by Max Brand
“Turn and turn about,” he was saying smoothly. “When I went into your telegraph office the other night my nerves were in a knot. Tell you straight I never knew I had real nerves before. I went in ready to curse like a drunk. When I saw you, it straightened me out. By the Lord, it was like a cool wind in my face. You were so steady, Ruth; straight eyes; and it ironed out the wrinkles to hear your voice. I blurted out a lot of stuff. But when I remembered it later on I wasn’t ashamed. I knew you’d understand. Besides, I knew that what I’d said would stop with you. Just about one girl in a million who can keep her mouth shut—and each one of ’em is worth her weight in gold. You did me several thousand dollars’ worth of good that night. That’s honest!”
She allowed her eyes to open, slowly, and looked at him with a misty content. The mountains had already done him good. The sharp sun had flushed him a little and tinted his cheeks and strong chin with tan. He looked more manly, somehow, and stronger in himself. Of course he had flattered her, but the feeling that she had actually helped him so much by merely listening on that other night wakened in her a new self-reverence. She was too prone to look on life as a career of manlike endeavor; it was pleasant to know that a woman could accomplish something even more important by simply sitting still and listening. He was watching her gravely now, even though she permitted herself the luxury of smiling at him.
All at once she cried softly: “Thank Heaven that you’re not a fool, Ben Connor!”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I don’t think I can tell you.” She added hastily: “I’m not trying to be mysterious.”
He waved the need of an apology away.
“Tell you what. Never knew a girl yet that was worth her salt who could be understood all the time, or who even understood herself.”
She closed her eyes again to ponder this, lazily. She could not arrive at a conclusion, but she did not care. Missing links in this conversation were not vitally important.
“Take it easy, Ruth; we’ll talk later on,” he said after a time.
She did not look at him as she answered: “Tell me why?”
There was a sort of childlike confiding in all this that troubled Ben Connor. He had seen her with a mind as direct and an enthusiasm as strong as that of a man. This relaxing and softening alarmed him, because it showed him another side of her, a new and vital side. She was very lovely with the shadows of the sombrero brim cutting across the softness of her lips and setting aglow the clear olive tan of her chin and throat. Her hand lay palm upward beside her, very small, very delicate in the making. But what a power was in that hand! He realized with a thrill of not unmixed pleasure that if the girl set herself to the task she could mold him like wax with the gestures of that hand. If into the softness of her voice she allowed a single note of warmth to creep, what would happen in Ben Connor? He felt within himself a chord ready to vibrate in answer.
Now he caught himself leaning a little closer to study the purple stain of weariness in her eyelids. Even exhaustion was attractive in her. It showed something new, and newly appealing. Weariness gave merely a new edge to her beauty. What if her eyes, opening slowly now, were to look upon him not with the gentleness of friendship, but with something more—the little shade of difference in a girl’s wide eyes that admits a man to her secrets—and traps him in so doing.
Ben Connor drew himself up with a shake of the shoulders. He felt that he must keep careful guard from now on. What a power she was. What a power! If she set herself to the task who could deal with her? What man could keep from her? Then the picture of David jumped into his mind out of nothingness. And on the heels of that picture the inspiration came with a sudden uplifting of the heart, surety, intoxicating insight. He wanted to jump to his feet and shout until the great ravine beneath them echoed. With an effort he remained quiet. But he was thinking rapidly—rapidly. He had intended to use her merely to arrange for shipping Shakra away from Lukin Junction. For he dared not linger about the town where expert horse thieves might see the mare. But now something new, something more came to him. The girl was a power? Why not use her?
What he said was: “Do you know why you close your eyes?”
Still without looking up she answered: “Why?”
