The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  Flo Hutter’s twentieth birthday came along the middle of June, and all the neighbors and range hands for miles around were invited to celebrate it.

  For the second time during her visit Carley put on the white gown that had made Flo gasp with delight, and had stunned Mrs. Hutter, and had brought a reluctant compliment from Glenn. Carley liked to create a sensation. What were exquisite and expensive gowns for, if not that?

  It was twilight on this particular June night when she was ready to go downstairs, and she tarried a while on the long porch. The evening star, so lonely and radiant, so cold and passionless in the dusky blue, had become an object she waited for and watched, the same as she had come to love the dreaming, murmuring melody of the waterfall. She lingered there. What had the sights and sounds and smells of this wild canyon come to mean to her? She could not say. But they had changed her immeasurably.

  Her soft slippers made no sound on the porch, and as she turned the corner of the house, where shadows hovered thick, she heard Lee Stanton’s voice:

  “But, Flo, you loved me before Kilbourne came.”

  The content, the pathos, of his voice chained Carley to the spot. Some situations, like fate, were beyond resisting.

  “Shore I did,” replied Flo, dreamily. This was the voice of a girl who was being confronted by happy and sad thoughts on her birthday.

  “Don’t you—love me—still?” he asked, huskily.

  “Why, of course, Lee! I don’t change,” she said.

  “But then, why—” There for the moment his utterance or courage failed.

  “Lee, do you want the honest to God’s truth?”

  “I reckon—I do.”

  “Well, I love you just as I always did,” replied Flo, earnestly. “But, Lee, I love him more than you or anybody.”

  “My Heaven! Flo—you’ll ruin us all!” he exclaimed, hoarsely.

  “No, I won’t either. You can’t say I’m not level headed. I hated to tell you this, Lee, but you made me.”

  “Flo, you love me an’ him—two men?” queried Stanton, incredulously.

  “I shore do,” she drawled, with a soft laugh. “And it’s no fun.”

  “Reckon I don’t cut much of a figure alongside Kilbourne,” said Stanton, disconsolately.

  “Lee, you could stand alongside any man,” replied Flo, eloquently. “You’re Western, and you’re steady and loyal, and you’ll—well, some day you’ll be like dad. Could I say more?… But, Lee, this man is different. He is wonderful. I can’t explain it, but I feel it. He has been through hell’s fire. Oh! will I ever forget his ravings when he lay so ill? He means more to me than just one man. He’s American. You’re American, too, Lee, and you trained to be a soldier, and you would have made a grand one—if I know old Arizona. But you were not called to France.… Glenn Kilbourne went. God only knows what that means. But he went. And there’s the difference. I saw the wreck of him. I did a little to save his life and his mind. I wouldn’t be an American girl if I didn’t love him.… Oh, Lee, can’t you understand?”

  “I reckon so. I’m not begrudging Glenn what—what you care. I’m only afraid I’ll lose you.”

  “I never promised to marry you, did I?”

  “Not in words. But kisses ought to—?”

  “Yes, kisses mean a lot,” she replied. “And so far I stand committed. I suppose I’ll marry you some day and be blamed lucky. I’ll be happy, too—don’t you overlook that hunch.… You needn’t worry. Glenn is in love with Carley. She’s beautiful, rich—and of his class. How could he ever see me?”

  “Flo, you can never tell,” replied Stanton, thoughtfully. “I didn’t like her at first. But I’m comin’ round. The thing is, Flo, does she love him as you love him?”

  “Oh, I think so—I hope so,” answered Flo, as if in distress.

  “I’m not so shore. But then I can’t savvy her. Lord knows I hope so, too. If she doesn’t—if she goes back East an’ leaves him here—I reckon my case—”

  “Hush! I know she’s out here to take him back. Let’s go downstairs now.”

  “Aw, wait—Flo,” he begged. “What’s your hurry?… Come-give me—”

  “There! That’s all you get, birthday or no birthday,” replied Flo, gayly.

