Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  The morning was cold. John’s mount answered promptly to the spur. He seemed to feel the desperation that possessed his rider. They were only a few miles from the pass when the sun came up, but from there on the journey was to be retarded by many an upward climb. During the ride to the pass John suffered no indecision of purpose. The flight was the thing. He had pledged himself to a cause and he would take what came. He could not turn back now!

  He measured the trip in his mind. He would camp beyond Castle Mesa that night, many miles beyond Taho the next night, and reach Flaggerston by noon the next day. His horse’s hoofs beat, his wound beat, his heart beat. His mind no longer planned; it was blank to thought. He was conscious only of sounds and feelings and the passing scene: the beat, beat, beat — of hoofs, wound, heart — the miles, miles, miles — mountains, valleys, walls.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  THE DAY AFTER Katharine and Alice had arrived, Mary awoke with a feeling that she must fly from them. Alone with Katharine the night before she had been unable to confide in her friend the recent harrowing events, and her failure she accepted as a judgment against herself which Katharine would surely comprehend. The letter was on its way to Wilbur. Revocation now was impossible. If she tried to look fearlessly at the future she was conscious only of pretense, conscious that she was false to the man she loved, to the man she had married and to herself. John’s denunciation had left its deadly mark. She told herself that she must forget him, but the frequency with which she repeated the injunction was proof to her honest self that she could not. She did love him. Yet Wilbur was coming — perhaps today. “No, no!” she cried fiercely, cringing before the impending event.

  When she called Joy to dress, the child, with eyes of love, saw at once that she was not herself. “Mudder sick! Poor Mudder!” she said. Then she whispered innocently, “Mudder not so glad she was Aunt Katharine come?”

  It was obvious that Joy was glad Aunt Katharine had come. Anyone who could produce so fair a vision as Alice was to Joy a generous friend, and that fate was most beneficent which had brought both gift and giver as companions to her home.

  That day was destined to be full for Joy; when Mary went to work she was left in care of Alice and Katharine. Mary’s day, on the contrary, was long and wearisome. Time and again her conscience smote her because she should have warned the girls that Wilbur might appear at any time, and not have led them to believe that they were to continue with her. She hurried home straightway at the close of her working hours.

  From a distance Mary descried a figure on the porch step, and thinking it was Katharine she hurried along. A nearer view disclosed an Indian girl as alert and motionless as a statue. She rose as Mary turned in at the gate.

  Mary was impressed by the sadness of the girl’s face. “Young enough to be a schoolgirl,” she said to herself. She smiled and nodded to her visitor.

  “Are you Mrs. Newton who takes care of my sister Joy?” the girl asked.

  “I am Mrs. Newton,” replied Mary. “I understood Joy had a sister. You’re from Sage Springs, are you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve come to see Joy — not to take her from me, I hope.”

  The girl gave a quaint gesture of denial with swift eloquent fingers. “I shall not take her home. I came to thank you for your kindness to her. I learned about it in the village. The Indians think you are very wonderful. At Sage Springs we would have known late if she had died, without knowing even that she was sick, they tell me. I was much surprised to find she was not at the school.”

  “Did you knock? Is there no one in?” asked Mary.

  “No one answered when I knocked.”

  “Won’t you come in now? Joy must be away on a walk with friends who are visiting me. You look tired. If you arrived today, I don’t wonder. That’s a long trip. Perhaps you’ll have some tea with me.”

  “Thank you,” said the girl.

  She followed Mary into the house.

  “You’ll be comfortable there,” said Mary, designating Wilbur’s armchair.

  The girl gave Mary a scarcely perceptible smile as she took the proffered place.

  “And what is your name?” asked Mary.

  “Magdaline,” came the reply.

  “That’s a beautiful name,” said Mary and added to herself that there was something infinitely sad about it, like her face.

  “You have been to school,” Mary went on to the girl. “I know because you speak so well.”

  “In Taho and in Riverside.”

  “And you came back to the desert to stay?”

