The Shepherd of Guadaloupe

by Zane Grey

  June brought summer to Cottonwood Valley, and that meant it was hot in the sun, cool in the shade. He was alone one Sunday in the corner by the wall where Virginia had found him that unforgettable day, when he reached the definite conclusion that he would recover. He slipped away from the open, into a shady nook, where vines and brush grew thick under a giant cottonwood, and here he lay down hidden even from the eyes of birds. The sunny drowsy hours of that golden summer day passed by unnoticed. Like an Indian he communed with the visible things about him. There were intervals when the stream of his consciousness seemed suspended and he had no thought at all. He felt, he heard, he saw, he smelled the physical objects of nature about him. The warm brown earth throbbed against his palms; the wind sang softly in the cottonwoods, the white clouds sailed across the azure sky, tipping the gray peaks; the sweet breath of sage filled the air.

  That was the spell of enchantment which had transfixed him when intelligence, and not spirit, told him that he had not to bid farewell to the earth. The ghastly cold, mocking thing that had haunted him sleeping and waking folded its gray mantle and stole away. He was not to give up the sweetness of life, the beauty of nature, the strife with obstacles. The joy of nesting birds, the return of the swallows, the swoop of the eagle, the looming, calling mountains, the wind-swept open range were still to be part of his experience.

  But that night, in the dark little room, when the ecstasy of his soul became subdued by thought and reason, he confessed that he had thrown off his burden only to take on another. Virginia Lundeen had won him to hate hate and love love. It had not been joy or hope, but an unabatable fuel that had kept burning the fire of his wasted spirit.

  One by one returned the Indians and Mexicans who had visited Clifton’s store during the past weeks to get the fair sale for some commodity and the small gift he never failed to hand out. There was no profit in the low price, to say nothing of an additional gift, but Clifton was gaining the confidence of the natives. He would never make a success as a trader, from the point of view of business. They had been cheated long enough. His generosity was not unmixed with the desire to prove the difference between a Forrest and a Lundeen. Every native on the range hated Lundeen for the tight rein he had held on them. Malpass, though he was employing many, was earning a harder repute. Little by little Clifton won his way into the hearts of these simple people.

  It was from a vaquero who rode for Malpass that Clifton learned of the arrival of Virginia Lundeen’s guests from the East. A fiesta was held to welcome them, and lights burned at Cottonwoods half the night, and strains of music floated down the valley on the soft night wind.

  Clifton, thereafter going to and from his work, now happily without resting every few rods, did not want to see, yet could not help seeing the visitors who regaled themselves upon Virginia’s bounty.

  The huge cars hummed by across the valley, down the road to Las Vegas, or back again, swiftly running from the dust they raised. Horseback-riding appeared to be the chief delight, which was no wonder, considering the magnificent mounts of the Lundeen stables, and the beautiful beckoning range with endless levels and vistas.

  Several times each day a party of riders, never less than three couples, passed by Clifton’s store, to peer curiously from their saddles. He always contrived to be inside and busy when they rode by. Once he saw Ethel, who waved a gay hand at him; and again he caught a glimpse of Virginia, superb on her shining black. And she looked straight ahead, with clear-cut, cold profile, as if the trading-post of San Luis had ceased to exist.

  Clifton knew intuitively that these merry visitors, keen to absorb all the West possible, would call at his store someday.

  But he was wholly unprepared one morning to hear the blowing of bugles and to look out to see a tallyho rolling down the road. It appeared to be loaded with a crowd sportive in both dress and spirit.

  “I’m in for it,” muttered Clifton, soberly. “But if they want to buy I’ll slap the old prices on the goods. I’m no good Samaritan for that outfit.”

  He hoped the coach would pass by, but it halted opposite the store and a gay company of young people poured out.

  The first to enter was Ethel Wayne, very pleasing to the eye in her gay and colorful costume. She tripped in hurriedly, with anxious look, which changed to a bright smile of glad recognition.

  “Clifton, I’m just delighted,” she said. “You look, oh, so much better.”

  “Howdy Ethel!” drawled Clifton as he took her proffered hand. “I’d sure been glad to see you—if you’d come alone.”

