Grey, Zane - Novel 27

  “Jake, yesterday I went to navigate a fleet of wild mules. They run me into the brush.”

  At that moment Chess swung up with his springy stride, bright, keen, all smiles, his eyes glad at sight of Sue.

  “Hello, sister! Where have you been all day? There’s somebody here who wants to meet you.”

  “Yes? Oh, I suppose you mean your brother,” said Sue, casually. But it was only outwardly that serenity abided with her. She seemed powerless to help her feelings. The sight of Chess simply made her heart beat unwontedly. He liked her so well. How plain that was! Not yet had the idea occurred to him that Sue might not care to meet this disgraced brother. Indeed, in Chess’s mind no idea of disgrace could ever have been harbored. Sue wanted to resent the familiar word sister; she wanted to avoid meeting Chane Wey- mer. But at that moment she did not have it in her to hurt this boy, who had promised to go straight for her sake. So, assuming an air of amiable indifference, which she was far from feeling, Sue permitted Chess to lead her away under the cottonwoods.

  Chess was talking, as usual, only faster, and with elation—how he had moved Chane back in the grove, shaved him, and made him look presentable, and other things Sue did not catch. She was concerned with her own smothered emotions. Vaguely she seemed aware of other sensations—the sense of dragging footsteps over a long distance, the intensely vivid blue sky and gold of cottonwood, the fragrance of wood smoke that drifted across the way. Then Sue espied Chess’s tent, and near it, in the shade of a full-foliaged tree, a bed in which a man was sitting upright. Sue did not see a disheveled head, a pallid face, a ragged beard, things she remembered. Could this person be Chess’s brother ? How stupid of her, as Chess was leading her straight to the tree! Sue dropped her eyes. It seemed as if she was being led to some sort of execution. Then a sudden fury of spirit dismissed this incomprehensible mood or perversity and left her as she used to be.

  “Chane, here she is—Sue Melberne!” cried Chess, joyfully. His tone expressed a thousand times more than words.

  “I’m sure glad to meet you,” said Chane Weymer. His voice had the same ring that was notable in Chess’s, only it was deeper.

  “How do you do, Mr. Weymer!” responded Sue, lifting her eyes. “I hope you’re better this morning.”

  Before he could reply to Sue they were accosted by her father, who, approaching from the other "side, at once drew attention with his genial authoritative presence.

  “Wal, heah you are, Weymer, entertained by the young folks,” he said, in his loud voice. “Shore you look like a different man this mawnin’.”

  “You’re Melberne, boss of the outfit, I reckon,” replied Chane, extending his hand. “I’m much obliged to you. Yes, I do feel different. But I’m tired—and hungry. Your good wife said I must eat sparingly today.”

  “Shore. Go easy on grub. Reckon you’ve had some hard knocks lately?” rejoined Melberne, tentatively. He squatted down beside Weymer with manner curious, as if information was his due, yet wholly the kind and sympathetic host to an unfortunate guest.

  Sue seated herself on one of the packs near by and proceeded to employ these few moments when her fathers presence distracted interest from her.

  Chane Weymer wore a clean corduroy shirt, too small for his wide shoulders. Sue had seen Chess wear that. This rider did not appear to be brawny of build, yet the muscles rippled under the tight sleeves whenever he moved his arms. His face, shorn of the ragged beard, was the most compelling Sue had ever gazed upon It was brown and smooth, with a blue tinge under the skin. He did not resemble Chess, yet anyone could have told they were brothers. His dark hair appeared as if touched with frost.

  “No, Melberne, I can’t say I’ve had any particular hard knocks,” he was saying. “I’ve been over in the Piute country. Bought a bunch of mustangs from Toddy Nokin. I’d had the bad luck to fall in with some horse thieves—Bud McPherson and his pals. They trailed us, stampeded the stock. I had to take to the river to save my life. McPherson had got hold of my rifle. They ran me up a box canyon, so I had to cross the San Juan. Lucky I had a grand horse. Both rivers were high. . . . Well, I missed the Hole in the Wall and had to climb out of the canyon country way round under Wild Horse Mesa. I had a little grub the Piutes gave me, but it didn’t last long. Reckon that’s about all.”

  “Hum! Lost your stock an’ all your outfit?” replied Melberne, sympathetically.

