by Zane Grey
Like a huge panther Merry leaped straight up to fall hard on Hatfield, carrying him down. A terrible wrestling, thudding, howling melee ensued. The men rolled in a cloud of dust. Then it seemed to Georgiana that it cleared to show Tuck Merry in terrific swinging action. Not so swift now, but heavy! His blows rang hard, then sounded sodden. They were terrible. Hatfield appeared like a sack. Every blow moved him limply. Georgiana shut her eyes, but still she heard the awful blows. Then they ceased. She opened her eyes. Tuck Merry rose to his feet and looked down upon the prone form of the rider, singularly motionless. Tuck took off one glove and slammed it down in Hatfield’s face; then likewise with the other.
“That’ll—do—you—for—the—rest—of your yellow life!” he panted, heavily.
Then he turned to the rancher.
“Mr. Saunders—he’s out—good and plenty,” he said, gasping for his breath. “And I’m here to tell you—he won’t be—much use to you—for a long time to come.”
“Hatfield will never be any use to me again,” returned Saunders, curtly.
The riders stirred, and moved forward to group round Hatfield. One of them knelt. Some of them whispered. Georgiana began to feel the weakening reaction of all this excitement.
Enoch strode over to gaze down upon Hatfield.
“My Gawd!” was his exclamation.
Then Saunders clapped a heavy hand down on his shoulder.
“Enoch, I never had much against you,” he said.
“Wal, I can say the same to you aboot that,” drawled Enoch.
“Listen. I’m letting Bloom go the end of this month. An’ Hatfield leaves this ranch tomorrow if he has to go on a pack mule. . . . Suppose you an’ me shake hands with this plucky little girl an’ with each other, an’ be friends. The Four T’s an’ the Bar XX used to run the same range, an’ were the richer for it. What do you say?”
“Jim Saunders, I say, you bet,” returned Enoch, heartily.
They stalked over to where Georgiana sat on her horse, thrilling through and through at this amazing issue.
“Little lady,” said Saunders, with something of gallantry, “accept my respects. You’re a brave girl, an’ Cal Thurman is lucky. You can tell him you made friends with the boss of the Bar XX.”
“Georgie, I shore think heaps more of you,” said Enoch, and a handshake was not enough to express his feelings.
Georgiana would not let any of the riders, not even Tuck Merry, accompany her any farther than the forks of the trail. She wanted to ride home alone, to think, to plan, to gloat over her wonderful good fortune. She arrived at the homestead scarcely later than the middle of the afternoon, to find Cal pacing the porch.
“Georgie, where have you been?” he asked.
She dismounted before replying, and threw her bridle.
“Cal, what’d you say if I told you I’ve made friends of Enoch and Jim Saunders?”
Cal flopped down on the porch bench as if the strength had suddenly left his legs.
“You’ve been over to the Bar XX?” he ejaculated, wildly.
“Yep, and, dear boy, it’s a cinch you’ll never have to go there again.”
“What’ve you done?” he demanded, rising in mingled anger and wonder.
“Darling, I called Bid Hatfield to his face,” cried Georgiana, suddenly beside herself with the joy she could impart. “Made him a liar and a miserable low-down bum before his boss and all the Bar XX outfit, and Enoch, too, with Lock and Serge and Boyd, and the boys. Oh, it was sweet.—Damn him, I made him crawl! . . . Then, oh! oh! oh!—Cal, if you’d only been there to see Tuck Merry beat that boob into a jellyfish!—Crack! Take that nose-jab, Bid. . . . And biff! There’s a jaw-breaker. . . . Wham! That’s the belly-whopper. . . . Bing! How you like the lamp-closer, Bid? . . . Smash! That one gave me the name of Tuck,’ cause a few of them will tuck you away cold! . . . Oh, Cal, he played with Hatfield, but it was awful play! Then he changed. He grew terrible. He said he’d roughhouse Bid as Bid had done you. . . . Then it was almost too much for me. I screamed. Oh, such blows and thumps! But I was in a frenzy of glee and I wouldn’t have stopped Tuck to save Bid’s life. Nor would anybody else there. Tuck beat him into a pulp. . . . Then it was all over. Saunders had his say and he and Enoch made up. They shook hands with me—thanked me. Little Georgiana May did it. Now what have you to say?”
Cal could only stammer his wonder, his gratitude, his incredulous joy.
“Forget it!” she exclaimed. “I’ve something better than that to tell you. . . . Suppose we run out to the point—to your juniper tree on the Mesa rim—where you told me you used to dream as a boy—of all the wonderful things that were going to happen to you. . . . Let me tell you there.—Come.”
She kept ahead of him, almost running, not listening to him, uttering gay wild laughter. She entered the belt of timber, glided under the cedars and piñons, over the brown fragrant aisles to the Rim, where the gnarled old juniper stood. And there with her back to the tree she awaited Cal. He came, and never had she seen him like that. The light in his face seemed to have transformed the stains and discolorations that had been there. Georgiana toyed with her happiness—jealously holding back the rapture she could give.
“Did you know you had married an heiress?” she asked, archly.
“Georgie, are you crazy, or am I?” he cried.
“Fact. A good old aunt I always hated died and left Mary and me some money. Lots of money. But that’s not what I want to tell you. I’m a changed girl. . . . Are you sure you didn’t give me that knock on the head, the day you married me?”
“Oh, Georgie! I didn’t lie. It was an accident.”
“Well, you should have done it. For that’s what made me love you.”
“Girl! Don’t fool with me now,” he said, hoarsely.
Then she threw her arms round his neck. “Cal, I’m in dead earnest. I love you. I think I’ve always loved you. I was only wild. . . . Kiss me!—All’s well that ends well. Let me make up for my wrong to you. I’m happy. You saved me, Cal. . . . And I—I want to be worthy of a Thurman. . . . I want to be your real wife!”
Together they watched the gold and purple clouds mass over the western range and the purple shadows gather in the wild depths of the Tonto.
Zane Grey, author of over 80 books, was born in Ohio in 1872. His writing career spanned over 35 years until his death in 1939. Estimates of Zane Grey’s audience exceed 250 million readers.