the Desert Of Wheat (2001)

by Grey, Zane

  "Wal, lass, I reckon it'd take stronger speech than any you know," responded Anderson. "An' I'm usin' that same."

  Lenore sat there trembling, with hot tears running down her cheeks, with her fists clenched so tight that her nails cut into her palms. Rage only proved to her how impotent she was to avert catastrophe. How bitter and black were some trials! She shrank with a sense of acute pain at thought of the despair there must be in the soul of Kurt Dorn.

  "Lenore," began Anderson, slowly--his tone was stronger, vibrant with feeling--"you love this young Dorn!"

  A tumultuous shock shifted Lenore's emotions. She quivered as before, but this was a long, shuddering thrill shot over her by that spoken affirmation. What she had whispered shyly and fearfully to herself when alone and hidden--what had seemed a wonderful and forbidden secret--her father had spoken out. Lenore gasped. Her anger fled as it had never been. Even in the dark she hid her face and tried to grasp the wild, whirling thoughts and emotions now storming her. He had not asked. He had affirmed. He knew. She could not deceive him even if she would. And then for a moment she was weak, at the mercy of contending tides.

  "Sure I seen he was in love with you," Anderson was saying. "Seen that right off, an' I reckon I'd not thought much of him if he hadn't been.... But I wasn't sure of you till the day Dorn saved you from Ruenke an' fetched you back. Then I seen. An' I've been waitin' for you to tell me."

  "There's--nothing--to tell," faltered Lenore.

  "I reckon there is," he replied. Leaning over, he threw his cigar out of the window and took hold of her.

  Lenore had never felt him so impelling. She was not proof against the strong, warm pressure of his hand. She felt in its clasp, as she had when a little girl, a great and sure safety. It drew her irresistibly.

  She crept into his arms and buried her face on his shoulder, and she had a feeling that if she could not relieve her heart it would burst.

  "Oh, d--dad," she whispered, with a soft, hushed voice that broke tremulously at her lips, "I--I love him!... I do love him.... It's terrible!... I knew it--that last time you took me to his home--when he said he was going to war.... And, oh, now you know!"

  Anderson held her tight against his broad breast that lifted her with its great heave. "Ah-huh! Reckon that's some relief. I wasn't so darn sure," said Anderson. "Has he spoken to you?"

  "Spoken! What do you mean?"

  "Has Dorn told you he loved you?"

  Lenore lifted her face. If that confession of hers had been relief to her father it had been more so to her. What had seemed terrible began to feel natural. Still, she was all intense, vibrating, internally convulsed.

  "Yes, he has," she replied, shyly. "But such a confession! He told it as if to explain what he thought was boldness on his part. He had fallen in love with me at first sight!... And then meeting me was too much for him. He wanted me to know. He was going away to war. He asked nothing.... He seemed to apologize for--for daring to love me. He asked nothing. And he has absolutely not the slightest idea I care for him."

  "Wal, I'll be dog-goned!" ejaculated Anderson. "What's the matter with him?"

  "Dad, he is proud," replied Lenore, dreamily. "He's had a hard struggle out there in his desert of wheat. They've always been poor. He imagines there's a vast distance between an heiress of 'Many Waters' and a farmer boy. Then, more than all, I think, the war has fixed a morbid trouble in his mind. God knows it must be real enough! A house divided against itself is what he called his home. His father is German. He is American.

  He worshiped his mother, who was a native of the United States. He has become estranged from his father. I don't know--I'm not sure--but I felt that he was obsessed by a calamity in his German blood. I divined that was the great reason for his eagerness to go to war."

  "Wal, Kurt Dorn's not goin' to war," replied her father. "I fixed that all right."

  An amazing and rapturous start thrilled over Lenore. "Daddy!" she cried, leaping up in his arms, "what have you done?"

  "I got exemption for him, that's what," replied Anderson, with great satisfaction.

  "Exemption!" exclaimed Lenore, in bewilderment.

  "Don't you remember the government official from Washington? You met him in Spokane. He was out West to inspire the farmers to raise more wheat.

  There are many young farmers needed a thousand times more on the wheat-fields than on the battle-fields. An' Kurt Dorn is one of them.

  That boy will make the biggest sower of wheat in the Northwest. I recommended exemption for Dorn. An' he's exempted an' doesn't know it."

