Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  “My dance!” he whispered.

  She rose, her face like pearl, her eyes downcast, and gave herself to his embrace.

  CHAPTER NINE

  IT WAS SUNDAY and Jim had returned to the Diamond camp, a bewildered and chastened young man. Except for Jeff, who was asleep under a tree, the camp was deserted. Jim went again into the deep shade and quiet of the forest. There out of chaos his thoughts got some semblance of control over his emotions and order in themselves.

  All the other egregious tenderfoot blunders he had made could not in the aggregate sum up the magnitude of alienating Molly Dunn. He writhed under that. And always he would protest — who could have imagined that sweet, dainty girl sister to a desperado, a gun-thrower, a killer, a rustler of the very brakes it was Jim’s task to fence off from the range? Then, just as poignantly he would add — but what difference did it really make who was her brother and why bad he been so asinine as to distress and shame her with the connection?

  He found excuse for himself for everything but that. It had struck him almost dumb at first to realize that he had lost his bead and seized her, hugged her atrociously, surely would have devoured her with kisses had she not brought him to his senses with a cutting blow across his mouth. That act, at once under the astounding dominance of her voluntary kiss — a strange, sweet little touch of cool lips — had lost its heinousness. In the light of the present hour, when it came to him that there had been genuine sincerity, the wild impetus of first love, be realized he had not much to be sorry for there. But she had not known that. How would she ever know? Not that knowing would change her! Her eyes haunted him. What a magnificent blaze! In them had been repeated the fire of Slinger Dunn’s.

  Why had Molly Dunn kissed him? He recalled her pitiful little confession, and that hurt Jim more than anything else. She was not what he had thought her and she yearned to be. Jim stoutly fought against the fading and receding of something beautiful. The drea, the glory of new, vibrant emotion, had to pale before reality. Yet Jim could not renounce, nor could he resign himself to another bitter blow this West had given him. It was sudden, complicated and disastrous. But was it irremediable? A grain of comfort lay in the fact that he had time to think, to go over it, to puzzle it out, to find what had actually happened to him, to conceive who and what Molly Dunn was, and understand her reaction to their meeting.

  Most vivid of the things he recalled was the bitter reproach in her big eyes. Why had she reproached him? Not because he had unwittingly intimated of a wide class distinction between Jim Traft and Molly Dunn. She knew she was Molly Dunn of the Cibeque. The reproach had come from a deep and terrible hurt. Jim divined suddenly that maybe she, too, had fallen in love at first sight. The ecstasy of that was short-lived. It could not be true. His own state for weeks had been one of excitement, strain, growing to morbidness. Then a swift change to romance and sentiment had thrown him off his balance. He sank as deep into the depths as he had been lifted to the skies. All of which seemed only to add to the mystery and fascination and fatality of Molly Dunn. He discovered himself vainly trying to do battle against her own estimate of herself. Just a little backwoods girl to whom a white gown had added charm! But he soon scouted that. Molly Dunn had innate charm.

  Through the pine trees he saw some of the cowboys returning from Flagerstown and the considerable distance between them did not drown sounds of their hilarity. Jim plumped down under a pine, overcome by an entirely new and unforeseen probability. Some of the members of the Diamond had been at that dance last night. Beyond the bounds of hope and reason was it that they might not have seen him there with Molly Dunn. Those hawk-eyed cowboys could see through walls. They had an uncanny genius for finding out everything. But they needed only to know a little to drive Jim to distraction.

  He lingered there in the woods, not actually afraid yet, but certainly loath to confront them. Molly Dunn’s terse statement that she would get up and fight some more, which he had appropriated as a slogan, in this vacillating hour lost its grip. What a pity if he could not be actuated by that spirit again! Perhaps it would revive, if he got sufficient cue for anger.

  Long before the supper hour, which Jeff had early on Sunday, the cowboys rode into camp. So presently Jim felt the imperative necessity of showing himself, because longer absence would only aggravate any suspicions concerning him.

  He dragged himself up and to the edge of the forest, only there bracing himself for the ordeal. Somebody saw him coming. Did they pursue their usual demeanour and pay no attention to him? They did not. To his horror they lined up on each side of the camp fire, and faced him like a lot of grim judges. Jim divined that whatever he had dreaded was about to be perpetrated. And some last shred of courage came to his aid as he ran the gauntlet of the merciless Diamond.