  She giggled and squeezed his hand, whispering: “Don’t mind. Virginia and I framed this on our Eastern friends. So stick them good. They’ve got money to burn.”

  Then the little store became flooded with pretty girls in the latest of sport clothes, and clean-faced young men in golf suits or white flannels. One of the latter said to Clifton, “We want a lot of souvenirs and a wagon load of truck to take on a camping trip.”

  “Help yourselves,” replied Clifton, spreading his hands.

  It was pleasant to watch them. Gayly they quarreled over Indian baskets, blankets, beadwork, and silver ornaments. There were eight young women, not including Ethel and Virginia, who, if she had come with them, was still outside. Ethel was the only girl to notice Clifton, much to his relief; and every little while she would give him a bright look and a wink. It became manifest to Clifton that these Easterners had not been informed about him. The young men, except one, paid no attention to him; and presently this one, a rather pale blond fellow of twenty-five, approached Clifton, to offer a hand.

  “How are you, Clifton Forrest?” he said. “Miss Lundeen told me to introduce myself. My name is Andrews.”

  Clifton did not need to be told that this man had been in the service, to his great detriment. Clifton greeted him. With a look and a handclasp they understood one another.

  “I’m here on a visit for a few weeks,” continued Andrews. “Then I’m going to Tucson. I’m not so well. The doctors want me to try dry warm climate.”

  “Gassed?” queried Clifton.

  “Influenza. Then I had blood-poisoning from shrapnel.”

  “You’ll come around all right out here,” said Clifton, reassuringly. “The climate is wonderful.”

  “Do you know Arizona?”

  “I used to. Same as here, only more so. . . . Suppose you ride down alone some day and we’ll have a chat.”

  “Thanks. I’d like to.”

  “Is Miss Lundeen with you?”

  “Yes. She drove us down. Maybe she can’t handle the reins! . . . Say, Forrest, do you know this man Malpass?”

  “Sure I know Malpass. He used to be a vaquero here in San Luis.”

  “Vaquero? What’s that?”

  “He was a Mexican cowboy.”

  “Is he part Mexican?” asked Andrews, quite surprised.

  “It has always been rumored.”

  “Well! And now he’s Mr. Lundeen’s partner and a very evident choice for Virginia’s hand. . . . I’ll tell you, Forrest, that’s a funny situation up there. I don’t want to gossip about my hostess. But I don’t know her, except as a charming, beautiful girl who went to school with my sister. By the way, I must introduce you to Helen. She’s the tall blond there, squabbling over that junk.”

  “She’s sure stunning,” returned Forrest, admiringly.

  “Virginia didn’t say so, but I gathered somehow she and you were good friends.”

  “That was nice of her.”

  “But evidently Malpass does not share her friendship for you. I heard him objecting to our tallyho trip down here, and Mr. Lundeen sided with him. They had quite a little argument, aside, and to be frank, Virginia just about told them to go where it was hot.”

  Clifton laughed. “I wouldn’t put it beyond her.”

  Andrews, evidently having caught his sister’s eye, beckoned to her, and as she detached herself from the crowd and came forward expectantly, he said to Clifton in lower tone, “Don’t
spoil this now.”

  “Helen,” he said, as she reached them, a warm-faced, blue-eyed, young goddess, “I want you to meet a buddy of mine in France. Clifton Forrest!—Forrest, allow me to present my sister. You will observe she is one of the reasons we went ‘over there.’”

  “Oh, Jack—how perfectly lovely! You didn’t tell me. Virginia didn’t, either. . . . Mr. Forrest, I am most happy to meet you.”

  No doubt of the open sesame to her regard! Clifton could not restrain embarrassment, but it was certain he thrilled under the clasp of her hand. And just then Virginia entered to approach them, and slipped a gloved hand inside Miss Andrews’ arm.

  “Howdy, Cliff!” she drawled at Clifton, with the self-possession of intimacy.

  “Howdy, Virginia!” returned Clifton, forced to play up to this subterfuge, or whatever was her bent. She seemed unfamiliar, though not in person. It was not the Virginia who had found him exhausted and helpless inside the wall that day. Bright color milled in her cheeks and her eyes burned, which indications of anger were at strange variance with her cool speech.

