The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  “That’s my story, Lucy,” he said, in conclusion. “I’d have come back to you and home long ago, if I’d known. But I was always broke. Then there was the talk about me. Panhandle Smith! So the years sped by. It’s over now, and I’ve found you and my people all well, thank God. Nothing else mattered to me. And your trouble and Dad’s bad luck do not scare me.… Now tell me your story.”

  He had reached her. It had been wise for him to go back to the school days, and spare nothing of his experience. She began at the time she saw him last—she remembered the day, the date, the clothes he wore, the horse he rode—and she told the story of those lonely years when his few letters were epochs, and the effect it had when they ceased. So, with simple directness, she went on to relate the downfall of her father and how the disgrace and heartbreak had killed her mother. When she finished her story she was crying.

  “Lucy, don’t cry. Just think—here we are!” he exclaimed, as she ended.

  “That’s what—makes me cry,” she replied brokenly.

  “Very well. Here. Cry on my shoulder,” he said forcefully, and despite her resistance he drew her into his arms and her head to his breast. There he held her, feeling the strain of her muscles slowly relax. She did not weep violently, but in a heartbroken way that yet seemed relief.

  “Pan, this is—is foolish,” she said, presently stirring. “I mean my crying here in your arms, as if it were a refuge. But, oh! I—I have needed someone—something so terribly.”

  “I don’t see where it’s foolish. Reckon it’s very sweet and wonderful for me.… Lucy, let’s not rush right into arguments. We’re bound to disagree. But let’s put that off.… I’m so darned glad to see you, know you, that I’m the foolish one.”

  “You’re a boy, for all your size. How can we help but talk of my troubles?… Of this horrible fix I’m in!… How can I lay my head on your shoulder?… I didn’t. You forced me to.”

  “Well, if you want to deny me such happiness, you can,” replied Pan.

  “Is it happiness for you—knowing it’s wrong—and can never be again?” she whispered.

  “Pure heaven!” he said. “Lucy, don’t say this is wrong. You belong to me. My mother told me once you’d never have lived but for me.”

  “Yes, my mother told me the same thing.… Oh, how sad it is!”

  “Sad, nothing! It was beautiful. And I tell you that you do belong to me.”

  “My soul does, yes,” she returned, dreamily. And then as if reminded of her bodily weakness she moved away from him to the corner of the bench.

  “All right, Lucy. Have it your way now. But you’ll only have all the more to make up to me later,” said Pan, with resigned good nature.

  “Pan, you don’t seem to recognize anything but your own will,” she returned, pondering. “I’ve got to save my father.… There’s only one way.”

  “Don’t talk such rot to me,” he flashed, sharply. “I’d hoped you would let us get acquainted first. But if you won’t, all right.… You’ve been frightened into a deal that is terrible for you. No wonder. But you’re only a kid yet. What do you know of men? These Hardmans are crooked. They pulled out of Texas because they were crooked. Matthews, magistrate or marshal, whatever he calls himself, he’s crooked too. I know such men. I’ve met a hundred of them. Slowly they’ve been forced farther west, beyond the Rockies. And here they work their will. But it can’t last. Why, Lucy, I’m amazed that some miner or cowboy or gun-fighter hasn’t stopped them long ago.”

  “Pan, you must be wrong,” she declared, earnestly. “Hardman cheated Dad, yes. But that was only Dad’s fault. His blindness in business. Hardman is a power here. And Matthews, too. You talk like a—a wild cowboy.”

  “Sure,” replied Pan, with a grim laugh. “And it’ll take just a wild cowboy to clean up this mess.… Now Lucy, don’t go white and sick. I promise you I’ll listen to Dad and you before I make a move. I’ll go to see your father. And I’ll call on Hardman. I’ll talk sense and reason, and business to these men. I know it’ll not amount to beans, but I’ll do it just to show you I can be deliberate and sane.”

  “Thank you—you frightened me so,” she murmured. “Pan, there was something terrible about you—then.”

