Stairs of Sand

by Zane Grey

  What was the idea concocted by Collishaw and calculated to find favor with Larey? It concerned Ruth. It could have only one angle—that of breaking Ruth’s will. How impossible! Yet that seemed Merryvale’s loyalty to her, what he wanted to see, rather than what might actually happen. Away from the enchantment of her voice and face, Merryvale did not wholly trust Ruth. He never had trusted any women. Yet Merryvale’s doubt of Ruth seemed pierced by reproach She had the passion in her to be great. But no matter, Merryvale reflected, he had divided his love and allegiance, and he would fight and die for Ruth.

  Chapter Seven

  MERRYVALE kept his appointment that night, but it was almost sundown when Dabb joined him, and led him hurriedly to the Mexican’s restaurant, where they occupied a table in a comer.

  “You happened in on somethin’ today,” began Dabb.

  “Wal, yes, reckon I did,” returned Merryvale, casually.

  “How much more did you hear?” went on Dabb, his devouring eyes on Merryvale.

  “Nothin’. I jest slipped out the minute their backs was turned.”

  “Larey gave me charge of the post.”

  “Ahuh. Wal, Dabb, that means you fell in with his idee of the freightin’ business,” asserted Merryvale, shrewdly.

  “You heard Larey ravin’ at Hunt.”

  “Shore, an’ I’m smart enough to savvy he wouldn’t hire you unless — —.”

  Merryvale allowed a meaning look to conclude his speech.

  “You’re an old fox. Well, that’s one reason I’d like to go in with you on somethin’ that’s been eatin’ me.”

  “You didn’t tell me what.”

  “It’s this. Larey an’ Collishaw are goin’ to get hold of Lost Lake. You seen a sample of their methods today. Then same with Salton Spring up the valley an’ Twenty Nine Palms. I’m not sure about Salton bein’ easy to get, but I know Twenty Nine Palms could be bought cheap. Coachella Indians, poor as Job’s turkeys, an’ no whites there at all. Lots of water, an’ a hot spring that alone will be worth a fortune when the railroad fetches the people. What d’ye think?”

  “Shore, I think what you say, if it’s true, is plumb interestin’,” replied Merryvale, guardedly.

  “True enough. Larey said so. He was there only a month ago.”

  “Wal, go on.”

  “Let’s get there first,” returned Dabb, brightly, spreading his hands with a gesture of finality.

  “Ahuh. Would you be double-crossin’ Larey?”

  “Yes, but he doesn’t know I know about this chance. Suppose you go up to Twenty Nine Palms an’ look the ground over. Make friends of the Indians. You can prospect a little on the side.”

  “Dabb, it’s a good idee. I’ll take you up,” returned Merryvale, heartily.

  “But we shore don’t want to buy out the Indians until we know more. Larey will jump this water right here. He’s got Collishaw, an’ all the Indians on his side. Then I’ve heard that Collishaw controls some bad hombres in Yuma. So Larey will be safe takin’ over a claim like this one, anyway he can get it. But we wouldn’t be strong enough to hold Twenty Nine Palms, if it falls under the old Spanish grant.”

  “Ha, I see. Wal, the idee then is for us to find out.”

  “Yes. You go to Yuma pretty soon an’ look it up. Meanwhile I’ll be working out another scheme just as big. So well have it to fall back on. Savvy, Merryvale? my brains an’ your money!”

  “You’re sure a brainy one,” said Merryvale, admiringly. “Now tell me. Does this other scheme touch on Larey?”

  “I should smile. It’s easier to work, but riskier.”

  “Larey is a dangerous man. Look at the way he shot that boy, Stone.”

  “Yes, Larey is a bad hombre all right,” conceded Dabb. “But this Lost Lake is his dunghill.”

  “Wal, I’ll shake hands on hopes,” returned Merryvale. “An’ take one hunch from me. You’ve got a chance now to pry into all Larey’s doings. Savvy?”

  Dabb uttered a short laugh, stronger than any affirmative he could have made in words. They concluded their meal and talk, and parted at the door in the gathering dusk.

  Merryvale bent his steps toward Ruth’s home, and halted in the gloom beyond the dim yellow lights of the post.

