Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  “Good! Dad sure rustled,” said Pan with satisfaction. “If he got the horses, too, we can leave tomorrow.”

  “Shore, we will anyhow,” replied Blinky, who was now sober and serious.

  They found three large wagons and one smaller, with a square canvas top.

  “Blink, hold her, till I get some hay,” said Pan.

  He hurried into the open side of the barn. It was fairly dark but he knew where to go. He heard horses munching grain. That meant his father had bought the teams. Pan got an armful of hay, and carrying it out to the wagon, he threw it in, and spread it out for a bed.

  “Reckon we’d better put Louise here,” said Pan, stepping down off the wheel. “I’ll get some blankets from Dad.”

  Blinky was standing there in the starlight holding the girl in his arms. His head was bowed over her wan face.

  They lifted Louise into the wagon and laid her down upon the hay.

  “Whish you — gennelmanz my hushband?” she asked thickly.

  Pan had to laugh at that, but Blinky stood gazing intently down upon the pale gleam of face. Pan left him there and strode toward the house. Though the distance was short, he ran the whole gamut of emotions before he stopped at a lighted window. He heard his father’s voice.

  “Dad,” he called, tapping on the window. Then he saw his mother and Alice. They had started up from packing. One glance at the suffering expressed in his mother’s face was enough to steady Pan. The door opened with a jerk.

  “That you — Pan?” called his father, with agitation.

  “Nobody else, Dad,” replied Pan, trying to calm his voice. “Tell Mother I’m here safe and sound.”

  His mother heard and answered with a low cry of relief.

  “Dad, come out...Shut the door,” returned Pan sharply.

  Once outside his father saw the great flare of light above the town.

  “Look! What’s that? Must be fire!” he burst out.

  “Reckon it is fire,” returned Pan shortly. “Blinky shot out the lamps in the Yellow Mine. Fire must have caught from that.”

  “Yellow Mine!” echoed Smith, staring in momentary stupefaction.

  Pan laid a heavy hand on him. It was involuntary, an expression of a sudden passion rising in Pan. He had a question to put that almost stifled him.

  “Lucy!...Did she — come home?” he forced out.

  “Sure. Didn’t you know? She was home when I got here at noon. Son, I bought all our outfit in no time.”

  “What did Lucy tell you?”

  “Nothin’ much,” replied his father, in earnest wonder. “She was in an awful state. Said she couldn’t go because you were not dead...poor girl! She had hysterics. But mother got her quieted down by suppertime.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “In bed, I reckon. Leastways she’s in her room.”

  “Dad, does she know? But of course she couldn’t...nor could you!”

  “Son, I know aplenty,” replied his father, solemnly. “Lucy told mother when she saw you come to the stagecoach that it nearly killed her. They believed you dead — mother an’ Lucy...She told how you threw Hardman out of the stage on to the street. Said she almost fainted then. But she came to in time to see you kick him — drive him off.”

  “Is that all she knows?” queried Pan.

  “Reckon it is. I know more, but I didn’t tell her,” replied Smith, lowering his voice to a whisper. “I heard about them drivin’ Matthews out to meet you...McCormick told me you hadn’t lost any friends.”

  “Ah-huh!” ejaculated Pan somberly. “Well, better tell Lucy at once...Reckon that’s best — the sooner the better.”

  “Tell Lucy what?” asked Smith anxiously.

  “That she’s a widow.”

  “It — is Dick Hardman dead — too?” gasped out Smith.

  “Yes.”

  “My God! Son — did — did you—”

  “Dad, I didn’t kill him,” interrupted Pan. “Dick Hardman was — was knocked out — just before Blinky shot out the lights. Reckon it’s a good bet no one will ever know. He sure was burned up in that fire.”

  “Alive?” whispered Smith.

  “He might still have been alive, but he was far gone — unconscious when I passed him in the hall. You needn’t tell Lucy that. Just tell her Hardman is dead and that I didn’t kill him.”

  “All right, I’ll go right an’ do it,” replied his father huskily.

  “Before you do it fetch me a roll of blankets. We haven’t any beds. And Blinky’s wife is with us.”

  “Wife? I didn’t know Blinky had one. Fetch her in. We’ll make room somewhere.”

