by Zane Grey
“Virginia, what are you going to do?” queried Clifton, anxiously.
“I don’t know. I told you I’d reached the end of my rope.”
“Well, suppose you marry me?” broke out Cliff, almost involuntarily. “If he touches you again I’ll horsewhip him. And if that doesn’t stop his greaser tricks I’ll kill him.”
After a penetrating quiet, Virginia asked, in changed tone, “Cliff, do you really mean it?”
“Of course I do, Virginia. Reckon I’d have done it before if I’d known you were in such straits...That’ll give me the right to protect you...If you can keep it secret from your father the — the marriage need not be anything but a safeguard. Knowing it — that you can block their schemes any minute — will help you through it. At least you won’t be in such fear of being dragged into a hateful marriage...Something will happen sooner or later. All you need is time. Malpass will hang himself sure. He’s not the kind of a man who can play a game long...Then, you have only to get your freedom. As to that, Virginia, I may not last very long — —”
“Hush!” she whispered, putting a soft palm to his lips. Presently she sank back against the wall, and even in the deceiving light Clifton could see her suppressed emotion.
“Virginia, I dare say there are weak spots in my argument. But I make the offer.”
“You are my dearest — my only friend,” she said. “I accept — Clifton.”
“You will marry me?”
“Yes.”
Clifton tried to fill aching lungs that appeared empty. “Very well. How can we arrange it?”
She seemed buried in deep thought that he could feel.
“I have it,” she cried, suddenly, with an exultant note in her excited voice. “I’ll drive to town tomorrow. I’ll get the marriage license from the county clerk. I know I can persuade him to keep our secret. Then I’ll go to the new minister. I can persuade him, too. You meet me here tomorrow night at about this time. Perhaps a little earlier. And perhaps you’d better walk down the road from the corner. I’ll drive back to town with you...We’ll be married. And I’ll get you home without anyone being the wiser...What do you think of that plan?”
“Fine, if you can pull it off,” he replied, trying in vain to speak lightly.
“Then it’s — settled.” She rose rather hurriedly. “I’d better go now...Tomorrow night it won’t matter if I am late. — Nothing will matter.”
“Virginia,” he replied, gravely, as he stood up, “I’m bound to advise you that if we’re caught it will matter.”
“We won’t be caught — and if we were I’d laugh.”
“I wouldn’t...How far is your car?”
“Just a step. I’ll go alone.”
“No, I’d rather you didn’t.”
He followed her out through the break in the wall and up the dark trail until she halted in the gloom of a thicket along the road. Then he saw the car. She looked up and down the road, listened a moment, then stepped into the automobile.
“Good night, Cliff. Tomorrow!” she said, turning on the lights.
“Yes, tomorrow,” he replied, thickly. How abruptly she had ended the interview! It seemed to him she avoided his outstretched hand. Then the engine whizzed, the car lurched, and he stood alone, watching a swiftly vanishing red light. He faced about to enter the trail and plod homeward, now aware of the dark melancholy Western night.
Chapter Ten
CLIFTON SECURED WORK at Watrous, in the Landis General Merchandise store, which, during the heydey of the cattle industry, had done a large business, but now had fallen into the hands of a creditor who was hard put to it to make ends meet.
His job as accountant was a trying one for Clifton. He did not shine at figures and to be chained to a desk indoors seemed no less than purgatory. But he had to work and was grateful for anything.
Watrous lay out on the range at some distance from San Luis. Clifton, however, preferred to go and come each day. To this purpose he had bargained with a Mexican for a rickety Ford, which he had genius and persistence enough to make reach its destination twice daily.
The very first day at Watrous, at the noon hour of which Clifton took advantage to get out into the open air, he saw Virginia and her cowboys driving a bunch of beautiful horses through town on the way to Cottonwoods. Virginia certainly did her share of the driving. She looked the part of a cowgirl and rode it. Clifton watched her out of sight, and deep within him his secret glowed like the heart of an opal. She was his wife and he wanted to cry it out to the range.
