal.

  And with it the gray-gloomed giant of Wade’s mind, the morbid and brooding spell, had gained its long-encroaching ascendancy. He had again found the man to whom he must tell his story. Tragic and irrevocable decree! It was his life that forced him, his crime, his remorse, his agony, his endless striving. How true had been his steps! They had led, by devious and tortuous paths, to the home of his daughter.

  Wade crouched under the aspens, accepting this burden as a man being physically loaded with tremendous weights. His shoulders bent to them. His breast was sunken and labored. All his muscles were cramped. His blood flowed sluggishly. His heart beat with slow, muffled throbs in his ears. There was a creeping cold in his veins, ice in his marrow, and death in his soul. The giant that had been shrouded in gray threw off his cloak, to stand revealed, black and terrible. And it was he who spoke to Wade, in dreadful tones, like knells. Bent Wade—man of misery—who could find no peace on earth—whose presence unknit the tranquil lives of people and poisoned their blood and marked them for doom! Wherever he wandered there followed the curse! Always this had been so.
He was the harbinger of catastrophe. He who preached wisdom and claimed to be taught by the flowers, who loved life and hated injustice, who mingled with his kind, ever searching for that one who needed him, he must become the woe and the bane and curse of those he would only serve! Insupportable and pitiful fate! The fiends of the past mocked him, like wicked ghouls, voiceless and dim. The faces of the men he had killed were around him in the gray gloom, pale, drifting visages of distortion, accusing him, claiming him. Likewise, these gleams of faces were specters of his mind, a procession eternal, mournful, and silent, wending their way on and on through the regions of his thought. All were united, all drove him, all put him on the trail of catastrophe. They foreshadowed the future, they inclosed events, they lured him with his endless illusions. He was in the vortex of a vast whirlpool, not of water or of wind, but of life. Alas! he seemed indeed the very current of that whirlpool, a monstrous force, around which evil circled and lurked and conquered. Wade—who had the ill-omened croak of the raven—Wade—who bent his driven steps toward hell!

  * * * *

  In the brilliant sunlight of the summer morning Wade bent his resistless steps down toward White Slides Ranch. The pendulum had swung. The hours were propitious. Seemingly, events that already cast their shadows waited for him. He saw Jack Bellounds going out on the fast and furious ride which had become his morning habit.

  Columbine intercepted Wade. The shade of woe and tragedy in her face were the same as he had pictured there in his gloomy vigil of the night.

  “My friend, I was coming to you.… Oh, I can bear no more!”

  Her hair was disheveled, her dress disordered, the hands she tremblingly held out bore discolored marks. Wade led her into the seclusion of the willow trail.

  “Oh, Ben!… He fought me—like—a beast!” she panted.

  “Collie, you needn’t tell me more,” said Wade, gently. “Go up to Wils. Tell him.”

  “But I must tell you. I can bear—no more.… He fought me—hurt me—and when dad heard us—and came—Jack lied.… Oh, the dog!… Ben, his father believed—when Jack swore he was only mad—only trying to shake me—for my indifference and scorn.… But, my God!—Jack meant.…”

  “Collie, go up to Wils,” interposed the hunter.

  “I want to see Wils. I need to—I must. But I’m afraid.… Oh, it will make things worse!”

  “Go!”

  She turned away, actuated by more than her will.

  “Collie!” came the call, piercingly and strangely after her. Bewildered, startled by the wildness of that cry, she wheeled. But Wade was gone. The shaking of the willows attested to his hurry.

  * * * *

  Old Bellounds braced his huge shoulders against the wall in the attitude of a man driven to his last stand.

  “Ahuh!” he rolled, sonorously. “So hyar you are again?… Wal, tell your worst, Hell-Bent Wade, an’ let’s have an end to your croakin’.”

  Bellounds had fortified himself, not with convictions or with illusions, but with the last desperate courage of a man true to himself.

  “I’ll tell you.…” began the hunter.

  And the rancher threw up his hands in a mockery that was furious, yet with outward shrinking.

  “Just now, when Buster Jack fought with Collie, he meant bad by her!”

  “Aw, no!… He was jest rude—tryin’ to be masterful.… An’ the lass’s like a wild filly. She needs a tamin’ down.”

  Wade stretched forth a lean and quivering hand that seemed the symbol of presaged and tragic truth.

  “Listen, Bellounds, an’ I’ll tell you.… No use tryin’ to hatch a rotten egg! There’s no good in your son. His good intentions he paraded for virtues, believin’ himself that he’d changed. But a flip of the wind made him Buster Jack again.… Collie would sacrifice her life for duty to you—whom she loves as her father. Wils Moore sacrificed his honor for Collie—rather than let you learn the truth.… But they call me Hell-Bent Wade, an’ I will tell you!”

  The straining hulk of Bellounds crouched lower, as if to gather impetus for a leap. Both huge hands were outspread as if to ward off attack from an unseen but long-dreaded foe. The great eyes rolled. And underneath the terror and certainty and tragedy of his appearance seemed to surge the resistless and rising swell of a dammed-up, terrible rage.

