Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  “Carley,” he said, at last turning to her with a warm smile, “out here in the West the cook usually yells, ‘Come and get it.’ Draw up your stool.”

  And presently Carley found herself seated across the crude table from Glenn, with the background of chinked logs in her sight, and the smart of wood smoke in her eyes. In years past she had sat with him in the soft, subdued, gold-green shadows of the Astor, or in the sumptuous atmosphere of the St. Regis. But this event was so different, so striking, that she felt it would have limitless significance. For one thing, the look of Glenn! When had he ever seemed like this, wonderfully happy to have her there, consciously proud of this dinner he had prepared in half an hour, strangely studying her as one on trial? This might have had its effect upon Carley’s reaction to the situation, making it sweet, trenchant with meaning, but she was hungry enough and the dinner was good enough to make this hour memorable on that score alone. She ate until she was actually ashamed of herself. She laughed heartily, she talked, she made love to Glenn. Then suddenly an idea flashed into her quick mind.

  “Glenn, did this girl Flo teach you to cook?” she queried, sharply.

  “No. I always was handy in camp. Then out here I had the luck to fall in with an old fellow who was a wonderful cook. He lived with me for a while. . . . Why, what difference would it have made — had Flo taught me?”

  Carley felt the heat of blood in her face. “I don’t know that it would have made a difference. Only — I’m glad she didn’t teach you. I’d rather no girl could teach you what I couldn’t.”

  “You think I’m a pretty good cook, then?” he asked.

  “I’ve enjoyed this dinner more than any I’ve ever eaten.”

  “Thanks, Carley. That’ll help a lot,” he said, gayly, but his eyes shone with earnest, glad light. “I hoped I’d surprise you. I’ve found out here that I want to do things well. The West stirs something in a man. It must be an unwritten law. You stand or fall by your own hands. Back East you know meals are just occasions — to hurry through — to dress for — to meet somebody — to eat because you have to eat. But out here they are different. I don’t know how. In the city, producers, merchants, waiters serve you for money. The meal is a transaction. It has no significance. It is money that keeps you from starvation. But in the West money doesn’t mean much. You must work to live.”

  Carley leaned her elbows on the table and gazed at him curiously and admiringly. “Old fellow, you’re a wonder. I can’t tell you how proud I am of you. That you could come West weak and sick, and fight your way to health, and learn to be self-sufficient! It is a splendid achievement. It amazes me. I don’t grasp it. I want to think. Nevertheless I—”

  “What?” he queried, as she hesitated.

  “Oh, never mind now,” she replied, hastily, averting her eyes.

  The day was far spent when Carley returned to the Lodge-and in spite of the discomfort of cold and sleet, and the bitter wind that beat in her face as she struggled up the trail — it was a day never to be forgotten. Nothing had been wanting in Glenn’s attention or affection. He had been comrade, lover, all she craved for. And but for his few singular words about work and children there had been no serious talk. Only a play day in his canyon and his cabin! Yet had she appeared at her best? Something vague and perplexing knocked at the gate of her consciousness.

  CHAPTER IV

  TWO WARM SUNNY days in early May inclined Mr. Hutter to the opinion that pleasant spring weather was at hand and that it would be a propitious time to climb up on the desert to look after his sheep interests. Glenn, of course, would accompany him.

  “Carley and I will go too,” asserted Flo.

  “Reckon that’ll be good,” said Hutter, with approving nod.

  His wife also agreed that it would be fine for Carley to see the beautiful desert country round Sunset Peak. But Glenn looked dubious.

  “Carley, it’ll be rather hard,” he said. “You’re soft, and riding and lying out will stove you up. You ought to break in gradually.”

  “I rode ten miles today,” rejoined Carley. “And didn’t mind it — much.” This was a little deviation from stern veracity.

  “Shore Carley’s well and strong,” protested Flo. “She’ll get sore, but that won’t kill her.”

  Glenn eyed Flo with rather penetrating glance. “I might drive Carley round about in the car,” he said.