  “No, we’ve already fixed a place for her in that wagon with the square top,” went on Pan. “She’s been sick. Rustle, Dad. Fetch me the blankets.”

  “Got them right inside. We bought new ones,” said Smith, opening the door to hurry in.

  “Mother,” called Pan, “everything’s all right. We’ll be leaving early tomorrow.”

  Then his father reappeared with a roll of blankets. Pan found Blinky exactly as he had left him, leaning over the wagon.

  “Blink, put a couple of these blankets over her,” directed Pan.

  “She went right off, asleep, like she was daid,” whispered the cowboy, and he took the blankets and stepped up on the wheel hub to lay the blankets softly over the quiet form Pan saw dimly in the starlight.

  “Come here, cowboy,” called Pan.

  And when Blinky got down and approached, Pan laid hold of him with powerful hand.

  “Listen, pard,” he began, in low voice. “We’re playing a deep game, and by God, it’s an honest game, even though we have to lie...Louise will never remember she cut that traitor’s heart out. She was too crazy. If it half returns to her we’ll lie — you understand — lie...Nobody will ever know who did kill Hardman, I’ll gamble. I intended to, and all Marco must have known that. If he burned up they can’t ever be sure. Anyway, that doesn’t matter. It’s our women folks we’ve got to think of. I told Dad you’d brought your wife — that she’d been sick. He’ll tell Mother and Lucy. They don’t know, and they never will know what kind of a girl Louise has been...Savvy, pard?”

  “Reckon I do,” replied Blinky, in hoarse trembling accents. “But won’t we have hell with Louise — when she wakes up sober?”

  “Cowboy, you bet we will,” returned Pan grimly. “But we’ll be far on our way when she wakes up. You can drive this wagon. We’ll keep watch on her. And, well — leave it to me, Blink.”

  “Pan, we feel the same aboot Louie? Shore I don’t mean thet you love her. Reckon it’s hard fer me to find words.”

  “I understand, Blink,” replied Pan, earnestly, hoping to dispel the groping and doubt of his comrade’s soul. “For you and me Louie’s past is dead. We’re gambling on life. And whatever way you put it, whatever the future brings, we’re better for what happened tonight.”

  Pan strode off in the starlight, across the orchard, down along the murmuring stream to the cottonwood tree with the bench.

  It was useless for him to try to sleep. To and fro he paced in the starlight. Alone now, with the urgent activities past for the time, he reverted to the grim and hateful introspection that had haunted his mind.

  This once, however, the sinister strife in his soul, that strange icy clutch on his senses — the aftermath of instinctive horror following the death of a man by his hand — wore away before the mounting of a passion that had only waited.

  It did not leap upon him unawares, like an enemy out of ambush. It grew as he walked, as his whirling thoughts straightened in a single line to — Lucy. She had betrayed him. She had broken his heart. What if she had thought him dead — sacrificed herself to save her father? — She had given herself to that dog Hardman. The thought was insupportable. “I hate her,” he whispered. “She’s made me hate her.”

  The hours passed, the stars moved across the heavens, the night wind ceased, the crickets grew silent, and the murmuring stream flowed o
n at Pan’s feet. Spent and beaten he sat upon the bench. His love for Lucy had not been killed. It lived, it had grown, it was tremendous — and both pity and reason clamored that he be above jealousy and hate. After all there was excuse for Lucy. She was young, she had been driven by grief over his supposed death and fear for her father. But oh! The pity of it — of this hard truth against the sweetness and purity of his dream! Life and love were not what he had dreamed them as he had ridden the lonely ranges. He must suffer because he had left Lucy to fight her battles.

  “I’ll try to forget,” he whispered huskily. “I’ve got to. But not yet. I can’t do it yet...We’ll leave this country far behind. And some day we can go on with — with all we planned.”

  Pan went back to the barn and threw himself upon the hay, where exhausted brain and body sank to sleep and rest. It seemed that a voice and a rude hand tore away the sweet oblivion.

  “Pard, are you daid?” came Blinky’s voice, keen and full with newer note. “Sunup an’ time to rustle. Your dad’s heah an’ he says breakfast is waitin’.”

  Pan rose and stretched. His muscles ached as though he had been beaten. How bright the sun! Night was gone and with it something dreadful.

