The Shepherd of Guadaloupe

by Zane Grey

  “You beg what is worse than shame,” retorted Virginia. “My blood boils and revolts. Not an hour ago Malpass insulted me vilely—beyond forgiveness. He taunted me with the power you think he has.”

  “I know he has it. You resisted him. Like as not you scorned him. He’ll make you suffer more. . . . Daughter, shore the best way—the only way is to give in—fool him. Fool him! If he has to make you marry him—God help you! For he’s vain, an’ I tell you a half-breed.”

  “He can’t force me. This is not old Mexico. I’ll find a way—not only to escape him but to——”

  “Drive him to ruin me—or stain my hands with blood,” harshly interrupted her father. “Daughter, you’ve a duty to me an’ your mother. We begot you, an’ I’ve sinned to give you comforts, luxuries. Horses! I’ve spent thousands on your horses. . . . Think before it’s too late. I can hold Malpass off. Once he thinks there’s a hope of your love he’ll melt. Cheat him!—Cheat him! Make him the poor weak fool he’s made me!”

  After her father had tottered out, spent with passion, Virginia saw the abyss that yawned at her feet. For had she not listened to him? Poor man, he was lost indeed. Yet she, too, was weak, uncertain, torn by love one way, and by self-preservation in another.

  At length, out of the chaos of her mind resolved a first and imperative necessity—to insure at least her legal freedom from Malpass. So far as physical freedom was concerned, was she not in peril every hour she lived in that house? In her present state of mind she feared it.

  If she married some other man, it would not be possible for her father and Malpass to persuade or drive or hypnotize her into a marriage that would mean moral and spiritual death. And the world might as well have contained only one man—Clifton Forrest.

  She might—she must induce him to marry her. But how? Once before she had broached the subject, only to be repulsed. Still, his reason had been sound, generous, plausible. She could only respect him for it. Why not formulate a plan on the strength of the very reason he gave—that he was a mere shell of a man, probably doomed to a brief and inactive life? Virginia scouted that idea, though it made her shudder inwardly. Clifton would get well and strong again. She was sure of it. But she must pretend she believed him, and that under such circumstances he would be rendering her the great service of giving her his name, secretly, so she would have that moral anchor when the storm broke.

  Pride alone was sufficient to conceal her love. Still, would she always be proud? Might not her spirit break? When Malpass hounded her into a corner, and her father thundered her out of his house for marrying a Forrest, would she not creep to Clifton’s feet and betray herself? There would be a strange ecstasy in that. But Virginia Lundeen could not quite see herself so prostrate.

  Once having made the momentous decision, she would admit no doubts. She would simply have to be strong enough to persuade him. Suddenly she reproached herself. Clifton, learning of her extremity, would offer himself. He had given all for nothing. Never would he begrudge her the stronghold of wifehood.

  At her desk, then, she wrote a note urgently requesting Clifton to meet her that evening by the broken corner of wall in his garden. She did not ask for an answer. Sallying forth, singularly strengthened, she strolled down to the barns to get someone to deliver the note.

  It would not do to trust one of the Mexicans. Con, the Irish cowboy, would be absolutely reliable.

  She found Con and Jake together. In fact, they were always together—a sort of union to combat the horde of Mexicans on the ranch. Jake was a lean, dark, bow-legged cowboy who had been born on the range. Con had been only several years in the West. He was a strong fellow, sandy-haired and freckled. He had big, wide-open, astonished eyes, a light gray in color.

  “Mawnin’, boys,” she drawled. “How are you-all?”

  “Tolerable, Miss Lundeen,” replied Jake, doffing his sombrero.

  “I’m foine, Miss, but when I’m out of work I’m out of sorts,” said Con, standing bareheaded and respectful.

  “There ought to be loads of work,” returned Virginia, in surprise.

  “Shure was, but the horses are gone.”

  “Gone! Where?” ejaculated Virginia, with a pang of dismay.

  “Back to Watrous.”

  “Who ordered my horses there?”

  “Malpass,” replied Jake, shortly. “An’ he said we’d not be wanted.”

  “Well!—Are all my horses gone?”

  “Every last hoof, Miss Virginia.”

  “I was not consulted. Wait till I speak to my father. Meanwhile remember that I hire you and I pay you.”

