War Comes to the Big Bend

by Zane Grey

  “Oh, did you say you wouldn’t go?” she softly called.

  “I said only good night,” he replied.

  “If you don’t go, then you will never be General Dorn, will you? What a pity!”

  “I’ll go. And then it will be ‘Private Dorn . . . missing. No relatives,’” he replied.

  That froze Lenore. Her heart quaked. She gazed down upon him with all her soul in her eyes. She knew it and did not care. But he could not see.

  “Good night, Kurt Dorn!” she called, and ran to her room.

  Composure did not come to her until she was ready for bed, with the light out and in her old seat at the window. Night and silence and starlight always lent Lenore strength. She prayed to them now and to the spirit she knew dwelt beyond them. And then she whispered what her intelligence told her was an unalterable fact—Kurt Dorn could never be changed. But her sympathy and love and passion, all that was womanly emotion, stormed at her intelligence and refused to listen to it.

  Nothing short of a great shock would divert Dorn from his tragic headlong rush toward the fate he believed unalterable. Lenore sensed a terrible, sinister earnestness in him. She could not divine its meaning. But it was such a driving passion that no man possessing it and free to the violence of war could ever escape death. Even if by superhuman strife, and the guidance of Providence, he did escape death, he would have lost something as precious as life. If Dorn went to war at all—if he ever reached those blood-red trenches, in the thick of fire and shriek and ferocity—there to express in horrible earnestness what she vaguely felt yet could not define—then, so far as she was concerned, she imagined that she would not want him to come back.

  That was the strength of spirit that breathed out of the night and the silence to her. Dorn would go to war as no ordinary soldier, to obey, to fight, to do his duty—but for some strange, unfathomable obsession of his own. And, therefore, if he went at all, he was lost. War, in its inexplicable horror, lost the souls of endless hordes of men . . . Therefore, if he went at all, she, too, was lost to the happiness that might have been hers. She would never love another man. She could never marry. She would never have a child.

  So his soul and her happiness were in the balance weighed against a woman’s power. It seemed to Lenore that she felt hopelessly unable to carry the issue to victory, and yet, on the other hand, a tumultuous and wonderful sweetness of sensation called to her, insidiously, of the infallible potency of love. What could she do to save Dorn’s life and his soul? There was only one answer to that. She would do anything. She must make him love her to the extent that he would have no will to carry out this desperate intent. There was little time to do that. The gradual growth of affection through intimacy and understanding was not possible here. It must come as a flash of lightning. She must bewilder him with the revelation of her love, and then by all its incalculable power hold him there.

  It was her father’s wish; it would be the salvation of Dorn; it meant all to her. But if to keep him there would make him a slacker, Lenore swore she would die before lifting her lips to his. The government would rather he stayed to raise wheat than go out and fight men. Lenore saw the sanity, the cardinal importance of that, as her father saw it. So from all sides she was justified. And sitting there in the darkness and silence, with the cool wind in her face, she vowed she would be all woman, all sweetness, all love, all passion, all that was feminine and terrible, to keep Dorn from going to war. She had sacrificed her brother, but she would keep her lover.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Lenore awakened early. The morning seemed golden. Birds were singing at her window. What did that day hold in store for her? She pressed a hand hard on her heart as if to hold it still. But her heart went right on, swift, exultant, throbbing with a fullness that was almost pain.

  Early as she awakened, it was, nevertheless, late when she could direct her reluctant steps downstairs. She had welcomed every little suggestion and task to delay the facing of her ordeal.

  There was merriment in the sitting room, and Dorn’s laugh made her glad. The girls were at him, and her father’s pleasant, deep voice chimed in. Evidently there was a controversy as to who should have the society of the guest. They had all been to breakfast. Mrs. Anderson expressed surprise at Lenore’s tardiness, and said she had been called twice. Lenore had heard nothing except the birds and the music of her thoughts. She peeped into the sitting room.

  “Didn’t you bring me anything?” Kathleen was inquiring of Dorn.

  Dorn was flushed and smiling. Anderson stood beaming upon them, and Rose appeared to be inclined toward jealousy.