  “All I owned—no, I shouldn’t say that. I’ve got Brutus left. Perhaps I’d never have known what a great horse he is if it hadn’t been for my mishap.”

  “Brutus. That’s the black bay you rode in on. Shore he’s all horse. . . . Wal, where were you headin’ for?”

  “Mormon country. I was goin’ to borrow outfit from some of the Mormons, and then come back.”

  “What for?” demanded Melberne, with interest.

  “I’ve several reasons,” said Weymer, smiling. “One is I expect Toddy Nokin to come over with another string of mustangs. Then I’d like to look for Bud McPherson. And, well, Melberne, I’ve another reason I want to keep to myself for the present.”

  “I see. Wal, how’d you like to throw in with me? I need riders. We’ll furnish what you want an’ pay good wages. Chess will be glad to have you, I reckon.”

  “I should smile,” replied Chess, for himself. “Melberne, I’ll take you up,” replied Chane. “May I ask your plans? You’re new to this wild-horse game, aren’t you?”

  “Reckon I am,” returned Melberne, shortly. “That’s why I want good riders. Wal, my plans are easy told. I’m aimin’ to trap a thousand horses heah in Stark Valley, ship them out, an’ then move west over there under Wild Horse Mesa, ketch an’ break some good horses, an’ then homestead a fine valley.”

  “A thousand wild horses! Reckon you are new to this game. If you do catch them how on earth will you ship them? Wild horses!”

  “Wal, I reckon I don’t know, but this rider Manerube knows, an’ I’m leavin’ that to him.”

  “Bent Manerube ?” queried Weymer, sharply, his fine smooth brow wrinkling slightly between the eyes.

  “Yes, he’s the man,” returned Melbeme, and he gazed hard at his interrogator.

  “Melberne! Do I understand you to mean you’ve hired Bent Manerube?” demanded the rider, in astonishment.

  Sue felt Chess’s hand gripping hers, and she returned the pressure, as if to reassure him. It might be a ticklish moment, but she had confidence in her father. He was wise, calm, and just. Sue’s intensity of interest had to do with Chane Weymer. She gazed closely at him, as with piercing eyes he looked up into her father’s face.

  “Yes, I told you. Bent Manerube.”

  The rider laughed outright, and both incredulity, and something harder, sharper, vanished from his expression.

  “Wal, reckon it may seem funny to you,” said Melbeme, gruffly.

  “Yes it is,” replied Weymer, frankly. “But if you don’t know why, I’m sure not going to tell you.”

  “You had some trouble with Manerube across the river, didn’t you?” queried Melberne.

  The rider’s head lifted, with the movement of an eagle. Then Sue saw fire added to the piercing quality of his eyes.

  “No. I reckon I’d not call it trouble with Manerube,” returned Weymer, in slow cool deliberation. “What did he say?”

  Melberne seemed somewhat flustered, compared with his usual free directness. Chess sat as stiff as a statue, yet he was inwardly trembling, for Sue felt his hand quiver. The situation had grown bad for him. Sue bit her tongue to keep from bursting out. She wanted to kick her father to remind him of the issue at stake. But he was not close enough to her, and she did not know how to attract him. Besides, Chane Weymer’s look, his laugh, and then the slow coolness of his last query had robbed her of the feeling Chess had inspired in her. Almost, it seemed, she wanted her father to blurt out Manerube’s story.

  “Wal, he didn’t say much,” replied Melbeme, warily. “Just mentioned you an’ he had a little scrap. Shore it’s n
othin’ to fetch up heah. I’m runnin’ this outfit. An’ all I want to know is if you’ll ride for me.”

  The frown deepened on Weymer’s brow, and the sternness of his features, that had hidden behind his smile and glow of gladness, brought sharply to Sue the face she had seen in the moonlight. Certain it was he divined Melberne’s swerving from the actual truth. Perhaps his penetrating gaze found all he wished to know. Then he turned to look at Chess, and as swiftly as a light or shadow could cross his face it changed, softened. He loved that boy. Nothing else mattered. He did not seem to remember Sue was there.

  “Sure I’ll ride for you, Melberne,” he said. “If you want to know, I’m right glad of the chance. Here’s Chess—and, well, I might be of other service to you. Quien sabe? as the Mexicans say.”