  The early night hour was sultry, almost sulphurous, with the heat of the day lying like a blanket over the desert. Not a sound broke the ominous silence. Far out over the black void lightning flared across the ranges of Arizona, showing them for a fleeting instant, bold, wild, desolate. What mystery out there in the open space! This oasis seemed marked for extinction, as centuries before the desert had decreed against the lake, which the Indian legends had located.

  Merryvale found a subtle potency of the wasteland fastening upon his thought, as had always been the case when he took up an abode with people living in such a lonely and remote place as Lost Lake. How well he remembered Picacho! Then there had been a like period, spent with Adam at a waning gold camp, Tecopah. The desert weaned men from the law and order that they observed in civilized communities. It worked worse havoc upon women.

  In the darkness, standing there, peering away down the starlit aisles which ended in obscurity, Merryvale seemed to encounter a stifling oppression. The heat not only hindered his breathing and movement. It weighed upon his brain. He never could forget the forbidding, insulating, fascinating presence of the desert. Most wayfarers and natives regarded it as a physical obstacle to all that might be striven for. To Merryvale, particularly since he had wandered over it with Wansfell, whom the desert had christened Wanderer, it was a Collosus of natural elements in process of decay, dying through the ages, destructive, terrible, dominated by the spirit of the sun. At this melancholy hour of dusk Merryvale felt hope only for the present, and for these fortunates who could abandon the abode of the shifting sands.

  At length he made his thoughtful way up through the dark yard to Ruth’s home. The tinkle of water fell upon his ear with strong relief. He endeavored to shake off the oppression. Under the porch the gloom was thick, streaked by a thin light from a crack in Hunt’s door.

  Merryvale knocked, and spoke his name. The door opened and Ruth came out, again in white. The flash of light showed her bare neck and arms. The glimpse he had of her face reassured him.

  “Evenin’, Ruth, you shore look like the moon an’ stars. Where’s your grandpa?”

  “Gone to bed. He feels poorly tonight.”

  “Did he tell you aboot Larey puttin’ him out?”

  “Yes. I think he’s glad of it. I know I am. It’s not that. He’s upset over Collishaw’s claim.”

  “Wal, you tell him I was hid in the post when Larey threw him out, an’ I was there after. I heard Collishaw speak of the Spanish grant bluff, an’ advise strong against any rash move.”

  “It was all a lie. I knew, Merryvale, yet I didn’t feel that we could do anything.”

  She went back into the room, leaving the door ajar. Merryvale heard her low eager voice and Hunt’s tremulous one in answer. Presently she returned.

  “He was overjoyed,” she said, happily. “I think he was wavering. But he’ll stand firm now. He called you a friend in need and thanked God that I had you and Adam to rely upon. And, Merryvale, he asked me something very strange.”

  “He did. Wal, now?”

  “‘Ruth,’ he said, ‘if anything happens to me, this property will be yours. You will be rich. What will you do?’—I asked him what he’d want me to do? He asked if I’d ever be Larey’s wife. I told him I’d die first. Then he replied he’d like me to hold the property.”

  “An’ what did you say?”

  “I didn’t commit myself. But I’m afraid I wouldn’t want the place.”

  “Wal, let’s look on the bright side. Come, I reckon it’s time for us to meet Adam.”

  They took the pale path, winding among the trees, with Merryvale leading and Ruth gradually hanging back.

  “Wal, what’s the matter, lass?” he asked, drawing her close, so that h
e could see her face in the starlight. Had those stars ever before been mirrored in such eyes? Merryvale thought of the starlit Arabian waste and of the woman at the lonely well.

  “Merryvale, I’m weak as water,” she whispered. I’ve surrendered. What you told me has been—too much—for me.”

  “You mean aboot makin’ Adam love you?” he whispered, low and eager, bending to her.

  Ruth bowed her head.

  “I’ve fought all day. I’ve tried to kill my old self. Perhaps I did…. But I want more than anything ever before in my life—that he may find a little joy in me.”

  Merryvale drew her arm within his and led her on, mute for once, one instant stricken with remorse, and the next tingling with rapture for his friend.

  They reached the hedge, and then the wide spreading palo verde. Adam stepped out of the gloom.

  “Heah she is, pard,” said Merryvale, huskily, giving Ruth a little shove.

  “Oh—it’s—so dark!” she whispered, as Adam caught her.

