by Zane Grey
“Why, of course you can!” she rejoined, manifestly thrilled.
“I’d like you to know what meetin’ Thiry has done for me. I used to be a pretty tough cowboy, they tell me. But I can never be again what I was. I will never care for any other girl—no matter what Thiry does to me. I just worship her. To say I love her isn’t enough. Please don’t think this just the ravin’ of a wild cowboy. I’m no boy any more, Allie. I’m thirty-two, old enough to know my mind, don’t you think? . . . Well, I’m beggin’ you to trust me, to believe in me, and to be my friend. I’ll give my word you’ll never, never be sorry. . . . When we get back to Sunset Pass I’ll not distress Thiry, I’ll content myself findin’ some way to serve her, and all of you. I’ll keep away from her, if that is possible for me, while Ash is there. . . . Will you stand by me, Allie?”
“You bet I will,” she replied, with surprising vehemence.
“That makes me your friend for life,” said Rock, feelingly.
“Thiry is unhappy, not like her old self. It’s the way Ash nags her. Why, she can’t call her soul her own. I get so furious. I wouldn’t stand it. But Thiry loves Ash as much as I hate him.”
“Allie, don’t say that. He’s your brother.”
“I don’t care if he is. I ought to be ashamed. But I’m not. I never felt like his sister. And you can bet he never treated me as if I were.”
“There goes the music,” replied Rock, and he arose. “I’ll take you back to the hall. . . . Allie, our dance was fine. And I just couldn’t say how much our talk means to me.”
“Trueman Rock, I can’t help but like you,” she said, with a serious abruptness that reminded him of Thiry. Rock divined from her words and look that he had been on trial. Then at the door of the hall she squeezed his arm and left him.
Rock became all eyes then. He was no longer a masquerader, nor a lovelorn shadow of his lady. He shifted in one moment to the cool, searching cowboy on a trail. His searching gaze was concerned with the masculine element of that gay crowd. If Ash Preston was there, Rock determined to locate him. It seemed extremely unlikely that Ash would mask and dance in order to spy upon Thiry, but Rock, believing the fellow was capable of anything, had to satisfy himself. He lounged around the door of the hall during two dances before he convinced himself that Ash was not among the cowboys dancing. Then he strolled down one long aisle and up the other, peering at every man and into every shadow. Likewise he searched the patio. Then he went into the corridor and toward the entrance, where the deputy and his sheriffs still held forth, faithful to the duty imposed upon them. When Ash Preston came in he would have to be masked and he could not hide a gun from those laconic Westerners. This afforded Rock relief. Returning to his post just inside the dance-hall door, he took up his vigil there.
Another dance had just started. The big hall was a wonderful spectacle of movement, color, youth, beauty, and humor, for some of the cowboys were enough to make anyone laugh. They were growing noisy, too, but it was only hilarious fun. Rock did not see an objectionable thing. Certainly there had never been such a dance before in that country. They were making the most of it, and Rock, in his mind’s eye, could see them telling around the camp fires of the future the story of that wonderful affair.
Then he espied Thiry, conspicuous in white and notable for her grace. She was dancing with one of the lanky youths with whom she and Alice had come. Either he was a capital dancer or inspired by his partner. As they came around in the gliding circle she espied Rock over her partner’s arm. What a smile she gave Rock! It made his heart beat faster. She appeared flushed under the white mask and powder. No doubt of her enjoyment! Probably for the hour she had forgotten the menace of Ash Preston. Soon that dance ended, and as the laughing throng pressed in a stream out the door, some one—a woman—thrust her face close under Rock’s.
“Traitor!” she whispered, and went on. The wine-dark hot eyes, through the red mask, the gold-and-black Spanish gown, so striking on the slender figure, belonged to Amy Dabb.
Trueman whistled to keep from swearing. He had actually forgotten Amy. Dance after dance had gone by, and he had never even seen her. But suppose he had! His dismay was short-lived, in that he looked around from the disappearing Amy to see Thiry close at hand, coming alone.
“Señor del Toro, you look lonesome,” she said, gayly. “Are there no charming señoritas here?”
“I can see only one.”
“You have not danced?”
“Once, with Allie. Sure she is a bird.”
“Then you enjoyed it?”
