by Zane Grey
“Ina Blaine!” exclaimed Mrs. Ide, in a slightly quavering voice, making haste to adjust her spectacles. “I ought to remember. That name is almost as familiar as Hettie’s.... So you are Ina! I wouldn’t have known you. Welcome home to Tule Lake, my dear. It was like you to come to us at once. I told them last night you’d never change.”
“Oh, I’m changed, grown up, Mrs. Ide,” replied Ina, taking the proffered hand, and then yielding to a warm impulse she kissed the faded cheek. “But I’m happy to be home, and I — I intend to be as I used to be.”
“Of course you will,” responded Mrs. Ide. “Even though you are a young woman now. Come, sit here an’ tell us all about yourself.”
Ina had never before found such inspiring listeners and she talked for an hour, telling all about her school life, and just touching at the end on her arrival home.
“It’s good to hear you, Ina,” murmured Mrs. Ide. “I hope an’ pray the changes that have come will not make you unhappy.”
“I shall not let myself be unhappy,” replied Ina, spiritedly. “I confess I’d have liked to find my home — my people — the same as when I left them. But — they’re not. I’ll adjust myself to it.”
“Are you going to come to see us occasionally?” inquired Mrs. Ide, gravely.
“Same as I used to,” replied Ina, with feeling.
“Your father will not like that, Ina. He is a hard man, as hard in some ways as Amos Ide.”
“We have already clashed,” said Ina, naïvely. “To my discomfiture.”
“Mother, Ina’s as spunky as when she used to quarrel with Ben,” spoke up Hettie, impulsively.
Manifestly it was an unfortunate allusion, for the older woman appeared to retreat within herself. Ina regretted the reference to Ben, for she knew she must say something about him, and was at a loss.
“Yes, I remember Ben and our quarrels as well as anything,” she replied, simply. “It would be nice to — to talk over old times, but we’ll leave that till another day. Good-bye, Mrs. Ide. I shall come to see you often.... Hettie, will you walk down the lane with me? I’m going to meet Marvie and Dali.”
“That I shall,” rejoined Hettie, heartily.
But once out of the house, Ina felt the constraint that bound Hettie as well as herself. She would make an end of that. But despite her overtures, it was not until they were well down the lane that she hit upon the right way to reach Hettie.
Suddenly turning to Hettie, she had queried, bluntly: “Now tell me about Ben.”
Hettie turned so pale that the freckles stood out prominently upon her face, and her eyes filled with tears.
“You’ve heard?” she asked, huskily.
“A lot of gossip,” replied Ina, swiftly. “I don’t believe a single word of it. Hettie, tell me the truth.”
“Oh, Ina — that’s so good of you,” burst out Hettie, almost sobbing, and she seized Ina’s hand. “There’s not so much to tell. Ben loved the wild country and wild horses. He couldn’t help it. Father drove him away from home — made an outcast of him. It broke mother’s heart — and it’s breaking mine. All kinds of lies have been flying around about Ben. Of late, since that man Setter came to Tule Lake, they’re growing worse.”
“I met Setter. I don’t like him or trust him, Hettie. He said some hard things about Ben’s friend, a cowboy from Nevada.”
“I hate him,” flashed Hettie, with a dark flush. “I could tell you a reason outside of his lies about Ben.”
“You needn’t. I’ve met and seen many men these four years of my absence.... Hettie, I just cannot believe Ben would steal. I can’t.”
“Ina, I know he wouldn’t,” rejoined Hettie, eloquently. “It’s not easy to tell how I know, but it’s in my heart.”
“Have your family lost faith in Ben?”
“Yes, all except mother. But it’s hope now, more than real faith. Father has broken her. Ben was his pride if you remember. The disappointment has made father old.... Oh, such a mess to make over a boy’s love of horses! I grow sick when I think of it.”
“Well, Hettie, it seems we’re of the same mind,” went on Ina, soberly. “Now it’s not what we must do, but how “Ina, I don’t — understand you,” faltered Hettie.
“We’ve got to save Ben before it’s too late,” declared Ina, and the strange, sweet warmth that seemed liberated by her conscious words brought the hot blood to her cheeks.
“We’ve got to! You and I?” asked Hettie, in low, wondering voice.
