by Zane Grey
“No. Never in this world,” asserted Merryvale positively.
“Is it something that will hurt Adam in my estimation?” she asked hesitatingly.
“Shore not, Ruth.”
“Would it make me loathe Guerd more?”
“I reckon you’d feel somethin’ you never did for him.”
“What is it?”
“Pity.”
“Pity?” she echoed, in amaze. “Me pity Guerd Larey!”
“Shore you would. For you’re big in heart, Ruth.”
“Then tell me,” she demanded.
“Guerd Larey is a bastard,” replied Merryvale, in suppressed voice, as if the hedge had ears to hear. “All his mother’s love was lavished on Adam. As a child Guerd knew it. But Adam never found out until they grew to manhood.”
Merryvale, lying awake in his bed, felt that something of Ruth’s mood had communicated itself to him. It was unusual for him not to go to sleep at once.
The night was cool. The wind rustled the brush roof of his shack and whipped between the poles of the wall, laden with the dry taint of dust. It moaned out there on the desert, continuously and monotonously low.
Merryvale covered his head to shut out the mournful sound, as well as the sifting sand.
Suddenly he heard a cry. Was it wolf, or woman, or just a freak of the wind under the eaves of his shelter. He threw back the coverlet and listened. But the cry was not repeated. What illusions his imagination sometimes created!
Again he composed himself to try to sleep. But he was at once disturbed by the rattle of wheels over gravel and the thud of rapid hoofs. A vehicle of some kind was passing his shack. What could it be? Not a freighter! He listened. The sound quickly died away with the wind. Sometimes travelers preferred night to day, but owing to the danger of losing the road and getting off into the sand dunes, it was rather an unusual proceeding. Merryvale collected his wits. Four horses had passed his shack at a brisk trot toward the Yuma road. He had no way to tell now whether that vehicle had come through or around Lost Lake. Merryvale made a mental reservation to find out when daylight came. Wheels and hoofs left tracks, even on hard desert, to such experienced eyes as his.
He lay back again. But sleep would not come. He began to associate the woman’s imagined cry with this mysterious night driver. Then he thought of Ruth, to become prey to all kinds of conjectures. Night in the desert always worked treacherously upon his mind. He convinced himself that he had heard the weird staccato cry of a coyote—that a party of railroad men, not wanting their presence known, had gone by under cover of the darkness.
That was Merryvale’s reason. But it did not wholly allay misgivings. He felt what he could not explain. His mind revolved all that had happened at Lost Lake and manufactured a thousand things that might happen. Not until late in the night did he fall asleep. When he awoke the sun had long been up.
Daylight did not dispel the misgivings of the night. They had augmented in his slumbers. Merryvale hurriedly dressed and went out. The red sun, the glare of desert, smote him like a blow. He crossed the road. Narrow wheel tracks! Four well-shod horses! To Merryvale’s relief they led straight down the road to the post. Whoever had driven that double team had manifestly no fear of being seen, for he had come down the stage road. Merryvale’s concern lessened somewhat. He went to breakfast.
Upon his return he met Larey coming out of the inn, clean shaven, immaculate in white soft shirt, open at the neck, with sleeves rolled up. He wore as usual a gun in his belt, dark trousers and high boots. Larey always attracted the eye. He was magnificent to look at. He appeared a man whom it would not be safe to cross. But he seemed vastly more than that this morning—different to the crafty Merryvale.
“Hullo, old timer, you here yet?” he asked, as he came abreast of Merryvale.
“Mawnin’, Mr. Larey. Shore I’m heah.”
“What’re you doing?”
“Wal, mostly restin’.”
“Where’s the man who was with you when you met Stone and my wife?”
“My pard? He’s out in the hills prospectin’,” returned Merryvale, concealing his intense interest in his questioner.
“Is he the man they call Wansfell?” went on Larey.
“Who’s they?” drawled Merryvale, deliberating.
“They? Why, you blockhead, I mean men of the desert. Anybody inside?”
“Shore, his name’s Wansfell,” returned Merryvale.
“The hell you say!” ejaculated Larey, blankly. Then his great green eyes dilated and fixed. They had the same quality as Adam’s only they were green, and therefore less piercing than the clear gray of his brother.