“Wonderful! And the little minx soon saw through my disguise.”
“Come. The rest is yours,” she said, and took his arm.
“Have you enjoyed yourself?” he asked, as they mingled with the merry masqueraders in the patio.
“Oh, so much! It has been such fun. And I remembered I loved to dance. Then the music, the costumes, the excitement—oh, I can’t tell you.”
“Has anyone discovered you?”
“Only one I know of, Amy Dabb. She was quick to see through it.”
“Well. Did she say anythin’?”
“I rather think so.”
“What?” asked Rock, intensely.
“She said: ‘Hello, Thiry! You look great. But wedding-gowns don’t always mean wedding-bells.’”
“Humph! That was sweet of Amy, now. She has a nasty tongue, as I well know. . . . Thiry, I reckon there’s not a young man at this dance who wouldn’t ring weddin’-bells for you.”
“Rash flattery, Trueman,” she retorted. “There must be many. I know five boys who are madly in love with their prospective partners.”
“Five? . . . You mean six!” rejoined Rock.
“No. There are Al and Tom and Hal, my brothers. Then the two Farrell boys. I don’t know anyone else here.”
“Thiry, I make number six,” said Rock, and quickly looked away, too guilty to dare to see how she took his remark. She made no reply at all. In silence they went the rounds of the patio, then up one arched aisle and down another, back to the dancing-floor. The music blared out. From behind, the eager masqueraders pressed, and Rock found himself in the hall.
Thiry looked up with inscrutable eyes.
“You broke your word. You make me remember,” she said, reproachfully, as she gave way to his encircling arm.
A pang shot through Rock, but he did not think it was remorse. The miracle that tore him was his possession of this lovely girl. She was in his arms. She yielded to, rather than resisted, the close embrace he could not have forsworn to save his life. Rock was vaguely aware of the swaying, gliding, circling dancers, the grotesque masks, the low roar of voices mingled with sliding feet, and the unavoidable contacts. But the enchantment was Thiry, whose grace equaled Alice’s, whose clasping hands and slender form unconsciously belied her reproachful words. That dance was brief as a fleeting moment, but endless in its intangible mystery and joy.
Again they strolled under the magic rose and purple of the dimming lanterns, and on to the secluded bower in the patio. Here the stars shone white and watchful through the foliage. Somewhere a guitar twanged low melody and a girl’s sweet voice in Spanish accompanied it. The water tinkled off in the darkness.
“It’s very—warm,” murmured Thiry, as Rock leaned over her in the shadow.
“Take off your mask,” he suggested.
“No, señor.”
Trueman took her hand in his. It was an almost instinctive action on his part. She made no attempt to withdraw it, greatly to his surprise and joy.
“Trueman, you must take me home soon,” she said, as if coming out of a spell. The time and the place, the languorous atmosphere of this Spanish edifice, which, though new, seemed old in beauty and romance, the music, the dancers, the youth had indeed called to Thiry Preston.
“Oh no, not now. Just one more dance,” pleaded Rock. “You said the rest were mine.”
“But I’d forgotten.”
“What?”
�
�Ash will come any moment. I feel it—here,” she whispered, her hand on her breast.
“Thiry, he is not here now. I’ve looked clear through every man in the outfit. Please risk it.”
“Well, then—one more.”
But at the end of this dance she forgot again or could not resist the joy of the hour. Once more Rock led her to their shadowed corner, once more he held an unresisting hand.
“Take off your mask,” he begged again.
“Can you put it back on—right?” she replied, a little tremulously.
“Sure I can.”
Then she was unmasked under his worshiping eyes, under the dim rose light of the lantern above and the far, white, and knowing stars. Once she lifted her eyes to him—eyes that betrayed the spell of the moment—then no more.
“You do not talk, señor,” she said, trying for conversation.
“How can I? . . . I’m holdin’ your hand.”
“Oh, so you are!—Well, let go.”
“Pull it away,” he whispered, daringly.
But she did not.
Rock won her to stay one more dance, reveled in his power to persuade her, though his conscience flayed him. What risk he might incur for her! But he gambled with his happiness.
“Trueman, we must go now,” she said, nervously.
“Yes. But don’t you hate to?” he returned, jealously.
“No. I’m too thankful for—for all it’s been.”