“Yes. You’re his sister and I’m — his old playmate. Probably his only friends, except the cowboy from Nevada.... Hettie, I’m forming impressions of that cowboy Setter claimed was a horse thief. I believe he’s someone who’s standing by Ben.
He has found Ben alone, forsaken, an outcast. Perhaps he too loves wild horses. Hettie, we’ve got to see these boys, especially Ben, if we have to ride out to Forlorn River.”
“I’ll go, though father will half kill me when he finds out,” declared Hettie, in awe.
“As a last resort, we’ll do it,” returned Ina. “But let us wait. Something may happen. We might get word to Ben. He might hear of my return and want to see me.”
“He’d want to, Ina, but he’d never come, even if you sent him word,” said Hettie, sadly.
“Poor Ben! What a pass he must have come to!... Well, here’s the end of your lane and I think that’s Marvie coming way down the road. I’ll see you soon again, Hettie. Meanwhile, remember we are arch-plotters.”
“Oh, Ina Blaine, I could hug you!” cried Hettie, in passionate gratefulness.
“Well, do it!”
But Hettie turned and fled down the lane.
Saturday came and passed. Ina spent it with Marvie out in the open — a long, beautiful spring day, full of laughter and excitement, yet with moments for appreciation of the soft grey sage slopes above the brook where Marvie loved to fish, and lonely intervals when she dreamed.
Through some machination of Kate’s, that almost roused Ina’s temper, Dall was not permitted to accompany them. So Ina, not to disappoint Marvie, had gone alone with him.
It was dark when they drove into the lane of Tule Lake Ranch. Ina, as she shuffled wet and dishevelled into the bright kitchen, did not need sister Kate’s wry look to appreciate her appearance. She did not care. She was tired and strangely happy. Her father’s displeasure with Marvie, her mother’s divided state of mind, Kate’s manifest disapproval, had not the least effect upon her. What a day to bring back the past! She hardly remembered even the thrilling incidents, let alone the multitudinous commonplace ones.
Marvie had proved to be such a brother as any sister must love. He made Ina a chum. How little did her dignity and schooling impress him! Ina had shared everything. She had driven, walked, climbed, and waded; she had fallen off a slippery bank into the rushes; she had rowed a boat while Marvie had fished with intense hopefulness; she had helped him fight a fish that got sway.
Ina, spurred despite herself by Kate’s peremptory call from below, made haste with her bath and change of clothes. Then she hurried down to have late supper alone with Marvie. Someone evidently had crushed the boy’s exuberant reminiscences of the day. Ina felt that nothing could crush her remembrance of it nor take from her the nameless joy. She was cheerfully oblivious of Kate, and soon won her mother to keen interest in the adventures of the day.
“Wal,” said her father, “reckon it was fun for you. But you’re growed up now. Marvie ought to have knowed better than to take you to Forlorn River.”
“But we only went to the mouth of the river above Hammell,” protested the boy. “Not over the hills.”
“Why not over the hills?” queried Ina quickly. “I want to ride everywhere. Next Saturday we’ll go to the lake.”
Mr. Blaine shot a significant glance at his wife, as if to remind her of some prediction he had made, and he got up with a little cough that Ina well remembered.
“Marvie, you’d make a wild tomboy out of your sister,” he said, s
everely. “You shan’t have no horse an’ buggy next Saturday.”
“But Paw, Ina can’t walk all over,” protested Marvie, getting red in the face. “I’d just as lief walk.”
“Ina will have someone to drive her around,” replied Mr. Blaine.
“Ahuh! That Sewell McAdam fellow, for one, I s’pose,” ejaculated Marvie in imminent disgust.
“Sewell McAdam? Who is he?” inquired Ina, glancing from Marvie to her father.
“Reckon the boy guessed right that time,” laughed Mr. Blaine. “I forgot to tell you about Sewell. He’s a fine young chap from Klamath. Father’s a frend of mine. Owns the big three C stores. You’ll meet Sewell. I asked him for Sunday dinner.”
“I shall be pleased, of course,” said Ina, dubiously, with her eyes on Marvie. The boy did not show that he would share her pleasure. After supper, in the sitting-room, when they were alone except for Dall, Ina put a query to him anent this young man who was coming Sunday.
