by Zane Grey
“Tuck Merry, when I invited you to a little mix-up, I reckoned it’d be one-sided,” said Enoch, getting back to his drawl. “It shore was! . . . I’m licked, an’ I can swallow it if you’ll tell me how you did it.”
Cal felt that he was the one to make the revelation. How keenly he wanted to keep the secret longer! But it could not be done.
“Enoch—listen,” he began, choking his words out. “Tuck was a boxing master among the marines. . . . An’ he was—one of Jack Dempsey’s sparrin’ partners!”
“My Gawd!” ejaculated Enoch, suddenly radiant, as he reached for Tuck. “I can tell Mary that.”
CHAPTER
12
T
HE men packed their tools and effects kept there during the building, and rode away, leaving Cal with his friend.
Tuck had to see everything and his interest was stimulating. They went all over the cabin, up into the lofts, and then out into the cleared field, where the stumps were still burning. Tuck had to have a drink of the spring, and he was loud in his praise of everything.
“Is there any more to see?” he asked, finally.
“Guess you given it the once over, as you say, except my lookout point. It’s as high as the fire ranger’s station on the Diamond,” replied Cal.
“Lead me to it,” said Tuck, with enthusiasm.
Whereupon Cal led him across the field of red soil, into the timber and out to the promontory. The day was unusually fine and clear.
“You can’t often see the Sierra Ancas in winter,” said Cal, pointing to the most distant range, far to the south.
Tuck gazed from far to near and from near to far, and then all around. How comforting was his delight; Cal began to find something of his old joy. After all, he had to live there and work out his destiny there. Perhaps in time—
“Buddy, for a city man that is beyond words. Just grand!—You won’t be bothered by gasoline smell here or rattle of the elevated or second-story burglars—or bill collectors, or anything! To make it perfect you need only—”
“What?” queried Cal, as his friend hesitated.
“Georgiana Stockwell,” replied Tuck, deliberately.
At that Cal suddenly sat down on the flat stone under the juniper. Tuck’s reply was like a blow in an unguarded moment. A rush of emotion almost overcame Cal.
“Pard,” he said, with lowered head, “you’re hit-tin’ below the belt.”
“Not on your life!” exclaimed Tuck, with his long arm going round Cal’s shoulder. “I came up today on purpose to tell you that, and I expected to see you duck. But don’t feel bad, Cal.”
“Tuck, you said—for my homestead to be perfect, it needed Georgiana Stockwell,” returned Cal. “Yes. It would be. But without her it will be nothin’.”
“I can see that, Cal,” rejoined Tuck, thoughtfully. “It is in your face, and you’ve lost weight. Maybe you’re worked hard.”
“Yes, pretty hard. Liftin’ an’ diggin’ soon wears a rider out . . . but I’ve worried, an’ I don’t sleep—an’ well, Tuck, I’m in a bad way.”
“I’m sorry, Buddy. You must buck up.”
“Still, I’m not nearly so far down as I was.—I’ve made a decision, an’ in a way it’s helped.”
“What was it, Cal?”
“I reckon it was somethin’ like what you said. . . . I’ve got to have Georgie. The Thurmans are like that. Think! With a world full of nice women—only one will do.”
“It’s tough,” replied Tuck, seriously. “Especially, as you’re a Thurman, who won’t try to win the one woman.”
“Try!—Why, Tuck, you’re crazy,” declared Cal. “I’ve crawled on my knees.”
“Sure. But, Buddy, you didn’t crawl at the right time, nor far enough. And you’re too proud. You expected Georgie to crawl, just because she ought to. Boy, you don’t know women. That kid crawl! Never in this wide world!—But she could be scared into ‘most anything.”
“Scare Georgie!” echoed Cal. “That couldn’t be done. She has more nerve than anyone I ever knew. Besides, what use to scare her?”
“We’ll come to that presently. Now what I want to get straight is this. I haven’t seen you for several weeks, and during that time I figured you’d brace, take the count, and get back into the ring again. But you haven’t. You’ve quit. And I’m fearing it’s worse with you than I’d guessed.—Tell me, Buddy.—You’ll never know what a friend you were to me when I was down and out.”
