Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  Ina came running from the house. “Ben, what — in the — world’s happened?” she asked, in alarm.

  “Ina, it’s all over, so don’t get scared,” returned Ben. “Dillon has been shot by that bloody devil, Jim Lacy. Why, the man must be insane! Comin’ here to carry out his queer feud! Right at my back door!”

  “Dillon? Is — is he dead?” asked Ina, fearfully.

  “Yes, ma’am,” interposed Raidy, touching his sombrero.

  “Oh, how dreadful!” Then Ina caught sight of Hettie and Rose. She ran to them. “Hettie, isn’t it awful? That Dillon! I wonder. . . . You look sort of wild, Hettie. Who’s this girl with you?”

  “Rose Hatt. Marvie’s friend,” replied Hettie, bending down. “Oh, Ina, I’ve—”

  Ben, striding away with his men, turned to call out, “Ina, stay back, an’ keep those girls with you!”

  “But why can’t I come, too?” burst out Ina.

  “No place for women,” he returned, curtly. “There’s one dead man now an’ soon there’ll be another.”

  Ina halted with a revulsion of feeling too strong for curiosity.

  “Hettie, we mustn’t go,” she said.

  “Listen, old girl. Chucks for Ben Ide. There’s not enough men in Arizona to keep me away,” declared Hettie, wildly. Then she bent down over Ina to whisper. “Jim Lacy is Nevada!”

  Ina put a hand over her mouth to stifle a scream. Then she gasped, “No!”

  “Yes! I’ve known it for long. And I met him today. . . . O God! . . . But I — I can’t talk now. Come.”

  Hettie, with Rose on her left, rode at the heels of the striding men. Ina ran beside Hettie, clinging to the stirrup, looking up now and then with dark bright eyes.

  They traversed the short lane to enter the wide square, on the other side of which stood the quarters of the ranch hands. There were ten or more saddle horses standing bridles down. Hettie’s startled sight included a dark group of men massed in front of the cook-house. There! Nevada must be there — soon to be confronted by Ben. How terrible for Ben — for both of them! Hettie’s state became one of palpitating suspense, of nerve-racking torture. Yet an overwhelming, incomprehensible curiosity consumed her.

  They reached the crowd of cowboys and men strange to Hettie, some of whom faced around.

  “Open up here,” shouted Ben, in a loud hard voice. “Spread out. . . . Let me see this man.”

  The crowd split in a hurry, leaving a wide V-shaped space, at the apex of which sat the prisoner on the edge of the porch. The dead man lay on the ground, covered with a blanket.

  Hettie recognized Nevada, though his head was bowed and his sombrero hid his face. His hands, in irons, hung over his knees. What a strange, pathetic figure! Hettie’s sore heart failed her. What mystery was here? The moment seemed charged with indefinable and profound portent.

  Macklin, the Winthrop sheriff, beaming and bristling with his importance, advanced a stride, with pompous gesture.

  “Wal, Mr. Ide, here’s your man. I’ve got him in irons,” he boomed.

  Ben advanced, his gaze passing from the dead man on the ground to the slumping prisoner.

  “Jim Lacy,” he called, sternly.

  There was no movement from Nevada, except that he seemed to contract. Nobody else stirred. The air was fraught with tragic suggestion, with inscrutable meaning that yet transfixed the onlookers.

  “Lacy, I’m goin’ to hang you!” rang out Ben Ide.

  Still no response from this notorious gunman, whose daring, whose cold nerve, had long been a subject for campfire gossip.

  “Stand up. Let me look at you,” ordered Ben, suddenly.

  With a violent wrench the prisoner jerked out of his dejected posture, to slip off the porch and stand erect. He ducked his head, removing the sombrero, which fell to the ground. Composed and pale then he faced his judge.

  Ben Ide seemed struck by lightning.

  “My God! . . . Who — is this — man?” he faltered, almost inaudibly.

  There was no answer. The crowd of onlookers gazed spellbound.

  “Who are you?”

  “Wal, Ben, I’m shore sorry we met this heah way,” came the reply, in the old slow cool accents. “But I reckon it had to be.”

  “NEVADA!”

  With the hoarse wondering cry, Ben leaped forward to clasp his old friend in a close embrace and hold him so a long moment.

  Hettie saw Ben’s face in convulsion, his eyes shut tight, his expression one to bewilder the staring bystanders. To her it was beautiful and somehow soul-satisfying. Her eyes were dim, her heart pounding.

