Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  “No. Some cowboy yelled that Judd was in sight, so I made sure, then hustled up to get you.”

  “Then — is Ben in sight?”

  “Yes. Down the road. Take a look with the glass.”

  “No.” Ina pushed the glass away. She would put off as long as possible the spectacle of her lover riding in under arrest.

  Soon she and Marvie crossed the sage field to enter the ranch. The square between the cabins contained a dozen or more saddled horses, and groups of cowboys, all with heads together. The usual lazy languor of a Blaine ranch was not in evidence.

  “Cowboys been in row,” whispered Marvie. “Bill Sneed on Ben’s side, an’ that split the outfit. I tell you, Sis, there’s a-goin’ to be a hot time here.”

  As Ina drew closer she saw that her father’s entire force of employees was present, and whatever the direction of their sympathies, it was plain that excitement ran high. The nearest cowboy group left off their whispering as Ina walked by to the cabin. She did not espy either Mr. Ide or Setter. Her father was in the office alone with her mother.

  “Ina, Mr. Setter says dreadful things about your father,” spoke up Mrs. Blaine, almost tearfully. “If I don’t sign papers an’ if you won’t marry him—”

  “Mother dear, don’t be distressed,” interrupted Ina. “I’ve heard Mr. Setter’s threats. We’ll stick together if we all go to jail.”

  “But that’d be terrible!”

  “Indeed it would. But it’ll never happen,” declared Ina, earnestly.

  “Daughter, the sheriff is comin’ with Ben Ide,” said her father.

  “I know. Marvie told me.”

  “An’ Agios Ide is here. It’s toughest for him. That d —

  Setter has got him in a corner now.”

  Ina ran to her father, and slipping an arm round his shoulders, as he sat stooping, she whispered: “Dad, once in your life — now — think, and boss this affair, whatever it’s to be. You’re on your own property. Don’t let Setter dominate things. Don’t let him do all the talking. Be fair an’ square to Ben Ide — for I — I love him. Dad.”

  Ina expected her father to be shocked and furious. He was neither, yet she saw that her poignant speech had penetrated deeply. He rose to his tall height and looked down upon her with a softer light in his grey eyes than she had ever seen there. Trouble, realisation, defeat had begun their broadening work upon Hart Blaine.

  “Lass, I’m sorry I didn’t wake up to this long ago,” he said, with regret. “Marvie gave me a hunch, but I didn’t take it.... So you love Ben Ide?”

  “Yes, Dad,” she replied, proudly.

  “Wal, an’ I reckon you take yourself to be a Blaine?”

  “Did you ever boss me, Dad?” she laughed.

  “Huh! I should smile not.... But you should have told me. It’d make a difference, even if I was bullheaded.... Now it’s too late. They’ll make Ben out a rustler even if he ain’t. But—”

  “Dad,” yelled Marvie, at the door, “they’re here!”

  Blaine strode out of the office, and Ina with her mother followed. Four horsemen had ridden into the square. Blaine advanced, with the cowboys crowding behind. Ina felt Marvie holding her and whispering fast, but she could not distinguish his words. Her mother appeared nervous and excited, and Ina thought it was as well that she had her to look after. In another moment further advance was checked by the halting crowd, and Ina with staring eyes looked over the shoulder of a cowboy.

  Judd had just reined in his horse. His florid face beamed; he waved a big gloved hand, with gesture that suited his look.

  Ina saw a grey, mettlesome horse, wet with sweat — then its rider, Ben Ide. His face was white. He seemed dazed. His unnatural posture was owing to handcuffs. Beside him rode a sombre, dark-faced Indian, also handcuffed. Walker, the deputy, sat his horse a little behind the others. Ina’s gaze, rushing back to Ben, fastened on his face. Her heart swelled to the bursting point. Why did he look like that? His eyes had a’ terrible haunting shadow. Was he hopeless? Had he no defence?

  “Here’s your man, Mr. Blaine,” called out Judd, pompously. “I told you we’d fetch him. An’ we sure got him dead to rights, ketched red-handed—”

  “Say, Mr. Judd,” broke in Blaine, almost roughly. “I’m lettin’ you understand he’s not my man. I had nothin’ to do with this arrest.”

  “But your partner, Mr. Setter, he did. Same thing,” expostulated Judd, nonplussed and affronted.

