The Shepherd of Guadaloupe

by Zane Grey

  Ethel presented herself before them, packing an armful of beaded ornaments and a basketful of belts, buckles, silver buttons.

  “How much, Mr. Storekeeper?” she asked, pretending to be a child.

  “Nothing to you, Ethel.”

  “But see here. I want to pay for these.”

  “Very well. They will cost you a kiss.”

  “I’ll throw that in, after I pay for them,” she retorted.

  “It’s a bargain,” replied Clifton, in excitement that was not feigned. He produced a pencil and began to enumerate on a paper bag the prices of the different articles.

  “Ethel, did you see Malpass bullying me?” asked Virginia.

  “You bet I did. But for once he didn’t seem to crush you.”

  “It was because I sat up here beside Clifton. I could have boxed his sleek ears. . . . Ethel, don’t you think it horrid and—and cowardly of Clifton to let me be thrown away upon that man?”

  “It’s a crime. . . . Clifton, you won’t stand for that, will you? When you’re Ginia’s only friend?”

  “You girls upset my figuring,” replied Clifton, imperturbably.

  “Isn’t he the cold-blooded brute?” queried Ethel, in good-humored awe. “But I think I see through him.”

  “Thirty-six dollars—and two bits,” summed up Clifton, at last.

  “Oh, so cheap? But what’s the two bits?”

  “Twenty-five cents.”

  “Here you are,” counted out the girl, blithely.

  Clifton did not speak of what she had agreed to throw in.

  “Help me up. Ginia’s so long-legged she could step right up on this awful counter. . . . Aren’t we having a jolly time? My kid sister and brother will be tickled with these presents, if I can part with them.”

  “Ethel, we’ve bought Clifton’s stock of provisions. Never had to pay a dollar!”

  “How come? I hope you didn’t let him give it to us.”

  “Malpass bought it. I drove him to it.”

  “Perfectly grand,” trilled Ethel, in ecstasy.

  “Ethel, I dare you to call him Señor Malpass, when he comes back.”

  “You’re on. Never took a dare in my life. And that reminds me.” She peered round in front of Clifton, mischievous and daring, to see if the others were watching. They were engrossed in selection and rejection of souvenirs. “Coast’s clear.” And she raised herself swiftly to kiss Clifton plump on the cheek. “There, my debt is paid. . . . You needn’t blush. I don’t do that as a general thing.”

  Virginia bent a little to peer up into Clifton’s face.

  “Cliff, if I pick out a lot of these souvenirs will you let me pay you all in Ethel’s good measure?” she asked, alluringly. “You see, I’m about broke, and it would enable me to get a lot of things I really can’t afford in cash.”

  “I will not,” declared Clifton, dubiously.

  Whereupon Virginia and Ethel left him, with intimate laughter and mysterious backward glances.

  The upshot of this visit from Virginia and her friends was that Clifton was cleaned out of all his stores except tobacco and a few odd utensils and harness. In exchange he had a sum approaching two thousand dollars, a really staggering amount, considering that of late he had been grateful even for Mexican pennies. His mother would regard it as manna from heaven, and love Virginia Lundeen as the angel giver. Clifton wished they would hurry away so he could collect his wits.

  They filled the tallyho with their purchases and the air with their happy chatter and laughter. Virginia was the only one who did not seem happy. In the confusion attending the transfer of the blankets, baskets, and other articles to the coach she shot Clifton more than one glance, the meaning of which he could not for the life of him interpret.

  At last they had everything carried out, and were vacating to give room to the several Mexican laborers who had arrived. Malpass’ familiarity with Spanish became evident. Miss Andrews, her lovely face flushed with the excitement and fun, tripped in, evidently to say good-by. Virginia’s impulse to follow manifestly had been prompted by her friend’s action.

  “Good-by, Mr. Forrest,” said Helen, offering her hand. “It has been a pleasure to meet a comrade of Jack’s—a real Westerner. He has promised that we shall see more of you.”

  “It would please me,” replied Clifton, heartily.

  “We have played havoc with your store. You must load up again for another raid. . . . Good-by.”

