by Zane Grey
Rock glared speechlessly at his friend.
“Dabb was a widower with a daughter ’most as old as Amy. They were married a year or so ago. It was a poor match, they say about town. Amy is not happy an’ she flirts as much as ever.”
Trueman Rock dropped his head.
“Son, it’s the way of life,” went on Winter. “You’ve been gone a long time. An’ things happen to people, most of it sad, I’m sorry to say.”
“Sol, will you keep my money till I come askin’ for it?” queried Rock, with his hand inside his waistcoat.
“Now, True, what’re you up to?”
“I’m goin’ out and get awful, terrible drunk,” declared Rock, tragically.
Winter laughed, though he looked serious enough.
“Don’t do it, True.”
“I am, by gosh!”
“Please don’t, son. It’ll only fetch back the old bad habit. You look so fine now, I’d hate to see you do it.”
“I’m goin’ to drown my grief, Sol,” declared Rock, solemnly.
“Well, wait till I come back,” returned Winter. “I’ve got to go to the station. My clerk is off today. Keep store for me. There’s not much chance of any customer comin’ in at this noon hour, but if one does come, you wait on him—like you used to.”
“All right. I’ll keep store. But you rustle back here pronto. I tell you I want to get terrible drunk.”
Winter hurried out, bareheaded and in his shirt sleeves, leaving Rock sitting on the counter, a prey to symptoms he well knew. This time the still small voice of conscience was lacking. He felt the wild, unreasonable, sickening yearnings to do himself wrong—a black shade encroaching upon the wholesomeness of his mind. If Sol did not hurry back—
A light quick step arrested the current of Trueman’s thoughts. He looked up. A girl had entered the store. His first swift sight of her caused him to slip off the counter. She looked around expectantly, and seeing Rock she hesitated, then came forward. Rock suddenly realized that to get terribly drunk was the very remotest thing that he wanted or intended to do.
“Is Mr. Winter in?” asked the girl, pausing before the counter.
“No. He had to go to the station. Reckon he’ll be there quite some time.”
“Oh—I’m sorry. I—I can’t wait, and I wanted him particularly,” she said, a little embarrassed and impatient.
“Can I do anythin’ for you?” inquired Rock. He was cool, easy, respectful.
“Are you the new clerk Mr. Winter was expecting?” she queried.
“Yes, miss, at your service.”
“I’ve quite a list of things to get,” she said, opening a handbag to pry into it.
“I’ll do my best, miss. But I’m a little new to the business.”
“That’s all right. I’ll help you,” she returned, graciously. “Now where is that paper?”
The delay gave Trueman opportunity to look at her covertly. She was thoroughbred Western, about twenty-one or two, blond, with fair hair more silver than gold. She was not robust of build, yet scarcely slender. She wore a faded little blue bonnet not of the latest style, and her plain white dress, though clean and neat, had seen long service.
“Here it is,” she said, producing a slip of paper and looking up somewhat flushed. Her eyes were large, wide apart, gray in color. Rock looked into them. Something happened to him then that had never happened before and which could never happen again. “Now, shall I read the list off one at a time or altogether?”
“Well, miss, it really doesn’t—make any difference,” replied Trueman, vaguely, gazing at her lips. They were sweet and full and red, and just now curved into a little questioning smile. But, as he watched, it fled and then they seemed sad. Indeed her whole face seemed sad, particularly the deep gray eyes that had begun to regard him somewhat doubtfully.
“Very well—the groceries first,” she said, consulting her list. “Five of sugar, five of rice, five—”
“Five what?” interrupted Trueman, with alacrity, moving toward the grocery department. Everything was in plain sight. It ought to be easy, if he could keep his eyes off her.
“Five what!” she echoed, in surprise, raising her head. “Did you think I meant barrels? Five pounds.”
“Sure. That’s what I thought,” replied Trueman, hastily. “But some people buy this stuff in bulk. I used to.”
“Oh, you were not always a clerk, then?” she inquired, following him.
“Oh no! I’ve been a—a lot of things.”