“Worse? I reckon it couldn’t be worse,” rejoined Cal, somberly. “I—I thought my heart was broken. I don’t know. . . . But I feel I’m ruined unless—”
“Right-o. I get you, pard.—What seems to be wrong between you and Georgie?”
“I guess she doesn’t care, that’s all,” replied Cal, dejectedly.
“But she did—as much as her kind ever cares for any fellow. They got to be handed a couple, her kind, before they are gentle. She’ll never care any more unless you make her. And I think this absent treatment of yours has made her care less. If you don’t do something quick you’re going to lose her.”
“What on earth can I do?” blurted out Cal, goaded to desperation.
“It’s a case of roughhouse,” replied Tuck, with a grin.
“You mean run off with her—kidnap her?” demanded Cal, incredulously.
“Not exactly. That’s too gentle for Georgiana. I’d waylay her—grab her—make a bluff at being a gorilla—scare her into the middle of next week—and marry her before she came to.”
“Aw, Tuck—you’re crazy!” breathed Cal, hopelessly. Yet the preposterous idea had instantaneous allurement. “She’d have to consent to marriage.”
“Right-o. But you can scare her into that.—Cal, my boy, you don’t know women, let alone these modern kids. They’re sore at us men. It’s a heritage come down to them, and this generation thinks it’s going to get even. They’re doing that, I admit. But it’ll be a costly experience. Now if you’ve got to have your little lady, let’s get our heads together and plan the great razoo.”
“I’d do anything that wasn’t dishonorable,” replied Cal.
“Buddy, makin’ this wild kid marry you wouldn’t be crooked, believe me. I want to state that it’d be her salvation and a genuine blessing to Mary Stock-well.”
“Ahuh! If you can prove that, talk quick,” said Cal, sharply.
“Listen, then, and don’t butt in till I get this off my chest,” went on Tuck. “I’ve kept close tab on Georgiana and all that concerned her these last four weeks. You know she came here for her health and improved wonderfully at first. Well, now she’s going back. She doesn’t ride and run around in the open as before. She moped in her room until her sister made such a rumpus that she had to come out. But her pep is gone.—This sort of thing can’t last. She’ll run off, or do some fool stunt. Miss Mary has lost patience with her, which is no wonder. And of course since the dance scandal the Thurmans are a little chilly. The situation is bad for Georgia. Everybody misunderstands your attitude. Think you, too, have thrown her down. Such gossip gets to her ears. I dare say Georgie imagines she hates you now. I know what I mention you she blazes like fire. But maybe that’s a good sign. It wouldn’t do, though, for you to go honeying around her. . . . Well, lately, the last week, I’ve seen things that bothered me. For one, Bid Hatfield called at your house to see Georgie.”
“You don’t say!” ejaculated Cal, in dark amaze.
“Yes, I do say. He didn’t get to see Georgie, but he left a note, which was given her. That wasn’t so bad. But twice this week I’ve seen Hatfield ride down that hill trail below the sawmill. Twice, in the middle of the afternoon. Well, by inquiring casual like of Miss Mary, I found out that Georgie has been taking walks, when the afternoons are sunny, and—”
“Tuck! Has she been meeting Bid Hatfield?” queried Cal, tensely.
“I don’t believe she has—yet. I’ve no call to say so, except I think the kid is really on the level. If she’s met Hatfield, it’s been by ac
cident. If she hasn’t, it’s a cinch she soon will meet him.”
“Tuck, if that happens, an’ my folks hear of it, Georgie won’t be welcome at my home any longer.”
“Right-o. I had that figured. The worst of it is, if Georgie knew that, she’d be more inclined to meet Hatfield. Queer, girls are!—She’s in a state of mind and health when she’s liable to ruin her life. We don’t need to waste time talking about that. Here are the facts. Georgie is in bad here in the Tonto. She knows it. She feels she has hurt her sister’s position. It has worried her, and what with that and all the rest, she’s on the downhill road, in health and every way. Now let’s change all that for her.”
“All right. But how?” queried Cal, eagerly.
