by Zane Grey
But when in a week Cal had mended to the extent of walking out-of-doors, when the hideous swellings had left his face so he was not ashamed to be seen by his relatives, and later when he began to brood darkly and to avoid her, Georgiana realized that she must act soon to forestall any second meeting of his with Hatfield.
Her plan had long been made, and now only waited execution. She wrote a note to Tuck Merry, asking him to meet her the following morning at the fork of the Tonto and Mescal Ridge trails, and enclosing this note in a letter to her sister, she rode over to Gard Thurman’s and intrusted it to one of the riders going down to Green Valley that night.
The last days of March had brought some of the lamblike weather that old folk contended was sure to follow the blustery beginning of that month. Georgiana rode back to the homestead strangely relieved in mind, able once more to revel in horseback riding and to look at the sweeping green hills and the looming Rim, and to feel the beauty and wildness of it all, thankful that the sunny days had come again and that she was not compelled to leave the Tonto.
Next morning Cal began to show some little interest once more in his homestead. Wess had come over several days to feed the stock, and had sent his younger brother at other times when he could not come. This day Cal assumed the tasks again, and evidently found them slow, toilsome ones, owing to the condition of his hands.
Georgiana donned her riding suit and boots, and even in her concentration on her purpose she did not overlook the value of making herself look as attractive as possible. Then she went out to the barn, and saddling her horse, which she had been careful to keep in that night, she rode off without seeing Cal or knowing whether he saw her or not. It did not matter. She could not be stopped now.
The morning was beautiful. Turkey gobblers made the welkin ring. Squirrels and jays took noisy note of her passing down the trail. She saw a bear track in the dust. The piny odor of the woods, so strong and dry and exhilarating, never had smelled so sweet. A forest fire somewhere added the fragrance of burning wood to the fresh air. The green pine thickets had taken on a new coat. All the forest seemed renewed. At Tonto Creek she saw two deer and a flock of turkeys that, little frightened, walked away into the woods. How amber-hued the pools and how white the rushing rapids!
Absorbed in the pleasant sensations of the ride and the growing excitement of her purpose, Georgiana found that she had reached the meeting place with Tuck before she had any idea she was near it. This was a mile below the schoolhouse, which she had avoided passing. The trail forked here, marking a clearing and a ranger station.
Tuck Merry was waiting for her, and his homely features expressed considerable perturbation and very much pleasure. It seemed to Georgiana that she had never before really looked at him. What a huge, ungainly, long, and ludicrous individual he was! His cadaverous face, like a lean ham, appeared adorned with many queer things, most prominent of which was his enormous nose. But his smile, the light of his big eyes, belied the counterfeits of physical nature. Tuck Merry loomed up to Georgiana then as the chivalrous and faithful friend she needed.
“Georgie, this is some surprise,” he said, in greeting.
“Howdy, Tuck! Aren’t you flattered to be asked to meet a girl in trouble?” queried Georgiana, as she offered her hand.
“Flattered and proud,” replied Tuck, with something of sharpness. “But don’t waste time kidding me into taking your part. I’m for you. Come out with it. I know it’s trouble between you and Cal. And I’m sick.”
“Have you folks at Green Valley heard about Cal’s fight with Hatfield?”
“Only yesterday,” replied Tuck, anxiously, “news came from Ryson, and we took it for Bar XX brand. But, anyway, I intended to ride up to see Cal today.”
Thereupon Georgiana, in strong and feeling language, told in detail of the terrible beating Hatfield had administered to Cal. How curiously and keenly she watched for Tuck’s reaction to this narrative! To her amaze his first expression was delight.
“We heard some of that,” he blurted out. “Tom Hall’s talk. . . . Cal was getting the best of Hatfield in a stand-up fight. Then the burly buzzer roughhoused him.”
But Tuck’s pleasure was short-lived, as was evident from the swift hardening and darkening of his face.
“What do you want of me?” he demanded.
“I want you to take me to the Bar XX ranch.”
“For Heaven’s sake, Georgie, what for?”
“I am going to call that Bid Hatfield to his face,” replied Georgiana, and then, in swifter, more fluent words, that grew poignant as she progressed, she told Tuck how Hatfield had besmirched her character, what a miserable liar he was, why Cal would soon hunt him up to kill him, and lastly that she must see Hatfield first and shame him before his own crowd, and make him retract his vile slander.