  "Doesn't know! He'll _never_ accept exemption," declared Lenore.

  "Lass, I'm some worried myself," rejoined Anderson. "Reckon you've explained Dorn to me--that somethin' queer about him.... But he's sensible. He can be told things. An' he'll see how much more he's needed to raise wheat than to kill Germans."

  "But, father--suppose he _wants_ to kill Germans?" asked Lenore, earnestly. How strangely she felt things about Dorn that she could not explain.

  "Then, by George! it's up to you, my girl," replied her father, grimly.

  "Understand me. I've no sentiment about Dorn in this matter. One good wheat-raiser is worth a dozen soldiers. To win the war--to feed our country after the war--why, only a man like me knows what it 'll take!

  It means millions of bushels of wheat!... I've sent my own boy. He'll fight with the best or the worst of them. But he'd never been a man to raise wheat. All Jim ever raised is hell. An' his kind is needed now. So let him go to war. But Dorn must be kept home. An' that's up to Lenore Anderson."

  "Me!... Oh--how?" cried Lenore, faintly.

  "Woman's wiles, daughter," said Anderson, with his frank laugh. "When Dorn comes let me try to show him his duty. The Northwest can't spare young men like him. He'll see that. If he has lost his wheat he'll come down here to make me take the land in payment of the debt. I'll accept it. Then he'll say he's goin' to war, an' then I'll say he ain't....

  We'll have it out. I'll offer him such a chance here an' in the Bend that he'd have to be crazy to refuse. But if he has got a twist in his mind--if he thinks he's got to go out an' kill Germans--then you'll have to change him."

  "But, dad, how on earth can I do that?" implored Lenore, distracted between hope and joy and fear.

  "You're a woman now. An' women are in this war up to their eyes. You'll be doin' more to keep him home than if you let him go. He's moony about you. You can make him stay. An' it's your future--your happiness....

  Child, no Anderson ever loves twice."

  "I cannot throw myself into his arms," whispered Lenore, very low.

  "Reckon I didn't mean you to," returned Anderson, gruffly.

  "Then--if--if he does not ask me to--to marry him--how can I--"

  "Lenore, no man on earth could resist you if you just let yourself be sweet--as sweet as you are sometimes. Dorn could never leave you!"

  "I'm not so sure of that, daddy," she murmured.

  "Then take my word for it," he replied, and he got up from the chair, though still holding her. "I'll have to go now.... But I've shown my hand to you. Your happiness is more to me than anythin' else in this world. You love that boy. He loves you. An' I never met a finer lad!

  Wal, here's the point. He need be no slacker to stay home. He can do more good here. Then outside of bein' a wheat man for his army an' his country he can be one for me. I'm growin' old, my lass!... Here's the biggest ranch in Washington to look after, an' I want Kurt Dorn to look after it.... Now, Lenore, do we understand each other?"

  She put her arms around his neck. "Dear old daddy, you're the wonderfulest father any girl ever had! I would do my best--I would obey even if I did not love Kurt Dorn.... To hear you speak so of him--oh, its sweet! It--chokes me!... Now, good-night.... Hurry, before I--"

  She kissed him and gently pushed him out of the room. Then before the sound of his slow footfalls had quite passed out of hearing she lay prone upon her bed, her face buried in the pillow, her hands clutc
hing the coverlet, utterly surrendered to a breaking storm of emotion.

  Terrible indeed had come that presaged crisis of her life. Love of her wild brother Jim, gone to atone forever for the errors of his youth; love of her father, confessing at last the sad fear that haunted him; love of Dorn, that stalwart clear-eyed lad who set his face so bravely toward a hopeless, tragic fate--these were the burden of the flood of her passion, and all they involved, rushing her from girlhood into womanhood, calling to her with imperious desires, with deathless loyalty.

  Chapter XVIII

  After Lenore's paroxysm of emotion had subsided and she lay quietly in the dark, she became aware of soft, hurried footfalls passing along the path below her window. At first she paid no particular heed to them, but at length the steady steps became so different in number, and so regular in passing every few moments, that she was interested to go to her window and look out. Watching there awhile, she saw a number of men, whispering and talking low, come from the road, pass under her window, and disappear down the path into the grove. Then no more came. Lenore feared at first these strange visitors might be prowling I. W. W. men. She concluded, however, that they were neighbors and farm-hands, come for secret conference with her father.

