by Zane Grey
“Ben, aren’t you ashamed? All that show of gladness over selling our home!” exclaimed Ina, reproachfully.
Hettie did not voice her surprise and disapproval. She had not seen Ben show excitement like that for years. What did it mean?
Ben ceased his violent expressions and faced them, quite pale, with his dark eyes full of fire.
“Forgive me and try to understand,” he said. “Remember I have not the tender associations with Tule Lake that actuate you girls. It is home and I reckon I love it, but not as you. Father was hard on me for years. He made me an outcast. For years more I lived over there across the sage hills, hunting wild horses, lonely and wretched. Then Nevada dropped into my life. Then, Ina, you came, too. . . . And so between you I was brought home again. But despite all, there has been something lacking. . . . This ranch country is too populated for me. It is too rich. There’s not enough hard work for me. The sage hills and the valleys, once so wild, where the horses roamed free, are now ranches and farms. I’d be happier in a new country — say in Arizona, where the ranges are vast and ranches few. I’d do better, working as I used to. . . . That’s why I’m glad to sell out here, to take mother where she’ll get strong again, where you all will be the happier because of these things.”
“Arizona? Ben, you didn’t tell me you’d decided,” expostulated Ina.
“I hadn’t until now. Hettie settled it, bless her heart.”
“Arizona!” murmured Hettie, thoughtfully. “We know so little about Arizona. Isn’t it very wild?”
“Wild? I reckon,” replied Ben. “Arizona is everything northern California used to be. Then it has vast grass and sage ranges, desert and valley, canyons and mountains, great forests, great rivers. There are thousands of wild horses in Arizona. Deer, bear, lion, turkey — wonderful hunting. It has minerals — gold, silver, copper. There’s just been war between cattlemen and sheepmen. Oh, it is a wonderful country for the pioneer.”
“Hettie,” added Ina, “we met an Arizonian in Frisco, a grizzled old fellow. I wish you could have seen him. He surely was full of Arizona. But Ben didn’t tell you all.”
“What’d I forget?” inquired Ben, lamely.
“About the bad crews who live off the ranchers — Indians, Mexicans, rustlers, horse thieves, wild cowboys, gunmen — and I don’t remember who else. That plan of Arizona worries me, Ben, if you must go there.”
“It’d worry me, too, if I thought I’d fall into such company as the old Arizonian bragged about. But he was only blowing. . . . At that, though, I think I could stand a few wild cowboys. Couldn’t you, Hettie?”
He spoke teasingly and laughed with something of his old boyishness. Verily this possibility of Arizona had stimulated him.
Hettie tried to smile, but her effort was a wan one. There had seemed to come a knocking at her heart.
“I’ll keep Forlorn River Ranch and Mule Deer Flat,” mused Ben, pacing the room. “I’d never part with them. We own them, Nevada and I, share and share alike. . . . Some day I’ll come back to see them, and who knows?”
Hettie lay sleepless and distracted late into the hours of the night.
She could not tell whether she wanted to weep or rejoice. Ben’s revelation had not been such a surprise, though the violence of his feeling dismayed her. Despite all that wealth, home, wife, child could give Ben, he yearned for the old free life in the open, for his lean-faced beloved friend, for the color of the sage and the movement of wild horses on the horizon. How he had welcomed this opportunity to get away from Tule Lake! And Ina was as wise as she was loving. Her home was where her heart abided. That night she had followed Hettie to her room to say: “Hettie, we didn’t guess how it was with Ben. And I want to ask you, don’t you think this change will be as good for Ben’s soul as for mother’s health?”
“I do indeed, Ina,” Hettie had replied. “Ben was a strange boy, even when he was little. Father never understood him.”
“Well, I’ll be happy with Ben anywhere,” returned Ina, simply. “My folks will make a fuss about this. They’ll be shocked to hear we are going back to the pioneer life in far-away Arizona. Money has made snobs of my people, except Marvie. He’s eighteen now, and as wild to hunt and fish and ride as when he used to run away to Forlorn River. He just worshiped Ben and Nevada. He and dad are at odds now. I wonder how our going will effect Marvie?”
“Ina, you needn’t wonder,” said Hettie. “That boy will go with us.”
