by Grey, Zane
"Reckon I am. Things are not so bad. My Lord, suppose I'd been a month later!"
Lucy shook her head despondently. "It's worse now for me than if you had come—"
"Why?" interrupted Pan. She would say the things that hurt.
"Because to see you—be with you like this—before I'm—if I have to be married—is perfectly terrible.... Afterward, when it would be too late and I had lost something—self-respect or more—then I might not care."
That not only made Pan lose patience but it also angered him. The hot blood rushed to his face. He bit his tongue and struggled to control himself.
"Lucy! Haven't I told you that you're not going to marry Dick Hardman," he burst out.
"Oh, but I'll have to," she replied, stubbornly, with a sad little shake of her head.
"No!"
"I must save Dad. You might indeed get him out of jail some way. But that would not save him."
"Certainly it would," rejoined Pan, curtly. "In another state he would be perfectly safe."
"They'll trail him anywhere. No, that won't do. We haven't time. Dick is pressing me hard to marry him at once, or his father will prosecute Dad. I promised.... And today—this morning—Dick is coming here to get me to set the day."
"What?" cried Pan, passionately.
His word, swift as a bullet, made her jump, but she repeated what she had said almost word for word.
"And your answer?" queried Pan, in hot scorn.
"Sooner the—better," she replied, mournfully. "I can't stand—this—you—oh, anything would be—easier than your hope ... your—love making!"
"Lucy Blake, have you gone down hill like your father?" asked Pan, hoarsely. "What kind of a woman are you? If you love me, it's a crime to marry him. Women do these things, I know—sell themselves. But they kill their souls. If you could save your father from being hanged, it would still be wrong. Suppose he did go to jail for a few years. What's that compared to hell for you all your life? You're out of your head. You've lost your sense of proportion.... You must care for this damned skunk Dick Hardman."
"Care for him!" she cried, shamefaced and furious. "I hate him."
"Then if you marry him you'll be crooked. To yourself! To me!... Why, in my eyes you'd be worse than that little hussy down at the Yellow Mine."
"Pan!" she whispered. "How can you? How dare you?"
"Hard facts deserve hard names. You make me say such things. Why, you'd drive me mad if I listened—if I believed you. Don't you dare say again you'll marry Dick."
"I will—I must—"
"Lucy!" he thundered. It was no use to reason with this girl. She had been trapped like a wild thing and could not see any way out. He shot out a strong hand and clutched her shoulder and with one heave he drew her to him, so her face was under his. It went pale. The telltale eyes dilated in sudden fear. She beat at him with weak fluttering hands.
"Say you love me!"
He shook her roughly, then held her tight. "I don't maul any other man's woman," he went on, fiercely. "But if you love me—that's different. You said it a little while ago. Was it true? Are you a liar?"
"No—No—Pan," she whispered, in distress. "I—I do."
"Do what?"
"I—I love you," she said, the scarlet blood mounting to her pale face. She was weakening—sinking toward him. Her eyes held a sort of dark spell.
"How do you love me?" he queried relentlessly, with his heart mounting high.
"Always I've loved you—since I was a baby."
"As a brother?"
"Yes."
"But we're man and woman now. This is my one chance for happiness. I don't want you—I wouldn't have you unless you love me as I do you. Be honest with me. Be square. Do you love me now as I do you?"
"God help me—yes," she replied, almost inaudibly, with eyes of remorse and love and agony on his.
Pan could not withstand this. He crushed her to him, and lifted her arms round his neck, and fell to kissing her with all the starved hunger of his lonely loveless years on the ranges. She was not proof against this. It lifted her out of her weakness, of her abasement to a response that swept away all fears, doubts, troubles. For the moment, at least, love conquered her.
Pan was wrenched out of the ecstasy of that moment by the pound of hoofs and the crashing of brush. He could not disengage himself before a horse and rider were upon them. Nevertheless Pan recognized the intruder and leaped away from the bench with the instinctive swiftness for defense that had been ingrained in him.
Dick Hardman showed the most abject astonishment. His eyes stuck out, his jaw dropped. No other emotion seemed yet to have dawned in him. He stared from Lucy to Pan and back again. A slow dull red began to creep into his cheeks. He ejaculated something incoherent. His amaze swiftly grew into horror. He had caught his fiancée in the arms of another man. Black fury suddenly possessed him.
