by Zane Grey
Neale did not tell King what he had heard. The cowboy changed subtly, not in his attitude toward Neale, but toward all else. Benton and its wildness might have been his proper setting. So many rough and bad men, inspired by the time and place, essayed to be equal to Benton. But they lasted a day and were forgotten. The great compliment paid to Larry Red King was the change in the attitude of this wild camp. He had been one among many—a stranger. The time came when the dance halls grew quiet as he entered and the gambling hells suspended their games. His fame increased as from lip to lip his story passed, always gaining something. Jealousy, hatred, and fear grew with his fame. It was hinted that he was always seeking some man or men from California. He had been known to question new arrivals: “Might you-all happen to be from California? Have you ever heered of an outfit thet made off with a girl out heah in the Black Hills?”
* * * * *
Neale drifted. Gambling became a habit. Drinking did not get such a hold upon him, because liquor made him sick. He became a friend and companion of Place Hough. Ancliffe sought him, also, and he was often in the haunts of these men. They did not take so readily to King. The cowboy had become a sort of nervous factor to any community. His presence was not conducive to a comfortable hour. For King, although he still drawled his talk and sauntered around, looked the name the Texas visitors had left him. His flashing blue eyes, cold and intent and hard in his flaming red face, his blazing red hair, his stalking form and his gun swinging low—these were so striking as to make his presence always felt. Beauty Stanton claimed the cowboy had ruined her business and that she had a terror of him. But Neale doubted the former statement. All business, good and bad, grew in Benton.
It was strange that as this attractive and notorious woman conceived a terror of King she formed an infatuation for Neale. He would have been blind to it but for the dry humor of Place Hough and the amiable indifference of Ancliffe, who had anticipated a rival in Neale. Their talk, like most talk, drifted through Neale’s ears. What did he care? He liked these men, not for what they did or what they were, but because there was a terrible need in him of something to make him forget himself. Both Hough and Ancliffe began to loom largely to Neale. They wasted every day, every hour, and yet, underneath the one’s cold passionless pursuit of gold, and the other’s serene and gentle quest for effacement, there was something finer left of other years. Neale began to look at himself in the light in which he saw his friends. Benton was full of gamblers and broken men who had once been gentlemen. Neale met them every day—gambled with them—watched them. He measured them all by what he might have been himself. They had given up, but within him there was a continued struggle. He swore to himself, as he had to King, that he was hopeless, yet there was never a sleeping or a waking hour that his better nature did not rise up to flay and accuse and exhort. Drink did not help him, since before he could take enough to make him drunk, a cold and hateful nausea prohibited his further indulgence. The excitement and allurement of the dance halls, although he admired their power, were impossible for him, because while there, in the presence of these pretty and abandoned women, he remembered the past more vividly than elsewhere.
Gambling, then, seemed the only medium by which he could extract a few hours of oblivion from his tortured life. And since he could not play games of chance alone, he had to go to the gambling hells to bear as best he could the baseness that attached itself to him there. Women had free run of all the places in Benton.
At first Neale was flirted with and importuned. Then he was scorned. Then he was let alone. Finally, as day by day he went on, always courteous, even considerate of the women who happened in his way, but blind and cold to the meaning of them there, he was at last respected and admired.
In the afternoons there was always a game in the big gambling place, and in fact the greatest stakes were played for by gamblers like Hough, pitted against each other. Night time was reserved for the fleecing of the builders of the U.P.R., the wage earners whose gold was the lure and the magnet. Neale won large sums of money in those games in which he played with Place Hough. His winnings he scattered or lost in games where he was outpointed or cheated. It was all one to him, for what he cared for was the game, not the result.
One day a number of Eastern capitalists visited Benton. The fame of the town drew crowds of the curious and greedy. And many of these transient visitors seemed to want to have their fling at the gambling hells and dancing halls. There was a contagion in the wildness that affected even the selfish. It would be something to remember and boast of when Benton with its life was a thing of the past.
