by Zane Grey
“So you tracked me?” she queried, flippantly and aloofly.
“Awful nice hyar,” replied Cappy, with a sigh. “Reckon I found you hyar once — long ago, before you growed up. Protected from thet north wind an’ open to the sun from the south.”
He laid aside his sombrero, and feeling Nesta’s gaze he thought it just as well that Mrs. Ames had given him some advice.
“What do you want?” asked Nesta, presently, and the tone was not propitious.
“Wal, seein’ you didn’t come to me, I reckon I had to come to you.”
“What for?”
“Nothin’, except the joy of seein’ you, lass. Course I’m not forgettin’ what you said yesterday about needin’ a friend.”
“Honest?”
“Cross my heart,” replied Cappy, and he suited the act to the words.
“But you saw Rich,” she flashed.
“Yes, he was over a little while.”
“He talked aboot me?”
“Reckon he did, some.”
“Good or bad?”
“Wal, a little of one an’ a lot of the other. You can take your choice.”
“Bad!” she retorted, with passion.
“Lass, I didn’t say so. An’ what Rich said ain’t botherin’ me none. Poor boy! He had to talk to me. I’ve always listened an’ kept my mouth shut.”
“It’s a pity he cain’t keep his mouth shut,” she returned, hotly. “This mawnin’ he called me a spoiled kid. Then when I spoke my mind he swore an’ boxed my ears.”
“No! You don’t say! — Wal, wal! I’m afraid Rich doesn’t savvy you’re growed up.”
“Do you?”
“Wal, I reckon. I seen thet yesterday.”
“You didn’t track me heah to scold and nag? To find fault with me? To worry me into being bossed by Rich?”
“Nesta, where’d you get such an idee as thet?” queried Cappy, as if surprised. Nevertheless, he did not trust himself to meet the wonderful blue eyes. After a moment she slipped a hand under his arm and moved almost imperceptibly closer.
“Forgive me, Cappy,” she murmured, contritely. “I guess Rich is right. I’m a cat sometimes.”
“Rich is all right, lass. He’s only weak where we’re all weak.”
“And where’s that, Cappy?”
“Where a certain Tonto lass is concerned.”
Nesta trilled a little gay laugh that yet had a note of sadness.
“Cappy, are you weak there?”
“Yes, lass. In the last stages.”
At that she slipped her hand farther under his arm and leaned her head against his shoulder. Cappy could have blessed the girl’s mother. He felt more in that moment than he could have explained in an hour of pondering thought. She seemed a wistful, lovable, willful girl merging into womanhood, uncertain and doubtful of herself, passionately sensitive to criticism, intolerant of restraint.
“Cappy, last night I was gloriously happy,” she said. “I loved you for your generous gifts — more for the affection that prompted them. . . . But this mawnin’ I — I — oh, I’m sad. I’m crazy to wear that white gown — the stockings — the slippers. Oh, how did you ever — ever choose so beautifully? Why, they fit to perfection! . . . I cain’t resist them. I must go to Lil Snell’s wedding. I ought not to go, but I shall go.”
“Wal, why not, lass? I’m sure goin’. I wouldn’t miss seein’ you for a hundred beaver skins.”
“Why, Cappy?” she murmured, dreamily.
“Because you’ll look lovely an’ make them Tonto girls sick.”
“Ah! . . . You’ve hit it, Cappy. That’s my weakness. . . . There are several girls who have rubbed it into me. Laughed at my old shabby clothes. And there’s one girl I — I hate. . . . Oh yes, I’ve been jealous of her. I am jealous. . . . But neither she nor any other Tonto girl ever saw as beautiful a dress as mine. But for that I could stay home and obey Rich — and — and not hurt Sam any more.”
“Sam? — Aw, a little hurtin’ won’t hurt him. Let him see you with thet handsome Tate lad. You two will make a team. Sam is an ugly, slow fellar, an’ — —”
“Cappy, don’t say anything against Sam Playford,” interrupted Nesta, with surprising spirit.
“Excuse me, Nesta,” replied Cappy, guilty in his realization. “I sort of got the idee you didn’t give a rap for Sam.”
“But — I do,” said Nesta, with a catch in her breath. “I do! — That’s what makes it so hard. I’ve got to break with Sam and I — I cain’t.”
