by Zane Grey
“Well, I had forgotten that,” she replied, with a little laugh. “It would be rather embarrassing—and funny, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, it would,” he said, grimly, and walked on again. He made a gesture of keen discomfiture. “I knew you hadn’t taken me seriously.”
“I believed you, but I could not take you very seriously,” she murmured.
“Why not?” he demanded, as if stung, and his eyes flashed on her.
“Because your declaration was not accompanied by the usual—question—that a girl naturally expects under such circumstances.”
“Good Heaven! You say that?… Lenore Anderson, you think me insincere because I did not ask you to marry me,” he asserted, with bitter pathos.
“No. I merely said you were not—very serious,” she replied. It was fascination to torment him this way, yet it hurt her, too. She was playing on the verge of a precipice, not afraid of a misstep, but glorying in the prospect of a leap into the abyss. Something deep and strange in her bade her make him show her how much he loved her. If she drove him to desperation she would reward him.
“I am going to war,” he began, passionately, “to fight for you and your sisters.… I am ruined.… The only noble and holy feeling left to me—that I can have with me in the dark hours—is my love for you. If you do not believe that, I am indeed the most miserable of beggars! Most boys going to the front leave many behind whom they love. I have no one but you.… don’t make me a coward.”
“I believe you. Forgive me,” she said.
“If I had asked you to marry me—me—why, I’d have been a selfish, egotistical fool. You are far above me. And I want you to know I know it.… But even if I had not—had the blood I have—even if I had been prosperous instead of ruined, I’d never have asked you, unless I came back whole from the war.”
They had been walking out the lane during this conversation and had come close to the wheat-field. The day was hot, but pleasant, the dry wind being laden with harvest odors. The hum of the machines was like the roar in a flour-mill.
“If you go to war—and come back whole—?” began Lenore, tantalizingly. She meant to have no mercy upon him. It was incredible how blind he was. Yet how glad that made her. He resembled his desert hills, barren of many little things, but rich in hidden strength, heroic of mold.
“Then just to add one more to the conquests girls love I’ll—I’ll propose to you,” he declared, banteringly.
“Beware, boy! I might accept you,” she exclaimed.
His play was short-lived. He could not be gay, even under her influence.
“Please don’t jest,” he said, frowning. “Can’t we talk of something besides love and war?”
“They seem to be popular just now,” she replied, audaciously. “Anyway, all’s fair—you know.”
“No, it is not fair,” he returned, low-voiced and earnest. “So once for all let me beg of you, don’t jest. Oh, I know you’re sweet. You’re full of so many wonderful, surprising words and looks. I can’t understand you.… But I beg of you, don’t make me a fool!”
“Well, if you pay such compliments and if I—want them—what then? You are very original, very gallant, Mr. Kurt Dorn, and I—I rather like you.”
“I’ll get angry with you,” he threatened.
“You couldn’t.… I’m the only girl you’re going to leave behind—and if you got angry I’d never write to you.”
It thrilled Lenore and wrung her heart to see how her talk affected him. He was in a torment. He believed she spoke lightly, girlishly, to tease him—that she was only a gay-hearted girl, fancy-free and just a little proud of her conquest over even him.
“I surrender. Say what you like,” he said, resignedly. “I’ll stand anything—just to get your letters.”
“If you go I’ll write as often as you want me to,” she replied.
With that they emerged upon the harvest-field. Machines and engines dotted the golden slope, and wherever they were located stood towering straw-stacks. Horses and men and wagons were strung out as far as the eye could see. Long streams of chaff and dust and smoke drifted upward.
“Lenore, there’s trouble in the very air,” said Dorn. “Look!”
She saw a crowd of men gathering round one of the great combine-harvesters. Some one was yelling.
“Let’s stay away from trouble,” replied Lenore. “We’ve enough of our own.”
“I’m going over there,” declared Dorn. “Perhaps you’d better wait for me—or go back.”
“Well! You’re the first boy who ever—”
“Come on,” he interrupted, with grim humor. “I’d rather enjoy your seeing me break loose—as I will if there’s any I.W.W. trickery.”