Place Hough met old acquaintances among some St. Louis visitors who were out to see the road and Benton, and perhaps to find investments, and he assured them blandly that their visit would not be memorable unless he relieved them of surplus cash. So a game with big stakes was begun. Neale, with Hough and five of the visitors, made up the table.
Eastern visitors worked bitterly upon Neale’s mood, but he did not betray it. He was always afraid he would come face to face with some of the directors or some of the engineers who he knew so well. That was why, while gambling, he seldom looked up from his cards. The crowd came and went, but he never saw it.
This big game attracted watchers. The visitors were noisy; they drank a good deal; they lost with an equanimity that excited interest, even in Benton. The luck for Neale see-sawed back and forth. Then he lost steadily until he had to borrow from Hough.
About this time Beauty Stanton, with Ruby and another woman, entered the room, and were at once attracted by the game, to the evident pleasure of the visitors. And then unexpectedly Larry Red King stalked in and lounged forward, cool, easy, careless, his cigarette half smoked, his blue eyes keen.
“Hey, is that him?” whispered one of the visitors, indicating King.
“That’s Red,” replied Hough. “Hope he’s not looking for one of your gentlemen.”
They laughed, but not spontaneously.
“I’ve seen his like in Dodge City,” said one.
“Ask him to sit in the game,” said another.
“No. Red’s a cardsharp,” replied Hough. “And I’d hate to see him catch one of you pulling a crooked deal.”
They lapsed back into the intricacies and fascination of poker.
Neale, however, found the game unable to hold his undivided attention. King was there, looking and watching, and he made Neale’s blood run cold. The girl Ruby was there across from him, with her half-closed eyes, mysterious and sweet, upon him. And Beauty Stanton was there, behind him, as she had often stood to watch a game.
“Neale, I’ll bring you luck,” she said, and put her hand on his shoulder.
Neale’s luck did change. Fortune faced about abruptly, with its fickle inconsistency, and Neale had a run of cards that piled the gold and bills before him, and brought a crowd ten deep around the table. When the game broke up, Neale had now $10,000.
“See. I brought you luck,” whispered Beauty Stanton in his ear. And across the table Ruby smiled hauntingly and mockingly.
Neale waved the crowd toward the bar. Only the women and King refused the invitation. Ruby gravitated irresistibly toward the cowboy.
“Aren’t you connected with the road?” inquired one of the visitors, drinking next to Neale.
“I am,” replied Neale.
“Saw you in Omaha at the office of the company. My name’s Blair. I sell supplies to Commissioner Lee. He has growing interests along the road.”
Neale’s lips closed and he set down his empty glass. Excusing himself, he went back to the group he had left. King sat on the edge of the table. Ruby stood close to him and she was talking; Stanton and the other woman had taken chairs.
“Wal, I reckon you made a rake-off,” drawled King as Neale came up. “Lend me some money, pard.”
Neale glanced at King and from him to the girl. She dropped her eyes. “Ruby, do you like Red?” he queried.
“Sure do,” replied the girl.
; “Red, do you like Ruby?” went on Neale.
Beauty Stanton smiled her interest. The other woman came back from nowhere to watch Neale.
King regarded his friend in mild surprise. “I reckon it was a terrible case of love at first sight,” he drawled.
“I’ll call your bluff,” flashed Neale. “I’ve just won ten thousand dollars. I’ll give it to you . . . Will you take it and leave Benton . . . go back . . . no! . . . go on west . . . begin life over again?”
“Together . . . you mean!” exclaimed Beauty Stanton as she rose with a glow on her faded face. No need then to wonder why she had been named Beauty!
“Yes, together,” replied Neale in swift steadiness. “You’ve started bad. But you’re young. It’s never too late. This money can buy you a ranch . . . begin all over again.”
“Pard, haven’t you seen too much red liquor?” drawled King.
The girl shook her head. “Too late,” she said softly.
“Why?”
“Red is bad, but he’s honest. I’m both bad and dishonest.”
“Ruby, I wouldn’t call you dishonest,” returned Neale bluntly. “Bad? Yes. And wild. But if you had a chance . . .”
“No,” she said.