  “But you can’t drive over those lava flats, or go round, either. We’d have to send horses in some cases miles to meet you. It’s horseback if you go at all.”

  “Shore we’ll go horseback,” spoke up Flo. “Carley has got it all over that Spencer girl who was here last summer.”

  “I think so, too. I am sure I hope so. Because you remember what the ride to Long Valley did to Miss Spencer,” rejoined Glenn.

  “What?” inquired Carley.

  “Bad cold, peeled nose, skinned shin, saddle sores. She was in bed two days. She didn’t show much pep the rest of her stay here, and she never got on another horse.”

  “Oh, is that all, Glenn?” returned Carley, in feigned surprise. “Why, I imagined from your tone that Miss Spencer’s ride must have occasioned her discomfort. . . . See here, Glenn. I may be a tenderfoot, but I’m no mollycoddle.”

  “My dear, I surrender,” replied Glenn, with a laugh. “Really, I’m delighted. But if anything happens — don’t you blame me. I’m quite sure that a long horseback ride, in spring, on the desert, will show you a good many things about yourself.”

  That was how Carley came to find herself, the afternoon of the next day, astride a self-willed and unmanageable little mustang, riding in the rear of her friends, on the way through a cedar forest toward a place called Deep Lake.

  Carley had not been able yet, during the several hours of their journey, to take any pleasure in the scenery or in her mount. For in the first place there was nothing to see but scrubby little gnarled cedars and drab-looking rocks; and in the second this Indian pony she rode had discovered she was not an adept horsewoman and had proceeded to take advantage of the fact. It did not help Carley’s predicament to remember that Glenn had decidedly advised her against riding this particular mustang. To be sure, Flo had approved of Carley’s choice, and Mr. Hutter, with a hearty laugh, had fallen in line: “Shore. Let her ride one of the broncs, if she wants.” So this animal she bestrode must have been a bronc, for it did not take him long to elicit from Carley a muttered, “I don’t know what bronc means, but it sounds like this pony acts.”

  Carley had inquired the animal’s name from the young herder who had saddled him for her.

  “Wal, I reckon he ain’t got much of a name,” replied the lad, with a grin, as he scratched his head. “For us boys always called him Spillbeans.”

  “Humph! What a beautiful cognomen!” ejaculated Carley, “But according to Shakespeare any name will serve. I’ll ride him or — or—”

  So far there had not really been any necessity for the completion of that sentence. But five miles of riding up into the cedar forest had convinced Carley that she might not have much farther to go. Spillbeans had ambled along well enough until he reached level ground where a long bleached grass waved in the wind. Here he manifested hunger, then a contrary nature, next insubordination, and finally direct hostility. Carley had urged, pulled, and commanded in vain. Then when she gave Spillbeans a kick in the flank he jumped stiff legged, propelling her up out of the saddle, and while she was descending he made the queer jump again, coming up to meet her. The jolt she got seemed to dislocate every bone in her body. Likewise it hurt. Moreover, along with her idea of what a spectacle she must have presented, it quickly decided Carley that Spillbeans was a horse that was not to be opposed. Whenever he wanted a mouthful of grass he stopped to get it. Therefore Carley was always in the rear, a fact which in itself did not displease her. Despite his contrariness, however, Spillbeans had apparently no intention of allowing the other horses to get completely out of sight.

