The Western Romance MEGAPACK ®: 20 Classic Tales

by Zane Grey

  DeWitt answered tersely.

  “I’m mighty glad you’re well, but only for your own sake and because I can have you longer. I don’t want you to work for me. I’ll do all the working that’s done in our family!”

  “But,” protested Rhoda, “that’s just keeping me lazy and selfish!”

  “You couldn’t be selfish if you tried. You pay your way with your beauty. When I think of that Apache devil having the joy of you all this time, watching you grow back to health, taking care of you, carrying you, it makes me feel like a cave man. I could kill him with a club! Thank heaven, the lynch law can hold in this forsaken spot! And there isn’t a man in the country but will back me up, not a jury that would find me guilty!”

  Rhoda sat in utter consternation. The power of the desert to lay bare the human soul appalled her. This was a DeWitt that the East never could have shown her. It sickened her as she realized that no words of hers could sway this man; to realize that she was trying to stay with her feeble feminine hands passions that were as old a world-force as love itself. All her new-found strength seemed inadequate to solve this new problem.

  CHAPTER XIX

  THE TRAIL AGAIN

  For a long time Rhoda sat silently considering her problem and John watched her soberly. Finally she turned to speak. As she did so, she caught on the young man’s face a look so weary, so puzzled, so altogether wretched that the girl’s heart smote her. This was indeed a poor return for what he had endured for her! Rhoda jumped to her feet with resolution in her eyes. “Are you too tired to explore the ruins?” she asked. DeWitt rose languidly. Rhoda had responded at once to rest and food but John would need a month of care and quiet in which to regain his strength.

  “I’ll do anything you want me to—in that line!”

  Rhoda carefully ignored the last phrase.

  “Even if we’re half dead, it’s too bad to miss the opportunity to examine such a wonderful thing as this. You couldn’t find as glorious a setting for a ruin anywhere in Europe.”

  “Oh, yes, you could; lots of ’em,” answered DeWitt. “You can’t compare a ruin like this with anything in Europe. What makes European ruins appeal to us is not only their intrinsic beauty but the association of big ideas with them. We know that big thoughts built them and perhaps destroyed them.”

  “What do you call big thoughts?” asked Rhoda. “Wasn’t it just as great for these Pueblo Indians to perform such terrible labor in building this for their families as it was for some old king to work thousands of slaves to death to build him a monument?”

  DeWitt laughed.

  “Rhoda, you can love the desert, its Indians and its ruins all you want to, if you won’t ask me to! I’ve had all I want of the three of them! Lord, how I hate it all!”

  Rhoda looked at him wistfully. If only he could understand the spiritual change in her that was even greater than the physical! If only he could see the beauty of those far lavender hazes! If only he could understand how even now she was heartsick for the night trail where one looked up into the sky as into a shadowy opal! If only he knew the peace that had dwelt with her on the holiday ledge where there were tints and beauties too deep for words! And yet with the wistfulness came a strange sense of satisfaction that all this new part of her must belong forever to Kut-le.

  John led the way into the dwelling. All was emptiness and ruin. All that remained of the old life within its walls were wonderful bits of pottery. Only once did DeWitt give evidence of pleasure. He was examining the carefully finished walls of one of the rooms when he called:

  “I say, Rhoda, just look at this bit of humanness!”

  Rhoda came to him quickly and he pointed low down on the adobe wall where was the perfect imprint of a baby’s hand.

  “The little rascal got spanked, I’ll bet, for putting his hand on the ’dobe before it was dry!” commented John.

  Rhoda smiled but said nothing. These departed peoples had become very real and very pitiable to her.

  As soon as he could drag Rhoda from the ancient pots, John led the way to the top of the ruin. He was anxious to find if there were more than the one trail leading from the desert. To his great satisfaction he found that the mesa was unscalable except at the point that Rhoda had found as she staggered up from the desert.

  “I’m going to guard that trail tonight,” he said. “It’s just possible, you know, that Kut-le escaped from Porter, though I think if he had he would have been upon us long before this. I’ve been mighty careless. But my brain is so tired it seems to have been off duty. I could hold that trail single-handed from the upper terrace for a week.”