  “I’ll tell you …” went on the remorseless voice. “I watched your Buster Jack. I watched him gamble an’ drink. I trailed him. I found the little circles an’ the crooked horse tracks—made to trap Wils Moore.… A damned cunnin’ trick!… Burley suspects a nigger in the wood-pile. Wils Moore knows the truth. He lied for Collie’s sake an’ yours. He’d have stood the trial—an’ gone to jail to save Collie from what she dreaded.… Bellounds, your son was in the cabin gamblin’ with the rustlers when I cornered them.… I offered to keep Jack’s secret if he’d swear to give Collie up. He swore on his knees, beggin’ in her name!… An’ he comes back to bully her, an’ worse.… Buster Jack!… He’s the thorn in your heart, Bellounds. He’s the rustler who stole your cattle!… Your pet son—a sneakin’ thief!”

  CHAPTER XIX

  Jack Bellounds came riding down the valley trail. His horse was in a lather of sweat. Both hair and blood showed on the long spurs this son of a great pioneer used in his pleasure rides. He had never loved a horse.

  At a point where the trail met the brook there were thick willow patches, with open, grassy spots between. As Bellounds reached this place a man stepped out of the willows and laid hold of the bridle. The horse shied and tried to plunge, but an iron arm held him.

  “Get down, Buster,” ordered the man.

  It was Wade.

  Bellounds had given as sharp a start as his horse. He was sober, though the heated red tinge of his face gave indication of a recent use of the bottle. That color quickly receded. Events of the last month had left traces of the hardening and lowering of Jack Bellounds’s nature.

  “Wha-at?… Let go of that bridle!” he ejaculated.

  Wade held it fast, while he gazed up into the prominent eyes, where fear shone and struggled with intolerance and arrogance and quickening gleams of thought.

  “You an’ I have somethin’ to talk over,” said the hunter.

  Bellounds shrank from the low, cold, even voice, that evidently reminded him of the last time he had heard it.

  “No, we haven’t,” he declared, quickly. He seemed to gather assurance with his spoken thought, and conscious fear left him. “Wade, you took advantage of me that day—when you made me swear things. I’ve changed my mind.… And as for that deal with the rustlers, I’ve got my story. It’s as good as yours. I’ve been waiting for you to tell my father. You’ve got some reason for not telling him. I’ve a hunch it’s Collie. I’m on to you, and I’ve got my nerve back. You can gamble I—”

  He had grown excited when Wade interrupted him.

  “Will you get off that horse?”

  “No, I won’t,” replied Bellounds, bluntly.

  With swift and powerful lunge Wade pulled Bellounds down, sliding him shoulders first into the grass. The released horse shied again and moved away. Buster Jack raised himself upon his elbow, pale with rage and alarm. Wade kicked him, not with any particular violence.

  “Get up!” he ordered.

  The kick had brought out the rage in Bellounds at the expense of the amaze and alarm.

  “Did you kick me?” he shouted.

  “Buster, I was only handin’ you a bunch of flowers—some columbines, as your taste runs,” replied Wade, contemptuously.

  “I’ll—I’ll—” returned Buster Jack, wildly, bursting for expression. His hand went to his gun.

  “Go ahead, Buster. Throw your gun on me. That’ll save maybe a hell of a lot of talk.”

  It was then Jack Bellounds’s face turned livid. Comprehension had dawned upon him.

  “You—you want me to fight you?” he queried, in hoarse accents.

  “I reckon that’s what I meant.”

  No affro
nt, no insult, no blow could have affected Buster Jack as that sudden knowledge.

  “Why—why—you’re crazy! Me fight you—a gunman,” he stammered. “No—no. It wouldn’t be fair. Not an even break!… No, I’d have no chance on earth!”

  “I’ll give you first shot,” went on Wade, in his strange, monotonous voice.

  “Bah! You’re lying to me,” replied Bellounds, with pale grimace. “You just want me to get a gun in my hand—then you’ll drop me, and claim an even break.”

  “No. I’m square. You saw me play square with your rustler pard. He was a lifelong enemy of mine. An’ a gun-fighter to boot!… Pull your gun an’ let drive. I’ll take my chances.”

  Buster Jack’s eyes dilated. He gasped huskily. He pulled his gun, but actually did not have strength or courage enough to raise it. His arm shook so that the gun rattled against his chaps.

  “No nerve, hey? Not half a man!… Buster Jack, why don’t you finish game? Make up for your low-down tricks. At the last try to be worthy of your dad. In his day he was a real man.… Let him have the consolation that you faced Hell-Bent Wade an’ died in your boots!”

  “I—can’t—fight you!” panted Bellounds. “I know now!… I saw you throw a gun! It wouldn’t be fair!”

  “But I’ll make you fight me,” returned Wade, in steely tones. “I’m givin’ you a chance to dig up a little manhood. Askin’ you to meet me man to man! Handin’ you a little the best of it to make the odds even!… Once more, will you be game?”

  “Wade, I’ll not fight—I’m going—” replied Bellounds, and he moved as if to turn.

  “Halt!…” Wade leaped at the white Bellounds. “If you run I’ll break a leg for you—an’ then I’ll beat your miserable brains out!… Have you no sense? Can’t you recognize what’s comin’?… I’m goin’ to kill you, Buster Jack!”

  “My God!” whispered the other, understanding fully at last.

  “Here’s where you pay for your dirty work. The time comes to every man. You’ve a choice, not to live—for you’ll never get away from Hell-Bent Wade—but to rise above yourself at last.”

  “But what for? Why do you want to kill me? I never harmed you.”