She looked as if she believed him. Rock began to grasp that he was bungling the greatest opportunity of his life. He found the sugar and had almost filled a large sack when she checked him: “Not brown sugar. White, please.”
There was something in her tone that made Rock wonder if she were laughing at him. It stirred him to dexterity rather than clumsiness. He filled a large paper bag with white sugar, then turned to her, essaying a smile.
“But you didn’t weigh it,” she said.
“I never weigh out small amounts,” he returned, blandly. “I can guess very accurately.”
“There’s more than five pounds of sugar in that bag,” she protested.
“Probably, a little. Sure I never guess underweight.” He laid the bag on the counter. “What next? Oh, the rice.” And he dove for the bin containing that staple.
“Can you guess the weight of rice, too?” she inquired, as if consumed with curiosity.
“Sure can. Even better. It’s not near so heavy as sugar.” And he filled a larger bag. In attempting to pass this to her he accidentally touched her bare hand with his. The soft contact shot a thrilling current through him. He dropped the bag. It burst, and the rice poured all over her, and like a white stream to the floor.
“There—you’ve done it,” she said, aghast.
“Excuse me, miss. I’m sure awkward this day. But rice is lucky. That might be a good omen. I’m superstitious,” went on Trueman, waxing toward the confidential.
“Well, young man—” she interposed, almost severely. But his gaze evidently disconcerted her.
“You never can tell,” he said. “Spillin’ rice might mean a weddin’?”
She blushed, but spoke up with spirit. “It couldn’t, so far as I’m concerned,” she said. “Of course I don’t know your affairs. . . . But you are wasting my time. I must hurry. They’ll be waiting.”
Rock humbly apologized and proceeded to fill another bag with rice. Then he went on with the order, and for several moments, in which he kept his eyes averted, he performed very well as a clerk. He certainly prayed that Sol Winter would not come back soon. Who was she? He had never in his life met such a girl. She could not be married. Too young and—he did not know what! But the thought that she might be made his heart sink like cold lead. He stole a glance at her left hand. Ringless! What a strong, shapely hand, neither too large nor too small, nor red and rough like that of most ranchers’ daughters. It was, however, a hand that had seen work. Naturally Rock wondered if she rode a horse. The goddess of every cowboy’s dreams was a horsewoman. Did he dare to ask her if she loved a horse? Rock divined that his usual audacity and adroitness with the feminine sex were wanting here.
“That’s all the groceries,” she said. “Now I want buttons, thread, calico, dress goods, linen and—”
“Is that all?” queried Rock, as she paused.
“It’s all you can get for me,” she answered, enigmatically.
At the dry-goods counter Rock was in a quandary. He could not find anything. The young lady calmly walked behind the counter.
“Can’t you read?” she inquired, pointing at some boxes.
“Read!” exclaimed Trueman, in an injured tone. “Sure I can read. I went to school for eight years. That’s about four more than any cowpuncher I ever met.”
“Indeed! No one would suspect it,” she returned, demurely. “If you’re a cowboy—what’re you doing in here?”
“I just lately went to clerking,” he hastened to reply.
“Show me the buttons. There—in the white boxes. . . . Thank you.”
While she bent over them, looking and assorting, Trueman regained something near composure, and he feasted his eyes on the little stray locks of fair hair that peeped from under her bonnet, on the small well-shaped ear, on the nape of her neck, beautiful and white, and upon the contour of cheek.
“It isn’t pearl?” she inquired, holding a button in her palm.
“Sure is,” he replied, dreamily, meaning her cheek, suddenly, terribly aware of its nearness and sweetness.
“That pearl!” she exclaimed in amaze, looking up. “Don’t you know bone when you see it?”
“Oh—the button! I wasn’t lookin’ at it. . . . Sure that’s bone. If you want pearl buttons, maybe I can help.” And he bent over the box. It was not necessary to bend with his head so close to hers, but he did so, until he felt one of those stray silky locks of hair brush his cheek. She felt it, too, for there seemed to come a sudden still check to everything in connection with the business at hand. Then she drew away.
“Thank you. I can help myself. You find the thread.”
