The Dude Ranger

by Zane Grey

  “How would you take it, Mr. Hepford, if you were in my place?” asked Ernest bluntly.

  Hepford laughed. “I’d just lay it to being a tenderfoot.”

  “But, Mr. Westerner, a tenderfoot can be a human being,” retorted Ernest, and that was the first time he had allowed himself to speak his mind since he had come to Red Rock. How it stirred him! “You may tell your daughter that I fear she will have to take me seriously after all.”

  The tenderfoot followed his blunt speech with a dark and piercing glance at the startled Hepford, and stalked out of the house and down the steps.

  His fool’s paradise bubble had burst. And in that mocking moment he realized why he had never believed it could be real. He was sorely wounded, but not beyond repair. He had just been on the eve of falling in love with Anne Hepford. Now he realized that he had really only been dazzled by a pair of green eyes and a crown of red hair.

  When he burst in upon Nebraskie like a whirlwind a little later, that worthy drawled: “Good! You look a little more like a man.”

  “Shut up, you crazy Nebraskie fool, or I’ll wallop you one,” yelled Iowa.

  Then Ernest hurriedly packed a dark suit of clothes, a pair of black shoes and other accessories and strode out.

  “Better pack your gun, too,” called Nebraskie, after him. And receiving no reply, he added, “I’ll see you at the dance, Ioway, an” I’ll stick to you till hell freezes over.”

  Ernest could not resist such proof of loyalty, and he turned to call back: “Nebraskie, pard, you won’t ever regret it.”

  It was three miles to Springer, but to Ernest it seemed only a short walk. But by the time he reached the town he had recovered his balance. What a complete jackass he had been!

  Springer was decorated for the Fourth and the town appeared to be full of people. The stores were open, though it was past six o’clock, and small boys were still busy with firecrackers. He went to the town’s only hotel and registered: Ernest Howard, Red Rock Ranch.

  He went up to the room assigned him, and with considerable satisfaction he threw off the cowboy sombrero, shirt, overalls and boots. Then he applied himself as never before with razor, towel and wardrobe to his personal appearance.

  6

  ERNEST had the grace to laugh at himself. Vanity had never been one of his besetting sins. But the truth was that he had not particularly relished Anne Hepford’s taking him for a hick from the countryside of Iowa. Back home he had enjoyed a certain amount of popularity with the fair sex. And he guessed he would sooner or later derive some personal consolation from acquainting Miss Hepford with the truth. What a treat it would be to see her face when she realized he was Ernest Selby!

  He went downstairs a little late. The hotel lobby was crowded. The Fourth of July ball had begun. Ernest, cool and serene, went in to dinner. He felt like himself for the first time since he had landed in Holbrook. The dining room was half filled, but it was a large place for such a small town. His luck had changed. Almost immediately he saw Anne Hepford sitting at a nearby table in company with another girl and two voung men. She wore a gown cut rather low and sleeveless for a young lady in a western village. But it enhanced her beauty beyond belief. He swallowed hard and thanked his lucky stars that he had found her out before he had seen her as she looked now.

  Presently he was himself again and he began to look about him casually. Anne obviously did not recognize him at first glance, and this was balm to the Iowan’s wounded soul. When her glance came his way again and she recognized him, he saw her eyes open wide in surprise. Then, blushing becomingly, she bowed to him. But Ernest might never have seen her before for all the sign he gave, and he did not look her way again.

  Selby finished his dinner, went out, strolled up and down the short noisy street, took a peep into the dance hall where the young folks were gathering, and then went back to the hotel. The night was warm. He sat outside on the stoop for an hour and it was a pleasant hour. Finally Ernest went over to the dance, not at all disturbed that he had to go alone. As a matter of fact, he had a sense of pleasant anticipation. The dance was on, and the hall was noisy with the sound of music and laughter and dancing feet. He was stopped at the door by a man who sat at a table and demanded a dollar admission. Ernest would cheerfully have paid all the money he had with him.

  “Packin’ any hardware, stranger?” inquired the keen-eyed doorkeeper, and he slapped Ernest’s hips.