Before they got to the little crowd Lenore both heard and saw her father. He was in a rage and not aware of her presence. Jake and Bill, the cowboys, hovered over him. Anderson strode to and fro, from one side of the harvester to the other. Lenore did not recognize any of the harvest-hands, and even the driver was new to her. They were not a typical Western harvest crew, that was certain. She did not like their sullen looks, and Dorn’s muttered imprecation, the moment he neared them, confirmed her own opinion.
Anderson’s foreman stood gesticulating, pale and anxious of face.
“No, I don’t hold you responsible,” roared the rancher. “But I want action.… I want to know why this machine’s broke down.”
“It was in perfect workin’ order,” declared the foreman. “I don’t know why it broke down.”
“That’s the fourth machine in two days. No accident, I tell you,” shouted Anderson. Then he espied Dorn and waved a grimy hand. “Come here, Dorn,” he called, and stepped out of the group of dusty men. “Somethin’ wrong here. This new harvester’s broke down. It’s a McCormack an’ new to us. But it has worked great an’ I jest believe it’s been tampered with… Do you know these McCormack harvesters?”
“Yes. They’re reliable,” replied Dorn.
“Ah-huh! Wal, get your coat off an’ see what’s been done to this one.”
Dorn took off his coat and was about to throw it down, when Lenore held out her hand for it.
“Unhitch the horses,” said Dorn.
Anderson gave this order, which was complied with. Then Dorn disappeared around or under the big machine.
“Lenore, I’ll bet he tells us somethin’ in a minute,” said Anderson to her. “These new claptraps are beyond me. I’m no mechanic.”
“Dad, I don’t like the looks of your harvest-hands,” whispered Lenore.
“Wal, this is a sample of the lot I hired. No society for you, my lass!”
“I’m going to stay now,” she replied.
Dorn appeared to be raising a racket somewhere out of sight under or inside the huge harvester. Rattling and rasping sounds, creaks and cracks, attested to his strong and impatiently seeking hands.
Presently he appeared. His white shirt had been soiled by dust and grease. There was chaff in his fair hair. In one grimy hand he held a large monkey-wrench. What struck Lenore most was the piercing intensity of his gaze as he fixed it upon her father.
“Anderson, I knew right where to find it,” he said, in a sharp, hard voice. “This monkey-wrench was thrown upon the platform, carried to the elevator into the thresher.… Your machine is torn to pieces inside—out of commission!”
“Ah-huh!” exclaimed Anderson, as if the truth was a great relief.
“Where’d that monkey-wrench come from?” asked the foreman, aghast. “It’s not ours. I don’t buy that kind.”
Anderson made a slight, significant motion to the cowboys. They lined up beside him, and, like him, they looked dangerous.
“Come here, Kurt,” he said, and then, putting Lenore before him, he moved a few steps aside, out of earshot of the shifty-footed harvest-hands. “Say, you called the turn right off, didn’t you?”
“Anderson, I’ve had a hard experience, all in one harvest-time,” replied Dorn. “I’ll bet you I can find
out who threw this wrench into your harvester.”
“I don’t doubt you, my lad. But how?”
“It had to be thrown by one of these men near the machine. That harvester hasn’t run twenty feet from where the trick was done.… Let these men face me. I’ll find the guilty one.”
“Wait till we get Lenore out of the way,” replied Anderson.
“Boss, me an’ Bill can answer fer thet outfit as it stands, an’ no risks fer nobody,” put in Jake, coolly.
Anderson’s reply was cut short by a loud explosion. It frightened Lenore. She imagined one of the steam-engines had blown up.
“That thresher’s on fire,” shouted Dorn, pointing toward a big machine that was attached by an endless driving belt to an engine.
The workmen, uttering yells and exclamations, ran toward the scene of the new accident, leaving Anderson, his daughter, and the foreman behind. Smoke was pouring out of the big harvester. The harvest-hands ran wildly around, shouting and calling, evidently unable to do anything. The line of wagons full of wheat-sheaves broke up; men dragged at the plunging horses. Then flame followed the smoke out of the thresher.
“I’ve heard of threshers catchin’ fire,” said Anderson, as if dumfounded, “but I never seen one.… Now how on earth did that happen?”
