Panguitch

by Zane Grey

  “Dad, it’s different in my case … I shall go straight to him, presently, and confess I wronged him … I can tell him I’m … I’m little, miserable, but I couldn’t ask his forgiveness.”

  “Huh! You won’t need to. The fellow’s crazy about you. He …”

  “Dad, please don’t,” whispered Sue, dropping her head.

  “Lass, never mind my bluntness. I’m rough an’ thick. Don’t fret over the turn of affairs. It’s sort of tough, but I’m glad, an’ shore you’ll be glad, too.”

  “I’m glad now. But it’s terribly worse for me.”

  “Wal, lass, fight it out your own way,” he responded with a sigh. “I know things will work out right. They always do.”

  “What’ll you do about Loughbridge and Manerube?” inquired Sue, remembering other issues at stake.

  “Get rid of them,” her father replied tersely. “Then we’ll strike for Wild Horse Mesa.”

  “To catch more wild horses?”

  “Yes, but in an honest way. Mebbe I’ll have the luck to catch Panguitch. If I do he’s yours. But Chane says the man doesn’t live who can beat him to that stallion.”

  “Then … Chane is going with us?” asked Sue, veiling her eyes.

  “Shore. An’ he’s goin’ to take us to Nightwatch Spring, which he swears is the most beautiful place for a ranch in Utah.”

  * * * * *

  Later Sue sat on the cottonwood log with Chess and Ora, assuredly the most absorbingly interested one in the Paiute girl, Sosie, who they wanted to get to know. Sue had bravely sauntered forth on what seemed a severe ordeal for her, yet so curious was she to see and hear this Indian maiden that she would have endured anything to satisfy herself. Besides curiosity, disgust had been her most prominent feeling.

  Sue found herself in line to be as surprised as was her father. At first she regarded Sosie as an alien creature, unsexed, a wild little savage. Her impressions having been formed long before had become fixed.

  Sosie evidently liked the opportunity to be with young white people. Chess soon overcame what little shyness she had felt and inspired her to tell them about herself. Never in her life had Sue listened to so fascinating and tragic a story. Sosie told about her childhood, tending goats and sheep on the desert, how she had been forced to go to the government school, and later to a school in California, how she had learned the language and the habits of white people. The religion of the Indians had been schooled and missionaried out of her. Then when she had advanced as far as possible, she was given a choice of becoming a servant or returning to her own people. She chose the latter, hoping her education would enable her to teach her family better ways of living. But her efforts resulted in failure and misunderstanding. Her people believed the white education had made her think she was above them. She could no longer accept the religion of the Indian tribe and she would not believe in the white man’s. She had to abandon her habits of cleanliness, of comfort, of eating, and return to the crude ways of her people. Lastly she had been importuned to marry. Her father, her mother, every relative nagged her to marry one of her own color. Finally she had yielded and had married one of the braves of her tribe, a young chief who had also received an education at the government schools. He and she had this much in common, that they understood each other and the fatality of the situation. The future held nothing for them, except life in the open, which, somehow, seemed best for the Indian.

  An hour after this Indian girl had begun to talk Sue had shifted from disgust and intolerance to amaze and sorrow. Sosie was not what she had expected. The girl was a little beauty. Her small proud head, her shining black hair, like night, her piquant face lighted by great dusky eyes, her red lips and white teeth, her slender form adorned in faded velveteen and ornamented with silver and beads, her little moccasined feet—all these features fascinated and captivated Sue. A white man might have been excused, certainly forgiven, for being attracted to this girl. It was hard for Sue to believe she was an Indian.

  At length Ora coaxed Chess to go with her on some errand, and this circumstance left Sue alone with Sosie, which was the opportunity she craved. Sue felt it in her heart to be kind and good to this unfortunate girl. How Sue despised her hasty judgments! The white people, the civilization to which she belonged, had made this Indian girl what she was. But first of all, Sue strangely and passionately longed to hear Sosie speak of Manerube as he had spoken of Chane.

  “My dad says you knew Manerube … over there across the rivers?” began Sue, driven to this issue.