  Selby crowded his way into the hall. It was a barn-like structure, but rather prettily decorated with flags and evergreen boughs. The many wide-open windows gave plenty of ventilation on this hot July night. He walked around among the whirling dancers, and found a convenient point from where he could look on. One whole side of the hall opened upon a roofed porch, which led into a garden. The Iowan found a seat near the door.

  From his point of vantage he could see that some of the girls were not only pretty but well dressed. The cowboys were conspicuous for their shiny faces, silly looks, plastered hair, flaming scarves and scraping boots. They danced like playful hippopotami.

  Presently Ernest caught sight of Anne and her partner. He was not a bad dancer, though he held her too tightly. She was stunning to look at and grace itself. On a wild impulse Ernest conceived a wild idea. He would ask her to dance.

  So when that waltz ended and the couples trooped to the chairs that lined the walls Ernest singled Anne out and approached her. She saw him coming, and her embarrassment was obvious. He made her a gallant bow and asked her if he might have the honor of one dance.

  “Iowa, why didn’t you speak to me over at the hotel?” she asked bluntly.

  “You didn’t recognize me—out of my cowboy clothes—and besides you—”

  “I know I didn’t. And I hardly do now,” she interposed with shining eyes. “Yes, I’ll give you a dance. The second after this.”

  Selby murmured his thanks, plainly aware of the surprised scrutiny of her partner, and went back to his post. The next dance was a Virginia reel, which afforded him the opportunity to view the dancers to better advantage. Dude Hyslip was one of them, and Ernest had to confess he made a fine figure on the dance floor. But his face was too red, his mirth too gay, his hands too free, and his boots too lively. Dude had evidently been overfree with the bottle. In the set Hyslip dominated with his boisterousness, dancing with a slim girl in white, and she stood out rather markedly by her modest grace. Presently Ernest was surprised to recognize in her the very girl he had been looking for—Daisy Brooks. For the rest of that dance and through the intermission, during which he strolled about, and the following dance he scarcely saw anyone but Daisy. Several times he believed he had caught her eye, only to be disappointed. He was quick to observe that the shyness that became her so well seemed even more evident in the dance hall.

  The next dance was a waltz, and when the fiddles started up the Iowan nerved himself as for an ordeal. Anne was in a corner of the hall, surrounded by admirers and friends, whom Ernest noticed only vaguely.

  “My dance, Miss Hepford? . . .” he said, looking steadily into her eyes. He read there what he surely had never beheld in those green orbs before.

  “I’ve remembered, Iowa,” she replied, as she stood up.

  He felt her start of delighted surprise as he swept her out onto the dance floor. Ernest was a natural dancer, and if ever he strove to surpass himself it was then, with the redheaded girl with the low-cut dress clasped tightly in his arms.

  “Oh—Iowa! Yore a wonderful dancer,” she whispered, and looked up at him with eyes alight.

  “So I’ve been told by girls in St. Louis, Des Moines, Peoria, and plenty of other hick towns. But it didn’t help my horseback riding much,” he replied casually, without looking at her.

  “Don’t spoil it by bragging.... But I’m wondering about you,” she said, a bit unsteadily.

  Ernest gazed down at her then and saw her face like a flower pressed against his shoulder. Through her long lashes he caught the expression of her eyes and in t
hat instant almost, his desire for revenge suffered an eclipse. Gradually she gave herself wholly to the enjoyment of the dance.

  It was just as well that the music ceased then. Through a wide-open door moonlight beckoned. He led Anne out into the soft night air, under the silver radiance, which seemed caught and held by her hair.

  “Anne, you treated me rather shabbily, didn’t you?” he asked somewhat stiffly.

  She came out of her dreamy abstraction. “I played you a dirty trick. I’m sorry. I did it more to annoy Dude Hyslip than to be with Sinclair. Fact is I’m not a bit crazy aboot him, I confess. ... And doggone the luck, I do like you. I’d rather dance with you than any fellow hyah. Somehow you seem sort of different tonight. ... You’ll dance with me again?”

  “Sure. I’ll be delighted,” replied Ernest hesitantly. He did not know what to make of this green-eyed girl, except that she was bewitching. Her allurement was real, irresistible. She had many moods and sides. When had he ever seen her pensive, sincere, regretful? But was she not merely acting? That thought added to his bitterness. He would see. Presently as they entered a patch of shadow under the moon-blanched trees he slipped his arm around her, boldly yet fearfully, knowing that it was his doubt that actuated him. To his surprise she leaned toward him rather than pulling away. And at last they appeared to be alone.