“Thiry, you are warm. We must get somethin’ to throw over your shoulders when we go out.”
“I have a shawl.”
They reached the patio. Something had happened, as Rock guessed from excited voices. A girl cried out in dismay.
“Hey, look out there!” called some one, unmistakably a cowboy.
“He snatched at my mask,” replied a girl, angrily.
“He got mine,” added another woman, shrilly. “The mean thing. That’s no fun.”
Rock drew Thiry to the right, out of the press.
“Some cowboy snatchin’ masks,” he said, hurriedly.
Suddenly into the open space before him leaped a lithe figure of a cowboy, wearing a red handkerchief as a mask. He was as quick as light—so quick that Rock scarcely guessed his purpose in time to thwart it. But Rock was on the wrong side of Thiry. One sweep of hand tore Thiry’s mask from her white face! She cried out and spasmodically clutched Rock’s arm.
The cowboy appeared to leap up. He snatched off the red handkerchief that masked him, to disclose the livid face of Ash Preston. His evil eyes, like coals of blue fire, flashed over her face, her bare neck and arms, her spreading ruffled gown.
“Ash,” gasped Thiry, clutching Rock’s arm tighter, “meet Señor del Toro—my masquerade partner!”
“Señor ’ell!” he bit out, incredibly cold and fierce. Like a snake’s head his hand shot out, to fasten in Thiry’s bodice and tear with fiendish swiftness.
In one single action Rock freed himself from Thiry and struck Preston on the side of the face. He went down with a thud. Women screamed; men shouted excitedly; and all spread back hurriedly. Up bounded Preston, with catlike quickness, his hand flashing back for his gun. But it was not there. He had passed the sheriff and had forgotten. If it were possible his wolfish face gleamed fiercer. His tawny hair stood up.
“Greaser, I’ll kill you for thet!” he ground out.
“Carramba!” replied Rock, and made at Preston with terrific fury. His onslaught was like a battering-ram. He cared nothing for Preston’s sudden blows. He broke through them, beat him back, and knocked him against the wall. Ash fell, but got up cursing, to come back wilder than ever, his face the redder for blood. There was a swift interchange of blows, then one from Rock staggered Preston. Another swift and hard, hitting solid like an ax on beef, sent Preston in a long fall. Before he could rise Rock plunged upon him, beat him with right, left, right, left—tremendous blows that made Ash sink limp. Rock seized him by the neck, choked and shook him as a terrier with a rat, and rising, dragged him to the fountain and threw him bodily into the shallow water. Ash lay on his back, his head just above the surface, and though still conscious he did not have strength to get up.
Rock, remembering his mask, felt for it and found it intact. That helped release him from the grip of an awful anger. Thiry’s white mask lay where Preston had dropped it. Snatching it up, Rock whirled to see some woman in the act of covering Thiry’s naked shoulders and bosom with a shawl.
“Come—we’ll—get out—of here,” he panted, hoarsely, and placing a firm hand under her arm he led her away from the gaping crowd, down the corridor toward the outlet. The voices of excited people grew fainter. Rock halted long enough to produce his check and get his gun-belt, which he threw over his left arm.
“What’s up in thar?” queried the sheriff, sharply eying Rock.
“Some fool cowboy snatchin’ masks off the ladies,” replied Rock, and hurried Thiry out, through the crowd of Mexicans, to the street and darkness.
Thiry was weak. She leaned on his arm. Still she kept up with his rapid steps. Not for three blocks did Rock speak, nor did she.
“He—didn’t know you,” she burst out, then. “Called you greaser!”
“Yes, that’s the only good thing about it,” returned Rock, stirring to recover under such pressure as he had never experienced. He was wringing wet with cold sweat and quivering in all his muscles. A knot of fire within seemed to be loosening. His mouth was dry, his tongue thick.
“My God! What shame—what disgrace—distress I’ve brought on you!” he muttered when he could speak.
She was sobbing a little and clinging to the arm with which Rock upheld her.
“He tore my waist—almost off. Oh, I don’t mind the shame of that—so much. But the gown mother treasured. She loved it so. . . . She’ll be heart-broken.”
“What’s a dress?—That can be—mended,” he panted. “But I kept you there. Too long! It was my—fault—my fault.”
“I was to blame, too,” she said, loyally.
