by Zane Grey
“Wal, I wanted Lonesome to let on he was drunk so’s to find out more about Gaines an’ his hombres. An’ Lonesome agreed, providin’ I’d let on he was goin’ to hell for Lenta.”
Harriet did not know what to say. The tall rider was quite pale and his wonderful eyes pierced her. Up to this moment she had been mistress of the situation, but her composure was breaking and she could not trust herself longer. Laramie’s presence seemed to pull her like a magnet.
“Miss Hallie, I don’t want Lenta never to know the truth,” added Lonesome, earnestly. “‘Cause if it hadn’t been for Laramie I’d done plumb wuss than I pretended.”
“I will keep that secret, too,” returned Harriet. “You have lied to me. I’m not such a tenderfoot as you imagine. I mean about things pertaining to the ranch. May I be assured that you will tell me the truth from now on?”
“I swear I will,” replied Lonesome.
“Wal, so far as personal matters air concerned, I promise,” drawled Laramie, somehow retreating to his old cool self.
“Thank you,” returned Harriet, hastily. “I advise you to take Lonesome to your quarters and look to him before anyone else sees. He surely is a sight.”
Laramie laid powerful hold of his disfigured friend. “Come on, pard.”
“Dog-gone, I’m knocked out,” replied Lonesome, ruefully, as Laramie dragged him up and half carried him out. Then right before them appeared Lenta in the courtyard. She had just come in hurriedly on foot and she halted stockstill to gape at Lonesome.
“Say!” she cried.
Harriet, who peered out over Lonesome’s shoulder, detected an inflection of Lenta’s voice that gave food for reflection. Nor did the girl wholly conceal a flash and start.
“Pass on, Lenta,” drawled Laramie, “or yu may feel bad.”
“Lonesome! — somebody throw you in a threshing-machine?” queried Lenta.
“It’s nothin’ to you, girl.”
“Lenta, my pard heah suffered this cripplin’ in yore behalf,” added Laramie, coldly.
“Mine!” Lenta’s face flamed scarlet, and then slowly paled till her tan appeared obliterated. Instinctively she moved as if to step toward them, but something inhibited a natural impulse, and turning she fled up the court.
“Laramie, old pard, thet wasn’t so bad!” exclaimed Lonesome, thrillingly.
Harriet watched them out of sight. Then ponderingly she picked up her gauntlets, which suddenly she slammed against the wall. “Damn it!” she whispered. “I love that boy Lonesome, and it’s beautiful. . . . I’m going to love that cold, blood-curdling Laramie — and — it’s — terrible!”
Presently Harriet remembered Florence and Ted, which thought instantly switched the direction of pondering and emotion. She found herself in a Homeric mood that augured well for her erring sisters. Fearing she might lose this exalting excitement and sense of power, she ran out to find them.
CHAPTER XI
THE PORCH IN front of Florence’s open door was littered with parcels and bundles and grips, evidently left where they had been thrown from the buckboard. This was an indication of the eloping bride’s mental state, for Florence was usually the neatest and most fastidious person with her possessions. Harriet burst in upon the young couple.
“Congratulations, you prodigals!” she cried, gaily. She saw Ted first. He looked exceedingly well in a new dark suit. His handsome weathered face showed no sign of worry, concern, or remorse. It broke into a warm smile at sight of Harriet.
“Oh — Hallie!” cried Florence, poignantly. On the moment she did not look a happy bride. Her lovely face was pale and tear-stained. She was most becomingly gowned. Harriet’s surmise proved correct, for Florence rushed into her arms to laugh and cry and kiss her with a warmth seldom expressed by the beauty of the Lindsays.
“Well, Flo, you’ve been and gone and done it,” murmured Harriet, holding the girl close.
“Hallie, don’t I come in for a kiss, too?” queried Ted, brazenly, as he rose from the bed. “I was there when it happened.”
“Two, if you want them,” laughed Harriet, as she extended a hand. Ted was not slow to kiss her. “Boy, you don’t look sorry over your deportment.”
“Me? I’m the happiest man in the world,” he declared.
“So you should be.”
“Oh, Hallie, I was happy too, till we got home,” wailed Florence. “Dad wouldn’t even see us. He wouldn’t let us go in to mother. And when we tried, he yelled, ‘Get the hell out of here!’”