  “Listen, Lucy,” he began, more seriously. “I’ve been here in Marco only a few hours. But this country is no place for us to settle down to live. It’s mostly a mining country. I’ve heard a lot about Arizona. I’m going to take you all down there. Dad and Mother will love the idea. I’ll get your father out of jail—”

  “Pan, are you dreaming?” she interrupted, in distress. “Dad is a rustler. He admits it. Back in Texas he can be jailed for years. All Hardman has to do is to send for officers to come take Dad. And I’ve got to marry Dick Hardman to save him.”

  “You poor little girl!… Now Lucy, let me tell you something funny. This will stagger you. Because it’s gospel truth, I swear.… Rustler you call your dad. What’s that? It means a cowman who has appropriated cattle not his own. He has driven off unbranded stock and branded it. There’s no difference. Lucy, my dad rustled cattle. So have all the ranchers I ever rode for.”

  “Pan!” she gasped, with dilating eyes. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m trying to tell you one of the queer facts about the ranges,” replied Pan. “I’ve known cowmen to shoot rustlers. Cowmen who had themselves branded cattle not their own. This was a practice. They didn’t think it crooked. They all did it. But it was crooked, when you come down to truth. And though that may not be legally as criminal as the stealing of branded cattle, to my mind it is just as bad. Your father began that way, Hardman caught him, and perhaps forced him into worse practice.”

  “Pan, are you trying to give me some hope?”

  “Reckon I am. Things are not so bad. My Lord, suppose I’d been a month later!”

  Lucy shook her head despondently. “It’s worse now for me than if you had come—”

  “Why?” interrupted Pan. She would say the things that hurt.

  “Because to see you—be with you like this—before I’m—if I have to be married—is perfectly terrible.… Afterward, when it would be too late and I had lost something—self-respect or more—then I might not care.”

  That not only made Pan lose patience but it also angered him. The hot blood rushed to his face. He bit his tongue and struggled to control himself.

  “Lucy! Haven’t I told you that you’re not going to marry Dick Hardman,” he burst out.

  “Oh, but I’ll have to,” she replied, stubbornly, with a sad little shake of her head.

  “No!”

  “I must save Dad. You might indeed get him out of jail some way. But that would not save him.”

  “Certainly it would,” rejoined Pan, curtly. “In another state he would be perfectly safe.”

  “They’ll trail him anywhere. No, that won’t do. We haven’t time. Dick is pressing me hard to marry him at once, or his father will prosecute Dad. I promised.… And today—this morning—Dick is coming here to get me to set the day.”

  “What?” cried Pan, passionately.

  His word, swift as a bullet, made her jump, but she repeated what she had said almost word for word.

  “And your answer?” queried Pan, in hot scorn.

  “Sooner the—better,” she replied, mournfully. “I can’t stand—this—you—oh, anything would be—easier than your hope…your—love making!”

  “Lucy Blake, have you gone down hill like your father?” asked Pan, hoarsely. “What kind of a woman are you? If you love me, it’s a crime to marry him. Women do these things, I know—sell themselves. But they kill their souls. If you could save your father from being hanged, it would still be wrong. Suppose he did go to jail for a few years. What’s that compared to hell for you all your life? You’re out of your head. You’ve lost your sense of proportion.… You must care for this damned skunk Dick Hardman.”

  “Care for him!” she cried, shamefaced and furious. “I hate him.”

&nbs
p; “Then if you marry him you’ll be crooked. To yourself! To me!… Why, in my eyes you’d be worse than that little hussy down at the Yellow Mine.”

  “Pan!” she whispered. “How can you? How dare you?”

  “Hard facts deserve hard names. You make me say such things. Why, you’d drive me mad if I listened—if I believed you. Don’t you dare say again you’ll marry Dick.”

  “I will—I must—”

  “Lucy!” he thundered. It was no use to reason with this girl. She had been trapped like a wild thing and could not see any way out. He shot out a strong hand and clutched her shoulder and with one heave he drew her to him, so her face was under his. It went pale. The telltale eyes dilated in sudden fear. She beat at him with weak fluttering hands.

  “Say you love me!”

  He shook her roughly, then held her tight. “I don’t maul any other man’s woman,” he went on, fiercely. “But if you love me—that’s different. You said it a little while ago. Was it true? Are you a liar?”

