by Zane Grey
She went with him to the porch. Carr was leaving the stable, riding Bel. Helen knew little enough of horseflesh and yet she understood that here was an animal to catch anyone’s eye; yes, and Carr, sitting massive and stalwart in the saddle, was a man to hold any woman’s. The horse was a big, bright bay; mane and tail were like fine gold; the sun winked back from them and from the glorious reddish hide. Carr saw them and waved his hat; Bel danced sideways and whirled, and for an instant stood upon his rear legs, his thin, aristocratic forelegs flaying the air. Then came Carr’s deep bass laugh; the polished hoofs struck the ground and they were off, flashing away across the meadowlands.
‘Some day,’ said Helen, her eyes sparkling, ‘I want to ride a horse like that!’ She turned to him, asking eagerly, ‘Could I learn?’
‘If with all my heart I wanted to be a first-rate Philadelphia lawyer or a third-rate San Francisco politician,’ he announced with that sweeping positiveness which was one of his characteristics, ‘I’d consider the job done to start with! All you’ve got to do is to want a thing, want it hard, and it’s as good as yours. Now, to begin with, you love a horse. The rest is easy.’
Helen saw her father, accompanied by young Barbee, emerge from behind the stable, and sighed.
‘I don’t believe you know what failure means,’ she said.
‘There isn’t any such bird,’ he laughed at her.
‘Not really.’
‘Then,’ her eyes still upon the pair talking together by the stable door, ‘dear old dad should find his gold-mine. He wants it with all his heart, Heaven knows. And he has the faith that is supposed to move mountains.’
Howard scratched his head. Within the few hours he had come to like the old professor, for Longstreet, though academic, was a straight-from-the-shoulder type of man, one of no subterfuges. And yet he did not greatly inspire confidence; he was not the type that breathes efficiency.
‘Tell me about him,’ Howard urged. ‘What makes him so dead certain he can nail his Golconda out here? I take it he has never been out this way before, and that he doesn’t know a whole lot of our part of the country.’
Confidence inspires confidence. Howard had hardly finished sketching for her his own plans and hopes; he had gone succinctly and openly into detail concerning his deal with John Carr. Now Helen, glad to talk with some one, answered in kind.
‘The University elected a young president, a New Broom,’ she said bitterly. ‘He is a man of more ambition than brains. His slogan is “Young Men.” He ousted father together with a dozen other men of his age. I thought father’s heart would be broken; he had devoted all of the years of his life, all of his best work, to his University. But instead he was simply enraged! Can you imagine him in a perfectly towering rage?’
Howard grinned. ‘Go ahead,’ he chuckled. ‘He’s a good old sport and I like him.’
‘Well,’ said Helen, without meeting his smile, ‘father and I went into business session right away. We had never had much money; father had never cared for wealth measured in money; had always been richly content with his professor’s salary; had never saved or asked me to save. When the thing happened, all we had in the world was a little over seven hundred dollars. I was right away for economizing, for managing, for turning to some other position. But father, I tell you, was in a perfect rage. When I mentioned finances to him he got up and shouted. “Money!” he yelled at me. “What’s money? Who wants money? It’s a fool’s game to get money; anybody can do it.” When he saw that I doubted he told me to pack up that very day and he’d show me; he’d show the world. The new University man named him an old fogy, did he? He’d show him. Didn’t he know more than any other man living about geology? About the making of the earth and the minerals of the earth? Was it any trick to find gold? Not in the dribbles, but such a mine as never a miner drove a pick into yet?’
She sighed again and grew silent. Howard, toying idly with the spurs in his hands, could at the moment find nothing to say.
‘Dear old pops,’ she said more softly in a moment. ‘I am afraid that his heart-breaking time is coming now—when he learns that it isn’t so easy to find gold, after all.’
‘No,’ said Howard slowly. ‘No. It doesn’t break a man’s heart, for he is always sure that it is coming the next day and the next and the next. I’ve known them to go on that way until they died, and then know in their hearts that they’d make a strike the next day—if only the Lord would spare them twenty-four hours more.’
