by Zane Grey
“Molly’s right,” agreed Mrs. See. “I think this bulldoggin’ sport is brutal. Where’s the sense in it?”
“Ain’t none. But shore takes a slick rider to do it,” said her husband.
“A cowboy once told me he didn’t have an unbroken bone in his body. Now I can see why,” commented Molly.
Nevertheless, though this style of riding, and downing a steer like a bulldog, made Molly cold and sick, she could not help watching it through. She would certainly have something to tell Arch Dunn. Fortunately, none of the riders were seriously hurt during this most perilous test of horsemanship and hardihood. And the rest of the program allowed Molly to recover.
“Wal, lass, an’ how’d you like it?” asked Mr. See.
“I’ve had the most wonderful time in all my life,” dreamily replied Molly.
“With the best yet to come,” added Mrs. See. “This is all very well for the men, but it’s the dance where a girl shines.”
With that remark there came flashing back to Molly the strange thoughts and sensations roused by her last customer at the booth. Ought she not tell Mrs. See about this young man? Molly was inherently honest and she knew she should, but she was also in conflict with feelings new to her, and most confusing. She would wait. What would Mrs. See and Mrs. Price think of her if they knew she had promised dances to a stranger who had not even told her his name? That omission had not even occurred to Molly until now. All during the service at the booth she had been most careful of her tongue, and then the very last young man had made her forget herself and what was due her hostesses. Molly could not understand it. He had sort of carried her away. Still, he had not been bold like some of the cowboys, or flirtatious like others. At least she did not think so. But then she might have been wrong. The trouble was he had surprised her into liking him. No doubt of that! Who was he and what had troubled him and how had he been about licked, as he called it? Would it be possible for any young fellow to be so clever and so deceitful as to make up all that? Molly was startled. She had known boys to do queer tricks. But she loyally defended this one who had found her weak. He was as honest as he was nice.
Here Molly got down to the point where he had become so undisguisedly interested in the fact that she did not have a best fellow. There had been a soft, almost mischievous light in his gray eyes. Could he have meant that he would like to be her best fellow? Molly burned within and without. The tumultuous fact was that he could be her only fellow, if he wanted to be. And she was ashamed and shocked to confess it. What had good Mrs. See brought upon her?
This perturbing state of mind got side-tracked again at the hotel, from which there was a general exodus of ranchers who lived near town. Molly was thrown in contact with women whom the Sees knew. And at dinner they sat with friends, so that Molly was not able to think for herself, until she got to her room. There anticipation and delight assailed her again, into which crept a dread of what she knew not.
Then she spread the white gown and accessories out on the bed, to revel in them, and forget the proximity of catastrophe. The following hour was one of exultation and dismay combined. She fixed her hair this way and that, never satisfied. It was an apparition which stared wide-eyed at her from the mirror. Who was this girl? Her arms and shoulders were bare. She could not get over the feeling of being still undressed.
When Mrs. See came in, to exclaim in raptures over her, then Molly’s last vestige of sense went into eclipse. She needed to be scolded and reminded that she was only Molly Dunn of the Cibeque, instead of being lauded to the skies, and told not one of the society girls at St. Louis, where Mrs. See had once been, could hold a candle to her.
“Upon your haid be it!” murmured Molly, tragically.
And so they went out to the dance, which was held in the town-hall a few blocks from the hotel. They walked, and Molly trod on air. Never in her life had she felt anything like her sensations when she walked through the crowd before the hall, between lines of men and women, children, Indians, and then at the entrance, before a phalanx of polished-faced cowboys. Whatever happened, she would have that to remember.
Inside there was a goodly assembly, among whom were Mrs. Price, her daughter Ellen, and an awkward son about Molly’s age. They at once appropriated Molly, and this perhaps was the time of greatest strain for her. It was scarcely necessary, however, for Molly to remember Mrs. See’s injunctions. She scarcely had a voice at all. Fortunately, she was too little and dainty to be clumsy, and shyness only added to her charm.
