by Zane Grey
Enoch toyed with the gun he had long ago seen in Ryson and had coveted. “Wal, Cal, shore it’s damn good of you.”
Tim Matthews had a wonderful beaver sombrero thrust into his hands, with the words: “Merry Christmas, Tim.” Now Tim had never completely become reconciled to Cal since the fight at Boyd Thurman’s sorghum field.
“Wh-a-a-t?” he stammered. “This heah forty dollar beaver for me? . . . Aw!—Cal Thurman, if you ain’t some sport, I’ll eat this hat. Put her thar! I hope to wear it at your weddin’.”
A great deal of hilarity attended the presentation of these gifts. “Windfalls!” ejaculated Uncle Gard Thurman. “Wal, the boy’s locoed,” said Henry. Then an old aunt of Cal’s spoke up. “You croakers ought to be ashamed.”
At last there was only one present left, and Cal meant this for Georgiana. He had not been unaware of her curiosity, even though she sat in the background and had no share in the hilarity. The moment was fraught with anxiety. Suppose she refused it! But this was Christmas, and she could not do that. Mary Stockwell had opened her lips to reproach Cal for his extravagance, but when she saw what the present was she could only utter her delight. Cal felt that he could safely trust to human nature, on Christmas Eve, even if the subject was the willful and haughty Georgiana.
So he stood with the box behind his back and called out gaily:
“Come, Georgie, get yours.”
She came forward readily, not at all formidable. Indeed she was smiling, a little wistfully, yet expectantly, and there was something of childhood in her expression. She came right up to him and the light of the blazing logs in the open fireplace shone on her face. It was the closest he had been to her in a month. Cal trembled, and found it hard to keep to his rôle of gay dispenser of gifts. He almost forgot.
“I’ll say you’re some little Santa Claus,” said Georgiana.
“Guess what it is,” suggested Cal.
“Oh, I couldn’t. I haven’t an idea.”
“I’ll bet you’ll be tickled,” he went on, tantalizingly. “I was just lucky. This sure was a windfall.”
“Well, give it to me then—if it’s so wonderful,” retorted Georgiana. She was not to be convinced. There was something of pleasurable anticipation in her face, but no enthusiasm.
“Huyler’s candy—from New York!” announced Cal, triumphantly, and handed over the box.
“Oh! Really? How perfectly lovely!” cried Georgiana, suddenly radiant, as she eagerly received the gift.
“Georgie, I wish you a Merry Christmas—an’ a Happy New Year here—in the Tonto,” added Cal, with a strange earnestness taking the place of his gaiety.
Something in his tone and his look must have struck her singularly. A slight flush came to her pale face.
“Thank you. I wish you the same,” she replied, with dark eyes on his for an instant. Then she turned to her sister.
Christmas day, and the Sunday following were nightmares to Cal. He managed to do justice to the sumptuous Tonto dinner, including wild turkey, but the rest of the festivities and social intercourse of the holiday were blank for him. Not until Tuck Merry rode away late Sunday afternoon did Cal regain anything of balance. Then his queer trancelike vacillation gave way to an intense nervous restlessness. Not much sleep did he get that night!
As luck would have it Monday turned out to be a beautiful bright sunny day. Nature had smiled upon his enterprise. About the middle of the forenoon he saddled his horse, and riding out the back way he circled over a brushy ridge and came down above the ranch, at a point where the walnut swale joined the road. Here back a few rods he tied his horse and returned to the house. All the men had resumed their labors after the short holiday. Mary Stockwell had disappeared somewhere. Cal’s mother and sisters were busy in their quarters. He felt sure that Georgiana would walk out into the sunshine, but even if she did not the conditions were favorable to the success of his venture. Donning the roughest clothes he had—in fact, ragged old garments he had cast aside, he made a bundle of the things he had taken off. He packed a big gun at his hip. And with his old slouch sombrero he imagined he made a rather hard-looking individual. If he had not been so deadly serious about this plan, it would have been funny. But though he called himself a fool, he was heart and soul in it. What if Tuck failed to fetch Parson Meeker! A thousand fears beset Cal. He went out and hid in the brush above the house, and with eyes that ached he peered from his covert. He would have an interminable wait. Endless hours before she would come out for her walk! Or she might not come at all, and then he would be forced to go after her. The excitement, the thrill, the zest of the thing had vanished. There was a lump in his throat; his skin felt clammy and cold; and his restlessness increased until it became almost unbearable.