“Oh, if he only could!” sighed Ina. “But dad would rave at the very idea.”
“Marvie will run off,” declared Hettie, positively.
Whenever Hettie’s thoughts wandered back to herself, she wanted to weep. There was regret, of course, mingled with the emotions roused by the thought of leaving Tule Lake, where she had lived all her life. But not regret was it that threatened to bring the tears. Rather a joy rising from the depths of her! The old oppressive certainty that Nevada would never come back to Forlorn River was now lifted from her heart. She would no longer eat her heart out in waiting. Over there in wild Arizona she might see him again. Ben would never cease to search for Nevada. Surely he would locate him some day. How Ben loved that comrade of his lonely Forlorn River days!
Ben was late at breakfast next morning. No one had to tell Hettie and Ina that he had been out to the corrals. He strode in more like his old self than for months, keen-eyed, virile, with the spring of a rider in his step.
“Say, girls, what do you think?” he declared, radiantly. “Red came to me this morning. The wild son-of-a-gun! He did, and it sure tickled me. And I said to him, ‘Old boy, you’re going back to the unfenced ranges.’ He understood me, too. . . . Oh, Ina — Hettie, I’m another man this mawnin’!”
“You look it, Bennie,” replied Ina, with her beautiful eyes warm and glad.
“But you and Hettie look as if you’d lain awake and cried all night.”
“That’s a way women have, sometimes,” said Ina. “It’s a break, of course. But we’re happy for you, and, thank God, we’ve found the way to restore mother.”
“Blaine, my boy,” said Ben, leaning to the child in his highchair, “we’re going to Arizona. Are you glad?”
“Papa happy?” replied Blaine, with big-eyed, questioning wonder.
“Well, there’s a bright youngster,” declared Ben, raising his head to smile at Ina.
Mrs. Ide came in at the moment, to take her place next to Hettie. “What’s that I hear about Arizona?”
“Oh, nothing much, mother,” laughed Ben. “I was teasing Blaine about Arizona.”
“Reckon you’re full of Arizona since you met that cattleman,” rejoined Mrs. Ide, placidly. “I didn’t think much of him. He was as rough as the country he bragged about.”
“Nana, we’s doan Ar-zoonie,” chirped up little Blaine, with great importance.
Mrs. Ide had not until that moment been given any inkling of the secret.
“Land’s sake!” she ejaculated. “So that’s the mystery. . . . Ben Ide, you ain’t goin’ back to chasin’ wild hosses? Your father would turn over in his grave.”
Ben Ide was not noted for deception or beating round the bush. Despite warning glances from Hettie and a kick under the table from Ina he told his mother that he was thinking of selling out and moving to Arizona. Mrs. Ide declared she would never go or permit Hettie to leave home. Ben tried to expostulate with her and, failing that, tried to laugh it off. But when his mother asked him a deliberate question he maintained silence. Whereupon she rose from the table and, weeping, left the room.
“Blaine, I reckon you’re not such a bright kid, after all,” said Ben, ruefully.
“It was a shock, Ben,” rejoined Ina. “You were so abrupt. But she’ll come round to it all right.”
“Leave mother to us,” added Hettie.
They talked it over, and at the conclusion of breakfast both Ina and Hettie urged Ben, now that he had made the great decision, to proceed at once toward its fulfillment.
“I’ll
run over to tell mother and dad,” said Ina. “They’d never forgive me if I didn’t tell them first. Maybe they’ll not forgive me, anyway. . . . And Marvie! I’ll bet he lets out a whoop.”
“By George!” ejaculated Ben. “Marvie will want to come with us. Ina, it’s a big chance for the boy.”
“I believe it is, Ben,” she replied.
“Well, there’s something sort of tough about this deal,” went on Ben. “Yet it’s great, too. . . . I’ll go to Klamath Falls today. Reckon the papers will require your signature, Hettie. Say, what’re you going to do with all that money?”
“What money?” queried Hettie, blankly.
“Why, ninny, your share in the Ide property!”
“Goodness! I never thought of that in money. Ben, I’ll want the same share in your Arizona ranch.”
“Good. You’re one sister in a million. I’ll leave you to talk some sense into mother, and you, Ina, to do the same by your folks. Reckon that’ll be leaving you a job, because you and Marvie have all the sense in the Blaine family.”