  “Why . . . you see . . . I didn’t even know Lenore had a little sister,” Dorn explained.

  “Oh!” exclaimed Kathleen, evidently satisfied. “All Lenorry’s beaux bring me things. But I believe I’m going to like you best.”

  Lenore had intended to say good morning. She changed her mind, however, at Kathleen’s naïve speech, and darted back lest she be seen. She felt the blood hot in her cheeks. That awful, irrepressible Kathleen! If she liked Dorn, she would take possession of him. And Kathleen was lovable, irresistible. Lenore had a sudden thought that Kathleen would aid the good cause if she could be enlisted. While Lenore ate her breakfast, she listened to the animated conversation in the sitting room. Presently her father came in.

  “Hello, Lenore. Did you get up?” he greeted her cheerily.

  “I hardly ever did, it seems . . . Dad, the day was something to face,” she said.

  “Ah-huh! It’s like getting up to work. Lenore, the biggest duty of life is to hide your troubles . . . Dorn looks like a human bein’ this mornin’. The kids have won him. I reckon he needs that sort of cheer. Let them have him. Then after a while you fetch him out to the wheat field. Lenore, our harvestin’ is half done. Every day I’ve expected some trick or deviltry. But it hasn’t come yet.”

  “Are any of the other ranchers having trouble?” she inquired.

  “I hear rumors of bad work. But facts told by ranchers an’ men who were here only yesterday make little of the rumors. All that burnin’ of wheat an’ timber, an’ the destruction of machines an’ strikin’ of farmhands, haven’t hit Walla Walla Valley yet. We won’t need any militia here, you can bet on that.”

  “Father, it won’t do to be over-confident,” she said earnestly. “You know you are the mark for the IWW sabotage. If you are not careful . . . any moment . . .” Lenore paused with a shudder.

  “Lass, I’m just like I was in the old rustlin’ days. An’ I’ve surrounded myself with cowboys like Jake an’ Bill, an’ old hands who pack guns an’ keep still, as in the good old Western days. We’re just waitin’ for the IWW to break loose.”

  “Then what?” queried Lenore.

  “Wal, we’ll chase that outfit so fast it’ll be lost in the dust,” he replied.

  “But if you chase them away, it’ll only be into another state, where they’ll make trouble for other farmers. You don’t do any real good.”

  “My dear, I reckon you’ve said somethin’ strong,” he replied soberly, and went out.

  Then Kathleen came bouncing in. Her beautiful eyes were full of mischief and excitement. “Lenorry, your new beau has all the others skinned to a frazzle,” she said.

  For once Lenore did not scold Kathleen, but drew her close and whispered: “Do you want to please me? Do you want me to do everything for you?”

  “I sure do,” replied Kathleen with wonderful eyes.

  “Then be nice, sweet, good to him . . . make him love you . . . Don’t tease him about my other beaux. Think how you can make him like Many Waters.”

  “Will you promise everything?” whispered Kathleen solemnly. Evidently Lenore’s promises were rare and reliable.

  “Yes. Cross my heart. There. And you must not tell.”

  Kathleen was a precocious child, with all the potentialities of youth. She could not divine Lenore’s motive, but she sensed a new and fascinating mode of conduct for herself. She seemed p
uzzled a little at Lenore’s earnestness. “It’s a bargain,” she said soberly, as if she had accepted no slight gauge.

  “Now, Kathleen, take him all over the gardens, the orchards, the corrals and barns,” directed Lenore. “Be sure to show him the horses . . . my horses, especially. Take him around the reservoir . . . and everywhere except the wheat fields. I want to take him there myself. Besides, Father does not want you girls to go out to the harvest.”

  Kathleen nodded and ran back to the sitting room. Lenore heard them all go out together. Before she finished breakfast, her mother came in again.

  “Lenore, I like Mister Dorn,” she said meditatively. “He has an old-fashioned manner that reminds me of my boyfriends when I was a girl. I mean he’s more courteous and dignified than boys are nowadays. A splendid-looking boy, too. Only his face is so sad. When he smiles, he seems another person.”

  “No wonder he’s sad,” replied Lenore, and briefly told Kurt Dorn’s story.