  “Pan, shore you’re a tough lookin’ cowboy this mawnin’,” said Blinky. “Wash an’ shave yourself like I did. Heah’s my razor. There’s a basin an’ water up under the kitchen porch.”

  “Howdy, bridegroom,” returned Pan with appreciative eyes on Blinky’s shiny face and slick hair. “How’s your wife?”

  “Daid to the world,” whispered Blinky, blushing red as a rose. “I took a peep. Gee! Pard, I hope she sleeps all day an’ all night. Shore I’m scared fer her to wake.”

  “I don’t blame you, cowboy. It’ll be funny when she finds out she’s got a boss.”

  “Pard, if we was away from this heah town I’d be happy, I swear. Wouldn’t you?” returned Blinky shyly.

  “Why, Blink, I believe I would,” said Pan, and strode off toward the house.

  He made himself presentable before anyone saw him. Then he waited for his father and Blinky, whom he heard talking. When they came up he joined them. Wild horses could not have dragged him into the house alone. As they entered the kitchen Bobby let out a yell and made for him. That loosened a strain for Pan and he picked up the lad. When he faced his mother it was with composure that belied the state of his feelings. She appeared to be in a blaze of excitement, and at once he realized that all she had needed was his return, safe and sound. Then he heard Alice’s voice and Lucy’s in reply. As he set Bobby down, thrilling all over, the girls entered the kitchen. Alice’s reply to his greeting was at once bright and shy. Lucy halted in the doorway, with a hand on her breast. Her smile, slow and wistful, seemed to blot out traces of havoc in her face. But her eyes were dark purple, a sign of strong emotion. Pan’s slight inclination, unaccompanied by word of greeting, was as black a pretense as he had ever been guilty of. Sight of her had shot him through and through with pangs of bitter mocking joy. But he gave no sign. During the meal he did not look at her again.

  “Dad, have you got everything we’ll need?” queried Pan presently.

  “I guess so,” replied Smith. “You can start loadin’ the wagons. An’ by the time two of them are done we’ll have everythin’ packed.”

  “Blink can drive one wagon, you another, and I’ll take the third till we get out to Snyder’s. Then we’ll need another driver, for it’ll take two of us to handle the wild horses.”

  “No, we won’t,” replied his father. “Your mother an’ Lucy can drive as well as I. Son, I reckon we don’t want anybody except our own outfit.”

  “I’d like that myself,” admitted Pan thoughtfully. “If you’ve got good gentle teams maybe Mother an’ Lucy can take turns. We’ll try it, anyhow.”

  “I’ll help you hitch up,” said Smith, following Pan out. “Son, do you look for any trouble this mornin’?”

  “Lord no. I’m not looking for trouble,” replied Pan. “I’ve sure had enough.”

  “Huh!” ejaculated Blinky. “Your dad means any backfire from Marco. Wal, I say there’ll be nothin’. All the same we want to move, pronto.”

  “I’d like to hear what happened after we left,” said Pan.

  “Somebody will tell us,” returned Smith.

  They had reached the end of the arbor when Lucy’s voice called after them: “Pan — please wait.”

  He turned to see her coming, twisting her apron in nervous hands. Pan’s father and Blinky kept on toward the barn. Lucy came hurriedly, unevenly, pale, with parted lips, and eyes that held him.

  “Mother said you knew but — I must tell you — myself,” she said brokenly, as she halted close to him. “Day before yesterday — those men brought word you’d been — killed in a fight over wild horses. It broke my heart...I’d have taken my own life but for my father. I didn’t care what happened...Dick pressed me hard. Father begged me to save him from prison...So I — I married Dick.”

  “Yes, I know — I figured it out that way,” returned Pan in strange thick utterance. “You didn’t need to tell me.”

  “Why, Pan, you — you seem different,” she said, as if bewildered. “Your look — your voice...oh, dear. I know yesterday was awful. It must have driven you mad.”

  “By heaven, it did!” muttered Pan under his breath.

  “But you — you forgive me?” she faltered, reaching to touch him with a shaking hand. The gesture, so supplicating, so tender, the dark soft hunger of her eyes, the sweetness of her then roused a tumult in him. How could she look at him like that? How dared she have such love light in her eyes?

