Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  “Have one?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Don’t you really smoke or are you being snooty?” His eyes were a little too close together and emitted curious glints as they ran over her slim person.

  “I really don’t like cigarettes...How far are you going on this road?”

  “A few miles more. Have to turn off to see a farmer...Where are you bound for, babe?”

  “Wyoming,” she returned, curtly, hating the epithet he used so freely. She began to fear that she had made a blunder in accepting this young man’s lift.

  “Gee! That’s too far for a dame to be going alone. Not in a hurry, are you, babe?”

  “Indeed I am. In a very big hurry,” declared Martha Ann sharply. Whether or not her reply penetrated his mind Martha could not tell. Certainly he seemed not to resent it.

  “Ever been to an Indian pow-wow?”

  “No-o.”

  “We’re having a pow-wow and dance in Lagrange tonight. Why doncha come on and go with me. You’ll have a swell time.”

  “I’ve relatives expecting me at Barton tonight.”

  “Tell that to your grandmother,” he retorted with a grin. “You’re one of these hitchhikers. They’re all sports. I know.”

  “Well, this one isn’t.”

  “C’mon, babe. Be a sport. You can phone from Lagrange. Say you got in late. I’ll give you a real time.”

  “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t think of it,” rejoined Martha. She felt his eyes on her, as she watched the speedometer mounting higher.

  “‘Smatter, babe? Afraid to speed a little?”

  “I’m not afraid,” she said scornfully. “I was just wondering if you were driving to a fire.”

  He laughed and laid a freckled hand upon Martha’s knee. “Maybe you’re afraid of me, babe?”

  “Humph! Hardly,” she returned. Then decisively, and very deliberately and firmly she removed his hand.

  “You know, baby, I could go for you in a big way,” he said, persuasively.

  “I dare say. But it’s not necessary. If you’ll slow down I’ll get out and walk.”

  “Aw, don’t be like that. You just came. Am I such a bad guy?”

  “Skip it!” ejaculated Martha Ann, in disgust. “I’m not your type.”

  “You’re just trying to high-hat me.”

  “Stop this car and let me out!”

  “But, gee whiz, girlie, we’re nearly there.”

  By this time the Ford was careening along the road at the rate of a mile a minute. Martha grew frightened with the speed of the car, if not with the lout who was driving it. To be killed in a wreck — what a futile and tragic end to her dream! Why had she ever yielded to this mad escapade? She called sharply to be let out.

  He lifted his foot from the accelerator and made a quick turn to the right down a grassy lane lined with trees that brushed against the car. The swerve of the car had thrown Martha off her balance and over against the driver. He let go of the wheel with one hand and seized her around the waist. Then he slowed down the car so that he would not drive off the rough lane into the brush. He tried to pull the girl to him.

  “How dare you! Let me go — you rowdy!” cried Martha Ann, drawing back with all her might.

  “Too late, babe!” He had the car barely moving now. “C’mon. Be nice to me. What’re you afraid of?”

  “Not a thing! Least of all — you!” panted Martha, struggling. “Let me go — let me out of this car — or I’ll have you arrested.”

  “Say, cutie, where do you think you are? There’s no sheriff near here.”

  “I have — relatives near enough — to see that plenty is done to you...Let me out!”

  He gave a derisive laugh. “Say, listen, dame, you’re so far from a sheriff, or anybody, that it isn’t even funny. No one will hear you if you do scream. But have a heart. Cut the upstage stuff. Am I as bad as all that?”

  “Our tastes differ. I just don’t happen to care for your type.”

  “Hell you say! I’ll just have to change your mind. Anyway, I like my women wild.”

