by Zane Grey
Rock accepted his dismissal with good grace, feeling exultant over the unexpected response. However, as he was closing the door, Dabb called him back.
“I forgot something,” he said. “I think I ought to tell you I’ve broken business relations with Preston.”
“When?”
“Last Friday, when Preston was here.”
“May I ask what were the business relations?”
“Preston had the small end of a cattle deal with me. I bought him out. And then I canceled all beef orders.”
Dabb lowered his glance at this juncture and absent-mindedly drew figures on his desk.
“How did Preston take that?” inquired Rock, after a moment.
“Kicked about the cattle deal. But I took it he was relieved to get out of selling me more beef.”
“Relieved.—What you mean?”
“He just struck me that way. Didn’t ask me why. I was glad. My reason was good, but I could scarcely divulge it to him.”
“Mind tellin’ me?” went on Rock, leisurely rolling a cigarette.
“Yes, I’d mind. It would necessitate violating some one’s confidence. You’ll have to find out for yourself, Rock.”
“Reckon so. Well, I’m such a dumb hombre it may take me long.—By the way, Dabb, are you still head of the Territory Cattle Association?”
“No, I resigned. Hesbitt was recently elected.”
“Gee! Sorry to hear it.”
“Why so? Hesbitt is said to be a better executive than I was.”
“He never was a cowboy,” returned Rock, significantly. “Good day, Dabb. Reckon I’ll meet up with you at the rodeo and the dance.”
“Likely. I can’t very well take to bull-dogging steers again. But I’ll drop in on Amy’s dance for a couple if I break a leg.”
“Now you’re shoutin’, John,” replied Rock, gladly, and went out.
There were bustle and activity on the street. Wagontongue was filling up for the Fourth. Rock saw that the town hall had been gayly decorated in red, white and blue. Flags were showing. Youngsters were already setting off firecrackers. The hitching-rails were lined with saddle-horses. Down the long main street, wagons came toiling in from the desert. Cowboys, Mexicans, Indians were numerous, mostly in the vicinity of the saloon, Happy Days. Rock swore pleasantly to himself, in his assurance that he had walked in or out of this saloon, cowboy—happy and drunk, for the last time.
An hour of sauntering to and fro provided Rock with some amusement and interest, but his main object, which was to allow Clink Peeples the meeting he was reported to be seeking, did not materialize. Whereupon he went to get dinner, finding the restaurant crowded. After that he sat in the hotel lobby until he could not stand it any longer. Then in his room he killed some more time, dwelling again on his interview with Dabb.
It had been of both good and bad cheer—good in its intimation of possible contentment for Amy, if he could only be instrumental in rousing the best in her instead of inciting the worst; and bad for himself, inasmuch as it added materially to the persistent, evil rumor hovering like a gathering cloud over the Prestons.
In the afternoon, rather late, Rock walked round to see Winter. He was received almost with open arms.
“Hey, you been drinkin’?” expostulated Rock, holding his friend at arm’s-length.
“Nope. That is, not red liquor. But I shore been drinkin’ in Thiry’s sweet smiles an’ words.”
“No!”
“Yep. The Prestons got in early. Drove all day yesterday an’ half into the night.”
“Dog-gone!—I didn’t expect her till tomorrow.”
“True, she has been in half a dozen times,” went on Winter, eager to reveal the momentous fact. “Asked for you every time!”
“Sol, you lyin’ old geezer! My heart might stand her askin’ once.—But six times! . . . I ought to choke you.”
“Son, mebbe it’s not all gospel truth. When she first run in she was her old nice sweet cool self. Kissed me. Said she an’ Alice were all fixed up nice out at my house. She asked if I’d seen you. An’ I told her I hadn’t yet today, but thet you’d be in. Then she said Ash hadn’t come to town an’ wasn’t comin’. I was too surprised to say more’n thet mebbe once she’d have a real good time. She blushed at thet. An hour later she came in again, somehow different. She bought buntin’. She was helpin’ Amy Dabb decorate the dance hall. Asked had I seen you yet, an’ I said no. She went out an’ pretty soon came back, a little more different. She had a red spot in each cheek. An’ so she came an’ went, till the last time, a little while ago, when she was with Amy. Then you bet she didn’t ask about you. He! He! He! . . . I’ll bet you a million Amy got in some good licks.”