  “I was sent back. Now I am leaving for good. I go to Flaggerston on the mail stage tonight. That is why I came to see Joy. I may never see her again.”

  There was no regret nor sorrow manifest in her colorless voice.

  “You are going far?” inquired Mary.

  “Yes. Exactly where I do not know. California someplace maybe, after — after a while.”

  “But you can always write to Joy. If your parents consent I will adopt her legally. That is — I want to.” Mary thought suddenly of Wilbur to whom children were a nuisance, and involuntarily her eyes strayed to his picture. When she looked at Magdaline again she saw that the girl had followed the direction of her glance and was contemplating the picture, too. Suddenly it seemed that the girl was staring like some wild creature of the woods startled in flight by the sound of a shot. The girl rose and swiftly sped to the mantel. Her action amazed Mary.

  She snatched the picture and extended it in a shaking hand.

  “Who is this?” she demanded hoarsely.

  “Mr. Newton,” Mary replied more alarmed than before.

  Magdaline accepted the reply with a defiant toss of her head and a sound, half laugh and half cry. “What is he to you?”

  Mary felt as if she had been thrown into a whirling eddy where on each turn Wilbur’s face flashed by her. “My husband,” she said through trembling lips.

  “Your husband?” the girl cried hysterically. “Not your brother? ... Mr. Newton, Mrs. Newton.... Your husband you say! Then he lied to me. He said he was not married. No one ever told me anywhere that he was married. Names can be the same when people are not related. I did not think of such a thing when they told me about Joy and you. You were so good, they said. How can he be your husband when you are so good?”

  Shaken by the force of her emotion she sank against the mantel for support.

  Mary felt her inward self retreating from the presence of this girl and from the Wilbur whom she knew. Even her voice seemed far away as she said, “What are you talking about? What do you mean?”

  The girl closed her eyes as if to shut the sight of Mary from her. “Nothing. You must forgive me,” she said speaking low.

  “That is no answer!” cried Mary. “Tell me the truth. I demand it.”

  Slowly the girl looked up. Summoning her voice to a whisper, she asked, “You want to know?”

  “Yes! I want to know!” Mary tried to rise and found she could not, she was trembling so violently.

  “I have lived with him.”

  “Lived with him?” echoed Mary.

  “At Sage Springs where he has a trading post,” the girl went on. “I thought maybe someday he would marry me. I was all alone. My people did not want me. White people did not understand me. I was unhappy. I could not live like an Indian. He came to me with soft comforting words. He whispered love to me. He seemed so big and strong. He said Indians were better than white people. He wanted to be friends with the Indians, that was why he left all white people and came to the post. I lived with him. Even my family did not care that I lived with him. Then I found why, and why he would be friends to the Indians. He sold them cheap whisky for which they paid him gladly too much. I hated him then, and his friend Hanley of whom he talked. Together they smuggled in the whisky. White devils both of them! Just the same I asked Wilbur Newton to marry me. I found I had to get married. He refused, sent me away, gave me fifty dollars for a doctor. Said no decent
white man married an Indian girl. I wanted to kill him then. Maybe it is better to tell you than to kill him. I do not care if he loves you. I am through with him. He is a rattlesnake — poisonous — poisoning my people. Maybe your hate will kill him.”

  A terrible moan escaped Mary. It had been rising to stifle her, gathering in force with each incrimination of Wilbur poured forth by the Indian girl.

  Then she felt hands upon her. The Indian girl was kneeling by her side. Involuntarily she shrank from her touch.

  “Mrs. Newton, forgive me,” the girl pleaded. “I did not know he was married. I did not know you were waiting for him here. Why should you care for him so? He leaves you here and makes love to another woman, an Indian. There is, then, something worse than being an Indian who is an outcast among her people. It is any woman an outcast from the love of her husband. Hear me when I say that my heart breaks for you. I thought it could break no more.”

  Mary bent an intent gaze on the tragic upturned face, her mind for the moment clear of agony, recording what was taking place without effort.