  “Cliff, I thought I’d come in and give you a hunch,” she said. “I might have known Helen would try to annex you. Beware of this blond creature, Cliff. She is sure death to convalescent soldiers.”

  “Virginia, what a thing to say!” expostulated Helen, blushing and reproachful. “Mr. Forrest, pray don’t believe her. The truth is that soldiers, especially those who returned ill or injured, have been sure death to me.”

  Clifton laughed and said, “You look like beautiful life itself.”

  “Virginia, I’ve a notion that at the bottom of your wise crack there’s a desire to annex Mr. Forrest yourself,” returned Helen, with loving, shrewd, arch eyes keen on Virginia.

  “Sure. I’m brazen about it.”

  “Well, you’ve got in ahead of me, but I’ll give you a race, anyway,” challenged Miss Andrews, with sweet, speculative glance on Clifton. “You see, he was my brother’s buddy in France.”

  “Helen! You don’t say!” exclaimed Virginia, suddenly her sincere self again. “Clifton, is it true? You were friends—over there? . . . Why, how splendid to meet out here!”

  “Virginia, I—I don’t quite remember Jack,” replied Clifton, trying to lie to save Andrews. “But he says so. You know I lost my memory for nine months. And I guess it’s not all come back yet.”

  “You didn’t remember me on the ship. Or on the train,” said Virginia, in a tone that might have meant anything.

  “Then perhaps Jack is right. I had a lot of buddies—and some never came back,” returned Clifton, dropping his head.

  “Girls, you’re getting in bad with me, too,” interposed Andrews.

  “Jack, it might be idle chatter, and then again it mightn’t,” replied Virginia, enigmatically. “But to be serious, I’d like you to see something of Clifton while you’re visiting me. Will you?”

  “Delighted. We’ve already spoken of it.”

  “And you too, Helen. But it’s only square to warn you. In spite of college and—France, Clifton is Western. You remember what you said when you saw my mountains and desert—my cottonwoods?”

  “Assuredly I remember. I said ‘I love them.’”

  “Very well. That is some evidence that you still possess a heart.”

  “And you don’t want me to lose it?” queried Helen.

  “On the contrary, I wish you would—to me, to my horses and cottonwoods—to everything Western, especially Clifton. . . . He and I, too, some day may need your friendship.”

  “Virginia, your devout wish is almost consummated,” replied Helen, with a bewildering smile that included Clifton.

  They were interrupted by a small whirlwind in the shape of Ethel Wayne.

  “Help! Help! These Monday bargain-shoppers are robbing me!” she cried. “I had a lot of stuff laid out, and they’re swiping it. Clifton, have you got a big Indian policeman round here?”

  “No, but if you can’t get your stuff back I’ve got some more under the counter,” rejoined Clifton.

  “I had some laid out, too,” added Helen. “Come, Jack, help me rescue it. I wouldn’t be surprised if Calamity Jane and Deadwood Dick here would like to be alone a little.”

  The laughing trio moved away toward the mêlée.

  “Clifton, is this offensive to you?” asked Virginia, almost timidly, resting a gauntleted hand on his knee, as he sat upon the counter, looking down at her.

  “Hardly, Virginia, I’m not exactly a—a boob,” protested Clifton.

  “But it’s so easy to hurt you. Ethel and I put up this job. We’re going to clean out your old store. But I didn’t intend to come in. Not until I saw Helen Andrews beaming upon you. That wasn’t in my program.”

  “I guess I’m far from being hurt. You’re very kind. And they——”

  “Clifton, isn’t she just lovely?” interrupted Virginia. “Pure blond. You don’t see one often that is natural. Men fall for her like—like a lot of tenpins.”

  “Small wonder.”

  “Would you?” she flashed, jealously.

  “Gee! I did, pronto!”

  “Don’t talk nonsense!” rejoined Virginia, sharply. “Suppose she fell in love with you. . . . Cliff, she’s modern, but clean, fine, unspoiled. I’m crazy about her. And rich! Why, her father could buy mine out and call it street-car fare! Besides, some relative left her millions. . . . Suppose she were to fall in love with you?”

  “Virginia, sure it’s you talking nonsense,” said Clifton, amazed at her. “You say the queerest things.”