  “No it ain’t the same. Setter an’ me are not partners. Do you understand?”

  “I’ll be darned if I do,” shouted Judd, beginning to fume. “Setter said he represented you — that you offered a thousand reward—”

  “Shut up!” called Blaine, in a voice that Ina well remembered. “I aim to do some talkin’ here myself.... I offered no reward an’ I’ll pay none.”

  Judd’s heavy jowl dropped. He was silenced, and in bewilderment and rousing resentment he gazed about, manifestly for Setter.

  Blaine strode up beside Ben’s horse and laid a hand on his knee.

  “Ide, I’m sorry to see you here,” he said, gruffly, but not unkindly.

  Ben showed instant surprise and a fleeting look of gratitude.

  “Thanks, Mr. Blaine. You can’t guess how sorry I am,” he said.

  “Your dad is here with Setter.”

  Ben’s haggard face burned duskily red.

  “Yes, sir — I — expected that,” he replied, huskily.

  “Boy, are you guilty?” went on Blaine, gravely.

  “Yes, I am — guilty as hell,” confessed Ben, in a passion of shame and remorse. “But I was crazy — out of my head. I never thought — I never thought how it would look.”

  Ina sustained a terrible shock. For a moment she seemed frozen within — clamped round a knot of agony. She almost fainted. The deathly spasm passed, and sight, thought, emotion became inextricably mixed. She stared at Ben Ide. She saw the torture in his working face. The words of his confession thundered in her ears, stirring wild and whirling thoughts. Guilty as hell! He had betrayed himself. And worse — he had betrayed to her his deceit, his weakness. The damning truth almost broke her heart then and there. But she longed to fly to him, to stand by him even in his guilt.

  “Wal — Ide,” she heard her father speak in sorrow and amaze, “I reckon I can’t help you none.”

  There was a commotion outside the circle of cowboys to Ina’s left. Someone crowded through — made a lane. Setter strode into view, pale, with burning eyes. Amos Ide entered the space, but kept back, half hidden by the other.

  “Aha, Judd — you’ve only two of them here. Ide an’ the Indian. Where’s the third man? That one they call Nevada,” demanded Setter, loud-voiced, authoritatively.

  “He got away,” replied Judd.

  “What! You let that one escape? You’re a fine sheriff,” ejaculated Setter, furiously.

  “Wal, listen to facts in the case before you go to rakin’ me,” returned Judd, sullenly. “This Nevada fellar acted tractable enough. But when he seen the handcuffs Walker had, why, he said, ‘Have you the gall to try puttin’ them on me?’

  ... Walker tried it an’ got knocked flat. Then Nevada jumped his hoss an’ got away. I shot three times at him. Missed. He rode off after Bill Hall an’ his outfit.”

  Ina, in her piercing intensity of gaze, felt as if she saw the sudden check to Setter’s thoughts, under a blank mask.

  “Bill Hall!... What do you mean? — This Nevada rode off after Bill Hall?”

  “I mean what I say,” retorted Judd, more testily. His temper had been ruffled. His great coup had not earned him anticipated adulation. “Bill Hall an’ outfit was with Ide. They was chasin’ this wild stallion California Red. They ketched him, too.”

  “Bill Hall with Ide — chasin’ wild hosses?” ejaculated Setter, as if he had not heard aright. His olive tan showed a shade of grey, his prominent eyes a questioning furtive glint.

  “Say, Mr. Setter,” returned Judd, with a sneer,
“didn’t you expect Bill Hall to be with Ben Ide?”

  “No — not at this stage of the game,” returned Setter, with effort. “He — I But no matter.... If Hall was there why didn’t you arrest him, too?”

  “Haw! Haw! Haw!” guffawed the sheriff. His mirth might have been ridicule of such hazardous enterprise or it might have meant something else. Ina thought she caught a subtle double meaning. How complex the circumstances! She had to fight to keep her faculties keen. At this juncture Marvie squeezed her hand, and letting it go he slipped between the cowboys into the circle. Ina’s last glimpse of his tow-coloured head showed him edging toward his father.

  “Blaine,” spoke up Setter, turning, “we’ve got two of the rustlers, an’ conviction will help break up as slick a gang as I ever heard of. Will you appear in Hammell court against them?”

  “No, Setter, I won’t,” replied Blaine, curtly.

