Stairs of Sand

by Zane Grey

  With trembling hand he rapped: “Ruth! Ruth!” he called, as loud as he dared.

  He caught a low cry, soft footsteps, a guarded knock from the inside.

  “Who is it?” she whispered.

  “It’s Merryvale.”

  “Oh, thank God…. Is Adam with you?”

  “He’s heah in Yuma. We come to get you. Who fetched you heah?”

  “Collishaw and Stone,” Ruth replied, in tense whisper.

  “What aboot Larey?”

  “All his plot. But don’t tell Adam.”

  “Are you—,” Merryvale choked over the words, “safe an’—an’—”

  “I’m all right—only badly bruised from fighting Collishaw. He was a beast. But for Stone he—”

  “Never mind now. I must go after Adam. Keep up courage, lass. We’ll come pronto.”

  “Bring something I can put around me. My clothes are tom to pieces.”

  Merryvale put all his strength into an effort to force open the door. It was beyond him.

  “I can’t break down this door. But Adam can. Keep up heart, Ruth.”

  “Hurry—oh! hurry!” she whispered back. “Any moment he may come.”

  Merryvale wheeled away, his heart pounding, and under his breath he muttered: “I hope to Gawd he does come—jest as Adam gets heah!”

  It was almost impossible for Merryvale to keep to a natural walk along the corridor, and down the first flight of stairs. Reaching the second and seeing them empty, he ran down, two steps at a time, and hurried into the street. Here he forced himself to walk without attracting undue attention. What endless distance these two blocks back to Augustine’s!

  Merryvale burst into the patio and raced on, to reach their quarters breathless and triumphant. Adam was not there. Augustine was not there.

  “Gawd! This is tough,” he muttered. “But I caint do anythin’. I’ve got to wait.”

  He paced the stone-floored room, crushing down his dismay, telling himself over and over again that the delay, while terrible for Ruth, was not necessarily serious. He saw the red sunset haze darken through the window. Interminable moments wore on. When Merryvale had almost become desperate he heard quick footfalls. Adam entered, followed by Augustine.

  Merryvale approached them, aware that neither of the men recognized him. The room was not light. Adam bent down to see the better.

  “Where’n hell have you been?” demanded Merryvale, hoarsely.

  “If it isn’t Merryvale!” ejaculated Adam. “Augustine can’t find the man who’ll know where Ruth is—if she’s at Sanchez’s.”

  “Never mind him. I know where she is,” broke out Merryvale.

  Adam’s two great hands closed on Merryvale’s shoulders.

  “Pard! You know? How? Where?”

  “Don’t waste time makin’ me explain now,” returned Merryvale. “I’ve talked with Ruth. She’s locked in. It’s a strong heavy door. We’ll need—”

  “I could smash any door,” interrupted Adam, hoarsely.

  “Come, then,” said Merryvale, snatching up the package that contained the linen coat and veil he had bought for Ruth. “Augustine, wait for us heah.”

  Adam asked no more questions, and stalked beside Merryvale, trying to keep down his stride.

  “Adam, if we have the luck I had it’ll be shore easy,” Merryvale was whispering, as they hurried along. “We could go by the backstairs, but I reckon the front will be better, if we meet no one. Keep your eye peeled. We’ll have to go out the backway…. It’s the Del Toro, as shore you’ve guessed.”

  They stalked on up the street, and Merryvale was powerfully aware of the great arm, hard as iron, on to which he held. A few lights illuminated the shops. The volume of traffic in the street had not been resumed, but the sidewalk was crowded.

  Adam’s swinging stride, with which Merryvale kept pace with difficulty soon brought them to the Del Toro.

  Sanchez’s saloon was roaring. Merryvale edged out of the middle of the sidewalk, and reaching the stairway he drew Adam in. They went up to the corridor, turned to the second flight—ascended that. The upper hallway was almost dark, except at the far end, where the arched openings emitted light.

  “Never met—a soul!” panted Merryvale. “Shore my luck held.”

  The porch, too, was deserted. Merryvale no longer looked fearfully in any direction. He saw only the door he wanted.

  “Heah we—are—Adam,” he said, drawing a deep breath.

  He rapped. A moment of intense suspense followed. Adam’s breathing was deep and labored.

