by Zane Grey
“Pan! Pan!” she cried, and moved toward him, her eyes widening, shining with a light he had never seen in another woman’s.
“Pan! Don’t you—know me?”
“Sure—but I don’t know who you are,” Pan muttered in bewilderment.
“I’m Lucy!… Oh, Pan—you’ve come back,” she burst out, huskily, with a deep break in her voice.
She seemed to leap toward him—into the arms he flung wide, as with tremendous shock he recognized her name, her voice, her eyes. It was a moment beyond reason.… He was crushing her to his breast, kissing her in a frenzy of sudden realization of love. Lucy! Lucy! Little Lucy Blake, his baby, his child sweetheart, his schoolmate! And the hunger of the long lonely years, never realized, leaped to his lips now.
She flung her arms round his neck, and for a few moments gave him kiss for kiss. Then suddenly she shivered and her head fell forward on his breast.
Pan held her closely, striving for self-control. And he gazed out into the trees with blurred eyes. What a home-coming! Lucy, grown into a tall beautiful girl who had never forgotten him. He was shaken to his depths by the revelation that now came to him. He had always loved Lucy! Never anyone else, never knowing until this precious moment! What a glorious trick for life to play him. He held her, wrapped her closer, bent his face to her fragrant hair. It was dull gold now. Once it had been bright, shiny, light as the color of grass on the hill. He kissed it, conscious of unutterable gratitude and exaltation.
She stirred, put her hands to his breast and broke away from him, tragic eyed, strange.
“Pan, I—I was beside myself,” she whispered. “Forgive me.… Oh, the joy of seeing you. It was too much.… Go to your mother. She—will—”
“Yes, presently, but Lucy, don’t feel badly about this—about my not recognizing you at once,” he interrupted, in glad swift eagerness. “How you have grown! Changed!… Lucy, your hair is gold now. My little white-headed kid! Oh, I remember. I never forgot you that way. But you’re so changed—so—so—Lucy, you’re beautiful.… I’ve come back to you. I always loved you. I didn’t know it as I do now, but I’ve been true to you. Lucy, I swear.… I’m Panhandle Smith and as wild as any of that prairie outfit. But, darling, I’ve been true to you—true.… And I’ve come back to love you, to make up for absence, to take care of you—marry you. Oh, darling, I know you’ve been true to me—you’ve waited for me.”
Rapture and agony both seemed to be struggling for the mastery over Lucy. Pan suddenly divined that this was the meaning of her emotion.
“My God!” she whispered, finally, warding him off. “Don’t you know—haven’t you heard?”
“Nothing. Dad didn’t mention you,” replied Pan hoarsely, fighting an icy sickening fear. “What’s wrong?”
“Go to your mother. Don’t let her wait. I’ll see you later.”
“But Lucy—”
“Go. Give me a little while to—to get hold of myself.”
“Are—are you married?” he faltered.
“No-no—but—”
“Don’t you love me?”
She made no reply, except to cover her face with shaking hands. They could not hide the betraying scarlet.
“Lucy, you must love me,” he rushed on, almost incoherently. “You gave yourself away.… It lifted me—changed me. All my life I’ve loved you, though I never realized it.… Your kisses—they made me know myself.… But, my God, say that you love me!”
“Yes, Pan, I do love you,” she replied, quietly, lifting her eyes to his. Again the rich color fled.
“Then, nothing else matters,” cried Pan. “Whatever’s wrong, I’ll make right. Don’t forget that. I’ve much to make up for.… Forgive me for this—this—whatever has hurt you so. I’ll go now to Mother and see you later. You’ll stay?”
“I live here with your people,” replied Lucy and walked away through the trees.
“Something wrong!” muttered Pan, as he watched her go. But the black fear of he knew not what could not stand before his consciousness of finding Lucy, of seeing her betray her love. Doubt lingered, but his glad heart downed that too. He was home. What surprise and joy to learn that it was also Lucy’s home! He stifled his intense curiosity and longing. He composed himself. He walked a little under the trees. He thought of the happiness he would bring his mother, and Alice. In a few moments he would make the acquaintance of his baby brother.
