by Zane Grey
The sun rose high in the sky. It was beginning to get hot. After a time the road began to slope uphill, necessitating a change in her gait. Near the summit, a Ford coupé came puffing up behind her and stopped. A sandy-haired young man put his head out of the window.
“Hey, pigeon, where do you think you’re flyin’?” he called, in a good-natured voice.
Long had Martha Ann schooled herself in the replies that would have to be made. Always it would be diplomatic to name the nearest town as her destination, which subterfuge would enable her to take her leave of any undesirable who might offer her a lift. Accordingly she named the first village she had read on the road map.
“Hop in. I’m going within half a mile of there.”
Martha slid off the packsack, the weight of which she had not fully appreciated until relieved of it, and climbed into the car.
“Got relatives there?” inquired the driver, as he put the Ford into motion.
“Yes,” replied Martha, warily.
“Where you from?”
“Chicago.”
He whistled his surprise. “Hike all the way from there?”
“No. I came as far as Omaha by train.” she replied, feeling that she liked this not overly curious driver. He glanced at her packsack.
“Nice army pack. That leather bottom keeps your stuff dry.”
“Yes, Colonel Brinkerhoff gave it to my brother.”
“That so,” he said, and flashed a keen glance at her. Then he attended to the road ahead. The car was speeding between fields of winter grain and pastureland. Farmhouses stood among groves of trees rapidly turning green.
Suddenly he launched a query: “Do your folks know you’re out here alone like this?”
“No,” rejoined Martha Ann, caught unawares.
“Ahuh. Well, why don’t they?”
“Why?...I — I suppose — because if I’d told them — I wouldn’t be here,” she replied, haltingly. It annoyed her to be quizzed but his directness had momentarily confused her.
“Does anyone know you’re hitchhiking?”
“Yes, our family lawyer. I bound him to secrecy. He promised, provided I’d keep in touch with him. If I didn’t he threatened to have the police on my trail.”
“Not a bad idea. How old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
“Humph! You look more like fifteen.”
Martha Ann glared at him.
“Listen, kid,” he said, ignoring her look of disdain, “you can’t lie worth a hoot! Some girls are like that. Just where are you headed for?”
“I’m going to Randall, Wyoming, but I can’t see where it’s any concern of yours,” retorted Martha.
“Good Lord!...Say, do you know how far that is? To hitchhike?”
“I’ve a pretty good idea.”
“And do you know you’ll have to go through the Black Hills?”
“N — no-o, I didn’t...Are they as awful as they sound?”
“You’ll never come out alive. A few tourists motor through the Hills. But for the most part they’re darned lonely and deserted. A refuge for fugitives and criminals. Believe me, kid, you’ll get yours!”
“Gracious!...Oh, you’re just trying to scare me.”
“Not a chance! Look here. I belong to the armory. I know Colonel Brinkerhoff, whose packsack you’re carrying. I’m going to take you to the armory with me while I wire the Colonel to find out if he really approves of this crazy hike you’re on.”
Martha Ann sat back stunned. What if this assertive young man were to make good his threat? What would her mother say? And do! Martha could see what a disgrace it would be to be sent home just when she had such a fine start. But she simply must not let this terrible thing happen.
“Wiring Colonel Brinkerhoff won’t be any use now,” she spoke up, her wit reasserting itself.
“Why won’t it?”
“Because he isn’t in Chicago now.”
“Where is he?”
“Fishing in northern Canada.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because he went with a friend of my uncle.”
Plainly the sandy-haired young man was at a loss as far as proceeding along the line he had adopted was concerned.
“I’ll bet you haven’t any money?”
“Indeed I have.”
“Enough to get home to Chicago?” he queried doubtfully.
“Yes. And then some.”
“What on earth put this crazy idea in your head?”
That for Martha was waving a red flag of battle.