  “Just remember,” said Rhoda quickly, “that I’ve asked you not to shoot to kill!”

  Again the hard light gleamed in DeWitt’s eyes.

  “I shall have a few words with him first, then I shall shoot to kill. There is that between that Indian and me which a woman evidently can’t understand. I just can’t see why you take the stand you do!”

  “John dear,” cried Rhoda, “put yourself in his place. With all the race prejudice against you that he had, wouldn’t you have done as he has?”

  “Probably,” answered Dewitt calmly. “I also would have expected what he is going to get.”

  A sudden sense of the bizarre nature of their conversation caused Rhoda to say comically:

  “I never knew that you could have such bloody ideas, John!”

  DeWitt was glad to turn the conversation.

  “I am so only occasionally,” he said. “For instance, instead of shooting the rabbit for supper, I’m going to try a figure-four trap.”

  They returned to their little camp on the upper terrace and Rhoda sat with wistful gray eyes fastened on the desert while John busied himself with the trap-making. He worked with the skill of his country boyhood and the trap was cleverly finished.

  “It’s evident that I’m not the leader of the expedition any more,” said Rhoda, looking at the trap admiringly.

  John shook his head.

  “I’ve lost my faith in myself as a hero. It’s one thing to read of the desert and think how well you could have managed there, and another thing to be on the spot!”

  The day passed slowly. As night drew on the two on the mesa top grew more and more anxious. There was little doubt but that they could live for a number of days at the old pueblo, yet it was evident that the ruin was far from any traveled trail and that chances of discovery were slight except by Kut-le. On the other hand, they were absolutely unprepared for a walking trip across the desert. Troubled and uncertain what to do, they watched the wonder of the sunset. Deeper, richer, more divine grew the colors of the desert, and in one supreme, flaming glory the sun sank from view.

  DeWitt with his arm across Rhoda’s shoulders spoke anxiously.

  “Don’t you still think we’d better start tomorrow?”

  “Yes,” she answered, “I suppose so. What direction shall we take?”

  “East,” replied DeWitt. “We’re bound to strike help if we can keep going long enough in one direction. We’ll cook a good supply of rabbits and I’ll fix up one of those bowl-like ollas with my handkerchief, so we can carry water in it as well as in the two canteens. I think you had better sleep in the little room there tonight and I’ll lie across the end of the trail here.”

  Rhoda sighed.

  “I’ve nothing better to suggest. As you say, it’s all guesswork!”

  They set the rabbit trap by the spring, then Rhoda, quite recovered from her nervousness of the night before, entered her little sleeping-room and made ready for the night. The front of the room had so crumbled away that she could see John’s dark form by the trail, and she lay down with a sense of security and fell asleep at once.

  John paced the terrace for a long hour after Rhoda was asleep, trying to plan every detail for the morr
ow. He dared not confess even to himself how utterly disheartened he felt in the face of this terrible adversary, the desert. Finally, realizing that he must have rest if Rhoda was not to repeat her previous experience in leading him across the desert he stretched himself on the ground across the head of the trail. He must trust to his nervousness to make him sleep lightly.

  How long she had slept Rhoda did not know when she was wakened by a half-muffled oath from DeWitt. She jumped to her feet and ran out to the terrace. Never while life remained to her was she to forget what she saw there. DeWitt and Kut-le were wrestling in each other’s grip! Rhoda stood horrified. As the two men twisted about, DeWitt saw the girl and panted:

  “Don’t stir, Rhoda! Don’t call or you’ll have his whole bunch up here!”

  “Don’t worry about that!” exclaimed Kut-le. “You’ve been wanting to get hold of me. Now we’ll fight it out bare-handed and the best man wins.”

  Rhoda looked wildly down the trail, then ran up to the two men.

  “Stop!” she screamed. “Stop!” Then as she caught the look in the men’s faces as they glared at each other she cried, “I hate you both, you beasts!”