“If I had only left when you wanted to go!” he returned, fiercely. “After my promise to you! God! what luck I have.”
“Trueman, I shouldn’t have gone. I knew something dreadful would happen. I told you. . . . Only he was worse than I ever saw him.”
“Worse!—He was a hydrophobia skunk!”
“Oh, Ash! . . . My brother!” she cried, brokenly.
Her grief tortured Rock, but he did not have it in him to retract his words. What language could do justice to Ash Preston! They hurried on, to the edge of town, down the pine-skirted road. The night was starry, almost cool, and the wind moved through the tree-tops. Presently they reached Winter’s house, which sat back among the trees. Rock saw a light. He wanted to say good night to Thiry at the gate, but could not. She still clung to him. At the porch he halted, and helped her up. It was shaded there by trees, but he could still see her pale face and the great eyes, strange and dark in the night. Before he knew what he was doing he clasped his arms round her, as she stood a little above him. She did not repulse him, but she pressed her hands against his shoulders. Thus they looked at each other in the shadow.
“Forgive me, Thiry,” he implored.
“There’s nothing to forgive,” she faltered.
“I’ll go to my room before anyone sees me. Ash didn’t know me. He never will.”
“She will tell,” said Thiry, hopelessly.
“Who? Allie? Oh no. She’ll be as true as steel,” he declared.
“Not Allie. I mean that jealous woman.”
“Amy Dabb!” exclaimed Rock, with a start. “She did know. But she’ll have no chance tonight. Reckon your noble brother couldn’t hear if she tried to tell him. But they’ll pack him out of there pronto. Tomorrow I’ll find some way to shut her mouth.”
“Yes, you will,” said Thiry, with sad derision. “Don’t waste your breath, Trueman. Don’t ask her. Perhaps it will not occur to her that Ash didn’t know you.”
“Th
en let’s hope for the best . . . that I won’t have to run away to avoid a real fight with Ash.”
“Real! I’d like to know what you’d call what you had. But it was one-sided. Scared as I was, I saw that. . . . Trueman, you were wonderful. Oh, if it had not been my brother!”
“He deserved it, Thiry,” returned Rock, passionately. “Admit that.”
“You beat him terribly. It—hurt me—so. . . . But, oh, he did deserve it.”
Rock tightened his arms a little, drew her closer.
“Thiry, kiss me good night,” he whispered, suddenly.
“Trueman!” she exclaimed, and tried to draw away. But he held her, and as she turned her face he managed to kiss her cheek.
“Now you’ve done it!” she cried.
What he had done she did not say, but she ceased to pull away. That emboldened him. Still he drew back the better to see her averted face.
“What’s one more offense?” he queried. “I’ve ruined my hopes tonight—or I have found them glorified. . . . Oh, Thiry—how I love you! . . . Kiss me good night.”
“No!” Yet she seemed weakening. He felt her quiver in his arms.
“Then let me kiss you? . . . It might be the first and last time. For if Ash finds me out I’ll have to leave this country. Else I’d have to kill him!”
“You’d go away for me?” she flashed, suddenly quickened and revivified, and her hands went to his shoulders.
“I promise you.”
“You love me so much?”
“Thiry girl, I love you more than I can prove.”
Blindly, with unreckoning impulse, she bent and met his upturned lips with her own. Quickly, with a gasp, she broke away to stare a moment, as if some realization had stricken her, then she fled across the porch and into the house.
Ash Preston did not return to Sunset Pass for a week after the Fourth. Rumor drifted down by a rider that Preston was hunting for the Mexican who had beaten him at the dance.
It was an anxious and brooding time for Trueman Rock, more, perhaps, because of Thiry’s unconcealed dread than for his own sake. Nevertheless, he never drew an easy breath, despite the rumor, until Ash returned, sober yet showing the effects of a prolonged debauch. One moment Rock stood on the porch, his hand quivering, while Ash strode over from his cabin. Sullen his face black and blue, still swollen, he presented no encouraging aspect. But manifestly that moment proved he did not know or suspect Rock had been his assailant. Then the suspense of this meeting for Rock ended when Thiry almost fainted in Ash’s arms. Not improbably her relief was so great that she succumbed under it. Certainly, however, no one save Rock took it that way.