No doubt that secret was the spring of the resistance with which he kept at his task. In his store at San Luis he could rest and sleep and dream the hours away, and thereby he had very gradually gained strength. But this was a different kind of a job. The books were behind and in a state that engaged his energy to the limit. At the end of a week he was on the down grade, and knew it. He was not, however, in the least discouraged. He would stick it out as long as he could.
August passed. He did not see Virginia again nor hear from her, both of which circumstances apparently indicated a favorable condition. At first Clifton had feared that the fact of their marriage would leak out; and he both dreaded it and gloried in it. But no hint of its being suspected ever came to him. The condition of his father and mother had gradually improved; and though happiness held aloof, it did not seem that this would be so forever. Clay Forrest brooded less and harvested the garden he had planted. And he stayed away from Las Vegas. This was a most welcome fact to Clifton. In town Forrest drank and harangued with other old cattlemen who had seen better days, and when he came home he was dark, moody.
Clifton feared he would not be able to carry on much longer. In the mornings he would feel fresh and equal to several hours’ work, but by noon he was working on his will-power, and by night he was “shot to pieces,” as he called it. Still he refused to give up, and began his second month at Watrous.
One morning, as Clifton bent over his desk, he heard Mr. Hartwell, his employer, enter the office with some one whom he very volubly made welcome. They passed close to Clifton, who, without raising his eyes, caught a glimpse of shiny high-top boots and tight, immaculate riding-breeches that gave him a sharp start. It was not necessary to look up to recognize Malpass, even before the suave voice, a moment later, told him doubly who this visitor was.
“It’s a particular job, Hartwell,” Malpass was saying, and he slapped his boot-tops with his whip. “Expect to be married to my partner’s daughter soon, and spend the winter in the South. I’d want to start building here upon my return in early spring. You will have ample time to get all the materials here. I’m giving you this large order because, as I expect to live in Watrous, I want to patronize men who’ll be my neighbors.”
“I appreciate it, Mr. Malpass,” replied Hartwell, deferentially, almost with gratitude. “I’ll go over these orders very carefully, an’ guarantee delivery in time, at lower figures than you could get in Las Vegas.”
“Later I’ll mail you orders for lumber to build barns, corrals, and — —”
Malpass ceased abruptly, and Clifton awakened to the fact that his ears were tingling.
“Who is that?” spoke up Malpass, in a lower, changed voice.
“Where?”
“There — at the desk.”
“That’s my bookkeeper,” replied Hartwell, also in lower tone. “Fine young man. Shot up bad in France. Name’s Forrest.”
“Aha! I thought so. Used to live at Cottonwoods.”
“I don’t know. You see, I’m a newcomer here. His father’s name is Clay Forrest.”
“Well, you can fire him right now, or consider my order canceled,” returned Malpass, peremptorily.
“Why — Mr. Malpass! Do you know anything to his discredit?”
“I do.”
“Indeed! I’m very sorry. We got along fine. But, of course, I’ll discharge him. I wish to serve you, an’ I wouldn’t keep any help you disapproved of.”
“If Lundeen should
happen to come in here to see you employed a Forrest he’d walk out and never enter your place again. He’s in town, too. Rode over with me. You’d better get rid of this wounded soldier here.”
“Reckon I will, at once,” replied Hartwell, hurriedly.
Clifton leaped up with a bursting gush of hot blood.
“Save your breath, Mr. Hartwell. I quit,” he declared, passionately.
“I’m sorry, Forrest. I’d have had to let you go. Mr. Malpass assures me he knows somethin’ to your discredit, an’ I — —”
“He’s a damned liar,” interrupted Clifton, stalking to the rack for his hat and coat. “And you will live to regret the day you listened to him.”
Malpass carried off his part exceedingly well. Manifestly his last encounter with Clifton was uppermost in his mind, and he looked cool, contemptuous. There shone, however, a deep hot gleam in his sloe-black eyes.
“Forrest, if you weren’t a poor empty sack of a soldier I’d slap your face,” he said, and he spoke loudly, not averse to being heard by listening clerks and customers.
But for this, Clifton might have controlled his fury in time and gotten out.