All at once his roving eye caught sight of a horseman riding down a brush-lined trail across the valley.
“Who’s that man?” muttered Cal, grimly. “I’m not goin’ to let him spoil my party.—Maybe he’ll ride on.”
The horseman kept to the brush, disappeared for a few moments, then reappeared farther down, and came off the slope at the end of the Thurman line of cleared ground. Here he kept under cover until he got out to the road, where he was careful to look in all directions. Cal began to breathe hard. The horseman trotted briskly down the road, and turned into the chump of walnut trees in the mouth of the swale where Cal had hidden his horse.
“Bid Hatfield!” gasped Cal, and slowly sank back in his hiding place. “What does he mean—sneakin’ round like that?”
A suspicion of Georgiana tried to find lodgment in Cal’s mind. “No! No! She wouldn’t meet him!”
But this accident presented a new angle to his enterprise. He was expecting Georgiana to go out for a walk. So was Bid Hatfield. Confronted by this problem Cal pondered over it. At the same time he peered again from his shady nook under the manzanitas. Suddenly he stiffened in his tracks. Georgiana had appeared at the gate, and her quick apprehensive glance up and down the road was not lost upon Cal.
“Ah hell!” he groaned, and it was as if he had been stabbed. Georgiana knew Bid Hatfield was to be there. She was on the way to meet him. One moment Cal endured pangs the like of which had never before torn his breast. Then swift as light his whole mood changed.
“Ahuh!” he muttered, hoarsely. “I’ll meet him too, Georgie—an’ you can take your choice.”
Slipping down like an Indian through the brush, Cal halted just before he came to the road. Georgiana was walking rapidly toward the curve of the road, around which was the opening where Hatfield must be waiting. Cal let her get out of sight. Then he ran along, threading a way through the aisles between the clumps of brush, and turned to climb a low ridge that formed the western bank of the walnut swale. He knew every foot of the ground, and how he could slip right upon these two at their rendezvous. He was in the grip of passion, yet he had self-control left to let the meeting decide his course of action. Bitter and rancorous as he was, he could not give up hope altogether. His faith in Georgiana would not die.
“But if she’s—she’s—,” he muttered, failing over a word to express his feeling, “by God! it’ll be a bad meetin’ for them.”
Through an opening in the trees below he caught a glimpse of Georgiana, still hurrying. He glided after her, keeping clumps of brush in front of him. Presently, he caught the brown gleam of Hatfield’s bay horse, and next he saw Hatfield sitting on a log, waiting. He saw Georgiana coming. How eager his attitude! Cal ground his teeth in jealous rage. Perhaps the fellow had reason to look happily expectant. They had chosen the thickest part of this swale for their meeting place. Again Cal saw Georgiana moving along, not so resolutely now. She was lagging. Cal crouched down and covered considerable ground before he looked again. He was now close enough to make up his mind what to do. With tense eyes he peered out.
When Hatfield attempted to take the girl in his arms and she repulsed him in a manner unquestionable, Cal experienced another terrible commotion in his breast. But different from the first! He di
d not need to see any more to understand that Georgiana was not Hatfield’s sweetheart. She should not have been there, but perhaps there were extenuating circumstances. Cal’s keen eyes searched Hatfield’s person for a gun. None was visible. “If he’s packin’ one somewhere, we’re in for it—an’ I’m ready,” muttered Cal, to himself, “An’ if he isn’t his meetin’ Georgie here is great luck for me.”
Drawing his gun, Cal glided on, keeping to cover, stepping stealthily. But he need not have taken so much precaution. Hatfield was appealing in poignant tones: “Aw, Georgie, you don’t mean it.”
“Yes, I do,” replied Georgiana, almost sharply. “I’ve been out of my head—long enough. It’s wrong to meet you. It’d be wrong if I loved you—which I don’t. I’ll never—”
Cal called out, stridently: “Stick ‘em up, Bid!—Quick!”