  “My old pard! Found at last! . . . Thank God! — I feared you were dead. . . . All these long years! But I hoped an’ prayed. . . . An’ here you are. It’s too good to be true. I reckon it’s a dream. Say somethin’ to me — you old wild-horse-huntin’ pard. Nevada!”

  Ben held him back, hands on his shoulders, oblivious to all but that lean stone-gray face.

  “Yes, Ben . . . Nevada to you — but to all the world — only Jim Lacy,” replied Nevada, sadly.

  “What?” cried Ben, with a violent start. Then his nervous quick hands ran down to Nevada’s irons. “God Almighty! . . . You Jim Lacy?”

  “Yes, to my shame — pard.”

  Ben’s transition to reality was swift and passionate. Suddenly white, with blazing eyes, he tore at Nevada’s handcuffs. “I don’t care a damn who you were. You’re Nevada to me — my friend — my pard. An’ so you’ll be forever.”

  “Wal, Ben — it’s shore good to heah you,” replied Nevada, his voice trailing off.

  “Macklin, unlock these irons,” ordered Ben.

  “What? . . . But, Mr. Ide — he’s my prisoner!” protested the sheriff, aghast. “He’s wanted for rustlin’. He killed your foreman. The law—”

  “To hell with your law!” interrupted Ben, fiercely. “Unlock his irons!”

  “You hired us to ketch this man!”

  “Quick. Before I throw my gun on you!”

  His hand went to his hip. The crowd stirred with restless feet and whispered exclamation. Tom Day stepped out to get between Macklin and Ben.

  “Easy now, Ben. Let old Tom have a word,” he said, in his big voice, now full and resonant. “We’ve had enough gun-play for one day. . . . Macklin, give me the keys to these irons.”

  The sheriff, red of face, flustered and intimidated, complied with poor grace. Day unlocked the irons, removed them, and somewhat with contempt cast them at Macklin’s feet.

  Nevada rubbed his wrists and then looked up to smile at Day.

  “Put her thar, Texas Jack,” boomed the old rancher, with a wonderful smile wreathing his rugged face. “We’re shore from the old Lone Star State. Let me be the first to shake the good right hand thet did for Dillon.”

  “Wal, Tom, shore you needn’t rub it in,” drawled Nevada, as he yielded to the vigorous onslaught of the older man.

  “Come heah, Franklidge,” called Day, beckoning to the judge. “I reckon it’s aboot time.”

  Ben Ide stood motionless, his jaw dropping, his eyes expressive of an incredulous wonder that he could not voice. His feeling was surely shared by others there. As for Hettie, she seemed to feel her blood and brain whirl madly. Texas Jack! That warm, splendid smile of the old rancher! Judge Franklidge moving forward with dignified step and grave, kindly face!

  But the other black-garbed sheriff intercepted him.

  “Mr. Ide, these are sure most extraordinary proceedings,” he said, authoritatively.

  “Hell, yes!” burst out Ben. “But it’s an extraordinary case.”

  “The law must take its course. Even if this Jim Lacy was an old pard of yours, he’s now a criminal. Reckon his gun-play was always on the level. But he’s a cattle an’ hoss thief. We set out to hang the leader of this Pine Tree rustler outfit. Sure Lacy is him. His killin’ of Dillon proves that. If this is no hangin’ case, it sure is one for jail.”

  “Struthers, I hired you to come up here,” return
ed Ben, deliberately. “I admit I wanted Jim Lacy shot or hanged. But I’ve changed my mind. He’s my friend. I owe my life, my fortune, my family, all to him. There’s some mystery — some mistake here. That’s for me to learn, an’ not for you.”

  “All right. But I’ll take Lacy to Phoenix for trial,” replied Struthers.

  “If you do, it’ll be over my dead body. Take care, Struthers. This isn’t Phoenix. You’re up in the brakes.”

  Thus Ben Ide answered to his few months in Arizona. The situation looked grave again. But Judge Franklidge interposed to push Struthers back.

  “You have no jurisdiction here unless I give it,” he said. Then he turned to Ben with courtly kindness. “My son, don’t distress yourself further. Just have a little patience.”

  “Patience!” ejaculated Ben, as if he had not heard aright

  Judge Franklidge advanced to place his left hand on Nevada’s shoulder and extended his right, which Nevada quickly met.

  “Jack, you may be from Texas, as old Tom here brags, but you sure belong to Arizona,” he said, heartily.

  “Wal, I should smile,” corroborated Day, heartily.

  Judge Franklidge turned to indicate in slight gesture the dead man on the ground.