Cappy let well enough alone, though he was consumed with curiosity. In all good time Nesta would betray herself. There was deeper trouble here than Rich had guessed, though the lad’s misgivings were poignant.
“Cappy, you’ve pushed me over the fence,” went on Nesta. “I was heah fighting my vanity. And when you said I’d look lovely — and make these Tonto girls sick — I — I just fell over.”
“Wal, I’m glad I happened along,” lied Cappy. “Because it’s true an’ I want to see it.”
“You old dear! How comforting you are! . . . Cappy, I’ll do it. I’ll go — cost what it will.”
“Wal, lass, the cost is paid,” replied Cappy, with a laugh. “I’d hate to have to tell you what thet outfit cost.”
“I didn’t mean cost in money,” she said, with remorse.
“What then, lass?”
“I don’t know, but it might be terrible,” she rejoined, gravely. “These Tonto girls say I’m a stuck-up Texan. To outshine them won’t make them friendlier. Then that Madge Low hates me already. She has spread the — the talk aboot Lee Tate and me. She will be poison now. She is mad aboot Lee. He — he only trifled with her. . . . Then Rich will be really angry with me. He has never been yet. And Sam — he’ll be more hurt. But he didn’t ask me not to go. He’s never said an unkind word. That shore makes me ashamed. . . . But, if I stay away from Shelby afterward, maybe it won’t be so terrible. . . . If I stay away from Lee Tate afterward — —”
Nesta broke off, evidently realizing she was thinking aloud. Cappy needed no more to divine that she would not stay away from Shelby or from Lee Tate, and therein lay the menace to the future. Nesta must have divined it also, for her head dropped lower and heavier upon the trapper. He put a comforting, sympathizing arm around her, and gritted his teeth to keep silent. She was not proof against both, and the seething emotion within. She burst out crying.
“Oh, Cappy, I wish I were daid!” she sobbed. Her grief grew uncontrollable then. She wept with a wild abandon, as if such passion had been long dammed within her. It frightened the old trapper. When had he seen a woman weep? Nesta clung to him with the grip of one who feared she was slipping into an abyss. Little used as he was to feminine moods, he felt that something dreadful lay behind this unabatable grief. He sensed something he could not explain — that he was the only one to whom she could have betrayed herself.
CHAPTER III
CAPPY TANNER ROAMED the woods next day from dawn till dark, studying the game trails, the beaver dams, the piñon ridges, to find the run of fur-bearing animals so that he could plan a line-up for his traps. He found signs so plentiful that he assured himself of a bountiful season.
Next day he tramped up-country, through Doubtful Canyon, an all-day trip for even a hardy mountaineer like himself. So far as Cappy was concerned, Doubtful was going to have an unfelicitous name this winter. It was a certainty. The magnificent gorge had six beaver dams, one of them backing up a long lake acres in extent, and it seemed alive with beaver. A colony of bears had located high up on the east slope, which was covered with oak thickets. Deer and turkey had descended from the rim in numbers exceeding any he remembered. Round the springs were game tracks so thick that only the big bear sign could be distinguished.
But the beaver alone assured Tanner of a rich harvest. Evidently beaver had migrated from all over the country to this deep black gorge. The cuttings of aspen saplings far outnumbered the sum of all those in the years he had trapped there. It
was unprecedented, and the opportunity to make him independent for life. He planned to devote himself solely to beaver-trapping, and to direct Rich Ames and Sam Playford in operations on fox, mink, martin, and other valuable fur-bearing species.
Cappy, in his way, was practical and thorough, so far as trapping was concerned. But always he had been a romancer and a dreamer over plans for the future. Unquestionably this winter’s catch would net him thousands of dollars, and also be a very profitable venture for Rich and Sam. He decided he would locate in the Tonto, somewhere between Doubtful and Mescal Ridge, and go into the cattle business with the boys. The idea grew on him. It was great. Thus indirectly he could bring prosperity to the Ames family, and possibly happiness to Nesta.
Sunset gilded the Mazatzals when he stalked through the grand outlet of Doubtful. First he looked back, and when he saw the lofty walls, cragged and ledged and turreted, shining in the golden light, and the yawning black gulf of timber with which the canyon was choked, he had a sudden stirring inspiration. He would homestead the gateway leading into Doubtful. No hunter or incipient rancher had yet despoiled Doubtful. It was too rough, too wild, too hard to clear and make into a paying proposition. But Cappy saw how he could do it; and right then and there he built a pyramid of rocks to identify his location. At last he had found a home. Only three miles from Mescal Ridge! And in the event that Nesta married Sam — a consummation to which Tanner pledged himself — he would be only a short walk over the ridge, to their homestead.