“Another trick, Anderson,” replied Dorn. “Some I.W.W. has stuffed a handful of matches into a wheat-sheaf. Or maybe a small bomb!”
“Ah-huh!… Come on, let’s go over an’ see my money burn up.… Kurt, I’m gettin’ some new education these days.”
Dorn appeared to be unable to restrain himself. He hurried on ahead of the others. And Anderson whispered to Lenore, “I’ll bet somethin’s comin’ off!”
This alarmed Lenore, yet it also thrilled her.
The threshing-machine burned like a house of cards. Farm-hands came running from all over the field. But nothing, manifestly, could be done to save the thresher. Anderson, holding his daughter’s arm, calmly watched it burn. There was excitement all around; it had not been communicated, however, to the rancher. He looked thoughtful. The foreman darted among the groups of watchers and his distress was very plain. Dorn had gotten out of sight. Lenore still held his coat and wondered what he was doing. She was thoroughly angry and marveled at her father’s composure. The big thresher was reduced to a blazing, smoking hulk in short order.
Dorn came striding up. His face was pale and his mouth set.
“Mr. Anderson, you’ve got to make a strong stand—and quick,” he said, deliberately.
“I reckon. An’ I’m ready, if it’s the right time,” replied the rancher. “But what can we prove?”
“That’s proof,” declared Dorn, pointing at the ruined thresher. “Do you know all your honest hands?”
“Yes, an’ I’ve got enough to clean up this outfit in no time. We’re only waitin’.”
“What for?”
“Wal, I reckon for what’s just come off.”
“Don’t let them go any farther.… Look at these fellows. Can’t you tell the I.W.W.’s from the others?”
“No, I can’t unless I count all the new harvest-hands I.W.W.’s.”
“Every one you don’t know here is in with that gang,” declared Dorn, and he waved a swift hand at the groups. His eyes swept piercingly over, and apparently through, the men nearest at hand.
At this juncture Jake and Bill, with two other cowboys, strode up to Anderson.
“Another accident, boss,” said Jake, sarcastically. “Ain’t it about time we corralled some of this outfit?”
Anderson did not reply. He had suddenly imitated Lenore, who had become solely bent upon Dorn’s look. That indeed was cause for interest. It was directed at a member of the nearest group—a man in rough garb, with slouch-hat pulled over his eyes. As Lenore looked she saw this man, suddenly becoming aware of Dorn’s scrutiny, hastily turn and walk away.
“Hold on!” called Dorn, his voice a ringing command. It halted every moving person on that part of the field. Then Dorn actually bounded across the intervening space.
“Come on, boys,” said Anderson, “get in this. Dorn’s spotted someone, an’ now that’s all we want.… Lenore, stick close behind me. Jake, you keep near her.”
They moved hastily to back up Dorn, who had already reached the workman he had halted. Anderson took out a whistle and blew such a shrill blast that it deafened Lenore, and must have been heard all over the harvest-field. Not improbably that was a signal agreed upon between Anderson and his men. Lenore gathered that all had been in readiness for a concerted movement and that her father believed Dorn’s action had brought the climax.
“Haven’t I seen you before?” queried Dorn, sharply.
The man shook his head and kept it bent a little, and then he began to edge back nearer to the stragglers, who slowly closed into a group behind him. He seemed nervous, shifty.
“He can’t speak English,” spoke up one of them, gruffly.
Dorn looked aggressive and stern. Suddenly his hand flashed out to snatch off the slouch-hat which hid the fellow’s face. Amazingly, a gray wig came with it. This man was not old. He had fair thick hair.
For a moment Dorn gazed at the slouch-hat and wig. Then with a fierce action he threw them down and swept a clutching hand for the man. The fellow dodged and, straightening up, he reached for a gun. But Dorn lunged upon him. Then followed a hard grappling sound and a hoarse yell. Something bright glinted in the sun. It made a sweeping circle, belched fire and smoke. The report stunned Lenore. She shut her eyes and clung to her father. She heard cries, a scuffling, sodden blows.
“Jake! Bill!” called Anderson. “Hold on! No gun-play yet! Dorn’s makin’ hash out of that fellow.… But watch the others sharp!”
