by Zane Grey
“Well, I deserve it,” mused Gloriana.
“What?”
“A dose of my own medicine.”
“Glory, I don’t want to lose patience with you,” said Jim, slowly, trying to keep his temper. “I can understand you, for I felt a little like you do when I landed out here. … Now listen. I’m glad you’ve come to me. I’m sorry you’ve made mistakes and suffered through them. But they are really nothing. I predict the West will cure them in less than a year. You won’t know yourself. You could not be dragged back to Missouri.”
Gloriana shook her beautiful head in doubt and sorrow.
“If you only hadn’t engaged yourself to this backwoods girl!” she said, mournfully.
“But she saved my life,” declared Jim, hotly. “She fought a fellow—one of those desperadoes you mentioned—fought him like a wild cat—bit him—hung on him with her teeth to keep him from murdering me as I sat tied hand and foot. … Saved my life until her brother Slinger got there to kill Jocelyn.”
“The wretch!” exclaimed Gloriana, in passion and horror. Her face was white as alabaster and her eyes great dark gulfs of changing brilliance. “Did this Slinger Dunn really kill him?”
“You bet he did. And two other desperadoes. They shot Slinger all up. He’s in the hospital at Flag. I’ll take you in to see him.”
“Wonderful!” breathed Gloriana, for the moment thrilled out of her disgust and horror. “But, Jim, why all this bloody murdering? I thought you worked on a cattle range.”
“I do. That’s the trouble,” said Jim, and forthwith launched into a brief narrative of the drift fence and subsequent events which led up to his capture by the Cibeque gang, of Hack Jocelyn’s arrival with Molly, who had consented to sacrifice herself to save Jim, of Jocelyn’s treachery and how Molly fought to keep him from killing Jim until Slinger got there.
When Jim concluded there was ample evidence that Gloriana did not lack heart and soul, though they were glossed over by restraint and sophistication. This reassured Jim in his stubborn hope that Gloriana was undeveloped and needed only the hard and wholesome contacts she was sure to get in Arizona.
“But, Jim, you can’t marry a girl who bites like a little beast, no more than I could the brother who kills men,” was Gloriana’s grave reply.
“I can’t—can’t I?” retorted Jim goaded at the regurgitation of a forgotten phase of the Traft boy he had once been. “Well, I am going to marry her, and I’ll think myself the luckiest fellow on earth.”
Plainly she thought he was out of his head or that Arizona had broken down his sense of values. But she did not voice either conviction.
“Gloriana, I think I’d better take you in to meet Uncle Jim—and the Dunns,” concluded Jim.
“Yes, since it has to be,” she replied, soberly. “Give me time to make myself presentable. Come back for me in fifteen minutes.”
“Sure, I’m curious to see what you call presentable,” said Jim, and went out whistling. Nevertheless, his heart was heavy as he proceeded down the hall toward the living-room.
CHAPTER
6
JIM found his uncle alone in the living-room. “Hey!” he said, “when are you going to trot my niece in?”
“Pretty soon. She was tired and wants to clean up after the long ride.”
“How is she, Jim?” he asked, anxiously.
“White and thin. Looks wonderful, though. You could have knocked me over with a feather, Uncle.”
“Wal, I reckon I’m plumb ready for mine.”
At this juncture Molly and her mother came in, and it was certain Jim had never seen Molly so pretty, so simply and becomingly attired. He did not see how Gloriana could help admiring her.
“Oh, Jim, did your sister come?” she asked, eagerly.
“You bet. Curly and the boys were there with me. It was a circus.”
“I shore reckon,” agreed Molly, her eyes round and bright. She was excited, trembling a little.
“I’ll fetch Glory in pronto.”
“Does she look sick, Jim?”
“Well, you won’t be able to see it,” laughed Jim. “She’ll dazzle you. But when I remember Glory a year ago—how tanned and strong—I confess she looks ill to me. She’s white as the snow out there. She has dark circles under her eyes and that makes them bigger. She’s very slender.”
“Oh, I—I’m crazy to see her,” exclaimed Molly. “What did the boys say an’ do? Was Curly knocked silly?”