Hatfield’s back was turned to Cal. Up went his hands and he stood stiff. Georgiana wheeled to see Cal and let out a startled scream.
“Shut up, you!” ordered Cal, in a voice like a whip.
Then, running round in front of Hatfield he shoved the gun full in that worthy’s face. A sweeping glance assured Cal that his rival was unarmed. This immediately lessened Cal’s tension, and gave him the force to make the best of his opportunity.
“Reckon I’ll kill you!” he hissed out, with all the fury he could summon. He must have done it well, for Hatfield turned a sickly pale hue, and Georgiana screamed in terror.
“For God’s sake, Cal—don’t—don’t kill him!” she begged, frantically.
“Why not? You’re meetin’ him here—sneakin’ away from the house where you’re a guest—insultin’ every Thurman in the Tonto—disgracin’ your sister. You must love him.”
“Oh, Cal—I swear I don’t!” cried the girl, with ashen face. “I’ve been lonely—miserable. . . . I met him first by accident. He coaxed me, and I was just—just bullheaded enough to come. I was foolish—but I don’t care for him. I never even thought so.”
“You met him—like this—an’ that’s enough for a Thurman,” replied Cal, harshly.
“But Hatfield is not to blame,” cried the girl. “I am to blame. . . . Put down that awful gun.”
In her earnestness she pressed forward as if to take hold of Cal. With one swing of his left arm he swung her off. She staggered against the log and all but fell. Her hand went to her breast; her lips parted and her eyes grew wild.
“Hatfield—get on your horse an’ beat it,” ordered Cal. “Don’t give me any of your chin. I’m lettin’ you off because she squared you.”
With quick long strides Hatfield got to his horse and, leaping astride, he reached both hands down for the bridle. Finding that, he straightened up, bent a pale, vindictive face upon Cal, and goading the horse he plunged away under the trees. Then came the swift clatter of hooves on the hard road.
When Cal turned to Georgiana his stern resolve almost melted. But weakness and tenderheartedness were not to be tolerated now. Tuck had amazingly inspired him. He would carry the whole pretense to the top of his bent.
“Reckon if you’re to blame, I’ll take it out on you,” he began, striding up to her.
“Why—Cal!” she faltered. “You never were like this—before.”
“I never knew all about you before,” he returned, bitterly.
The little head shot up and a flame of spirit flashed back to the white face.
“You can’t talk to me that way,” she said. “I’m sorry for what I’ve done, but I’m not ashamed. Be careful you don’t insult me.”
Cal decided the fewer words exchanged the better. He thrust his gun back into its sheath, and then with a swift action he fastened his left hand in the front of Georgiana’s coat and blouse.
“You come with me,” he said.
“I’ll do nothing of the—” she responded, but owing to the sudden force he exerted she failed to conclude her statement.
Cal began to stride back into the glade, pulling her with him. For a few yards she went unyieldingly, as if in amaze. Then she began to resist. She held back, fought his arm, and beat at him. But she could not dislodge his hold.
“Let go—I say,” she panted. “Are you drunk or crazy?—Cal Thurman, I won’t go with you. Why, you’re worse than Hatfield.”
At that he gave her a violent jerk and shake which upset her equilibrium, and she would have fallen, save for his arm. He dragged her on. At sight of his horse she suddenly grew limp.
“What do—you mean?” she whispered.
He made no reply. Untying the bridle with one hand was not easy, but he accomplished it. Then shifting his hold on her, he essayed to mount the horse. This was even more difficult. Finally he let go of her, mounted in a flash, and reaching down secured her again before she had made a step. The horse was trustworthy, yet spirited, and his nervous steps made Cal drag the girl off her feet. Exerting all his strength, he swung her up so that he could reach her with his free hand. Then he lifted her up in front of him, across his saddle. He had tied a blanket over the pommel so that he could carry her there without injury. As the horse started off up the swale, Georgiana screamed. Cal clapped a rough hand over her mouth. At that she began to fight. She bit his hand like a wildcat and tore and clawed at him.
“Damn you—Cal Thurman!” she burst out, furiously. “Am I an Indian—to be packed—off like this?”