‘I wanted father to bank our money,’ went on Helen, her eyes darkening. ‘I wanted to go to work, to earn something. I can teach. But he wouldn’t hear of it. He said—he said that if the time had come when he couldn’t support his own daughter it was high time he was dead.’
Howard nodded his understanding. ‘He’s a good sport, I tell you,’ he maintained warmly. ‘And I like him. Who knows but that he may make his ten-strike here after all? Or,’ as he marked the droop of the girl’s mouth and understood how she must be thinking of how little was left of their pittance, he added briskly, ‘this is a better place than the East any day; there are more chances. If a man is the right sort there is always a chance for him. If you want to teach—— Well, we’ve got schools out here, haven’t we?’
Helen’s eyes rounded at him. ‘Have you? Where?’
‘And bully good schools,’ he insisted. ‘There’s the Big Springs school not over ten miles off, over that way. You could have a job there to-morrow, if you said the word.’
Her eyes brightened. ‘There is a vacancy, then?’
‘Well,’ he admitted, ‘I’m not so sure about that. There’s a teacher there, I believe. But,’ and now it was his eyes that brightened, ‘it could be fixed somehow. Just leave it to John and me.’
She laughed at him and all her gaiety came surging back.
‘Here I’ve been drawing a face a mile long,’ she cried lightly, ‘when everything’s all right as far as I can see in all directions. I am going down to see what father is up to; he and Mr. Barbee look to me like a couple of youngsters plotting trouble.’
A look of understanding flashed between Yellow Barbee and Professor Longstreet as the two came down from the ranch-house. Thereafter Longstreet beamed upon his daughter while Yellow Barbee, his hat far back upon the blonde cluster of curls, turned his insolent eyes upon her. Helen, deeming him overbold, sought to ‘squelch’ him with a look. Instead she saw both mirth and admiration shining in the baby-blue eyes. She turned her back upon El Joven, who retaliated by turning his back upon her and swaggering away into the stable, whistling through his teeth as he went. Howard went with him for his horse.
‘Papa,’ said Helen after the stern fashion which in time comes natural to the girl with a wayward father, ‘what are you two up to?’
‘My darling,’ said Longstreet hurriedly, ‘what do you mean?’
‘I mean you and that young scamp. He’s bad, papa; bad all the way through. And you, you dear old innocent——’
Longstreet glanced hastily over his shoulder and then frowned at her.
‘You mustn’t talk that way. He is a remarkably fine young fellow. We are in a new environment, you and I, Helen. We are in Rome and must learn something of the Romans. Now, Mr. Barbee——’
‘Is Roman all the way through!’ sniffed Helen. ‘You just look out that he doesn’t lead you into mischief.’
In the stable Howard was saddling two horses, meaning to invite Helen to begin her serious study now. He, too, was interested in the odd friendship which seemed to be growing up so swiftly between two men so utterly unlike. He turned to Barbee to ask a question and saw the young fellow stoop and sweep up something that had fallen into the straw underfoot. Howard’s eyes were quick and keen; it was only a flash, but he recognized a ten of spades. He turned back to the latigo he was drawing tight. But before they left the stable he offer
ed carelessly:
‘What do you think of the professor, Barbee?’
And Barbee answered joyously:
‘He’s a reg’lar ring-tailed old he-devil, Al.’ He winked brightly. ‘One of these days him and me is going to drift down to Tres Pinos. And, say, won’t the town know about us?’
‘What do you mean?’ demanded Howard sharply.
Barbee considered him a thoughtful moment. Then he shrugged.
‘Oh, nothing,’ he said.
CHAPTER VI
The Youthful Heart
To both Helen and her father, tarrying at Desert Valley Ranch, the long, still, hot days were fraught with much new interest. Life was new and golden, viewed from this fresh viewpoint. Helen had come hitherward from her city haunts with trepidation; even Longstreet, serenely optimistic regarding the ultimate crown of success to his labour, was genuinely delighted. The days passed all too swiftly.