“It’d be a sorry slap for you, Señor Malpass...Of all the rotten tricks I ever heard of, this is the rottenest. To have me thrown out of a two-bit job! It wasn’t enough for you to hire one of your greasers to burn up my store at San Luis. You’ve got to hound me here and put Hartwell against me.”
“Ha! — Hartwell, you can easily see what the war did to Forrest,” laughed Malpass. “He’s gone mentally, too.”
Hartwell came slowly forward, plainly perturbed. Clifton had gotten outside of the office rail, into the store proper.
“Young man, you’re making a plumb wild statement,” said Hartwell.
“Not so wild, when you know Señor Malpass. He’s a liar and I’m not. That’s all, and I’ll live to prove it.”
Then Clifton realized he was in for battle. Remembering Malpass’ reaction in their former encounter, he saw that he did not intend to let this pass, unless Clifton fled. That indeed was the last thing Clifton would think of. He backed against a counter littered with leather accouterments for horsemen, and his quick eye caught sight of a long black whip, the kind used by teamsters. Clifton would far rather have had a gun within reach, but this weapon would serve.
“You take that back, you white-faced beggar!” ordered Malpass. He snarled, but he did not yet give way to undue anger. His play was to impress the bystanders, and whatever he intended to do, he showed confidence.
“Make me take it back, you yellow-faced greaser millionaire,” retorted Clifton, feeling the surge of released restraint. “You burned up my little store — all I had to make a living. Now you bully Hartwell to fire me! You’d like to see me and my poor old robbed father and mother starve. I said robbed. Do you get that? I said it and you know it. What’s more, Virginia Lundeen — —”
“Shut up!” hissed Malpass, and he struck Clifton across the mouth. “I beat you once...I’ll do it again, if you dare speak my sweetheart’s name.”
The blow made Clifton cold and steady with a realization that something terrible was about to happen.
“Sweetheart?” he laughed, jeeringly. “You poor conceited ass! Money has gone to your head...Virginia Lundeen despises you. How could she be your sweetheart — you damned half-breed?...How, I say — when she’s my wife?”
Malpass was lunging when the word, more astonishing and stunning than a blow, halted him almost off his balance.
“Wife!” he choked out.
“Yes, my wife.”
“You’re crazy.”
Clifton, appalled at what passion had led him to, realized he was driven to prove his statement. With a sense of fatality — a feeling that he was betraying Virginia — he whipped out his marriage certificate and shoved it under Malpass’ nose.
“Forgery!” gasped Malpass, his lips white.
“Who wrote that?...Don’t you recognize the handwriting?...Virginia Lundeen!”
Malpass indeed read his defeat in that quivering paper. He seemed staggered by an incredible, insupportable catastrophe. His eyes of black fire followed the certificate as Clifton folded it and replaced it in his pocket. Then they blazed at Clifton, comprehending that a gigantic hoax had been perpetrated upon him. And suddenly the rest of his features kept pace with the hell in his eyes. Calling Virginia a vile name, he cut Clifton across the face with his riding-crop.
Clifton had his right hand behind him gripping the handle of the teamster’s whip. With all his might he swung it. Like a pistol report it cracked and like a black snake it curled round Malpass’ neck. The man let out a strangled yell. Clifton jerked so hard on the whip that he threw Malpass to his knees. Up he sprang nimbly, to ply his crop upon Clifton’s head, in short, hard strokes, the last of which knocked Clifton flat and also broke the bone handle of the crop.
Panting and malignant, Malpass put his right hand to his hip pocket. Hartwell shouted in affright. The other onlookers, exclaiming incoherently, scattered from behind Clifton, who again swung the whip viciously. It streaked out, snakelike, to crack across Malpass’ face. As if by magic a red stripe leaped out. Malpass screamed, true to the stronger half of his blood.
“Shoot, you greaser!” yelled Clifton. There was a fierce joy in this encounter. It liberated passion that must slowly have dammed up. He began to dance around Malpass, suddenly to attack with his whip.
Malpass drew a small automatic gun and hurriedly shot. Clifton ducked at the flash. The bullet hit a man behind, who fell, yelling: “My God! I’m shot!...Help! Help!”