“Did he!” ejaculated Harriet. “That’s a lot for father. I’m afraid he is angry. You should have asked him. I told you. What’d you run off that way for?”
“Oh, it was Ted’s fault. He coaxed — so — he made me. . . . And I — I guess I wanted to. . . . But, Hal, darling, what on earth will we do? We spent every dollar we both had. Where could we go? But I won’t be separated from you all. It’d be dreadful. I didn’t elope for that. I just didn’t think.”
“Don’t cry, honey,” replied Harriet. “Maybe it wasn’t such a fool thing, after all. We’re out West now. What was the sense of waiting? Still, it’d been better if you’d asked father.”
“I wanted to, Hal. Honest I did. But Ted wouldn’t let me. . . . Won’t you persuade dad to forgive us?”
“I’ll try, dear. I guess I’m not much scared,” returned Harriet as she released her sister. “He’s not in a good humor. You see, Lenta broke out again.”
“Again! She has stayed broken out. I hope she didn’t fetch that Stuart fellow home with her.”
“That’s just what she did,” said Harriet.
“Oh, Lordy!” cried Flo, aghast, and looked to see how Ted took the news.
“Did Laramie know it?” queried Ted.
“Not until we got here, I’m sure.”
“Hallie, young Stuart is a bad hombre,” rejoined Ted, seriously. “We heard all about him. Reckon he’s not a rustler like Gaines, but he’s just plain no good. Married, for one thing. Ran off with Alice Webster. She worked in a restaurant at La Junta. And she had to go back. Lenta has barked up the wrong tree this time.”
“Whew! So he’s married? That’s one thing we mustn’t tell father.”
“I’ll tell Lent at once. Where is she?” interposed Florence.
“Laramie is the one to tell,” added Ted.
“One thing at a time. Wait till I see if I can persuade father not to cast you off forever,” said Harriet, gravely.
“Oh, Hallie, I — I couldn’t bear it,” cried Florence.
Harriet hurried over to her father’s quarters and knocked without any misgivings. His bark was worse than his bite. And even if he was furious, Harriet knew she could coax him around.
“Go away,” called a rough voice.
“But it’s Hallie.”
“Oh. . . . ma, it’s Hallie. Let her in.”
Harriet was admitted by her sleepy mother, who did not appear otherwise upset by the misfortunes of the family. Lindsay sat at the window, with his back to Harriet. She was careful to stay behind him, but finally leaned over his chair.
“How are you, daddy?”
“Humph! You must want a lot — callin’ me that. Out with it?”
Harriet gathered all her forces of eloquence and launched forth: “Flo is scared and heart-broken. Poor kid! She’s so deeply in love that she didn’t know what she was doing. And Ted is penitent. They both realize now that they should have asked you. They did tell me and made me swear not to betray them. Ted’s a fine young fellow. We need him here. Besides, if you sent him away Laramie and Lonesome would go too. Then where would we be? Flo could not be separated from us all. Daddy, darling, we’ve got this infernal cattle business to conquer, and from what I’ve gathered it’ll be no fun. For goodness’ sake, let’s keep the riders we know are honest, no matter how queer they are!”
“Fine talk. Can you keep that hombre Laramie here?” returned Lindsay.
“Why — why father!” exclaimed Harriet, utterly routed.
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“Don’t why me. Can you do it?”
“Can I! . . . How on earth — What — —”
“Daughter, you understand me. Will you keep Laramie here? We’re ruined if you won’t.”
“I — I will,” faltered Harriet, in a tumult.
“Very good. That relieves me,” declared Lindsay, heartily. “Now you can call Flo and Ted over. I was only bluffing about them, anyhow. But you needn’t tell that.”
Harriet shakily opened the door and called, hurriedly. “Oh, Flo . . . Ted. Come!” She waited to receive them. Florence came running, but her husband was slower. Meanwhile Lindsay told Mrs. Lindsay to present herself in the sitting-room.
Florence stared with appealing question at Harriet. The proud dark eyes were not proud now. She went in. “Dad — p-please forgive me.” Ted strode up on the porch, and tossing away his cigarette he winked at Harriet and went in. Harriet followed. She would have been frightened if she had not been aware of her father’s duplicity. He had arisen. He apparently did not see the trembling bride, but fixed stern gaze upon the groom.
