by Zane Grey
“As you know, Jack has been gone since before New Year’s Day. He said he was going to Kremmling. But dad heard he went to Elgeria. Well, I didn’t tell you that dad and Jack quarreled over money. Jack kept up his good behavior for so long that I actually believed he’d changed for the better. He kept at me, not so much on the marriage question, but to love him. Wilson, he nearly drove me frantic with his lovemaking. Finally I got mad and I pitched into him. Oh, I convinced him! Then he came back to his own self again. Like a flash he was Buster Jack once more. “You can go to hell!” he yelled at me. And such a look!… Well, he went out, and that’s when he quarreled with dad. It was about money. I couldn’t help but hear some of it. I don’t know whether or not dad gave Jack money, but I think he didn’t. Anyway, Jack went.
“Dad was all right for a few days. Really, he seemed nicer and kinder for Jack’s absence. Then all at once he sank into the glooms. I couldn’t cheer him up. When Ben Wade came in after supper dad always got him to tell some of those terrible stories. You know what perfectly terrible stories Ben can tell. Well, dad had to hear the worst ones. And poor me, I didn’t want to listen, but I couldn’t resist. Ben can tell stories. And oh, what he’s lived through!
“I got the idea it wasn’t Jack’s absence so much that made dad sit by the hour before the fire, staring at the coals, sighing, and looking so God-forsaken. My heart just aches for dad. He broods and broods. He’ll break out some day, and then I don’t want to be here. There doesn’t seem to be any idea when Jack will come home. He might never come. But Ben says he will. He says Jack hates work and that he couldn’t be gambler enough or wicked enough to support himself without working. Can’t you hear Ben Wade say that? ‘I’ll tell you,’ he begins, and then comes a prophecy of trouble or evil. And, on the other hand, think how he used to say: ‘Wait! Don’t give up! Nothin’ is ever so bad as it seems at first! Be true to what your heart says is right! It’s never too late! Love is the only good in life! Love each other and wait and trust! It’ll all come right in the end!’… And, Wilson, I’m bound to confess that both his sense of calamity and his hope of good seem infallible. Ben Wade is supernatural. Sometimes, just for a moment, I dare to let myself believe in what he says—that our dream will come true and I’ll be yours. Then oh! oh! oh! joy and stars and bells and heaven! I—I… But what am I writing? Wilson Moore, this is quite enough for today. Take care you don’t believe I’m so—so very much in love.
“Ever,
“COLUMBINE.”
* * * *
“February —.
“DEAREST COLLIE,—
I don’t know the date, but spring’s coming. Today I kicked Bent Wade with my once sore foot. It didn’t hurt me, but hurt Wade’s feelings. He says there’ll be no holding me soon. I should say not. I’ll eat you up. I’m as hungry as the mountain-lion that’s been prowling round my cabin of nights. He’s sure starved. Wade tracked him to a hole in the cliff.
“Collie, I can get around first rate. Don’t need my crutch any more. I can make a fire and cook a meal. Wade doesn’t think so, but I do. He says if I want to hold your affection, not to let you eat anything I cook. I can rustle around, too. Haven’t been far yet. My stock has wintered fairly well. This valley is sheltered, you know. Snow hasn’t been too deep. Then I bought hay from Andrews. I’m hoping for spring now, and the good old sunshine on the gray sage hills. And summer, with its columbines! Wade has gone back to his own cabin to sleep. I miss him. But I’m glad to have the nights alone once more. I’ve got a future to plan! Read that over, Collie.
“Today, when Wade came with your letter, he asked me, sort of queer, ‘Say, Wils, do you know how many letters I’ve fetched you from Collie?’ I said, ‘Lord, no, I don’t, but they’re a lot.’ Then he said there were just forty-seven letters. Forty-seven! I couldn’t believe it, and told him he was crazy. I never had such good fortune. Well, he made me count them, and, dog-gone it, he was right. Forty-seven wonderful love-letters from the sweetest girl on earth! But think of Wade remembering every one! It beats me. He’s beyond understanding.