  Carley heard the soft kiss and Stanton’s deep breath, and then footsteps as they walked away in the gloom toward the stairway. Carley leaned against the log wall. She felt the rough wood—smelled the rusty pine rosin. Her other hand pressed her bosom where her heart beat with unwonted vigor. Footsteps and voices sounded beneath her. Twilight had deepened into night. The low murmur of the waterfall and the babble of the brook floated to her strained ears.

  Listeners never heard good of themselves. But Stanton’s subtle doubt of any depth to her, though it hurt, was not so conflicting as the ringing truth of Flo Hutter’s love for Glenn. This unsought knowledge powerfully affected Carley. She was forewarned and forearmed now. It saddened her, yet did not lessen her confidence in her hold on Glenn. But it stirred to perplexing pitch her curiosity in regard to the mystery that seemed to cling round Glenn’s transformation of character. This Western girl really knew more about Glenn than his fiancee knew. Carley suffered a humiliating shock when she realized that she had been thinking of herself, of her love, her life, her needs, her wants instead of Glenn’s. It took no keen intelligence or insight into human nature to see that Glenn needed her more than she needed him.

  Thus unwontedly stirred and upset and flung back upon pride of herself, Carley went downstairs to meet the assembled company. And never had she shown to greater contrast, never had circumstance and state of mind contrived to make her so radiant and gay and unbending. She heard many remarks not intended for her far-reaching ears. An old grizzled Westerner remarked to Hutter: “Wall, she’s shore an unbroke filly.” Another of the company—a woman—remarked: “Sweet an’ pretty as a columbine. But I’d like her better if she was dressed decent.” And a gaunt range rider, who stood with others at the porch door, looking on, asked a comrade: “Do you reckon that’s style back East?” To which the other replied: “Mebbe, but I’d gamble they’re short on silk back East an’ likewise sheriffs.”

  Carley received some meed of gratification out of the sensation she created, but she did not carry her craving for it to the point of overshadowing Flo. On the contrary, she contrived to have Flo share the attention she received. She taught Flo to dance the fox-trot and got Glenn to dance with her. Then she taught it to Lee Stanton. And when Lee danced with Flo, to the infinite wonder and delight of the onlookers, Carley experienced her first sincere enjoyment of the evening.

  Her moment came when she danced with Glenn. It reminded her of days long past and which she wanted to return again. Despite war tramping and Western labors Glenn retained something of his old grace and lightness. But just to dance with him was enough to swell her heart, and for once she grew oblivious to the spectators.

  “Glenn, would you like to go to the Plaza with me again, and dance between dinner courses, as we used to?” she whispered up to him.

  “Sure I would—unless Morrison knew you were to be there,” he replied.

  “Glenn!… I would not even see him.”

  “Any old time you wouldn’t see Morrison!” he exclaimed, half mockingly.

  His doubt, his tone grated upon her. Pressing closer to him, she said, “Come back and I’ll prove it.”

  But he laughed and had no answer for her. At her own daring words Carley’s heart had leaped to her lips. If he had responded, even teasingly, she could have burst out with her longing to take him back. But silence inhibited her, and the moment passed.

  At the end of that dance Hutter claimed Glenn in the interest of neighboring sheep men. And Carley, crossing the big living room alone, passed close to one of the porch doors. Some one, indistinct in the shadow, spoke to her in low voice: “Hello, pretty eyes!”