Instead of going to his assistance, the others broke pellmell and ran. Hartwell dodged behind a counter. None of them could escape from the store because at the moment Clifton was dodging back and forth across the doorway that led into the street. The place was in an uproar. Men came running from outside.
Clifton spoiled Malpass’ aim by swift blows with his whip. But Malpass kept on shooting, breaking windows, scattering bullets into the wall. His eyes protruded, horrible with murderous intent. Then another slash of the whip appeared to obliterate those eyes, as if a purple band had crossed them. Malpass was momentarily blinded. He screamed maledictions in Spanish, and shot again. Clifton felt a light shock, as from a puff of air. The long blacksnake whip darted out and the end curled round Malpass’ extended hand that held the gun. It held fast as if it had been knotted. Malpass was shooting at random. Clifton pulled with both hands on the whip, swinging Malpass helplessly, to stumble over an obstruction and fall heavily. The gun flew out of his grip. Clifton got the whip loose, and swung it aloft with both hands, and brought it down hissing hot. Malpass shrieked, and flopped over on his face, to huddle against the floor.
Clifton beat him until the whip dropped from his spent hands. Then he staggered out of the store to the sidewalk. Men and boys, whom he saw but indistinctly, spread before him. Some one, whose voice he recognized, took his arm and steadied him along the street a few rods to where his car was parked. Clifton stumbled in and hung over the wheel.
But he did not lose consciousness, though his sight was dim and his hearing imperfect. Still it became obvious to him that a crowd was collecting, and this goaded his fainting spirit. With shuddering, desperate effort he wiped away the blood that flowed from a cut on his forehead into his eyes, and then started the car. Soon he had left Watrous behind, and once out in the open country he ran off the road into a clump of cedars, to rest and recover.
He came near to collapse, yet the effort had carried him over that point, and gradually he approached something like physical normality. Then he became aware of painful welts upon his face, and his right hand and wrist, where Malpass’ crop had fallen. His shirt was wet and at first he thought it came from sweat. But it was blood. Malpass had shot him, after all.
A bullet wound meant little to Forrest. He did not even search for this one, nor care whether or not it might be fatal. He was not conscious of any pain. At length he
felt blood trickling down inside his shirt, both front and back, on his right side. As it did not appear to be a copious flow, he concluded the wound was high up on his shoulder, cutting through the fleshy part on top. Already his handkerchief was soaked, so he did not have anything to serve as a pad over the hole.
He rested over his wheel, and by degrees thought impinged upon his sensorial perceptions. He knew he had been in a fight, but what was the cause and what had happened? Virginia had wanted to keep their marriage a secret until she could use the fact of it as a last resource. Clifton had promised not to reveal it under any circumstances. He had failed utterly. He had not counted on unbearable provocation nor the unknown quantity of jealousy. Almost he wished Malpass’ bullet had finished him at once.
What would come of this, he wondered, as his mind quickened. He had accused Malpass of burning his store. He had flaunted the fact of his marriage. He had passionately resented the vile name the mad Malpass had called Virginia, and he had beaten him into unconsciousness. If that whip had been a gun Malpass would never wake in this world.
Clifton plodded on in his deductions. Hartwell and others besides Malpass had heard his assertion about Virginia being his wife. Likewise they had seen the marriage certificate. He had betrayed Virginia. That fight would become range gossip before the day had passed. And if Malpass had killed a man with the random shot there would be court proceedings. Alas! to what a pass his passions had brought him!
Presently he raised his head, and starting the Ford, he drove out of the cedars, back onto the road. It was about all he could do to hang to the wheel. But for its support he would have fallen over. The few miles to San Luis seemed vast and hateful distance, never to be surmounted.
Upon reaching the village he stopped at the hut of an old Indian whom he knew, and who was a medicine-man of local note.
Clifton’s wound was a deep furrow in the shoulder muscle, and not serious. When bandaged with a soothing ointment he forgot it. The stripes on his face, however, were brands that could not be concealed. Nevertheless, with the blood washed off, and his coat well buttoned over his shirt, he did not, at least, present a frightful appearance.