Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  “Clara, sometimes I don’t know about you,” observed Lucy musingly, as she gazed thoughtfully at her sister.

  “How many times have I heard you say that!” returned Clara, with a mingling of pathos and mirth. “Lucy, the fact is you never knew about me. You never had me figured. You were always so big yourself that you couldn’t see the littleness of me.”

  “Ahuh!” drawled Lucy. Then more seriously she went on: “Clara, I’m not big. I’ve a big love for you, but that’s about all.”

  “Have it your own way. All the same, I’m going to tell you about yourself. That’s why I sent word by the children. You didn’t seem very curious or anxious to see me.”

  “Clara, I was only in fun. I don’t want to — to know any more about you — unless it is you’re happy — and have forgotten — your — your trouble,” rejoined Lucy soberly.

  “That’s just why I must tell you,” said her sister, with swift resolution. “I did forget because I was happy. But my conscience won’t let me be happy any longer until I tell you.”

  Lucy’s heart contracted. She felt a sensation of inward chill. Why had Clara’s brown tan changed to pearly white? Her eyes had darkened unusually and were strained in unflinching courage. Yet full of fear!

  “All right. Get it over then,” replied Lucy.

  Notwithstanding Clara’s resolve, it was evidently hard for her to speak. “Lucy, since — March the second — I’ve been — Joe Denmeade’s wife,” she whispered huskily.

  Lucy, braced for something utterly different and connected with Clara’s past, suddenly succumbed to amaze. She sat down on one of the school benches.

  “Good heavens!” she gasped, and then could only stare.

  “Darling, don’t be angry,” implored Clara, and came to her and knelt beside her. Again Lucy felt those clinging, loving hands always so potent in their power.

  “I’m not angry — yet,” replied Lucy. “I’m just flabbergasted. I — I can’t think. It’s a terrible surprise...Your second elopement!”

  “Yes. And this made up for the — the other,” murmured Clara.

  “March the second? That was the day you took the long ride with Joe? Got back late. On a Saturday. You were exhausted, pale, excited...I remember now. And you never told me!”

  “Lucy, don’t reproach me,” protested Clara. “I meant to. Joe wanted to let you into our secret. But I couldn’t. It’s hard to tell you things.”

  “Why? Can’t I be trusted?”

  “It’s because you do trust so — so beautifully. It’s because you are so — so good, so strong yourself. Before I did it I felt it would be easy. Afterwards I found out differently.”

  “Well, too late now,” said Lucy sadly. “But how’d you do it? Where? Why?”

  “We rode down to Gordon,” replied Clara hurriedly. “That’s a little village below Cedar Ridge. We hired a man to drive us to Menlo. More than fifty miles. There we were married...Came home the same way. It was a terrible trip. But for the excitement it’d have killed me.”

  “March the second! You’ve kept it secret all this time?”

  “Yes. And want still to keep it, except from you.”

  “Clara — I don’t know what to say,” rejoined Lucy helplessly. “What on earth made you do it?”

  “Joe! Joe!” cried Clara wildly. “Oh, let me tell you. Don’t condemn me till you hear...From the very first Joe Denmeade made love to me. You could never dream what’s in that boy. He loved me. My refusals only made him worse. He waylaid me at every turn. He wrote me notes. He never let me forget for an hour that he worshipped me...And it grew to be sweet. Sweet to my bitter heart! I was hungry for love. I wanted, needed the very thing he felt. I fought — oh, how I fought! The idea of being loved was beautiful, wonderful, saving. But to fall in love — myself — that seemed impossible, wicked. It mocked me. But I did fall in love. I woke up one morning to another world...Then I was as weak as water.”

  Lucy took the palpitating Clara in her arms and held her close. After all, she could not blame her sister. If no dark shadow loomed up out of the past, then it would be well. Then as the first flush of excitement began to fade Lucy’s logical mind turned from cause to effect.

  “Clara, you didn’t tell Joe about your past,” asserted Lucy, very low. She did not question. She affirmed. She knew. And when Clara’s head drooped to her bosom, to hide her face there, Lucy had double assurance.