  “Ruth! Ruth!” called Merryvale, in low eager voice, knocking again. No answer! Then he hastily gazed along the porch to get his bearings a second time. “Shore this heah is the room.”

  Then Adam knocked and called in his deep voice: “Ruth, it’s Adam!”

  A dead silence greeted them.

  “She had to wait too long,” whispered Merryvale. “Reckon she’s give out an’ fainted. Her voice shore was weak.”

  “Get back,” ordered Adam, and laying hold of the handle he pressed his shoulder against the door and shoved. It creaked and strained and shook. Adam drew back and lunged with tremendous force. The door cracked loud, broke from lock and hinges, and fell in with a crash.

  Merryvale followed Adam into the room. It was empty. A small adjoining closet, dark and full of rubbish, showed no sign of Ruth.

  “Aw!—she’s gone!” ejaculated Merryvale, in blank disappointment.

  Adam swooped down upon a little handkerchief. It was Ruth’s. It was faintly sweet with the perfume Merryvale recognized.

  “Wal, you see—she was heah!” he burst out, after examining the handkerchief. “She caint be gone long or far.”

  He saw Adam’s swift glance take in the heavy Spanish bed, with its old yellow lace and faded curtains—the table, where sat a tray of food still untouched—the small high iron-barred window.

  “Yes, she was here, pard,” said Adam bitterly.

  “She’s been taken away from heah,” returned Merryvale, getting back his wits, and rising under the crushing blow. “Last word Ruth said was for me to hurry—that—” Here Merryvale caught himself and bit his tongue. He had nearly betrayed Ruth’s fear of Guerd Larey’s coming. “She was awful afraid of Collishaw,” went on Merryvale. “She was all right yet, she said, but bad bruised from fightin’ Collishaw—”

  Merryvale’s hurried speech died in his throat. Adam had turned white to the lips. With giant strides he crossed the threshold, out upon the porch. Merryvale plunged after him, into the house again, and down the stairs. Two doors opened, and the startled faces of Mexicans peered out. A man was rushing up the lower flight of steps, but gave way before the impetus of Adam and Merryvale, making no attempt to stop them. Once on the street, Adam made directly for the swinging doors of the Del Toro Saloon.

  Chapter Ten

  IN THAT day the Del Toro was the largest, if not the worst, drinking and gambling hall in the Southwest.

  Merryvale entered close upon the heels of Wansfell.

  An immense long wide room ran the length of the Del Toro. Many yellow lights, hanging high, shone on a smoke-hazed scene. Men stood four deep at the bar, and they had to shout to make themselves heard. Gilt-framed mirrors and crude paintings of nude women showed garishly above the endless shelves of glittering glasses and bottles. But few of the numerous tables were unoccupied by gamesters. Women were conspicious for their absence. Music coming from somewhere, however, suggested that the feminine element was not altogether lacking at Sanchez’s. The riotous drinkers and the quiet gamblers were in odd contrast. The stream of visitors appeared to begin and end in front of the long bar.

  Adam stalked down the center of the hall and halted where he could see everyone to the greatest advantage.

  It was indeed a mixed crowd. Merryvale, himself, searching with sharp eyes for the two men they wanted, scrutinized every one within range. Tall gamblers in black frock coats and high hats and flashy vests mingled in the thr
ong, drinking little, watching with their intent hawk-eyes for victims to be plucked. Chinamen were not wanting from the changing mob at the bar. A lithe young man, stalwart in build, clad in beaded buckskin, with gun and knife in his belt, paraded by alone, his thin dark face, his glance like that of an Indian, arresting Merryvale’s attention. Miners were many and the loudest of the drinking groups. And they, with the freighters and teamsters, in their rough garb and dusty boots were bent merely on a good-natured drink or two. When they imbibed these they passed noisily out to leave their places to others.

  Mexicans predominated at the bar, while at the gaming tables most were white men. It appeared to be a Mexican rendezvous, patronized by all classes and types of desert Yuma. High above the bar stood out the stuffed head of an enormous bull, and across the horns lay a matador’s sword, with his red flag draped upon it.

  A prospector wandered in, perhaps more to see the sights, to have one evening of excitement, than to drink or gamble. Merryvale had met him somewhere, yet could not place him. Small of stature, with shrunken frame and face warped by exposure, and gray weather-stained garments spotted by many patches, and boots held together by pieces of string, he was indeed an object to hold Merryvale’s seeking gaze.