  “They wouldn’t be queer to anyone but a—a—blockhead.”

  “Humph! I dare say. Well, since you insist on such a ridiculous presumption—if Miss Andrews were to fall in love with me, I’d return the compliment most darned pronto. I’ve been most gratefully content just to live. But in that event I’d pray to grow well and strong again, and handsome, if it were possible, and able to ride a horse like I used to, and everything.”

  “Clifton Forrest, pretty soon you will tumble off my pedestal,” she warned, dubiously.

  “Virginia, please don’t torment me with your childishness,” he said, sadly. “There’s no girl like her or you for Clifton Forrest.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” she retorted, subtly relaxing. “But—how glad I am you’re better! Why, you’ve gained, Clifton! Those pale hollows in your cheeks are gone. You’ve a little color, too. And your shoulders don’t sag. . . . And do you know, only once since I’ve been watching you here have you made that strange move with your hand across your eyes. Only once! Oh, Clifton, you are going to get well.”

  Just then Malpass entered, carefully groomed and immaculate as a riding-master. Clifton guessed that he had been watching through the door. He had sloe-black, glittering eyes, a thin lined face expressive of restrained power.

  “Virginia, we are wasting time here,” he said.

  “You might be. We are not,” replied Virginia.

  “But if we are to go in to town we can’t spend hours in this dump.”

  Apparently Clifton’s presence was included in this comprehensive statement; certainly his gesture with his riding-whip was all embracing.

  “I informed you one of the objects of this ride was to buy souvenirs and provisions,” said Virginia, curtly, with the red spots dancing back in her cheeks.

  “You did. I inform you in turn that better souvenirs can be found at Watrous or Las Vegas. As for provisions—I’ll order them in town.”

  “We prefer to buy them here.”

  “We? You mean you. And your object is merely to help this poor beggar of a Forrest.”

  “Whatever my object, it’s none of your business,” retorted Virginia, and now the red spots faded.

  “Anything you want to do is my business,” he replied, showing his white teeth.

  “That’s what you think. My father has got you walking in your sleep. You’ll wake up presently.”

  Whereupon Virginia, with li
ght pressure of her hand that still rested on Clifton’s knee, vaulted up on the counter, and flipped her skirts comfortably if not modestly. The action, if not her words, penetrated Malpass’ courteous impatience, and black lightning leaped from his eyes. But he had control over tremendous passions.

  “Virginia, it will be better for you if I continue to slumber,” he said, and even his mockery was menace. “But about the provisions. As you persist, and time is precious, I’ll buy this rather dingy stock and have it hauled up to the house. What is not fit we can throw to the chickens.”

  He surveyed the shelves, that indeed were not inspiring to a would-be purchaser. Then he fastened those glittering eyes upon Clifton.

  “How much for this stock?”

  Clifton stared coolly at Malpass. Dealing with men was something that held no confusion of mind for him. “Well, señor——”

  “Don’t call me that,” interrupted Malpass, with a flash of passion that showed where he was vulnerable. “You address me as Mr. Malpass.”

  “Is that so? I’m likely to call you something else pronto.”

  Clifton felt a slight pressure of Virginia’s arm against his, and it had the effect for which it was probably intended.

  “How much?” demanded Malpass, his olive skin turning ruddy.

  “One thousand dollars—to you,” returned Clifton, cool and quick.

  Malpass produced new bills, that had seen but little handling, and counting out a number he laid them on the counter. “I’ll have this stuff hauled away at once. . . . Virginia, drag your friends out of here before I insult them.”

  “You couldn’t insult my friends,” rejoined Virginia with incredible softness.

  Malpass strode out.

  “Cliff, isn’t he the limit?” queried Virginia, turning.

  “He’s sure a high-class greaser,” responded Clifton, in disgust. “Maybe not so high, at that.”

  “But—I’m tickled pink. We put it over on Mr. Señor Malpass. . . . Say, didn’t he flare up at that señor? . . . Clifton, we made him pay for the camp grub. That’s just fine. Don’t you dare say you won’t take it.”

  “Take it? I should smile I will. Why, it’s a Godsend. We’re getting poorer——” Here he hastily checked himself to go on: “But I’m afraid I cheated him. This supply isn’t worth half that much.”