“Right-o! I get you, Steve,” retorted Tuck, with quick, intent, comprehending look, not devoid of admiration. “I’m for you. We’ll brand Mr. Hatfield a lemon. . . . Now, Georgie, ride across the brook to the trail and go down. I’ll catch up with you before you’re gone half a mile. I want to phone from the ranger cabin and tell Henry I’m going to saw wood today but not at the sawmill.”
Georgiana did as she was bidden, thrilling gratefully for Tuck’s instant championship. She found the narrow winding trail and soon passed the clearing, to enter a defile where Tonto Creek left the pine slopes for the brushy hills. True to his word, Tuck caught up with her, and with cheery call to make better time he took the lead.
The trail led above the babbling brook and kept to its course down the ravine that soon grew to a rugged canyon. Eventually this opened into the Bear Flat clearing, a wild, lonely, deserted little ranch, and from there up and up the steep slopes, over the cedared hills, and up again to the high barren ridge that got its name from the gray spiked patches of mescal cactus. Here on the heights could be seen the many ridges of the Tonto, sloping and sweeping, dark and rugged, down to the void that was the main canyon. Georgiana saw far across to the other side, where the slopes were the same, only running toward her, and she thought she recognized the one she rode down that fateful day with Cal.
Tuck led across this league-long Mescal Ridge, down into a wide canyon that opened out into level country, large enough for a ranch. The home of the Bar XX was as picturesque as Green Valley. The trail led into a road, and that rounded the margin of large fields, with dead stalks of corn and sorghum, and up into a beautiful cove between two brushy-sloped hills. Here stood the corrals of felled logs and low, squat, log cabins. Blue smoke curled from the yellow stove chimney of the larger cabin. One of the corrals was full of dusty, kicking horses. Saddles littered the ground outside. The Bar XX riders were in for their noon meal.
“Somebody in the door, Georgie,” said Tuck. “We’re here. It’s up to you. Don’t lose your nerve.”
Georgiana gave a defiant little laugh that was eloquent of her equilibrium. If Cal could stand to be beaten into insensibility on behalf of her reputation, what could she not do to save him from the madness of killing?
Several faces appeared back in the darkness of the cabin door. Then as Tuck and Georgiana rode within speaking distance a tall man strode out, bareheaded. He had sandy hair, rather thin, and a drooping mustache, a lean, brown, weather-beaten face, open and strong, and piercing light-blue eyes.
“Saunders, the boss,” whispered Tuck to Georgiana.
“Howdy! Reckon I’ve seen you somewheres,” he said to Tuck, and then when he espied that Tuck’s companion was a girl he bowed with the quaint deference these Tontonians always showed the opposite sex. “Mawnin’, Miss. Is there anythin’ we can do for you?”
“Are you Mr. Saunders?” asked Georgiana.
“I am, at your service,” he replied, with a pleasant smile, and his keen eyes studied Georgiana’s face. He expected the unusual, but it was plain he did not recognize her.
“I’m Cal Thurman’s wife,” said Georgiana, with a sudden heave of her heart and a rush of hot blood cl
ear to her temples. “I’ve ridden over here to face one of your riders—Bid Hatfield. Will you let me see him?”
“Certainly,” replied Saunders.
“Then, before you call him out I want to tell you what brought me,” continued Georgiana, swiftly, feeling the interest and sure of the sympathy of this rancher. “Mary Stockwell, the schoolteacher at Green Valley, is my sister. She brought me out here for my health. I was a crazy kid. I—I liked the boys and I flirted with them. Bid Hatfield was one of them. I liked him. I let him kiss me—on several occasions. Then he insulted me. I never told a soul. But the next time I saw him I told him I wouldn’t meet him any more. . . . After that I married Cal Thurman. Just lately I learned that Hatfield has been talking about me—making me out a vile little huzzy. Cal heard it at last, and that led to the fight. Now I’m over here to face Hatfield.”
“Wal, wal!” ejaculated the rancher, at once embarrassed and shocked. “Thet’s a serious charge to lay on a man in this Tonto Basin.”
“Please let me see him,” returned Georgiana.