  “Howdy, boys! Back early, I see.” he said cheerfully, if haltingly. “I changed my mind and went in to the rodeo yesterday. You sure gave me the treat of my life, I congratulate the outfit on so many prizes. You can bet I was proud of you.”

  Not a murmur! He bent over to move a couple of billets on the newly started camp fire, solely to hide his face. Then he sauntered on toward the tree where he kept his pack and bed.

  “Wal, boss, we heahed ya walked off with a prize yourself.” called Bud Chalfack. “Some little blue-ribbon boy from Mizzourie!”

  That sally of Bud’s was greeted by uproarious mirth. Like a giant hand it pulled Jim round. His cowboys presented a group of nine young men in varying stages of convulsions. The devil himself emanated from them. Jim choked back a sharp retort. Then Cherry Winters, still quite drunk, staggered over to Jim, his red face a whole grin of impish delight, and he essayed to deliver what must have been intended for an important speech. But its manner of delivery and inchoherence spurred Jim to a blunt “Get out!” and a hard shove. Cherry kept on staggering, this time backward, and he kept on until he met with an obstacle in shape of Jeff’s woodpile. He fell on this, toppled it over upon him, and he did not arise. The gang whooped. They had all been drinking, and Bud looked pretty wobbly on his feet.

  “Tenderfoot hell!” he bawled. “You got us — skinned to frazzle.”

  “Thanks, Bud, but I don’t quite savvy,” returned Jim.

  “Boss, I shore — ben savin’ somethin’ up,” raved Bud, beside himself with maudlin emotion. “Th’ outfit’s all heahed aboot you last night. But I seen you.”

  “Well, anybody not blind could have done that,” snapped Jim, trying to pierce the secret intensity of Bud’s rapture.

  “But I ben — savin’ it up.” crowed Bud, slapping his knees with his hands.

  “You better keep saving it,” warned Jim.

  “Aw, boss, I couldn’t think of thet. It’s too orful good. I gotta tell the Diamond aboot it.”

  If Jim had any dignity left it was that of the gathering might of fury. What did the little fool know? Jim resisted a fierce impulse to slap the gaping mouth. The cowboys clamoured to hear. They sensed the long-hoped-for corralling of their tenderfoot foreman. Jim grimly gazed from face to face. Most of them were only in fun, and Bud was drunk. Curly, too, appeared a little under the influence of the bottle. But Hack Jocelyn was keen, cold, leering. Jim did not miss anything.

  “Boss, I seen you on the porch,” shouted Bud, triumphantly. Jim gasped at that revelation. Oh, misery! How exceedingly worse than he had dreaded!

  “Fellars, I seen our fastidinous boss from Mizzourie.” went on Bud, swelling with his denouement. “I seen him huggin’ thet little hussy — Molly Dunn!”

  Before Jim realized what he was doing he had leaped at Bud, to knock him over the pack-saddles. The blow had been solid, and at least for the moment another of the Diamond was down and out.

  Curly Prentiss jumped out from the circle, slamming his sombrero down with a smack.

  “You two-faced Mizzourie gent!” he yelled. “Bud’s my pard. I’m shore gonna lick you for thet.”

  “Bah! You bow-legged cowpuncher!” blazed Jim. “If you can’t fig
ht any better than you dance — you’ll never lick me.” That hurt Curly more than the blow to his friend. He threw his scarf one way, his vest another, his gun-belt at Jackson Way, and he almost sprawled on the ground ridding himself of chaps and spurs.

  The delay gave Jim time to collect his wits. But even that and some semblance of coolness did not mitigate his welcome of a battle with any or all of this confounded Diamond outfit. The incentive he needed had been miraculously forthcoming.

  Curly gave a capital imitation of a bull about to charge, when he was detained by Uphill Frost.

  “Hold on a minnit,” yelled that individual, impressively. “Don’t corral me. I’m gonna pulverize this gurl-huggin’ foreman,” replied Curly, swinging his arms.

  “Shore, an’ my money’s on you. Curly, old buckaroo,” said Frost, holding up a hand stuffed with greenbacks of small denominations.

  There was a noisy scramble then among the cowboys to get money up on Curly. But it developed that not a single backer of Jim came forward. If Jim had not been so wretched about Molly and so furious at these pig-headed cowboys he would have howled with mirth.

  “Ill take every bet,” he declared.

  “Whoopee!” yelled somebody, with an eye to fortune. “Give any odds, boss?”