  Melberne shook hands with Chane, and with a curt word of thanks he got up and strode away. Sue was almost as powerfully impressed by the way her father had met this situation, how significantly he had betrayed a surprise, as she was by the effect Weymer had upon her. Face to face with him she could not remember the character Manerube had given him and that Loughbridge said was the estimate of him among desert men. There was more, too, that she could not divine at the moment.

  “Boy, it seems I’ve taken a job to ride with you,” said Chane to his brother.

  “I should—smile,” responded Chess, choking down some stubborn emotion. “And I’m sure glad. Aren’t you, Sue?”

  How the foolish lad always included her in his raptures! He could not see anything except that she must be glad.

  “Why, yes, Chess, if it pleases you,” she replied.

  “Miss Melberne, my brother tells me you have been good to him,” said Chane, directly, and fastened his eyes on Sue’s face.

  “Oh no, hardly that,” murmured Sue.

  “Don’t believe her, Chane,” spoke up Chess. “She’s an angel. She calls me Little Boy Blue and I call her sister. Now what do you say to that?”

  “I hardly know,” replied Chane, gravely. “I’ll reserve judgment till I see more of you together.”

  “Chane, listen,” said Chess, with entire difference of tone. The boyishness vanished. His ruddy face paled slightly. He breathed quickly. “Sue has stopped my drinking.”

  “No!” exclaimed the elder brother.

  “I swear to you she has,” declared Chess, low and quick. “Chane, I fell in love with her. . . . She didn’t know it, but I’ve never drank since. ... Of course, Chane—you mustn’t misunderstand. Sue doesn’t love me—never can. I’m too much of a boy. Sue is twenty. But all the same she stopped me—and I’ll promise you, too—I’ll never drink again.”

  “Little Boy Blue,” replied Chane. “That’s the best news I ever had in all my life.”

  Then Sue felt his eyes on her face, and though she dared not raise it, she had to.

  “This boy’s mother will love you, too, when she knows,” said Chane. “As for me—I will do anything for you.”

  “I declare—you make so much of—of hardly anything,” returned Sue, struggling with unfamiliar emotions. “Chess is the same way. You make mountains out of mole hills.”

  He smiled without replying, his dark eyes of fire Steadily on her. Sue suddenly felt that if she had been an inspiration to Chess, wittingly or otherwise, it was a big thing. She must not seem to belittle it. And the reverence, or whatever it was she saw in Chane Wey- mer’s eyes, went straight to her heart, unutterably sweet to the discord there. An incredible shyness was about to master her. In sheer self-preservation she turned to Chess.

  “Boy Blue, I’d never make light of your fight against bad habits,” she said. “I’m only amazed that I could help. . . . But if it’s true—I’m very proud and very happy. I will indeed be your sister.”

  Sue left them, maintaining outwardly a semblance of the dignity she tried to preserve. She heard Chess say, triumphantly, “Chane, didn’t I tell you? . . .” That almost precipitated her retreat to a flight. What on earth had Chess told this brother? Sue walked faster and faster toward her tent.

  Chapter Nine

  DAYS passed. The beautiful Indian summer weather held on, growing white with hoarfrost in the dawns, rich and thick with amber light at the still noons, smoky and purple at sunset. The cottonwoods now blazed in golden splendor, and the grove was carpeted with fallen leaves, like a bright reflection from the canopy above.

  Melberne’s riders labored early and late, part of them cutting and dragging fence posts, the others stretching barbed wire down in the valley.

  But for Sue Melberne these days were unending, dragging by through hours of restless uncertainty, strange fleeting moments of indescribable joy, followed by quick fastening moods of vague unhappiness—all tormenting, verging on torture.

  Then came the most perfect of autumn days, golden, fragrant, smoky, now with long still solemn dreamy lulls, and again sweet and cool with gusts of wind that filled the air as by fluttering bright leaves like birds, and sent the carpet of gold rustling under the trees. Sue wandered about the grove and along the slope, believing she had fallen under a magic spell of Indian summer. For the most part she watched Chess and Chane at their labors up and down the hillside. She heard the sharp ring of Chess’s axe, and sometimes she saw it glint in the sunlight. His mellow voice floated down, crude and strong, singing a cowboy song. The tall Chane gathered several trimmed saplings in his arms, and carrying them to a declivity, he threw them over, where they rolled and clattered down to a level. Here Jake and Bonny and Captain Bunk loaded them into wagons.