  “I couldn’t. I couldn’t,” said Clara brokenly. “Between my fears and Joe’s ridiculous faith in me, I couldn’t. Time and time again — when he was making love to me — before I cared — I told him I was no good — selfish, callous little flirt! He would only laugh and make harder love to me. I tried to tell him about the cowboy beaux I’d had. He’d say the more I’d had, the luckier he was to win me. To him I was good, innocent, noble. An angel! He wouldn’t listen to me...Then when I fell in love with him it wasn’t easy — the idea of telling. I quit trying until the night before the day we ran off to get married. Honestly I meant seriously to tell him. But I’d hardly gotten a word out when he grabbed me — and — kissed me till I couldn’t talk...Then — I was sort — of carried away — the — second time.”

  She ended in a sobbing whisper. All was revealed in those last few words. Lucy could only pity and cherish.

  “You poor child! I understand. I don’t blame you. I’m glad. If you love him so well and he loves you so well — it must — it shall come out all right...Don’t cry, Clara. I’m not angry. I’m just stunned and — and frightened.”

  Clara responded to kindness as to nothing else, and her passion of gratitude further strengthened Lucy’s resolve to serve.

  “Frightened! Yes, that’s what I’ve become lately,” she said. “Suppose Joe should find out — all about me. It’s not probable, but it might happen. He would never forgive me. He’s queer that way. He doesn’t understand women. Edd Denmeade, now — he could. He’d stick to a girl — if — if — ! But Joe wouldn’t, I know. At that I can tell him now, if you say I must. But it’s my last chance for happiness — for a home. I hate the thought that I’m not the angel he believes me. I know I could become anything in time — I love him so well. Always I remember that I wasn’t wicked. I was only a fool.”

  “Dear, regrets are useless,” replied Lucy gravely. “Let’s face the future. It seems to me you should tell Joe. After all, he hasn’t so much to forgive. He’s queer, I know—”

  “But, Lucy,” interrupted Clara, and she looked up with a strange, sad frankness, “there was a baby.”

  “My God!” cried Lucy, in horrified distress.

  “Yes...a girl — my own. She was born in Kingston at the home of the woman with whom I lived — a Mrs. Gerald. She had no family. She ran a little restaurant for miners. No one else knew, except the doctor, who came from the next town, and he was a good old soul. In my weakness I told Mrs. Gerald my story — whom I’d run off with — all about it. She offered to adopt the baby if I’d help support it. So we arranged to do that.”

  “That was the debt you spoke of,” replied Lucy, huskily. “Why you needed money often.”

  “Yes. And that’s why I was in such a hurry to find work — to take up this teaching...She had written me she would return the child or write to its — its father unless I kept my part of the bargain. I was so scared I couldn’t sleep...I was late in sending money, but I’m sure it’s all right.”

  “You married Joe — with this — hanging over you?” queried Lucy incredulously.

  “I told you how that came about. I know what I felt. I suffered. But it all came about. It happened,” answered Clara, as if driven to desperation.

  “Only a miracle can keep Joe from learning it some day.”

  “Miracles sometimes happen. For instance, your giving me a home. And my love for this boy!...You can never understand how close I was to death or hell...Kingston is a long way off. This is a wilderness. It might happen that God won’t quite forget me.”

  “Oh, the pi
ty of it!” wailed Lucy, wringing her hands. “Clara, how can you repudiate your own flesh and blood?”

  “I had to,” replied Clara sadly. “But I’ve lived with the memory, and I’ve changed...I’ll meet Mrs. Gerald’s demands, and some day I’ll make other and happier arrangements.”

  “If you only hadn’t married Joe! Why, oh, why didn’t you come to me?” cried Lucy.

  Clara offered no reply to that protest. She straightened up and turned away.

  “I hear a horse,” she said, rising to look at Lucy. “Must be Edd,” returned Lucy nervously.

  “Riding pretty fast for Edd. You know he never runs a horse unless there’s a reason.”

  The sisters stood a moment facing each other. Perhaps their emotions presaged catastrophe. Outside the sound of rapid hoofbeats thudded to a sliding halt. Lucy was occupied with anticipation of being compelled to face Edd Denmeade. Less prepared than at any time since her sentimental impulse at Claypool’s, she could not on such short notice master her feelings.

  Nevertheless, under the strain of the moment she hurried toward the door, to make her hope that the arrival was not Edd a certainty.

  Clara went to the window and looked out.