Ben left early for Klamath and Hettie had her hands full, not only with her mother, but with the ranch boys and riders among whom the news spread like wildfire in dry grass. Ben had not been any more tactful than usual. But then, Hettie reflected, since everybody had to know, what difference did it make whether they were told sooner or later?
Hettie told nine boys, one after the other, that Ben had not been joking, and that the Ide ranch was to pass into strange hands. Each and every one of these ranch hands was visibly agitated at the news.
“Miss Hettie,” said one, “I reckon we ain’t carin’ what becomes of Tule Lake Ranch, but we care an awful lot about what becomes of you an’ the boss. You can’t get along without us.”
“Oh, I wish Ben would take you all,” replied Hettie, half distracted.
Then she had a long and trying hour with her mother, who, of course, could not be told the most important reason for this breaking of old home ties. But Hettie knew how to handle her mother, and with patience and common sense, and dwelling much on the need of a change for Ben, she at last won the victory.
“After all, Hettie, it doesn’t — matter about me,” concluded Mrs. Ide, weeping. “But you’ll be marryin’ one of them long-legged, long-haired Arizona jacks, like that terrible Nevada.”
“Why, mother, what a happy thought!” exclaimed Hettie, with a divine blush. “I might be just that lucky.”
Ina, however, did not have such success with her folks. She returned both with fire in her eyes and with traces of tears on her cheeks.
“Oh, Hettie, they were just horrid,” she said. “Kate was there, too, and you know she hates me. Dad was idiot enough to suggest that I come back to live with him. And Kate said I’d never need any more pretty dresses and hats out in that wild, woolly Arizona. My clothes always stuck in Kate’s craw. But Marvie. Oh, he was adorable! In front of dad he never batted an eye. Once outside, though, he nearly hugged the breath out of me. ‘Come with you?’ he shouted, so loud I was afraid they’d hear. ‘By the great jumpin’ horn of Jehosaphat, I’m comin’! Dad can’t stop me. Nor ropes, nor jails! I’ll ride for Ben, an’ chase wild horses, an’ hunt an’ fish. . . . Who knows, I might see Nevada out there.’”
“Bless the boy’s heart!” exclaimed Hettie, her eyes filling with tears.
“Strange how Ben and Marvie loved Nevada,” mused Ina.
“Strange?” queried Hettie, smiling through her tears.
“No. I don’t mean that. . . . I think I loved him, too.”
“Well, Ina, we’ve broken the ice,” rejoined Hettie, quickly changing the subject. “Mother made a fuss, but I won her over. Your folks will have to come round, whether they like it or not. Now we must get our heads together. Ben will think of taking you and Blaine, and us, and his horses. That’s all. But you know there are many things he can’t part with. What a job it will be! How will we travel?”
“Goodness! I hope Ben doesn’t make us ride horseback or in tent-covered wagons,” replied Ina. That’d be just like him.”
“It’d be fun, once we got started,” said Hettie, dreamily.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THREE DAYS LATER the Ides stood on their front porch and watched a buckboard drawn by a spirited team of horses rapidly passing down the lane toward the main road. This vehicle contained Ben’s lawyer and a representative of the Oregon syndicate. Ben held a certified check in his hand, for which he had signed away the broad fertile acres of Tule Lake Ranch. He had also agreed to turn over the property before the first of September.
“By George! It happened quick!” he exclaimed, breathing hard. “Ina — Hettie — we’re homeless.”
“Ben, if it hurts you to lose this ranch, how will you ever give up Forlorn River?” asked Hettie, wonderingly.
“I’m sure keeping Forlorn River,” declared Ben, but he winced perceptibly. “That reminds me, I’ll have to ride out there.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Hettie.
“Me, too,” added Ina. “Reckon you-all haven’t any corner on love for old Forlorn River.”
“Honest, girls, I’d rather go alone,” returned Ben.
“We won’t intrude on your grief, Bennie dear,” smiled Ina.
“I stopped over in Hammell on my way back from Oregon,” said Ben. “You remember Sheriff Strobel. He always was a friend of mine, even in those outcast days when I was suspected of being a rustler. Strobel knows a good deal about Arizona. I asked him to come out this afternoon. I’ll sure take what he says pretty serious.”
