Supper had long passed and the sun was setting when the chores of these men had been completed for the day. Sue stopped a moment, on her way out to find some quiet outlook, there to watch and dream as was her habit, and listened to the camp-fire conversation.
“How many wild horses in the valley?” inquired her father, eagerly.
“Reckon I seen five thousand,” replied Loughbridge, holding up his field-glasses.
“Shore you’re jokin’,” ejaculated Melberne.
“No. These glasses don’t lie.”
“By thunder! that’s great news,” declared Melberne, clapping his hands. “Now to plan some kind of a trap to catch five hundred—a thousand—at one clip!” “Reckon you’re locoed, Mel,” declared his partner. “If we could ketch a hundred at once I’d be satisfied. What’s the use ketchin’ so many when we can only drive a few to the railroad?”
“Wal, that’s so. But we’ve got to learn a way to catch a bunch, an’ drive them, too. Alonzo says he has seen that done, but it kills a lot of horses. An’ he won’t tell me.”
Like a majority of the real wild-horse wranglers, Alonzo had a love for all horses. Melberne was not a hard man, but he was keen to acquire money. Lough- bridge would have been glad to sacrifice any number of horses, just so long as he saved enough to make a rich stake. He argued with the reticent Mexican, but to no avail. Alonzo would not reveal the secret of how to capture and drive large numbers of wild horses. Sue liked him for that, as much as she disliked Loughbridge. Her father, she knew, was earnest, strong, but easily led, especially in the direction of profits. Presently he and Loughbridge strolled off into the grove, evidently to talk alone. Whereupon the conversation grew loquacious and general.
“Bonny, how do you like this country?” inquired Captain Bunk, with a defiant note of curiosity.
“My Gawd, Captain, it’s shure gr-r-rand!” replied Bonny, his deep voice ringing solemnly.
“Blow me if it ain’t a hell of a place—this Utah,” exploded Bunk, disgustedly. “There ain’t any water. Why, you couldn’t float a skiff in the whole of this desert!”
“Shure this is land, mon, an’ dom’ foine land,” expostulated Bonny. “All we need is water enough to drink.”
“I-t-t-t-twa-tway-tway-” began Tway Miller.
“Aw, hev a cigarette,” interrupted Utah, handing Miller his pouch. “Listen to our Irish pard an’ this seafarin’ man.”
“T-t-t-t-t-ttt-tway-d-d-da-dam’ it ! I can talk if I w-w-want to,” shouted Tway.
“Talk! Say, hombre, you’ve never showed me any sign of talkin’yet,” drawled Utah.
“Bonny, you wouldn’t live out here among all these headlands?” queried Captain Bunk, hot for argument.
“Live here ? Shure I’m goin’ to. It’s gr-r-rand country. I’ll marry one of them squaw Injuns phwat owns a lot of land. Mebbe they’ll be gold or oil. An’ afther I’m rich I’ll git rid of her.”
Some of his listeners howled with glee, while Captain Bunk ejaculated in amazement: “Get rid of your squaw! How?”
“Shure there’d be ways. Knock her on the head, somethin’ loike,” replied Bonny, earnestly.
“You’re a bloody pirate!” declared Captain Bunk.
“Aw, Bonny’s just talkin’,” put in Jake, in his easyv friendly voice. “He wouldn’t hurt a flea. I think he’s stringin’ you boys.”
“Wal, my Irish lad, if you’ll take a hunch from me,, shut up on thet squaw talk,” advised Utah, forcibly. “Squaw men ain’t liked in this country.”
“P-p-p-p-per-perfectly natu-ral,” interposed Tway Miller. “You Mormons want all the w-w-w-wim-wim- men, red skins an’ white.”
“Tway, if you make a crack like thet in St. George, you’d sure get cured,” replied Utah.
“C-c-c-cured of w-w-what?” demanded Tway.
“Talkin’!” retorted Utah, his lean face lighting with a smile.
At this sally all the men, except Tway, roared with mirth. Even the half-breed laughed at Tway’s discomfiture.
Sue lingered near until her presence became rather obvious to the bantering riders; then she strolled farther on, to the edge of the cottonwood grove, where she found a seat on a log.