  “Ruth!”

  “Adam!”

  “Child, this Merryvale is a devil in the disguise of a friend. He will ruin us.”

  “No—no. He is good, Adam.—Not blind like you and me.”

  “Blind! What then is it I see now?”

  “A happy girl one moment—in dreams…. A wretched woman—the next—when I think.”

  Merryvale started to glide away, savage in his glee, yet conscious of that blade in his heart.

  “Don’t go,” called Adam, softly. “Stay close by, Merryvale.”

  So Merryvale paced a short beat between the hedge and the tree. Upon his return Adam and Ruth were sitting on the bench, faintly discernible to eyes growing accustomed to the darkness. He heard their low whispers, and once Ruth’s sweet contralto laughter, suddenly hushed. Now and then Adam’s voice struck a deep note, above a whisper. They forgot Merryvale pacing more and more slowly. They forgot, or did not care, while his ears and eyes grew keener. Strange deep happiness stirred in Merryvale’s breast. He had a vicarious pleasure in Adam’s situation.

  The one came when Merryvale saw the pale gleam of Ruth’s face upon Adam’s shoulder. He did not go near again. He paused on the brow of the slope, half way between tree and hedge, and spent the strength of his vision upon the immense starlit expanse of desert.

  It was, perhaps, the greatest and most clarifying moment of his life. Something beyond him justified his cunning, his implacability. He seemed to see into the future. There was a whisper at his ear, come on the faint night wind. Merryvale worshipped no God but nature, but it was certain that he trembled. His friendship for Adam, his love for Ruth—were they but mundane moods, to die when his day was done? Ruth would win this lonely fierce eagle of the desert, and in the end he would fall like a thunderbolt upon her enemies and destroy them. Life held no more for Merryvale than this.

  But this wonderful exaltation did not last. The old materialistic physical grip of the desert returned to clutch Merryvale’s heart. Were they but climbing stairs of sand, these lovers? The desert was immutable. How ghastly the stark and naked truth—the desert would not abide tenderness!

  Midnight, when Adam parted from Ruth! If the hours had sped fleetly even for Merryvale, they must have been but moments for these two.

  Merryvale found himself unable to engage Adam’s attention to any extent.

  “Say, pard, suppose I’d need to find you any time. Where’d I come?”

  Adam might as well have been walking alone. In fact, he was not of the earth. Merryvale repeated his query, louder, and accompanied it by a tug at Adam’s arm.

  “Follow the wash to where it runs out of the canyon,” replied Adam. “Go up the canyon till it forks. Take the left fork.”

  “Ahuh. All right. Reckon we’ll see you tomorrow eve?”

  Merryvale tarried as he spoke, but he got no answer. Adam strode on, like a blind giant, to be swallowed up by the black mantle of night.

  “Wal, I’ll be doggoned!” muttered Merryvale. “Adam’s clean gone. Not a word for me. An’ if he only knew it, I’m the hombre who threw Ruth into his arms. But Lord—no wonder!”

  He turned back, muttering to himself, and feeling his way carefully over the dark uneven ground, he reached his shack and went to bed.

  Four days passed swiftly by. Merryvale saw Adam only once, the second night. Ruth reacted bewilderingly to her conquest of Adam. She was wildly gay and eloquently silent and passionately gloomy by turns. Merryvale spent hours with her, some of which were dismaying.

  For the rest, Merryvale employed his time in the idling, watching, listening and inquisitively strategic way which he had chosen to adopt. Nothing escaped him except what went on behind closed doors, and even some of that he acquired.

  Larey did not attempt to gain audience with Ruth, though he sent messages by Indians for Hunt to come out and confer with him. These were ignored. On the fifth day of that week Collishaw left Lost Lake in a light canvas-covered wagon, drawn by four horses, and driven by a taciturn Mexican who Merryvale had observed was devoted to Larey. They headed north, a circumstance Marryvale at once connected with Larey’s scheme to get hold of important water rights up the valley. Dabb was not cast down by this circumstance; he informed Merryvale that he had more than one string to his bow.

  Stone was up and about again, very pale and handsome after his narrow escape, and a subject of considerable interest around the post, which he evidently had no compunctions whatever about visiting. Dabb, who was a taciturn fellow and did not waste his time on anyone for nothing, grew friendly with Stone. It roused Merryvale’s curiosity. Another rather peculiar circumstance was a meeting between Larey and Stone, at which Merryvale was present.