  With that he let go of the wheel and caught her to him. Martha had succeeded in wrenching almost free. For an instant she was fascinated by his small, scalloped, tobacco-stained teeth. She recognized for the first time in her life contact with a raw, bold elemental force. Then his thick mouth was moving toward her. All the other features faded before this animal ugliness. A terrible rage flashed hot and overpowering through her. What a miserable rotten bully! She sensed that there was no use to scream. She had better save her breath. She was utterly dependent upon her own resourcefulness and strength. The car bumped against a stump, and lurched along the bank side of the lane. She feared for a moment that it might overturn. He had been trying to get farther and farther off the main road. Martha knew that she could not afford to get any further away from the highway.

  With one arm tight and contracting around her shoulder he suddenly pressed his other grimy hand over Martha’s breast. She kicked out with all her might. One of her heavy hiking boots struck him on the shin. He let out a yell of pain, but continued to hold her tighter than ever with one arm while again he endeavored to steer with the other. He wanted to get her far along this lonely lane, out of sight and sound of the highway.

  The savage kick Martha had administered to the driver of the Ford awakened her to her one chance. She knew her greatest strength was in her legs, so she lashed out again with both feet. At length she kicked herself free, and then doubling up, she shot both boots into the pit of his stomach. Yelling hoarsely he let go of the wheel. Swiftly Martha reached down, locked the ignition, and flung the key far out into the tall grass.

  “You damn she-devil!” he screamed, his face contorted by anger and pain.

  Then Martha’s rage knew no bounds. If she had felt any fear before, it now vanished. With her back braced in the corner of the coupé and her feet up she continued to batter him — all over the front of his body — with swift, hard, savage kicks from her heavy boots. Twice he seized her flying feet, but could not hold them. He was not strong enough — Martha saw, savagely exultant. He could not force her. She could whip him any day. And she kicked him with a hard left to the stomach and a harder right in the nose. Blood spattered the interior of the car. But that only augmented her determination to maim him and even to kill him.

  “Let up — you infernal wildcat,” he bawled.

  Martha Ann dropped her boots with a thump, and sat up to snatch at her bag. Then, opening the door, she plunged out. He had his hands to his nose. Blood was pouring through his fingers down his wrists, staining his shirt sleeves.

  “Next time you — get fresh—” she panted, “pick some girl — your class and size — you big bully!”

  She marched breathlessly back down the lane to the road — an outraged but a triumphant young woman. This elation lasted only for a few moments; then a reaction set in, and she began to tremble violently and to sob. She could no longer stand up. Staggering against a culvert she sat down, trying to dip her handkerchief into the water to wipe her face and hands with it. A car hummed close by. Could that bully be after her again? Oh, God, she could not find the strength for another battle. But the hum did not come from down the lane. A car hove in sight. She recognized it as the Illinois Buick that had passed her with the two pleasant-faced men. They bore down upon the culvert, and seeing her, halted.

  “Hello — you again,” called one.

  “What’s wrong, little girl?” queried the other quickly and got out.

  The sound of a kindly voice in that terrible loneliness upset Martha still more. Her sobs increased. She could not answer the queries they put to her. They got a canteen and offered her water. At length she recovered enough to be coherent. “I accepted a lift — from a young man — in a Ford...He drove — over sixty...Turned off down — that lane there and attacked me...Oh, he was beastly!...But I fought him off — left him there.”

  “Damned scoundrel!” rasped one of the men.
“Biston, you look after her while I find this fellow.”

  He strode off and was gone for some time, during which the other gentleman tried to calm Martha, and to assure her that he and his companion, Mr. Madison, would be glad to have her ride with them to the next town.

  Martha was in the car, in the back seat, and somewhat composed when Mr. Madison came striding back.

  “Well, Miss — ,” he began cheerfully.

  “Dixon,” Martha supplied.

  “I found your assailant and from his appearance I’m inclined to believe that the question Biston and I were pondering a while back — can that kid take care of herself — is very amply answered. But I gave him a little more punishment just for good measure.”

  CHAPTER III

  ANDREW BONNING DECIDED that there must be something amiss when James, the butler, disturbed his leisurely perusal of the Sunday New York Times, and informed him that his father wished to see him in the library.