  “Good-by, Helen of Troy. I hope you come back,” replied Clifton, as much moved by Virginia’s disturbing presence as Helen’s graciousness.

  “How’d you know I come from Troy?” asked Helen, over her shoulder. “Jack told you, I’ll bet. And I wanted you to think me a New Yorker.”

  “I didn’t know. I sure didn’t mean Troy, New York.”

  Helen went out glowing.

  “Cliff,” spoke up Virginia, just as if she had not had a chance before, “you’d never see me if that girl was around.”

  “Of course I would, Virginia. I did.”

  “I believe you learned to flirt in France.”

  The advent of Malpass saved Clifton a rather tantalizing retort, which was just as well not expressed. He saw at a glance that Malpass’ suavity and coolness were only skin deep so far as anything relative to Virginia Lundeen was concerned.

  “Go on out, Virginia. Your friends are in the coach, ready to leave. I’ll follow, after I’ve made sure this storekeeper hands over all the goods I paid for.”

  “Just what do you mean by that?” asked Clifton.

  “Take it any way you like,” snapped Malpass.

  “Well, I’m sorry, but I’m not quite up to lifting down that heavy canned fruit,” returned Forrest, slowly feeling his way.

  “You’re thick-headed, Forrest,” sneered Malpass. “You heard what I said. But if you take it that way, why get a move on and help down with the goods.”

  “I’m not a peon,” retorted Clifton, hotly.

  “You’re a clerk, and a poor one at that.”

  “Señor, we understand each other. You think I’m a peon and I know you’re a greaser.”

  “Clifton!—Mr. Malpass!” cried Virginia, stepping between them.

  Malpass swung a riding whip over her shoulder, staggering Clifton with a smart cut across the face, which brought blood. Then thrusting Virginia aside, he struck Clifton, and following up an advantage so surprisingly easy, he knocked Clifton down.

  Virginia, in a swift frenzy that was partly fright, gave Malpass a stinging slap across the mouth.

  “You yellow dog! To strike a crippled soldier! My God! I despise you!”

  Clifton got up, though it was all he could do. “Malpass,” he almost whispered, “beat it before I go for my gun.”

  The threat had the desired effect. Malpass, recovering from ungovernable rage, leaped the counter and went out the back way.

  “Go, Virginia, before somebody—comes back after you,” whispered Clifton.

  “He hurt—you,” she returned, with quivering lips, and wiped the blood from the welt on his cheek.

  “Not much. I’m all right—only excited and mad. Please go before——”

  “Do you suppose I care what they see or think? . . . You’re lying to me, Cliff. You’re white—you’re shaking.”

  “Well, I reckon that’s natural,” replied Forrest, pulling himself together. He had been laboring under half a fear that Malpass might return with a gun. More than one shooting scrape had been attributed to this fortune-elevated vaquero.

  “Cliff, I’ll go, but I must see you soon.”

  She was clinging to him.

  “Virginia, you’ve lost your head. They’ll see you! . . . There, Miss Andrews is at the door.”

  “I’m glad she saw, anyhow,” replied Virginia, releasing her hold on him and stepping back. “Cliff, you’re a wonderful fellow—but the biggest dunce I ever knew.”

  Chapter Seven

  VIRGINIA was in camp with her friends, high up V in a s
ylvan glade under the dome of Old Baldy, and for the first time in weeks dared to approach happiness.

  It was along toward the end of June, and for that high altitude rather early in the season. The cold nights and frosty mornings, however, made the time ideal for camping.

  Climbing up there had been a severe ordeal for most of the Eastern visitors, who, outdoor people though they were, had been unused to strenuous work, let alone miles of perilous, rocky trails where horses had to be led. But once arrived at the beautiful mountain meadow, they said they would not have missed the trip for worlds.

  Two green mountains sloped down from the heights, forming at the base a little open valley containing a gem of a lake surrounded by a forest of pines, a fringe of grand monarchs gradually thickening with the rise of ground into the impenetrable timber belt. At the upper end of the oval lake a small peninsula jutted out. Among the scattered pines the tents had been pitched, within sight and hearing of the white cascade that slid down from the green notch above.

