The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  Riding along down the canyon, under its looming walls, Carley wondered that if unawares to her these physical aspects of Arizona could have become more significant than she realized. The thought had confronted her before. Here, as always, she fought it and denied it by the simple defense of elimination. Yet refusing to think of a thing when it seemed ever present was not going to do forever. Insensibly and subtly it might get a hold on her, never to be broken. Yet it was infinitely easier to dream than to think.

  But the thought encroached upon her that it was not a dreamful habit of mind she had fallen into of late. When she dreamed or mused she lived vaguely and sweetly over past happy hours or dwelt in enchanted fancy upon a possible future. Carley had been told by a Columbia professor that she was a type of the present age—a modern young woman of materialistic mind. Be that as it might, she knew many things seemed loosening from the narrowness and tightness of her character, sloughing away like scales, exposing a new and strange and susceptible softness of fiber. And this blank habit of mind, when she did not think, and now realized that she was not dreaming, seemed to be the body of Carley Burch, and her heart and soul stripped of a shell. Nerve and emotion and spirit received something from her surroundings. She absorbed her environment. She felt. It was a delightful state. But when her own consciousness caused it to elude her, then she both resented and regretted. Anything that approached permanent attachment to this crude and untenanted West Carley would not tolerate for a moment. Reluctantly she admitted it had bettered her health, quickened her blood, and quite relegated Florida and the Adirondacks, to little consideration.

  “Well, as I told Glenn,” soliloquized Carley, “every time I’m almost won over a little to Arizona she gives me a hard jolt. I’m getting near being mushy today. Now let’s see what I’ll get. I suppose that’s my pessimism or materialism. Funny how Glenn keeps saying its the jolts, the hard knocks, the fights that are best to remember afterward. I don’t get that at all.”

  Five miles below West Fork a road branched off and climbed the left side of the canyon. It was a rather steep road, long and zigzaging, and full of rocks and ruts. Carley did not enjoy ascending it, but she preferred the going up to coming down. It took half an hour to climb.

  Once up on the flat cedar-dotted desert she was met, full in the face, by a hot dusty wind coming from the south. Carley searched her pockets for her goggles, only to ascertain that she had forgotten them. Nothing, except a freezing sleety wind, annoyed and punished Carley so much as a hard puffy wind, full of sand and dust. Somewhere along the first few miles of this road she was to meet Glenn. If she turned back for any cause he would be worried, and, what concerned her more vitally, he would think she had not the courage to face a little dust. So Carley rode on.

  The wind appeared to be gusty. It would blow hard awhile, then lull for a few moments. On the whole, however, it increased in volume and persistence until she was riding against a gale. She had now come to a bare, flat, gravelly region, scant of cedars and brush, and far ahead she could see a dull yellow pall rising high into the sky. It was a duststorm and it was sweeping down on the wings of that gale. Carley remembered that somewhere along this flat there was a log cabin which had before provided shelter for her and Flo when they were caught in a rainstorm. It seemed unlikely that she had passed by this cabin.

  Resolutely she faced the gale and knew she had a task to find that refuge. If there had been a big rock or bushy cedar to offer shelter she would have welcomed it. But there was nothing. When the hard dusty gusts hit her, she found it absolutely necessary to shut her eyes. At intervals less windy she opened them, and rode on, peering through the yellow gloom for the cabin. Thus she got her eyes full of dust—an alkali dust that made them sting and smart. The fiercer puffs of wind carried pebbles large enough to hurt severely. Then the dust clogged her nose and sand got between her teeth. Added to these annoyances was a heat like a blast from a furnace. Carley perspired freely and that caked the dust on her face. She rode on, gradually growing more uncomfortable and miserable. Yet even then she did not utterly lose a sort of thrilling zest in being thrown upon her own responsibility. She could hate an obstacle, yet feel something of pride in holding her own against it.

  Another mile of buffeting this increasing gale so exhausted Carley and wrought upon her nerves that she became nearly panic-stricken. It grew harder and harder not to turn back. At last she was about to give up when right at hand through the flying dust she espied the cabin. Riding behind it, she dismounted and tied the mustang to a post. Then she ran around to the door and entered.