  “Shore we know thet. But we’re afeared Malpass is gettin’ high-handed round here,” returned Jake, in worried tones.

  “I quite agree with you,” laughed Virginia, without mirth. “Jake, if my car is still here, see that it’s all right for me to run into town this afternoon. And, Con, I’ve an errand for you.”

  When Jake slouched away with jingling spurs Virginia asked Con if he had heard about the fire at San Luis which had burned the Forrest store during their trip up in the mountains.

  “Yes, Miss, I’ve been down an’ seen it. Shure tough on young Forrest. He had his all in that store.”

  “It was too bad. Did you hear any gossip about it?”

  “Nuthin’. Mexicans shure ain’t sayin’ a word. Looks funny to me.”

  “Well, you take this note down to Mr. Clifton Forrest. Be sure you deliver it today. . . . I’ll see you boys tomorrow and we’ll talk things over—after I see father.”

  Upon Virginia’s return to the house she encountered her father moodily pacing the porch. After greeting him she asked him why her horses had been ordered away.

  “Daughter, it’s news to me,” he replied, spreading his palms.

  “What I’d like to know is this. Are those horses my property?”

  “Reckon they are. You’re of age. I gave them to you,”

  “I shall go to Watrous and fetch them back.”

  “Wal, no one could prevent you. But it’ll only make Malpass sorer. An’ it’s a fact the horses are better off over there. More feed. It costs like sixty heah. An’, daughter, money is scarce.”

  “But my allowance, father?”

  “I’ll have to cut that off, for the present.”

  “Oh!—Well, I can go to work at something.”

  “You! At what?” he snapped.

  “I might be a waitress or a clerk—if no better offered,” replied Virginia, lightly.

  “Nonsense! . . . Reckon you ought to have some money in the bank. Hope you haven’t overdrawn your account?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea and don’t care in the least. You informed me, upon my return from the East, there was ten thousand left out of my—well, what I thought was mine. I paid my New York bills, which were pretty heavy. And it surely cost enough to entertain my friends. I suppose I’m as—as poor as Clifton Forrest.”

  “Then you’re a beggar.”

  “What a fall for Virginia Lundeen! . . . The humiliation of it has not increased my respect and—affection for you, father mine. . . . Where is mother? I haven’t seen her.”

  “She’s sick in bed.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. What ails her?”

  “Reckon it’s this damned mess that’s knockin’ me,” he growled.

  “I’ll go to mother,” said Virginia, soberly, entering the house.

  She found Mrs. Lundeen sitting up, quite pale and sick, but evidently not so badly off as her husband had intimated. Nevertheless, Virginia suffered remorse for her neglect of her mother since that first quarrel following her arrival home. It pleased Virginia to grasp that her mother seemed no longer unapproachable.

  “Father told me you’d worried yourself sick over this mess here,” said Virginia, presently.

  “Perhaps. But I wasn’t so well before it came to a head,” replied Mrs. Lundeen. “I’d like to go to California, if I don’t feel better before winter sets in. Your father laug
hed. Said by that time we couldn’t afford to go even to Las Vegas. I can’t understand it at all.”

  “I do, mother. The nigger in the woodpile is Malpass. He has worked father into some kind of a trap. He absolutely runs the place. Father can’t call his soul his own. I haven’t the least doubt that we’ll lose Cottonwoods.”

  “For my part, I’d not care,” returned her mother, wearily. “I’d exchange with the Forrests any day. Down there I had work to do. This is no home. If I were you, Virginia, I’d go away.”

  “Mother!” exclaimed Virginia. “Only a little while ago you were urging me to marry Malpass.”

  “Yes, I know. Then I thought you might like the man, and it seemed a solution to our troubles. But I’m convinced now you couldn’t save us even if you married Malpass.”

  “I’m of the same opinion,” returned Virginia, in grateful gladness at this unexpected attitude of her mother. “Have you told father that?”

  “I have, and got called an old fool for my pains. It’s made me think, Virginia, that both Jed and Malpass have gone too far. They think they’re a law unto themselves. I do not count. You are only a means to an end, for your father. Malpass seems to want you the more you deny him. Some men are built that way. Usually they are the kind who tire after they get what they want.”