"You—you—" he yelled stridently, moving to dismount.
"Stay on your horse," commanded Pan.
"Who the hell are you?" bellowed Hardman, sliding back in the saddle.
"Howdy, Skunk Hardman," rejoined Pan, with cool impudence. "Reckon you ought to know me."
"Pan Smith!" gasped the other, hoarsely, and he turned lividly white. "By God, I knew you last night. But I couldn't place you."
"Well, Mr. Dick Hardman, I knew you the instant I set eyes on you—sitting there gambling—with the pretty bare-armed girl on your chair," returned Pan, with slow deliberate sarcasm.
"Yes, and you got that little —— over to you about as quick," shouted Hardman.
"Be careful of your language. There's a lady present," replied Pan, menacingly.
"Of all the nerve! You—you damned cowpuncher," raved Hardman in a fury. "It didn't take you long to get to her, either, did it? Now you make tracks out of here or I'll—I'll—it'll be the worse for you, Pan Smith.... Lucy Blake is as good as married to me."
"Nope, you're wrong, Dick," snapped Pan insolently. "I got here just in time to save her from that doubtful honor."
"You'd break her engagement to me?" rasped Hardman huskily, and he actually shook in his saddle.
"I have broken it."
"Lucy, tell me he lies!" begged Hardman, turning to her in poignant distress. If he had any good in him it showed then.
Lucy came out from the shade of the tree into the sunlight. She was pale, but composed.
"Dick, it's true," she said, steadily. "I've broken my word. I can't marry you.... I love Pan. I've loved him always. It would be a sin to marry you now."
"Hellsfire!" shrieked Hardman. His face grew frightful to see—beastly with rage. "You're as bad as that hussy who threw me down for him. I'll fix you, Lucy Blake. And I'll put your cow-thief father behind the bars for life."
Pan leaped at Hardman and struck him a body blow that sent him tumbling out of his saddle to thud on the ground. The frightened horse ran down the path toward the gate.
"You dirty-mouthed cur," said Pan. "Get up, and if you've got a gun—throw it."
Hardman laboriously got to his feet. The breath had been partly knocked out of him. Baleful eyes rolled at Pan. Instinctive wrath, however, had been given a setback. Hardman had been forced to think of something beside the frustration of his imperious will.
"I'm—not—packing—my gun," he panted, heavily. "You saw—that—Pan Smith."
"Well, you'd better pack it after this," replied Pan with contempt. "Because I'm liable to throw on you at sight."
"I'll have—you—run—out of this country," replied Dick huskily.
"Bah! don't waste your breath. Run me out of this country? Me! Reckon you never heard of Panhandle Smith. You're so thickheaded you couldn't take a hunch. Well, I'll give you one, anyway. You and your crooked father, and your two bit of a sheriff pardner would do well to leave this country. Savvy that! Now get out of here pronto."
Hardman gave Pan a ghastly stare and wheeled away to stride down the path. Once he turned to flash his convulsed face at Lucy. Then he
passed out of sight among the trees in search of his horse.
Pan stood gazing down the green aisle. He had acted true to himself. How impossible to meet this situation in any other way! It meant the spilling of blood. He knew it—accepted it—and made no attempt to change the cold passion deep within him. Lucy—his mother and father would suffer. But wouldn't they suffer more if he did not confront this conflict as his hard training dictated? He was almost afraid to turn and look at Lucy. Just a little while before he had promised her forbearance. So his amaze was great when she faced him, violet eyes ablaze, to clasp him, and creep close to him, with lingering traces of fear giving way to woman's admiration and love.
"Panhandle Smith!" she whispered, gazing up into his face. "I heard your story. It thrilled me.... But I never understood—till you faced Dick Hardman.... Oh, what have you done for me? ... Oh, Pan, you have saved me from ruin."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Pan and Lucy did not realize the passing of time until they were called to dinner. As they stepped upon the little porch, Lucy tried to withdraw her hand from Pan's, but did not succeed.
"See here," said he, very seriously, yielding to an urge he could not resist. "Wouldn't it be wise for us to—to get married at once?"
Lucy blushed furiously. "Pan Smith! Are you crazy?"