“So Jack Bellounds still stays away from White Slides. Collie, I’m sure sorry for his father. What it would be to have a son like Buster Jack! My God! But for your sake I go around yelling and singing like a locoed Indian. Pretty soon spring will come. Then, you wild-flower of the hills, you girl with the sweet mouth and the sad eyes—then I’m coming after you! And all the king’s horses and all the king’s men can never take you away from me again!
“Your faithful
“WILSON.”
* * * *
“March 19th.
“DEAREST WILSON,—
Your last letters have been read and reread, and kept under my pillow, and have been both my help and my weakness during these trying days since Jack’s return.
“It has not been that I was afraid to write—though, Heaven knows, if this letter should fall into the hands of dad it would mean trouble for me, and if Jack read it—I am afraid to think of that! I just have not had the heart to write you. But all the time I knew I must write and that I would. Only, now, what to say tortures me. I am certain that confiding in you relieves me. That’s why I’ve told you so much. But of late I find it harder to tell what I know about Jack Bellounds. I’m in a queer state of mind, Wilson dear. And you’ll wonder, and you’ll be sorry to know I haven’t seen much of Ben lately—that is, not to talk to. It seems I can’t bear his faithf in me, his hope, his love—when lately matters have driven me into torturing doubt.
“But lest you might misunderstand, I’m going to try to tell you something of what is on my mind, and I want you to read it to Ben. He has been hurt by my strange reluctance to be with him.
“Jack came home on the night of March second. You’ll remember that day, so gloomy and dark and dreary. It snowed and sleeted and rained. I remember how the rain roared on the roof. It roared so loud we didn’t hear the horse. But we heard heavy boots on the porch outside the living-room, and the swish of a slicker thrown to the floor. There was a bright fire. Dad looked up with a wild joy. All of a sudden he changed. He blazed. He recognized the heavy tread of his son. If I ever pitied and loved him it was then. I thought of the return of the Prodigal Son!… There came a knock on the door. Then dad recovered. He threw it open wide. The streaming light fell upon Jack Bellounds, indeed, but not as I knew him. He entered. It was the first time I ever saw Jack look in the least like a man. He was pale, haggard, much older, sullen, and bold. He strode in with a ‘Howdy, folks,’ and threw his wet hat on the floor, and walked to the fire. His boots were soaked with water and mud. His clothes began to steam.
“When I looked at dad I was surprised. He seemed cool and bright, with the self-contained force usual for him when something critical is about to happen.
“‘Ahuh! So you come back,’ he said.
“‘Yes, I’m home,’ replied Jack.
“‘Wal, it took you quite a spell to get hyar.’
“‘Do you want me to stay?’
“This question from Jack seemed to stump dad. He stared. Jack had appeared suddenly, and his manner was different from that with which he used to face dad. He had something up his sleeve, as the cowboys say. He wore an air of defiance and indifference.
“‘I reckon I do,’ replied dad, deliberately. ‘What do you mean by askin’ me thet?’
“‘I’m of age, long ago. You can’t make me stay home. I can do as I like.’
“‘Ahuh! I reckon you think you can. But not hyar at White Slides. If you ever expect to get this property you’ll not do as you like.’
“‘To hell with that. I don’t care whether I ever get it or not.’
“Dad’s face went as white as a sheet. He seemed shocked. After a moment he told me I’d better go to my room. I was about to go when Jack said: ‘No, let her stay. She’d best hear now what I’ve got to say. It concerns her.’
“‘So ho! Then you’ve got a heap to say?’ exclaimed dad, queerly. ‘All right, you have yo
ur say first.’
“Jack then began to talk in a level and monotonous voice, so unlike him that I sat there amazed. He told how early in the winter, before he left the ranch, he had found out that he was honestly in love with me. That it had changed him—made him see he had never been any good—and inflamed him with the resolve to be better. He had tried. He had succeeded. For six weeks he had been all that could have been asked of any young man. I am bound to confess that he was!… Well, he went on to say how he had fought it out with himself until he absolutely knew he could control himself. The courage and inspiration had come from his love for me. That was the only good thing he’d ever felt. He wanted dad and he wanted me to understand absolutely, without any doubt, that he had found a way to hold on to his good intentions and good feelings. And that was for me!… I was struck all a-tremble at the truth. It was true! Well, then he forced me to a decision. Forced me, without ever hinting of this change, this possibility in him. I had told him I couldn’t love him. Never! Then he said I could go to hell and he gave up. Failing to get money from dad he stole it, without compunction and without regret! He had gone to Kremmling, then to Elgeria.
