by Zane Grey
The ensuing scene of wild animation among the young people and the eager gladness of their elders could never have been rendered, except by a company who had known the long, long trek with its sacrifices and privations, and who had learned through bitter travail the value of things.
While the big wagons were being unpacked and the ground all about littered with boxes, bags, sacks, and packages, while the cowboys whooped and the girls squealed, and the drovers searched for tags and hefted this and that, a steady, voluminous stream of questions poured into the bewildered ears of Benson and Roland, these fortunate ones who had been to town, to a seaport, who had seen people and been in stores and heard news of the world and of the old home.
Sterl could not catch and catalogue one tenth of all the wonderful information Benson and Roland had fetched back.
Gold had, indeed, been discovered in the south and west of the Kimberleys. Ships and prospectors, sheepmen and drovers, trekkers and adventurers were coming north from Perth and Fremantle and points far to the south. On the other side of the continent, at Sydney and Brisbane, Australians were awakening to the El Dorado in the northwest, and ships plied regularly to Darwin. Stanley Dann and his company had come in on a rising tide. His trek across the Never Never Land was the wonder of two busy seaports, as soon it would be for the whole of Australia.
Most amazing facts of all, and yet wholly natural, were the letters for all the company, except Sterl and Red. Somehow that silenced the drawling Red and struck a pang to Sterl’s heart. Now eager-eyed these trekkers opened letters with shaking hands! What ghosts in Beryl’s dark eyes as she recognized the handwriting of friends, relatives, suitors long ago forgotten! They were voices out of the past. Stanley Dann read aloud in his booming voice a communication from Heald. He had gotten out safely with his comrades and the mob of cattle Dann had told them to drove, if they could. Heald had taken Ormiston’s trail from the Forks, and they had worked out toward the coast into fine grazing country where he and his partners established a station. Ormiston’s three escaping bush-rangers had been murdered by aborigines. News of Dann’s trekkers perishing on the Never Never had preceded Heald’s return to Queensland. But he never credited the rumor and chanced a letter to prove it. Another gratifying bit of news was that the government offered to sell hundred-mile-square tracts of land in the Outback for what seemed little money.
“Gosh! A hundred-mile-square ranch for nothin’!” drawled Red. “I reckon I gotta buy myself a couple of them.”
“A hundred square miles?” mused Sterl. “Strange how that seems so small beside the Never Never Land.”
“Wal, pard, we shore trekked a grub line for three thousand miles. An’ thet’s the champeen record ride for any cowboy.”
Stanley Dann boomed out: “Let us halt these proceedings for a cup of tea, and try to think of something joyous to commemorate the end of our wonderful trek.”
They settled themselves in the pleasant shade. Mrs. Slyter and Leslie served tea. Beryl sat pensive and abstracted. On that auspicious morning, when all had been gay, Red had not deigned her even a smile or hardly a word, that the watchful Sterl had observed. What a capital actor Dann was! To all save Sterl and Red he appeared only the great leader, glad and beaming, for this simple occasion. But the cowboys shared with him the thrilling fact that this hour was to see a great occasion, a fulfillment of the trek, a promise that his young folk were to carry on his work.
Presently Stanley Dann produced a little black book, worn of back and yellow of leaf. He opened it meditatively. “Beryl, will you please come here,” he said casually. “In this new and unsettled country I think I may be useful in other ways besides being a pioneer…cattleman. I shall need a little practice to acquire a seemly dignity and a clarity of voice.” He did not look up and continued to mull over the yellow pages.
Sterl saw the big fingers quiver ever so slightly. He was quaking inwardly himself.
Beryl, used to her father’s moods, came obediently to stand before him. “What, Dad?” she inquired curiously.
“Sterl, come here and stand up with Beryl,” he called. “No, let Krehl come. In the light of possible future events he might be more fitting.”
Red strolled forward, his spurs jingling, his demeanor as cool and nonchalant as it ever had been.