“Crazy! Sure I’m crazy. But it’s to see the West. Why, I’ve never been away from home in my life. I’ve never seen any places but Chicago and Lake Michigan. This is my chance. I must go on...Besides, I’ve never seen my uncle. I wrote him...He — he’s expecting me.”
This last was far from the truth, but Martha Ann had become desperate.
“Uncle, uh? That’s different. Still my duty to Brinkerhoff is to hold you till some of your people are communicated with.”
“Hold me! How?” burst out Martha. If she ever got away from this armory person she would never accept another ride.
“Well, you can’t jump out while we’re going forty-five,” he declared, grimly. “I’ll drive straight to the armory and hold you till Captain Stevens can be notified.”
“Hold me — by force?” faltered Martha. She realized that he was in the right and it gave her a sense of guilt. What could she do? She must fall back upon feminine wiles, a procedure she usually scorned. Whereupon she made a frantic pretense of escaping from the car.
“Hold you? I should smile I will,” he said, suiting his action to the word. “If necessary, I’ll hold on to you with one arm. But, heck, I’ll bet you wouldn’t make too much fuss.”
Martha Ann resorted to tears, which were so near the surface that weeping was hardly any dissimulation.
“Say, I give up, young lady. I can’t stand for bawling,” he said irritably. “I’ll let you go if you promise to watch your step. Don’t get in cars where there’s more than one man, and be sure you’re never in any car after dark.”
Martha promised eagerly.
“And look each driver over before you accept a ride?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Martha, demurely.
“I’ve got a kid sister. And I’d have a fit if I caught her hitchhiking alone. But she has queer ideas, too. Girls are sure beyond understanding these days...Well, here’s where I turn off. And there’s the village.”
Martha got out and thanked him.
“Would you mind dropping me a post card — if you get by the Black Hills? I’ll be sort of worried. My name’s Arthur Anderson. And I live here.”
“Mine’s Martha Ann Dixon. I’ll send you a card. Thank you — and good-by!”
She started down the road, and after a little turned to look back. The car was still there at the turn-off. And the young man was waving his cap. Martha went on, a considerably sobered and thoughtful girl.
In the village she stopped at a little hot-dog stand to rest and eat lunch. From there a farmer and two small boys gave her a lift that took her thirty-five miles to another crossroad settlement, where she decided to call it a day. And upon being directed to a tourist home, she found pleasant accommodations for the night.
The twittering and fluttering of birds in the vines outside Martha’s window aroused her at five-thirty. She bounded up, eager and refreshed. Another day — the second! What would the day bring forth? How beautiful the rosy sunrise over the rolling eastern Nebraska hills! At breakfast she was informed that if she did not mind riding in a truck, she could accompany her host as far as the next town.
“Oh, fine! That will be fun,” she exclaimed.
But that anticipated lift turned out to be all too short, and therefore not such fun after all. Halfway up a steep hill the engine stalled. The driver had to begin tinkering with obstinate machinery. Martha got out and began to walk.
The truck never caught up
with her. After several cars had passed she accepted a ride with a merry family of five, who cheerfully made room for her, and welcomed her without curiosity. Martha liked this plain man and his fat spouse, and the dirty, bright-eyed children. It was noon when their village was reached. Martha had lunch and once more went on her way.
It occurred to her that she was now traveling through the Nebraska plains and that towns would be few and far between. Farms seemed to spread out. Anyway, there were fewer farmhouses. Cars passed her. She had learned by now that her solitary, unusual, little figure would not escape notice on the road. The afternoon sun grew hot. She rested, and hoped an acceptable lift soon would happen along. Then she started hiking again. She walked on and on, and in two hours’ time not a single automobile passed in her direction. Then came a string of cars, so close together that Martha could not get a good look at their occupants. She found, presently, that when she was tired and impatient, as she grew to be by late afternoon, she was likely to forget the good advice she had been given, and to accept any ride that was offered. She began to wonder — was she being erratic, irresponsible? Was this unheard-of adventure for a girl of nineteen who looked fifteen a proof of an unstable character? She defended herself stoutly, but somehow the buoyant spirit of the morning had vanished.