  “Anne, all the time you’ve known I loved you, haven’t you?” he asked, speaking aloud the thought he had meant to hide.

  “I’m afraid I have,” she said with a little laugh.

  “And you’ve been—just playing?” he went on bitterly.

  “Reckon so—aboot. But you wouldn’t let me alone.”

  “I’m to blame there—that’s sure. But still—Anne, you’ve been pretty low-down mean to me, as Nebraskie says.”

  “I’ve been nothing of the kind,” she retorted. “Can I help it if you run after me—like the rest of them?”

  “Oh, be honest! A man can forgive a girl anything but dishonesty.”

  “Oh, Iowa, I cain’t be honest, even with myself, let alone any man,” she confessed with surprising candor.

  “What do you mean?”

  She shook her shining head. To do her justice, he felt, she was not coquetting with him now. She turned her face away. He noticed her quick breathing. Suddenly he responded to an impulse, born of passion, yet of deliberate scorn as well. He took her in his arms and drew her round against his breast.

  “Heah now—cowboy—you’re going just too far,” she exclaimed, with a catch in her breath. She pushed with her hands against his chest, but not enough to break his hold. He himself might be wholly mad, he thought, but it was not deviltry that he saw in her eyes.

  “This is not far—for you to be,” he said.

  “I’ve not allowed any cowboy to go so far,” she returned with spirit.

  “What a beautiful green-eyed liar!”

  “Iowa!”

  She appeared to be more surprised than either angered or hurt. Ernest clasped her close, showered her eyes, her cheeks, and then her lips with kisses. He was not so far gone himself that he was not conscious of her momentary yielding. She was soft, pliant in his arms. Her eyes closed. Her head lay back on his shoulder. It was he who first awakened out of that seductive moment. Laughter and approaching footsteps caused him to release her, to shake her a little.

  She laughed. “Iowa, you’re shore an amazin’ cowboy tonight. ... I deserved that. But don’t you tell.”

  “What do you take me for?” he asked. “I’m not the kind that will kiss and tell.”

  “I shore haven’t got you figured at all. Let’s get away before somebody sees us out here.”

  They walked back along the moonlit path in silence. Ernest was aflame now and knew that his wits were scattering. If she were only not such a flirt! They passed other couples, wholly intent upon themselves.

  “Iowa,” she said presently. “I believe you when you said you’d not tell.”

  “Thank you,” he replied stiffly. “If I needed any assurance of your shallowness that remark would serve.”

  At the steps she turned to regard him curiously.

  “You’re a new one to me tonight. But I’ll have you know, mister, that I’m not shallow. I’m plenty deep. You’ve made me feel it—out heah. I’m not accustomed to let cowpunchers hug and kiss me. I’m afraid I let you. I never raised a finger. ... So there, Mister Ernest Howard!”

  She ran up the steps and left him standing in the moonlight, a victim of conflicting thoughts and emotions.

  It was only after some moments that Ernest could compose himself sufficiently for coherent reasoning. He realized he had gone too tar. He had stepped over the precipice. To hold Anne in his arms, to feel her grow soft and lax, to kiss her unrebuked—that had been weakness. Whatever she was he had now fallen madly in love with her. But what of her singular actions and words? She had confessed her insincerity, her meanness—then had made strangely sweet amends. He had to admit—she had been a brazen flirt, but she had found that when she was alone with him she liked him, perhaps. Ernest dared not think of the implication that it carried. Had he really some power over Anne Hepford? Something had gone amiss. His calculation had fallen short of this hour. He wiped his wet brow and shook his head slowly. It looked as though he had jumped out of the frying pan into the fire. Only one thing could he be sure of—her charm, her physical attraction, which he had been unable to resist.

  Ernest turned back from the porch and walked into the garden again. He wanted to get out in the open, where the night breeze could cool his blood. He avoided dancers and turned aside on another path, to come upon a shadow-enclosed bench. He saw a slim figure in white almost enveloped by a tall one in black. Then a familiar drawling voice: “Wal, Dais, you shore cain’t come that with me.”