  “Yes, I knew Bent Manerube,” Sosie replied frankly, but without rancor. “He made love to me. You know Indian girls like white men to do that. Manerube got me to run off with him. But my father and Chane Weymer caught us.”

  “Then … then what … happened?” questioned Sue, faltering in her eagerness.

  Sosie laughed, showing her little white teeth. “Chane ordered me off the horse. Then he made Manerube confess he didn’t mean to marry me. They fought, and Chane whipped Manerube. I enjoyed that. I wanted to see him kill the liar.”

  “Did you … love Manerube?” continued Sue desperately. How almost impossible it was to ask these questions. Only Sosie’s simplicity, her lack of sophistication, the something about her that was not white, strengthened Sue to go on with this interrogation.

  “I suppose so. But I didn’t after Chane made him tell. And certainly not after my father beat me.”

  “Oh, did your father do that?” cried Sue, aghast.

  “He did. And he said he’d kill me if I ever ran off with another white man. My tribe once upon a time tore a girl limb from limb for infidelity.”

  “How terrible!” exclaimed Sue.

  “My education says that was wrong, but my Indian conscience says it was right.”

  “Did you know that Manerube came over here and told us he had beaten Chane Weymer for … for mistreating you?” demanded Sue, at last coming to the climax of her importunity.

  “Yes. My father took me to your father,” replied Sosie. “And I told just what a dirty lie that was. Manerube is bad. Chane Weymer is good. My father will tell you. Few white men who come among Indians are as good as Chane. I never met one. What’s more, while I was at school I never met a white man like Chane. If I had listened to him I’d never have fallen in love with Manerube. But Chane scolded, advised, talked, almost preached to me when what I wanted was to be made love to. Chane wouldn’t do it. He said he couldn’t love me because he couldn’t marry me.”

  “Oh, it’s all wrong … this that the white people have made you suffer,” cried Sue in distress.

  Eventually Sue ended her long talk with Sosie, and, stirred to her depths by the revelations of this day, she made her way toward the tent of the Weymers. Her full heart cried out to make amends. That was all she could do. She would hurry to abase herself now while she had this tremendous false courage, this accusing conscience, this scornful pity for herself and mounting joy for Chane and Chess. How truly Chess had known his beloved brother!

  Sue found them together, Chess at work on a quirt he was braiding for Ora, Chane watching her approach with sad dark eyes. She vowed she would meet their gaze even if they penetrated to her shameful secret love. She vowed she would be her true self if it were the last time in all her life. She walked straight up to him.

  “Chane, I have wronged you.”

  His bronzed face lost something of its still calm, and it paled. “You have? How so?” he returned.

  “I believed what Manerube said about you.”

  “Well. That was unfortunate for me, wasn’t it?” he rejoined.

  “I was stupid and shallow,” added Sue in a ringing bitter voice. “Then … afterward … I was too slight and miserable to listen to my weak little conscience.”

  “Sue Melberne, this is what you say to me?” he demanded incredulously.

  “Nothing I can say matter
s to you now. But I wanted you to know what I think of myself.”

  “No, it doesn’t matter now what I think of you … or you think of … yourself,” he said.

  “But you must hear what I think of myself,” cried Sue, beginning to break under the strain. “You must hear that I’m a silly, mindless, soulless girl … Why, even when Chess denounced Manerube as a liar, I couldn’t see through it! Worse, when Chess spoke so nobly of you, I didn’t believe. Most shameful of all, after they fought, when I saw Manerube’s horrid face after he’d beat Chess down …”

  “What!” Chane cried in piercing interruption. He sprang erect, and the look of him made Sue quake. “Beat Chess down!” he repeated menacingly. “Say, boy, come here.”

  “Sue, you darned little fool! Now you’ve played hell!” wailed Chess.

  Chane fastened a powerful hand in the boy’s blouse and with one pull drew him close. “Boy, you’ve kept it from me,” he said deliberately. “You’ve double-crossed me. Because I asked you.”

  “Yes, Chane … I lied,” choked Chess.

  “What for?”

  “I was afraid of what you’d do to Manerube.”

  “Then he beat you? For defending me? Out with it!”