  “Two to one,” answered Jim. “But hurry. I want to get this over and have my supper.”

  “Atta boy, Curly!”

  “Larrup him unmerciful!”

  “You’re flghtin’ fer the Diamond!”

  When Curly came lumbering in Jim stepped aside and hit him in the ribs. The blow gave forth a hollow sound. Curly whirled around and plunged, swinging. He delivered wide, sweeping blows that, if any of them had connected with Jim, would have fulfilled the hopes of the yelling Diamond. But they expended their strength on the empty air. In a couple of moments Jim became aware that Curly could not hit him. The cowboy was a wonder in a saddle, but on the ground he was lost. He got his feet tangled up and he appeared the farthest remove from nimble. After hitting Curly a few times here and there Jim discovered a vulnerable spot in Curly’s big handsome nose. Wherefore Jim began to concentrate on that. He whacked it with his left. Soon the blood began to flow and with it Curly’s wild exuberance. But this did not improve his fighting. Then Jim landed his right and that upset Curly. He sat down quite suddenly. This also upset Curly’s backers.

  “Git up, you big cheese!” yelled Hack Jocelyn, and he did not mean to be funny. “Our money’s on you.”

  Curly responded to that trenchant call. And now to his amazement was added fury. In the ensuing few moments he showed that his spirit was willing but his flesh weak. The blows he landed upon Jim were inconsequential. On the other hand Jim gave him a severe drubbing. After the third knock-down Curly merely sat up. It chanced that this time he was near Bud, who was also sitting up.

  “My Gawd! pard, hey we come to this?” cried Bud, evidently sober enough to realize. “What’d he hit me with?”

  “I reckon it was a hoss-shoe,” said Curly, feeling his swollen and bloody nose.

  Jim stepped closer and peered down at Curly.

  “Well, Prentiss, have you got enough?” he asked, fiercely. Curly looked up without the least trace of resentment and nodded.

  “Boss, I cain’t say how it come aboot, but I’m shore licked,” he said, and he grinned.

  “Did I pick this fight?” went on Jim, quick to grasp the situation.

  “You shore didn’t.”

  “All right. Are you going to threaten me with that damn nonsense about gun-play or are you going to shake hands?”

  Curly laboriously got to his feet. Something had pierced the armour of his stupidity.

  “I reckon I’ll shake,” he rejoined, and he took Jim’s proffered hand.

  “Aw, you’re drunk,” growled Hack Jocelyn, in disgust, with a hard eye on Curly. “An’ we had our money on you!” With that he strode surlily away.

  Bud Chalfack essayed to rise, a task no means easy, owing to the billets of wood that surrounded his feet.

  “Bud, you better stay there, because if you get up I’ll only have to knock you down again,” said Jim, menacingly. “But I wasn’t fightin’ you. Thet was Curly,” protested Bud. “No matter. You’re a little skunk, and I’ll have to do it, unless you have another pard who’ll take it for you.”

  “Ahuh.” Bud looked around, and it was evident that at the moment not one of the cowboys seemed eager to take Jim’s hint. “Boss, so you’re one of them fellars thet’s never satisfied once he gets a-goin’?”

  “I’m afraid I am.”

  “But you’re bigger’n me an’ I didn’t do nothin’ except give you away. An’ if you hadn’t soaked me I’d hey told the fellars—”

  “If you tell any more 111 beat you into jelly. And do that anyhow unless you apologize.”

  “Aw! Fer callin’ Molly Dunn a little hussy?”

  Jim looked a grim affirmative.

  “All right, boss. I crawl. But I didn’t mean any insult.”

  “You didn’t? Say, you little dumb-head! Didn’t you lie when you said you saw me hug her?”

  “Boss, I think I was sober then,” replied Bud, gravely. “I seen you hug her. You lifted her clean off the floor. She whacked you one — an’ when you let her down, she went fer you sudden-like an’ kissed you.”

  Jim faced the silent, puzzled cowboys. He had extracted all the humour for them from the situation, and he believed for once he had the upper hand.

  “Boys, Bud was drunk last night. He has heaped disgrace on me and insulted a fine little girl.”

  Bud took violent exception to this, as was manifest from his face and actions, without the speech that followed.

  “Boss, it ain’t no disgrace to hug a gurl in Arizonie. An’ if it happened to be Molly Dunn you’d shore make this outfit proud. ‘Cause Molly Dunn has handed the mitt to me an’ Lonestar. An’ she shore set Hack Jocelyn down cold an’ hard. Hack is plumb crazy over her.”