  Arizona Charlie, a local character, whom Merryvale knew by sight, appeared with a group of friends, all bent upon conviviality. He stood head and shoulders above the crowd, a picturesque frontiersman in cowboy regalia, red of face, blinking of eye, with a mouth that was a thin hard line except when he laughed.

  A group of riders, booted and spurred and belted, gun-packing, sombre-visaged men, entered to share Merryvale’s scrutiny. How keenly Adam sized up these riders! And they had the same sharp attention for him. Merryvale placed them as bandits, and if not that, then surely hard-riding strangers who kept close together and avoided contacts. They took seats at an empty table.

  “Horse thieves from the Gila Valley,” explained Adam to Merryvale. “They come here often after a raid. I knew—”

  But Merryvale, who was gazing somewhere else, clutched Adam’s arm.

  “Heah comes Collishaw!” he said, with abated breath.

  “Sanchez with him, but I don’t know the other,” returned Adam and his relaxed posture changed strangely.

  “Shore it’s not Stone, an’ that’s jest as well. You can make him talk, but you caint never Collishaw.”

  “I’ll try,” muttered Adam.

  “Pard, he’s a Texan,” expostulated Merryvale. “Don’t waste time on him. An’ shore, Adam, I don’t need to tell you, if he gets ugly, that you’ll have to beat him to a gun.”

  Collishaw appeared to be listening impatiently to Sanchez, who talked fast and gesticulated vehemently, after the manner of Mexicans. He was a burly man short, with a head like a bull-dog, and a very dark skin. His attire showed the richness and color always affected by the prosperous of his nationality. Collishaw wore the long coat and wide black sombrero and flowing bow tie, which would have stamped him as a Texan. The man accompanying them was American, and certainly not prepossessing to Merryvale.

  Adam advanced as they came on toward the center of the hall, but, at close range, they appeared to be too absorbed in themselves to notice outsiders.

  “….. want in on Lost Lake deal,” Sanchez’s sharp low voice penetrated Merryvale’s keen ears.

  “That’s not for me to say,” replied the Texan.

  These remarks certainly overheard by Adam no doubt accounted for the fact that he did not confront Collishaw. Instead he walked to the side and a little back of him. Merryvale followed. Sanchez opened a door leading into another room, and went in, with Collishaw at his heels. The third man reached for the door, to close it, when Adam, with a swing of his long arm, sent him staggering back. Adam entered the room, while Merryvale, quick witted and swift, followed, closing the door behind him.

  It was a sumptuous private gambling parlor, with a game going on at the far table.

  “The girl’s gone. Stone stole her. I’ve just come down. Door busted in,” Collishaw was saying, angrily, as he turned.

  “Senor Collishaw has double-crossed me before,” replied the Mexican.

  The Texan suddenly espied Adam. He stared. His jaw dropped. His one eye, light and hard, expressed astonishment that, as Adam advanced, gathered a darkening suspicion.

  “Wal, stranger,” he began, blusteringly. “This heah room’s private.”

  “Collishaw, I may not be so much of a stranger as you think,” replied Adam, deliberately.

  Sanchez promptly stepped aside, and Merryvale warily did the same. The door opened slightly, to show the curious face of the American who had been prevented from entering. He whistled low and disappeared leaving the door ajar.

  Collishaw’s mien had shifted. From a man whose privacy had been intruded upon, he became the exsheriff Texan who had made innumerable enemies.

  “I’ve met you somewhere—long ago,” he remarked, coolly. “But I caint place you.”

  “You’ll place me presently,” returned Adam, sombrely.

  “Wal, I’m glad to heah it,” drawled Collishaw, in slow expectation that certainly belied the content of his words.

  Sanchez, quick to sense the undercurrent there, put more distance between him and the Texan. In fact he backed against the table, disturbing the gamblers.

  “Hey, Sanchez, you’re mussin’ my cairds,” remonstrated one, whose back was turned.

  “What’s up?” quickly asked another, who faced the other way.

  “Senor Collishaw meets an old friend,” returned Sanchez, with significant sarcasm.

  Adam took a long step, instantly bridging the distance between him and Collishaw. The amazing swiftness of it caused Collishaw to jerk up stiff. The ruddiness faded from his face. Merryvale leaned against the wall. He could see only Adam’s profile, cold, gray, clear-cut, with the cast of the eagle striking at his prey.