  “Ah,” sighed Mrs. Anderson. “We have fallen upon evil days . . . Poor boy. Your father seems much interested in him. And you are too, my daughter?”

  “Yes, I am,” replied Lenore softly.

  Two hours later she heard Kathleen’s gay laughter and pattering feet. Lenore took her wide-brimmed hat and went out on the porch. Dorn was indeed not the same somber young man he had been.

  “Good morning, Kurt,” said Lenore, extending her hand.

  The instant he greeted her she saw that the stiffness, the aloofness had gone from him. Kathleen had made him feel at home. He looked younger. There was color in his face.

  “Kathleen, I’ll take charge of Mister Dorn now, if you will allow me that pleasure.”

  “Lenorry, I sure hate to give him up. We sure had a fine time.”

  “Did he like Many Waters?”

  “Well, if he didn’t, he’s a grand fibber,” replied Kathleen. “But he did. You can’t fool me. I thought I’d never get him back to the house.” Then, as she tripped up the porch steps, she shook a finger at Dorn. “Remember!”

  “I’ll never forget,” said Dorn, and he was as earnest as he was amiable. Then, as she disappeared, he exclaimed to Lenore: “What an adorable little girl!”

  “Do you like Kathleen?”

  “Like her!” Dorn laughed in a way to make light of such words. “My life has been empty. I see that.”

  “Come, we’ll go out to the wheat fields,” said Lenore. “What do you think of Many Waters? This is harvest time. You see Many Waters at its very best.”

  “I can hardly tell you,” he replied. “All my life I’ve lived on my barren hills. I seem to have come to another world. Many Waters is such a ranch as I never dreamed of. The orchards, the fruit, the gardens . . . and everywhere running water. It all smells so fresh and sweet. And then the green and red and purple against that background of blazing gold. Many Waters is verdant and fruitful. The Big Bend is desert.”

  “Now that you’ve been here, do you like it better than your barren hills?” asked Lenore.

  Kurt hesitated. “I don’t know,” he answered slowly. “But maybe that desert I’ve lived in accounts for much I lack.”

  “Would you like to stay at Many Waters . . . if you weren’t going to war?”

  “I might prefer Many Waters to any place on earth. It’s a paradise. But I would not choose to stay here.”

  “Why? When you return . . . you know . . . Father will need you here. And if anything should happen to him, I will have to run the ranch. Then I would need you.”

  Dorn stopped in his tracks and gazed at her as if there were slight misgivings in his mind. “Lenore, if you owned this ranch would you want me . . . me for your manager?” he asked bluntly.

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “You would? Knowing I was in love with you?”

  “Well, I had forgotten that,” she replied with a little laugh. “It would be rather embarrassing . . . and funny, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes, it would,” he said grimly, and walked on again. He made a gesture of keen discomfiture. “I knew you hadn’t taken me seriously.”

  “I believed you, but I could not take you very seriously,” she murmured.

  “Why not?” he demanded as if stung, and his eyes flashed on her.

  “Because your declaration was not accompanied by the usual . . . question . . . that a girl naturally expects under such circumstances.”

  “Good heaven! You say that? Lenore Anderson, you think me insincere because I did not ask you to marry me,” he asserted with bitter pathos.

  “No. I merely said you were not . . . very serious,” she replied. It was fascination to torment him this way, yet it hurt her, too. She was playing on the verge of a precipice, not afraid of a misstep, but glorying in the prospect of a leap into the abyss. Something deep and strange in her bade her make him show her how much he loved her. If she drove him to desperation, she would reward him.

  “I am going to war,” he began passionately, “to fight for you and your sisters . . . I am ruined . . . The only noble and holy feeling left to me . . . that I can have with me in the dark hours . . . is my love for you. If you do not believe that, I am indeed the most miserable of beggars. Most boys going to the front leave many behind who they love. I have no one but you . . . Don’t make me a coward.”

  “I believe you. Forgive me,” she said.

  “If I had asked you to marry me . . . me . . . why, I’d have been a selfish, egotistical fool. You are far above me. And I want you to know I know it . . . But even if I had not . . . had the blood I have . . . even if I had been prosperous instead of ruined, I’d never have asked you, unless I came back whole from the war.”