There was a good deal of standing around, talking and waiting, with introductions in order, while slowly the hall filled comfortably. Then the music began and it was not a fiddle sawed by a backwoodsman, but real music, and Molly could have danced in leaden boots.
Waltzes and square dances, with the former in large proportion, were to be the program. Molly’s first partner was the Price boy, who could not dance very well, but that did not spoil it for her. It developed that intermissions were frequent, but brief. The young people clamored to dance. They would let the old folk sit and look on and talk. Molly had the next dance with a friend of Ellen’s, a young man of the town, very pleasant and attentive, and a good dancer. And the third with Mr. Price, himself, who declared he would allow nothing to prevent him having a dance with Molly. She enjoyed it, too, for he was light on his feet and full of fun.
All this while, which seemed interminable despite her enjoyment, Molly knew there was something amiss. The dance had really begun and she was there. Everywhere she turned she met smiles and admiring glances. They bewildered her. Yet she was keen to note that this was no wild, continuous, stamping log-cabin dance. Hilarity prevailed, but not boisterousness. She wondered if there would be any drinking and fights. A dance without these would be new to Molly.
Then, after the fourth, when she was standing with a group near the entrance of the hall, she saw Him. She felt herself tremble. He wore black and looked tall and slim. His eager eyes, dark with excitement, swept the hall. Molly knew what they were searching for. She had never wanted anything so badly as for him to see her, yet she was afraid. He did see her. His smile and bow came before he had time to look her over. Then Molly’s cup grew perilously full. But what would he do? She was standing with Ellen Price and her friends. Suppose this stranger would present himself! Molly thought she might pretend to have forgotten his name; then if he had any sense he could save the situation for her. To her relief, however, he did not approach.
The music burst forth again and another partner claimed Molly. But even in the whirling throng she did not lose sight of this young man whom she had promised dances. Now and then as she turned she saw him leaning against the wall. Met his dark glance! It followed her everywhere. He did not dance. He did not mingle with the crowd. During the next intermission she saw that he was noticed by girls, who whispered to one another, and by cowboys who gave him rather contemptuous looks. Both actions struck Molly singularly. In some sense he seemed an outsider or else he did not choose to make himself agreeable. The meaning of feminine glances sent his way was not lost upon Molly. And when she, too, dared to glance his way, to find him watching her, she would quickly avert her eyes. She realized that he hopefully and reasonably expected her to give him an opportunity.
At the end of the next number, which Molly had with young Price, she claimed to be a little tired and wanted to sit down. They found a vacant place, where they conversed for the brief interval.
“Shall I take you across to mother?” asked young Price.
“No, thanks. I’ll wait here for my next partner,” replied Molly, graciously.
“Excuse me then,” he returned, and left her.
Molly hoped her stranger would be quick. But she had scarcely prepared herself for his sudden arrival.
“Is this mine?” he asked, bending over her eagerly.
“Yes,” murmured Molly, rising.
Then he whirled her into the throng. His presence did not quite make her oblivious to his strong arm, his lig
ht step, his perfect time. But instantly Molly realized she did not need to help this young man learn his steps.
“I was afraid you’d forgotten me,” he said, pressing her hand.
“Don’t talk,” returned Molly.
He laughed and obeyed her. Molly’s head came about to his shoulder and she just escaped contact with it. Not that she wished to! She felt that her face must be burning and she would have liked to hide it there. She did not seem to be making any effort to dance. Yet she was whirling, swaying, gliding around among dancers who looked vague and dim. All the threatened feelings accumulated during the last two days took possession of her now.
The music ceased when they were at the farther end of the hall.
“Come. Let’s get out before some of them grab you,” he said. “I must talk to you.”
CHAPTER
4
HE led her out through a corridor to a long porch, high up over a garden. It appeared deserted and shadowy. There was moonlight at the corner and just at the edge of it a bench. He found a seat for her there.