  “Me for money, you for lust! From the tricky Northerner to the hungry-hearted Indian girl!” she cried aloud. An ugly passion was born in her in that moment. Like the girl who knelt by her side, she wanted to kill Wilbur Newton. Degraded himself, he had dragged her down with him. Her passion mounted like a flame until her very body seemed to bum and sway under its feverish thrall.

  An anguished cry from the Indian girl came to her dully, “Mrs. Newton, take your revenge on me if you will, only do not look like that — like someone who has seen death! I could kill myself for sorrow!”

  Then Mary’s faculty of reasoning returned, replacing a strange suspension of thought. She knew she was not alone in her despair, that she shared her experience and pain with this girl of an alien race. Her arm slipped protectingly around Magdaline’s shoulders. The taut body relaxed into the voluminous protecting folds of native dress and, like a child, Magdaline’s head sought Mary’s lap. They sat in silence until they heard a car driven under full power tearing restlessly down the avenue. It startled Mary to terrifying recollection. That might be Wilbur. Any car coming into town might bring Wilbur. She had sent for him. He was coming. It was too awful to contemplate. She tried to rise from her chair.

  She grasped Magdaline, compelling the girl’s attention. “You must go on to Flaggerston. Stay until I come; it won’t be long. You can’t go through your trouble alone. I will help you. We must face our trouble together.”

  So she persuaded the girl to rise, and herself stood and waited for strength to return to her unsteady limbs. Then gently she urged Magdaline to the door. Neither of them said a word. Black eyes with a haunted look was all that Mary could see in the dark, oval face that for a moment was turned full toward her. The Indian girl was quickly on her way, gliding with noiseless tread down the path to the gate.

  Mary went to the kitchen. Why, she did not know. She went to the cupboard, took out a pan, looked at it, thrust it back, shut the cupboard door. Consciousness of her purposeless act drove a dry sob to her lips. She talked to herself in an excited whisper. “What am I doing? What can I do? How can I change it? ... There’s nothing to do. I’m his wife. I sent for him. I wrote that I wanted him! Oh, dear God, what made me write that I wanted him?” The sound of the words amplified. “Five days — six days — it’s too late! He has the letter. And I sent John away. I sent John away. And he’s never coming back again!”

  An exclamation of dismay cut Mary’s poignant cry. Alice, unseen, had mounted the back steps with Joy and was standing suddenly transfixed a few feet from the door.

  Mary heard her, saw her. Alice was approaching now, words trembling from her lips as she came.

  “What’s happened, Mary? What is it? I thought you had company, that you were talking to someone. You look ghastly.”

  “Everything’s happened! Everything! And nothing can be done,” moaned Mary, feeling even more poignantly than before the hopelessness of her lot.

  Alice moved away toward the door. “I’ll get Katharine,” she said. “She stopped in to visit a minute with Mrs. MacDonald. She’ll come right away.”

  “No, you go, dear,” Alice added, her eyes upon Joy who was edging toward Mary. “Go to Mrs. MacDonald’s and tell Aunt Katharine Mother needs her at once.”

  “Joy won’t go! Somebody hurt Mudder!” declared the child defiantly.

  But the sight of Mary shrinking from her hysterical demand for a kiss was so terrifying that she fled without further appeal.

  * * * * *

  An hour later Katharine was packing a valise. While she worked she spent part of the time in strange meditation, and the rest meeting Alice’s inquiries. She was basking in the vindication of self for her long-established dislike of Wilbur when Alice interrupted by asking how long she would be gone.

  “I can’t tell,” Katharine replied. “My idea is to get Mary away so if Wilbur does come she’ll be gone. It would kill her to see him now. She’s a sick girl. She’s been under a fearful strain for months. Her idea to send Billy Horton to find John is absurd to me, but I’m pretending to believe in it so I can get her away.”

  “And suppose you ran into Wilbur at Castle Mesa,” Alice went on. “That could happen. You don’t know where he is, or what has happened.”

