by Zane Grey
“Why, certainly, Slinger,” declared Jim, hastily producing it. “I’m sure Glory will be flattered.”
“Thanks, Boss,” drawled Slinger. “Your havin’ a sister too, kinda makes us closer, huh? Wal, adios.”
For a cowboy who had been born on a horse and who had spent most of his life in a saddle, Curly Prentiss could certainly walk. He might have had on seven-league boots. In quick time they arrived at the station, to find Zeb there with the buckboard; but Jackson, Lonestar Holliday, Cherry Winters, and Uphill in a state of vast excitement, that seemed strange in their plain business suits, at least three of which were brand new.
The Western Special roared into the station, all ice and snow, with the steam hissing and the smoke obscuring the platform lights. It was almost dark. When the engine and mail and baggage cars passed the air cleared, and the bright lights shone again. In his excitement Jim quite forgot his comrades. The second coach stopped opposite his position and he was all eyes. A porter began sliding bags and suit-cases off the step. Then a slim form emerged from the car upon the vestibule. The furs proclaimed it feminine. But there was too much shadow. Then she stepped down and paused in the bright light. It was Gloriana, Jim said to himself, conscious of inward tumult. The tall slim shape, with its air of distinction, the cut of the long fur coat, the set of the stylish little hat, would have been enough. But Jim stared a moment longer, Gloriana’s face shone like a white flower out of the black furs, and her great eyes, dark in that light, strained eagerly to and fro, and then fixed on him.
“Jim!” she cried in rapture. When had she ever called to him with a voice like that? He ran to the steps and lifted her down in a bearish hug. She did not appear as substantial and heavy as he remembered his sister.
“Glory! — Dog-gone, I’m glad to see you!” he said, and certainly returned the warm kiss she gave him, which struck him as even more unusual than the poignant tone of her voice. Something had changed Jim Traft’s value in the eyes of his sister.
“Jim, you can’t be — half as glad — as I am to see — you,” she panted, gaily, clinging to him. “Is this the — North Pole? Who are these young men?...Jim, I thought Arizona was desert — sunny, hot — all golden ranges and pine trees.”
“Hey, boys, grab the bags,” ordered Jim, with a laugh. “Fetch them into the waiting-room.” Then he led Gloriana into the station, where it was light and warm. “The rig will be here in a minute...Gosh!...I just don’t know you, Glory. Your eyes, maybe.”
“No one, not even a brother, would ever have been likely to forget Gloriana May’s eyes. At this moment they were travelling over Jim, brilliant with amaze.
“I know you and I don’t. You great big handsome man. Oh, Jim, you’re so wonderfully different. Arizona has improved you...I’ll bet you’ve fallen in love with some Western cow-girl.”
Jim should have said she had guessed right the very first time, and he would have done so, but for the something familiar and disconcerting that was merely Gloriana. Then the cowboys came bustling in with bags and suit-cases. Even Uphill carried one with an air of importance. Curly disengaged himself from the excited group and strode forward. Sight of him filled Jim with glee, and a quick glance at Glory took in her eyes, fixed and beautiful. Now it was a natural function of Glory’s eyes, even in her most casual glance, to shine and glow and give illusion of a thousand thoughts that were not in her head at all. They were so alive, so speaking, so eloquent, so treacherously lovely, that Jim sustained a second thrill at sight of them.
“A cowboy!” she whispered. “Jim, I believe you now.”
It probably was a magnificent moment for Curly, but he did not betray that in the least.
“Boss, Zeb is heah with the buckboard,” he announced in his cool, lazy way.
“Gloriana, this is Curly Prentiss, one of my cowboys — and quite a cattleman in his own right,” introduced Jim. “Curly — my sister.”
Curly doffed his sombrero and made a gallant bow that, though easy and slow like his voice, was as singularly pleasing.
“Miss Traft, I shore am glad to meet you-all,” he said.
“How do you do, Mr. Prentiss. I’m pleased to meet you,” she replied, with a dazzling smile. “You are my very first cowboy.”
Gloriana May probably did not mean she had taken possession of Curly at first sight, but Jim saw that this identical circumstance had come to pass.
