Sunset Pass

by Zane Grey

  “Spare yourself, Miss Preston,” returned Rock, impulsively. “It’s wonderful—beautiful of you. I admire and respect you for it. But I can’t understand.”

  “No one can,” she said, sadly. “Alice thinks I’m mad. . . . Oh, how I dread this! But it has to be done—more with you than with any other who ever tried to be friends with me. I’ve known lots of boys, and liked them, too. But not lately. As I grow older Ash grows more jealous. He fears I might like some cowboy.”

  “Oh, I see! Is such a remarkable thing possible?” returned Rock, unable to resist a slight sarcasm.

  “Of course it is,” she retorted. Her eyes flashed at him. “What do you think I am, anyway?”

  “Under the present circumstances I reckon I dare not tell you.”

  “Mr. Rock, you are going to disappoint me, presently.”

  “Good Heavens! What do you think I am, anyway?” retorted Rock, in turn, growing almost desperate.

  “I make a good deal of what Mother and Alice and Dad think,” she said, gently.

  “Well, what’s that?” he queried, suddenly mollified. She could do anything with him.

  “I would dare tell you, but it would only make this unfortunate situation worse. I only hint of it—because it’s not fair to let you think we—or I—dislike you.”

  “Oh, then you don’t?”

  “No. I—I think I really like you, though it’s such short notice for me. . . . And, Mr. Rock, if I had my way, I’d like to be friends with you.”

  “Thank you, Miss Thiry,” he returned, gratefully, swayed by her unexpected avowal. “Honest, I didn’t hope for so much. All I wanted was a chance to prove I could deserve you—your friendship.”

  “I—I dare say you could,” she returned, looking away. “Mr. Winter used to tell me about you. How fond you were of Nick—how you saved his life once. Then Dad. He likes all cowboys, but I never saw him taken with anyone as he is with you. . . . But the thing is I can’t be friends with you.”

  “Because of Ash?”

  “Yes. That’s where the harm would come in. He will not let any boy or man be friends with me—at least out here at Sunset.”

  “Very well. I give up my job and go ride for some other outfit—if you will be my friend.”

  “That’s fine and square of you, Mr. Rock, and I might promise so much.”

  “Much? That isn’t much. I mean only friendship. Do you think I’m the kind of a man who’d want a girl to give more than friendship until he’d earned it? Well, I’m not. And I wouldn’t ask anythin’.”

  “Mr. Rock, you’re making this harder for me,” she said, with pathos.

  “I’m sorry. But go ahead.”

  “Cowboys have called on me here and many have come to ride for Dad. Just the regular run of cowboys. Ash soon got rid of them.”

  “I wonder how he did all that. I know cowboys well, where a pretty girl is concerned. And I’m just curious.”

  “I’ll tell you. Ash has chased them away in every conceivable manner. He’s lied, as he lied to you about my not seeing riders who came to Sunset. He’d coolly invite them to leave. He’d bluff. He’d threaten. He’d cripple and shoot their horses, Oh, that was the vilest thing! He’d get them drunk while on guard—which Dad couldn’t forgive. He’d ridicule any sensitive cowboy before the outfit—so terribly that the poor fellow would leave. He’d concoct devilish schemes to make a cowboy seem negligent or crooked. And as a last resource he’d pick fights. Oh, he has beaten several cowboys brutally. Then worst of all—he has thrown his gun on more than one. Archie Black will be a cripple for life. And Jack Worthington nearly died of a gun-shot.”

  “How very interestin’!” exclaimed Rock, and for the life of him he could not keep his voice normal. “And has nothin’ ever happened to this bully?”

  “Oh, Ash didn’t always come out scot-free. But nothing to bother him. I don’t believe Ash has nerves or heart or feeling.”

  “Yet you love him!” ejaculated Rock, bitterly.

  “I do—more because I seem the only one. But it’s not so much that. I’ve kept him from going to the bad.”

  “How could he be any worse?” asked Trueman, incredulously.

  “Oh, he could be. You don’t know—you can’t understand. But I do.”

  “Miss Thiry, have you been so vastly concerned for the good health of all these poor lovesick cowboys as you seem about mine?” asked Rock.

  “You are sarcastic again. Oh, you’re not—so nice as I thought you’d be. . . . Yes, I was concerned—worried about these boys. But I’ve never been so—so scared as I am over your coming.”