“All of these mountains—you see?” She did not see, so he went on to describe them. “There’s that big peak opposite us. Looks a hundred yards away, but it’s two miles. Comes down in big jags and walks up into the sky—Lord knows how many thousand feet. And behind it the other ranges stepping off into the horizon with purple in the gorges and mist at the tops. Fine picture, eh? But hard to look at, Ruth. Mighty hard to look at. First thing you know you get to squinting to make out whether that’s a cactus on the side of that mountain or a hundred-foot pine tree. Might be either. Can’t tell the distance in this air. Well, you begin to squint. That’s how the people around here get that long-distance look behind their eyes and the long-distance wrinkles around the corners of their eyes. All the men have those wrinkles. But the women have them, too, after a while. You’ll get them after a while, Ruth. Wrinkles around the eyes and wrinkles in the mind to match, eh?”
Her eyes opened at last, slowly, slowly. She smiled at him plaintively.
“Don’t I know, Ben? It’s a man’s country. It isn’t made for woman.”
“Ah, there you’ve hit the nail on the head. Exactly! A man’s country. Do you know what it does to the women?”
“Tell me.”
“Makes ’em like the men. Hardens their hands after a while. Roughens their voices. Takes time, but that’s what comes after a while. Understand?”
“Oh, don’t I understand!”
And he knew how the fear had haunted her, then, for the first time.
“What does this dry, hot wind do to you in the mountains? What does it do to your skin? Takes the velvet off, after a while; makes it dry and hard. Lord, girl, I’d hate to see the change it’s going to make in you!”
All at once she sat up, wide awake.
“What are you trying to do to me, Ben Connor?”
“I’m trying to wake you up.”
“I am awake. But what can I do?”
“You think you’re awake, but you’re not. Tell you what a girl needs, a stage—just like an actor. Think they can put on a play with these mountains for a setting? Never in the world. Make the actors look too small. Make everything they say sound too thin.
“Same way with a girl. She needs a setting. A room, a rug, a picture, a comfortable chair, and a dress that goes with it. Shuts out the rest of the world and gives her a chance to make a man focus on her—see her behind the footlights. See?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Do you know what I’ve been doing while I watched you just now?”
“Tell me.”
He was fighting for a great purpose now, and a quality of earnest emotion crept into his voice. “Around your throat I’ve been running an edging of yellow old lace. Under your hand that was lying there I put a deep blue velvet; I had your shoulders as white as snow, with a flash to ’em like snow when you turned in the light; I had you proud as a queen, Ruth, with a blur of violets at your breast. I took out the tired look in your face. Instead, I put in happiness.”
He stopped and drew a long breath.
“You’re pretty now, but you could be—beautiful. Lord, what a flame of a beauty you could be, girl!”
Instead of flushing and smiling under the praise, he saw tears well into her eyes and her mouth grow tremulous. She winked the tears away.
“What are you trying to do, Ben? Make everything still harder for me? Don’t you see I’m helpless—helpless?”
And instead of rising to a wail her voice sank away at the end in despair.
“Oh, you’re trapped well enough,” he said. “I’m going to bust the trap! I’m going to give you your setting. I’m going to make you what you ought to be—beautiful!”
She smiled as at any unreal fairy tale.
“
How?”
“I can show you better than I can tell you! Come here!” He rose, and she was on her feet in a flash. He led the way to the door of the shack, and as the shadows fell inside, Shakra tossed up her head.
The girl’s bewildered joy was as great as if the horse were a present to her.
“Oh, you beauty, you beauty,” she cried.
“Watch yourself,” he warned. “She’s as wild as a mountain lion.”
“But she knows a friend!”
Shakra sniffed the outstretched hand, and then with a shake of her head accepted the stranger and looked over Ruth’s shoulder at Connor as though for an explanation. Connor himself was smiling and excited; he drew her back and forgot to release her hand, so that they stood like two happy children together. He spoke very softly and rapidly, as though he feared to embarrass the mare.
“Look at the head first—then the bone in the foreleg, then the length above her back—see how she stands! See how she stands! And those black hoofs, hard as iron, I tell you—put the four of ’em in my double hands, almost—ever see such a nick? But she’s no six furlong flash! That chest, eh? Run your finger-tips down that shoulder!”