  “No—No—Pan,” she whispered, in distress. “I—I do.”

  “Do what?”

  “I—I love you,” she said, the scarlet blood mounting to her pale face. She was weakening—sinking toward him. Her eyes held a sort of dark spell.

  “How do you love me?” he queried relentlessly, with his heart mounting high.

  “Always I’ve loved you—since I was a baby.”

  “As a brother?”

  “Yes.”

  “But we’re man and woman now. This is my one chance for happiness. I don’t want you—I wouldn’t have you unless you love me as I do you. Be honest with me. Be square. Do you love me now as I do you?”

  “God help me—yes,” she replied, almost inaudibly, with eyes of remorse and love and agony on his.

  Pan could not withstand this. He crushed her to him, and lifted her arms round his neck, and fell to kissing her with all the starved hunger of his lonely loveless years on the ranges. She was not proof against this. It lifted her out of her weakness, of her abasement to a response that swept away all fears, doubts, troubles. For the moment, at least, love conquered her.

  Pan was wrenched out of the ecstasy of that moment by the pound of hoofs and the crashing of brush. He could not disengage himself before a horse and rider were upon them. Nevertheless Pan recognized the intruder and leaped away from the bench with the instinctive swiftness for defense that had been ingrained in him.

  Dick Hardman showed the most abject astonishment. His eyes stuck out, his jaw dropped. No other emotion seemed yet to have dawned in him. He stared from Lucy to Pan and back again. A slow dull red began to creep into his cheeks. He ejaculated something incoherent. His amaze swiftly grew into horror. He had caught his fiancée in the arms of another man. Black fury suddenly possessed him.

  “You—you—” he yelled stridently, moving to dismount.

  “Stay on your horse,” commanded Pan.

  “Who the hell are you?” bellowed Hardman, sliding back in the saddle.

  “Howdy, Skunk Hardman,” rejoined Pan, with cool impudence. “Reckon you ought to know me.”

  “Pan Smith!” gasped the other, hoarsely, and he turned lividly white. “By God, I knew you last night. But I couldn’t place you.”

  “Well, Mr. Dick Hardman, I knew you the instant I set eyes on you—sitting there gambling—with the pretty bare-armed girl on your chair,” returned Pan, with slow deliberate sarcasm.

  “Yes, and you got that little —— over to you about as quick,” shouted Hardman.

  “Be careful of your language. There’s a lady present,” replied Pan, menacingly.

  “Of all the nerve! You—you damned cowpuncher,” raved Hardman in a fury. “It didn’t take you long to get to her, either, did it? Now you make tracks out of here or I’ll—I’ll—it’ll be the worse for you, Pan Smith.… Lucy Blake is as good as married to me.”

  “Nope, you’re wrong, Dick,” snapped Pan insolently. “I got here just in time to save her from that doubtful honor.”

  “You’d break her engagement to me?” rasped Hardman huskily, and he actually shook in his saddle.

  “I have broken it.”

  “Lucy, tell me he lies!” begged Hardman, turning to her in poignant distress. If he had any good in him it showed then.

  Lucy came out from the shade of the tree into the sunlight. She was pale, but composed.

  “Dick, it’s true,” she said, steadily. “I’ve broken my word. I can’t marry you.… I love Pan. I’ve loved him always. It would be a sin to marry you now.”

  “Hellsfire!” shrieked Hardman. His face grew frightful to see—beastly with rage. “You’re as bad as that hussy who threw me down for him. I’ll fix you, Lucy Blake. And I’ll put your cow-thief father behind the bars for life.”

  Pan leaped at Hardman and struck him a body blow that sent him tumbling out of his saddle to thud on the ground. The frightened horse ran down the path toward the gate.

  “You dirty-mouthed cur,” said Pan. “Get up, and if you’ve got a gun—throw it.”

  Hardman laboriously got to his feet. The breath had been partly knocked out of him. Baleful eyes rolled at Pan. Instinctive wrath, however, had been given a setback. Hardman had been forced to think of something beside the frustration of his imperious will.

  “I’m—not—packing—my gun,” he panted, heavily. “You saw—that—Pan Smith.”