“Sol, you can laugh about that!” ejaculated Rock, with a groan.
“These here girls strike me funny. True, shore as you’re born, Amy had been fillin’ poor Thiry full of guff about how wild you was over her, an’ mebbe was yet.”
“Of course she had. It’s terrible. Thiry will be disgusted with me.”
“Wal, she wasn’t, not so you could notice it,” said Sol, dryly.
“Reckon I’ve the rottenest luck of any cowpuncher who ever forked a horse,” went on Rock, raving. “Here all day that fire-eatin’ Dabb woman has been ruinin’ me with my girl—when I’ve been tryin’ to help her. If that isn’t like her.”
“What’d you do, Rock?” queried Winter, with quick interest.
“I went and made friends with John Dabb.”
“You did? Holy mavericks! What was your idee, son?”
Rock heard Winter, but only vaguely, for he was rushing out to the door, where through the window he had espied Thiry Preston.
Fortunately Thiry did not see him until he emerged, to all appearances in a normal manner for a young man to step out on the sidewalk. The action, however, brought him right in front of Thiry.
“Why, hello!” he said, forcing a pleasant surprise to hide his rapture, as he doffed his sombrero. “Heard you were here. Really didn’t expect you till tomorrow.”
She greeted him shyly, with absence of that inhibited expression which marked her meetings with him at Sunset Pass. She wore a light-blue dress and a new bonnet, the rather wide brim of which shaded her face somewhat. Still, he saw that her cheeks were not pale and her eyes not tranquil.
“We started at daybreak yesterday morning,” she was saying. “The boys were no good at all, and the youngsters simply mad to come—so Dad sent us off a day ahead.”
“That’s fine. The kids will have the time of their lives. Where are they?”
“Goodness only knows. In one of the stores somewhere. . . . Oh, Ash stayed home.”
She spoke this as if it was an afterthought, scarcely important.
“That so?” replied Rock, with constraint, though he tingled. “Well. It’s too bad, if you’re disappointed.”
“I’m so greatly relieved I—I don’t know myself,” she replied, with unexpected candor. “I don’t remember a Fourth that Ash hasn’t spoiled by getting drunk.”
“May I walk with you a step?” asked Rock, changing the subject. “Where are you going?”
“You may. I’m on my last errand,” she replied, and waved a gay hand at Winter, who was looking on with a broad smile.
Rock fell in with her short quick steps and made careful remarks about the weather, and the town being full of people, until they reached the baker’s, where she said she was to order things for Mrs. Winter.
“I’ll wait for you,” said Rock.
“Are you afraid to walk into a bakeshop with a girl?” she asked, and the wide bonnet-brim tilted just far enough and long enough for him to catch a flash of gray eyes.
“Not—exactly afraid,” confessed Rock, who, as a matter of truth, was scared into consternation because this could not really be actually happening out of a dream.
“From what I’ve heard—recently—you could march into a lion’s den—for a—for certain people,” she said, distantly.
> “Ahuh, reckon I could—for—for a certain person,” replied Rock, beginning lamely and ending valiantly. That brought the blue bonnet-brim down to hide most of her face. Rock, however, thought he caught a glimpse of a coloring cheek. He escorted her into the store, stood beside her while she gave her orders, and accompanied her out.
“I’m to wait here for Allie. She won’t be long,” said Thiry, stopping outside before the window.
“Hope she’ll be late,” returned Rock, trying vainly to find himself.
Presently she lifted her head so that the bonnet no longer could be anathematized. Rock devoured her lovely face before he realized it had never worn such an expression for him. Doubt, disdain, petulance!
“You’re going to the dance,” she said. It was not a question.
“Reckon I’ll drop in for a peep,” he replied, his heart giving symptoms of pyrotechnics.
“Are you going to mask?”
“Sure. It wouldn’t be fun otherwise.”
“Would you tell me what you’ll wear?” she asked, sweetly—too sweetly not to be dangerous.
“Thiry, that’d spoil the fun. I sure want to fool you,” he protested.