“I’ve observed you holding my daughter’s hand a good few times on this trek,” Dann said mildly. “Please take her hand now.”
As Red reached for Beryl’s hand and clasped it, she looked up at him with a wondering smile and her color deepened. Then Dann stood up to lift his head and expose his bronze-gold face, which appeared a calm and profound mask, except for the golden lightning in his amber eyes.
“What’s the idee, boss?” drawled Red.
“Yes, Dad, what is…all this?” faltered Beryl, confused, her ready intuition at fault at such an unusual procedure before all the others.
“Listen, child, and you, Krehl,” replied Dann. “This should be for you, and surely for the others. Please watch me. Criticize my ministerial manner and voice. It’s been a long time. Trekking, I find, does not improve even the civilized and necessary graces. Well, here we are….” And in a swift resonant voice he ran over the opening passages of the marriage service. Then, more slowly and impressively, he addressed Red. “James Krehl, do you take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife…to have and to hold…to love and to cherish…until death do you part?”
“I do!” replied Red ringingly.
The leader turned to his daughter. “Beryl Dann, do you take this man to be your lawful wedded husband…to have and to hold…to love, cherish, and obey…until death do you part?”
“I…I…I do!” gasped Beryl faintly.
Dann added sonorously: “I pronounce you man and wife. Whom God has joined together, let no man put asunder!”
Beryl stared up at him, visibly a prey to conflicting tides of emotions. It had been a play, of course, but to her the mere recital of the vows, the counterfeit solemnity had torn her serenity asunder. When her father embraced her, thick-voiced and loving, she appeared further bewildered. Not one inkling of the truth had yet pierced her mind.
“Daddy, what a…a strange thing…for you to practice that…on me!”
“Beryl, it is the most beautiful thing of the ages. Krehl, I congratulate you with all my heart. I feel that she is safe at last.”
Sterl dragged the astounded and backward Leslie up to the couple. “Red, old pard, put it there!” he cried, wringing Red’s free hand. “Beryl, let me be the first to kiss the bride. I always wanted to kiss the girl!” And he availed himself gallantly of that privilege. But Leslie could only stare, her lips wide.
“But…but it was only a play!” flashed Beryl, rising to a hint of her old fire. Then Red kissed her lips with a passion of tenderness and violence commingled. Beryl loosed herself partly from that embrace, the scarlet wave receding to leave her pale.
“Wal, wife, it was about time,” drawled Red.
That word unstrung Beryl. “Wife?” she echoed almost inaudibly. A woman would have to be mad, indeed, to have failed to divine Krehl’s masterful and adoring gaze. “Red! You…you married me…really? It wasn’t…just fun?”
“Wal, darlin’, it shore was fun. But I was kinda scared. I came near slopin’ for the Never Never.”
“Father! Have I been made a…fool of?” cried Beryl tragically. “Could you perpetrate such a trick on me? Oh, I’ve been so horrid…always. I deserved nearly anything. But this…this farce….”
“My daughter, compose yourself,” returned Dann. “We thought to have a little fun at your expense. But you are Krehl’s wife. I’ll find a marriage certificate somewhere in my luggage, and make it out for you.”
She swayed back to Red. Sterl, at sight of her lovely eyes, that had always stormed his emotions, swallowed his fright and gloried in what he had done. She could not stand without support. She lifted frail brown hands that could not cling to Red’s sleeves. “Red! You never asked me!”
“Wal, honey, the fact was I didn’t have the nerve. An’ Sterl heah, an’ Les most, jest made me believe you cared for me. So Sterl an’ I went to yore dad an’ fixed it up. Beryl, he’s one grand guy.”
“Why…why did you…?”
Red snatched the swaying girl to his breast. Her eyelids had fallen. “Beryl!” he shouted in fear and remorse. “Don’t you dare faint! Not heah an’ now of all times in our lives! I did it thet way, because I’ve been dyin’ of love for you. Since thet…thet orful time, I’ve been shore you cared for me, but I never asked, I never risked you outwittin’ me. I swore I’d fool you once an’ then go on my knees the rest of my life. Forgive me, Beryl, an’ don’t faint, for then I’d never forgive myself!”