"Reckon I am," he replied, ruefully. "But I got to thinking how I'll be out after wild horses.... And I'm afraid something might happen. Please marry me this afternoon?"
"Pan! You're—you're terrible," cried Lucy, and snatching away her hand, scarlet of face she rushed into the house ahead of him.
He followed, to find Lucy gone. His father was smiling, and his mother had wide-open hopeful eyes. A slim young girl, with freckles, grave sweet eyes and curly hair was standing by a window. She turned and devoured him with those shy eyes. From that look he knew who she was.
"Alice! Little sister!" he exclaimed, meeting her. "Well, by golly, this is great."
It did not take long for Pan to grasp that a subtle change had come over his mother and father. Not the excitement of his presence nor the wonder about Lucy accounted for it, but a difference, a lessening of strain, a relief. Pan sensed a reliance upon him that they were not yet conscious of.
"Son, what was the matter with Lucy?" inquired his father, shrewdly.
"Why nothing to speak of," replied Pan, nonchalantly. "Reckon she was a little flustered because I wanted her to marry me this afternoon."
"Good gracious!" cried his mother. "You are a cowboy. Lucy marry you when she's engaged to another man!"
"Mother, dear, that's broken off. Don't remind me of it. I want to look pleasant, so you'll all be glad I'm home."
"Glad!" his mother laughed, with a catch in her voice. "My prayers have been answered.... Come now to dinner. Remember, Pan, when you used to yell, 'Come an' get it before I throw it out'?"
Bobby left Pan's knee and made a beeline for the kitchen. Alice raced after him.
"Pan, I met Dick Hardman on the road. He looked like hell, and was sure punishin' his horse. I said when I seen him I'd bet he's run into Pan. How about it?"
"Reckon he did," laughed Pan. "It was pretty tough on him, I'm bound to admit. He rode down the path and caught me—well, the truth is, Dad, I was kissing the young lady he imagined belonged to him."
"You range ridin' son-of-a-gun!" ejaculated his father, in unmitigated admiration and gladness. "What come off?"
"I'll tell you after dinner. Gee, I smell applesauce! ... Dad, I never forgot Mother's cooking."
They went into the little whitewashed kitchen, where Pan had to stoop to avoid the ceiling, and took seats at the table. Pan feasted his eyes. His mother had not been idle during the hours that he was out in the orchard with Lucy, nor had she forgotten the things that he had always liked. Alice acted as waitress, and Bobby sat in a high chair beaming upon Pan. At that juncture Lucy came in. She had changed her gray blouse to one of white, with wide collar that was cut a little low and showed the golden contour of her superb neck. She had put her hair up. Pan could not take his eyes off her. In hers he saw a dancing subdued light, and a beautiful rose color in her cheeks.
"Well, I've got to eat," said Pan, as if by way of explanation and excuse for removing his gaze from this radiant picture.
Thus his home coming proved to be a happier event than he had ever dared to hope for. Lucy was quiet and ate but little. At times Pan caught her stealing a glimpse at him, and each time she blushed. She could not meet his eyes again. Alice too stole shy glances at him, wondering, loving. Bobby was hungry, but he did not forget that Pan sat across from him. Mrs. Smith watched Pan with an expression that would have pained him had he allowed remorse to come back then. And his father was funny. He tried to be natural, to meet Pan on a plane of the old western insouciance, but it was impossible. No doubt such happiness had not reigned in that household for years.
"Dad, let's go out and have a talk," proposed Pan, after dinner.
As they walked down toward the corrals Pan's father was silent, yet it was clear he labored with suppressed feeling.
"All right, fire away," he burst out at last, "but first tell me, for Gawd's sake, how'd you do it?"
"What?" queried Pan, looking round from his survey of the farm land.
"Mother! She's well. She wasn't well at all," exclaimed the older man, breathing hard. "An' that girl! Did you ever see such eyes?"
"Reckon I never did," replied Pan, with joyous bluntness.
"This mornin' I left Lucy crushed. Her eyes were like lead. An' now!... Pan, I'm thankin' God for them. But tell me how'd you do it?"
"Dad, I don't know women very well, but I reckon they live by their hearts. You can bet that happiness for them means a lot to me. I felt pretty low down. That's gone. I could crow like Bobby ... but, Dad, I've a big job on my hands, and I think I'm equal to it. Are you going to oppose me?"