“They were funny, Bud especially. Curly wore his best cowboy outfit, gun and all. The other boys had new suits and they looked most uncomfortable. Curly had the best of them. … Well, I’ll go fetch Glory in.”
Jim went out and thoughtfully wended his way to the west wing of the huge ranch-house. In a certain sense this event was a thrilling and happy one, but in the main it was shadowed by misgivings. He tapped at Gloriana’s door, and at her call he entered.
He stared. Was this lovely white creature Gloriana Traft? She wore a pale blue dress, without sleeves, and cut somewhat low. She was slender, but there was not an ungraceful line about her. And she had a little color in her cheeks, whether from excitement or from artificial means Jim could not tell.
“Glory, if you let the boys see you in that rig—we can’t go on ranching,” he said, with grave admiration.
“Why not?” she asked, not knowing how to take him.
“Because this place would beat the Pleasant Valley War all hollow. You just look like—like some beautiful sweet flower.”
His genuine praise brought more color to her cheeks. “Thank you, Jim. It’s nice to hear I look well. But this dress is nothing. I’ve some new ones and I’ll have to wear them, even if your ranching can’t go on. … Guess I’d better put my coat around me. That hall was like Greenland’s icy mountains.”
“This house is a big old barn. But the living-room is comfortable,” said Jim as he replaced the screen before the fire.
“Jim, if I catch cold again it’ll be the end of little Glory.”
“Don’t talk nonsense. This is a beginning for you, Glory,” he replied, warmly, and he kissed her. Gloriana caught his hand and clung to it. Her action and the sudden flash of her face toward him gave Jim a clue to something he had not before guessed. Glory might resemble a proud, cold, aloof young princess, but she really was unconsciously hungering for love, kindness, sympathy. By that Jim judged how she had been hurt, and through it he divined he could win her. Right there Jim decided on the attitude he would adopt with his sister.
“Jim, my failure and disgrace do not alter the fact that I represent your family out here,” she said, as they went out.
The remark rather flustered Jim. He was not used to complexity, and he could find no words in which to reply. He hurried her down the hall to the living-room, and opened the door for her to enter. When he followed and closed it Gloriana had let her coat fall to the floor and was advancing quickly to meet the rancher.
“Oh, Uncle Jim, I know you,” she said, happily, as if she had expected not to.
“Wal—wal! So you’re my niece, Gloriana?” he replied, heartily, yet with incredulity. “I remember a big-eyed little girl back there in Missouri. But you can’t be her.”
“Yes, I am, Uncle. I’ve merely grown up. … I’m so glad to see you again.” She gave him her hands and kissed him.
“Wal, it can’t be, but if you say so I’ll have to believe,” he said, quaintly. “I reckon I’m powerful pleased to have you come West. … Gloriana, meet some friends of ours—Arizona folks from down country. … Mrs. Dunn and her daughter Molly.”
The mother appeared embarrassed at the introduction; Gloriana graciousness itself. Then Jim experienced a sort of fright as this lovely sister and the little girl so precious to him faced each other. Probably Jim was unaware of his intense scrutiny of both. But as a matter of fact he held them both on trial.
“Gloriana, I’m shore happy to welcome you heah,” said Molly, with simple sweet warmth. She was tremendously i
mpressed—Jim had never seen her so pale—but there was no confusion for her in this meeting. Her eyes had a shining, earnest light. Jim could not have asked more. She was true to Molly Dunn. She was Western. She had stuff in her. Never in her life had she been subject to such an intense and penetrating look as Gloriana gave her. Jim’s heart leaped to his throat. Was Glory going to turn out a terrible snob?
“Molly Dunn! I’m glad to meet you,” replied Gloriana, cordially, and she was quick to accept the shy advance of the Western girl. She met Molly’s kiss halfway. Jim almost emitted audibly a repressed breath of relief. But he was not sanguine. Gloriana appeared the epitome of perfect breeding, and she was too fine to let the Western girl outdo her in being thoroughbred. Yet heart and soul were wanting. And Jim thought that if he felt it Molly must have, too.
Uncle Jim beamed upon Gloriana and then upon Molly, and lastly upon his constrained nephew.