  “Scared!—For me?”

  “Yes, for you—a little. Oh, I can’t lie to you. I’m scared because of the—the harm that may come—if you stay.”

  “A little! How nice of you! All you think of is poor dear Brother. For my face to be beat to a jelly or my leg shot off or worse—that causes you only a little concern. Thanks, Miss Preston. I’m beginnin’ to believe I idealized you rather high.”

  “You’re perfectly horrid!” she cried, passionately. “Yes, indeed, you must have idealized me beyond my merits.”

  Rock leaned closer to study the lovely face, the deep eyes that flamed at him yet tried to hide true feelings. He could speak bitter words, but was instantly full of remorse. Yet how sweet to hurt her!

  “Look me straight in the eyes,” he said, suddenly. “You can’t—you can’t.”

  “Why—you—certainly I can,” she returned, startled. And she did, gravely, tragically. What a marvelous abyss Trueman Rock gazed into! He lost himself there.

  “You said you couldn’t lie?” queried Rock, cruelly, overcome by his own catastrophe.

  “I never told—a—a—black lie in my life,” she faltered, with her head lifting.

  “Then—are you honest with me? What is the reason you want me to run off like a coward?”

  “I’ve been trying to tell you,” she replied, hastily ignoring his first query, which he saw had made her start. “But I don’t want you to be a coward. I’d think it brave, generous, to help me. I told you and I tell you again harm, terrible harm, might come of this, if you stay. Ash will not try any of his tricks on you. For you are different. Why, my dad said to me, not an hour ago, ‘There, lass, is a cowboy whose face Ash won’t rub in the dirt. An’ he won’t be throwin’ guns around so careless. For, Thiry, this fellow, True Rock, is a different kind of a hombre from all those Ash has stacked up against. . . .’ Those were Dad’s very words. I was thunderstruck. It seemed almost as if Dad was glad. I never saw him speak like that. And lightning flashed from his eyes. . . . Oh, this spurred me to speak with you. Can’t you see? You are different. You’re a man—and one with a—a—please forgive—a bloody record. I don’t despise you because of that. Mr. Winter told me of your meeting with that vile Pickins. That same Pickins was once an enemy of father’s. Since I’ve lived West I’ve learned there are bad gunmen and good gunmen. My brother Ash is one kind—you are the other.”

  “Thiry Preston, first you are cruel, then you are kind,” replied Rock, hoarsely, as she paused to catch her breath, with a hand pressed upon her heart. “If you want to drive me away I advise you to keep on bein’ cruel.”

  She was in the grip of strong emotion now, beautiful and soul-moving to Rock.

  “You wouldn’t stay here—with us—and—and leave me alone?” she asked, with a simplicity wholly free of vanity.

  “Yes, I might—if you cut me cold or slammed the door in my face,” he answered.

  “That I couldn’t do. If you stay on, living here and eating at our table, I could not help but talk to you, be with you some. I think it would be nice—if Ash wasn’t around to make me so sick. I—I’m afraid I might like you. There isn’t any reason why I shouldn’t. . . . Now, if you stayed—you’d—you’d—”

  She broke off as if unable to find adequate expression. But her voice, her look, were more than sufficient to make Rock fight temptation. How easy to lie to this inno
cent girl! He could do that and stay on here, and deceive Ash Preston, too.

  “Yes, Miss Thiry, I would,” he returned, swiftly, to get by the danger. “I would be a very great deal worse than any cowboy you ever knew.”

  “So—you see,” she said, entreatingly. “Then you and Ash would fight over me. . . . First with fists, probably, like a couple of beasts. Then with guns! . . . Oh, that’s the horror of it. . . . There would be blood spilled. He might kill you, which would be terrible. But most likely you would kill him.”

  “Suppose I did?” flashed Rock, torn between pity and jealousy.

  She leaped up to stand rigid, with clenched hands and swelling bosom, with such blazing eyes of passion that he was stunned.

  “If it was not my death—I’d kill you myself,” she cried, intensely.

  How wonderful she was! Almost he forgot all in sheer ecstasy. Then remorse laid hold of him again. He was torturing her.