Flowers that he recognized as the favorites of his mother bordered the sandy path around the cabin. The house had been constructed of logs and later improved with a frame addition, unpainted, weather stained, covered with vines. A cozy little porch, with wide eaves and a windbreak of vines, faced the south. A rude homemade rocking chair sat on the porch; a child’s wooden toys also attested to a carpenter’s skill Pan well remembered. He heard a child singing, then a woman’s mellow voice.
Pan drew a long breath and took off his sombrero. It had come—the moment he had long dreamed of. He stepped loudly upon the porch, so that his spurs jangled musically, and he knocked upon the door frame.
“Who’s there?” called the voice again. It made Pan’s heart beat fast. In deep husky tones he replied:
“Just a poor starved cowboy, Ma’am, beggin’ a little grub.”
“Gracious me!” she exclaimed, and her footsteps thudded on the floor inside.
Pan knew his words would fetch her. Then he saw her come to the door. Years, trouble, pain had wrought their havoc, but he would have known her at first sight among a thousand women.
“Mother!” he called, poignantly, and stepped toward her, with his arms out.
She seemed stricken. The kindly eyes changed, rolled. Her mouth opened wide. She gasped and fainted in his arms.
A little while later, when she had recovered from the shock and the rapture of Pan’s return, they sat in the neat little room.
“Bobby, don’t you know your big brother?” Pan was repeating to the big-eyed boy who regarded him so solemnly. Bobby was fascinated by this stranger, and at last was induced to approach his knee.
“Mother, I reckon you’ll never let Bobby be a cowboy,” teased Pan, with a smile.
“Never,” she murmured fervently.
“Well, he might do worse,” went on Pan thoughtfully. “But we’ll make a plain rancher of him, with a leaning to horses. How’s that?”
“I’d like it, but not in a wild country like this,” she replied.
“Reckon we’d do well to figure on a permanent home in Arizona, where both summers and winters are pleasant. I’ve heard a lot about Arizona. It’s a land of wonderful grass and sage ranges, fine forests, canyons. We’ll go there, some day.”
“Then, Pan, you’ve come home to stay?” she asked, with agitation.
“Yes, Mother,” he assured her, squeezing the worn hand that kept reaching to touch him, as if to see if he were real. Then Bobby engaged his attention. “Hey, you rascal, let go. That’s my gun.… Bad sign, Mother. Bobby’s as keen about a gun as I was over a horse.… There, Bobby, now it’s safe to play with.… Mother, there’s a million things to talk about. But we’ll let most of them go for the present. You say Alice is in school. When will she be home?”
“Late this afternoon. Pan,” she went on, hesitatingly, “Lucy Blake lives with us now.”
“Yes, I met Lucy outside,” replied Pan, drawing a deep breath. “But first about Dad. I didn’t take time to talk much with him. I wanted to see you.… Is Dad well in health?”
“He’s well enough. Really he does two men’s work. Worry drags him down.”
“We’ll cheer him up. At Littleton I heard a little about Dad’s bad luck. Now you tell me everything.”
“There’s little to tell,” she replied, sadly. “Your father made foolish deals back in Texas, the last and biggest of which was with Jard Hardman. There came a bad year—anno seco, the Mexicans call it. Failure of crops left your father ruined. He lost the farm. He found later that Hardman had cheated him out of his cattle. We followed Hardman
out here. Our neighbors, the Blakes had come ahead of us. Hardman not only wouldn’t be square about the cattle deal but he knocked your father out again, just as he had another start. In my mind it was worse than the cattle deal. We bought a homestead from a man named Sprague. His wife wanted to go home to Missouri. This homestead had water, good soil, some timber, and an undeveloped mining claim that turned out well. Then along comes Jard Hardman with claims, papers, witnesses, and law back of him. He claimed to have gotten possession of the homestead from the original owner. It was all a lie. But they put us off.… Then your father tried several things that did not pan out. Now we’re here—and he has to work in the wagon shop to pay the rent.”
“Ah-huh!” replied Pan, relieving his oppressed breast with an effort. “And now about Lucy. How does it come she’s living with you?”