The sun had set. The valley was full of purple shadows, and far beyond them rose the dim strange bulk of Wild Horse Mesa. How vast and open this Utah wilderness! Reluctantly she confessed its beauty, its appeal to the depths of her, its all-satisfying, inexplicable charm. She heard the fluttering of cottonwood leaves; she smelled fragrant wood smoke; she saw the dim bands of wild horses down on the level floor of the valley. Something took hold of her soul, and the nearest she could come to interpreting its meaning was in her vague glad sense that this experience of hers had just begun and would last long. It seemed connected with dreams of childhood, far off, sweetly remembered things, yet too deep, too mysterious to recall.
A footfall on the leaves roused Sue. Turning, she saw Chess coming, a smile on his frank face.
“Sue, may I sit with you?” he asked.
“Yes—if you’ll be a good boy and fetch my coat. It’s on the wagon tongue.”
“Sue, I’d get anything for you,” he said, and turned away.
Presently he returned with it and held it for her. Chess had thoughtful, courteous little ways that pleased Sue. They spoke well for what he had been to his mother and sister, and for the home where he had learned them.
“Sue, you take me for such a boy !” he expostulated as he flopped down before her and sat Indian fashion with his legs crossed. He was bareheaded and his curly brown locks had a glint of gold.
“Of course I do. You’re only eighteen,” replied Sue.
“Sure. But I’m a man. I had that out with my brother Chane. I feel old as the hills. And, Sue, you’ll be only twenty next month. You’re no Methuselum, or whatever they called him.”
“How did you learn my age?” she inquired.
« “I asked your dad.”
“Well, suppose I am only twenty. That is very much older than you.”
“Sue, I can’t see it. . . . I’m sure old enough to—- to be in love with you,” he rejoined, his voice lowering at the last.
She regarded him disapprovingly, not quite sure that there was not more earnestness or something different about him today. She had always disarmed his sentiment by taking it lightly, and she now decided on the same tactics.
“Chess, when did you say the same thing to Ora?” queried Sue.
“I—I never said it,” he denied, stoutly, but a flush tinged his healthy cheek.
“Don’t fib. You know you did,” retorted Sue, shak* ing her finger at him. “You’ve made love to Ora.”
“Yes, I did, at first—same as I have to all the girls.
I reckon I just couldn’t help that. I always liked girls. . . . Ora, now, she’s pretty and clever, but she—I—I don’t like to say anything about a girl, but, Sue, she’s catty.”
Sue merely looked at Chess, trying to hide the fact that she knew this well enough. Chess was laboring under some stress.
“Ora’s catty. She’s spiteful. She says things about you I don’t like, Sue. That’s about settled her with me.
“Any jealous girl is that way, you know. Jealousy .is the hatefulest feeling. Don’t be hard on Ora. She—”
“Ahuh! All right, but she can’t talk to me about you,” he declared. “And you didn’t let me say what —what I wanted to.”
“No? Well, get it over, then, if it will relieve you.”
“I can prove I wasn’t in earnest with Ora—and all the girls you hint of,” he said, manfully, gazing straight at her.
“Oh, you can!” murmured Sue, wanting to laugh.
“I never asked Ora—or any of them—to marry me,” he declared, in solemn triumph.
This liberated Sue’s laugh, but it was not hearty. His earnestness touched her.
“You never asked me, either,” she retorted, and then could have bitten her tongue.
“No, but I’m ask
ing you now,” he flashed back at her.
“Chess!” exclaimed Sue, aghast.
“You needn’t be so surprised. I mean it. I’m old enough to love you—and big enough to work for you. I’ve thought it all out. You’re too wonderful a girl to mind my being poor; you’re . . . ”
“My dear boy, don’t say any more,” interrupted Sue, forced to gravity. His clean brown face had turned white. “I’m sorry I teased you—didn’t take you seriously. But—Chess, I feel like—like a mother to you. I can’t marry you, boy.”
“Why—not?” he asked, swallowing hard.
“Because I don’t love you,” replied Sue, earnestly.
“I knew that, but I—I hoped you might come to it,” he said, bravely struggling with his emotions.
Sue watched him, rather dubiously inquiring into her memory. Had she been unduly friendly to this impulsive lad? But, though she felt a kind of remorse, she did not have a guilty conscience. She saw Chess fight down his cherished dream. Then it seemed he turned to her with a stranger earnestness, with more eloquent eyes and eager lips.