“Jim, shore there’s such a thing as luck,” he said. “I reckon I didn’t believe so once. But look there. An’ think of your havin’ a sister an’ a sweetheart like them.”
It was a simple warm tribute from a lonely old bachelor who had given his heart to Molly and now shared it with Gloriana. But the compliment brought a blush to Gloriana’s pale cheek and broke Molly’s composure.
“Wal, I don’t know aboot it, as Curly would say,” drawled Jim, far from feeling like Curly. “A man can have enough luck to kill him.”
This unexpected sally from him made the girls laugh and eased the situation. All took seats except Molly, who stood beside Gloriana’s chair, plainly fascinated. It gave Jim a pang to see that Molly had already fallen in love with his sister. If Gloriana would only give the Western girl the smallest kind of a chance!
“You shore don’t look sick to me,” said Molly, her dusky eyes on Gloriana.
“Perhaps Jim exaggerated,” returned Gloriana, with a smile. “I’m not on my last legs, but neither am I so very well.”
“You look like you didn’t eat an’ sleep enough, an’ run aboot in the sun.”
“I don’t. That’s just what ails me.” It would have been hard for anyone human to resist Molly’s sweet simplicity.
“You’re lovely right now,” murmured Molly. “But in six months out heah. …” She could not find words to express her conviction, and they were not needed.
“It’s fine pneumonia weather just now. I had that last winter. The doctor said once more and it would be flowers for Gloriana May.”
Molly did not quite assimilate this speech, and turned to Jim.
“You mustn’t roll her in the snow, like you did me”.
“Glory will love even winter in Arizona,” said Jim. “It’s so dry you never feel the cold. But if Glory freezes too much at first we might send her to Tucson for a while.”
“Take her down to Yellow Jacket,” interposed the rancher.
Molly clapped her hands. “Thet would be fine. We never have any winter down in the Tonto. It snows a little, then melts right off. Sunny days to ride. The air full of cedar an’ pine an’ sage. Camp fires at night. … Gloriana, you would get well quick down at Yellow Jacket.”
Jim spoke up seriously: “Next summer we will have both you girls down. But it’d never do now, even down in that low country. We’ll have the Hash Knife outfit to entertain.”
Gloriana was all interest. “Pray what is Yellow Jacket? And what is the Hash Knife outfit?”
Uncle Jim hawhawed. “Glory, don’t let them tease you. Yellow Jacket is a cattle range, wildest left in Arizona. An’ the Hash Knife outfit is a gang of cattle thieves.”
“Now you’ve made me want to go,” exclaimed Gloriana. “More than anything I want to see a desperado. I—I want to be scared. And I want to go to some lonely place. And when I’m strong again I want to ride. … Jim, have you a horse you will let me have?”
“A horse? Glory, you’ve grown amazingly modest. I have a hundred horses you can ride—that is, as soon as you can stick in a saddle.”
“You will take me on trips into the desert?” queried Gloriana, breathlessly, her great eyes shining like stars.
Jim concealed his thrill of satisfaction. Added to Gloriana’s need of love there seemed a thirst for something she had never had. Perhaps this was merely for excitement. But if she showed an innate leaning toward the beauty and wildness of nature then Arizona would claim her, and change her body and soul.
“Glory, I reckon I’ll have to take you, if we want any work done,” replied Jim.
Gloriana was as delighted as nonplussed. “But I don’t quite understand your reference to work. I can’t do very much.”
“Could you bake sour-dough biscuits?”
“Gracious no!”
Molly laughed merrily. “Could you call wild turkeys?”
“I could eat a whole one, anyhow. … Oh, I’ll be the greenest tenderfoot who ever came West.”
“Glory, I’ll teach you to make biscuits an’ call wild turkeys,” volunteered Molly.
“You’re very good. I’m afraid you’ll find me stupid.”
“Glory, I didn’t mean work for you, though I dare say a little would be good for you. I meant that the cowboys said there wouldn’t never be no more ranchin’ now.’”
“And why not?” queried Gloriana, vastly puzzled.
“I showed them a photograph of you.”
Gloriana joined in the laugh at her expense.
“That horrid picture of me! I have some really good ones.”
“For Heaven’s sake, don’t let anybody see them!” exclaimed Jim, plaintively.