  “Dillon, of course, was the leader of this Pine Tree rustler gang,” he asserted. “Otherwise you would not have risked revealing yourself here?”

  “Wal, reckon I wouldn’t,” replied Nevada, with a smile that held no mirth.

  “Dillon!” boomed Tom Day, his eyes rolling at the dead man. “Who was he, Jack?”

  “Ed Richardson, late of New Mexico.”

  “Richardson? I know aboot him. Lincoln County war hombre? Billy the Kid outfit?”

  “That’s the man, Tom.”

  “Wal, I’m a son-of-a-gun!” ejaculated the old rancher. “I begin to see light. Dillon was thick with Stewart. An’ Stewart never worked the same for me after Dillon became foreman heah at Ben’s. This mawnin’ he was gone. An’ he knowed where we was bound for. . . . Jack, what you make of thet?”

  “Stewart was one of the three Arizonians that Richardson took into his New Mexican outfit.”

  “Ahuh! Who’s the other two?”

  “Burt Stillwell an’ Cedar Hatt.”

  “Stillwell! . . . Jack, didn’t you — meet thet hombre just lately?” queried Day, his eyes glinting.

  “Yes. It was Stillwell who stole Ben’s horse, California Red. I made him send Red back. Reckon that r’iled Stillwell. . . . An’ Marvie Blaine shot Cedar Hatt to-day. So the Pine Tree outfit is shore broke.”

  Ben Ide, in bewildered state, crowded closer to the speakers.

  “Marvie Blaine shot Cedar Hatt?” ejaculated Judge Franklidge.

  “Good Lord!” added Day in his booming voice. “What next? Ben, you listenin’ to all this?”

  “Tom — I’m stumped,” replied Ben, hoarsely.

  “Spill it, Jack. Tell us about Marvie. Heaven help us now!” went on Day.

  “I happened on Cedar Hatt to-day,” replied Nevada. “He was ridin’ down in one of the brakes an’ I was on top. Wal, I soon saw he was trailin’ some one. So I worked ahaid an’ got down off the Rim. There I happened to run on Marvie an’ his girl, Rose Hatt. They were spoonin’ under the trees an’ never saw me. I was lookin’ for Cedar an’ I knew Cedar was lookin’ for them. So I kept quiet. Pretty soon Cedar slips up, right on to them. An’ he begins to rave. Rose talked back an’ shore Marvie showed spunk. Cedar knocked him down, an’ then Rose, too. That riled Marvie an’ he tore into Cedar. It looked bad, with Cedar pullin’ at his gun. He got it out, but Marvie fought him for it. . . . An’, wal, in the fight Cedar dropped the gun an’ Marvie quick as a cat snatched it up. Usin’ both hands, he throwed it on Cedar an’ shore bored him twice.”

  “Whoop-ee!” yelled one of the cowboys at the back of the crowd.

  “By thunder! I’d whoop myself if I had any voice left,” returned Tom Day. “Where’s Marvie? Come heah, you gunslingin’ kid!”

  “Rose Hatt is heah, too,” said Nevada. “An’, Tom, it’d be wal for you an’ Judge Franklidge to talk to her. Rose is a good honest girl. Dillon was after her. An’ Cedar Hatt had dragged Rose away from home to meet Dillon. That was how Rose found out aboot the Pine Tree outfit. An’ she confessed to me.”

  “Wal, I’ll be darned!” replied Day, feelingly. “The lass looks a little scared an’ white, Judge. I reckon we needn’t heah her say now, in this crowd. But that kid Marvie — he shore don’t look scared.”

  “Come here, my lad,” called Judge Franklidge, beckoning.

  Marvie slipped off his horse and stalked forward to confront the three men. Hettie thrilled at sight of him, yet she could have wept and screamed with mirth. Marvie, if he were any character at all, was surely Nevada. In look, in walk, in manner! He had a big black gun in his chaps pocket, and another smaller one in his belt. What a moment for Marvie Blaine!

  “Son, what’s this we heah?” asked Day, bluntly. “Did you shoot Cedar Hatt?”

  “Reckon I did,” replied Marvie. “Here’s his gun. It happened just about as Nevada told you.”

  “Who’s Nevada?”

  Marvie laid a hand on his friend.

  “Oho! You mean Jim Lacy heah?”

  “No, I mean Nevada,” replied the lad, stoutly. “That Jim Lacy handle doesn’t go with me.”

  “Marvie, you speak for me,” interposed Judge Franklidge. “He may indeed be Nevada and Jim Lacy. But for me he will always be Texas Jack. He has worked for me for two years. And before that for Tom Day. We found him to be the best cowboy who ever threw a rope for us. And more — a splendid honest man whom it is my privilege to call friend — and whom I would be happy to take into my cattle business.”