“Wansfell?” went on Larey. “It’s not a common name. “But I’ve heard it here and there…. And this Wansfell knew my wife?”
“I think he met her once, years ago, over in Santa Ysabel.”
“What was he doing there?”
“Workin’ on a ranch, if I recollect.”
“Well, he can’t be the Wansfell I’m thinking of. Still—Stone swore he might as well have been hit by a giant…. Damn funny!”
“Sorry, Mr. Larey, I caint help you out,” drawled Merryvale. “Fact is, I don’t know much aboot Wansfell, myself.”
When Larey jerked aside and went on, Merryvale had food for reflection. Upon first sight, Larey had been glowing, whistling, vibrant with a physical ecstasy of life, with something impossible to define, through which, to the deep-visioned Merryvale, showed a dark secretive powerful flash of the man. The difference that had struck Merryvale was not this last, but the signs of spirits heightened extraordinarily. What now had happened to Mr. Larey?
Merryvale had quickened his steps. The atmosphere seemed charged. Only one thing could happen in Lost Lake that would be a calamity to him—misfortune for Ruth. He must put an end to uncertainty.
The hedge gate hung open. Merryvale, with the instinct of the old tracker, peered down into the dust of the path. Heavy boot-tracks with imprints of hobnails had obliterated his own tracks, made early last evening. He bent down to scrutinize them. Two men, and a third and smaller footprint. These tracks came down the path. He followed them back to the gate and out; then, careful to avoid attracting attention, he returned and hastened up the path.
Hunt came out of the door of Ruth’s room, his face and movement expressing extreme agitation.
“Merryvale! Ruth’s gone!” he ejaculated.
“What?” cried Merryvale, aghast.
“Gone! Ruth! She’s gone again!”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t wake me this morning at usual. I called her to breakfast. She didn’t come. Then I went to her door. Unlocked! … Come, look. Her bed hasn’t been slept in.”
Strung hard as Merryvale was he felt a tremor when he crossed Ruth’s threshold and saw the neat little bed, with its white smooth pillow.
“Hunt, when did you see or hear Ruth last?” queried Merryvale.
“At nine o’clock she came in to say goodnight. Then, when she went out, she spoke to someone. I recognized that Stone’s voice.”
“Stone!” exclaimed Merryvale.
“Yes. I heard her ask him what he wanted. He answered something. Then he seemed to be appealing to her. I couldn’t understand what she said, but I’d heard that tone often. Ruth answered him sharply. Then they had hot words. I caught enough to gather that Stone wanted her to intercede for him in some way, or get something for him from Larey. He was most persistent and begging. I called to Ruth once, wanting them to know I was awake. After that they talked lower. Presently I heard Ruth’s footsteps on the porch. She went to her room. After a little I heard her in there. That was the last, for I went to sleep.”
“Wal, I’m shore stumped,” pondered Merryvale. “There’s some tall thinkin’ ahaid.”
“Merryvale, she’s run off again with Stone,” declared Hunt, in anger and distress.
“Aw, no!” fiercely returned Merryvale.
“I remember more, as I thi
nk,” went on Hunt. “Stone said something about ‘money’ and ‘Larey’ and ‘being shot.’ ”
“Ahuh! Wal, Stone’d have to say more’n that before—”
“Ruth has had another bad spell,” interrupted Hunt. “I saw it coming yesterday. She’s hardly responsible when she’s that way. Stone has persuaded her to leave.”
“Hunt, it shore looks bad—but no—no! It caint be that.”
“Merryvale, you run down and see if Stone is gone. If he is—”
“Easy enough, I’ll go pronto,” replied Merryvale, hurrying off.
“I’ll look for Ruth’s traveling bag and things,” Hunt called after him.
Merryvale’s mind outpaced his rapid steps. So long as he was uncertain of facts he could not think logically. His love for Ruth rose up to clamour in her defense. The voice of his bitter knowledge of life on the desert could not make itself heard. Anything might happen, but not treachery in Ruth. At that moment of stress he would have staked his soul on her honor.
When he reached the pretty little adobe house where Stone had his lodgings, Merryvale was out of breath. The bright-eyed senora could not understand him at first. When she comprehended his breathless query she replied:
“Senor Stone go las night an’ no come back.”