“He’s a city fellar, Ina,” replied Marvie. “Kind of a willie-boy who puts on style.”
“Don’t you like him, Marvie?”
“Haven’t any reason not to, but you bet I wouldn’t take him fishin’.”
“That’s very conclusive,” said Ina, thoughtfully. “I don’t remember dad inviting young men to dinner Sundays.”
“Ina, I heard somethin’ — if you won’t tell,” whispered Marvie, swiftly glancing round. “Dall knows, for she was with me.”
“Cross my heart,” replied Ina, solemnly.
“We heard paw an’ Mr. McAdam talkin’ out by the bam.
They had some kind of a big deal on. This McAdam man is the father of Sewell, who’s comin’ Sunday. He’s awful rich. Owns stores. He an’ paw are goin’ into somethin’, an’ you figgered in it.”
“Marvie! What are you saying?” exclaimed Ina, in amaze.
“Ask Dall,” returned the boy.
“Ina, I heard pa say if Sewell got sweet on you pretty quick it’d work out fine,” answered Dall, her eyes bright and round with importance.
“Did you tell anyone?” asked Ina.
“I told mother, an’ Kate heard. Mother seemed sort of fussed, like she is so much. Kate chased us out of the kitchen. She was mad as thunder. Kate’s city beau is a friend of this Sewell McAdam.”
“Don’t tell anyone else, please,” said Ina, earnestly.
“I promise,” rejoined the boy, with loving gaze upon her. “But, Ina, if you let this city fellar come courtin’ you, I — I’ll never take you fishin’ again.”
He ended stoutly, though manifestly fearful that he had overstepped his brotherly limit. Ina’s heart warmed to him, and she acted upon the feeling by giving him a kiss.
“Don’t worry, Marvie. We’ll go fishing whenever you’ll take me.”
They were interrupted then, and Ina had no opportunity to think over this odd gossip until she went to her room. At first the idea seemed ridiculous and she endeavoured to dismiss it. But other considerations added their peculiar significance; and it was not long before she confessed the exasperating complexity of the situation. Only for a moment did it dismay her. Ina was dauntless. But to oppose the wills and desires of her people hurt her. That seemed inevitable. She did not determine upon any course of action. It was necessary to await developments. Nevertheless, she looked forward with something of curiosity and humour to the meeting with Mr. Sewell McAdam.
Sunday morning acquainted Ina with the fact that for the Sabbath, at least, much of the old home life of the Blaines had been retained.
There was indeed more elaborate dressing, especially on the part of Kate, than Ina could remember. Her sister showed more than ever that she was a country girl unduly influenced by city associations and ambitions. The boys, it appeared, except Marvie, had their own horses and buggies to drive to church. Mr. Blaine drove the rest of the family in a two-seated vehicle that Ina imagined she recognised. She and Dall rode on the front seat with their father.
The village church, of grey and weather-beaten boards, the young men loitering round the entrance, self-conscious in their shiny clothes, the girls in bright dresses and bonnets, and the horses hitched in the shade — these looked precisely to Ina the same as before she had left home.
As they entered, her father leading up the aisle, very pompous, her mother trying to live up to her part, and Kate proud as a peacock, Ina became aware that they, and particularly herself, were the cynosure of many eyes. This fact did not embarrass her, but it quite prevented a free range to her curiosity and interest. Some time elapsed after they were seated before she recognised anyone. Ina sat between Marvie and Dall, both of whom added not a little to her self-consciousness. Marvie, with his handsome face to the front, serious as was becoming to the occasion, kept slyly pinching her and making slight signs for her to notice some young men in the pew in front. Ina did not look directly, because she felt she was being stared at. Dall was tremendously concerned with what she evidently thought was a sensation Ina was creating.
The preacher was strange to Ina, a plain middle-aged man of serious gentle mien, who had a fine voice and talked simply and earnestly. Ina had listened to poorer preachers in big city churches. After the sermon, when all bowed during the prayer, Marvie leaned close to Ina and whispered like an imp: “That’s Sewell McAdam right in front, settin’ with Kate’s city beau. Couple of slick ganders! But they ain’t foolin’ me.”
Ina hid her face and cautioned Marvie, by both hand and whisper. She found herself, without any apparent justice or reason, quite in accord with Marvie, and she feared he might discover it.