  “Miss Thiry, forgive me again,” he pleaded. “You’ve said an awful thing. But I was to blame. Please sit down. . . . That was only my temper. Listen. I hope I’ll never get into any kind of a fight with Ash.”

  “Oh, what are good intentions to men—where a woman is concerned? You couldn’t keep out of it. You have a fiery temper. . . . And Ash—that devil would make a saint fight.”

  “I’ll just make up my mind I won’t fight. I’ll keep out of his way. I’ll do anythin’.”

  “Except let me alone. Oh, I can’t trust you, Mr. Rock. I daren’t trust the situation.”

  “But, girl, be reasonable. No one yet ever made me do what I didn’t want to do. If I say I won’t fight with words or fists or guns—I won’t.”

  “Not if he insulted you vilely before my family—and others? Not if he slapped you, spat in your face, kicked you as if you were a dog?”

  “Girl, in that case I couldn’t be so sure of myself. But I might stand all that for you.”

  “Then I wouldn’t have you do it,” she cried. “I wouldn’t let you be a coward—be despised by my people—all these range-riders, and your friends.”

  “Those who know me would understand. Reckon I wouldn’t care about others.”

  “But it’d be dreadful to make such—a—a fool of yourself over me,” she protested, hotly. “I—I wouldn’t allow it.”

  “You might not be able to help it. I’d have to be a fool—or else True Rock—one or the other. And I’d certainly rather be a fool than hurt you.”

  “But you’ve only seen me once!” she exclaimed, despairingly.

  “I’m not committin’ myself yet, because I’d hate to embarrass you more without bein’ sure. But I’m afraid, if seein’ you the other day wasn’t enough, this time is.”

  “Oh, please go away tomorrow—before it’s too late,” she implored.

  “You want me to go as bad as that?” asked Rock, weakening.

  “I beg you to. I’ve begun to be afraid of you, and I wasn’t at first. You’re so sharp—so keen. You’ll—”

  Suddenly in her agitation, she jerked a hand to her lips, as if to silence them. Her eyes dilated. She stared up at Rock like a child who had almost betrayed herself. And Rock, if he did not read her mind, had intuition enough to grasp that part of Thiry’s fear, perhaps the greater, was not due to the inevitable clash between him and Ash. She was afraid he would find out something. Rock hastened to thrust the insidious thought from him.

  “Afraid of me!” he ejaculated, hurriedly. “Why, Thiry—Miss Thiry, that’s absurd! Right this minute I’m the best friend you have in the world.”

  “Then prove it,” she said, bending closer.

  “How?”

  “Go away tomorrow.”

  “And never see you again?” he queried, blankly.

  “It would be best,” she returned, and looked away. “But I didn’t say you’d never see me again. Perhaps I—we might meet in town. I’m going in over the Fourth. Mrs. Dabb is to give a dance. I could see you there.”

  At that Rock laughed rather wildly. “At Amy Wund’s house? Not much. . . .”

  “Then at the dance. It won’t be at her house. I—I’ll go with you—if you ask me.”

  “Don’t bribe me to run off from Sunset Pass,” he said, ponderingly. “But thank you for sayin’ you’d go with me. I’d like to. But I’m not invited and don’t expect to be.”

  “I’ll see you get an invitation, Mr. Rock.”

  “Don’t tempt me. I’d almost give my head to take you to a dance. I’d almost quit my job here and then come back to it again.”

  “But that would be a lie,” she returned, severely.

  “Well, I might lie, too. I don’t mean to you, but for you.”

  “Please, Mr. Rock, go away tomorrow before trouble comes. I’ll never be able to thank you enough. It’s the only chance you have to be my—my friend.”

  “You’re a queer, wonderful girl,” he replied, puzzled and sad.

  “I will come to town oftener—then,” she almost whispered.

  “You’d meet me in town and hope to deceive Ash?” queried Rock, bluntly.

  “Yes. I—I’ll try,” she faltered.

  “But he’d find it out. You can’t fool that hombre. Then he would have a real case against me. He’d hunt me down, force me to meet him.”

  “Oh!” she cried, poignantly.

  “If I give in to you and leave Sunset Pass, I’d never willingly see you again,” he went on, with more bitterness.

  “Mr. Rock, that wouldn’t be such a—a loss to you as you imagine now,” she answered.