Then Lenore looked again. Dorn had twisted the man around and was in the act of stripping off the further disguise of beard, disclosing the pale and convulsed face of a comparatively young man.
“Glidden!” burst out Dorn. His voice had a terrible ring of furious amaze. His whole body seemed to gather as in a knot and then to spring. The man called Glidden went down before that onslaught, and his gun went flying aside.
Three of Glidden’s group started for it. The cowboy Bill leaped forward, a gun in each hand. “Hyar!… Back!” he yelled. And then all except the two struggling principals grew rigid.
Lenore’s heart was burning in her throat. The movements of Dorn were too swift for her sight. But Glidden she saw handled as if by a giant. Up and down he seemed thrown, with bloody face, flinging arms, while he uttered hoarse bawls. Dorn’s form grew more distinct. It plunged and swung in frenzied energy. Lenore heard men running and yells from all around. Her father spread wide his arm before her, so that she had to bend low to see. He shouted a warning. Jake was holding a gun thrust forward.
“Boss, he’s goin’ to kill Glidden!” said the cowboy, in a low tone.
Anderson’s reply was incoherent, but its meaning was plain.
Lenore’s lips and tongue almost denied her utterance. “Oh!… Don’t let him!”
The crowd behind the wrestling couple swayed back and forth, and men changed places here and there. Bill strode across the space, guns leveled. Evidently this action was due to the threatening movements of several workmen who crouched as if to leap on Dorn as he whirled in his fight with Glidden.
“Wal, it’s about time!” yelled Anderson, as a number of lean, rangy men, rushing from behind, reached Bill’s side, there to present an armed and threatening front.
All eyes now centered on Dorn and Glidden. Lenore, seeing clearly for the first time, suffered a strange, hot paroxysm of emotion never before experienced by her. It left her weak. It seemed to stultify the cry that had been trying to escape her. She wanted to scream that Dorn must not kill the man. Yet there was a ferocity in her that froze the cry. Glidden’s coat and blouse were half torn off; blood covered him; he strained and flung himself weakly in that iron clutch. He was beaten and bent back. His tongue hung out, bloody, flutter
ing with strangled cries. A ghastly face, appalling in its fear of death!
Lenore broke her mute spell of mingled horror and passion.
“For God’s sake, don’t let Dorn kill him!” she implored.
“Why not?” muttered Anderson. “That’s Glidden. He killed Dorn’s father—burned his wheat—ruined him!”
“Dad—for my—sake!” she cried brokenly.
“Jake, stop him!” yelled Anderson. “Pull him off!”
As Lenore saw it, with eyes again half failing her, Jake could not separate Dorn from his victim.
“Leggo, Dorn!” he yelled. “You’re cheatin’ the gallows!…Hey, Bill, he’s a bull!… Help, hyar—quick!”
Lenore did not see the resulting conflict, but she could tell by something that swayed the crowd when Glidden had been freed.
“Hold up this outfit!” yelled Anderson to his men. “Come on, Jake, drag him along.” Jake appeared, leading the disheveled and wild-eyed Dorn. “Son, you did my heart good, but there was some around here who didn’t want you to spill blood. An’ that’s well. For I am seein’ red.…Jake, you take Dorn an’ Lenore a piece toward the house, then hurry back.”
Then Lenore felt that she had hold of Dorn’s arm and she was listening to Jake without understanding a word he said, while she did hear her father’s yell of command, “Line up there, you I.W.W.’s!”
Jake walked so swiftly that Lenore had to run to keep up. Dorn stumbled. He spoke incoherently. He tried to stop. At this Lenore clasped his arm and cried, “Oh, Kurt, come home with me!”
They hurried down the slope. Lenore kept looking back. The crowd appeared bunched now, with little motion. That relieved her. There was no more fighting.
Presently Dorn appeared to go more willingly. He had relaxed. “Let go, Jake,” he said. “I’m—all right—now. That arm hurts.”
“Wal, you’ll excuse me, Dorn, for handlin’ you rough.… Mebbe you don’t remember punchin’ me one when I got between you an’ Glidden?”
“Did I?… I couldn’t see, Jake,” said Dorn. His voice was weak and had a spent ring of passion in it. He did not look at Lenore, but kept his face turned toward the cowboy.