Thereupon followed a half-hour of pleasant conversation, mostly for Gloriana’s edification, and received by her with undisguised enthusiasm. Then she said she was very tired and begged to be excused.
“Jim, take me back to my Indian wigwam. I’d never find it,” she begged, and bade the others good night.
When back in Gloriana’s room Jim stirred the fire and put on a few fresh sticks of wood.
“Well?” he queried, presently, rising to face his sister, and he was quite conscious of the anxious gruffness of his voice.
To Jim’s surprise she placed a hand on each of his shoulders.
“Jim, your Western girl is distractingly pretty, sweet as a wild flower, honest and good as gold—and far braver than I could have been. I saw what you couldn’t see. Probably it was harder for her to meet me than that Hack fellow she—she bit to save your life. I’m your family, so to speak.”
“Thanks, Glory,” replied Jim, somewhat huskily. “I—I was afraid——”
“I’d not like her? Jim, I don’t blame you for loving her. I did like her. … But—and here’s the rub—she is illiterate. She comes from an illiterate family. She’s only a very common little person—and certainly not fit to be the wife of James Traft.”
“That’s your Eastern point of view,” returned Jim. “It might—though I don’t admit it—be right if we were back home. But we’re out West. I love the West. It has made me a man. It is now my home. I worship this ‘common little person,’ as you call her. I think she is farthest removed from that. She’s strong and true and big, and crude like this great raw West. And as I’ve thrown in my fortunes here I consider myself most lucky to win such a girl. … All of which, Glory, dear, is aside from the fact that but for her I’d be dead. … But for Molly you wouldn’t have had any brother to come to!”
“Don’t think me ungrateful,” she rejoined, in hurried, shuddering earnestness. “I am … and indeed you talk like a man. I admire and respect you. But I had to tell you the ethics of it. I wouldn’t be a Traft if I failed to tell you.”
“Then—you’re not against us?” queried Jim, hopefully.
“Jim, I disapprove. But it would be absurd for me to oppose. I have come to you for help—for a home—to find my chance in life, if there be one. Besides, I like Molly. … The trouble will come not from me, but from her. Can’t you see it? I don’t think I ever was subjected to such study. Yet no trace of jealous
y or bitterness! She was just being a woman seeing you, your family, your position through me. I saw fear in her eyes as she bade me good night. That fear was not of me, or that I might come between you. It was a fear of realization, of love. She ought not marry you because she is Molly Dunn of the Cibeque! And, Jim, if she’s really as strong and fine as it seems she is, she will not marry you.”
“I’ve had the very same fear myself,” admitted Jim. “But I always laughed myself out of it. Now you——”
“Make it worse,” she interposed. “I’m sorry. I ought not have come. … I could go away somewhere, I suppose, and work. … But, Jim, the damage is done.”
“I wouldn’t let you go. I think we’re making a mountain out of a molehill. It’ll sure come out all right, if you’ll help.”
“Jim, I promise. I’ll do my utmost for you. I’ll be nicer to that little girl than I ever was to any one in my life. I can make people like me. But the worst of me is I’m cold. I’ve been frozen inside since Ed Darnell deceived me. I can’t promise to love Molly, though it’d appear easy enough.”
She seemed so eloquent, so moving, so beautiful that Jim could have decried aloud her intimation of her indifference.
“Glory, I couldn’t ask any more,” he concluded. “It’s more than I had hoped for. You have made me feel—oh, sort of warm deep down—glad you’ve come West. We’ll win out in the end. We’ve got the stuff. … And now good night. You’re worn out. Be sure to put the screen in front of the fire.”
“Good night, brother Jim,” she said, and kissed him. “I’m glad I came.”
Jim left her with her kiss lingering on his lips. Gloriana had never been the kissing kind, and it was easy to tell now that she had not changed. She was older, deeper, more complex, with a hint of sadness about her which he wanted to eradicate. The cowboys would do that. They would change even the spots of a leopard. He went toward his room, and on the way tapped on Molly’s door.
“Are you in bed?” he called.
“No, Jim—not quite,” she replied, and presently opened the door a few inches to disclose a sweet agitated face.