  What a welcome refuge! She was all right now, and when Glenn came along she would have added to her already considerable list another feat for which he would commend her. With aid of her handkerchief, and the tears that flowed so copiously, Carley presently freed her eyes of the blinding dust. But when she essayed to remove it from her face she discovered she would need a towel and soap and hot water.

  The cabin appeared to be enveloped in a soft, swishing, hollow sound. It seeped and rustled. Then the sound lulled, only to rise again. Carley went to the door, relieved and glad to see that the duststorm was blowing by. The great sky-high pall of yellow had moved on to the north. Puffs of dust were whipping along the road, but no longer in one continuous cloud. In the west, low down the sun was sinking, a dull magenta in hue, quite weird and remarkable.

  “I knew I’d get the jolt all right,” soliloquized Carley, wearily, as she walked to a rude couch of poles and sat down upon it. She had begun to cool off. And there, feeling dirty and tired, and slowly wearing to the old depression, she composed herself to wait.

  Suddenly she heard the clip-clop of hoofs. “There! that’s Glenn,” she cried, gladly, and rising, she ran to the door.

  She saw a big bay horse bearing a burly rider. He discovered her at the same instant, and pulled his horse.

  “Ho! Ho! if it ain’t Pretty Eyes!” he called out, in gay, coarse voice.

  Carley recognized the voice, and then the epithet, before her sight established the man as Haze Ruff. A singular stultifying shock passed over her.

  “Wal, by all thet’s lucky!” he said, dismounting. “I knowed we’d meet some day. I can’t say I just laid fer you, but I kept my eyes open.”

  Manifestly he knew she was alone, for he did not glance into the cabin.

  “I’m waiting for—Glenn,” she said, with lips she tried to make stiff.

  “Shore I reckoned thet,” he replied, genially. “But he won’t be along yet awhile.”

  He spoke with a cheerful inflection of tone, as if the fact designated was one that would please her; and his swarthy, seamy face expanded into a good-humored, meaning smile. Then without any particular rudeness he pushed her back from the door, into the cabin, and stepped across the threshold.

  “How dare—you!” cried Carley. A hot anger that stirred in her seemed to be beaten down and smothered by a cold shaking internal commotion, threatening collapse. This man loomed over her, huge, somehow monstrous in his brawny uncouth presence. And his knowing smile, and the hard, glinting twinkle of his light eyes, devilishly intelligent and keen, in no wise lessened the sheer brutal force of him physically. Sight of his bulk was enough to terrorize Carley.

  “Me! Aw, I’m a darin’ hombre an’ a devil with the wimmin,” he said, with a guffaw.

  Carley could not collect her wits. The instant of his pushing her back into the cabin and following her had shocked her and almost paralyzed her will. If she saw him now any the less fearful she could not so quickly rally her reason to any advantage.

  “Let me out of here,” she demanded.

  “Nope. I’m a-goin’ to make a little love to you,” he said, and he reached for her with great hairy hands.

  Carley saw in them the strength that had so easily swung the sheep. She saw, too, that they were dirty, greasy hands. And they made her flesh creep.

  “Glenn will kill—you,” she panted.

  “What fer?” he queried, in rea
l or pretended surprise. “Aw, I know wimmin. You’ll never tell him.”

  “Yes, I will.”

  “Wal, mebbe. I reckon you’re lyin’, Pretty Eyes,” he replied, with a grin. “Anyhow, I’ll take a chance.”

  “I tell you—he’ll kill you,” repeated Carley, backing away until her weak knees came against the couch.

  “What fer, I ask you?” he demanded.

  “For this—this insult.”

  “Huh! I’d like to know who’s insulted you. Can’t a man take an invitation to kiss an’ hug a girl—without insultin’ her?”

  “Invitation!… Are you crazy?” queried Carley, bewildered.

  “Nope, I’m not crazy, an’ I shore said invitation.… I meant thet white shimmy dress you wore the night of Flo’s party. Thet’s my invitation to get a little fresh with you, Pretty Eyes!”