“You look perfectly lovely,” he said, expelling a deep breath, as if in relief. “I just didn’t know you.”
“You—you don’t know me, anyhow,” returned Molly, not knowing what to say.
“Nor you me. But at first I thought you did. It sure was jolly. To think I almost didn’t ride to town!”
“That would have been terrible, wouldn’t it?” murmured Molly. She could not remain silent. He seemed to draw expression from her.
“It sure would. But I don’t want to tell you about myself, now. I want to talk about you.”
“An’ I’d rather not.”
“Aren’t we mysterious?” He took her hand and held it.
Molly did not have the desire to withdraw it, nor the strength. But she managed to look up. How pale and eager he was! His eyes devoured her. And his face wore an ineffable smile.
“‘All’s fair in love and war,’” he said. “And I rustled you away from them,” he indicated the distant dance-hall by an eloquent gesture, “to have a minute with you alone.”
Molly’s presagement that something was going to happen to her was near its fulfillment.
“There’s a strange thing about you—a lack I can’t understand,” he went on.
“What—do you mean?” faltered Molly. Had he found her out already?
“Oh, it’s the most wonderful thing for me. I mean about the—the lack of that best fellow you said you didn’t have. How does it happen? Sure you’re only sixteen. But that’s quite grown up in this country. Have you a fierce father or brother?”
“You bet I have. Both!” replied Molly, with a little laugh. She was sure of her ground here.
“Then that accounts. I’m glad. I was afraid of something else. … Very well, I make application for the vacant place.”
“Place?” echoed Molly, weakly.
“Yes. I most earnestly apply for the job of being your best fellow.”
“Oh, you—you can’t be serious!” exclaimed Molly, in confusion.
“Serious? I’m afraid it is,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t know me. And I haven’t any recommendations. But I’d like you to take me on without these.”
“It isn’t customary,” returned Molly, trying to be light when she feared he might hear the outrageous beating of her heart.
“I know that. But I’ve a weakness to be trusted with responsibility. If I hadn’t I’d never gotten into the trouble I’m bucking now. … You’ll have to take me on faith—or not at all.”
“But doesn’t it—it apply to me—that way?” asked Molly, tremulously.
“No. I’m a man. And you’re a girl.”
“Yes. I’m beginnin’ to find that out.”
He laughed as if her reply was encouragement and possessed himself of her other hand. Then undoubtedly he began to draw her a little toward him, but to do him justice Molly imagined he did not realize it. She did, however, to the imminent danger of rout of reserve and self-control.
“I would take you as my best girl—my only girl, I should say, without one single thing beside your Yes.”
Molly felt irresistibly drawn to the edge of an abyss. Here was an opportunity quite beyond even her dreams.
“You’re—you’re—” Molly did not know just what he was, besides being very careless and foolish. He had her almost leaning on his shoulder now. She had not made the slightest resistance. She was as unstable as water. Still, she tried to think in spite of his nearness and her dawning emotions. “If I said—yes—an’—an’ afterwards you went back on me!”
“Good Heavens! … Little girl, you had better say ‘yes’ pretty quick or I’ll——”
He choked at the end of that passionate utterance. Molly knew what he meant. For the moment it paralyzed her. And then it was too late. He had her in his arms—tight against his breast. Molly closed her eyes. She did not realize her state beyond the exquisite contrast to what her backwoods admirers had roused in her. And suddenly that thought ended in a singular revulsion. She stiffened. She repulsed him with a stinging slap which, blindly delivered, struck him across the lips.
He uttered an inarticulate cry of surprise and regret. His hand went to his mouth, and then he applied a handkerchief there. The force of the blow had cut his lip.
“I apologize,” he said, constrainedly. “Sure lost my head—but I didn’t mean to insult you.”
Molly, with as unaccountable an impulse as the other, placed a tender trembling hand on his lips. “I—I’m sorry,” she whispered, wildly. “I didn’t mean that—at all.” And she followed the touch of her hand with a shy swift kiss. Then she gasped at her utter effrontery.