  Her screams carried far in the night air, for in a moment Cesca came panting up the trail. She lunged at DeWitt with catlike fury, but at a sharp word from Kut-le she turned to Rhoda and stood guard beside the girl. Rhoda stood helplessly watching the battle as one watches the horrors of a nightmare.

  Kut-le and DeWitt now were fighting as two wolves fight. Both the men were trained wrestlers, but in their fury all their scientific training was forgotten, and rolling over and over on the rocky trail each fought for a hold on the other’s throat. With Kut-le was the advantage of perfect condition and superior strength. But DeWitt was fighting for his stolen mate. He was fighting like a cave man who has brooded for months on his revenge, and he was a terrible adversary. He had the sudden strength, the fearful recklessness of a madman. Now rolling on the edge of the terrace, now high against the crumbling pueblo, the savage and the civilized creature dragged each other back and forth. And Rhoda, awed by this display of passions, stood like the First Woman and waited!

  Of a sudden Kut-le disentangled himself and with knees on DeWitt’s shoulders he clutched at the white man’s throat. At the same time, DeWitt gathered together his recumbent body and with a mighty heave he flung Kut-le over his head. Rhoda gave a little cry, thinking the fight was ended; but as Kut-le gained his feet, DeWitt sprang to meet him and the struggle was renewed. Rhoda never had dreamed of a sight so sickening as this of the two men she knew so well fighting for each other’s throats with the animal’s lust for killing. She did not know what would be Kut-le’s course if he gained the mastery, but as she caught glimpses of DeWitt’s face with its clenched teeth and terrible look of loathing she knew that if his fingers ever reached Kut-le’s throat the Indian could hope for no mercy.

  And then she saw DeWitt’s face go white and his head drop back.

  “Oh!” she screamed. “You’ve killed him! You’ve killed him!”

  The Indian’s voice came in jerks as he eased DeWitt to the ground.

  “He’s just fainted. He’s put up a tremendous fight for a man in his condition!”

  As he spoke he was tying DeWitt’s hands and ankles with his own and DeWitt’s handkerchiefs. Rhoda would have run to DeWitt’s aid but Cesca’s hand was tight on her arm. Before the girl could plan any action, Kut-le had turned to her and had lifted her in his arms. She fought him wildly.

  “I can’t leave him so, Kut-le! You will kill all I’ve learned to feel for you if you leave him so!”

  “He’ll be all right!” panted Kut-le, running down the trail. “I’ve got Billy Porter down here to leave with him!”

  At the foot of the trail were horses. Gagged and bound to his saddle Billy Porter sat in the moonlight with Molly on guard. Kut-le put Rhoda on a horse, then quickly thrust Porter to the ground, where the man sat helplessly.

  “Oh, Billy!” cried Rhoda. “John is on the terrace! Find him! Help him!”

  The last words were spoken as Kut-le turned her horse and led at a trot into the desert.

  CHAPTER XX

  THE RUINED MISSION

  Rhoda was so confused that for a moment she could only ease herself to the pony’s swift canter and wonder if her encounter with DeWitt had been but a dream after all. A short distance from the pueblo Kut-le rode in beside her. It was very dark, with the heavy blackness that just precedes the dawn, but Rhoda felt that the Indian was looking at her exultingly.

  “It seemed as if I never would get Alchise and Injun Tom moved to a friend’s campos so that I could overtake you. I will say that that fellow Porter is game to the finish. It took me an hour to subdue him! Now, don’t worry about the two of them. With a little work they can loose themselves and help each other to safety. I saw Newman’s trail ten miles or so over beyond the pueblo mesa and I told Porter just how to go to pick him up.”

  Rhoda laughed hysterically.

  “No wonder you have such a hold on your Indians! You seem never to fail! I do believe as much of it is luck as ingenuity!”

  Kut-le chuckled.

  “What a jolt DeWitt will find when he comes to, and finds Porter!”

  “You needn’t gloat over the situation, Kut-le!” exclaimed Rhoda, half sobbing in her conflict of emotions.