He sat there on a rock dreaming while the golden flare in the west grew dusky red and died. He was hungry and tired, and a long walk from his cabin. All at once his supreme loneliness struck him. Except for the Ames family he had no friends in all the world. Relatives were long gone and forgotten. He was dependent upon the Ames couplet of twins for what happiness there might be left. He realized then how and why his wandering life could no longer be sufficient.
In the gathering dusk he trudged down the Tonto trail, fighting his doubts, standing loyally by what he hoped and believed, despite the encroachment of sadness. Darkness overtook him on the trail, but he knew it as well as a horse familiar with the country. When he reached the valley under Mescal Ridge a light shone out of the darkness of the flat, and it was the lamp Mrs. Ames always burned, so long as any of her brood were absent. It cheered Tanner. The hounds scented him and bayed till the welkin rang. He stood a moment listening and watching.
“Wal, it’s settled I’ll stick hyar my remainin’ years,” he soliloquized, and there was content in the prospect.
* * * * *
Next morning while Cappy applied himself briskly to his chores Rich Ames appeared, hatless, gunless, with a blue flame in his eyes.
“Mornin’, son,” said the trapper, innocently, but he was perturbed.
“Mawnin’ — hell!” returned Ames, hotly. “Where you been for two weeks?”
“Why, Rich, it’s only been two days!” rejoined Tanner, suddenly conscious that even two days could brew disaster. “I’ve been plannin’ some lines for my winter trappin’.”
“Yes, you have. . . . You double-crossed me with Nesta an’ then run off an’ hid.”
“Double-crossed you!” ejaculated Tanner, facing about, red under his beard. “No, lad . . . at least not on purpose.”
“You backed her up aboot goin’ to the weddin’.”
“Wal — I saw thet she intended to go an’ I jest agreed. I figgered Nesta was in a queer state of mind. She can’t be drove any more, Rich. If you try thet any more, you’ll lose her.”
“Cap, it’s not a question of losin’ her any more. She’s lost.”
“Aw, Rich, you talk like a boy. What’s up?”
“Nesta’s gone.”
“Where?”
“Lil Snell rode in heah yesterday. She’s rushin’ her weddin’ an’ she said she needed Nesta bad. I wasn’t home an’ mother let Nesta go. When I got back I lit out on their trail, an’ over across the creek a couple of miles I found where they met up with two more horses. Then I was in a hell of a fix. If I’d caught up with them an’ Nesta had met Lee Tate again — Lord only knows what I’d have done. So I came home.”
“You did right. Nesta is not a child like Mescal or Manzi. She’s eighteen years old. If she chooses to meet Lee Tate or any other fellar, what can you do about it?”
“If it’s Tate I can do a hell of a lot,” declared Rich.
“Wal, mebbe it wasn’t. Mebbe it wasn’t nothin’ at all. A weddin’ is sure excuse for girls to be excited. . . . When is Lil Snell’s weddin’ comin’ off?”
“Day after tomorrow at her uncle’s in Shelby. A weddin’, dinner, an’ dance! Shelby will shore be roarin’.”
“Wal, we can go an’ roar a little ourselves, if we want to.”
“Cap, I’ll be there, but I wouldn’t take a drink for anythin’.”
“When’d you see Nesta last?”
“Day before yesterday. In the mawnin’ she went singin’ round the cabin, her cheeks like roses, an’ her eyes went right through you. I was sore an’ let her alone. Then Sam came down. Poor faithful jackass that he is! . . . I had to get away from them, though secretly I was glad she seemed kind to him again. But she wouldn’t let me alone, either. I’m as easy as Sam, only I can hide it. Well, she was full of honey an’ lightnin’. My insides just sort of curled up hot an’ tight. You cain’t help lovin’ Nesta. You cain’t!”
“Agree with you,” replied Tanner, bluntly, “so we’ll love her an’ let it go at thet. How’d you know she’d made a softy out of me?”