  Larey, passing along the hard-packed sandy road before the post, encountered Stone talking to bystanders.

  “Hello, you out? How are you?” queried Larey, halting.

  “Gettin’ along fine, Larey,” replied Stone, coolly.

  “Somebody said you were still packing a bullet.”

  “Yes. The doctor couldn’t dig it out.”

  “Well, Stone, I’m glad you recovered. But if you deal the same trick again, I’ll do a better job on you,” returned Larey, with grim humor, and went his way.

  That very day Merryvale espied Stone walking with his slow labored steps into Ruth’s yard, and up the path toward the house. Merryvale was not surprised. He watched for Stone’s return, which did not occur short of half an hour. Later in the day Merryvale met Hunt, who told him Stone had called, but had seen Ruth only in his presence. She was kind, solicitous, plainly sorry for him. This, Merryvale conceived, was Hunt’s opinion. It might well be and very probably was the truth.

  That evening at twilight Merryvale, finding Ruth in her accustomed seat on the porch, took her rather severely to task about it.

  “We were sitting here,” she retorted. “Why should I run and hide? It was hot in my room. And what do I care? I was only civil to the fool. He looked pretty bad.”

  “Wal, I haven’t no more to say aboot him,” returned Merryvale.

  Ruth seemed petulant, restless, sombre, the first time for days. She was pale, too, and had deep shadows under her eyes. Merryvale attributed her mood to the fact that Adam was not to come this evening; and after talking a little while to Hunt he said goodnight to Ruth and started to leave.

  She caught up with him, and clung to his arm, and walked with him down the path to the hedge gate.

  “You’re angry with me?” she asked.

  “Me? Shore not. But I reckon you’re not yourself tonight, an’ I know why, so I’m takin’ myself off.”

  “You know more then than I do, Merryvale,” she returned, leaning over the gate, “I’m cross. I want to go somewhere—do something. I’m cooped up all day long. Oh, not in the house. But this hedge is like a pen. That damn restlessness of mind and body has come back.”

  Merryvale could see her eyes gleaming large and dark from her pale face. They were as deep as the desert night
, and held infinite mystery. She was at the mercy of a complexity of emotion increasing day by day. Merryvale’s disappointment merged into pity.

  “If I knew the way out to Adam’s camp I’d go,” she went on, dreamily.

  “Aw, no, lass. Don’t say that.”

  “I would, and right now,” she flashed, awakening to his antagonism.

  “But, my dear, that would be folly,” rejoined Merryvale, trying to control both alarm and temper.

  “No woman should be left alone, much less I,” she said, sombrely.

  “Shore, I agree. I told Adam so,” replied Merryvale, earnestly. “But he’s mad aboot you, Ruth. An’ I reckon the trouble is he’s afraid he’ll disgrace you.”

  “How, in heavens name?”

  “Wal, Adam’s afraid Guerd Larey will find out your friend Wansfell is really Adam Larey. Then nothin on earth or in heaven could prevent catastrophe. Guerd would never believe in your innocence. An’ he would blacken your name heah an’ everywhere.”

  “Merryvale, Guerd will find out,” declared Ruth “And sometimes—when I’m like this—I don’t hate the terrible thought.”

  “Natural. Reckon you’re a woman,” said Merryvale, betraying bitterness.

  It did not touch her.

  “Merryvale, you never told me why Guerd hated Adam. You’ve spoken often of Adam’s love from childhood for this brother—how it survived the bitter fury at Picacho—how it lived and grew all those awful years on the desert. But why Guerd’s hate? It seems unnatural. I’ve wondered and wondered. Surely it couldn’t have been jealousy.”

  “Wal, I reckon yes. You know the Bible says: ‘Who can stand before jealousy?’ “

  “But why so terrible a jealousy? Why something that drove Guerd from earliest childhood to hate Adam—to fight him—to rob him of everything?”

  “Ruth, I’ve often worried aboot tellin’ you,” pondered Merryvale, slowly surrendering to the inevitable.

  “But I should know,” she went on, earnestly, lending her hands in persuasion. “Surely I can find out from Adam?”