  “Darling, give your sister credit for having a thought for emergencies. I’ve fixed it up with Billy. We’ll have a little engine trouble at the ridge. He’ll walk down, ostensibly for help, really to see if Newton’s at the post. If he is, Billy will find all the beds at Shelley’s occupied and we’ll go around by way of the far road and camp. Billy’s taking a camp outfit along. If the coast is clear we’ll sleep at Shelley’s. We’ll be arriving late and decamping early.”

  “And if that awful man descends on me?” asked Alice with a shudder.

  “You know nothing. Take Joy and go at once to Mrs. MacDonald. He’ll not follow you there. And in such event board with Mrs. MacDonald until I return.”

  Katharine felt Alice’s hand on her shoulder arrestingly and looked up.

  “You’re a very dear, Katharine, always doing for others and never for yourself,” Alice said sadly.

  “And what do you think we’re put in the world for?” asked Katharine with a laugh.

  “Some of us to fight t. b. and disappointments,” Alice returned.

  “Disappointments?” echoed Katharine.

  “Oh, not in things concerning myself, but concerning others, things for others that would really be best for them.”

  “The narrow, provincial little self again, objecting to poor Mary!” thought Katharine. “Joy will take all your attention while we’re gone,” she said gently. “Perhaps you’ll forget whatever it is that disturbs you so.”

  Presently Billy arrived driving an automobile borrowed from Mr. MacDonald. Joy came in to say that Billy and Mother were ready to start as soon as Aunt Katharine joined them. The child was happy again. With the nature of proceedings very vague in her mind, she was averse to Mary’s leave-taking. However, to be left with Alice had for Joy almost as much virtue as being at peace with Mother.

  Mary had a deathly pallor. Her eyes were frightened, betraying the condition of her mind. Having said good-by to Joy and Alice, she shrank back within the shadow of the automobile, as if to hide her shame from prying eyes. Katharine caught one of Mary’s listless hands in hers. It was icy cold. She retained it, and Mary did not protest.

  “Wherever man puts his foot, though it be an Eden, tragedy stalks,” mused Katharine to herself. How different this journey over the illimitable stretches of the desert! She dreaded it. The trail became a place of danger, a place where almost anywhere they might encounter Wilbur. Mesas were obstacles that prolonged distance except for the crow’s flight; beetling walls suggested impending catastrophe, and jagged peaks the pain of spirit, and the light breeze in the sage, so sad and melancholy, seemed like the sighing of an imprisoned spirit weary of its eternal strivings. She kep
t her eye on the time. With satisfaction she watched the sun lower. Billy put the car to a strenuous test as he raced over uneven roads and high centers, and on through brush wherever a stretch of mud, left by fitful showers, forced a detour. Mary sat in deep silence, which Katharine did not disturb.

  By sunset they had covered considerable mileage. Night would be kind, concealing them under its dark mantle. Still, they were on the highroad. There was to be a moon. Almost Katharine had forgotten about the moon. It came up like a slowly opening eye discovering their flight.

  Mary sank farther into her corner. Later she peered cautiously out to see how far they had progressed. Suddenly her body stiffened, swaying against Katharine, and her hand grasped for a hold on Katharine’s skirt.

  “Look! A rider!” she cried. “He came around that butte. He’s crossed the road. See him there in the sage?”

  Katharine followed the direction of Mary’s strained gaze. Then she, too, saw. Mary’s hand, unmerciful in its strength, was clutching flesh. Mary spoke again before Katharine could answer.

  “That’s not an Indian! Did you see him cut through that clearing? He rides a big horse. You don’t suppose he’s—” She left the inference to Katharine.

  “Wilbur? Yes. It might be,” Katharine replied promptly. To Billy she said, “Drive as fast as you can through here!”

  “And stop for no one,” Mary added.

  But the lone rider had swerved far from the trail. He moved out and away through the brush, widening the distance between them at each lope of his horse. Mary relaxed her hold on Katharine, and at last, with an accompanying sigh, her hand slipped free.

  Katharine said, “That man seems as anxious to avoid us as we are to avoid him.”

  CHAPTER XIX