  Lucy reached the threshold just as her keen ear caught the musical jingle of spurs. Then a step too quick and short for Edd! In another second a tall slim young man confronted her. He wore the flashy garb of a rider. Lucy wondered where she had seen that striking figure, the young, handsome, heated red face with its wicked blue eyes. He doffed a wide sombrero. When Lucy saw the blaze of his golden hair she recognised him as the individual once pointed out to her at Cedar Ridge. Comrade of Bud Sprall!

  “Howdy, Luce! Reckon your kid sister is heah,” he said coolly.

  Lucy’s heart seemed to sink within her. Dread and anger leaped to take the place of softer emotions now vanishing.

  “How dare you?” she demanded.

  “Wal, I’m a darin’ hombre,” he drawled, taking a step closer. “An’ I’m goin’ in there to even up a little score with Clara.”

  “Who are you?” queried Lucy wildly.

  “None of your business. Get out of my way,” he said roughly.

  Lucy blocked the door. Open opposition did much to stabilise the whirl of her head.

  “You’re not coming in,” cried Lucy. “I warn you. Edd Denmeade’s expected here any moment. It’ll be bad for you if he finds you.”

  “Wal, I reckon Edd won’t get heah pronto,” rejoined this cowboy impertinently. “I left my pard, Bud Sprall, down the trail. An’ he’s a-rarin’ to stop Edd one way or another. Bud an’ I have been layin’ for this chance. Savvy, Luce?”

  She gave him a stinging slap in the face — so hard a blow that even her open hand staggered him.

  “Don’t you believe it, Mr. Red-face,” retorted Lucy furiously. “It’d take more than you or Bud Sprall to stop Edd Denmeade.”

  “Wild cat, huh? All same Clara!” he ejaculated, with his hand going to his face. The wicked eyes flashed like blue fire. Then he lunged at her, and grasping her arm, in a single pull he swung her out of the doorway. Lucy nearly lost her balance.

  Recovering, she rushed back into the school-house in time to see this stranger confront Clara. For Lucy it was a terrible thing to see her sister’s face.

  “Howdy, kid! Reckon you was lookin’ for me,” he said.

  “Jim Middleton!” burst out Clara in queer, strangled voice. Then she slipped limply to the floor In a faint.

  For Lucy uncertainty passed. She realised her sister’s reckoning had come, like a lightning flash out of a clear sky, and it roused all the tigress in her. Running to Clara, she knelt at her side, to find her white and cold and unconscious. Then she rose to confront the intruder with a determination to get rid of him before Clara recovered consciousness.

  “So you’re Jim Middleton?” she queried, in passionate scorn. “If I had a gun I’d shoot you. If I had a whip I’d beat you as I would a dog. Get out of here. You shall not talk to my sister. She hates you. Nothing you can have to say will interest her.”

  “Wal, I’m not so shore,” returned Middleton, without the coolness or nonchalance that before had characterised his speech. He looked considerably shaken. What contrasting gleams of passion — hate — wonder — love — changed the blue gaze he bent upon Clara’s white face! “I’ve a letter she’ll want to read.”

  “A letter! From Mrs. Gerald?” flashed Lucy, quivering all over as his hand went to his breast.

  “Yes, if it’s anythin’ to you,” retorted the cowboy, shaking a letter at her.

  “Mrs. Gerald wants money?” Lucy went on.

  “She shore does,” he answered resentfully.

  “I suppose you’re going to send it to her?”

  “I am like hell!”

  “Also I suppose you’ll want to right the wrong you did Clara? You’ll want to marry her truly?” demanded Lucy, with infinite sarcasm.

  “You’ve got the wrong hunch, Luce,” he replied, laughing coarsely. “I jest want to read her this letter. Shore I’ve been keepin’ it secret these days for her to see first. Then I’ll tell Joe Denmeade an’ every other man in this woods.”

  “Haven’t you made Clara suffer enough?” queried Lucy, trying to keep her voice steady and her wits working.

  “She ran off from me. I reckon with another man.”

  “You’re a liar! Oh, I’ll make you pay for this!” cried Lucy, in desperation.

  Suddenly she saw him turn his head. Listening. He had not heard her outburst. Then Lucy’s strained hearing caught the welcome clatter of hoofs. Quick as a flash she snatched the letter out of Middleton’s hands.

  “Heah, give that back!” he shouted fiercely.