  “Well, it can’t come any too soon for me,” muttered Andrew, sensing a long-threatened ultimatum, no doubt brought to a climax by his brother Raymond’s latest escapade. Thoughtfully he descended the stairway to the second floor, feeling the oppressive atmosphere of that house as never before.

  As he expected, Raymond was already there, standing with the elegant nonchalance his handsome person never failed to radiate. His blond head was bent slightly as he scrutinized a bit of paper he held before him. Mr. Bonning sat at his desk, looking up with a cool air of finality.

  “That’s the last, Raymond,” he was saying. “You are on your own now.”

  “Okay, Pater,” replied Raymond, looking up from the check. “Thanks, of course. It’s more than I’d hoped for...And I’m to clear out.”

  “Your sister and I will take an apartment — where there will not be any room for you boys.”

  “Morning, Andy,” said Raymond. “We’re in for a ride...So long to both of you.” He strode out fluttering the check in a white hand.

  “Dad, I guess I don’t need to ask what you want,” spoke up Andrew, with a short laugh.

  “Will you sit down?” queried his father, courteously. “No, thanks. And please make it short and sweet.”

  “It can’t be anything else,” rejoined the senior Bonning. “You doubtless are aware of how hard the latest Wall Street crash has hit me. I hoped to retrieve. But...well, I need not go into details...Here is a check for you.”

  Andrew received it without glancing at the figures it bore. “Dad, I’m sorry,” he said, haltingly. “At your age — it’s tough...With neither of us boys any help — and Gloria—”

  “Your sister has her income,” interrupted Mr. Bonning. “Fortunately she has not squandered the principal of the money your mother left her. And she will marry well. I can take care of myself in a modest way. But Raymond and you must now fare for yourselves.”

  “I gathered as much, Dad,” returned Andrew, thoughtfully. He was still fond of his father, which fact seemed suddenly to erase all the misunderstandings and aloofness of the past few years.

  “Andrew, I didn’t trouble to bore Raymond with my opinions,” went on Mr. Bonning, “but if you will permit me, I’d like to express my bitter disappointment in you.”

  “Dad, I’ve been under the impression that you had expressed that — more than once,” rejoined Andrew, sadly. “But if it will relieve you — go ahead.”

  “You quit college before you were half through your sophomore year.”

  “Why not? I wasn’t learning a damn thing,” said Andrew impatiently.

  “You couldn’t make good even in football — where you had every requirement except guts,” replied his father contemptuously. “Big, heavy, fast on your feet you could have made a name for yourself!”

  “Yeah! Like hell I could,” retorted Andrew hotly. “Didn’t I go out for the freshman team and scrub team for two years and rip the varsity line to ribbons? The coaches were hot for me, but Captain Higgins and the athletic directors played their favorites. I lost heart and finally lay down on the job.”

  “Yes, you sure did. But if you had stuck it out!”

  “Dad, would it surprise you to learn that I regarded college as too much football, too many fast cars and too much money, instead of a place to study?”

  “No, that wouldn’t surprise me. You’re an adept at excuses...The fact is you failed to get a college training. Either physical or cultural. And lastly, you have failed in business.”

  “Dad, that last I admit,” replied Andrew regretfully. “I’ve been a flop at each job you’ve got me. I tried hard. Honest to God, I tried! It wasn’t that I’m exactly a dumbbell. I’m poor at figures. I can’t stand a desk. Confinement strangles me somehow...And, Dad, to come clean — I hate modern business methods.”

  “Thank you for being frank, at last,” declared Mr. Bonning. “You might have saved us both considerable friction, not to say grief.”

  Andrew slowly tore the check in two pieces and laid them before his father.

  “Dad, you need have no further concern about me.”

  “What! — you won’t take it?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’ll need it more than I...And you’ve awakened me — to my shame. All the same I don’t feel wholly to blame for my failure. The world is out of joint or maybe I just don’t fit in. I haven’t found anything I want to and can do. That’s all...Good-by, father.”