  “No you—you—” panted the girl, struggling with her escort.

  Ernest had only to take a few quick steps to be upon them. With one powerful hand on each he pushed them apart, and faced Hyslip.

  “Wal, if it ain’t Ioway!” ejaculated the cowboy in good-humored surprise. Then the meaning of the situation reached him. “See heah, you dressed-up hick—”

  Then Ernest, with all the might of a hundred and seventy pounds of bone and muscle, plus the incalculable energy and spirit behind them, leaped upon Hyslip. He struck him flush on the chin. Hyslip catapulted backward, broke the back rail of the bench, crashed to the ground and lay still.

  “There—you dude cowboy!” muttered the Iowan with infinite satisfaction.

  Then he turned to Daisy. She had sunk down on the seat, and her eyes appeared unnaturally large and dark in her pale face. “Oh, it’s—you, Iowa. ... That was—the—” she started to say, almost sobbing. But she did not conclude her sentence.

  “Come on, Daisy. Let’s walk,” he replied, and helped her up. They walked out into the moonlight, and away from that part of the garden. “Perhaps we’d better go in,” he said, on second thought. “Hyslip may come to, and get ugly. ... Can I have a dance with you, Daisy?”

  “Yes, indeed,” she replied gladly. “My partner, Nebraskie, isn’t much on dancing tonight. He’s drinking and quarrelsome. That one with Dude was my last—Iowa, I—I had to look at you three times before I recognized you. Oh, you’re so different! Everybody seems to be noticing you—I watched you dance with Anne.”

  Her shy naïveté elicited the welcome fact that to her he was still Ernest Howard, though somehow transformed. They fell in with the dancers. Daisy was so slim, so light that he scarcely felt her body next to his, and for this reason, perhaps, held her a little closer. She did not talk while the music was playing. Afterward out on the porch she said: “You’re the best dancer I ever had.”

  “Thanks. Daisy, I want to confess something,” he began. “Anne Hepford made a fool out of me. I didn’t listen to you—or Nebraskie—and—well, I’ve let myself in for something I may not know how to handle.”

  “Never mind, Iowa. It’s all right—” she replied sy
mpathetically.

  “No, it isn’t all right—yet,” he persisted. “I want you to know I already see my mistake and my—my weakness. Anne is—well, a wonderful creature, but not for me.”

  “Good heavens, Iowa!” she ejaculated. “You didn’t really hope you—she’d be serious. She just can’t be serious—with any man.”

  “I’ve forgotten now. I had a lot of fool ideas. And I’m furious when I think what a jackass I was, letting her play with me.”

  Ernest danced again with her, and afterward promenaded around, the cynosure of all eyes. Daisy was radiant. Her eyes shone like stars. He sat at her left during the intermission and paid her marked attention. Then after another dance he took her to an open window. She sat on a chair close to his and looked up at the moon.

  “Daisy, I’m afraid Dude Hyslip has a way with him,” began Ernest.

  “Iowa—don’t you blame me too,” she entreated. “Nebraskie is bad enough.”

  “Oh, I see. Nebraskie is jealous. He’s in love with you, isn’t he?”

  She averted her face, and when Ernest gently drew it around he was surprised to discover not shyness, as he had expected, but tears.

  “Daisy! What is it?”

  “I—I might tell you sometime. But not now—not here,” she whispered.

  “I’m Nebraskie’s friend. I want to be yours, too.”

  “I know. Nebraskie swears by you. But lately he’s been accusing you of—of running after me.”

  “Humph! The cantankerous cowpoke! I could do worse. I have done worse. ... Be frank with me, Daisy. Aren’t you and Nebraskie pretty sweet on each other?”

  “We were—till Dude—” she replied hesitantly. “But, Iowa, I won’t tell you any more now. If you really are my friend get me out of here. Find Nebraskie. He must take me home. And you’d better come too. Dude Hyslip has shot up more than one dance hall.”

  “Has he? Well, I’m not anxious to have him use me for a target again. He did that the other day. But, Daisy, I have a feeling that he’s going to lose his job presently.”