“Wal, I reckon I will—an’ I’ll see him, too,” said Saunders, forcefully. Turning away, he took several long strides toward the door of the cabin. This man was thinking hard. All at once he yelled, “Hey, Bid Hatfield, you’re wanted out heah.”
“Who wants me?” came in a gruff voice from inside.
“Wal, I do, for one,” shouted Saunders, peremptorily. “You come out heah pronto.”
Then the burly Hatfield appeared in the door, swaggering a little, the same bold-eyed, handsome rider Georgiana had seen so often. But at sight of her his dark face turned livid. He halted short.
“Hatfield,” said Saunders, curtly, “heah’s Cal Thurman’s wife, an’ she’s made a damn serious charge against you.”
The several faces in the doorway behind Hatfield attached themselves to forms that stalked out into the sunlight. This fact was repeated until half a dozen staring riders had lined up outside the cabin.
At sight of Hatfield and the sudden blanching of his face Georgiana sustained a rush of passion that held her a moment in its grip. It was more thought of Cal than wrong to herself that stirred her fury.
Before she could speak, Saunders and all of the riders wheeled quickly to gaze down the road. A cloud of dust had puffed up beyond the curve. Then Georgiana heard the rapid beat of hooves. Horsemen hove in sight, riding on a run.
“What the hell!” ejaculated Saunders. “Who’s rarin’ in heah this way?”
“Boss, it’s some of the Four T outfit,” called a rider.
“Thurman, huh! Wal, you-all stand pat,” ordered Saunders.
Georgiana really did not get the full gist of this talk until she recognized Enoch, and then Tim Matthews. She was sure another was Arizona, and another Pan Handle Ames. The sudden shift of her sensations from wrath to amaze left her trembling. She became aware of Tuck’s big hand on hers, as if to reassure her. How those riders were pounding down the road! The white foam flew above dust. In a dark compact mass this half dozen or more horses swept down on the cabin. They were pulled back on their haunches, and scattering the gravel they slid to a halt. But scarcely a second before every rider landed with thudding boots and jingling spurs on the ground. Georgiana saw then she had been right in her recognition, and the others were Boyd, Serge, and Lock Thurman. They made a somber, menacing group, from which Enoch stalked out, slowly, with his gray eyes glinting. A gun swung at his hip.
“Howdy Saunders,” he drawled.
“Howdy Enoch,” replied the rancher.
“Someone phoned us to come hell-bent for election over heah,” went on Enoch. “Reckon we was comin’, anyhow, but as we didn’t care much aboot that phone call we rode some.”
“So I see,” replied Saunders, dryly, indicating the foam-lashed, heaving horses. “An’ damned if I ain’t glad to see you, Enoch.”
“Ahuh! Wal, what’s up?” queried Enoch, sharply, as his eyes flashed from Saunders to his men, then back to Tuck Merry and Georgiana.
“’Pears to me there’s a heap up,” answered Saunders. “Cal’s wife is heah, as you see, an’ she can shore speak for herself. She’s come to make Bid Hatfield prove his brag or eat his words.”
Tuck Merry pressed Georgiana’s hand hard and whispered fiercely in her ear, “Now—hand it to him!”
Georgiana lifted her gloved hand and pointed quiveringly at the livid rider.
“Now, Bid Hatfield—say to my face—that I’m not an honest girl,” she called out in ringing, passionate scorn. “Everybody can tell the truth. Show me up, if I’m what you say. If you have anything on me tell it now. . . . Tell me to my face in front of all these men!”
Manifestly the situation was a terrible one for Hatfield. The surprise of her confronting him in daring scorn completely unmanned him.
“Aw, Georgie, it was all Tonto gossip. I never said anythin’ bad against you.”
“You’re a liar!” flashed Georgiana. “Everybody knows you’ve talked. And if you’re not a white-livered coward you’ll tell the truth. You’ll confess you lied to defame me.”
“But, Georgie, I didn’t say what—what you’ve heard,” he replied, hoarsely.
“All right. If you’re not man enough to own up you’ll do this. You’ll answer me before these men. . . . You told that I let you kiss me, didn’t you?”
“Maybe I did—when I was drunk or mad,” he replied, dropping his head.
“Didn’t I stop letting you kiss me—because you tried to go too far—and didn’t I quit meeting you?” Georgiana demanded, in all the intensity of her blazing anger.