  “Sue’s told you, Chane. But, honest, she’s made it worse than it was … What’s a few punches to me? It was only a fight and he didn’t get so awful much the best of it.”

  Chane let go of the boy’s blouse and shoved him back. “I knew there was something,” he muttered darkly to himself, and then abruptly he dived into the tent.

  “Sue, you’ve played hell, I tell you,” said Chess.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean to tell. It slipped out. What can I do?”

  “You can’t stop Chane now.”

  “Yes I can!” cried Sue. She recognized she must do something desperate, but she had no idea what it should be. Her mind seemed clogged. Then, when Chane emerged from the tent, she quailed before the lightning of his eyes. He held a rawhide whip in his left hand. And on his right side a heavy gun swung from his belt. “Sue Melberne, I’ll use either gun or whip on your lover. But I suspect it must be the whip.”

  “Lover! Bent Manerube? How dare you?” burst out Sue, suddenly infuriated beyond endurance. She gave him a swift hard slap in the face.

  A bright red spot stained his pale cheek. He lifted a hand to feel the place, while his gaze blazed down on her.

  “Thanks. I like that. It was human and womanly, something you’ve never been to me. Did I wrong you with my insinuation?”

  “You insulted me. I despised Manerube. I never liked him. I … I flirted with him … to my shame … because … well, I don’t choose to tell.”

  “So. You are indeed clearing up much this day,” returned Chane. “I apologize. I reckon that was temper. I didn’t really mean it … All the same, I’ll use my gun or whip on Manerube.”

  Chess did not even attempt to stop Chane, but Sue cried out some incoherent entreaty and tried to hold him back. Not gently did he thrust her aside, and without another word strode toward the group of men plainly discernible round the campfire.

  “Come to your tent, Sue,” begged Chess.

  “I guess not. I’ll not quit … like that,” panted Sue. “I’ll tell Dad. He’ll stop them.”

  “Sue, it’s too late. Anybody getting in front of Chane now will be hurt.”

  “But, Chess … he … he might be killed,” whispered Sue.

  “Who? Manerube, you mean? Well, it’ll be darn good riddance,” rejoined Chess hotly.

  “Oh, I mean Chane … Chane … Listen, if you tell I’ll hate you forever. Forever! I … I love Chane. It’s killing me. Now do you understand?”

  “You poor girl,” Chess replied in wonder and pity, and he put his arm around her. “Sue, don’t be scared. Manerube is a coward. He’ll never face Chane with a gun. All he’ll get will be a horsewhipping. Come on … let’s see him get it.”

  Sue was unsteady and weak on her feet and needed Chess’ support, yet slow as they were, they got out to the edge of the grove in time to see Chane confront the staring half circle of men, among whom Manerube stood out prominently.

  “What’s up?” demanded Melberne loudly.

  “Manerube’s game,” retorted Chane curtly.

  Certain and significant it was that Melberne hurriedly moved out of line, and every man on either side of Manerube backed away, leaving him standing alone.

  “Manerube, the jig’s up,” said Chane. “I don’t care a damn about the lies you told. But you laid your dirty hands on my brother for defending me … You beat him! Are you packing a gun?”

  “I reckon,” Manerube replied, white to the lips.

  Sue swayed to a resistless upsurging spirit. Tearing herself free of Chess, she ran swiftly to confront Chane, to grasp him with hands strong as steel. But her voice failed her.

  “Sue, you’re mad,” he protested with the first show of softening. “We’ve got to fight. Why not now?”

  Melberne stepped swiftly up to Chane, calling to his men. Utah and Miller ran in. Jake followed.

  “Grab him, boys,” ordered Melberne. “Chess, get Sue out of this.” Then he strode toward the men opposite. “I won’t have my womenfolk runnin’ risks around heah. Manerube, you’re shore gettin’ away lucky. Take your two rider pards from Lund an’ get out of my camp. An’ Jim Loughbridge, you can go along with him. I’ll make you a present of a wagon, team, grub.”