  Important events were pending, and her father had not taken her into his confidence! It must be, then, something that he did not wish her to know. Only a week ago, when the I. W. W. menace had begun to be serious, she had asked him how he intended to meet it, and particularly how he would take sure measures to protect himself. Anderson had laughed down her fears, and Lenore, absorbed in her own tumult, had been easily satisfied. But now, with her curiosity there returned a two-fold dread.

  She put on a cloak and went down-stairs. The hour was still early. She heard the girls with her mother in the sitting-room. As Lenore slipped out she encountered Jake. He appeared to loom right out of the darkness and he startled her.

  "Howdy, Miss Lenore!" he said. "Where might you be goin'?"

  "Jake, I'm curious about the men I heard passing by my window," she replied. Then she observed that Jake had a rifle under his arm, and she added, "What are you doing with that gun?"

  "Wal, I've sort of gone back to packin' a Winchester," replied Jake.

  Lenore missed his smile, ever ready for her. Jake looked somber.

  "You're on guard!" she exclaimed.

  "I reckon. There's four of us boys round the house. You're not goin' off thet step, Miss Lenore."

  "Oh, ah-huh!" replied Lenore, imitating her father, and bantering Jake, more for the fun of it than from any intention of disobeying him. "Who's going to keep me from it?"

  "I am. Boss's orders, Miss Lenore. I'm dog-gone sorry. But you sure oughtn't to be outdoors this far," replied Jake.

  "Look here, my cowboy dictator. I'm going to see where those men went," said Lenore, and forthwith she stepped down to the path.

  Then Jake deliberately leaned his rifle against a post and, laying hold of her with no gentle hands, he swung her in one motion back upon the porch. The broad light streaming out of the open door showed that, whatever his force meant, it had paled his face to exercise it.

  "Why, Jake--to handle me that way!" cried Lenore, in pretended reproach.

  She meant to frighten or coax the truth out of him. "You hurt me!"

  "I'm beggin' your pardon if I was rough," said Jake. "Fact is, I'm a little upset an' I mean bizness."

  Whereupon Lenore stepped back to close the door, and then, in the shadow, she returned to Jake and whispered: "I was only in fun. I would not think of disobeying you. But you can trust me. I'll not tell, and I'll worry less if I know what's what.... Jake, is father in danger?"

  "I reckon. But the best we could do was to make him stand fer a guard.

  There's four of us cowpunchers with him all day, an' at night he's surrounded by guards. There ain't much chance of his gittin' hurt. So you needn't worry about thet."

  "Who are these men I heard passing? Where are they from?"

  "Farmers, ranchers, cowboys, from all over this side of the river."

  "There must have been a lot of them," said Lenore, curiously.

  "Reckon you never heerd the quarter of what's come to attend Anderson's meetin'."

  "What for? Tell me, Jake."

  The cowboy hesitated. Lenore heard his big hand slap round the rifle-stock.

  "We've orders not to tell thet," he replied.

  "But, Jake, you can tell _me_. You always tell me secrets. I'll not breathe it."

  Jake came closer to her, and his tall head reached to a level with hers, where she stood on the porch. Lenore saw his dark, set face, his gleaming eyes.

  "Wal, it's jest this here," he whispered, hoarsely. "Your dad has organized vigilantes, like he belonged to in the early days.... An' it's the vigilantes thet will attend to this I. W. W. outfit."

  Those were thrilling words to Jake, as was attested by his emotion, and they surely made Lenore's knees knock together. She had heard many stories from her father of that famous old vigilante band, secret, making the law where there was no law.

  "Oh, I might have expected that of dad!" she murmured.

  "Wal, it's sure the trick out here. An' your father's the man to deal it. There'll be dog-goned little wheat burned in this valley, you can gamble on thet."

  "I'm glad. I hate the very thought.... Jake, you know about Mr. Dorn's misfortune?"

  "No, I ain't heerd about him. But I knowed the Bend was burnin' over, an' of course I reckoned Dorn would lose his wheat. Fact is, he had the only wheat up there worth savin' ... Wal, these I. W. W.'s an' their German bosses hev put it all over the early days when rustlin' cattle, holdin' up stage-coaches, an' jest plain cussedness was stylish."