“Well!—You make sweet amends,” he said, haltingly, as if she were beyond him. “By that did you mean ‘Yes’?”
Molly dropped her head and covered her face with her hands. The tight, hot constriction in her breast eased its grip.
“I don’t know what I meant, only it wasn’t ‘Yes.’”
“In that case you’d better explain.”
Molly looked up, impelled by his tone. His eyes burned doubtfully down upon her. His face shone pale in the moonlight.
“I—I’m dishonest,” she burst out. “I’ve slapped boys before when they—took liberties with me. I liked them, I suppose, but I didn’t want them pawin’ an’ kissin’ me. … I really gave in to you. … Only, I wasn’t fair. I wasn’t honest. I hit you because I—I wanted you to keep on believin’ I was what all these people thought. … They’ve made me act a lie. Me—in these pretty clothes! But, oh, I couldn’t help it. I was afraid all the time. I knew somethin’ terrible would happen.”
“You wanted me to believe you were what?” he asked, sharply, bending over her.
“Like Miss Price an’ her friends.”
“I think they might do well by being more like you,” he returned. “I asked to be your best fellow. I sure never asked it of any of them.”
“But you don’t know me!” cried Molly, distracted.
“I can see and think, can’t I? You’re the sweetest, loveliest little girl I ever met.”
Molly was brutally torn between the ecstasy of that and the mercilessness of her honesty.
“Fine feathers make fine birds,” she replied, bitterly.
“You poor kid! … There’s something queer here, but I swear it’s not in you. I’m taking your kiss for ‘Yes!’—Heavens! what else could a kiss mean?”
“No, no. It meant nothin’,” said Molly.
“Are your kisses so common, then?”
“You’re the first boy I ever kissed,” she flashed at him.
“I’m very proud of that. Well, then, what else could it mean except ‘Yes’?”
“I was beside myself. I told you. … I was ashamed—sick because I hit you. But I wasn’t dishonest when I kissed you.”
“You said you wanted me to think you like Miss Price and her friends. That puzzles me. I do think they can’t com
pare with you.”
“But you’re only fooled,” she said, despairingly.
“By what?”
“I don’t know. This pretty dress, an’ the place—an’ everythin’.”
“Why, it wouldn’t make any difference to me what you wore or where you were,” he protested, tenderly.
“Oh yes, it would!”
“But, you child, didn’t I fall in love with you at the booth?”
This protestation was almost too beautiful and poignant for Molly to bear. It came in the nature of a revelation of her own beset state. In another instant she knew she would surrender and fall into his arms.
“But you don’t know who I am!”
“You’re my sweetheart!” he returned, triumphantly.
Molly suffered during one instant of glorious exaltation.
“I am Molly Dunn, of the Cibeque,” she said.
“Molly Dunn. What a pretty name! … Cibeque? Oh that’s the valley you told me about.”
“Yes. They call it the brakes of the Cibeque.”
“Dunn. I’ve heard that name, too. Oh yes, I got into an argument with a fellow named Dunn. Slinger Dunn, they called him. But sure you couldn’t be any relation to him.”
“Why couldn’t I?” she queried, in a curious calm.
“Heavens! He’s a desperado! Wonderful-looking chap. They call him ‘Slinger’ because of his habit of throwing a gun. He has killed several men. The sheriff here is scared to death of him. I happened to cross his trail, unfortunately, and gave him a piece of my mind. If I ever saw lightning in a man’s eyes I saw it then. Whew! … Well, his companion, as tough-looking fellow as he was, dragged him away. Saved me a scare if not more.”
“His right name is Arch,” replied Molly, and rose to her feet.
“Of course, living around here you’d have heard of him. It must be disgusting to have a criminal like that roaming around with the name of Dunn. People might think he is related to you.”
“He is.”
The young man rose slowly, in consternation, and made an appealing gesture.
“Impossible, Miss Dunn. … Perhaps a very distant relation?”
