by Zane Grey
“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.
“Wal, I’ll remove his imaginin’,” 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 Krupp,” 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 hopeful 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.”
“M-m-m. 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 skyline, 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 that 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 Big 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 fulfillment 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 IWW 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 IWWs 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.”
“Mister 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 rainstorm 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 with 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 IWW 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 IWW . . . 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 . . . Mister 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.”
Lenore became aware, as she passed the car, that Nash was glaring at her in no unmistakable manner. She had forgotten all about him. The sight of his jealous face somehow added to her strange exhilaration.
They crossed the road from the house and, facing the west, had free prospect of the miles of billowy hills and the magnificent ordnance of the storm clouds. The deep, low mutterings of thunder seemed a grand and welcome music. Lenore stole a look at Dorn, to see him, bareheaded, face upturned, entranced. It was only a rainstorm coming. Down in the valley country such storms were frequent at this season, too common for their meaning to be appreciated. Here in the desert of wheat rain was a blessing, life itself.
The creamy-white, rounded edge of the approaching clouds came and coalesced, spread and mushroomed. Under them the body of the storm was purple, lit now and then by a flash of lightning. Long, drifting veils of rain, gray as thin fog, hung suspended between sky and earth.
“Listen!” exclaimed Dorn.
A warm wind, laden with dry scent of wheat, struck Lenore’s face and waved her hair. It brought a silken, sweeping rustle, a whispering of the bearded grain. The soft sound thrilled Lenore. It seemed a sweet, hopeful message that waiting had been rewarded, that the drought could be broken. Again, and more beautiful than ever before in her life, she saw the waves of shadow as they came forward over the wheat. Rippling, like breezes over the surface of a golden lake, they came in long, broken lines, moving, following, changing, until the whole wheat field seemed in shadowy motion.
The cloud pageant rolled on above and beyond. Lenore felt a sweet drop of rain splash upon her upturned face. It seemed like a caress. There came a pattering around her. Suddenly rose a damp, faint smell of dust. Beyond the hill showed a gray pall of rain, coming slowly, charged with a low roar. The whisper of the sweeping wheat was swallowed up.
Lenore stood her ground until heavy raindrops fell thick and fast upon her, sinking through her thin waist to thrill her flesh, and then, with a last happy call to those two man lovers of wheat and storms, she ran for the porch.
There they joined her, Anderson puffing and smiling, Dorn still with that rapt look upon his face. The rain swept up and roared on the roof, while all around was streaked gray.
“Boy, there’s your thirty-thousand-dollar rain!” shouted Anderson.
But Dorn did not hear. Once he smiled at Lenore as if she were the good fairy who had brought about this miracle. In his look Lenore had deeper realization of him, of Nature, and of life. She loved rain, but always, thenceforth, she would reverence it. Fresh, cool fragrance of a renewed soil filled the air. All that dusty gray hue of the earth had vanished, and it was wet and green and bright. Even as she gazed the water seemed to sink in as it fell, a precious relief to thirsty soil. The thunder rolled away eastward and the storm passed. The thin clouds following soon cleared away from the western sky, rain-washed and blue, with a rainbow curving down to bury its exquisite hues in the golden wheat.
Chapter Eight
The journey homeward held many incalculable differences from the uncertain doubts and fears that had tormented Lenore on the outward trip.
For a long time she felt the warm, tight clasp of Dorn’s hand on hers as he had said good bye. Very evidently he believed that was to be his last sight of her. Lenore would never forget the gaze that seemed to try to burn her image on his memory forever. She felt that they would meet again. Solemn thoughts revolved in her mind; still, she was not unhappy. She had given much unsought, but the return to her seemed growing every moment that she lived.
The dust had been settled by the rain for many miles; however, beyond Wheeler there began to show evidences that the storm had thinned out or sheered off, because the road gradually grew dry again. When dust rose once more, Lenore covered her face, although, obsessed as she was by the deep change in herself, neither dust nor heat or distance affected her greatly. Like the miles the moments sped by. She was aware through closed eyes when darkness fell. Stops were frequent after the Snake River had been crossed, and her father appeared to meet and question many persons in the towns they passed. Most of his questioning pertained to the IWW. And even excited whispering by her father and Jake had no power to interest her. It was midnight when they reached Many Waters and Lenore became conscious of fatigue.
Nash crowded in front of Jake as she was about to step out, and assisted her. He gave her arm a hard squeeze and fiercely whispered in her ear: “Tomorrow.”
The whisper was trenchant with meaning and thoroughly aroused Lenore. But she gave no sign and moved away.
“I seen strangers sneakin’ off in the dark,” Jake was whispering to Anderson.
“Keep your eyes peeled,” replied Anderson. “I’ll take Lenore up to the house an’ come back.”
It was pitch black up the path through
the grove and Lenore had to cling to her father. “Is there . . . any danger?” she whispered.
“We’re lookin’ for anythin’,” replied Anderson slowly.
“Will you be careful?”
“Sure, lass. I’ll take no foolish risks. I’ve got men watchin’ the house an’ ranch. But I’d better have the cowboys down. There’s Jake . . . he spots some prowlin’ coyotes the minute we reach home.”
Anderson unlocked and opened the door. The hall was dark and quiet. He turned on the electric light. Lenore was detaching her veil. “You look pale,” he said solicitously. “No wonder. That was a ride. But I’m glad we went. I saved Dorn’s wheat.”
“I’m glad, too, Father. Good night.”
Anderson bade her good night, and went out, locking the door. Then his rapid footsteps died away. Wearily Lenore climbed the stairs and went to her room.
* * * * *
She was awakened from deep slumber by Kathleen, who pulled and tugged at her. “Lenorry, I thought you was dead, your eyes were shut so tight,” declared the child. “Breakfast is waiting. Did you fetch me anything?”
“Yes, a new sister,” replied Lenore dreamily.
Kathleen’s eyes opened wide. “Where?”
Lenore placed a hand over her heart. “Here.”
“Oh, you do look funny . . . Get up, Lenorry. Did you hear the shooting last night?”
Instantly Lenore sat up and stared. “No. Was there any?”
“You bet. But I don’t know what it was all about.”
Lenore dispelled her dreamy state, and, hurriedly dressing, she went down to breakfast. Her father and Rose were still at the table.
“Hello, big eyes,” was his greeting.
And Rose, not to be outdone, chirped: “Hello, old sleepy-head!”
Lenore’s reply lacked her usual spontaneity. And she felt, if she did not explain, the wideness of her eyes. Her father did not look as if anything worried him. It was a way of his, however, not to show stress or worry. Lenore ate in silence until Rose left the dining room, and then she asked her father if there had been shooting.