  “But you called her hussy!” thundered Jim, trying to hide his rapture.

  “But, boss, I didn’t mean thet in no insultin’ way,” protested

  Bud. “Molly’s a little wildcat. She’s a devil. She has shore made this Diamond outfit sick. Why, me an’ Lonestar was flirtin’ with her down at West Fork, an’ we never knowed she was Slinger Dunn’s sister!...Boss, I take thet hussy back.”

  “Very well, in that case I’m sorry I misunderstood you,” said Jim, and offered his hand to Bud.

  Jeff’s noisy banging call to supper ended the incident. Jim imagined an almost imperceptible transformation in the air of the cowboys, except in Jocelyn and Winters, who were surly and uncommunicative.

  Jim sought his bed early. There was no singing round the camp fire that night. Scarcely had darkness set in when the fire flickered and went out. The coyotes had uninterrupted possession of the silence. But Jim did not find slumber coming easily. He believed he had stumbled on a way to get the best of the Diamond outfit. He was not sure that his hope was not father to the conviction, but the more he pondered over his achievement the more elated he became. These simple elemental boys respected only achievement. They did not really in the least care who a man was. It was what he could do! And Jim believed he could whip every last one of them. Hack Jocelyn would be a mean customer. Jim had liked Hack less and less all the time, and Bud’s allusion to Hack’s interest in Molly Dunn aggravated the feeling. Jocelyn would be dangerous in a fight and not to be trusted in relation to a woman. Jim could have laughed aloud at this deduction. Already he seemed to be anticipating rivals! But so far as Molly Dunn was concerned he certainly could not trust himself.

  Jim reflected. It had amazed him — the ease with which he had bested Curly, and he tried to reason out why. Curly was a big, lithe, strong fellow, who ought to have put up a very aggressive battle. But he had been born on a horse and had lived in a saddle. On the ground he did not know what to do with himself. Slow, awkward, uncertain, he had been at Jim’s mercy. Whereupon Jim
took stock of himself. He weighed around one hundred and seventy. He had a long reach, a fist like a mallet; he was quick as a cat and fast on his feet. Only a couple of years back he had been pretty clever with his hands. And this had come about naturally enough. When he was about fourteen years old he was friends with a boy who had a cousin come visiting from the East. And this cousin taught Jim and his friend something of the manly art of self-defence.

  It began to look as if Jim had another asset which he had not counted on at all. The fence-building on a Missouri farm had been the first; now the second was this playful and friendly boxing habit. These cowboys had long since given him reason to resort to violence. But Jim knew he had been backward and perhaps afraid. From some source had come the courage of a lion. He chuckled to himself No fear that these cowboys would haul in! By their very nature — their pugnacity and curiosity — they must grow worse. Each and every one of them would feel it his bounden duty to wipe up the camp-ground with the tenderfoot foreman of the Diamond. Jim revelled in a situation that a few days back had been well- nigh intolerable. No wonder they had been a pondering lot of young men! A gleam of light they refused to see had begun to penetrate their craniums.

  But as for Molly Dunn! When Jim let clamouring thoughts of her dominate his consciousness his exultant glee died and his heart sank like lead in his breast. So some of these tough cowboys knew her! Had dared to approach her! The idea made Jim’s blood run hot and cold. Still, Molly could not have helped that if these cowboys had discovered where she lived or any place she frequented. West Fork! He had not heard of that place. But he would very soon see it for himself. Stone walls could not keep these riders of the Diamond out. How much less then could a girl do it? Molly had spunk, though, Jim thought. It was no use to let pride and distrust have sway over him. As he lay there, his face upward to the dark canopy of pines, through which starlight filtered, he realized he was infatuated. That was as far as he grasped truth. Molly was an enigma, but only that because of the allusions of Bud Chalfack. That confounded cowboy had been witness to the scene on the porch in Flagerstown. He had seen Molly’s incredible response to Jim’s embrace. Jim felt it as a sacrilege. How could he dream and ponder over something that had been profaned by the keen eyes of a vulgar cowboy? Jim writhed over this aspect of the situation. Then when Jim was abject a staggering thought struck him. Bud Chalfack had lied about the interpretation of the word hussy. Bud was a smooth-tongued, crafty cowboy. Jim had observed a hundred instances of his diplomacy with his comrades. He was the brainiest of the lot.