It turned out that she had to find the thread, too, and she did it so readily that Trueman inquired if she had ever been a clerk in this store. She laughed merrily and informed him that once, during fair week, she had helped Mr. Winter out for several days.
“That explains. So you’re a good friend of Sol Winter’s?” went on Rock.
“Oh yes indeed, ever since we came here.”
“Well, I’m a good friend of Sol’s, too.”
“You must be—seeing he keeps you in his store,” she said, slyly.
“You think I’m a poor clerk?”
“Not from a customer’s point of view.”
“But I’m a poor clerk for Mr. Winter?”
She caught herself again being drawn into conversation and asked to see some calico. Rock espied the only bolt of this commodity on the shelves and drew it down.
“Calico! Sure this reminds me,” he said with such enthusiasm that she had to attend. “Once in Colorado I rode into a town. Gunnison. It was a Saturday. Big day. All the outfits were in. Everybody for miles around. Horses, wagons, buckboards on the streets. I bought a bolt of red calico, tied one end to the pommel of my saddle and left the bolt lyin’ on the ground. Then I rode up and down. In about ten minutes that street was a roarin’ millin’ mêlée.”
“Please cut me ten yards of this,” she said, with steady eyes of disfavor upon him.
Trueman made a mess of the job, to his secret chagrin and her evident despair. Then she asked for a certain kind of dress goods, utterly foreign to him, and which she had to locate herself.
“How much of this?” asked Rock, stripping off yards of the soft material.
“Five. And I want it cut on the bias,” she returned.
“On the bias,” he echoed. “Oh, sure.” And he went at the task desperately, realizing full well that he could not stand this deception much longer. But he had not progressed very far when she interrupted: “You’re measuring too much. I said yards—not miles.”
Trueman vowed he would finish as he had begun. He went on.
“You can’t guess on dress goods like that,” she protested.
“Me! I could guess on anythin’ once,” he retorted, wildly.
“Indeed you look it. I never saw such a—But I can’t afford—I want only five yards.”
“Miss, this is five yards, roughly,” he rejoined, beginning to cut.
“Stop! You’ll ruin it. That’s not the way I want it cut,” she cried.
“You said on somethin’ or other.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Clerk,” she returned, manifestly at the end of her patience. She brushed him aside, and taking up the shears began carefully to cut the material to suit herself.
“I’m sorry, Miss—Clerk,” spoke up Rock, contritely. “I’m not usually so dumb. But you see I never before waited on such a—a girl as you.”
She shot him a gray glance not wholly doubtful or unforgiving. And meeting his eyes caused her to look down again with a tinge of color staining her cheeks.
“I’m not a clerk. Good Heavens! If the gangs I’ve ridden with would drop in here to see me—doin’ this. Whew! . . . My name is Trueman Rock. I’m an old friend of Sol Winter’s.”
“Trueman Rock?” she repeated, almost with a start, as she swiftly lifted big, questioning, surprised eyes. That name was not unfamiliar to her, but Rock could not tell whether she attached good or bad to it.
“Yes. I used to ride this range years ago. I’ve been gone six years—five of which I’ve spent in Texas, workin’ hard and—well, I’d like you to know, because maybe you’ve heard talk here. Workin’ hard and goin’ straight. I sold out. Somethin’ drew me back to Wagontongue. Got here today, and when I ran in to see Sol he left me here in charge of the store. Said no one Would come in, but if some one did to wait on him . . . Well, as you see, some one did come in. I’m sorry I’ve annoyed you—kept you waitin’. But it was Sol’s fault. Only, I should have told you first off.”
“You needn’t apologize, Mr. Rock,” she replied, shyly. “There’s no harm done, except to the rice.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” he returned, coolly. Now that the deception was past, he had begun to feel more like himself.
“Please wrap these for me,” she said, pushing the cut goods along the counter, but she did not look up.
Elaborately Trueman wrapped those parcels.
“Charge to Thiry Preston,” she said.
He found a pencil near at hand, and bending over a piece of wrapping paper, very business-like, he inquired:
“Miss Thiry Preston?”
“Yes, Miss,” she replied.
“Thiry. Pretty name. How do you spell it?”