She turned with tears of pleasure in her eyes. “Ben Connor, you’ve been in the valley of the grays!”
“I have. And do you know what it means to us?”
“To us?”
“I said it. I mean it. You’re going to share.”
“I—”
“Look at that mare again!”
She obeyed.
“Say something, Ruth!”
“I can’t say what I feel!”
“Then try to understand this: you’re looking at the fastest horse that ever stepped into a race track. You understand? I’m not speaking in comparisons. I’m talking the cold dope! Here’s a pony that could have given Salvator twenty pounds, run him sick in six furlongs, and walked away to the finish by herself. Here’s a mare that could pick up a hundred and fifty pounds and beat the finest horse that ever faced a barrier with a fly-weight jockey in the saddle. You’re looking at history, girl! Look again! You’re looking at a cold million dollars. You’re looking at the blood that’s going to change the history of the turf. That’s what Shakra means!”
She was trembling with his excitement.
“I see. It’s the sure thing you were talking about. The horse that can’t be beat—that makes the betting safe?”
But Connor grew gloomy at once.
“What do you mean by sure thing? If I could ever get her safely away from the post in a stake race, yes; sure as anything on earth. But suppose the train is wrecked? Suppose she puts a foot in a hole? Suppose at the post some rotten, cheap-selling plater kicks her and lays her up!”
He passed a trembling hand along the neck of Shakra.
“God, suppose!”
“But you only brought one; nothing else worth while in the valley?”
“Nothing else? I tell you, the place is full of ’em! And there’s a stallion as much finer than Shakra as she’s finer than that broken-down, low-headed, ewe-necked, straight-shouldered, roach-backed skate you have out yonder!”
“Mr. Connor, that’s the best little pony in Lukin! But I know—compared with this—oh, to see her run, just once!”
She sighed, and as her glance fell Connor noted her pallor and her weariness. She looked up again, and the great eyes filled her face with loveliness. Color, too, came into her cheeks and into her parted lips.
“You beauty!” she murmured. “You perfect, perfect beauty!”
Shakra was nervous under the fluttering hands, but in spite of her uneasiness she seemed to enjoy the light-falling touches until the finger-tips trailed across her forehead; then she tossed her head high, and the girl stood beneath, laughing, delighted. Connor found himself smiling in sympathy. The two made a harmonious picture. As harmonious, say, as the strength of Glani and the strength of David Eden. His face grew tense with it when he drew the girl away.
“Would you like to have a horse like that—half a dozen like it?”
The first leap of hope was followed by a wan smile at this cruel mockery.
He went on with brutal tenseness, jabbing the points at her with his raised finger.
“And everything else you’ve ever wanted: beautiful clothes? Manhattan? A limousine as big as a house. A butler behind your chair and a maid in your dressing room? A picture in the papers every time you turn around? You want ’em?”
“Do I want heaven?”
“How much will you pay?”
He urged it on her, towering over her as he drew close.
“What’s it worth? Is it worth a fight?”
“It’s worth—everything.”
“I’m talking shop. I’m talking business. Will you play partners with me?”
“To the very end.”
“The big deaf-mute doesn’t own the grays in that valley they call the Garden of Eden. They’re owned by a white man. They call him David Eden. And David Eden has never been out in the world. It’s part of his creed not to. It’s part of his creed, however, to go out just once, find a woman for his wife, and bring her back with him. Is that clear?”
“I—”
“You’re to go up there. That old gray gelding we saw in Lukin the day of the race. I’ll finance you to the sky. Ride it to the gates of the Garden of Eden. Tell the guards that you’ve got to have another horse because the one you own is old. Insist on seeing David. Smile at ’em; win ’em over. Make them let you see David. And the minute you see him, he’s ours! You understand? I don’t mean marriage. One smile will knock him stiff. Then play him. Get him to follow you out of the valley. Tell him you have to go back home. He’ll follow you. Once we have him outside you can keep him from going back and you can make him bring out his horses, too. Easy? It’s a sure thing! We don’t rob him, you see? We simply use his horses. I race them and play them. I split the winnings with you and David. Millions, I tell you; millions. Don’t answer. Gimme a chance to talk!”