  Several times Flo waited for
Carley to catch up. “He’s loafing on you, Carley. You ought to have on a spur. Break off a switch and beat him some.” Then she whipped the mustang across the flank with her bridle rein, which punishment caused Spillbeans meekly to trot on with alacrity. Carley had a positive belief that he would not do it for her. And after Flo’s repeated efforts, assisted by chastisement from Glenn, had kept Spillbeans in a trot for a couple of miles Carley began to discover that the trotting of a horse was the most uncomfortable motion possible to imagine. It grew worse. It became painful. It gradually got unendurable. But pride made Carley endure it until suddenly she thought she had been stabbed in the side. This strange piercing pain must be what Glenn had called a “stitch” in the side, something common to novices on horseback. Carley could have screamed. She pulled the mustang to a walk and sagged in her saddle until the pain subsided. What a blessed relief! Carley had keen sense of the difference between riding in Central Park and in Arizona. She regretted her choice of horses. Spillbeans was attractive to look at, but the pleasure of riding him was a delusion. Flo had said his gait resembled the motion of a rocking chair. This Western girl, according to Charley, the sheep herder, was not above playing Arizona jokes. Be that as it might, Spillbeans now manifested a desire to remain with the other horses, and he broke out of a walk into a trot. Carley could not keep him from trotting. Hence her state soon wore into acute distress.

  Her left ankle seemed broken. The stirrup was heavy, and as soon as she was tired she could no longer keep its weight from drawing her foot in. The inside of her right knee was as sore as a boil. Besides, she had other pains, just as severe, and she stood momentarily in mortal dread of that terrible stitch in her side. If it returned she knew she would fall off. But, fortunately, just when she was growing weak and dizzy, the horses ahead slowed to a walk on a descent. The road wound down into a wide deep canyon. Carley had a respite from her severest pains. Never before had she known what it meant to be so grateful for relief from anything.

  The afternoon grew far advanced and the sunset was hazily shrouded in gray. Hutter did not like the looks of those clouds. “Reckon we’re in for weather,” he said. Carley did not care what happened. Weather or anything else that might make it possible to get off her horse! Glenn rode beside her, inquiring solicitously as to her pleasure. “Ride of my life!” she lied heroically. And it helped some to see that she both fooled and pleased him.

  Beyond the canyon the cedared desert heaved higher and changed its aspect. The trees grew larger, bushier, greener, and closer together, with patches of bleached grass between, and russet-lichened rocks everywhere. Small cactus plants bristled sparsely in open places; and here and there bright red flowers — Indian paintbrush, Flo called them — added a touch of color to the gray. Glenn pointed to where dark banks of cloud had massed around the mountain peaks. The scene to the west was somber and compelling.

  At last the men and the pack-horses ahead came to a halt in a level green forestland with no high trees. Far ahead a chain of soft gray round hills led up to the dark heaved mass of mountains. Carley saw the gleam of water through the trees. Probably her mustang saw or scented it, because he started to trot. Carley had reached a limit of strength, endurance, and patience. She hauled him up short. When Spillbeans evinced a stubborn intention to go on Carley gave him a kick. Then it happened.

  She felt the reins jerked out of her hands and the saddle propel her upward. When she descended it was to meet that before-experienced jolt.

  “Look!” cried Flo. “That bronc is going to pitch.”

  “Hold on, Carley!” yelled Glenn.

  Desperately Carley essayed to do just that. But Spillbeans jolted her out of the saddle. She came down on his rump and began to slide back and down. Frightened and furious, Carley tried to hang to the saddle with her hands and to squeeze the mustang with her knees. But another jolt broke her hold, and then, helpless and bewildered, with her heart in her throat and a terrible sensation of weakness, she slid back at each upheave of the muscular rump until she slid off and to the ground in a heap. Whereupon Spillbeans trotted off toward the water.

  Carley sat up before Glenn and Flo reached her. Manifestly they were concerned about her, but both were ready to burst with laughter. Carley knew she was not hurt and she was so glad to be off the mustang that, on the moment, she could almost have laughed herself.

  “That beast is well named,” she said. “He spilled me, all right. And I presume I resembled a sack of beans.”

  “Carley — you’re — not hurt?” asked Glenn, choking, as he helped her up.

  “Not physically. But my feelings are.”

  Then Glenn let out a hearty howl of mirth, which was seconded by a loud guffaw from Hutter. Flo, however, appeared to be able to restrain whatever she felt. To Carley she looked queer.

  “Pitch! You called it that,” said Carley.