“Wal,” drawled Curly, not in the least knocked off his balance, “I’m shore happy to be the first an’ I’ll see to it I’m the last.”
“Oh,” laughed Glory, merrily, and turned to Jim with her first appreciation of a cowboy.
The other boys lined up, with Uphill Frost hanging a little behind to hide his crutch. They presented a bright-eyed, shiny-faced coterie, at the moment devoid of any trace of devilment or horns and hoofs.
“Boys, this is my sister, Gloriana,” announced Jim. “Glory, meet the rest of the Diamond, except two that are laid up for repairs...Bud Chalfack.”
Bud took a step out and his smile was cherubic. “Miss Gloriana, I reckon there ain’t no one any gladder to welcome you to Arizonie.”
“Thank you, Mr. Chalfack. I’m happy to meet you,” replied Gloriana.
“And this is Lonestar Holliday,” went on Jim. Lonestar in his eager confusion stepped on Bud’s foot and could not find words to answer Glory’s bright acknowledgement.
“And Jackson Way...and Cherry Winters...and Uphill Frost...There, Glory, you’ve made the acquaintance of most of the Diamond, which, according to Uncle Jim, is the most terrible cowboy outfit in Arizona.”
“Oh, I’m sure Uncle Jim is wrong,” said Gloriana, sweetly.
“They look very nice and mild to me — except Mr. Prentiss — who is quite terrifying with his gun and those awful spurs.”
Somehow Jim got the impression from Glory’s speaking eyes that she meant Curly’s handsome presence was something calculated to stop the heart of a girl fresh from the East.
Bud looked disgustedly at Curly, as if to say he had gone and done it again. If there was anything a cowboy hated it was to be thought nice and mild.
“Miss Glory,” he spoke up, most winningly, and Jim made certain that the next time Bud addressed her it would be Glory minus the prefix, “there’s some cowpunchers who pack hard-ware all the time an’ sleep in their spurs. But they ain’t the dangerous kind.”
Thus Jim saw with delight a new species of men and life dawn upon his bewildered sister. Likewise he perceived with fiendish glee that he was going to get even with the Diamond.
“Carry the baggage out, boys,” he said. “We’ll go home to the ranch...Curly, you can ride with us, so in case we meet any desperadoes or Indians they won’t get Glory.”
CHAPTER FIVE
ON THE WAY out Jim did not say anything to Glory about the room he had fixed up for her. In fact, he did not have much chance to talk, for Glory addressed her curiosity to Curly. Jim drove fast, so the wind would pierce through his sister, furs and all. It did.
“F-f-fine f-for a g-girl with o-one lung,” chattered Gloriana as Jim lifted her out of the buckboard. “G-good-n-night — Mr. Curly. If I don’t — f-f-freeze to death I’ll see you — to-tomorrow.”
“I shore pray for a moderation of temperature,” replied Curly, gallantly. “Goodnight, Miss Traft.”
“Set the bags on the porch,” said Jim, “and hurry those horses into the barn...Glory, I reckon you’ll want to get warm before you see Uncle Jim.”
Gloriana stood in the cold starlight, looking out at the spectral pine forest and the pure white peaks that notched the sky. “W-w-wonderful!”
Jim almost carried her to her room, which was in the west end of the rambling ranch-house. When he opened the door a blaze of light and warmth and colour greeted Gloriana’s eyes. Jim had spent a whole day on making this room different from any Glory had ever seen, and one that would be livable, even for a sick girl in zero weather. It had an open fireplace where logs were snapping and blazing
; Navajo rugs covered the floor; Indian ornaments of bead, basket, and silver work hung on the walls; a fine elk head, with massive horns, stood out over the mantel; the bed had a coverlet of deep, woolly, soft red, most inviting to the eye. Even the lamp had a shade painted with Indian designs.
Gloriana gasped with delight, threw off her furs and hat, and rushed to the fire, where she stretched her gloved hands.
“Pretty nifty, huh?” asked Jim.
“Just lovely. But wait a minute until I can see.”
Jim went out to fetch in the luggage. He had to make three trips to the porch and back. “Glory, from the looks of this you’ve come to stay awhile.”
“I’ve three trunks, too,” rejoined Gloriana.