  They had been walking out the lane during this conversation and had come close to the wheat field. The day was hot, but pleasant, the dry wind being laden with harvest odors. The hum of the machines was like the roar in a flour mill.

  “If you go to war . . . and come back whole . . .?” began Lenore tantalizingly. She meant to have no mercy upon him. It was incredible how blind he was. Yet how glad that made her. He resembled his desert hills, barren of many little things, but rich in hidden strength, heroic of mold.

  “Then just to add one more to the conquests girls love, I’ll . . . I’ll propose to you,” he declared banteringly.

  “Beware, boy, I might accept you!” she exclaimed.

  His play was short-lived. He could not be gay, even under her influence. “Please don’t jest,” he said, frowning. “Can’t we talk of something besides love and war?”

  “They seem to be popular just now,” she replied audaciously. “Anyway, all’s fair . . . you know.”

  “No, it is not fair,” he returned, low-voiced and earnest. “So once for all let me beg of you, don’t jest. Oh, I know you’re sweet. You’re full of so many wonderful, surprising words and looks. I can’t understand you . . . But I beg of you, don’t make me a fool.”

  “Well, if you pay such compliments and if I . . . want them . . . what then? You are very original, very gallant, Mister Kurt Dorn, and I . . . I rather like you.”

  “I’ll get angry with you,” he threatened.

  “You couldn’t . . . I’m the only girl you’re going to leave behind . . . and if you got angry, I’d never write to you.” It thrilled Lenore and wrung her heart to see how her talk affected him. He was in a torment. He believed she spoke lightly, girlishly, to tease him—that she was only a gay-hearted girl, fancy-free and just a little proud of her conquest over even him.

  “I surrender. Say what you like,” he said resignedly. “I’ll stand anything . . . just to get your letters.”

  “If you go, I’ll write as often as you want me to,” she replied.

  With that they emerged upon the harvest field. Machines and engines dotted the golden slope, and wherever they were located stood towering straw stacks. Horses and men and wagons were strung out as far as the eye could see. Long streams of chaff and dust and smoke drifted upward.

  “Lenor
e, there’s trouble in the very air,” said Dorn. “Look!”

  She saw a crowd of men gathering around one of the great combine-harvesters. Someone was yelling.

  “Let’s stay away from trouble,” replied Lenore. “We’ve enough of our own.”

  “I’m going over there,” declared Dorn. “Perhaps you’d better wait for me . . . or go back.”

  “Well! You’re the first boy who ever . . .”

  “Come on,” he interrupted with grim humor. “I’d rather enjoy your seeing me break loose . . . as I will if there’s any IWW trickery.”

  Before they got to the little crowd Lenore both heard and saw her father. He was in a rage and not aware of her presence. Jake and Bill, the cowboys, hovered over him. Anderson strode to and fro, from one side of the harvester to the other. Lenore did not recognize any of the harvest hands, and even the driver was new to her. They were not a typical Western harvest crew—that was certain. She did not like their sullen looks, and Dorn’s muttered imprecation, the moment he neared them, confirmed her own opinion.

  Anderson’s foreman stood gesticulating, pale and anxious of face.

  “No, I don’t hold you responsible!” roared the rancher. “But I want action . . . I want to know why this machine’s broke down.”

  “It was in perfect workin’ order,” declared the foreman. “I don’t know why it broke down.”

  “That’s the fourth machine in two days. No accident, I tell you!” shouted Anderson. Then he espied Dorn and waved a grimy hand. “Come here, Dorn!” he called, and stepped out of the group of dusty men. “Somethin’ wrong here. This new harvester’s broke down. It’s a McCormack an’ new to us. But it has worked great an’ I jest believe it’s been tampered with . . . Do you know these McCormack harvesters?”

  “Yes. They’re reliable,” replied Dorn.

  “Ah-huh! Wal, get your coat off an’ see what’s been done to this one.”

  Dorn took off his coat and was about to throw it down, when Lenore held out her hand for it. “Unhitch the horses,” said Dorn.