  “I don’t know. All I know is that I hate to refuse you anythin’. Reckon I can’t, if it’s for your sake. But if I do it, I’ll go plumb to hell!”

  She questioned him with mute lips and beseeching glance.

  “Listen. There’s two sides to this deal, and here’s mine,” he began, leaning close so that he could see her better in the pale shadow. “I want you to know about me. I was born in Illinois. My mother and father are livin’. They’re quite old now. I was home five years ago. I have a sister. She ought to be nineteen now—a fine, pretty girl. Well, I went to school till we moved out West. Then I went to ridin’. My father lost out in the cattle business and took the family back home. I stayed. That was—fourteen—sixteen years ago. Durin’ these sixteen years I’ve lived the life of a wanderin’, ridin’, drinkin’, fightin’ cowboy. I stuck here on this range longest of all. I don’t say I was bad, but I wasn’t much good. . . . I was always gettin’ in trouble for other people. . . . That’s how I came to shoot Pickins. It was a good riddance. But the sheriff then—Cass Seward—was a friend of Pickins’s. I didn’t want to kill Seward, so I left Wagontongue. I stayed away six years. Then had to come back. I got there the day I met you. Found out Seward was gone. Found out a lot of other things. I wanted to know about my old girls. I had always been crazy over pretty girls. Ran after anyone. Liked some—and, reckoned I loved—or imagined I loved others. Sol Winter told me a lot of bad news about the girls—and about his son Nick. So I lost my happy mood. I wanted to go out and get drunk. Sol asked me to keep store for him. And I sat there sinkin’ into one of the old black spells that had kept me from makin’ some one out of myself. Pretty soon I would go and get awful drunk. I had a hunch that it’d be kind of a climax in my life. But I didn’t care. . . . Then you, Thiry Preston, walked in that store. And I didn’t want to go out and get drunk. Somethin’ happened. I don’t know yet what it was. But it was wonderful. Sure you remember how funny I was—don’t you?”

  “Oh, I thought you funny then, but now I see you weren’t,” she said.

  “No, I’m sure not so funny now,” he went on, with dark passion. “Somethin’ happened to me. It’s been such a tearin’, changin’ somethin’ that I don’t know myself. I’m findin’ out little by little. Seein’ you this second time has helped a lot. I’ll make a clean breast of all—soon as I know. But right now I know—if you don’t turn your back on me—I’ll never drink again. Or hunt for a fight! Or w
aste my time and money!”

  “Mr.—Rock!” she exclaimed, rising, low-voiced and trembling. “Are you telling me you—you love me?”

  “No, I’m not tellin’ you that,” he returned, doggedly. “But I’m sure afraid somethin’s terrible wrong. . . . It’s this here wrong, Miss Thiry—that if you make me, by your coldness to me and your pleadin’ for that no-good brother, leave Sunset Pass, I’ll go plumb to hell. I know that. It’d be too much.”

  “Coldness? . . . I think I have been anything but cold,” she murmured, sinking back on the bench.

  “You’ve frozen me so I’m stiff. I can’t talk. But it’ll be good for me. I’ve been spoiled. I’ve grown conceited. I need just this lesson you’re teachin’ me. . . . But, Miss Thiry, please—please don’t make me go away.”

  “Could I make you do anything? How silly!—But if you’re manly enough to save me misery, you’ll go.”

  “That’s hittin’ hard,” he returned, shrinking. Then he jerked up his drooping head. “Suppose I get it into my mind that by stayin’ I can save you more misery?”

  “Mr. Rock!” she cried, shocked.

  His sudden query had been a random shot, but it struck home. Rock’s heart leaped. He had to stifle a wild impulse.

  “Quien sabe? I might,” he returned, almost coldly. “Give me a day to think over whether I’ll go or stay. Reckon so far the fight’s one-sided and in your favor. . . . I’ll meet you tomorrow night and tell you.”

  “Tomorrow night.—Here at this hour?” she returned, rising from the seat.

  “Yes. Good night, Miss Preston.”

  “I’m very, very sorry— You. . . . Good night.”

  Rock gave her one long look as she stood now in the moonlight. He would carry that picture in his heart of hearts all his days. Then he strode away, and when he turned, at quite some distance, she was still standing like a white statue.

  He made his bed on the porch, so that he could lie there and watch the moon, and think over this maddening situation.