As can in no way be held reprehensible in one of her age and maidenly beauty and charm, Helen’s interest had to do primarily with men, two men. They, quite as should be in this land of novelty, were unlike the men she had known. With each passing hour Helen came to see this more clearly. She was a bright young woman, alert and with at least a modicum of scientific mental attitude inherited from the machinery of her father’s brain. Like any other healthy young animal, she wanted to know whys and wherefores and the like.
The evening of their first day, alone in her room for an hour before bed, she settled for herself the first difference between these men of the desert fringes and the men she had known at home. To begin with, she reviewed in mind her old acquaintances: there were a half-dozen professors, instructors, assistants who called infrequently on her father and whom she had come to know with a degree of familiarity. The youngest of them had been twenty years older than Helen, and, whereas her father was always an old dear, sometimes a hopeless and helpless old dear, they were simply old fogies. They constituted, however, an important department in her male friends; the rest were as easily catalogued. They were the young college men—men in name only, boys in actuality. They were of her own age or two or four years older or a year younger. They danced and made mysterious references to the beer they had wickedly drunk; they motored in their fathers’ cars and played tennis in their fathers’ flannels when they fitted; no doubt they were men in the making, but to judge them as men already was like looking prematurely into the oven to see how the bread was doing; they were still under-baked. So far they were playing with the game of life; life, herself, had not yet taken them seriously, had not reached out the iron hand that eventually would seize them by the back of the neck, the slack of the trousers, and pitch them out into the open arena.
Helen was considerably pleased with the result of her meditations: her father’s academic friends had held back behind college walls and thus had never come out into the scrimmage that makes men; her own young friends had not yet reached the time when they would buckle on their armour and mount and talk lance in hand. Alan Howard and John Carr were men who for a number of years had done man’s work out in the open, no doubt giving and receiving doughty blows. She considered Carr: he had taken a monster outfit like Desert Valley and had made it over, in his own image, like a god working. There were thousands of acres, she had no idea how many. There were cattle and horses and mules; again she thought of them only vaguely as countless. There were many men obeying his orders, taking his daily wage. Carr had mastered a big job and the job had made a masterly man of him. Then had come Alan Howard with vision and determination and courage. He had expended almost his last cent for a first payment upon the huge property; he was risking all that he had gathered of the world’s goods, he was out in the open waging his battle like a young king claiming his heritage. Helen clothed the act in the purple and gold of romance and thrilled at her own picture.
‘After all,’ she discovered, ‘there are different kinds of men and I never knew men like these two.’
Then, when she thought of Yellow Barbee, she sniffed. Barbee was about her own age; she considered him a mere child and transparent.
She had said good night to her father, but now suddenly in a mood for conversation went out into the hall and tiptoed to his door. When there came no response to her gentle tapping she opened the door and discovered only darkness and emptiness. She was mildly surprised; distinctly she had heard him go into his room and close his door and she had not heard him go out again.
There are men who, though they may live to be a hundred years old, keep always the fresh heart of twenty. James Edward Longstreet was one of them. He was a man of considerable erudition; he had always supposed that the choice had lain entirely with him. He had always been amply content with his existence, had genially considered that the whole of the bright stream of life, gently deflected, had flowed through his college halls and under his calm eyes. Now his youthful soul was in a delightful turmoil; adventures had come to him, more adventures were coming. Men like Barbee had given him the staunch hand of friendship; they had welcomed him as an equal. And something until now untouched, unguessed, that had lived on in his boy’s heart, stirred and awoke and thrilled. To-night, with a vague sense of guilt which made the escapade but the more electric, while his daughter had imagined that he was getting himself sedately into his long-tailed, sedate nightgown, he was beaming warmly upon the highly entertained group of ranch hands down in the men’s bunk-house, whither, by the way, he had been led by Barbee.