“You’re both slated for hell. What’s the sense of it?”
“I don’t see that you’re slated for heaven,” retorted Ruby.
“Wal, I shore say echo,” drawled King as he rolled a cigarette. “Pard, you’re drunk this heah minnit!”
“I’m not drunk. I appeal to you, Miss Stanton,” protested Neale.
“You certainly are not drunk,” she replied. “You’re just . . .”
“Crazy!” interrupted Ruby.
They laughed.
“Maybe I do have crazy impulses,” replied Neale, and he felt his face grow white. “Every once in a while I see a flash . . . of . . . of I don’t know what. I could do something big . . . even now . . . if my heart wasn’t dead.”
“Mine’s in its grave,” said Ruby bitterly. “Come, Stanton, let’s get out of this. Find me men who talk of drink and women.”
Neale deliberately reached out and stopped her as she turned away. He faced her. “You’re no four-flush,” he said. “You’re game. You mean to play this out to the finish . . . But you’re no . . . no maggot like the most. You can think. You’re afraid to talk to me.”
“I’m afraid of no man. But you . . . you’re a fool . . . a sky pilot. You’re . . .”
“The thing is . . . it’s not too late.”
“It is too late!” she cried, with trembling lips.
Neale saw and felt less dominance over her. “It is never too late!” he responded with all his force. “I can prove that.”
She looked at him mutely. The ghost of another girl stood there instead of the wild Ruby of Benton.
“Pard, you’re drunk shore!” ejaculated King as he towered over them, and gave his belt a hitch. The cowboy sensed events.
“I’ve annoyed you more than once,” said Neale. “This’s the last . . . So tell me the truth . . . Could I take you away from this life?”
“Take me? How . . . man?”
“I’m wasting my own life. I know that. I could hardly do worse. But I’d hold it . . . as worthy . . . to save a girl like you . . . any girl . . . from hell.”
“But . . . how?” she faltered. The bitterness, the irony, the wrong done her by life was not manifest now.
“You refused my plan . . . with Red . . . Come with me, then.”
“My God . . . he’s not in earnest!” gasped the girl to her women friends. How cruel it was to have this thought forced upon her, to rise by it, to lose some of her hate of men, to feel softened once more—all in vain! She could not believe. She received no help from her friends.
“I am in earnest,” said Neale.
Then the tension of the girl relaxed. Her face showed a rebirth of soul. “I can’t accept,” she replied. If she thanked him, it was with a look. Assuredly her eyes had never before held that gaze for Neale. Then she left the room, and presently Stanton’s companion followed her. But Beauty Stanton remained. She appeared amazed at something, in dismay with something.
King lighted his cigarette. “Shore I’d call thet a square kid,” he said. “Neale, if you get any drunker, you’ll lose all thet money.”
“I’ll lose it anyhow,” replied Neale absent-mindedly.
“Wal, stake me right heah an’ now.”
At that Neale generously and still absent-mindedly delivered to King gold and notes that he did not count.
“Hell! I ain’t no bank!” protested the cowboy.
Hough and Ancliffe joined them, and with amusement watched King try to find pockets enough for his small fortune.
“Easy come, easy go in Benton,” said the gambler with a smile. Then his glance, alighting upon the quiet Stanton, grew a little puzzled. “Beauty, what ails you?”
She was pale and her expressive eyes were fixed upon Neale. Hough’s words startled her. “What ails me? Place, I’ve had a forgetful moment . . . a happy one . . . and I’m deathly sick.”
Ancliffe stared in wild surprise. He took her literally.
Beauty Stanton looked at Neale again. “Will you come to see me?” she asked with sweet directness.
“Thank you . . . no,” replied Neale. He was amazed. She had asked him that before, and he had coldly but courteously repelled what he thought were her advances. This time he was scarcely courteous.
The woman flushed. She appeared about to make a quick and passionate reply, in anger and wounded pride, but she controlled the impulse. She left the room with Ancliffe.
“Neale, do you know Stanton is infatuated with you?” asked Hough thoughtfully.