The unexpectedness of this news and its significance staggered Merryvale, and shocked him back into the stable character which had been overwhelmed by Ruth Virey’s charm. He would withhold final judgment upon her until the facts of her disappearance were clear; but he stifled all the beautiful illusions and dreams under which he had smothered his wits for Adam’s sake and her.
Merryvale retraced his steps, but now he lagged, suddenly feeling old and hopeless and heartbroken. Who was to tell Adam? The thought made him writhe. Shaking off a deadly weakness he faced what he felt he owed himself and Adam and the girl. Poor Ruth! Alas, she was right! She should never have been left alone. Adam and he must again take up the search for her.
An uproar in the post halted him before the wide open door. He heard the thud of blows, then a crash. Striding in, Merryvale was in time to see Dabb sink down at the foot of the wall, against which he evidently had been knocked. Larey moved forward, towered over him, his fist doubled.
“Maybe that’ll loosen your jaw,” he shouted.
“You didn’t give—me a chance—to talk,” replied Dabb, haltingly, raising himself on his elbow.
“Get up, then, and talk.”
Dabb gathered himself up with effort and rose, his hand to his face. It was livid, and beads of sweat stood upon his brow.
“Where’s that money?” demanded Larey.
“I don’t know. I swear I didn’t take it.”
“Why didn’t you miss it last night?”
“I never looked. You always lock the desk.”
“I forgot it. Were you alone here last night, when you closed up?”
“No, sir. Stone was here for a while—till nearly nine o’clock.”
“Ha! Young Stone. Did you go out any time while he was here?”
“Yes. I went into the store-room several times.”
“Go fetch Stone,” thundered Larey.
Dabb, hastily starting at this command, almost bumped into Merryvale.
“Gentlemen, your man left sometime last night,” announced Merryvale coolly.
Larey, to the keen eyes fastened upon him, betrayed amaze at Merryvale’s presence rather than at the content of his words. A deep frown disfigured his broad brow.
“How’d you get in this?”
“I was happenin’ along, an’ hearin’ the racket I come in,” returned Merryvale.
“Strikes me you’re pretty nosey, old man,” said Larey, stridently.
“Not at all. Anybody would run in to see a fight—or somebody gettin’ murdered,” replied Merryvale.
“Who told you Stone was gone?”
“The Senora where he lives.”
“What business was it of yours?” queried Larey, now sharply, forgetting his fury.
“Wal, I had reasons of my own, Mr. Larey,” he drawled.
“Are you meddling in my affairs?” demanded Larey angrily.
“I didn’t steal your money, if that’s what you mean,” returned Merryvale, with dry sarcasm.
“Merryvale, you’ve got something up your sleeve,” said Larey, hotly.
“Wal, Mr. Larey, if I have you can bet your life it’s a stack of aces,” replied Merryvale.
Larey fumed in angry speculation, unable to match this old man in wits, yet suspicious of an undercurrent of meaning. At last, remembering Dabb’s presence, he waved Merryvale out with a curse that had its menace.
Merryvale had sustained a strong check to the direction of his thoughts. Larey did not ring true even in his villany. Merryvale had known innumerable bad characters. He had worked in mining camps with gamblers, bandits, outcasts, gun-men, all kind of hard characters which the West had developed, and this vast desert had finished in its fierce evolution. But in the main they were real men. Larey struck Merryvale as being one of those Easterners who had not the fibre to withstand the dry rot of the desert. In any case he could never last long in such a country as this. It was only an accident that he had dominated this out-of-the-way water-hole. Merryvale smiled grimly when he thought he knew why Larey’s trips to Yuma were growing fewer and farther between.
While reflecting thus Merryvale was hurrying up to see Hunt. He found him, crouched on the porch, pale and downcast.
“Wal, what did you find out?” queried Merryvale.
“Ruth did not take her bag, or any of her toilet things. Not even a coat! She had only the clothes on her back.”
“Wal, I’ll be— —!” swore Merryvale, abruptly sitting down.
“Not even her mirror! Now, if you knew Ruth, you’d be mighty sure that is a strange omission.”