On the moment, however, Ina did not have opportunity to satisfy her lively curiosity. And when the congregation filed out she soon found herself besieged by old acquaintances, schoolmates grown up as she was, and people who had been neighbours and friends. There were a good many warm welcomes accorded her; yet she did not miss the poisoned honey of some tongues or the expressive glances of many eyes. Ina was quick to grasp that her father’s rise in the world of Tule Lake had engendered envy and contempt. She met the keen, inquisitive eyes of motherly women who no doubt were wondering if she, too, had been spoiled by education and riches.
She was introduced presently to Kate’s fiancé, rather a matured man, whose name she did not catch. He had a florid, handsome face, and his manner was intended to be suave and elegant, but was neither. Ina did not care for his keen-eyed appraisement of her person.
His companion, a dapper young man, blond, with curling moustache and large, languid, blue eyes, was Mr. Sewell Mc-
Adam. He wore gloves and carried a cane. It was plain that Ina was being presented to him, and that the occasion afforded him a gratification he did not intend to betray. Ina’s quick ear did not catch any words of pleasure at the meeting.
Gradually the crowd dispersed with groups and couples going toward their conveyances, and others walking down the street. Mr. McAdam quite appropriated Ina, but it pleased her to see that Marvie stayed close beside her.
“I’m having dinner with you,” announced her escort. “You can ride home with me. I’ve a fast little high-stepper.”
“Thank you, Mr. McAdam,” replied Ina, sweetly, “but I’m afraid of fast horses. I’ll ride home with my folks.”
The young gentleman appeared surprised and then annoyed. Ina bowed and passed on with Marvie, who was certainly squeezing her hand. They both climbed to the front seat, where Dall was already perched, while Mr. Blaine untied the horses at the hitching rail. Upon turning, with the reins in his hands, he espied Ina.
“Didn’t Sewell ask you to ride home with him?” he queried.
“Yes,” replied Ina, smiling.
“What’re you doin’ in here, then?” he demanded.
“Well, Dad, I’d rather ride home with Marvie and Dall,” returned Ina.
The presence of others, no doubt, restrained her father from a sharp retort. Ina saw the jerk of his frame and she heard him mutter as he climbed to the seat. Ina divined
there was more here than just casual suggestion of the moment. It made her thoughtful all the way home, gravely anxious to reserve judgments.
Ina’s first Sunday dinner at home was saved from being boresome, even irritating, by Marvie and Dali. These youngsters were wise enough to grasp the opportunity company at table afforded. Dall had a secret which she intuitively shared with Ina. Marvie was subtly antagonistic with all the ingenuity and devilishness of a keen boy. Some of his remarks were lost upon his father, whose appetite precluded observation, and his mother, buried in thought. They glanced off Mr. McAdam, too, but Kate’s glare was provocative of more, and Ina’s kicking him under the table made no impression.
“Mr. McAdam, you must have lots of sweethearts with that fast horse you drive,” remarked Marvie, naïvely. “Most girls wouldn’t mind anthin’ if they could ride behind a horse like yours.”
“Not so many, Marvie,” replied the young man, blandly.
“Can you drive him with one arm — so you’ll have the other one free?” inquired the boy.
“With my little finger.”
“Gee!” exclaimed Marvie.
The dinner was a bounteous repast, which it took time to consume. At its conclusion Marvie was dispatched on an errand, invented for the hour, and Dall was sent to her room. Kate paraded away with her fiance, evidently to go out riding, and Mr and Mrs. Blaine, without any excuses, left Ina alone to entertain their caller. The, thing struck Ina as almost barefaced, and but for the pity she felt for her parents and older sister she would have resented it. How childish and silly of them! Ina viewed with augmenting dismay the gulf between her and them, something that could be bridged only by her understanding. Then she addressed herself to the task of entertaining this most eligible young man. Ina commenced amiably enough, but did not progress in a way that she thought flattering to herself. Mr. McAdam first interrupted her to say they would go out for a drive; then, when it transpired that she was of different mind, he stated he always took a lady out riding on Sunday afternoons.
“That’s very nice of you,” responded Ina. “It’s still early in the afternoon. I’ll excuse you.”