A lengthy hill invited a long rest. When she resumed her hike and had surmounted the grade the sun was setting red and glorious in the west. The rolling plains began to disappear in the purple haze of the horizon. In this scene, still dominated by the habitations of man, Martha imagined she saw a semblance to the western range. And this thought so thrilled and delighted her that she forgot her hot tired feet and aching limbs, and trudged on, almost her old self once more.
From the height she looked down upon lonelier country, which the road bisected to the next town, now visible in the clear evening light some few miles ahead. Martha thought that she could still make it before it became pitch dark. Downhill was easy and the air had cooled. At the foot of the incline the road turned abruptly. A brook gleamed under a dark patch of woods that shaded the road and there was a bridge to cross. Below the bridge Martha saw a little fire and two rough-looking men, sitting beside it. Could they be tramps?
Martha realized that she had to pass them. With bated breath she quickened her steps. Twilight was stealing out of the woods. She might get by without attracting notice. But when one of the men called out, her heart leaped wildly.
“Bill, stop thet boy, an’ see what he’s got in thet bag.”
Then Martha, who had been watching the two men beside the fire, was astounded to be confronted by a dark form that appeared to rise out of the earth. It belonged to a third man who evidently had been invisible against the background of the bridge.
“Hyar, sonny, what you totin’ there?” he queried, in brisk good humor.
Martha Ann, suddenly rendered weak by terror, made an ineffectual attempt to elude the man. He caught her with so violent a jerk that she would have fallen but for his hold. She dropped the small parcel she carried in her hand.
“Oh! — let me — go!” she cried out, fearfully.
The man swung her around to the westering light and peered closely down upon her. Martha got an impression of a hard, coarse face and a pair of wolfish eyes. She tried to wrench free from the iron grip which was hurting her wrist.
“Hey, fellars, it ain’t no boy. It’s a girl. Purtier’n a pitcher,” called the man to his associates.
“Haw! Haw! Wal, Bill, you know your weakness. But throw us the baggage,” came the hoarse reply.
“Come hyar, little one, an’ set—”
Martha struggled with what little strength she had left. A kind of paralysis had taken possession of her. It was a new and devastating numbness of will and flesh. All in a flash peril had leaped out of the dusk, and wit, nerve, energy deserted her to be replaced by a horrible sickening faintness.
“Hey, Bill, hyar’s a car!” hurriedly called one of the men beside the fire.
Martha Ann heard the puff and then the vibration of a car. Its presence revived her, and she jerked herself free, calling loudly at the same time.
“Let that boy go,” came a commanding voice from the car. Then the occupant stepped out to loom big and wide of shoulder before them. “What’s the idea?”
“Aw, nuthin’. Jest havin’ fun with the kid,” returned the tramp surlily, as he backed away.
“Oh — n-no sir,” quavered Martha Ann. “He meant to rob — me — and I don’t know what — when he saw I was a girl!”
“Girl!” The newcomer moved like a swift shadow. Martha heard a sudden crash. The tramp appeared lifted as by a catapult to go tottering against the bank with a sickening impact.
“Beat it, you hoboes, or I’ll come down there and mess you up,” called Martha’s rescuer. Then he turned to her.
“Are you really a girl?”
“Yes, sir...And sometimes I wish — I wasn’t,” replied Martha, picking up her parcel.
“Of course, you live along here somewhere?”
“No-o. My home’s — far away.”
“How’d you come to be caught on this lonely road?” he queried.
“I’m hitchhiking out West.”
“Hitchhiking?” he exclaimed.
“It’s a — a kind of sport. Sometimes I accept lifts — when I can — and hike between.”
“Sport! I admire your nerve,” he laughed. His voice had a pleasant depth, with an intonation that told Martha that he was quite different from the others she had met on this jaunt. She looked up. There was still light enough for her to discern the features of a young man in his early twenties. His eyes were intently on her face. They appeared to have a mocking look. Martha saw that again she was under suspicion, and the realization almost canceled the sweet warm sensation of gratitude and relief flooding over her.