“I reckon. Ruth was the tidiest lass…. Wal, Hunt, shore this heah deal thickens.”
“I’m more bewildered than ever,” replied Hunt. “But I don’t believe Ruth would run off with any man without clothes and things to keep her pretty.”
“I savvy. But you caint never tell aboot a woman. She’s gone.”
“But, man, she couldn’t go alone,” expostulated Hunt.
“She shore could if she wanted to. Last night she told me if she knew how to find Adam, she’d go—right then. Wal, she might have gone anyhow. She’d heard Adam an’ me speak of the canyon up heah, where he camps. She might have tried to find it.”
“She might indeed. Ruth was always roaming around at night. She’d gaze at the moon and the stars as one possessed. She loved the darkness, the night that hid the sun and the desert from her…. Perhaps she tried to find Wansfell and got lost.”
“Shore. I hope so. Because I can find her easy enough. I’ll track her. But, I reckon, Hunt, it’s a forlorn hope.”
“Did you find Stone?” queried Hunt.
“No. He’s gone.”
“I knew it. I felt it.”
“An’ he’s not all that’s gone. Larey has been robbed of considerable money,” said Merryvale, and went on to narrate the incident at the post. He kept to himself, however, his own deductions and speculations.
“Worse!” gasped Hunt. “Stone’s a thief. I heard him speak of money and Larey…. Ruth has gone with a thief. My God!”
“Wal, whatever she’s done we’ve got to fetch her back,” replied Merryvale, sharply. “Now, Hunt, you spend the next few hours down at the post, watchin’ an’ listenin’. But keep your mouth shet. Heah that! … Wal, I’ll take a circle round Lost Lake an’ look for tracks. I’ll get an Indian I know to go with me. Reckon I knew somethin’ when I made friends with them Indians…. The stage from up north is due today. Reckon it’ll be late gettin’ in. But if it comes you see who’s in it.—Then I’ll make a bee-line to find Wansfell. An’ you can shore bet your life there’s goin’ to be hell!”
Chapter Eight
MERRYVALE located the Indian in the saloon. H
indfoot, as they called him, locally, was one of the many tragic derelicts of the desert, ruined by contact with the whites. He understood English, though he could speak only a little; he was capable in many ways, but so addicted to drink that he could not get work. When the saloon was open, from morning until late at night, Hindfoot could be counted upon to be there.
His dark sombre eyes gleamed from the gold coin in his palm to Merryvale’s face.
“Come, follow me, but keep far behind,” whispered Merryvale, and went out. He did not want to run the risk of being seen making for the desert with Hindfoot. There appeared small chance of that, however, for all of Lost Lake was in the freighting-post.
Merryvale went north along the road. He met Mrs. Dorn, a dark little woman, wife of a freighter. She was wiping her hands on her apron.
“You hear the news?” she asked, excitedly.
“Wal, Mrs. Dorn, reckon there’s a lot of news fiyin’ around,” replied Merryvale.
“Ruth Larey has run off again,” she babbled, her eyes rolling. “With that young horse-dealer, Stone. It’s the second time with him. Larey is crazy they say…. Isn’t it dreadful? Poor Mr. Hunt! I’ve been a good friend to Ruth. But she’s got worse an’ worse. I think I saw it coming.”
“Mrs. Dorn, it looks pretty bad, I’m bound to say,” replied Merryvale. “But I’d wait a while before callin’ Ruth an out an’ out hussy.”
“Oh, I didn’t,” protested Mrs. Dorn. “But I’m frightened. You know she ran off with Stone once, because you an’ that desert man stopped her. This time it’s worse. They robbed Larey’s office. Stole money to go away on.”
Merryvale passed her without further comment. The inhabitants of Lost Lake were what the desert had made them, with Ruth and Caleb Hunt no exceptions. Merryvale extended the symbolism to himself—a lean desert fox, sharp of fang, without issue, lonely, hungry, warped. Had not all the human in him gone out to Adam, and through that strange love, hard and tenacious as cactus, to the woman Adam loved?
Once on the outskirts of the post Merryvale turned to see the Indian following at a goodly distance. Merryvale went on as far as some smoke trees where he waited.