“I’ve figured it all out, Buddy,” continued Tuck, just as eagerly. “The Sunday after Christmas I’ll ride down to get Parson Meeker. I’ve met him a few times, and think he likes me. Anyway, I can handle him. I’ll make up some story that will get his sympathy. In the Tonto, you know, anybody can get married quick if he fetches the lady. That’ll be your job, and if I’m not mistaken it’ll be some job. Now I’ll fetch Parson Meeker by trail, round the Diamond to Boyd Thurman’s cabin. No one living there, and if it’s cold we can make a fire. We’ll be there about noon Monday, and wait for you. ‘Wal, I reckon that’s about all,’ as Enoch says.”
“All! Good Heavens, man, it’s nothin’ to my part in this—this wonderful plan,” cried Cal, excitedly. “What have I got to do?”
“Grab the little lady and tote her up there—and we’ll do the rest,” declared Tuck, loquaciously.
“Wha-at?” stammered Cal. Indeed the idea had dazzled him.
“Buddy, you’ve been partaking of loco. You’re like Enoch after I gave him the slumber-whanger. . . . Listen. All you’ve got to do is to catch Georgie out of the house or drag her out of the house. Have a horse handy, hidden in the brush. Carry her if you have to. You want to act mad, quick, and rough. Don’t talk much. If you talk she’ll get the best of it. Scare her into the middle of next week.”
“It’s easy to talk of scarin’ Georgie, but how can it be done?” asked Cal, wildly.
“You’re afraid of her. Well, make her afraid of you. What does that kid know of rough men? Act like some of the Tonto outlaws she’s heard about. Make her think she has driven you to it. She’s only a child. All that nerve of hers is just modern bluff. Scare it out of her. Then make her swear not to tell Parson Meeker you carried her off.”
“Ahuh! An’ then, supposin’ all this—this dream comes off, an’ I do get her married—what then?” asked Cal, as one whose brain was whirling.
“Pack her up here to your new cabin. You can have all shipshape by that time.”
“An’ then—after I pack her up here—what’ll I say?” asked Cal, feebly. His heart was swelling and rising to his throat.
“Let me see,” replied this arbiter of wisdom, reflectively. “I think I’d make a grand finale of it. I’d carry her in and drop her down and say, in a big loud voice, ‘Now, Mrs. Cal Thurman, I want my dinner. I’m not in a mood to sing for it or whistle for it, but I want it!’ . . . Then go out, and let her come to.”
Cal shook his head sadly at what he considered the mental aberration of his friend. Yet the insidious voice of temptation was irresistible. His last and only chance! It was doomed to failure, in any event. If he did succeed in forcing Georgiana to marry him, there was no possibility of keeping her a prisoner.
“Buddy, don’t overlook this fact,” put in Tuck, as if he read Cal’s thoughts. “Once you marry Georgie, she’ll not find it so easy to get out of as you think now, and as she’ll think. Nobody is going to believe you kidnapped her, and if she runs off from you, she’ll disgrace her sister sure this time.”
That idea struck home to Cal’s grasping hope. It would be a serious situation for Georgiana. But however she reacted to it, the most alluring prospect was the fact that if he succeeded in marrying her, there could be no further danger of her flirting, no more risk for her in trifling with men. The code of the Tonto was a rigid thing, and even men like Bid Hatfield respected it. Married, she would be saved from herself, so far as the Tonto was concerned, no matter what she did.
“Next Monday! Five more days! . . . My God!” ejaculated Cal, in defeat that had its exquisite torture of joy.
“Buddy, so help me Heaven, it’ll work out fine,” responded Tuck, with great relief and satisfaction. “By springtime you and I will sit right here under this old juniper, and you’ll be telling Tuck Merry he’s square with you.”
Cal rode back to Green Valley that afternoon late, a very much obsessed young man, pondering the part he had to play. His morbid depression had vanished. It was going to be difficult, when the crisis came, to pretend a dark, somber, brooding, and dangerous trend of mind before Georgiana.
The cold winter twilight had fallen by the time Boyd Thurman’s deserted ranch had been reached. Sight of the old log cabin where he had planned to marry Georgiana brought realities to his mind. He thrilled despite the utter wildness of Tuck Merry’s plan. There was something strangely satisfying in the idea of carrying Georgiana off against her will. But what would she say and do when she awoke to the enormity of the affront to her freedom? Cal felt hot and cold at the thought. But something drove him on. Sufficient unto the day!