“Thank you for saving me from I — I don’t know what,” she murmured, shyly. The strain of her struggle with the tramp, and the manner in which the stranger had accepted her explanation, or perhaps both together, had reacted strangely upon Martha Ann Dixon.
“Girls of today pay a price for the kick they try to get out of everything,” he replied, enigmatically. “You look faint. Get in. I’ll take you as far as Norfolk.”
CHAPTER II
NOT FOR MANY minutes did the effect of panic wear off Martha Ann. It all had been so totally unexpected. She had never before realized what real fright was like. The rickety old car crept slowly along! She relaxed back in the seat, spent and nerveless, scarcely able to hold the packsack upon her lap.
But presently her usual buoyant spirit returned, and Martha Ann became acutely aware of the driver beside her. She realized that she must summon her wits to meet another quizzing. This young man, however, appeared completely oblivious of her presence. His silence condemned her. And before they had gone very far Martha began to find it unendurable.
“You don’t live — in these parts?” she began, haltingly.
“How’d you guess that?”
Martha Ann, analyzing her sensations, could not very well tell him that he did not smell of horses, gas stations or harness oil.
“Where are you from?” she substituted.
His hesitation in replying to her question hinted to Martha that he might have considered her query unduly curious.
“I’m a hick from Missouri,” he finally replied, with a light laugh tinged with bitterness.
“Yes, you are!” she exclaimed accusingly. “And I suppose your name is Hiram Perkins?”
“My name is Andrew Bonning,” he returned, soberly, as if the admission had been forcibly extracted from him.
Martha Ann’s best overtures failed to stimulate the conversation and at length she subsided into silence. She peered at him, however, out of the corner of her eye. He wore overalls that had seen very little service. She could make out a clean-cut profile. He was bareheaded and had dark hair, somewhat long and wavy. Martha Ann reluctantly had to admit that this s
trange rescuer who obviously disapproved of her was good-looking even in the dusk.
“Where are you going?”
“Wyoming.”
“Humph...Well, here’s your next town,” he spoke up, presently. “See the lights?”
“Oh, it must be a pretty big town,” said Martha Ann, excitedly.
“You’ll get another kick here.”
“Kick?” she echoed, doubtfully.
“Yes, kick. Isn’t that what you’re after? Isn’t that what all girls think of nowadays?”
Martha Ann had no reply, for his query edged with bitterness had thrown her back upon introspection. All at once she felt vexed, and because it seemed to be only with herself, she promptly chose to foist her feeling of annoyance upon this disturbing young man. After all, what did she care what he thought about her? Just the same that reflection did not wholly satisfy. The excitement of entering a new and larger town, however, precluded any hope of Martha’s to deliver a telling retort. The main street was wide, paved, lined with automobiles, and bright with lights. Martha chose a modest-appearing hotel, and asked to be dropped at its entrance. The fact that he got out first to help her, and to lift out her packsack, struck Martha as significant. He moved with a careless grace which her sensitive observations scarcely associated with overalls.
“Thank you, Mr. Bonning, for — for everything,” murmured Martha.
“You’re welcome. I wish you better luck on the next lap of your hitchhike...You forgot to tell me your name.”
“I didn’t forget. I was—”
As he lifted out her packsack he noticed the lettering Martha Ann had so carefully printed in indelible ink on the side of the pack. She had neglected to use punctuation.
“Mad!” he exclaimed. Then suddenly he smiled down upon her in a way that made Martha feet like a wayward little girl. Under the electric light she could now see him distinctly, and somehow, someway, that pale handsome face with its sad and piercing eyes seemed incomprehensibly to be her undoing. “Wyoming Mad? It suits you better than any real name. And as you are an unforgettable kid I’ll remember you by that. I hope we don’t meet again. Good-by.”