“She had no home, poor girl,” replied his mother, hastily. “She came out here with her father and uncle. Her mother died soon after you left us. Jim Blake had interests with Hardman back in Texas. He talked big—and drank a good deal. He and Hardman quarreled. It was the same big deal that ruined your father. But Jim came to New Mexico with Hardman. They were getting along all right when we arrived. But, trouble soon arose—and that over Lucy.… Young Dick Hardman—you certainly ought to remember him, Pan—fell madly in love with Lucy. Dick always was a wild boy. Here in Marco he went the pace. Well, bad as Jard Hardman is he loves that boy and would move heaven and earth for him. Lucy despised Dick. The more he ran after her the more she despised him. Also the more she flouted Dick the wilder he drank and gambled. Now here comes the pitiful part of it. Jim Blake went utterly to the bad, so your father says, though Lucy hopes and believes she can save him. I do too. Jim was only weak. Jard Hardman ruined him. Finally Dick enlisted his father in his cause and they forced Jim to try to make Lucy marry Dick. She refused. She left her father’s place and went to live with her Uncle Bill, who was an honest fine man. But he was shot in the Yellow Mine. By accident, they gave out, but your father scouts that idea… Oh, those dreadful gambling hells! Life is cheap here.… Lucy came to live with us. She taught the school. But she had to give that up. Dick Hardman and other wild young fellows made her life wretched. Besides she was never safe. We persuaded her to give it up. And then the—the worst happened.”
Mrs. Smith paused, wiping her wet eyes, and appeared to dread further disclosure. She lifted an appealing hand to Pan.
“What—what was it, Mother?” he asked, fearfully.
“Didn’t—she—Lucy tell you anything?” faltered his mother.
“Yes—the greatest thing in the world—that she loved me,” burst out Pan with exultant passion.
“Oh, how terrible!”
“No, Mother, not that, but beautiful, wonderful, glorious.… Go on.”
“Then—then they put Jim Blake in jail,” began Mrs. Smith.
“What for?” flashed Pan.
“To hold him there, pending action back in Texas. Jim Blake was a cattle thief. There’s little doubt of that, your father says. You know there’s law back east, at least now in some districts. Well, Jard Hardman is holding Jim in jail. It seems Hardman will waive trial, provided—provided.… Oh, how can I tell you!”
“My God! I see!” cried Pan, leaping in fierce passion. “They will try to force Lucy to marry Dick to save her father.”
“Yes. That’s it…and Pan, my son…she has consented!”
“So that was what made her act so strange!… Poor Lucy! Dick Hardman was a skunk when he was a kid. Now he’s a skunk-bitten coyote. Oh, but this is a mess!”
“Pan, what can you do?” implored his mother.
“Lucy hasn’t married him yet? Tell me quick,” cried Pan suddenly.
“Oh, no. She has only promised. She doesn’t trust those men. She wants papers signed to clear her father. They laugh at her. But Lucy is no fool. When she sacrifices herself it’ll not be for nothing.”
Pan slowly sank down into the chair, and his brooding gaze fastened on the big blue gun with which Bobby was playing. It fascinated Pan. Sight of it brought the strange cold sensation that seemed like a wind through his being.
“Mother, how old is Lucy?” he asked, forcing himself to be calm.
“She’s nearly seventeen, but looks older.”
“Not of age yet. Yes, she looks twenty. She’s a woman, Mother.”
“What did Lucy do and say when she saw you?” asked his mother, with a woman’s intense curiosity.
“Ha! She did and said enough,” replied Pan radiantly. “I didn’t recognize her. Think of that, Mother.”
“Tell me, son,” implored Mrs. Smith.
“Mother, she ran right into my arms.… We just met, Mother, and the old love leaped.”
“Mercy, what a terrible situation for you both, especially for Lucy.… Pan, what can you do?”
“Mother, I don’t know, I can’t think. It’s too sudden. But I’ll never let her marry Dick Hardman. Why, only last night I saw a painted little hussy hanging over him. Bad as that poor girl must be, she’s too good for him.… He doesn’t worry me, nor his schemes to get Lucy. But how to save Jim Blake.”
“Pan, you think it can be done?”
“My dear Mother, I know it. Only I can’t think now. I’m new here. And handicapped by concern for you, for Lucy, for Dad.… Lord, if I was back in the Cimarron—it’d be easy!”