  At the lower end of the lake the outlet glided swiftly between brown banks, to glance over a fall and tumble with a roar into a purple gorge. Here the mountain slopes sheered away, showing the desert five thousand feet below on the other side of the range.

  Of all Western views that Virginia treasured, here was her favorite. To attain it one had to climb to a ledge above the gorge. There were shady nooks under a dwarf pine, mats of brown pine needles and silver-flowered amber moss; and a scene from which no lover of the solitude and beauty and grandeur of nature could turn without regret.

  Selfishly Virginia went there alone, desiring humbly to renew her allegiance. This was, she recalled, her sixth trip to this isolated fastness; and the last one, three years in the past, seemed long ago and far away. No longer was she a schoolgirl, but a woman, now, wildly in love, with an abandon that could not have been possible in her romantic teens. Yet the hero of those dreamy, girlish years was still the hero of her womanhood.

  She had slipped away from Ethel and Helen, who were the only friends close enough to think of her intimately. Ethel knew her secret and Helen suspected it. Virginia loved them dearly, but she wanted to be alone, here, of all places. For the rest of her friends she was not particularly concerned. Some were exhausted from the arduous climb, and the others were in ecstasies over this ideal spot. Jake and Con, her own cowboys, were in charge, and they had efficient help. Malpass had been left behind. Virginia had not spoken to him since his attack upon Clifton. She absolutely would not consider him in any capacity. A furious quarrel between her and her father, with Malpass present, had ended in the establishment of an armistice until such time as Virginia’s guests, all except Ethel, would leave. So this camping trip, planned as a climax in the entertainment of Eastern friends she probably would never see again, bade fair to be a great success.

  Virginia was tired, not so much physically as mentally. She threw herself down in the old, comfortable, mossy spot, that had not changed, and invited the spell of loneliness, of murmuring melodious stream, of the purple depths, and lastly the vast silent and illimitable desert far below.

  How she had ached to be alone! And here she was far from camp, the white tents only specks above the shining lake, under the spread of the blue heavens, in the sight of marvelously-visioned eagles, perhaps, surely of the birds and squirrels that abounded among the crags and trees. It was not only being out of sight of human kind that constituted solitude, it was the fullness of realizing that none of them knew where she was nor how much alone. The fragrant air, the gray crags, the inclines of tufted green, the bold, lofty dome of the bald mountain above, and through the wide gateway below the ribbed sweep, the endless reach, the vanishing of the desert into the dim haze of distance—these things which in that moment she shared with no one, flooded her being, pervaded her spirit, soothed her troubled soul with the ultimate essence of loneliness.

  Close at hand, under her, the tips of lacy spruce trees, the downward steps of lichened blocks of granite, led into a purple glen crossed by bars of golden sunlight, by shadows of pines, whence floated upward the muffled murmur of a slow stream, reluctant to take the downward plunges. It glided brown and shallow over the flat ledge, to spread into a white foamy fan that closed again, and took a narrow leap, disappearing in rainbow-chased spray.

  These sights and sounds were intimate. But it was the desert, on which at last she spent her reluctant gaze, that forced her into slow-realizing reverence. For she had grown in mind since she had watched there. She had seen great cities, states of endless farms, the gloomy, restless Atlantic, and the plains and mountains of foreign lands. Nothing like this! All so pale in comparison! What was it to see a few miles of tossing green salt waters? Here the desert air was clear, and there wandered two hundred and more miles of rock and sand, of canyon and range, of the dim, red Arizona walls that vanished in haze.

  She had come home—home, and she did not see where education and travel had been worth the labor, unless to prepare her the better for appreciation of the West.

  It was not then that her favorite Western scene had changed, but that she, bringing incalculably more to it after years of absence, seemed changed herself, a throbbing, aching, dreaming, loving, fighting woman who must find herein the strength and endurance of nature, or perish in all that she held sacred to womanhood.

  Virginia knew her father had sunk to the level of a common thief, in her eyes as culpable as the rustlers who used to be hanged on the cottonwoods. Silver mines and lands and mansions did not absolve a thief from the baseness accorded the cattle-stealer. But money had power and it sanctioned crime. Jed Lundeen had more than ruined the Forrests; he had debased their fair repute. Not only had he stolen their property, but also their good name!