  “I want Ruth!” Adam shot the words too low for Sanchez and the gamesters to hear.

  The cool nerve of the Texan betrayed another shock of surprise.

  “Who are you?” he burst out, as if involuntarily.

  “Where’s the girl? Quick!” flashed Adam, lower and fiercer.

  Collishaw laughed with grim humor at the idea of any man making him talk when he did not wish to; while at the same time his stern grasping mind was searching through the scenes of the past.

  Suddenly he began to nod his bullet-like head, and his one eye gleamed sardonically.

  “Wal, I’ve placed you, stranger,” he said. “Reckon I’ve the doubtful honor of meetin’ Wansfell, the Wanderer.”

  He had lowered his voice, evidently not caring to acquaint Sanchez with the identity of this man.

  “Yes,” replied Adam.

  “Ought to have placed you quick—considerin’ what I heah from Stone. Sorry, Mr. Wansfell, but I caint oblige you aboot the lady, an’ help you to one of your desert tricks. But fact is—an’ I’m admittin’ it damn sore—the little hussy is aboot makin’ up to Stone this very minute.”

  “You dirty Texan!” Adam’s voice was cutting. “You who brag of being raised where women are respected! You low-down tool of Guerd Larey!”

  Then Adam’s big open hand flashed to hard contact with Collishaw’s mouth. The blood flowed. He uttered a hoarse gasp, and jerked spasmodically, as if checking a violent move to draw his gun. Something withheld him; probably not the icy coolness of the man who had struck him; not that the indignity did not call for the retaliation of gunplay; but something in the name and presence of this man Wansfell.

  “Collishaw, you were once a hanging sheriff,” went on Adam, relentlessly. “I knew of one innocent man you hanged. You were a gambler and a thief. Now you are worse. You try to bully and rob an old man. You plot with that miserable partner of yours. You abduct an innocent woman for him. Then you betray him by wanting her yourself…. You manhandle her! You bruise her tender flesh! … You dog!”

  “So it was you broke in her room!” ras
ped out Collishaw, and he lurched for his gun.

  Swift as light Adam’s hand pressed his gun into Collishaw’s prominent paunch.

  “Draw!” hissed Adam, pushing hard on his gun.

  “You’ve got—the drop!” hoarsely stuttered Collishaw.

  “Bah! You need two eyes to deal with a man,” went on Adam, in studied contempt. “You hideous one-eyed brute! Why they’d laugh at you in Texas.”

  Collishaw’s face turned a livid hue, his big head wagged so that it dislodged his hat, huge beads of sweat popped out on his brow.

  “Who put out that eye for you?” continued Adam, leaning closer, in suppressed cold passion that was terrible.

  “I’ve shot—men—for less’en—that,” panted Collishaw, drawn inevitably beyond all reason.

  “Yes, but what kind of men?” Try it on me!” taunted Adam.

  Then he waited, insupportably menacing to Collishaw.

  Merryvale failed to draw breath. He felt all the eighteen years of agony and passion that Adam owed equally to his brother Guerd and this ex-sheriff, who had specialized in hanging men.

  “Collishaw—remember Ehrenberg!” went on Adam.

  The Texan’s one eye lost its fixidity and dilated wildly.

  “Picacho!”

  Collishaw’s frame seemed to expand with slow quivering pressure from within.

  “Look at me! Look at Wansfell the Wanderer! Look close!”

  That one eye, evil, with all of hell burning in its depths, glittered on the verge of appalling recognition.

  “Look close at Wansfell! … At me!—I put out that eye for you! … I am Adam Larey!”

  “Hellsfire!” screamed Collishaw.

  His stiffness broke. With hate-driven speed he snatched out his weapon. As it gleamed blue in the light Adam’s gun bellowed with muffled report at Collishaw’s abdomen.

  Merryvale heard the heavy bullet thud into the wall. It had passed through Collishaw. The terriffic impact hurled him back. Yet it did not check his instinct to pull trigger. His gun spouted red and boomed—waved up wildly—to boom again. Shot through as he was—shocked, staggering and sinking there still lived the desperate desire to kill. And with super-human will he was steadying the wavering gun when Adam shot out that burning eye.