“All right, Sue. I’ll take my medicine,” he said, hurriedly. “But I want to ask you something just as important.”
“What is it?” she asked, curiously.
“If you won’t marry me, will you wait for my brother Chane? . . . You can’t help but love him!”
“Why, Chess! . . . ” murmured Sue, and then she halted. She had never been quite so astounded in her life. There had come a sudden change in the boy’s voice—in his big dark eyes—so eloquent and beautiful that it was impossible to consider his request as ridiculous. Sue did not know how to answer him.
“Chane has gone to the Indian reservation—over the canyons,” went on Chess. “He went to buy horses to sell to the Mormons. I wanted to go, but he wouldn’t let me. He tried to make me stay at my job in St. George. But I saw you—and I asked your dad for work so I could be near you. . . . Now Chane, as soon as he gets rid of those horses, he’ll be hitting my trail, He always hunts me up. He thinks I’m still a boy. He still calls me Boy Blue. He’s afraid I’m going to the bad. . . . Well, when he finds me he’ll see you, and hell fall in love with you. Chane never fell in love with a girl, to my knowledge. But you’re the sweetest, wonderfulest girl in the world. He just can’t help himself. . . . And then I could have you for a sister.”
The swift words rushed out in a torrent, and the simplicity of them touched Sue to the heart. Indeed, she had not known Chess Weymer. Less than boy—he was a child! But now she understood better why she had liked him.
“I-I’ll be your sister, anyhow,” said Sue, trying to think of something to say that would not hurt him. She sensed a singular relation between him and this older brother who called him Boy Blue. It thrilled Sue. There must be a wonderful love between them. It made her curious to hear more about this brother, yet, in view of Chess’s proposal, she did not quite like to ask. Perhaps that would not be necessary, so she waited.
“Sue, you just can’t help but love Chane,” began Chess, his face lighting. “I’ve watched you. I’ve studied you. I know what you care about. But any girl would love Chane. I’ve never been anywhere with him where there was a girl—that she didn’t fall in love with him. Without his even looking at her!”
“Indeed! Well, this brother of yours must be a— quite a fellow,” replied Sue. “What’s he like?”
“Oh, Chane’s grand,” burst out Chess, thus encouraged. “He’s like my father, only he’s got mother in him, too, which makes him finer. He’s tall and dark, and, say! he looks right through you. Chane’s got the sweetest, gentlest disposition. But he’s a fighter. It’s because of his kindness that he’s always getting into fights. He’s had some worse than fist-fights, I’m sorry to say. He’s ridden all over and has been in many outfits. He hates cattle and loves horses. I guess the Weymers were all horse lovers. My father was born in Kentucky. Chane never settles down. He goes more and more to the wild places. He’s a lonely sort of fellow—gets restless where there’re lots of people. Somebody will get into trouble and then Chane takes up that trouble. He’d never have any trouble if he’d keep away from people—and me. I give him most trouble. I’m always in hot water; then, sooner or later Chane rides up and gets me out of it.”
“No wonder he calls you Boy Blue!” said Sue, impulsively.
“He doesn’t any more, to my face. I hate it,” declared Chess, darkly.
“Is this brother a wild-horse hunter?” asked Sue., “Chane’s been everything, but he loves horses best. They don’t have to be wild. They just have to be horses, tame or wild, good or bad, young or old. But I reckon lately the wild-horse wrangling has gotten more into Chane. It’s been sort of a fever across Nevada and Utah, you know. Two years ago he saw that great wild stallion, Panquitch. You’ve heard of him. Well, Chane was actually dotty over that wild horse.”
“I can understand the thrill of chasing wild horses. I’ve felt that when I’ve ridden out to watch you riders. But I can’t bear to see horses hurt, whether wild or tame.”
“Chane’s the same way, Sue,” rejoined Chess. “Oh, you and he are a lot alike. Just wait ’til you meet him. Just wait ’til you see him handle horses.”
“Very well, Chess, I’ll try to possess my soul in peace—until Chane trails you up,” replied Sue, laughing gayly. “Good night now. I’m sorry if I hurt you—yet, I’m glad you told me about yourself—and Chane.”