  “Oh, you mustn’t mind anything I say,” returned the young Indian. “I am crazy with joy at just hearing your voice again! Are you really sorry to be with me again? Did DeWitt mean as much to you as ever? Tell me, Rhoda! Say just one kindly thing to me!”

  “O Kut-le,” cried Rhoda, “I can’t! I can’t! You must help me to be strong! You—who are the strongest person that I know! Can’t you put yourself in my place and realize what a horrible position I am in?”

  Kut-le answered slowly.

  “I guess I can realize it. But the end is so great, so much worth while that nothing before that matters much, to me! Rhoda, isn’t this good—the lift of the horse under your knees—the air rushing past your face—the weave and twist of the trail—don’t they speak to you and doesn’t your heart answer?”

  “Yes,” answered Rhoda simply.

  The young Indian rode still closer. Dawn was lifting now, and with a gasp Rhoda saw what she had been too agonized to heed on the terrace in the moonlight. Kut-le was clothed again! He wore the khaki suit, the high-laced riding boots of the ranch days; and he wore them with the grace, the debonair ease that had so charmed Rhoda in young Cartwell. That little sense of his difference that his Indian nakedness had kept in Rhoda’s subconsciousness disappeared. She stared at his broad, graceful shoulders, at the fine outline of his head which still was bare, and she knew that her decision was going to be indescribably difficult to keep. Kut-le watched the wistful gray eyes tenderly, as if he realized the depth of anguish behind their wistfulness; yet he watched none the less resolutely, as if he had no qualms over the outcome of his plans. And Rhoda, returning his gaze, caught the depth and splendor of his eyes. And that wordless joy of life whose thrill had touched her the first time that she had met young Cartwell rushed through her veins once more. He was the youth, the splendor, the vivid wholesomeness of the desert! He was the heart itself, of the desert.

  Kut-le laid his hand on hers.

  “Rhoda,” softly, “do you remember the moment before Porter interrupted us? Ah, dear one, you will have to prove much to erase the truth of that moment from our hearts! How much longer must I wait for you, Rhoda?”

  Rhoda did not speak, but as she returned the young man’s gaze there came her rare slow smile of unspeakable beauty and tenderness. Kut-le trembled; but before he could speak Rhoda seemed to see between his face and hers, DeWitt, haggard and exhausted, expending the last remnant of his strength in his fight for her. She put her hands before her face with a lit
tle sob.

  Kut-le watched her in silence for a moment, then he said in his low rich voice:

  “Neither DeWitt nor I want you to suffer over your decision. And DeWitt doesn’t want just the shell of you. I have the real you! O Rhoda, the real you will belong to me if you are seven times DeWitt’s wife! Can’t you realize that forever and ever you are mine, no matter how you fight or what you do?”

  But Rhoda scarcely heard him. She was with DeWitt, struggling across the parching sands.

  “O Kut-le! Kut-le! What shall I do! What shall I do!”

  Kut-le started to answer, then changed his mind.

  “You poor, tired little girl,” he said. “You have had a fierce time there in the desert. You look exhausted. What did you have to eat and how did you make out crossing to the mesa? By your trail you went miles out of your way.”

  Rhoda struggled for calm.

  “We nearly died the first day,” she said. “But we did very well after we reached the mesa.”

  Kut-le smiled to himself. It was hard even for him to realize that this plucky girl who passed so simply over such an ordeal as he knew she must have endured could be the Rhoda of the ranch. But he said only:

  “We’ll make for the timber line and let you rest for a while.”

  At mid-morning they left the desert and began to climb a rough mountain slope. At the piñon line, Kut-le called a halt. Never before had shade seemed so good to Rhoda as it did now. She lay on the pine-needles looking up into the soft green. It was unspeakably grateful to her eyes which had been so long tortured by the desert glare. She lay thus for a long time, her mental pain for a while lost in the access of physical comfort. Shortly Molly, who had been working rapidly, brought her a steaming bowl of stew. Rhoda ate this, then with her head pillowed on her arm she fell asleep.

  She was wakened by Molly’s touch on her arm. It was late afternoon. Rhoda looked up into the squaw’s face and drew a quick hard breath as realization came to her.