It was dark when he and Tuck reached Green Valley. All the riders were in, judging from the saddles on the rack. He heard the horses and cows munching hay in their stalls. The familiar odors of the barns were sweet to his nostrils. Before presenting himself indoors, he went with Tuck to their tent quarters, and there, by the light of a candle, he shaved and changed his clothes.
Supper had been held for his arrival, and the boys greeted him with a yell and a rush to the table. His mother remarked that he “shore looked sort of pasty,” and his sister asked him if he thought it was Sunday, “All cleaned up an’ shiny faced.”
Mary Stockwell and Georgiana came in to take their seats at the far end of the long table. When they saw Cal they added their greeting. Georgiana called: “Howdy Cal! You shore don’t look like you been a-rollin’ logs.”
Cal bent over his plate. How the sweet high voice shook his heart! For a moment his eyes were dim. Just to hear her worked havoc in him again. And in the moment the thought came that all which sustained him was remembrance of the deep-laid plot. He blessed Tuck Merry for evolving it. He did not glance at Georgiana again during that merry supper-time, and when they repaired to the living room she did not stay. Mary came to shake hands with him.
“How are you, Cal?” was her kind query, and her eyes searched his face anxiously.
“Fair to middlin’, teacher,” he replied, gaily. “An’ when’s the great day for you an’ Enoch? I have my mind on a weddin’ present.”
“I’ll tell you when it’s decided,” she replied.
“How’s Georgie?” he went on, trying to be casual.
“Did you look at her?”
“Not particularly. Why?”
“I think you would have seen a change.”
“Ahuh! Is she sick?”
“Georgie seems well enough, but she grows thinner and paler. I am worried, Cal.—She—But I’ll not tell you now. Sometime soon when we have a good chance.”
“All right, teacher. Anythin’ I can do—you know me,” he said, soberly. Her tone, her look, acted upon his heart like a weight of lead.
“Just a word now,” she went on, in a lower voice, as she drew him a little aside. She hesitated, almost faltered, and there was something wistful in her clear eyes. “Cal, you’ve changed. You’re older—more of a man. I like your face better. You’ve suffered. . . . Now tell me. Are you over it?”
“Over what?” he asked.
“Your—your infatuation for my sister,” she whispered.
“Can I trust you?”
“Oh, Cal—yes indeed you can,” she replied. “I can’t tell you how I hope you still care for her.”
“List
en, then,” he said, bending close to her ear. “I love Georgie—more than ever.”
He had his reward in the flash of gladness that crossed her worn face. It struck him then that she too appeared somewhat paler and thinner. He was indeed not the only one to whom Georgiana had brought trouble.
The next day Cal borrowed Tuck’s services at the sawmill, and the two of them drove to Ryson and filled a car full of supplies and utensils needed at the Rock Spring homestead and also Christmas presents. It was the lack of capacity of the car and not Tuck’s consternation that compelled Cal to leave off buying. They returned to Green Valley, and spent the remaining hour of that day stowing away these purchases.
The following morning Cal and Tuck, with the help of some of the boys, packed nineteen burros and horses. By noon that day they unpacked in front of the porch of Cal’s new home. They had a good deal of excitement in spreading the outfit and finding where every bit of it should be placed. Midafternoon overtook them before this pleasant labor was ended; and then followed the task of finding the strayed pack animals and driving them home. They arrived at Green Valley just before dark, tired out but happy, and ready for their great adventure.
Christmas Eve found twenty-odd Thurmans at the Green Valley Ranch. And what with Mary Stockwell and Georgiana, added to the several riders who likewise were no kin of the Thurmans, there was a large household.
Cal sprang a little surprise at them. That day at Ryson, in the excitement of purchasing and the thrill of possible events he had bought presents for everybody. The best the Ryson stores could show was not too good for Cal. He had saved his wages for years. This Christmas signaled the one great event in his life, for weal or woe, and he was celebrating it. The amaze and delight of his rider brothers was gratifying. His old father scratched his grizzled head, and gazed dubiously from the present on his knee up into Cal’s face. “Son, air this heah yore way of homesteadin’ a ranch?”
“Ahuh! Maybe next Christmas I won’t be able to afford it,” he replied, mysteriously.