  Virginia’s early training had been one of simple religion. For perhaps ten years back her mother had leaned more and more to her father’s path, which, as he prospered by means that would not bear the white light of day, had been away from the church. Virginia’s years at school had not been prolific of religious stabilizing, but on the other hand, she had not been greatly influenced by the modern atheism so prevalent in college. What faith she had went into abeyance, through disuse, and now in her extremity she felt the need of it.

  So, through the purple depths and the colorful desert, and the infinite nothing of distance, she peered into her own soul. Long she gazed, with wide eyes, and then with eyes tight shut. She saw the same with both. She was now a woman of twenty-two, older really than her exact age in years. She wanted to live her own life, not because of selfishness or egotism, but because of what she regarded as right. She wanted love and children, and if these meant happiness, as well as the nobler state for a woman, she wanted that, too. She could not become the wife of August Malpass, not because she could not sacrifice herself for her father, to save him from the net in which he had entrapped himself, but because such marriage would be a sin. Likewise it would be dishonest, if not actually sinful, for her to shield her father and Malpass, should tangible evidences of their guilt accrue. Lastly, with all her heart and soul, with a growth from childhood, she loved Clifton Forrest, and only through him could the fulfillment of life come to her.

  “He doesn’t see it,” she mused, feeling a satisfaction in breathing her secret to the solitude. “He wouldn’t believe it . . . yet how true it is!”

  She had the illusion that her brooding, passionate gaze magnified all in its scope. And she saw the desert through her love, her strife with her father, the ordeal of her spirit, all inextricably involved in the single and paramount necessity of finding and adhering to the truth—which was the good, the right, and the faithful.

  Space seemed illimitable. Through half-closed eyes Virginia swept in the sheer depths, the expanse of naked earth, the cloud-banked horizon. Again and again she feasted her sight, from the crag and pine-tipped descent to the naked riven earth, and the chaos where desert vanished.

  In the end it was out there that her vision lingered. For out th
ere glistened an ineffable and illusive beauty—the plains of silver sand, the beaches of gold bordering seas that were delusions, the islets of red rock ringed around by turbulent surf, the waved dunes ever curving, the dots of sage and cedar areas of acres, yet mere specks on the landscape, the arid washes and flats, proof of the anno seco of the Mexicans, the rock country, ribbed and rutted, riven into gorge and ravine, running wild, multiplying its ragged mounds into black buttes, its hollows into canyons, its lines into great walls, and at last to heave and roll and bite at the sky, ebony and beryl and porphyry thrusting into the blue, to end in the nothingness of infinitude.

  It was afternoon when Virginia descended the trail, to skirt the lake and made her way back through the pines to camp.

  She found Ethel lolling in a hammock, wrapped in a blanket.

  “Oh!” she gasped, starting up at sight of Virginia, her pretty eyes expanding, “You look strange, you’re ripping! . . . You’re the loveliest creature on earth. . . . You’ve got Helen beat there and back!”

  “Why this extravagant mess of words?” inquired Virginia, smiling down upon this volatile bit of femininity.

  “Ginia, there’s a light on your face—what does the poet say?—never seen on land or sea.”

  “I’ve been over to a shrine. Tomorrow I shall take you there. Then you will not wonder. . . . Ethel, I have recovered something that I lost long ago.”

  “Now—you want to make me sad,” responded Ethel, plaintively. “But you can’t. I just swear I’ll revel in this lovely place. Didn’t I use to rave about Colorado? But never again. This beats anything I ever saw, and mind you, honey, I’m no tenderfoot from Noo Yawk. This is heaven. Paradise! . . . If Jack Andrews, or one of his friends—if any man made love to me here—or Indian or Mexican—I’d fall like a chunk of lead and be false to the nicest little sweetie in Denver.”

  “Well, I’m ashamed to hear you confess it. What’s happened to you, anyway. . . . Why, you’re barefooted! No stockings! . . . Ethel, what would your nice Denver sweetie say to this?”