  “Forgive you for?—” he cried in fierce passion. But he could not put into words what she had done. “I meant to kill that dog, Dick Hardman. But I didn’t...Forgive you—” he broke off, unable to go on.

  She was slow to grasp his intimation, though not his fury. Suddenly her eyes dilated in horror. Then a great wave of scarlet blood swept over her white neck and face. Pan saw in it the emblem of her shame. With a rending of his heart he swung away and left her.

  He plunged into the work at hand, and during the next couple of hours recovered from the shock of resisting Lucy’s appeal. He hated himself for the passion he could not subdue. When, however, it had slunk away for the time being, he began to wonder at her innocence and simplicity. He could not understand her.

  Presently his father and Blinky hunted him up with news of strong purport plain in their faces.

  “Son, Marco is with you to a man!”

  “Pard, I guess mebbe I didn’t hev them hombres figgered?”

  “What happened? Out with it,” replied Pan sharply.

  “Evans drove out bringin’ stuff I bought yesterday,” returned his father. “He was full as a tick of news. By some miracle, only the Yellow Mine burned. It was gutted, but the bucket brigade saved the houses on each side...Hardman’s body was found burned to a crisp. It was identified by a ring. An’ his dance-hall girl was found dead too, burned most as bad as he...Accordin’ to Evans most everybody in Marco wants to shake hands with Panhandle Smith.”

  The covered wagons wound slowly down the hill toward Snyder’s pasture. Pan, leading Blink’s horse, held to the rear. The day, in some respects, had been as torturing to him as yesterday — but with Marco far behind and the open road ahead, calling, beckoning, the strain began to lessen.

  At the pasture gate the drivers halted the wagon teams, waiting for Pan to come up. Gus had opened the wide-barred gate, and now stood there with a grin of relief and gladness.

  “Drive in,” shouted Pan from behind. “We’ll camp here tonight.”

  “Howdy thar, you ole wild-hoss night wrangler,” yelled Blinky to Gus.

  “Howdy, yourself,” was the reply. “You can bet your roll that I never expected to see you agin. What’d you do to Marco?”

  They drove in along the west fence, where a row of trees shaded the still hot sun.

  “Gus, I see our wild horses are
still keeping you company,” remarked Pan, as he loosened the cinch of his saddle.

  “Shore. But they ain’t so wild no more. I’ve fooled around with them for two days now,” replied Gus.

  Pan smacked Sorrel on the flank: “There! Go take a look at your rival, Whitefoot.” But the sorrel hung around camp. He had been spoiled by an occasional nose bag of grain. Pan lent a hand all around, and took note of the fact that Blinky lingered long around his wagon. Pan peeped over the wagon side. Louise lay on her side with face exposed. It was pale, with eyelids tight. In sleep her features betrayed how life had wronged her.

  “Reckon you’re wise, Blink, to keep your wagon away from the others like this,” said Pan. “Because when your wife wakes up there’s liable to be hell. Call me pronto.”

  “Pard, you’re shore she ain’t in a stupor or somethin’?” queried Blinky, apprehensively.

  “Blink, you know she was ill for ten days. Then she drank a lot. Reckon she’s knocked out. But there’s nothing to worry about, except she’ll jump the traces when she comes to.”

  “You mean when she finds out — I — she — we’re married?”

  “That’s what, Pard Blink. I wish you didn’t have to tell her.”

  “Me? My Gawd, I cain’t tell her,” replied Blinky, in consternation. “Shore you gotta do that.”

  “All right, Blink. I’ll save what little hair you have left,” returned Pan, good humoredly.

  He walked out to take a look at the horses, which were scattered on the far side of the pasture. They could not be closely approached, yet were not nearly so wild as he had expected them to be. The saddle and wagon horses grazed among them. The blue roan looked vastly better for two days’ rest. Whitefoot was a noble stallion. Sight of Little Bay brought keen pain to Pan. What boundless difference between his state of mind when he had caught that beautiful little horse and what it was now!

  Pan went back to the campfire. Supper was in progress, with the capable Mrs. Smith bustling about. Lucy and Alice were assisting. Pan stole a glance at Lucy. Her face was flushed from the wind and sun; she wore a white apron; her sleeves were rolled up to show round strong arms. Bobby and his two puppies were much in the way.