“My boy, don’t be too concerned about Lucy, or me or your dad,” replied his mother with surprising coolness. “I mean don’t let concern for us balk you. Thank God you have come home to us. I feel a different woman. I am frightened, yes. For—for I’ve heard of you. What a name for my boy!”
“Well, you’re game, Mother,” said Pan, with a laugh, as he embraced her. “That’ll help a lot. If only Lucy will be like you.”
“She has a heart of fire. Only save her father, Pan, and you will be blessed with such woman’s love as you never dreamed of. It may be hard, though, for you to change her mind.”
“I won’t try, Mother.”
“Go to her, then, and fill her with the hope you’ve given me.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
From a thick clump of trees Pan had watched Lucy, spied upon her with only love, tenderness, pity in his heart. But he did not know her. It seemed incredible that he could confess to himself he loved her. Had the love he had cherished for a child suddenly, as if by magic, leaped into love for a woman? What then was this storm within him, this outward bodily trembling from the tumult within?
Lucy stood like a statue, gazing into nothingness. Then she paced to and fro, her hands clenched on her breast. This was a secluded nook, where a bench had been built between two low-branching trees, on the bank of the stream. Pan stealthily slipped closer, so he could get clearer sight of her face. Was her love for him the cause of her emotion?
Presently he halted, at a point close to one end of her walk, and crouched down. It did not occur to him that he was trespassing upon her privacy. She was a stranger whom he loved because she was Lucy Blake, grown from child to woman. He was concerned with finding himself, so that when he faced her again he would know what to do, to say.
Pan had not encountered a great many girls in the years he had ridden the ranges. But he had seen enough to recognize beauty when it was thrust upon him. And Lucy had that. As she paced away from him the small gold head, the heavy braid of hair, the fine build of her, not robust, yet strong and full, answered then and there the wondering query of his admiration. Then she turned to pace back. This would be an ordeal for him. She was in trouble, and he could not hide there much longer. Yet he wanted to watch her, to grasp from this agitation fuel for his kindling passion. She had been weeping, yet her face was white. Indeed she did look older than her seventeen years. Closer she came. Then Pan’s gaze got as far as her eyes and fixed there. Unmasked now, true to the strife of her soul, they betrayed to Pan the thing he yearned so to know. Not only her love but her revolt!
That was enough for him. In a few se
conds his feelings underwent a tremendous gamut of change, at last to set with the certainty of a man’s love for his one woman. This conviction seemed consciously backed by the stern fact of his cool reckless spirit. He was what the cowboys’ range of that period had made him. Perhaps only such a man could cope with the lawless circumstances in which Lucy had become enmeshed. By the time she had paced her beat again and was once more approaching his covert, he knew what the situation would demand and how he would meet it. But he would listen to Lucy, to his mother, to his father, in the hope that they might extricate her from her dilemma. He believed, however, that only extreme measures would ever free her and her father. Pan knew men of the Hardman and Matthews stripe.
He stepped out to confront Lucy, smiling and cool.
“Howdy, Lucy,” he drawled, with the cowboy sang-froid she must know well.
“Oh!” she cried, startled, and drawing back. Then she recovered. But there was a single instant when Pan saw her unguarded self expressed in her face.
“I was hiding behind there,” he said, indicating the trees and bushes.
“What for?”
“I wanted to see you really, without you knowing.”
“Well?” she queried, gravely.
“As I remember little Lucy Blake she never had any promise of growing so—so lovely as you are now.”
“Pan, don’t tease—don’t flatter me now,” she implored.
“Reckon I was just stating a fact. Let’s sit down on the seat there, and get acquainted.”
He put her in the corner of the bench so she would have to face him, and he began to talk as if there were no black trouble between them. He wanted her to know the story of his life from the time she had seen him last; and he had two reasons for this, first to bridge that gap in their acquaintance, and secondly to let her know what the range had made him. It took him two hours in the telling, surely the sweetest hours he had ever spent, for he watched her warm to intense interest, forget herself, live over with him the lonely days and nights on the range, and glow radiant at his adventures, and pale and trembling over those bloody encounters that were as much a part of his experience as any others.