“My Never Never Man!” she whispered, suddenly shot through and through with revivified life. She did not see any others there. And when she lifted her lips to Red, it was something, the look of them then—that dimmed Sterl’s eyes.
“Come, Sterl and Leslie,” Dann boomed. “I require more practice. Here, before me, and join hands…. Our bride and groom there may stand up with you.” Almost before Sterl realized anything except the shy and bedazzled girl beside him, clutching his hand, he was married to her and receiving the clamor of his friends.
Not the least happy were the words of Friday. That black fella knew what it was all about. He wrung Sterl’s hand. No intelligence could have exaggerated what shone in his eyes. “Me stopum alonga you an’ missy. Me be good black fella. No home, no fadder, no mudder, no lubra. Imm stay alonga you, boss.”
“With all my heart, Friday, my black brother. If you left us today, that would be the one bitter drop in our sweet cup!” Sterl and Red walked by the river alone. It was sunset. The heat still lingered. The bees hummed. The stream murmured, and the melodious cur-ra-wong was sweet on the still air.
“Pard, it’s done,” said Red. “We’re Australians. Who would ever have thunk it? But it’s great. All this for two no-good, gunslingin’ cowboys?”
“Red, it is almost too wonderful to be true. We’re lost…we’re gone! Better so than the old trails…the end of which we couldn’t escape. New faces, new people, new life! God, I hope we can be worthy. But in our hearts we will never forget.”
It was as Stanley had said of them all: “We have fought the good fight.” In that moment Sterl saw with marvelous clarity. Even the black man symbolized the use and reward of noble life. It had taken a far country and an incomparable adventure with hardy souls to make men out of two wild cowboys. He would not have changed past or present one single iota. How he had been transformed, what had been flayed into his blood and bone and brain by the wilderness, only time could tell. But part of it was that which he peered at now—the purple land, the sunset-flushed slope, the bright trees and shining river, the many-hued, singing birds, the kangaroos and emus coming down to drink, the whole of an alien country which had absorbed him, and the primal nature that he had not worshipped in vain.
About the Author
Zane Grey was born Pearl Zane Gray at Zanesville, Ohio in 1872. He was graduated from the University of Pennsylvania in 1896 with a degree in dentistry. He practiced in New York City while striving to make a living by writing. He married Lina Elise Roth in 1905 and with her financial assistance he published his first novel himself, BETTY ZANE (1903). Closing his dental office, the Greys moved into a cottage on the Delaware River, near Lackawaxen, Pennsylvania. Grey took his first trip to Arizona in 1907 and, following his return, wrote THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT (1910). The profound effect that the desert had had on him was so vibrantly captured that it still comes alive for a reader. Grey couldn’t have been more fortunate in his choice of a mate. Trained in English at Hunter College, Lina Grey proofread every manuscript Grey wrote, polished his prose, and she effectively managed their financial affairs. Grey’s early novels were serialized in pulp magazines, but by 1918 he had graduated to the slick magazine market. Motion picture rights brought in a fortune and, with 109 films based on his work, Grey set a record yet to be equaled by any other author. Zane Grey was not a realistic writer, but rather one who charted the interiors of the soul through encounters with the wilderness. He provided characters no more realistic than one finds in Balzac, Dickens, or Thomas Mann, but nonetheless they have a vital story to tell. “There was so much unexpressed feeling that could not be entirely portrayed,” Loren Grey, Grey’s younger son and a noted psychologist, once recalled, “that, in later years, he would weep when re-reading one of his own books.” More than stories, Grey fashioned psychodramas about the odyssey of the human soul. They may not be the stuff of the real world, but without them the real world has no meaning—which may go a long way to explain the hold he has had on an enraptured reading public ever since his first Western romance in 1910.