  “Hey, you sheriff rustlers,” boomed Tom Day, with loud satisfaction, “did you heah that? Wal, listen to some more. Texas Jack volunteered to clean up this Pine Tree outfit. He had my backin’. He had Judge Franklidge’s office behind him. He had free hand to become a rustler an’ thief, to drink an’ gamble an’ shoot his way into the secret of the Pine Tree outfit. Do you savvy? Or are you wearin’ your hair too long? There won’t be any arrest. There won’t be anyone danglin’ on a rope.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  HETTIE LAY UPON her bed, face to the open window, with the cool sweet sage-laden wind blowing in upon her. Dusk had fallen. The last rose and gold of the afterglow of sunset lingered in the west. She never knew how she had gotten from Ben’s courtyard to her room. Dimly she remembered faces and murmuring voices that had no meaning for her.

  The door opened — closed. Ben knelt beside her bed — took her hands — kissed her face.

  “Hettie, I came as quick as I could get away,” he said, with deep agitation. “I was knocked off my pins. But happy — oh, girl, never so happy before, except on the day Ina married me! . . . When I could think I remembered you. So here I am.”

  “Oh — Ben!” she whispered, and clung to him, her slow overburdened heart lifting painfully.

  “Hettie dear — joy never kills,” he replied, tenderly.

  “If it were — only joy,” mourned Hettie.

  “Child, there’s nothing but joy,” he rushed on. “It was a terrible shock. To find out old Nevada — was Jim Lacy. But we always knew he was somebody bad. No, not bad. But somebody wild an’ great. You knew — Hettie. . . . An’ now he’s turned up. The wonder of it is that he had hidden the old identity. He had given up the old wild life. He had found honest work an’ had lived clean an’ fine. As we knew him in those happy days at Forlorn River. So you see all your love an’ faith an’ hope were justified. He was worth it. Thank God I never lost—”

  “Hush! You’re killing — me!” gasped Hettie, writhing from his embrace.

  “Hettie! Why, sister, this isn’t like you,” he expostulated, in anxiety. “You’re overcome. It has been too much for you.”

  “Not the joy — not the excitement,” she returned. “I’ve been a poor miserable creature
! . . . A coward! A selfish, headstrong woman! Jealous, little! . . . Oh, so poor in love — in faith!”

  It came out then, gradually, sometimes incoherently, the story of her meeting with Nevada; and Hettie, in her self-abasement, magnified all the shame and ignominy — all the bitter invective and scorn which she had flung into his face.

  Ben drew her head back to his shoulder and smoothed her disheveled hair.

  “Well! . . . I understand now. Too bad! But there are excuses for you. Didn’t you believe in him — love him — keep yourself for him all these years? Some things are too much for anybody.”

  “He — will — never — forgive,” she sobbed, with the relief that came through his sympathy, his championship.

  “Nevada? Why, that fellow would forgive anythin’.”

  “I — can never — forgive myself.”

  “Hettie, it will all come right. Don’t you remember how you harped on that? Beat it into my poor thick head! . . . An’, lo! it has come right. . . . Nevada could not hurt you.”

  “I have — hurt myself. I’ve lost something. My ideal has failed me.”

  “No — no. You’re just overwrought by this sudden crash. Please, Hettie. I don’t mean cheer up. But brace up an’ see it through. Where’s your Ide spunk?”

  “Gone — gone.”

  “Well, then, get it back. I swear to you Nevada will be just like I am now. On my knees to you!”

  “Where is he?”

  “I left him in the livin’-room, playin’ with Blaine. The kid took a shine to him pronto. An’ Nevada. Lord! no one would ever dream of him bein’ what we’ve learned to understand by the name Jim Lacy. . . . Hettie, there’s somethin’ so simple an’ great about Nevada. He’s just himself now as we remembered him. He’s Nevada, that’s all.”

  Hettie lay awake many hours, with anguish slowly wearing away to a regurgitation of something quite as full of pangs. The night wind moved through the pines, sweeping, swelling, lulling. Coyotes added their lonesome chorus. White stars shone from the dark blue sky. When she fell asleep she dreamed vague, unreal, distorted dreams, in which she seemed the central shadow among shadows of Nevada, Marvie, Rose, Ben, and that mocking handsome Dillon. But she awoke to a new day — new as the bright morning, and with a dawning hope, like the gold and blue of the Arizona sky.