  Like a cat Lucy leaped over desks into another aisle, and then, facing about, she thrust the letter into the bosom of her blouse. Middleton leaned forward, glaring in amaze and fury.

  “I’ll tear your clothes off,” he shouted, low and hard.

  “Jim Middleton, if you know when you’re well off you’ll get out of here and out of the country before these Denmeades learn what you’ve done,” returned Lucy.

  “An’ I’ll beat you good while I’m tearin’ your clothes off,” he declared as he crouched.

  “Edd Denmeade will kill you!” whispered Lucy, beginning to weaken.

  “Once more,” he hissed venomously, “give me that letter...It’s my proof about the baby!”

  And on the instant a quick jangling step outside drew the blood from Lucy’s heart. Middleton heard it and wheeled with muttered curse.

  Edd Denmeade leaped over the threshold and seemed to fill the schoolroom with his presence. Blood flowed from his bare head, down his cheek. His eyes, like pale flames, swept from Lucy to Middleton, to the limp figure of the girl on the floor, and then back to Lucy. The thrill that flooded over her then seemed wave on wave of shock. He had been fighting. His clothes were in rags and wringing wet. He advanced slowly, with long strides, his piercing gaze shifting to Middleton.

  “Howdy, cowboy! I met your pard, Bud Sprall, down the trail. Reckon you’d better go rake up what’s left of him an’ pack it out of here.”

  “The hell you say!” ejaculated Middleton, stepping to meet Edd half-way. He was slow, cautious, menacing, and somehow sure of himself. “Wal, I’d as lief meet one Denmeade as another. An’ I’ve shore got somethin’ to say.”

  “You can’t talk to me,” returned Edd, with measured coldness. “I don’t know nothin’ about you— ‘cept you’re a pard of Sprall’s. That’s enough...Now go along with you pronto.”

  The red of Middleton’s face had faded to a pale white except for the livid mark across his cheek. But to Lucy it seemed his emotion was a passionate excitement rather than fear. He swaggered closer to Edd.

  “Say, you wild-bee hunter, you’re goin’ to hear somethin’ aboot this Watson girl.”

  Edd took a slow, easy step, then launched body and arm into pantherish agility. Lucy did not see the blow, bu
t she heard it. Sharp and sudden, it felled Middleton to the floor half a dozen paces toward the stove. He fell so heavily that he shook the school-house. For a moment he lay gasping while Edd stepped closer. Then he raised himself on his elbow and turned a distorted face, the nose of which appeared smashed flat. He looked a fiend inflamed with lust to murder. But cunningly as he turned away and began to labour to get to his feet, he did not deceive Lucy.

  “Watch out, Edd! He has a gun!” she screamed.

  Even then Middleton wheeled, wrenching the gun from his hip. Lucy saw its sweep as she saw Edd leap, and suddenly bereft of strength she slipped to the floor, back against a desk, eyes tight shut, senses paralysed, waiting for the report she expected. But it did not come. Scrape of boots, clash of spurs, hard expulsions of breath, attested to another kind of fight.

  She opened wide her eyes. Edd and Middleton each had two hands on the weapon, and were leaning back at arm’s-length, pulling with all their might.

  “I’m agonna bore you — you damn’ wild-bee hunter!” panted the cowboy, and then he bent to bite at Edd’s hands. Edd gave him a tremendous kick that brought a bawl of pain and rage from Middleton.

  Then began a terrific struggle for possession of the gun. Lucy crouched there, fascinated with horror. Yet how the hot nerves of her body tingled! She awoke to an awful attention, to a dim recollection of a fierce glory in man’s prowess, in blood, in justice. Edd was the heavier and stronger. He kept the cowboy at arm’s-length and swung him off his feet. But Middleton always came down like a cat, He was swung against the desks, demolishing them; then his spurred boots crashed over the teacher’s table. They wrestled from there to the stove, knocking that down. A cloud of soot puffed down from the stove-pipe. The cowboy ceased to waste breath in curses. His sinister expression changed to a panic-stricken fear for his own life. He was swung with violence against the wall. Yet he held on to the gun in a wild tenacity. They fought all around the room, smashing desk after desk. The time came when Middleton ceased to jerk at the gun, but put all a waning strength in efforts to hold it.

  When they were on the other side of the room Lucy could not see them. What she heard was sufficient to keep her in convulsive suspense.