Sue left him sitting there in the dusk and returned camp-fireward. But she did not tarry in the ruddy circle where the men were talking and laughing, nor did she go to her tent. She went off alone into the deep shadow of the cottonwoods. The air was crisp and cold, sweet with its wild tang; white stars were burning in the deep-blue vault above; the leaves were rustling in the night breeze; the late crickets were chirping with a melancholy note of coming frost; far out in the lonely darkness coyotes were howling.
“So I must wait for this wonderful brother Chane who calls him Boy Blue,” murmured Sue, dreamily.
She had been strangely, profoundly stirred, and could not grasp just why. She reasoned at first that it was because this boy Chess had paid her the highest honor possible, and then because she felt sorry for him, and then, at the revelation of such a beautiful attachment between brothers. These, however, were not conclusive. Chess’s words had struck at a hitherto untouched chord in her heart—the romance, the glory and dream of some love to come, vague, deep, latent, mysterious. Absurd indeed was the boy’s hope and assurance that she could not help but love Chane. What an odd name! She had never heard it before. In spite of her common sense, and her appreciation of Chess’s boyish sentiment, there had come into her mind a sudden strange establishment between her vague dream hero and this lonely desert rider, this horse lover so eloquently portrayed by his adoring brother. Sue scouted the inception. But it was there.
“Oh, it was so silly-—his talk,” she whispered. “Who ever could guess what was in that wild boy?”
Sue at last turned away from the lonely night and the speaking stars, and repaired to her little tent. She went to bed not quite mistress of her vagrant fancies, not wholly sure of herself. Night always had that effect upon her; on the morrow she knew she would be her old, practical, sensible self. But the hour at hand, when sleep did not come readily, held her at the mercy of the unknown, the calling voices, the dim awakenings of instinct.
Chapter Four
THE settling of Melberne’s outfit into permanent camp at Stark Valley was characterized by the advent of perfect weather, a welcome change from the storms and winds of the past weeks. The rainy season had lingered late. It was most beneficial to the desert, but hard on wild-horse wranglers and others exposed to the elements. But the very day after Melberne pitched camp in the cottonwood grove it seemed the wonderful Indian summer of Utah smiled its golden purple-hazed welcome. It made camp life a joy, whether there was work or not, especially if some of the time could be idled away. Sue heard Loughbridge say that they mi
ght expect such weather to last for a month and possibly longer.
Melberne was not an experienced wild-horse hunter. This game was comparatively new to him. But he had great force and energy and he could handle men. Whatever his weakness, which perhaps was mostly a susceptibility to suggestion, he was just and fair in his dealings. The riders would not take orders from Loughbridge.
“Wal, men, we’re heah,” announced Melberne, cheerfully, after breakfast that first morning at Stark Valley. “An’ now let’s rustle. I’m not goin’ to drive this valley till I’ve a plan mapped out. Some way to trap a lot of horses. I’ll ride with Alonzo an’ Jim down into the valley an’ get the lay of the land. Reckon I can give you all plenty to do. . . . Jake, you keep charge of camp an’ help the womenfolks. Build a stone oven, make a stand for the big kettle, pack water, an’ whatever offers. . . . Captain, saddle your horse an’ snake in a lot of dead hardwood. My boy Tommy will help you saw it. He just loves the end of a cross-cut saw. Ha! Ha! . . . An’, Miller, you an' Utah ride up into some of them canyons that open into the valley. Take stock of any place where there’s sign of wild horses. ... Chess, you like to hunt. Now We’re out of meat an’ I look to you as provider. Don’t hunt alone. That’s bad business. Take Bonny with you. There shore ought to be lots of game heah.”
“In a pinch we can eat wild-hoss meat,” observed Utah, with a drawl. “It shore ain’t bad.”
“Dad, you wouldn’t kill a beautiful wild horse to eat!” exclaimed Sue, in horror.
“Wal, lass, I never did,” he replied. “Fact is I never tasted horse flesh. Is it good, Alonzo?”
“Senor, I don’t know,” answered the Mexican vaquero, almost curtly. Manifestly the suggestion was not to his liking.
“I’d starve first,” added Sue, spiritedly.
Her father laughed good-naturedly and gave order for the saddle-horses to be brought in. Chess went whistling his pleasure at the duty assigned him, and taking his bridle up he halted before Sue.
Grey, Zane - Novel 27 Page 5