“Yes—you did,” returned Hatfield, huskily, with face like a white rag.
Georgiana drew up with abated breath.
“That’s all you need say, Bid Hatfield. But I’m going to say more,” she cried, with all the lashing fury now roused in her. “I told Mr. Saunders the truth. I’m not ashamed to tell anybody. I liked you. I let you kiss me—the same as I let Cal and Tim, and Arizona. It was all fun to me. I see now that it was wrong. I’m sorry I was so silly. I’ve had to suffer for it. . . . But a girl deserves to suffer if she lets herself be kissed by a man who’s a cad. To kiss and tell! That is the cheapest, meanest thing a man can do. I’ll bet every rider here, your best friends, if you have any, will despise you for that. And for the lies you told—I’m calling you to your face—a dirty low-down bum!”
Georgiana was not by any means through with Hatfield, but as she paused for breath, momentarily overcome, the sudden silence was broken by Tuck Merry.
“Aha! Mr. Bruiser,” he yelled as he bounced with remarkable agility off his horse, “the lady has got your number. She’s called you. Every man here knows you for a dirty low-down bum. And right now is when it’s coming to you.”
Hatfield had half turned to slink away when Merry opened up in his loud voice. Slowly the burly rider faced around, scowling, with rolling eyes fixing in surprise.
Tuck Merry just then commanded the intense attention of everybody there. His voice, his strange magnetism, his ludicrous jumping-jack form, riveted all eyes. Georgiana began to quake and thrill. She had forgotten any part but her own in this affair.
Tuck slammed down his sombrero, and slipping out of his coat he slammed that down. His gloves he kept on, and as he began to prance around Hatfield he fingered these gloves in a significant manner.
“Walk away from the ropes. Get out here in the ring,” called Tuck, with robust heartiness.
“Say, you goose-necked idiot—shut up, or I’ll wring off your big head,” harshly growled Hatfield. With a man to encounter he presented a different front.
“Now you’re talking, Bid. That’s music to my ears. Sing some more. You are the most beautiful hunk of flesh to pound I ever saw. You’re also a hunk of cheese. Bid, you look exactly like a fat stiff of a German I met in the Argonne. And would you believe it? I killed that Hun with one punch in the belly.”
Hatfield was as bewildered as enraged. He had to keep turn
ing round and round to watch Tuck, who was walking with giant strides round and round, working his enormously long arms.
“Say, the fellar’s crazy,” he bawled out.
Enoch laughed a dry, cackling sort of laugh. “Wal, Bid,” he drawled, “he may be crazy, but I shore wouldn’t be in your boots for a million.”
Hatfield crouched down like a mad bull, about to charge.
“Bid, have you any messages you want sent?” queried Tuck, as he walked faster and faster. “Tell them to somebody while I get exercise. I used to do this when I was boxing master in the navy. . . . Bid, I’m a fighting marine and I’ve licked every Buddy who got inside the ropes with me.”
“Haw! Haw! Haw!” roared Bloom, from among the excited riders crowding forward. “Do you git that, Bid?”
“And say, before I forget, I want to tell you I was Jack Dempsey’s sparring partner,” shouted Tuck, cheerfully. “And take it from me, my lady-chasing Tonto bulldozer, Jack had a hell of a lot more trouble with me than he had in some of his ring fights.”
“You’re a bloomin’ lunatic,” blurted out Hatfield.
Suddenly, then, Tuck seemed to leap and strike in one incredibly swift action. Hatfield fell with a crash. And Georgiana screamed. Fascinated, gripped in a hot fury of delight that sickened as it thrilled, she listened and watched with senses intensely strung. She recorded Tuck’s cheerful sally as Hatfield went sprawling, and that picture was photographed on her memory. The rider rolled up and rushed, only to meet a cracking blow that staggered him. He reeled. Tuck danced round him, his arms working like pistons, and his blows raining upon Hatfield. And it seemed he had a strange name for everything. The riders bawled, and jumped around like Indians. Hatfield swung here and there, and then he would jolt stiff and start to fall, only to be held up from the other side by another blow. Tuck Merry was too swift to follow.
Suddenly he ceased these tactics, and drawing back, all about him changed.
“Damn your black heart!” he hissed. “You roughhoused Cal Thurman. Now I’ll give you worse than you gave him.”