“Is that all? Gee! I didn’t figure on trunks when I worked over this room. But there’s a big closet...Turn round, Glory, so I can look at you.”
“Well, how do I look?” she asked soberly.
“Prettier than ever, Glory, only different. I can’t figure it yet,” said Jim.
“Thanks. I didn’t hope for compliment...Jim, you’ve been away almost a year.”
“So long? Gee! time flies. Well sister, it has been a terrible and a wonderful year for me. I’ve sure got a story to tell you. But that can wait. Sit down. You look fagged. And tell me about yourself. Mother’s letter scared me.”
“Jim, you’re my last bet,” she said frankly.
“Glory!...I don’t understand,” exclaimed Jim, blankly. “You were a belle when I left home. You had so many friends that I never saw you. Then all that money Aunt Mary left you...And now I’m your last bet!”
“Funny, isn’t it, Jim?...Retribution, I guess.”
“For what?”
“I was never — a — a real sister.”
Jim caressed the soft, thin little hand while he gazed into the fire and pondered. A chill of fear of he knew not what crept over him. Glory had always worried him. Her childish pranks then her girlish escapades — but now she seemed a woman!
“Perhaps that was my fault,” he replied, regretfully.
“Jim — you’re changed,” said his sister, quickly.
“Sure. I’d not been much good if this Arizona hadn’t changed me.”
“I hope it does as well by me,” she continued, wistfully.
“Glory...what’re you driving at?” burst out Jim, no longer able to repress a mounting anxiety.
“Please — ask me questions.”
That from Gloriana May was indeed a strange request. Jim felt an uncomfortable constriction of his throat.
“Glory, have you really lung trouble?” he queried, sharply.
“No. Mother and Dad think so because I got so white and thin. I coaxed Dr. Williamson to hint of that. I wanted to come West.”
“Thank goodness! — But, you deceitful girl! Why such an extreme? And are you really ill?”
“Only run down, Jim.”
“From what?”
“Worry — unhappiness.”
Jim imagined his ears were deceiving him. Yet there his sister sat, slipping closer to him. She was now half off the arm of his chair and her head rested on his shoulder. A faint fragrance came from her hair. He let a long silence ensue. He could not ask just then what was forming in his mind.
“Love affair?” he finally asked, lightly.
“Affair — but not love,” she replied, scornfully.
“So that’s it?”
“No, that’s not it. Still, it had a lot to do with it.”
“Gloriana!” That was how he had used to address her when he was on his dignity or wished to reprove. She laughed a little, remembering it.
“Jim, I — I have disgraced the family,” she admitted, with a catch in her breath, and suddenly she sat up.
“My God!...Oh, Glory — you can’t be serious!” he exclaimed, distressed, yet uncertain.
“I wish to heaven I wasn’t serious.”
Jim tried to prepare himself for a blow. Contact with the rough and wholesome West had knocked pride and prejudice out of his head. Nevertheless, something of the former reared its hydra head. In his gathering apprehension and horror he sensed that he was on trial. He must react differently to this revelation. Glory had come to him in her trouble. If he repulsed or scorned her! If he showed any of the old outraged brotherly disfavour! Suddenly he happened to think of Curly Prentiss — that cool, easy, careless firebrand of a Texas cowboy. How would he take such a confession from a once-loved sister? Beloved still, he discovered, poignantly! But that thought of Curly was sustaining. Its content typified the West.
“Well, so little sister has kicked over the traces?” he queried, as coolly as ever Curly could have said it.
“Jim, don’t misunderstand,” she said, quickly. “I’ve been wild, crazy, out of my head. But I can still look you in the eyes.”
“Shore, I never had any notion you couldn’t,” he replied, essaying Curly’s drawl. Then he put his arm around her, which action brought Glory slipping into his lap. Her head went down with a suspicious haste. Her nervous hands tightened on his. “Tell me all about it.”
“Jim, you remember when I was sixteen the Andersons took me up,” began Glory, presently. “That began my gadding about, my desire for fine clothes — excitement, dancing — and so forth. Then Aunt Mary left me that money. And you remember the summer I graduated — how gay I was — what a wonderful time I had!...Even before you left I was travelling with a pretty fast set. But we younger girls hadn’t really gotten into it yet. After you left home I was about ready for it, I guess. But something happened. I met a man named Darnell — from St. Louis. He was handsome — and all the girls were crazy over him. That tickled me. I — I thought I was in love with him. It might have been just as well — the way things turned out. I could have done worse. Mother wanted me to marry Mr. Hanford — you know him — the dry-goods merchant.”