  “All right, you’ll appear there in another capacity,” harshly rejoined Setter.

  The tall form of Amos Ide stalked past Setter. His lined and craggy face was set in stem bitterness. He strode out to confront his son. The whispering cowboys grew silent. No one moved. Even the horses seemed to sense catastrophe.

  “Benjamin, you’ve come to what I predicted,” said the father.

  “Yes, with your help,” replied Ben.

  “Prodigal son! Wild-horse hunter! Associate of low outcasts!... A prisoner to be tried an’ sentenced in your home town! Rustler!”

  “That last is a damn lie!” cried Ben, passionately.

  “Rantin’ will do no good. You’d better turn state’s evidence an’ get off. You might spare your family the shame of havin’ a son an’ brother in jail.”

  Ben’s white face worked convulsively in a spasm of pain, and he tried to speak and raise his manacled hands in protest.

  “I’ve done nothing I can turn state’s evidence for,” he finally managed to say. And with the words he attained a bitter cold grimness.

  “Don’t perjure your soul. Don’t lie to your father.”

  “I wouldn’t lie to you to save my life,” replied Ben, sitting erect with ashen lips.

  “You’ve already confessed your guilt. Why now do you deny? I tell you a clean breast of it will save you much. All of us.”

  “God knows I’m guilty, but not of what you think.”

  “Do you deny you’ve stolen cattle?”

  “Deny! Do I have to deny that to my own father?” flashed Ben, with eyes like flames.

  “I’m afraid you will. But do you deny it?”

  “YES!” thundered Ben, his face swelling black for an instant. His terrible force checked the ruthless father, who shrank, momentarily, as if baffled. But passion, deeply controlled, began to rise in him also, and he returned to the attack.

  “Do you deny you harboured an Indian outcast?”

  “No. But I made him an honest man.”

  “Do you deny you made a partner of a Nevada outlaw?”

  “I can’t deny because I don’t know. He never told me. But I made a friend who has helped me more than you.”

  “What do you say to the findin’ of a sack of steers’ ears up in the loft of your barn?”

  Ben stared at his father in blank, mute consternation. “They found them. I’ve seen them,” went on Ide, remorselessly. He seemed to be obsessed by the passion to prove something to himself. “These ears were slit, an’ some nicked. We know from such marks who owned the stock they came from. So did you. You killed cattle to eat an’ kept tally on numbers! An old trick of rustlers.”

  “You say I did?” questioned Ben, hoarsely and low.

  “Yes. I saw the ears found in your loft.”

  Suddenly Marvie leaped out from the edge of the circle to confront Ide. He was pale, bristling, bursting with a fury of passionate conviction.

  “Mr. Ide, there wasn’t any sack in Ben’s loft,” he cried, shrilly. “I’ve hid my fishin’-pole up in that loft all summer. It was empty.”

  Setter aimed a kick at Marvie and all but reached him. “Get out!” he growled, menacingly, forgetting the crowd.

  “Come here, lad,” spoke up Blaine. “If you know anythin’ you can tell me.”

  “But, Dad,” burst out Marvie, “now’s the time to tell them.”

  “Blaine, keep that brat’s mouth shut,” ordered Setter, and he spoke so fiercely that Marvie slunk behind his father.

  “Yes, Setter, for the present,” grimly answered Blaine. Setter’s frame jerked with the loosening of restrained passion. His face was sweating and no longer olive tan.

  “Mr. Ide,” he said, “that Marvie Blaine is a little liar an’ smart Alec. He doesn’t mind his father. He steals hosses to ride out alone. He’s a wild kid.”

  “Startin’ in the steps of my son,” returned Ide, bitterly. “Hart Blaine, you better not spare the rod on that boy, or you’ll suffer some day as I do now. He’ll likely become a wild-horse hunter an’ rustler.”

  “Wal, whatever he becomes I’ll stick by him,” declared Blaine, in dry sarcasm.

  Ide turned again, slowly and ponderously, to the bitter task of catechism. The momentary by-play of Marvie’s had released the tension, which now tightened. Ben Ide’s big eyes were black with pain. He seemed to see in his father a heartless Nemesis.

  “You drove cattle into Silver Canyon?” he demanded.

  “No.”

  “These officers found your camp in Silver Canyon.”

  “That’s another lie. It was half a day’s hard ride.”