“Now that we’ve burned our bridges behind us, it’s late to ask advice,” said Hettie.
“Yes, as far as going is concerned,” agreed Ben. “But about where to go — that’s another matter. Arizona is a big place.”
No wonder, thought Hettie, that Ben wanted to consult some one who was familiar with Arizona. She had begun to realize the responsibility of their undertaking. Therefore she was quite as eager to hear Sheriff Strobel as Ben; and Ina, too, did not want to be excluded from the interview.
They sat out on the shady porch, and while little Blaine played on the grass they explained to Ben’s old friend the exigencies of the case.
“Wal, if you’ve sold out an’ have got to go, there ain’t no use advisin’ ag’in’ it,” replied Strobel. “I reckon it’s a pity. Folks around will miss you-all. . . . But what’d you pick out Arizona for, of all places?”
“Arizona has the climate. The doctor recommended it,” said Ben.
“Wal, Arizona sure has a lot of climate,” admitted Strobel. “There ain’t no gainsayin’ that. But climate is the only good thing it has got. The rest is desert, rocks, cactus, Gila monsters, an’ tarantulas, side-winders, bad varmints, greasers, rustlers, an’ gun-throwers.”
“That’s the worst I’ve heard yet,” returned Ben, regretfully. “Are you giving Arizona a square deal?”
“Wal, after all, it’s a wonderful country,” replied the sheriff, as if forced to make a concession. “I went there twice, first time in the early days of the Territory, an’ second about two years ago. Outside of the Indians bein’ quiet, I didn’t see much difference. Of late, hard characters have slipped into Arizona from all over.”
“I’ve heard that,” said Ben, impatiently. “It’s about all anyone seems to say. What I want help in is where to strike for.”
“Reckon I don’t know enough about Arizona to tell you that. I’m able, though, to give you some hunches about where not to go. Southern Arizona is too hot, an’ in the north it’s too cold. On the other hand, you want to steer clear of the Tonto Basin, the Sierra Ancas, the Mogollons, the Little Colorado country. Around Springerville an’ Snowflake there’s fine grazin’ lands. That’s near the White Mountains. But Mormons mostly have settled in there. The Santa Fé Railroad has just lately been laid across Arizona. An’ all along the line new ranches have been added to the few settlers that were there. Anyone goin’ into the cattle game on a big scale, as of c
ourse you will, don’t want to get too far from the railroad. I’d say a hundred miles should be the limit, an’ that’s too far, in Arizona. Roughest, wildest country on earth, I reckon. . . . Now, Ben, the only advice I’ll presume to give you is this. Have a winter home in San Diego, California. There’s the mildest, most equable climate in all the world. That’s the place for your mother an’ for all of you. San Diego is not so far from southern and central Arizona. By doin’ so you can pick the best range land in Arizona, an’ needn’t worry so much about winter climate. Some of them high plateaus get plumb cold in winter, but are grand all the rest of the year.”
“By George! that’s a good idea,” exclaimed Ben, enthusiastically. “Never thought of that myself. I’ve heard about San Diego. It’s on the seashore near the Mexican border. They say the sun shines there every day in the year. By George! — it solves our problem, Ina.”
“I like the idea very much indeed,” replied Ina.
“How about you, Hettie?” queried Ben, eagerly.
“It would appeal to mother,” said Hettie. “She’s a little hipped on this wild and woolly Arizona, as your San Francisco informant called it.”
“Sheriff, you sure have given me a hunch,” declared Ben, turning to his friend. “Now, about my horses. You know I’d never go anywhere without Red and some of the others. But why not take the best of my stock?”
“Wal, by all means take them,” replied the sheriff. “That’s a hoss country, an’ also a hoss-thief country. I’d send them overland by easy stages in care of some reliable men. Send a chuck wagon, an’ also another wagon, so they can haul outfits an’ plenty of grain. An’, Ben, I’d start them soon as possible. They’ll need time. They got to cross Nevada an’ most of Utah. That depends on the best route, which they’ll have to find.”
“Exactly. The main thing, though, is an objective point. Where shall my men go in Arizona?”
“Wal, that is a stumper,” replied the other. “Here it’s well along in May now. You said you’d agree to vacate this range in about two months.”