  Carley felt a little cold shock go tingling through her. But she gave no sign that she had heard. She recognize
d the voice and also the epithet. Passing to the other side of the room and joining the company there, Carley presently took a casual glance at the door. Several men were lounging there. One of them was the sheep dipper, Haze Ruff. His bold eyes were on her now, and his coarse face wore a slight, meaning smile, as if he understood something about her that was a secret to others. Carley dropped her eyes. But she could not shake off the feeling that wherever she moved this man’s gaze followed her. The unpleasantness of this incident would have been nothing to Carley had she at once forgotten it. Most unaccountably, however, she could not make herself unaware of this ruffian’s attention. It did no good for her to argue that she was merely the cynosure of all eyes. This Ruff’s tone and look possessed something heretofore unknown to Carley. Once she was tempted to tell Glenn. But that would only cause a fight, so she kept her counsel. She danced again, and helped Flo entertain her guests, and passed that door often; and once stood before it, deliberately, with all the strange and contrary impulse so inscrutable in a woman, and never for a moment wholly lost the sense of the man’s boldness. It dawned upon her, at length, that the singular thing about this boldness was its difference from any, which had ever before affronted her. The fool’s smile meant that he thought she saw his attention, and, understanding it perfectly, had secret delight in it. Many and various had been the masculine egotisms which had come under her observation. But quite beyond Carley was this brawny sheep dipper, Haze Ruff. Once the party broke up and the guests had departed, she instantly forgot both man and incident.

  Next day, late in the afternoon, when Carley came out on the porch, she was hailed by Flo, who had just ridden in from down the canyon.

  “Hey Carley, come down. I shore have something to tell you,” she called.

  Carley did not use any time pattering down that rude porch stairway. Flo was dusty and hot, and her chaps carried the unmistakable scent of sheep-dip.

  “Been over to Ryan’s camp an’ shore rode hard to beat Glenn home,” drawled Flo.

  “Why?” queried Carley, eagerly.

  “Reckon I wanted to tell you something Glenn swore he wouldn’t let me tell.… He makes me tired. He thinks you can’t stand things.”

  “Oh! Has he been—hurt?”

  “He’s skinned an’ bruised up some, but I reckon he’s not hurt.”

  “Flo—what happened?” demanded Carley, anxiously.

  “Carley, do you know Glenn can fight like the devil?” asked Flo.

  “No, I don’t. But I remember he used to be athletic. Flo, you make me nervous. Did Glenn fight?”

  “I reckon he did,” drawled Flo.

  “With whom?”

  “Nobody else but that big hombre, Haze Ruff.”

  “Oh!” gasped Carley, with a violent start. “That—that ruffian! Flo, did you see—were you there?”

  “I shore was, an’ next to a horse race I like a fight,” replied the Western girl. “Carley, why didn’t you tell me Haze Ruff insulted you last night?”

  “Why, Flo—he only said, ‘Hello, pretty eyes,’ and I let it pass!” said Carley, lamely.

  “You never want to let anything pass, out West. Because next time you’ll get worse. This turn your other cheek doesn’t go in Arizona. But we shore thought Ruff said worse than that. Though from him that’s aplenty.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Well, Charley told it. He was standing out here by the door last night an’ he heard Ruff speak to you. Charley thinks a heap of you an’ I reckon he hates Ruff. Besides, Charley stretches things. He shore riled Glenn, an’ I want to say, my dear, you missed the best thing that’s happened since you got here.”

  “Hurry—tell me,” begged Carley, feeling the blood come to her face.

  “I rode over to Ryan’s place for dad, an’ when I got there I knew nothing about what Ruff said to you,” began Flo, and she took hold of Carley’s hand. “Neither did dad. You see, Glenn hadn’t got there yet. Well, just as the men had finished dipping a bunch of sheep Glenn came riding down, lickety cut.”

  “‘Now what the hell’s wrong with Glenn?’ said dad, getting up from where we sat.

  “Shore I knew Glenn was mad, though I never before saw him that way. He looked sort of grim an’ black.… Well, he rode right down on us an’ piled off. Dad yelled at him an’ so did I. But Glenn made for the sheep pen. You know where we watched Haze Ruff an’ Lorenzo slinging the sheep into the dip. Ruff was just about to climb out over the fence when Glenn leaped up on it.”

  “‘Say, Ruff,’ he said, sort of hard, ‘Charley an’ Ben tell me they heard you speak disrespectfully to Miss Burch last night.’”

  “Dad an’ I ran to the fence, but before we could catch hold of Glenn he’d jumped down into the pen.”

  “‘I’m not carin’ much for what them herders say,’ replied Ruff.

  “‘Do you deny it?’ demanded Glenn.