“‘I let myself go,’ he said, without shame, ‘and I drank and gambled. When I was drunk I didn’t remember Collie. But when I was sober I did. And she haunted me. That grew worse all the time. So I drank to forget her.… The money lasted a great deal longer than I expected. But that was because I won as much as I lost, until lately. Then I borrowed a good deal from those men I gambled with, but mostly from ranchers who knew my father would be responsible.… I had a shooting-scrape with a man named Elbert, in Smith’s place at Elgeria. We quarreled over cards. He cheated. And when I hit him he drew on me. But he missed. Then I shot him.… He lived three days—and died. That sobered me. And once more there came to me truth of what I might have been. I went back to Kremmling. And I tried myself out again. I worked awhile for Judson, who was the rancher I had borrowed most from. At night I went into town and to the saloons, where I met my gambling cronies. I put myself in the atmosphere of drink and cards. And I resisted both. I could make myself indifferent to both. As soon as I was sure of myself I decided to come home. And here I am.’
“This long speech of Jack’s had a terrible effect upon me. I was stunned and sick. But if it did that to me what did it do to dad? Heaven knows, I can’t tell you. Dad gave a lurch, and a great heave, as if at the removal of a rope that had all but strangled him.
“Ahuh-huh!’ he groaned. ‘An’ now you’re hyar—what’s thet mean?’
“It means that it’s not yet too late,’ replied Jack. ‘Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not repenting with that side of me which is bad. But I’ve sobered up. I’ve had a shock. I see my ruin. I still love you, dad, despite—the cruel thing you did to me. I’m your son and I’d like to make up to you for all my shortcomings. And so help me Heaven! I can do that, and will do it, if Collie will marry me. Not only marry me—that’d not be enough—but love me—I’m crazy for her love. It’s terrible.’
“You spoiled weaklin’!’ thundered dad. ‘How ’n hell can I believe you?’
“Because I know it,’ declared Jack, standing right up to his father, white and unflinching.
“Then dad broke out in such a rage that I sat there scared so stiff I could not move. My heart beat thick and heavy. Dad got livid of face, his hair stood up, his eyes rolled. He called Jack every name I ever heard anyone call him, and then a thousand more. Then he cursed him. Such dreadful curses! Oh, how sad and terrible to hear dad!
“Right you are!’ cried Jack, bitter and hard and ringing of voice. ‘Right, by God! But am I all to blame? Did I bring myself here on this earth!… There’s something wrong in me that’s not all my fault.… You can’t shame me or scare me or hurt me. I could fling in your face those damned three years of hell you sent me to! But what’s the use for you to roar at me or for me to reproach you? I’m ruined unless you give me Collie—make her love me. That will save me. And I want it for your sake and hers—not for my own. Even if I do love her madly I’m not wanting her for that. I’m no good. I’m not fit to touch her.… I’ve just come to tell you the truth. I feel for Collie—I’d do for Collie—as you did for my mother! Can’t you understand? I’m your son. I’ve some of you in me. And I’ve found out what it is. Do you and Collie want to take me at my word?’
“I think it took dad longer to read something strange and convincing in Jack than it took me. Anyway, dad got the stunning consciousness that Jack knew by some divine or intuitive power that his reformation was inevitable, if I loved him. Never have I had such a distressing and terrible moment as that revelation brought to me! I felt the truth. I could save Jack Bellounds. No woman is ever fooled at such critical moments of life. Ben Wade once said that I could have reformed Jack were it possible to love him. Now the truth of that came home to me, and somehow it was overwhelming.
“Dad received this truth—and it was beyond me to realize what it meant to him. He must have seen all his earlier hopes fulfilled, his pride vindicated, his shame forgotten, his love rewarded. Yet he must have seen all that, as would a man leaning with one foot over a bottomless abyss. He looked transfigured, yet conscious of terrible peril. His great heart seemed to leap to meet this last opportunity, with all forgiveness, with all gratitude; but his will yielded with a final and irrevocable resolve. A resolve dark and sinister!