“Nonsense,” replied Neale.
“She is, though. These women can’t fool me. I told you days ago I suspected that. Now I’ll gamble on it. And you know how I play my cards!”
“She saw me win a pile of money,” said Neale, with scorn.
“I’ll bet you can’t make her take a dollar of it. Any amount you want and any odds.”
Neale would not accept the wager. What was he talking about, anyway? What was his drift of things? His mind did not seem right. Perhaps he had drunk too much. The eyes of both Ruby and Beauty Stanton troubled him. What had he done to these women?
“Neale, you’re more than usually excited today,” observed Hough. “Probably was the run of luck. And then you spouted to the women.”
Neale confessed his offer to Ruby and King, and then his own impulse. “Ruby called me a fool . . . crazy . . . a sky pilot. Maybe . . .”
“Sky pilot! Well, the little devil.” Hough laughed. “I’ll gamble she called you that before you declared yourself.”
“Before, yes. I tell you, Hough, I have crazy impulses. They’ve grown on me out here. They burst like lightning out of a clear sky. I would have done just that thing for Ruby . . . Mad, you say? Why, man, she’s no worse than I am. It would have given me respect for myself. There was something deep behind that impulse. Strange . . . not understandable. I’m at the mercy of every hour here. What could be worse? Benton has got into my blood. And I see how Benton is a product of this great advance of progress . . . of civilization . . . the U.P.R. We’re only atoms in a force no one can understand . . . Look at Red King. That cowboy was set . . . fixed like stone in his character. But Benton has called to the worst and wildest in him. He’ll do something terrible. Mark what I say. We’ll all do something terrible. You . . . Place Hough, with all your cold implacable control! The moment will come, born out of this abnormal time. I can’t explain, but I feel. There’s a workshop in this hell of Benton. Invisible, monstrous, and nameless! Nameless like the new graves dug every day out here on the desert. How few of the honest toilers dream of the spirit that is working on them. That Irishman Shane . . . think of him! He fought while his brains oozed from a hole in his head. I saw, but I didn’t know, then. I wanted to take his place. He said . . . no . . . he wasn’t hurt . .
. and Casey would laugh at him. Aye . . . Casey would have laughed! They are men. There are thousands of them. The U.P.R. goes on! It can’t be stopped. It has the momentum of a great nation rolling on from behind . . . And I, who have fallen, and you, who are a drone among the bees, and Ruby and Stanton with their kind . . . poor creatures sucked into the vortex! And the mob of leeches . . . Why, we all are so stung by that nameless spirit that we are stirred beyond ourselves, and dare both height and depth of impossible things!”
The gambler showed strong response to Neale’s passion.
“You must be drunk,” he said gravely. “And yet what you say hits me hard. I’m a gambler. But sometimes . . . there are moments when I might be less or more. There’s mystery in the air. This Benton is a chaos. Those hairy toilers of the rails! I’ve watched them hammer and lift and dig and fight. By day, they sweat and they bleed and sing and joke and quarrel . . . and go on with the work. By night they are seized by the furies. They fight among themselves while being plundered and murdered by Benton’s wolves. Heroic by day . . . hellish by night! And so, spirit or what . . . they set the pace.”
* * * * *
Next afternoon, when parasitic Benton awoke, it found the girl Ruby dead in her bed.
Her door had to be forced. She had not been murdered. She had destroyed much of the contents of a trunk. She had dressed herself in simple garments no one in Benton had ever seen. It did not appear what means she had employed to take her life. She was only one of many. More than one girl of Benton’s throng had sought the same short road, and cheated life of further pain.
When Neale heard about it, late that afternoon, Ruby was in her grave. It suited him to walk out in the twilight and stand a while in the silence beside the bare sandy mound. No stone—no mark. Another nameless grave! She had been a child once, with dancing eyes and smiles, loved by someone, surely, and perhaps mourned by someone living. The low hum of Benton’s awakening night life was borne faintly on the wind. The sand seeped; the coyotes wailed, and yet there was silence. Twilight lingered. Out in the desert the shadows deepened.