  Sue watched all the riders, but her gaze went oftenest and lingered longest upon the lithe figure of Chane Weymer. She was not blind to it. She confessed it when moments of torment drove her to truth. But fair as she had been to others, she was stubborn, inconsistent, intolerant to herself. She would think only so far, then, shocked at the possibilities, she would defiantly dispel thought and live in her dreamful sensations.

  But this golden day had dawned to strange purpose. Never had there been such a day in her life. All at once she faced her soul and knew her trouble.

  She had perched in a favorite seat on a low branch of a gnarled and spreading cottonwood, quite remote from the camp, at the base of the slope where the canyon opened. Here she could see without being seen. Nothing unusual had happened. She had been free of torments for the hour, idling, watching, dreaming away the time. Indeed, the sweet strong spell of the golden and purple autumn lay upon her. Then came a moment when Chane Weymer passed out of sight on the timbered hillside and did not return. Revelation burst upon her quietly, inevitably, without the slightest shock.

  “Chane Weymer! . . . He’s the man,” she soliloquized, mournfully. “I felt something must happen out here in this desert. It’s come. . . . Chess was right. He said, ‘You can’t help but love Chanel’ . . . I can’t. I can’t. . . . Oh, I’m done for!”

  At last she knew. That moment saw the end of her restless, unsatisfied, uncertain longings, her doubts and fears, her miserable moods and bitter railings at self. Her torments had suddenly given place to a great dawning of something immeasurable. Like a burst of sun in the darkness of her heart ! Her spirit did not rise up to crush this betraying love. It could not be crushed. It was too new, too terribly sweet, for her to want to crush. It was herself, her fulfillment; and in a moment she had become a woman.

  Long she sat there and time seemed to stand still. The golden day enveloped her. Shadow and sunlight played over her with the swaying of the branches above, the movement of the colored leaves. Before her eyes the red and brown hills sloped up to the black bulk of mountain; behind her rolled the purple valley, its horizon lost in haze. Solitude held the hills in its embrace. From the desert floated a still all-pervading atmosphere, like a fragrance from limitless space.

  “When did it happen?” mused Sue, woman-like, trying to retrace the steps of her undoing. Having faced the fatal fact, she was more concerned with the when of it, the how and the why, than with its effect upon her future. T
he future could be put aside. In a flash of thought it looked appalling.

  Sue recalled the night of Chane’s arrival, when she sat beside him as he slept as one dead, his stem savage face blanched in the moonlight. Could love have come to her then? Surely it had been hidden in her heart, mounting unknown to her, waiting, waiting. She recalled the following morning, when the crudeness had gone with his unkempt beard and he had shown her in few words and single glance how forever he would be in her debt for her influence upon his brother. It could not have come to her then. Then, the following days —how utterably impossible to grasp by recollection of them one meeting, one exchange of look or speech more significant than another!

  Still there were things she thought more of than others—little incidents that stood out, facts only unusual because of memory—the difference in Ora, the way Manerube avoided the camp fire, the splendid gay- ety of Chess, the piercing eyes of Chane, who watched her from afar, the wild joy which had come to her while riding Brutus.

  “Ah! now I cannot ever ride Brutus again!” she murmured, in dismay.

  That focused her thought upon the horse. Chess had brought Brutus up to her one day.

  “Sue,” he had said, “Chane says this horse saved his life. Brutus, he’s called. Look at him! You wouldn’t think he’s the greatest horse Chane ever straddled. Chane has had a thousand fine horses. Look. Brutus will grow on you. But you’ll have to take time to find him out, Chane says. Ride him—learn to know him —love him.”

  “Chess, the last won’t be hard to learn,” replied Sue, and after the manner she had acquired from riders she walked round him. Sue really knew but little about horses. She could ride because she had been accustomed to horses since childhood and because she was athletic and liked motion. She did not qualify in what the Westerners called horse sense, let alone the great fact of having been born on a horse. Nevertheless, she had it in her to love one.

  “Sue, it’d never do for you to love Brutus and not his master,” said Chess, very soberly, with a face as solemn as a judge’s.