“T-h-i-r-y,” she replied.
Trueman wrote down the name, in a clear bold hand, obviously to impress her.
“What place?” he went on. Then as she stared, he continued, “Where do you live?”
“Sunset Pass.”
“Way out there?” He glanced up in surprise. “Sixty miles. I know that country—every waterhole, stone, bunch of cactus, and jackrabbit.”
She smiled fully for the first time, and that smile further fascinated Rock.
“You were well acquainted, weren’t you?”
“I expect to renew old acquaintances out there. And I may be lucky enough to make new ones.”
Miss Preston did not meet his glance and there was other evidence of discouragement.
“What instructions about these parcels?”
“None. I’ll carry them.”
“Carry them! All this heavy load? Thirty pounds or more!”
“Surely. I’m quite strong. I’ve carried far more.”
“Where to?”
“Out to the corral. Our buckboard is there. They’ll be waiting and I’m late. I must hurry.”
In rather nervous haste she took up the several light packages and moved toward the other counter. Rock got there first and intercepted her.
“I’ll carry these.”
“Oh, thank you, but you needn’t trouble. I can carry them easily.”
“Sure, I’m sorry, but I really can’t think of it,” returned Trueman, gathering together the bags of groceries. They made a bulky, if not heavy, load.
“But you shouldn’t leave the store,” she protested.
Fortunately, at this juncture Sol Winter hurriedly entered.
“Well, now, what’s this?” he queried, with broad smile. “Thiry, to think you’d happen in just the wrong minute.”
“Oh, Mr. Winter, I didn’t miss you at all,” returned Thiry, gayly. “Your new clerk was most obliging and—and capable—after I found the things I needed.”
“Haw! Haw!—He’s shore a fine clerk. . . . Thiry, meet True Rock, old rider an’ pard of mine.”
“Ah—I remember now,” she flashed. “Is Mr. Rock the rider who once saved your son Nick?
”
“Yes, Thiry,” he replied, and turning to Rock he added, “Son, this lass is Miss Thiry Preston, who’s helped to make some hard times easier for me.”
“Happy to meet you, Miss Preston,” beamed Rock, over his load of bundles.
“How do you do, Mr. Rock,” returned Thiry, with just a hint of mischief in her gray eyes.
“Sol, I was clerk and now I’m delivery boy,” said Trueman. “I’ll be back pronto.”
“You’ve forgotten your hat,” announced Thiry as he started off.
“So I have. Sol, it’s there behind the counter.”
The storekeeper picked up the sombrero and grinned as he placed it on Rock’s head.
“True, I’ll be gibbered if I don’t believe you hid it.”
“Sure did.”
Thiry laughed with them. “Well,” she said, “if you’d worn that, I’d never have taken you for a clerk.”
They went out together and Trueman felt that he was soaring to the blue sky. The heavy bundles were as light as feathers. Outside in the sunshine he could see her better and it was as if some magic had transformed her. Really he had not seen her at all. He felt more deceitful than ever, for he kept turning to her to say ordinary things, about the heat, the dust, and what not, when he only wanted to look at her. They soon reached the end of the street and started across an open flat toward the corrals. How well Rock remembered them! A strange pang tore his breast. Was it regret and shame for the past—of something of which this girl might have heard?
“You’re in an awful hurry,” finally complained Trueman.
“Yes, I am. I’m late, and you don’t know——”
She did not complete the sentence, but nevertheless it told Rock much.
“This load is heavy. You’d never have packed it,” declared Trueman, slowing up. Any excuse was better than none. He was going to lose this wonderful girl in another moment. He wanted to prolong it. Slyly he pinched a hole in the bag of rice and it began to spill out in a thin stream.
“There! We’ve rushed so we’ve broken the sack,” he went on. “And it’s the rice, too! . . . Miss Thiry, it’s an omen.”
“Bad or good?” she asked, archly.
“Why, good, of course—wonderful.”
“Mr. Rock, I fear you are many things besides a clerk,” she said, shaking her head sadly. “Here, let me take the bag. I’ll turn it upside down. If I had far to go with you I’d have no groceries left.”