  Andrew stalked out of the library with head erect and resolute step, deaf to Mr. Bonning’s call. On the landing above he encountered his sister, Gloria, leaning over the rail. She wore a blue dressing gown.

  “Andy!”

  “Morning, Gloria! Why so intense and dramatic? You always were a tragedienne, but just now you’ve got Duse tied to the mast...Say, what an idea! Why don’t you go into the movies, Gloria. What’d be better than—”

  “I heard,” she whispered, and drawing him into her room, closed the door. Then she asked gravely: “Dad has refused you the parental roof any longer?”

  “It amounts to that, Sis, though I gathered this particular parental roof was lost to all of us.”

  “Andy, I’m not a damn bit sorry,” she said fervently. “Ray is a rotter. And this break will make a man of you.”

  “Thanks, old thing. You give me hope. In fact, Gloria, you’ve been the only one who ever held out the slightest hope for me. I’ll not forget that. Even Constance always thought me a flop.”

  “Yes, and she’ll give you the gate when she hears this,” declared Gloria significantly. “Andy, it gets my goat the way she strings you along.”

  “We’re not engaged, Sis — and honestly, I don’t think I care any more about her than she does about me. We’ve just been together since before I went to college.”

  “What’ll you do, Andy?” she queried, her dark eyes studying him.

  “Beat it!” he burst out, as if a sudden thought had possessed him.

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. Far away, though...where there’s room — great open spaces — no business.”

  “West?” she flashed.

  “Darling, you can’t imagine me going abroad!”

  “Andy, you should have taken Dad’s check.”

  “Not me!”

  “I’ll stake you to five grand.”

  “You will not!...Thanks, old girl. I’ve still about twelve thousand of what mother left me. It’s more than enough.”

  “Far West,” mused the sister, with wondering eyes. “I’ve been to Yellowstone, Andy. Oh, Wyoming was marvelous! Go there...Andy, you know I have queer inspirations at long intervals.”

  “Okay, it’s Wyoming,” replied Andrew, relieved that something had been decided for him.

  “It’ll be the making of you,” she went on. “Somehow, Andy, you never could have made the grade here. New York has lost its kick for you.”

  “Kick! I hate that word,” he declared irritably. “It seems to be the sole aim of everybody no
wadays.”

  “It is — for all of us anyway,” she replied, somberly. “I suppose we can’t escape the present. It simply is...I’ve tried every last thing under the sun — except marriage — and I’d try that if I believed it’d be interesting enough.”

  Andrew bit his lip to restrain a sharp retort. Whatever Gloria’s shortcomings, in his opinion she was a thoroughbred and she had been loyal to him, and loyalty loomed big in this hour.

  “Draw the line somewhere, darling,” he said lightly. “Marrying Ellerton, or even Blackstone, for their money might not give you much of a kick, but it would be safe.”

  “Andy, you’re old-fashioned. And that’s where you are wrong. The idea of a twentieth-century girl marrying to be safe — settled — taken care of! Bunk! Who wants to be safe?”

  “Sis, I think you can take care of yourself at that,” rejoined Andrew with a laugh. “Well, I’ll go pack up a few things before I change my mind.”

  “Do. If you weaken now you’re sunk forever. Only don’t beat it without saying good-by to me.”

  Andrew plodded on upstairs to his room, obsessed with the resolve he had impulsively made, conscious of sensations he had not experienced since boyhood. He was twenty-four years old. And the thought that struck him so forcibly at the moment was — why had this idea never come to him before? He flung himself down on his bed to face the realization that the turning point in his life had arrived. He had reached an indifferent stage in a futile existence where he imagined nothing worth while could happen to him. But he realized now this was because he had not made anything happen. Until the last six months he had accepted his inability to do so with good nature and resignation. He was just a misfit. Later had come discontent and chafing, leading to his present genuine unhappiness. A few words from his sophisticated yet wise sister had changed all this in a twinkling — had shaken him out of his doldrums. He found himself suddenly facing a future that offered a chance and a challenge.