"Hell, no!" spat out his father, losing his pipe in his vehemence. "Son, I lost my cattle, my ranch. An' then my nerve. I'm not makin' excuses. I just fell down ... but I'm not too old to make another start with you to steer me."
"Good!" replied Pan with strong feeling, and he laid a hand on his father's shoulder. They halted by the open corral. "Then let's get right down to straight poker."
"Play your game, Pan. I'm sure curious."
"First off then—we don't want to settle in this country."
"Pan, you've called me right on the first hand," declared his father, cracking his fist on the corral gate. "I know this's no country for the Smiths. But I followed Jard Hardman here, I hoped to——"
"Never mind explanations, Dad," interrupted Pan. "We're looking to the future. We won't settle here. We'll go to Arizona. I had a pard who came from Arizona. All day long and half the night that broncho buster would rave about Arizona. Well, he won me over. Arizona must be wonderful."
"But Pan, isn't it desert country?"
"Arizona is every kind of country," replied Pan earnestly. "It's a big territory, Dad. Pretty wild yet, too, but not like these mining claim countries, with their Yellow Mines. Arizona is getting settlers in the valleys where there's water and grass. Lots of fine pine timber that will be valuable some day. I know just where we'll strike for. But we needn't waste time talking about that now. If it suits you the thing is settled. We go to Arizona."
"Fine, Pan," said his father rubbing his hands. Pan had struck fire from him. "When will we go?"
"That's to decide," answered Pan, thoughtfully. "I've got some money. Not much. But we could get there and start on it. I believe, though, that we'd do better to stay here—this fall anyway—and round up a bunch of these wild horses. Five hundred horses, a thousand at twelve dollars a head—why, Dad, it would start us in a big way."
"Son, I should smile it would," returned Smith, with fiery enthusiasm. "But can you do it?"
"Dad, if these broomies are as thick as I hear they are I sure can make a stake. Last night I fell in with two cowboys—Blinky Moran and Gus Hans. They're c
hasing wild horses, and want me to throw in with them. Now with you and maybe a couple of more riders we can make a big drive. You've got to know the tricks. I learned a heap from a Mormon wild-horse wrangler. If these broomtails are thick here—well, I don't want to set your hopes too high. But wait till I show you."
"Pan, there's ten thousand wild horses in that one valley across the mountain there. Hot Springs Valley they call it."
"Then, by George, we've got to take the risk," declared Pan decisively.
"Risk of what?"
"Trouble with that Hardman outfit. It can't be avoided. I'd have to bluff them out or fight them down, right off. Dick is a yellow skunk. Jard Hardman is a bad man in any pinch. But not on an even break. I don't mean that. If that were all. But he's treacherous. And his henchman, this two bit of a sheriff, he's no man to face you on the square. I'll swear he can be bluffed. Has he any reputation as a gun thrower?"
"Matthews? I never heard of it, if he had. But he brags a lot. He's been in several fracases here, with drunken miners an' Mexicans. He's killed a couple of men since I've been here."
"Ah-huh, just what I thought," declared Pan, in cool contempt. "I'll bet a hundred he elected himself town marshal, as he calls it. I'll bet he hasn't any law papers from the territory, or government, either.... Jard Hardman will be the hard nut to crack. Now, Dad, back in Littleton I learned what he did to you. And Lucy's story gave me another angle on that. It's pretty hard to overlook. I'm not swearing I can do so. But I'd like to know how you feel about it."
"Son, I'd be scared to tell you," replied Smith in husky voice, dropping his head.
"You needn't, Dad. We'll stay here till we catch and sell a bunch of horses," said Pan curtly. "Can you quit your job at the wagon shop?"
"Any time—an' Lord, won't I be glad to do it," returned Smith fervently.
"Well, you quit just then," remarked Pan dryly. "So much is settled.... Dad, I've got to get Jim Blake out of that jail."
"I reckon so. It might be a job an' then again it mightn't. Depends on Jim. An' between you an' me, Pan, I've no confidence in Jim."
"That doesn't make any difference. I've got to get him out and send him away. Head him for Arizona where we're going.... Is it a real jail?"