“Not Henry Hanford?” broke out Jim, incredulously.
“Yes, Henry Hanford. He was more than old enough to be my father. But Mother nagged me nearly to death. I dare say she wanted me to be — safe — Dad hated my running around — and he didn’t like Ed Darnell. So we had a bad time for some months...I thought I was engaged to Ed. So did everybody else. All the same, I wasn’t. He said he was mad about me, but he didn’t ask me to marry him...He borrowed a lot of money from me. He was a gambler. Then he embezzled money from Dad. Oh, how wretched it was! He left town, without a word to me. The truth came out — and — and the Andersons, the Loyals, the Millers — all my old friends dropped me. Cut me dead!...That broke Mother’s heart. And it went hard with Dad...Well, I had reached the end of my rope. You know what gossip is in a little town. And gossip made it a great deal worse than it actually was. I had been a fool over Ed Darnell. I had snubbed some of the boys because of him. I had been wild as a partridge — so far as parties, dancing, running around were concerned. But I wasn’t as bad as I looked. Still that queered me at home, when the crash came...And, Jim, it knocked me out. I began to go down-hill. I realised I was done for there. I worried myself sick. Many and many a night I cried myself to sleep. I went downhill...And then I got thinking about the West — your West. I read all your letters to Mother. You never wrote me. And I thought, if I could get out West, far away, it’d be my salvation...and here I am.”
“Well, is that all?” drawled Jim, true to his imitation of Curly. “You shore had me plumb scared.”
“Jim!” she cried, and then she kissed his cheek in mute gratitude. By that Jim felt how hard it had been for Gloriana to confess to him — how little of a brother he had been in times past. Then before he could say more she burst into tears, which was another amazing thing, and Jim could do no more than hold her. Pity and tenderness welled up in his heart for his sister. Indeed, there had been cause for her to come West and throw herself upon his protection. The very idea was incredible, yet here she was, sobbing softly now, and gaining control of herself.
“Thank God I — I had the — courage to come,” she s
aid, speaking a thought aloud. “I — I never knew how — good Jim was!”
That established a character Jim regretted he hardly deserved, and one to which he felt he must live up.
“Glory, I’ve got a little confession to make, myself,” he said, with a happy laugh. “Not that I’ve actually fallen by the wayside. But I’ve gone back on the East. And I’m—”
“Wait,” she interrupted, sitting up to dry her eyes. “I haven’t told all — and what seems the worst to me.”
“Gosh!” ejaculated Jim, with a sinking sensation in his chest. “Perhaps you’d better not tell me more.”
“Jim, I met Ed Darnell in the station at St. Louis,” went on Glory, hastily, as if eager to impart what seemed important. “Quite by accident. I had to change trains there and wait five hours. And it was my bad luck to run into him first thing...Well, he raved. He made a thousand excuses...The liar! The thief!...I absolutely refused to have any more to do with him. Yet I was scared stiff at him. He had some queer power over me. But I had sense enough to realise I despised him. Then he threatened me — swore he’d follow me. And Jim — that’s exactly what he’ll do. He knew, of course, about Uncle Jim, the rich ranchman. Mother gabbed a lot. At first she was fascinated by Ed. I didn’t tell him where I was going, but he could find out easily. And he’ll come. I saw it in his eyes...And that’d be dreadful.”
“Let him come,” replied Jim, grimly. “I hope he does. It would be a bad move for Mr. Darnell.”
“What would you do?” queried Gloriana, with all a woman’s curiosity.
“Glory, you’re out West now. It’ll take you some time to realise it...I’d impress that fact upon Mr. Darnell pretty pronto. And if it wasn’t enough, I’d tell Curly Prentiss.”
“That wonderful-looking cowboy!” exclaimed Gloriana. “He seemed so kind and nice. He wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
Jim laughed outright. Gloriana would be the tenderfoot of all tenderfeet who ever struck Arizona.