There comes now and then to such an isolation as Desert Valley a boon from the gods in the guise of a tenderfoot. But never tenderfoot, agreed the oldest Mexican with the youngest Texan, like this one. They sat lined in back-tilted chairs about the four walls and studied him with eyes that were at all times appreciative, often downright grave. His ignorance was astounding, his hunger for information amazing. He was a man from Mars who knew all that was to be known in his own world but brought into this strange planet a frank and burning curiosity. Barbee’s chaps delighted him; a hair rope awoke in his soul an avaricious hunger for a hair rope of his own; commonplace ranch matters, like branding and marking and breeding and weaning and breaking, evoked countless eager questions. For so academic a man, the strange thing about him was his attitude toward these day labourers; he looked upon them as brothers; not only that, but as older brothers. He forgot his own wisdom in his thirst to partake of theirs. He gave the full of his admiration to a man whom he had seen that day cast a wide loop of rope about the horns of a running steer.
He was making discoveries hand over fist; perhaps therein lay a sufficient reason why the man of science in him was fascinated. True, those discoveries which he made were new only to him; yet one might say the same of America and Columbus. For one thing, it dawned on him that here was a new and excellent technical vocabulary; he stored away in his brain strange words as a squirrel sticks nuts and acorns into a hole. Hondo, tapaderos, bad hombre, tecolote, bronco, maverick, side-winder—rapaciously he seized upon them as bits of the argot of fairyland. He watched the expert roll the brown tube of a cigarette and yearned for the skill; he observed tricks in riding, and there was within him the compelling urge to ride like that; not a trifle escaped his shark-eyes, be it the way the men combed their hair, mounted their horses, or dragged their spurs. To-night and with unhidden elation he accepted Barbee’s invitation to ‘set in and roll the bones’ with them. ‘Roll the bones!’ When some day he went back home, the owner of the ‘greatest little mine this side of the Rockies,’ he’d work that off on his old chum, Professor Anstruther. He drew up his chair to the table, piled a jumble of coins in front of him and took into his hands the enticing cubes.
He did not think of it as gambling; he had never gambled, had never wanted to. But he was all alive to join in the amusements of his new friends, to be like them. After all, he was putting up as sorts of markers a few five and ten-cent pieces with an occasional quarter or half-
dollar, and to him money had never had much significance. The game was the thing and he found in it from the first a keen mathematical interest. There were five dice; each dice with its six surfaces had six different numbers. While he beamed into the veiled eyes of the old Mexican he was figuring upon the various combinations possible and the likelihood, the theory of chances, of a six or an ace upon the second throw. From the jump the game fascinated him; it is to be questioned, however, if ever before a man knew just the sort of fascination which enthralled him. No matter who won or lost, when the rolling cubes behaved in conformity with the mathematical laws, he fairly sparkled. And in the end he lost only six or seven dollars and did not in the least realize that he had lost a cent. When at last he left to go to bed, all of the eyes in the room followed him. They were puzzled eyes.
‘The old boy’s all right,’ said one man. It was Tod Barstow, an old hand. And he added, nodding, ‘He’s a damn good loser.’
Barbee chuckled and pocketed his small winnings.
‘That’s what I’m playing him for, Toddy,’ he admitted with his cheerful grin.
In the end the Longstreets went from Desert Valley straight on to the nearest town, that of Big Run, only a dozen miles still east of the ranch. The suggestion came from Longstreet himself, who had had a picturesque account of the settlement from Barbee.
‘I estimate,’ the professor announced at breakfast, ‘that we shall be the matter of two or three months at Last Ridge. What comforts we have there will be the results of our own efforts. Now, though we have brought with us certain of the absolute necessities, there is much in the way of provision and sundries that we should have. Mr. Howard has been so very considerate as to offer us a wagon and horses and even a driver. I think, my dear, that we would do well to drive into Big Run, which I understand is a progressive community with an excellent store. We can get what we require there and the next day return to the Last Ridge.’