  “Oh, he didn’t really pitch. He just humped up a few times,” replied Flo, and then when she saw how Carley was going to take it she burst into a merry peal of laughter. Charley, the sheep herder was grinning, and some of the other men turned away with shaking shoulders.

  “Laugh, you wild and woolly Westerners!” ejaculated Carley. “It must have been funny. I hope I can be a good sport. . . . But I bet you I ride him tomorrow.”

  “Shore you will,” replied Flo.

  Evidently the little incident drew the party closer together. Carley felt a warmth of good nature that overcame her first feeling of humiliation. They expected such things from her, and she should expect them, too, and take them, if not fearlessly or painlessly, at least without resentment.

  Carley walked about to ease her swollen and sore joints, and while doing so she took stock of the camp ground and what was going on. At second glance the place had a certain attraction difficult for her to define. She could see far, and the view north toward those strange gray-colored symmetrical hills was one that fascinated while it repelled her. Near at hand the ground sloped down to a large rock-bound lake, perhaps a mile in circumference. In the distance, along the shore she saw a white conical tent, and blue smoke, and moving gray objects she took for sheep.

  The men unpacked and unsaddled the horses, and, hobbling their forefeet together, turned them loose. Twilight had fallen and each man appeared to be briskly set upon his own task. Glenn was cutting around the foot of a thickly branched cedar where, he told Carley, he would make a bed for her and Flo. All that Carley could see that could be used for such purpose was a canvas-covered roll. Presently Glenn untied a rope from round this, unrolled it, and dragged it under the cedar. Then he spread down the outer layer of canvas, disclosing a considerable thickness of blankets. From under the top of these he pulled out two flat little pillows. These he placed in position, and turned back some of the blankets.

  “Carley, you crawl in here, pile the blankets up, and the tarp over them,” directed Glenn. “If it rains pull the tarp up over your head — and let it rain.”

  This direction sounded in Glenn’s cheery voice a good deal more pleasurable than the possibilities suggested. Surely that cedar tree could not keep off rain or snow.

  “Glenn, how about — about animals — and crawling things, you know?” queried Carley.

  “Oh, there are a few tarantulas and centipedes, and sometimes a scorpion. But these don’t crawl around much at night. The only thing to worry about are the hydrophobia skunks.”

  “What on earth are they?” asked Carley, quite aghast.

  “Skunks are polecats, you know,” replied Glenn, cheerfully. “Sometimes one gets bitten by a coyote that has rabies, and then he’s a dangerous customer. He has no fear and he may run across you and bite you in the face. Queer how they generally bite your nose. Two men have been bitten since I’ve been here. One of them died, and the other had to go to the Pasteur Institute with a well-developed case of hydrophobia.”

  “Good heavens!” cried Carley, horrified.

  “You needn’t be afraid,” said Glenn. “I’ll tie one of the dogs
near your bed.”

  Carley wondered whether Glenn’s casual, easy tone had been adopted for her benefit or was merely an assimilation from this Western life. Not improbably Glenn himself might be capable of playing a trick on her. Carley endeavored to fortify herself against disaster, so that when it befell she might not be wholly ludicrous.

  With the coming of twilight a cold, keen wind moaned through the cedars. Carley would have hovered close to the fire even if she had not been too tired to exert herself. Despite her aches, she did justice to the supper. It amazed her that appetite consumed her to the extent of overcoming a distaste for this strong, coarse cooking. Before the meal ended darkness had fallen, a windy raw darkness that enveloped heavily like a blanket. Presently Carley edged closer to the fire, and there she stayed, alternately turning back and front to the welcome heat. She seemingly roasted hands, face, and knees while her back froze. The wind blew the smoke in all directions. When she groped around with blurred, smarting eyes to escape the hot smoke, it followed her. The other members of the party sat comfortably on sacks or rocks, without much notice of the smoke that so exasperated Carley. Twice Glenn insisted that she take a seat he had fixed for her, but she preferred to stand and move around a little.