“Well, young man, what have you got to say for yourself?” he bellowed. Before Ted could reply Laramie strode jinglingly in at the door.
“Aw, ‘scuse me,” he drawled.
“Stay, Laramie, I may require your assistance,” said Lindsay.
“Mr. Lindsay, I haven’t got so much to say,” replied Ted, frankly. “Fact is, I’ve deceived you all.”
“Deceived us?” demanded Lindsay.
“Oh, Ted!” moaned Flo.
“See heah, Tracks,” interposed Laramie. “I’ve had a couple of shocks today. Go easy now.”
“Yes, I’ve deceived you,” resumed Ted, coolly. “It looked all right at first thought. But now I’m afraid it’s pretty low down, especially to my wife. . . . But anyway, here goes. About six weeks ago I wrote home to my parents — first time for years. And I told them what a wild life I’d led — and how falling in with a fine family and the sweetest girl in the world had changed me. That she’d promised to marry me. . . . Well, the answer didn’t reach me until two days before we went to La Junta. It came with the mail that Manuel brought on the freight-wagon. . . . The governor, mother, and my sister Edna — she was a kid when I left home — are coming out to set me up in the cattle business. It sort of knocked me. I was sure locoed. It means a big ranch for me or I could throw in with you here and we could run a hundred thousand head of stock. But the funny thing is I didn’t want to tell you. I guess I was crazy to see if Flo would marry me just as I was — a wild range-rider without any future. That, sir, is my excuse.”
Ted’s listeners were all stricken, Flo most of all. Rapt, fascinated, she gazed at him. Lindsay scratched his grizzled beard in bewilderment. The tables had been turned on him. Laramie appeared to be the only one not at a loss, and astounded.
“Yu double-crossin’ son-of-a-gun,” he drawled. “Don’t yu ever reckon yu could boss me.”
“Laramie, we’ve shared blankets and crusts — good and bad all these years. And we’re not going to change now. When the governor comes out to set me up this fall you and Lonesome will be my pards as always,” declared Ted, warmly.
“Oh Ted! you wonderful wretch! Not to tell me!” cried Flo, and flung her arms around his neck.
“I reckon I cain’t wait to tell Lonesome about thet,” beamed Laramie, and plunged out of the door to clink rapidly down the courtyard.
“Looks like I’ve gained a partner as well as a son-in-law,” declared Lindsay. “Hallie — ma, it sure takes the tickle out of my surprise. They’ll never believe me now.”
“Indeed they will,” cried Harriet, joyfully.
“Flo — Ted, the ‘tarnal truth is that I wasn’t mad at you. I was tickled to death. I just wanted to throw a bluff.”
Florence screamed and ran from her husband to her father, to envelop him ecstatically. Ted followed her and gripped the hand that clasped round Flo’s shoulder.
“See here, pop, you’ve played a low-down trick on me. You’ve not only got well but you’ve got Western. You’ve made a tenderfoot out of me. I was scared stiff.”
* * * * *
But it soon developed that joy in the Lindsay household was not unmitigated. Presently Lenta appeared upon the scene, distractingly pretty and as baby-eyed as ever.
“So you’ve come back pronto?” she asked coolly, without any preliminary greeting to Florence. “I’ll stay away awhile and have some fun when I elope.”
“Lent, aren’t you going to congratulate us?” rejoined Florence, reproachfully.
“Well, I congratulate you all right, but I’m not so sure about Ted.”
Then Mr. Lindsay fixed his youngest daughter with an icy stare and was evidently about to address her when Laramie came in, carrying a saddle-bag. His eyes were twinkling. Harriet felt a sudden rush of liking for him. How seldom did he show humor!
“Folks, reckon heah’s Christmas come middle of July,” he drawled, and emptied a bright mass of articles upon the table. “There! Lonesome’s respects an’ he said he’d got a lot of fun out of his joke.”
“Joke!” echoed Ted, fiercely.
Lenta let out a scream, and leaping at the table she snatched a red scarf out of the tangle. “My darling scarf! I knew I never lost it. . . . Lonesome, the darned little thief! . . . Look! here’s more I thought I’d lost. My locket with my picture! My glove! My bracelet! Well, I’ll be jiggered! . . . I’ll bet two-bits I’ll find my garter here — —”
“Oh, Lent, there’s my gold pencil,” cried Harriet. “The rascal! But I’d forgive him anything — I’m so glad to get it back.”