“I guessed that much. All Nesta said was you tracked her to Rock Pool. She gave me just one mysterious look an’ she held her chin up, in the way she has that makes you want to slap her pretty face. She didn’t need to tell me any more. You were her good friend if I wasn’t. You would back her against me or anybody. Then I reckoned you had double-crossed me.”
“Rich, you don’t believe that now?”
“I shore do. I know it. You crawled like a yellow dawg. You’re like mother. Just cain’t bear Nesta bein’ angry with you. Anythin’ but losin’ her. It’s always been that way. I’m the only one who has ever opposed her.”
“Wal, wal! I wonder,” rejoined Tanner, helplessly. “Rich, you’re only a lad. Only eighteen, an’ Nesta is heaps older. You may be wrong. Your mother seems wise about girls.”
“Mother makes me furious,” flashed Rich, heatedly. “She cain’t do a damn thing with Nesta. She likes to have the girl spoiled by men. She even gets somethin’ out of Lee Tate’s case on Nesta. Lee Tate! Who comes of the Tates that made away with father! . . . In her day mother was a flirt. I’ve heard father say so — an’ he didn’t mean to be funny, either.”
“But Nesta isn’t a flirt,” declared Cappy.
“No, I cain’t say that. At least not in a raw sense like Lil Snell an’ some more of these Tonto females. I reckon I know Nesta better than anyone, even our own mother. Nesta is half me. . . . An’ I’m tellin’ you, Cap, that if harm hasn’t already come to her through this Lee Tate-Lil Snell mixup it will come now, shore as Gawd made little apples.”
“Ahuh. — This Lil Snell used to be a bold one, didn’t she?”
“Ha! Used to be? She is yet, when the chance offers. Lil was one of Lee Tate’s girls an’ they were thick. I know. Well, she was always jealous of Nesta. Liked her, shore, because nobody can help that. But underneath all this late friendship between Nesta an’ Lil is somethin’ deeper. I felt it the first time I ever saw Nesta an’ Lil together. Lil has been playin’ Lee Tate’s game. That’s all. No one can tell me. An’ I’ve just had hell with Nesta an’ mother.”
“Son, if you’re figgerin’ correct, it’s too late,” replied Tanner, grimly, as he looked straight into the troubled eyes of Ames.
“Then I hope to Gawd I’m wrong,” burst out Rich. “But right or wrong, I’m goin’ to break up this case between Nesta an’ Tate. One way or another! Before he took after Nesta she was the sweetest, gayest, h
appiest girl in the world. She loved Sam an’ was contented at the prospect of helpin’ him with his homestead. But Tate flattered her, excited her, upset her — an’ I don’t know what else. Nesta used to like pretty clothes, but she wasn’t crazy over them. She could bake an’ sew — why, she was most as good a worker as mother. Lately she’s idle. She moons around. She has somethin’ on her mind. . . . Now, Cap, you can look me square in the eye an’ declare yourself.”
“Wal, son, you’re callin’ my hand,” replied the old trapper, not without dignity. “I’m bound to admit you’ve got this situation figgered. I didn’t have. An’ if your mother did, she either ain’t carin’ much or else she sees it’s no use. Mebbe she knows more of life than both of us together. I’m mighty fond of Nesta. I couldn’t be more so if she was my own. But now you put it up to me, I’d sacrifice her love for me to do her good. Reckon thet’s what you mean an’ what you’ll have to do. If we lose her we’ll still have Mescal an’ Manzi. . . . I agree. We’ve got to break Tate’s hold on Nesta. One way or another. I reckon the best way would be to marry her to Playford. Onless she doesn’t care for him any more.”
“She does. An’ that’s shore my first plan.”
“How about Playford? Nesta said he was fine. Never nagged her. But will he stand any more?”
“Sam is true as steel. Yesterday we talked aboot it. An’ he said: ‘Rich, if you cain’t bust up this moonshine of Tate’s, I’ll have to. Nesta will never marry me then, even if I came out of it free. But it’s got to be done.’ . . . An’ I swore I’d do it.”
“Wal, let Nesta have her fling for this weddin’. Watch her close, without her knowin’. Then the three of us will go after her, one at a time, or all together, an’ persuade her to marry Sam. . . . But, Ames, she told me she just had to break off with Sam, only she couldn’t.”
“Did she say that?” queried Rich, in consternation. “Lord! but we’re up against a tough knot! If she still cares for Sam, an’ she swears she does — why must she break it off?”