  Carley could only stare at him. His words seemed to have some peculiar, unanswerable power.

  “Wal, if it wasn’t an invitation, what was it?” he asked, with another step that brought him within reach of her. He waited for her answer, which was not forthcoming.

  “Wal, you’re gettin’ kinda pale around the gills,” he went on, derisively. “I reckoned you was a real sport.… Come here.”

  He fastened one of his great hands in the front of her coat and gave her a pull. So powerful was it that Carley came hard against him, almost knocking her breathless. There he held her a moment and then put his other arm round her. It seemed to crush both breath and sense out of her. Suddenly limp, she sank strengthless. She seemed reeling in darkness. Then she felt herself thrust away from him with violence. She sank on the couch and her head and shoulders struck the wall.

  “Say, if you’re a-goin’ to keel over like thet I pass,” declared Ruff, in disgust. “Can’t you Eastern wimmin stand nothin?”

  Carley’s eyes opened and beheld this man in an attitude of supremely derisive protest.

  “You look like a sick kitten,” he added. “When I get me a sweetheart or wife I want her to be a wild cat.”

  His scorn and repudiation of her gave Carley intense relief. She sat up and endeavored to collect her shattered nerves. Ruff gazed down at her with great disapproval and even disappointment.

  “Say, did you have some fool idee I was a-goin’ to kill you?” he queried, gruffly.

  “I’m afraid—I did,” faltered Carley. Her relief was a release; it was so strange that it was gratefulness.

  “Wal, I reckon I wouldn’t have hurt you. None of these flop-over Janes for me!… An’ I’ll give you a hunch, Pretty Eyes. You might have run acrost a fellar thet was no gentleman!”

  Of all the amazing statements that had ever been made to Carley, this one seemed the most remarkable.

  “What’d you wear thet onnatural white dress fer?” he demanded, as if he had a right to be her judge.

  “Unnatural?” echoed Carley.

  “Shore. Thet’s what I said. Any woman’s dress without top or bottom is onnatural. It’s not right. Why, you looked like—like”—here he floundered for adequate expression—“like one of the devil’s angels. An’ I want to hear why you wore it.”

  “For the same reason I’d wear any dress,” she felt forced to reply.

  “Pretty Eyes, thet’s a lie. An’ you know it’s a lie. You wore thet white dress to knock the daylights out of men. Only you ain’t honest enough to say so.… Even me or my kind! Even us, who’re dirt under your little feet. But all the same we’re men, an’ mebbe better men than you think. If you had to put that dress on, why didn’t you stay in your room? Naw, you had to come down an’ strut around an’ show off your beauty. An’ I ask you—if you’re a nice girl like Flo Hutter—what’d you wear it fer?”

  Carley not only was mute; she felt rise and burn in her a singular shame and surprise.

  “I’m only a sheep dipper,” went on Ruff, “but I ain’t no fool. A fellar doesn’t have to live East an’ wear swell clothes to have sense. Mebbe you’ll learn thet the West is bigger’n you think. A man’s a man East or West. But if your Eastern men stand for such dresses as thet white one they’d do well to come out West awhile, like your lover, Glenn Kilbourne. I’ve been rustlin’ round here ten years, an’ I never before seen a dress like yours—an’ I never heerd of a girl bein’ insulted, either. Mebbe you think I insulted you. Wal, I didn’t. Fer I reckon nothin’ could insult you in thet dress.… An’ my last hunch is this, Pretty Eyes. You’re not what a hombre like me calls either square or game. Adios.”

  His bulky figure darkened the doorway, passed out, and the light of the sky streamed into the cabin again. Carley sat staring. She heard Ruff’s spurs tinkle, then the ring of steel on stirrup, a sodden leathery sound as he mounted, and after that a rapid pound of hoofs, quickly dying away.