  “All right, Melberne,” returned Loughbridge harshly. “I’ll take you up. But you haven’t see the last of this deal.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Far west of Stark Valley the reconstructed Melberne outfit had halted on a lofty rim to gaze down into a gray-carpeted, green-dotted, golden-walled cañon, wide and long, running close under the grand bulk of Wild Horse Mesa.

  “Nightwatch Spring is there, up in the rocky notch where you see the bright green,” Chane Weymer had said, directing Melberne’s gaze. “It’s so big it makes a brook right where it comes out from under the cliff.”

  Melberne had never been a man to rave. Here he gazed as if spellbound, at last to burst out, “Beats any place in Texas!” From him that was not unlikely the most extravagant praise possible. Then he continued, with a singular richness and depth in his voice: “Wife, Daughter, heah we shall make our home. A rancher down there will shore be rich in all that makes life worth livin’. I’ll send for my brothers, who are waitin’ for word of good country to settle in. We’ve relatives an’ friends, too, who’ll take my word. We’ll homestead this place, an’ right heah I pick the haid of this cañon, takin’ in the spring. One hundred sixty acres for mine, with all them miles of range land to control … Weymer, I reckon my debt to you grows. I wonder now … won’t you an’ Chess throw in with us heah?”

  “¿Quién sabe?” replied the rider musingly. “Chess surely will. It’s good for him. But I … well, I’m a wandering wild horse hunter.”

  One dim rough trail led down into this golden-rimmed abyss. Neither Chane nor Toddy Nokin knew where the bands of wild horses dotting the gray had descended from the uplands above, if indeed they had gone that way. This league-wide rent in the rocky earth zigzagged away westward, under the tremendous benched wall of Wild Horse Mesa, and the western end could not be seen. Toddy Nokin said it ended in a split in the stone that no Indian had explored.

  Sue was entranced. She had been prepared for something rugged, beautiful, in accordance with Chane’s simple statement, but no words could have done adequate justice to this marvelous place. Not paradise or fairyland was it to her, but sublime in its vastness, unreal in its isolation, gorgeous in color, wild as the sky-towering mesa that bulged stupendously above.

  The notch toward which Chane had pointed proved to be a labyrinth of indentations in the wall, all narrow, lined by green borders of spruce and cedar, floored by rich thick bleached grass, tu
rning and twisting, full of golden shadows reflected from the looming walls, lonely, silent, sweetly fragrant with the dry cañon tang, and purple with sage.

  Melberne pitched camp on the site he chose for the ranch house he would erect eventually. It was a low bench, sloping with sage toward the open, backed by a belt of timber, and canopied by a leaning golden wall. Nightwatch Spring burst from under this cliff, a thick rushing volume of pure water, and made music down the slope, to meander between willow-bordered banks far as eye could see. Wild horses, deer, rabbits, and many birds proved the fertility and lonesomeness of this spot.

  Through the thin belt of spruce trees, higher up on the last swell of sage slope under the wall, Sue espied a place that she determined must be her camp. It looked down upon the bench; it was sheltered by the curve of the wall; it seemed dreamily and drowsily permeated by the song of the stream. It was indeed a throne from which perhaps some barbarian queen of ages past had ruled her subjects. Purple sage bloomed there, and the scarlet of Indian paintbrush, the vermilion of cactus, lavender daisies, and an exquisite flower unknown to Sue, a delicate nodding three-petaled blossom of white with violet heart.

  She enlisted Chess and Jake in her service, with the result that sunset and suppertime found her task completed—a camp that must surely become a home, comfortable, safe, secluded, and open to a view beautiful close at hand, and in the distance one of exceeding grandeur.

  Camp that night had for Melberne’s outfit the best of all virtues for the tired travelers—permanence. It did not disturb Melberne or any of his party that Loughbridge and Manerube had followed on their trail.

  “Reckon we’ll have six more weeks of this heah fine weather,” remarked Melberne as he stood with his back to the fire.

  “Hope so. But winter is mild down in these protected cañons,” said Chane. “The snow seldom lays long.”

  “Good. Wal, that’ll give me time to throw up a log house heah. Will my wagons be safe where we left them?”

  “They’re well hidden. Only an Indian would run across them, and he wouldn’t steal.”