  "Jake, I'd rather have lived back in the early days," mused Lenore.

  "Me too, though I ain't no youngster," he replied. "Reckon you'd better go in now, Miss Lenore.... Don't you worry none or lose any sleep."

  Lenore bade the cowboy good-night and went to the sitting-room. Her mother sat preoccupied, with sad and thoughtful face. Rose was writing many pages to Jim. Kathleen sat at the table, surreptitiously eating while she was pretending to read.

  "My, but you look funny, Lenorry!" she cried.

  "Why don't you laugh, then?" retorted Lenore.

  "You're white. Your eyes are big and purple. You look like a starved cannibal.... If that's what it's like to be in love--excuse me--I'll never fall for any man!"

  "You ought to be in bed. Mother I recommend the baby of the family be sent up-stairs."

  "Yes, child, it's long past your bedtime," said Mrs. Anderson.

  "Aw, no!" wailed Kathleen.

  "Yes," ordered her mother.

  "But you'd never thought of it--if Lenorry hadn't said so," replied Kathleen.

  "You should obey Lenore," reprovingly said Mrs. Anderson.

  "What? Me! Mind her!" burst out Kathleen, hotly, as she got up to go.

  "Well, I guess not!" Kathleen backed to the door and opened it. Then making a frightful face at Lenore, most expressive of ridicule and revenge, she darted up-stairs.

  "My dear, will you write to your brother?" inquired Mrs. Anderson.

  "Yes," replied Lenore. "I'll send mine with Rose's."

  Mrs. Anderson bade the girls good-night and left the room. After that nothing was heard for a while except the scratching of pens.

  It was late when Lenore retired, yet she found sleep elusive. The evening had made subtle, indefinable changes in her. She went over in mind all that had been said to her and which she felt, with the result that one thing remained to torment and perplex and thrill her--to keep Kurt Dorn from going to war.

  * * * * *

  Next day Lenore did not go out to the harvest fields. She expected Dorn might arrive at any time, and she wanted to be there when he came. Yet she dreaded the meeting. She had to keep her hands active that day, so in some measure to control her mind. A thousand times she felt herself on the verge of thrilling and flushing. Her fancy an
d imagination seemed wonderfully active. The day was more than usually golden, crowned with an azure blue, like the blue of the Pacific. She worked in her room, helped her mother, took up her knitting, and sewed upon a dress, and even lent a hand in the kitchen. But action could not wholly dull the song in her heart. She felt unutterably young, as if life had just opened, with haunting, limitless, beautiful possibilities. Never had the harvest-time been so sweet.

  Anderson came in early from the fields that day. He looked like a farm-hand, with his sweaty shirt, his dusty coat, his begrimed face. And when he kissed Lenore he left a great smear on her cheek.

  "That's a harvest kiss, my lass," he said, with his big laugh. "Best of the whole year!"

  "It sure is, dad," she replied. "But I'll wait till you wash your face before I return it. How's the harvest going?"

  "We had trouble to-day," he said.

  "What happened?"

  "Nothin' much, but it was annoyin'. We had some machines crippled, an' it took most of the day to fix them.... We've got a couple of hundred hands at work. Some of them are I. W. W.'s, that's sure. But they all swear they are not an' we have no way to prove it. An' we couldn't catch them at their tricks.... All the same, we've got half your big wheat-field cut. A thousand acres, Lenore!... Some of the wheat 'll go forty bushels to the acre, but mostly under that."

  "Better than last harvest," Lenore replied, gladly. "We are lucky....

  Father, did you hear any news from the Bend?"

  "Sure did," he replied, and patted her head. "They sent me a message up from Vale.... Young Dorn wired from Kilo he'd be here to-day."

  "To-day!" echoed Lenore, and her heart showed a tendency to act strangely.

  "Yep. He'll be here soon," said Anderson, cheerfully. "Tell your mother.

  Mebbe he'll come for supper. An' have a room ready for him."

  "Yes, father," replied Lenore.

  "Wal, if Dorn sees you as you look now--sleeves rolled up, apron on, flour on your nose--a regular farmer girl--an' sure huggable, as Jake says--you won't have no trouble winnin' him."

  "How you talk!" exclaimed Lenore, with burning cheeks. She ran to her room and made haste to change her dress.