“For the land’s sake — my nightie!” ejaculated Flo.
Ted made a lunge. “What? Your nightgown? How’n’h — the deuce did he get this?”
“Not off me, darling,” laughed Flo, recovering the lacy garment.
“Lonesome snooped thet off the clothes-line,” drawled Laramie. “Fact is, he took aboot everythin’ thet wasn’t tied down. Heah’s a double-eagle I’ve packed with me for years. I wouldn’t have spent it for worlds. An’ many’s the time we was near starvin’. It saved my life once.”
“How?” queried Lenta, eyeing the gold piece in Laramie’s extended palm.
“Wal, it was in my vest pocket an’ it stopped a bullet thet would shore have done for me. There’s the mark where the lead hit.”
“Let me see,” spoke up Harriet, answering to irresistible impulse. Laramie handed the coin to her. It was a twenty dollar gold piece, worn smooth, and it had a very perceptible dent in the middle. What a little thing to save a man’s life! Harriet shuddered. There seemed to be a raw, sinister violence in that very dent. Suppose Laramie had not been carrying this coin in his vest pocket! An unaccountable speculation as to what difference that might have made to Harriet whirled through her mind.
“No wonder you cherish it,” she murmured, her hand trembling visibly as she returned the coin. “If it stopped a bullet — some one must have shot at you.”
“Wal, if I recollect, some one did,” drawled Laramie.
“May I ask what happened to him?” queried Harriet, curiously. She was to see the twinkle die out of Laramie’s eyes and an almost imperceptible shade pass over his face. He made no reply, but flipped the coin and turned aside.
“Hallie, why don’t you ask me?” queried Ted, with a laugh.
Lenta and Florence were recovering more lost articles, and were squealing in glee.
“Dad, here’s your cigarette-holder,” chirped Lenta, suddenly, and she tossed it to him.
“So ’tis,” replied Lindsay, pleased as a child.
“Mother, if I don’t miss my guess here are your little scissors, the pair you raved about disappearing from your work-basket,” added Flo.
“It is. . . . Well, if this doesn’t beat the Dutch!” returned Mrs. Lindsay, receiving the coveted instrument.
“Folks, don’t be mad at Lonesome,” spoke up Laramie. “He’s jest a boy at heart.
An’ thet was his way of havin’ fun. I took him to task about it an’ I reckon he won’t steal no more.”
“Mad? Why, we couldn’t be mad at Lonesome,” said Harriet, and as there was no disputing this, evidently she spoke for all. Laramie went his way then, and presently Flo and Ted, sensing trouble brewing for Lenta, beat a hasty retreat. Mrs. Lindsay retired to her bedroom, and that left the refractory Lenta alone with her father and Harriet.
“Lenta, I forbade you to leave your room today,” began Lindsay, severely.
“I’m young, dad, and full of go. I can’t stay indoors,” replied the girl, petulantly.
“Where’d you go?”
“Out.”
“Riding?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Alone?”
“It’s not safe to ride alone, Laramie says. So I always ride with some one.”
“In this case no doubt your companion was the rider you annexed at La Junta. What’s his name?”
“Stuart.”
“Did you persuade him to come here?”
“Well, dad, I can’t say I discouraged him. I told him we needed riders. And he’s wonderful on a horse.”
“That’s not the point, my daughter. I don’t approve of you meeting one of these strange Westerners today and fetching him dangling after you tomorrow.”
“I can’t help it if they dangle after me,” said Lenta, resentfully.
“Lenta, I don’t blame these boys for liking you. And I don’t blame you. But you are nearly seventeen. You must use some sense — or trouble will come of it.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“You could back East. But not out here,” protested her father. “This is the unsettled West, you headstrong child. Any one of these riders may be a rustler, a horse-thief, or worse. Laramie Nelson is authority for that. My objection is you are too free — too reckless. You will not wait till we know this or that young fellow is all right. And I propose to stop you one way or another.”
Lenta tossed a rebellious head.
“How do you know this Stuart is a fit companion for you?” went on Lindsay.
“Anyone could see he’s a perfectly wonderful fellow,” retorted Lenta.