There was a rickety old box leaning against the wall; he made her sit on it, and dropping upon one knee, he poured out plan, reason, hopes, ambitions in fierce confusion. It ended logically enough. David was under what he considered a divine order to marry, and he would be clay in the hands of the first girl who met him. She would be a fool indeed if she were not able to lead him out of the valley.
“Think it over for one minute before you answer,” concluded Connor, and then rose and folded his arms. He controlled his very breathing for fear of breaking in on the dream which he saw forming in her eyes.
Then she shook herself clear of the temptation.
“Ben, it’s crooked! I’m to lie to him—live a lie until we have what we want!”
“God A’mighty, girl! Don’t you see that we’d be doing the poor fathead a good turn by getting him out of his hermitage and letting him live in the world? A lie? Call it that if you want. Aren’t there such things as white lies? If there are, this is one of ’em or I’m not Ben Connor.”
His voice softened. “Why, Ruth, you know damned well that I wouldn’t put the thing up to you if I didn’t figure that in the end it would be the best thing in the world for you? I’m giving you your chance. To save Dave Eden from being a fossil. To earn your own freedom. To get everything you’ve longed for. Think!”
“I’m trying to think—but I only keep feeling, inside, ‘It’s wrong! It’s wrong! It’s wrong!’ I’m not a moralizer, but—tell me about David Eden!”
Connor saw his opening.
“Think of a horse that’s four years old and never had a bit in his teeth. That’s David Eden. The minute you see him you’ll want to tame him. But you’ll have to go easy. Keep gloves on. He’s as proud as a sulky kid. Kind of a chap you can’t force a step, but you could coax him over a cliff. Why, he’d be thread for you to wind around your little finger if you worked him right. But it wouldn’t be easy. If he had a single suspicion he’d smash everything in a minute, and he’s strong en
ough to tear down a house. Put the temper of a panther in the size of a bear and you get a small idea of David Eden.”
He was purposely making the task difficult and he saw that she was excited. His own work with Ruth Manning was as difficult as hers would be with David. The fickle color left her all at once and he found her looking wistfully at him.
She returned neither answer, argument, nor comment. In vain he detailed each step of her way into the Garden and how she could pass the gate. Sometimes he was not even sure that she heard him, as she listened to the silent voice which spoke against him. He had gathered all his energy for a last outburst, he was training his tongue for a convincing storm of eloquence, when Shakra, as though she wearied of all this human chatter, pushed in between them her beautiful head and went slowly toward Ruth with pricking ears, inquisitive, searching for those light, caressing touches.
The voice of Connor became an insidious whisper.
“Look at her, Ruth. Look at her. She’s begging you to come. You can have her. She’ll be a present to you. Quick! What’s the answer!”
A strange answer! She threw her arms around the shoulder of the beautiful gray, buried her face in the mane, and burst into tears.
For a moment Connor watched her, dismayed, but presently, as one satisfied, he withdrew to the open air and mopped his forehead. It had been hard work, but it had paid. He looked over the distant blue waves of mountains with the eye of possession.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“The evil at heart, when they wish to take, seem to give,” said Abraham, mouthing the words with his withered lips, and he came to one of his prophetic pauses.
The master of the Garden permitted it to the privileged old servant, who added now: “Benjamin is evil at heart.”
“He did not ask for the horse,” said David, who was plainly arguing against his own conviction.
“Yet he knew.” The ancient face of Abraham puckered. “Po’ white trash!” he muttered. Now and then one of these quaint phrases would break through his acquired diction, and they always bore home to David a sense of that great world beyond the mountains. Matthew had often described that world, but one of Abraham’s odd expressions carried him in a breath into cities filled with men.