“Have you not already fooled me?” she went on, with bitterness tinged by pathos.
“I have not!” he shot at her, swift to speak his sudden passion. It startled her.
“Trueman Rock, you have a great deal to disprove and more to prove,” she said, wide strange eyes on his.
“Thiry!” he gasped, suddenly beside himself.
“You would not tell me what you were going to wear—so I’d recognize you first.”
“Of course I’ll tell you,” he burst out.
“I don’t care to know now. . . . You would not see me, anyhow.”
He could only stare mutely. His bosom seemed rent with a conflict—the objective belief in anything she might utter, and the bewildering undercurrent that betrayed her. Wild recollection of her father’s sly predictions further added to his state.
“Mr. Rock,” she went on, without the scorn, “I had better explain my rather bold words. This dance was to be the first gay happy time for me—since I grew up. Dad somehow prevented Ash from coming to town. He filled me with—with beliefs about how you would make it wonderful for me. I have no one but my brothers, and they all have their girls. I—I dreamed myself into . . . no matter what. . . . Then I come to town to have my ears filled to burning—all day long. The dance was to be given for you! You wouldn’t even dance with any other woman but her! You were an old lover renewing his vows! You——”
“Thiry, hush!” interposed Trueman, in rage, despair, and exaltation, all bewilderingly mingled. “I told you I didn’t care what anyone said to you about my old affairs. But if you care, then I hate the very thought of them.”
“Trueman, I don’t know how much, or why, or if I care. But I trusted you and that woman has killed it.”
“Oh no, Thiry, don’t say that,” he implored.
“But there’s a secret understanding between you and her—for this dance.”
“Yes, there is. But it’s sure not sentiment on my part,” he replied, humbly. “Thiry, if you won’t trust me, I shall have to give her away. And I never did that to a girl in my life.”
“How could I trust a man who would betray any woman—much less her?”
“You couldn’t. And I deserve that rebuke. But, Thiry, I’m dumfounded. Dear child, be reasonable. Why, I was going to get my happy time just spying upon you from some corner. I never dared hope to get to dance with you. Good Heavens!”
“Trueman, I meant to dance only with my brothers, and perhaps one or two of the boys I know—and all the rest with you.”
“Thiry Preston, you tell me this—this——” he cried, and failed to find adequate conclusion.
“Yes, I tell you,” she retorted. “I couldn’t do it at home, because I didn’t know. But that’s no difference.”
“Of course it isn’t. I should have made some wild dream come true. But, Thiry, it’s not too late.”
“Oh, it is,” she said, disconsolately, yet she seemed to hunger to be persuaded. “She has spoiled——”
“Listen,” he broke in. “I meant to befriend Amy Dabb. She needs it, Heaven knows, as you will see for yourself tomorrow night. But if you let her jealous tongue spoil anythin’ for you, I’m through.”
“Trueman, I could forgive a great deal, I think, but no bold lie,” she murmured, her grave eyes piercing him.
“I would not lie to you, to save my life,” he returned, in weary cold finality.
“I apologize. It is I who am a little suspicious,” she returned, softly. “Trueman, I make this excuse. I’m not used to intrigue, to deceit. . . . Oh yes, I’m a woman and I haven’t told you my real feelings. And I cannot. But I could never cope with Mrs. Dabb. She read my soul and tortured it. She thought I might 1—like you and meant to destroy.”
“Thiry, did she destroy what little there might have been?” asked Rock.
She averted her face. “I don’t know. I’m all excited. When I get back home I’ll be appalled. But, oh, I—I want to have this dance! You’ll understand me, Trueman, won’t you? That’s one thing I do trust.”
“I’ll do my best. But you are strange. Sure there never was a girl like you.”
“In what way?” she asked, giving him again the gray sweet wonder of her eyes.
“Thiry, I could not find words here,” he replied, striving for calm. Indeed, where or when could he ever do justice to her strangeness, her inconsistency, her innocence and simplicity? “Perhaps at the dance——”
“Perhaps at the dance—then—if you disprove much and prove more I will——”
The arrival of Alice Preston, breathless and pink and merry, checked Rock’s impassioned reply that otherwise he could not have resisted, even if Thiry had never completed her thought-compelling sentence. The girls, laughing and talking, started for home, and Rock accompanied them toward the corner.