“He raised his huge fists higher and higher, and all his body lifted and strained, towering and trembling, while his face was that of a righteous and angry god.
“‘My son, I take your word!’ he rolled out, his voice filling the room and reverberating through the house. ‘I give you Collie!… She will be yours!… But, by the love I bore your mother—I swear—if you ever steal again—I’ll kill you!’
“I can’t say any more—
“COLUMBINE.”
CHAPTER XIV
Spring came early that year at White Slides Ranch. The snow melted off the valleys, and the wild flowers peeped from the greening grass while yet the mountain domes were white. The long stone slides were glistening wet, and the brooks ran full-banked, noisy and turbulent and roily.
Soft and fresh of color the gray old sage slopes came out from under their winter mantle; the bleached tufts of grass waved in the wind and showed tiny blades of green at the roots; the aspens and oaks, and the vines on fences and cliffs, and the round-clumped, brook-bordering willows took on a hue of spring.
The mustangs and colts in the pastures snorted and ran and kicked and cavorted; and on the hillsides the cows began to climb higher, searching for the tender greens, bawling for the new-born calves. Eagles shrieked the release of the snow-bound peaks, and the elks bugled their piercing calls. The grouse-cocks spread their gorgeous brown plumage in parade before their twittering mates, and the jays screeched in the woods, and the sage-hens sailed along the bosom of the gray slopes.
Black bears, and browns, and grizzlies came out of their winter’s sleep, and left huge, muddy tracks on the trails; the timber wolves at dusk mourned their hungry calls for life, for meat, for the wildness that was passing; the coyotes yelped at sunset, joyous and sharp and impudent.
But winter yielded reluctantly its hold on the mountains. The black, scudding clouds, and the squalls of rain and sleet and snow, whitening and melting and vanishing, and the cold, clear nights, with crackling frost, all retarded the work of the warming sun. The day came, however, when the greens held their own with the grays; and this was the assurance of nature that spring could not be denied, and that summer would follow.
* * * *
Bent Wade was hiding in the willows along the trail that followed one of the brooks. Of late, on several mornings, he had skulked like an Indian under cover, watching for someone. On this morning, when Columbine Bellounds came riding along, he stepped out into the trail in front of her.
“Oh, Ben! you startled me!” she exclaimed, as she held hard on the frightened horse.
“Good
mornin’, Collie,” replied Wade. “I’m sorry to scare you, but I’m particular anxious to see you. An’ considerin’ how you avoid me these days, I had to waylay you in regular road-agent style.”
Wade gazed up searchingly at her. It had been some time since he had been given the privilege and pleasure of seeing her close at hand. He needed only one look at her to confirm his fears. The pale, sweet, resolute face told him much.
“Well, now you’ve waylaid me, what do you want?” she queried, deliberately.
“I’m goin’ to take you to see Wils Moore,” replied Wade, watching her closely.
“No!” she cried, with the red staining her temples.
“Collie, see here. Did I ever oppose anythin’ you wanted to do?”
“Not—yet,” she said.
“I reckon you expect me to?”
She did not answer that. Her eyes drooped, and she nervously twisted the bridle reins.
“Do you doubt my—my good intentions toward you—my love for you?” he asked, in gentle and husky voice.
“Oh, Ben! No! No! It’s that I’m afraid of your love for me! I can’t bear—what I have to bear—if I see you, if I listen to you.”
“Then you’ve weakened? You’re no proud, high-strung, thoroughbred girl any more? You’re showin’ yellow?”
“Ben Wade, I deny that,” she answered, spiritedly, with an uplift of her head. “It’s not weakness, but strength I’ve found.”
“Ahuh! Well, I reckon I understand. Collie, listen. Wils let me read your last letter to him.”
“I expected that. I think I told him to. Anyway, I wanted you to know—what—what ailed me.”
“Lass, it was a fine, brave letter—written by a girl facin’ an upheaval of conscience an’ soul. But in your own trouble you forget the effect that letter might have on Wils Moore.”
“Ben!… I—I’ve lain awake at night—Oh, was he hurt?”
“Collie, I reckon if you don’t see Wils he’ll kill himself or kill Buster Jack,” replied Wade, gravely.