  “Well, you’d better pack it after this,” replied Pan with contempt. “Because I’m liable to throw on you at sight.”

  “I’ll have—you—run—out of this country,” replied Dick huskily.

  “Bah! don’t waste your breath. Run me out of this country? Me! Reckon you never heard of Panhandle Smith. You’re so thickheaded you couldn’t take a hunch. Well, I’ll give you one, anyway. You and your crooked father, and your two bit of a sheriff pardner would do well to leave this country. Savvy that! Now get out of here pronto.”

  Hardman gave Pan a ghastly stare and wheeled away to stride down the path. Once he turned to flash his convulsed face at Lucy. Then he passed out of sight among the trees in search of his horse.

  Pan stood gazing down the green aisle. He had acted true to himself. How impossible to meet this situation in any other way! It meant the spilling of blood. He knew it—accepted it—and made no attempt to change the cold passion deep within him. Lucy—his mother and father would suffer. But wouldn’t they suffer more if he did not confront this conflict as his hard training dictated? He was almost afraid to turn and look at Lucy. Just a little while before he had promised her forbearance. So his amaze was great when she faced him, violet eyes ablaze, to clasp him, and creep close to him, with lingering traces of fear giving way to woman’s admiration and love.

  “Panhandle Smith!” she whispered, gazing up into his face. “I heard your story. It thrilled me.… But I never understood—till you faced Dick Hardman.… Oh, what have you done for me?… Oh, Pan, you have saved me from ruin.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Pan and Lucy did not realize the passing of time until they were called to dinner. As they stepped upon the little porch, Lucy tried to withdraw her hand from Pan’s, but did not succeed.

  “See here,” said he, very seriously, yielding to an urge he could not resist. “Wouldn’t it be wise for us to—to get married at once?”

  Lucy blushed furiously. “Pan Smith! Are you crazy?”

  “Reckon I am,” he replied, ruefully. “But I got to thinking how I’ll be out after wild horses.… And I’m afraid something might happen. Please marry me this afternoon?”

  “Pan! You’re—you’re terrible,” cried Lucy, and snatching away her hand, scarlet of face she rushed into the house ahead of him.

  He followed, to find Lucy gone. His father was smiling, and his mother had wide-open hopeful eyes. A slim young girl, with freckles, grave sweet eyes and curly hair was standing by a window. She turned and devoured him with those shy eyes. From that look he knew who she was.

  “Alice! L
ittle sister!” he exclaimed, meeting her. “Well, by golly, this is great.”

  It did not take long for Pan to grasp that a subtle change had come over his mother and father. Not the excitement of his presence nor the wonder about Lucy accounted for it, but a difference, a lessening of strain, a relief. Pan sensed a reliance upon him that they were not yet conscious of.

  “Son, what was the matter with Lucy?” inquired his father, shrewdly.

  “Why nothing to speak of,” replied Pan, nonchalantly. “Reckon she was a little flustered because I wanted her to marry me this afternoon.”

  “Good gracious!” cried his mother. “You are a cowboy. Lucy marry you when she’s engaged to another man!”

  “Mother, dear, that’s broken off. Don’t remind me of it. I want to look pleasant, so you’ll all be glad I’m home.”

  “Glad!” his mother laughed, with a catch in her voice. “My prayers have been answered.… Come now to dinner. Remember, Pan, when you used to yell, ‘Come an’ get it before I throw it out’?”

  Bobby left Pan’s knee and made a beeline for the kitchen. Alice raced after him.

  “Pan, I met Dick Hardman on the road. He looked like hell, and was sure punishin’ his horse. I said when I seen him I’d bet he’s run into Pan. How about it?”

  “Reckon he did,” laughed Pan. “It was pretty tough on him, I’m bound to admit. He rode down the path and caught me—well, the truth is, Dad, I was kissing the young lady he imagined belonged to him.”

  “You range ridin’ son-of-a-gun!” ejaculated his father, in unmitigated admiration and gladness. “What come off?”

  “I’ll tell you after dinner. Gee, I smell applesauce!… Dad, I never forgot Mother’s cooking.”