Just before they arrived there, a man and a woman hove in sight. Evidently she was trying to hurry away from him.
“I tell you no—no!” she cried, in a rage. Then Rock recognized the voice and the blazing black eyes. Amy Dabb! The man was a tall rider. He wore a red scarf, and his face was almost as red.
“See heah, sweetheart, you cain’t come thet with me,” he drawled, blocking her way.
“Shut up, you d——fool! Some one might hear you,” she cried, passionately and low.
Rock with a stride and a leap was upon them.
“Somebody did hear you, Amy. Rustle now, with the girls,” said Rock, sharply, as he gave the rider a hard thrust backward and then confronted him.
“Howdy, Mister Red Scarf!”
CHAPTER
TEN
THE red-scarfed rider had evidently had a drink or two, but he appeared level-headed, and slowly the devilish geniality with which he had accosted Amy Dabb faded into cold, watchful speculation. His tawny gaze swept Rock from head to foot, and back again.
“Howdy, Mister Big Hat!” he replied, with capital imitation of Rock’s greeting to him.
“My name is Rock.”
“Aboot had thet reckoned,” returned the rider, guardedly.
“You’re Hesbitt’s foreman, Peeples,” went on Rock, curtly. “He told me you were lookin’ for me.”
“I shore was.”
“Ahuh. Reckon you didn’t look very hard,” rejoined Rock, in slight derision.
“Wal, I cain’t say there was any particular call to rustle.”
Thus these two range-riders measured each other. Rock’s reaction was vastly diverse from that following his encounter with Ash Preston. The foreman of Hesbitt’s outfit appeared to belong to that type of cowboy whom Rock was wont to believe the salt of the earth.
“You’re not drunk,” replied Rock. “How’s it you insult a married woman on the street?”
“Is thet any of your bizness?”
“It shore is. I’m an
old friend of Amy Dabb’s. Rode for her husband. Reckon it’s not exaggeratin’ to claim I’m his friend, too.”
“All right, Rock, I apologize,” returned the foreman, readily, though resentfully. “But honest to God, it shore ain’t because I think I ought to.”
“I heard what she said, and your answer. Peeples, you ought to be horsewhipped for that. Then you wouldn’t let her pass.”
“Aw, hell! She shore wasn’t thet way when we was alone indoors, last time I seen her,” said Peeples. “She plumb surprised me—made me sore.”
“No wonder, if you thought bad of her,” rejoined Rock, feeling his way. This man could be talked to. “Reckon you don’t know Amy well. She’s a lonesome and unhappy girl. She met you, liked you, because you’re a good-lookin’ and interestin’ cowboy. And I reckon she let you hold her hand—maybe kiss her, though that’s pretty reckless even for Amy. You scared her, most likely. And afterward she got to thinkin’, remembered she was married, and made up her mind next time to cut you. It’s the way of some women, Peeples. Tough on a fellow, but he’s to blame. Now, tell me square, don’t you think it was kind of low-down to brace her, right on the street?”
“Rock, I reckon it was, if she’s what you seem to think,” responded Peeples, staring hard. “I shore didn’t. . . . An’ how aboot my takin’ you as a slick hombre—a liar—sweet on her yourself, an’ wantin’ the inside track?”
“Peeples, you can take me any way you like,” responded Rock, speaking hard. “But if you do it that particular way you’ve got trouble on your hands right now.”
“So I aboot reckoned,” nodded the rider. “Strikes me I’ve got to take a lot for granted aboot you. Shore you know more aboot me than I do aboot you. It ain’t a very square deal all around.”
“I would take your word, if you shook on it,” replied Rock.
“Wal, I guess I’d take yours.”
“All right, Peeples. We’re gettin’ somewhere,” said Rock, more heartily. It always warmed him to be taken seriously when he was in earnest. “I’ll give you my word, confidentially. I’m not sweet on Amy Dabb. Only want to help her, before it’s too late. . . . And more, I am darn good and awful sweet on some other girl.”