For a moment she made it extremely uncomfortable for him. Wrestling in his arms, beating at his face, she made it almost impossible to hold her and guide the horse under the branches. He was struck several times, once being nearly knocked off. Then a branch hit the struggling girl on the head, hard enough to take the fight out of her. When she sank down into his arms, Cal experienced the most wonderful sensation of his life. He could not understand what it was. But the mingled fear, wrath, and shame with which he had been battling suddenly changed to a singular deep, vague joy, as if he had plumbed to an old emotion, deep set in his bones. He held her closely. How slight and frail! What a slip of a girl to contain such spirit!
Then, as her head fell back upon his shoulder he realized that she had fainted. He could only ease her posture and hold her. Over the next ridge there was water, and if she did not come to before he reached it, he would stop there to revive her. Fortunately, the trail had led out of the low-spreading trees, up a brushy slope. Once more out in the sunlight! He noted that she had lost her little felt hat. There was no time to go back for it. Her loosened hair fell over his arm and locks of it yielded to the breeze.
“It’s done!” he breathed, as if to the loveliness of the hills. As he neared the summit of that ridge he saw all about him the soft gray-green of the brush and the red of the rocks. Some strange kinship seemed to lie between them and him. They saw him with eyes of nature. He was in a transport, and yet his heart quaked at the whiteness and stillness of her face. A scratch on her brow showed tiny drops of blood. Cal kissed them away, and suddenly he bent to her lips. Coward and thief he felt himself, yet he had to kiss them. Not the first time, but so differently! She was his now.
CHAPTER
13
I
T WAS a brush-overgrown trail, and try as he might he could not save Georgiana from being torn and dragged. He managed, however, to protect her face.
She lay quiet so long that he began to be concerned. Yet he could not convince himself that she had been hurt. Still, a bruise had appeared on her brow, slowly swelling, and blood welled from it. Perhaps the bough had struck her harder than he had imagined. How strangely calm he seemed about this possibility of hurt to her! He did not understand how he could pass over it lightly.
But when he had ridden down the slope of the hill, into a wide well-wooded valley, with a rocky stream-bed winding through it, he turned off his course to find water. It was a dry, odorous place. Pine thickets grew with the oak and juniper. He had to wind in and out among the trees in order to find clear passage. Finally, he came to sycamores, still holding golden brown leaves, and here he found a
clear rock-bound pool of water.
He had to slide out of the saddle while holding Georgiana on the horse. Then he lifted her off, and laid her in the shade of the trees. She appeared to be stirring, but her eyes were still closed. Running down to the water, he saturated his scarf, and hurried back to bathe her pale face. Presently she regained consciousness. Her eyes opened wide, dark dim blue, full of vague dread. At sight of Cal kneeling there she seemed to connect him with what had happened. He was aware of her instinctive shrinking. Words of love, regret, shame, trembled on his lips. But he bit them to keep silent. She lay there watching him for what seemed a long time. Then she gazed at his horse, at the strange place in the woods, and back at him again. Some kind of comprehension showed in her eyes.
“You knocked me—senseless!” she whispered, in wonder, and almost horror.
Quickly Cal read her tone and look. She believed he had struck her while she was fighting him. It was almost impossible to keep from blurting out that she had been stunned by a blow from a sweeping branch. But he could tell her that some other time. His quick intuition grasped the fact that she was regarding him in utter amazement, awe, and dread. Yet there was no hate in her expression. He expected her to flay him with scorn for being such a brute. Indeed, she was not reacting to this situation as he had imagined.
“Can you sit up?” he queried, gruffly.
“I guess so,” she replied, and with his help she rose to a sitting posture. But she did not recover from faintness as promptly as he had hoped. His heart smote him. Where were Miss Georgiana’s temper and spirit now? She kept gazing at him so steadily that he found it difficult to hide confusion. Wringing out his scarf, he tied it round his neck.
“Cal, tell me—would you have—have killed Bid Hatfield—if I hadn’t taken the blame?” she asked, very low.
“Ahuh! Same as I would a hydrophobia skunk,” replied Cal, in the hard deep voice he had assumed.
“Oh, my heavens! What have I done?” she cried out, as if suddenly stricken in conscience.