  “Ho! Ho! Ho!” roared Judd, reeling in his saddle. “Mr. Ide, you seen some of his things we fetched. But we left others at his camp in Silver. The cattle are there an’ his camp. If you need more proof, ride over with us.”

  “You black-hearted devils!” shouted Ben, in a hoarseness of realisation. He rose in his stirrups. Then he sank as if near collapse.

  Amos Ide raised a shaking hand — a long finger of accusation.

  “You stole from ME!”

  “Oh, my God! Father, you don’t believe that?”

  “You must indeed be wild. Mad is the word. Look at the proofs. If you’d come out like a man — tell the truth — I’d try to—”

  “Proofs? They’re not proofs — but lies — lies,” cried Ben, brokenly. He was as white as death and his eyes streamed. He wrung his fettered hands. All seemed forgotten save this accusing father. “Listen — please — for God’s sake listen! Dad! don’t turn away! Hear me!... I’m innocent of what you think! I never stole! Never! Never! I’m guilty enough. I don’t care what they do with me. But don’t believe I stole from you! That’s horrible! Do you believe me a hardened, vile criminal?

  ... I’m innocent. Listen.... Nevada and I and Modoc here — we went out to catch Bill Hall and his gang. Modoc had struck his trail. We found the cattle in Silver Canyon. We chased Hall out. Trailed him clear to the lava beds. Holed him in one of the caves! And we camped there — kept watch days, weeks — we starved Hall and his men out. We tied them up and started on our way to this ranch. I wanted Hart Blaine to see the proof of my honesty.... But at Forlorn River the Indian saw California Red out on the ice.... My God! it was terrible for me!... I’ve loved that wild stallion for years. I had to have him. You can’t understand, but believe me, I had to catch him.... There were only three of us. We couldn’t corner him — run him down alone. So I thought of Hall and his men.... I offered them freedom if they’d help me.... They agreed. We caught him.... California Red! It was like a dream.... Then Hall saw these officers coming — and dragging one of my pack-horses. He and his men left — without even their guns.... That’s all, Father — and it’s — the honest — God’s — truth!”

  Amos Ide stood shaken, incredulous, terribly agitated by Ben’s poignant narrative.

  “My son, what would you make of these officers — and Less Setter?” he queried, in husky voice.

  “For mother’s sake — for Hettie’s — say you believe me!” entreated Ben. “Let them jail me. I can stand �
� anything — if you’ll only say you believe — I couldn’t steal from you.”

  Amos Ide’s heart might have been convinced, but it could not in such hour of stress pierce the armour of his long disappointment in his son, of his stubborn positiveness.

  “You tell a wild tale. It’s like your life,” he replied, with bitter repudiation.

  Ina saw Ben’s anguished face set and his head fall. He had asked only a last faith — that an unforgivable sin should not have his father’s seal. He was scorned, ruined, damned. If Ina had possessed the strength she would have sprung to him, to reveal her love, her fidelity. But she was unable to move. She had doubted Ben; she had believed his self-accusation; and she hated herself for her miserable weakness. Too late! The moment passed. Even if she could walk out now, to his side, to bid him lift his head, it would be too late for her own consciousness of unfaith. She had not been big enough in his hour of great trial. And she was growing spent with the agony of the moment when she felt herself clutched from behind. Marvie was there, trembling, unable to speak. He pointed down the road. Ina’s startled gaze caught a horse and rider approaching with the swift even celerity that characterised a racing cowboy. Who could this be? How swiftly he came! Through the gate, past the corrals! The rhythmic beats of hoofs seemed one rapid patter. She saw long black hair streaming in the wind. Nevada!

  As she stood, paralysed, clinging to Marvie, the horse bore down on the circle of men. With loud cries they broke the lines, just escaping the sliding hoofs.

  Ina saw Nevada in the air. He lit on his feet, almost within reach of her. As he passed, the unearthly whiteness of him, the terrible eyes, seemed to flash on her.

  A thundering shot — and another — burst in front of Nevada.

  Judd lurched out of his saddle and fell suddenly, face in the dust. His horse plunged. Walker screamed horribly. His face was half blown away. His horse, leaping, threw him to the ground, where he beat and wrestled like a decapitated fowl.

  Bill Sneed, securing the bridle of Ben’s plunging horse, dragged it down and aside.

  “Don’t move!” called Nevada, in a voice that whipped.