  “‘I ain’t denyin’ nothin’, Kilbourne,’ growled Ruff. ‘I might argue against me bein’ disrespectful. That’s a matter of opinion.’

  “‘You’ll apologize for speaking to Miss Burch or I’ll beat you up an’ have Hutter fire you.’

  “‘Wal, Kilbourne, I never eat my words,’ replied Ruff.

  “Then Glenn knocked him flat. You ought to have heard that crack. Sounded like Charley hitting a steer with a club. Dad yelled: ‘Look out, Glenn. He packs a gun!’—Ruff got up mad clear through I reckon. Then they mixed it. Ruff got in some swings, but he couldn’t reach Glenn’s face. An’ Glenn batted him right an’ left, every time in his ugly mug. Ruff got all bloody an’ he cussed something awful. Glenn beat him against the fence an’ then we all saw Ruff reach for a gun or knife. All the men yelled. An’ shore I screamed. But Glenn saw as much as we saw. He got fiercer. He beat Ruff down to his knees an’ swung on him hard. Deliberately knocked Ruff into the dip ditch. What a splash! It wet all of us. Ruff went out of sight. Then he rolled up like a huge hog. We were all scared now. That dip’s rank poison, you know. Reckon Ruff knew that. He floundered along an’ crawled up at the end. Anyone could see that he had mouth an’ eyes tight shut. He began to grope an’ feel around, trying to find the way to the pond. One of the men led him out. It was great to see him wade in the water an’ wallow an’ souse his head under. When he came out the men got in front of him any stopped him. He shore looked bad.… An’ Glenn called to him, ‘Ruff, that sheep-dip won’t go through your tough hide, but a bullet will!”

  Not long after this incident Carley started out on her usual afternoon ride, having arranged with Glenn to meet her on his return from work.

  Toward the end of June Carley had advanced in her horsemanship to a point where Flo lent her one of her own mustangs. This change might not have had all to do with a wonderful difference in riding, but it seemed so to Carley. There was as much difference in horses as in people. This mustang she had ridden of late was of Navajo stock, but he had been born and raised and broken at Oak Creek. Carley had not yet discovered any objection on his part to do as she wanted him to. He liked what she liked, and most of all he liked to go. His color resembled a pattern of calico, and in accordance with Western ways his name was therefore Calico. Left to choose his own gait, Calico always dropped into a gentle pace which was so easy and comfortable and swinging that Carley never tired of it. Moreover, he did not shy at things lying in the road or rabbits darting from bushes or at the upwhirring of birds. Carley had grown attached to Calico before she realized she was drifting into it; and for Carley to care for anything or anybody was a serious matter, because it did not happen often and it lasted. She was exceedingly tenacious of affection.

  June had almost passed and summer lay upon the lonely land. Such perfect and wonderful weather had never before been Carley’s experience. The dawns broke cool, fresh, fragrant, sweet, and rosy, with a breeze that seemed of heaven rather than earth, and the air seemed tremulously full of the murmur of falling water and the melody of mocking birds. At the solemn noontides the great white sun glared down hot
—so hot that it burned the skin, yet strangely was a pleasant burn. The waning afternoons were Carley’s especial torment, when it seemed the sounds and winds of the day were tiring, and all things were seeking repose, and life must soften to an unthinking happiness. These hours troubled Carley because she wanted them to last, and because she knew for her this changing and transforming time could not last. So long as she did not think she was satisfied.

  Maples and sycamores and oaks were in full foliage, and their bright greens contrasted softly with the dark shine of the pines. Through the spaces between brown tree trunks and the white-spotted holes of the sycamores gleamed the amber water of the creek. Always there was murmur of little rills and the musical dash of little rapids. On the surface of still, shady pools trout broke to make ever-widening ripples. Indian paintbrush, so brightly carmine in color, lent touch of fire to the green banks, and under the oaks, in cool dark nooks where mossy bowlders lined the stream, there were stately nodding yellow columbines. And high on the rock ledges shot up the wonderful mescal stalks, beginning to blossom, some with tints of gold and others with tones of red.