  He was gone. She had escaped something raw and violent. Dazedly she realized it, with unutterable relief. And she sat there slowly gathering the nervous force that had been shattered. Every word that he had uttered was stamped in startling characters upon her consciousness. But she was still under the deadening influence of shock. This raw experience was the worst the West had yet dealt her. It brought back former states of revulsion and formed them in one whole irrefutable and damning judgment that seemed to blot out the vaguely dawning and growing happy susceptibilities. It was, perhaps, just as well to have her mind reverted to realistic fact. The presence of Haze Ruff, the astounding truth of the contact with his huge sheep-defiled hands, had been profanation and degradation under which she sickened with fear and shame. Yet hovering back of her shame and rising anger seemed to be a pale, monstrous, and indefinable thought, insistent and accusing, with which she must sooner or later reckon. It might have been the voice of the new side of her nature, but at that moment of outraged womanhood, and of revolt against the West, she would not listen. It might, too, have been the still small voice of conscience. But decision of mind and energy coming to her then, she threw off the burden of emotion and perplexity, and forced herself into composure before the arrival of Glenn.

  The dust had ceased to blow, although the wind had by no means died away. Sunset marked the west in old rose and gold, a vast flare. Carley espied a horseman far down the road, and presently recognized both rider and steed. He was coming fast. She went out and, mounting her mustang, she rode out to meet Glenn. It did not appeal to her to wait for him at the cabin; besides hoof tracks other than those made by her mustang might have been noticed by Glenn. Presently he came up to her and pulled his loping horse.

  “Hello! I sure was worried,” was his greeting, as his gloved hand went out to her. “Did you run into that sandstorm?”

  “It ran into me, Glenn, and buried me,” she laughed.

  His fine eyes lingered on her face with glad and warm glance, and the keen, apprehensive penetration of a lover.

  “Well, under all that dust you look scared,” he said.

  “Scared! I was worse than that. When I first ran into the flying dirt I was only afraid I’d lose my way—and my complexion. But when the worst of the storm hit me—then I feared I’d lose my breath.”

  “Did you face that sand and ride through it all?” he queried.

  “No, not all. But enough. I went through the worst of it before I reached the cabin,” she replied.

  “Wasn’t it great?”

  “Yes—great bother and annoyance,” she said, laconically.

  Whereupon he reached with long, arm and wrapped it round her as they rocked side by side. Demonstrations of this nature were infrequent with Glenn. Despite losing one foot out of a stirrup and her seat in the saddle Carley rather encouraged it. He kissed her dusty face, and then set her back.

  “By George! Carley, sometimes I think you’ve changed since you’ve been here,” he said, with warmth. “To go through that sandstorm without one kick—one knock at my West!”

  “Glenn, I always think of what Flo says—the worst is yet to come,” replied Carley, trying to hide her unreasonable and tumultuous pleasure at
words of praise from him.

  “Carley Burch, you don’t know yourself,” he declared, enigmatically.

  “What woman knows herself? But do you know me?”

  “Not I. Yet sometimes I see depths in you—wonderful possibilities—submerged under your poise—under your fixed, complacent idle attitude toward life.”

  This seemed for Carley to be dangerously skating near thin ice, but she could not resist a retort:

  “Depths in me? Why I am a shallow, transparent stream like your West Fork!… And as for possibilities—may I ask what of them you imagine you see?”

  “As a girl, before you were claimed by the world, you were earnest at heart. You had big hopes and dreams. And you had intellect, too. But you have wasted your talents, Carley. Having money, and spending it, living for pleasure, you have not realized your powers.… Now, don’t look hurt. I’m not censuring you. It’s just the way of modern life. And most of your friends have been more careless, thoughtless, useless than you. The aim of their existence is to be comfortable, free from work, worry, pain. They want pleasure, luxury. And what a pity it is! The best of you girls regard marriage as an escape, instead of responsibility. You don’t marry to get your shoulders square against the old wheel of American progress—to help some man make good—to bring a troop of healthy American kids into the world. You bare your shoulders to the gaze of the multitude and like it best if you are strung with pearls.”

  “Glenn, you distress me when you talk like this,” replied Carley, soberly. “You did not use to talk so. It seems to me you are bitter against women.”

  “Oh no, Carley! I am only sad,” he said. “I only see where once I was blind. American women are the finest on earth, but as a race, if they don’t change, they’re doomed to extinction.”