  “Mother, I’m awfully glad to hear you say these things. It helps a good deal, believe me,” responded Virginia, warmly. “I can take care of myself. So don’t worry about me—or anything, for that matter. We’ll get along. And we must think of your health. I’m going in to town today and will ask the doctor about you. . . . I’m happy, mother, that this trouble has brought us closer together.”

  “So am I, dear. But don’t make too much of it before your father.”

  Virginia drove to Las Vegas in a frame of mind somewhat similar to the one she had experienced the first day up at Emerald Lake. This, however, would have as its culmination the rendezvous with Clifton. The nearer Virginia got to that, the less she dared think of it. Could she play the part and deceive him? They would meet in the dark, though, she reflected; there would be a new moon, and he would not be able to see her plainly.

  She reached the Las Vegas bank, her first objective, after closing hours, but upon being recognized she was admitted. To her relief she found there was a little money left to her credit, and she cashed a check for this balance. Then she sought audience with Mr. Halstead, who had been connected with the church she used to attend. Once he had been a cattleman, as was evinced by his rugged, weathered countenance. Virginia asked him point-blank what was the condition of her father’s finances.

  “He is overdrawn here,” replied the banker. “That has occurred before, though never to this present extent. I’m sorry to inform you we refused his last request for a loan. Of course his credit is good here, to a reasonable extent. But we couldn’t see our way to a loan of a hundred thousand. His Southern holdings are worth a million. But they appear to be involved rather deeply with his partner’s.”

  “Has Mr. Malpass any dealings with your bank?”

  “No. He has not even a checking account.”

  “Where does he bank?”

  “Albuquerque, so I’ve been informed, but only in small amounts. He must have extensive bank dealings elsewhere.”

  “Who pays my father’s Mexican help?”

  “No checks have been presented here since Malpass’ connection with your father. The presumption is that they are paid in cash.”

  “Will you tell me frankly, Mr. Halstead, what you think of Malpass’ connection with my father?”

  “Well, the connection has not inspired greater confidence in your father,” replied Halstead, evasively. “May I ask, Miss Lundeen, if there is any truth in the rumor that you are to marry Malpass?”

  “None whatever,” returned Virginia, decisively. “My father wished it, but I refused absolutely.”

  “No doubt your many Las Vegas friends will be glad to hear that.”

  “You are at liberty to tell them. . . . Thank you, Mr. Halstead, and good afternoon.”

  Virginia deduced from this interview that Malpass had little if any reputable standing with Las Vegas men of affairs, and she was equally certain that her father was fast losing their confidence, if not more.

  From the bank she went to the family physician, whom she had known as a little girl. He had been called to attend her mother during Virginia’s absence in the mountains. Like most doctors, he would not speak openly. Virginia left his office convinced that her mother had some organic ailment, which, though not serious at present, might eventually become so.

  Virginia invented excuses to call at the county clerk’s office and upon the new minister, a Western man with a charming wife. In both cases she extended herself to be gracious and winning. Upon leaving, she thought of Ethel, and giggled in imitation of that young lady bent upon some deep scheme. Virginia had a plot of her own, which she believed transcended any Ethel had ever concocted.

  Following these errands she shopped for an hour, then went to the Castaneda for dinner, a procedure that evidently invited conjecture from a party of townspeople present.

  Dusk was gathering when she drove out of Las Vegas, taking a road that skirted the lower spread of Cottonwood Valley, and then turned north under the bank to San Luis. A few pin-points of light flickered out of the lonesome darkness of the little town. From this point she drove slowly, and in due time arrived at a level spot near the Forrest garden. How much more familiar were these surroundings than those where she lived! Driving off the road against a thicket of young cottonwoods, she extinguished the car lights and got out.

  The night was warm and sultry, with a slow wind off the desert. Frogs trilled and crickets chirped out of the deep low hum of insects. Thousands of bright stars seemed to watch her, winking out of a deep blue sky. A thin crescent moon shone weirdly, low down through the cottonwoods.

  She glided silently along the trail, knowing her way in the gloom under the trees. A small animal rustled away into the brush. Coming to a fallen tree, she sat down, conscious of suspense and dammed emotion. Whatever her motive or deceit, she knew in her heart that the truth which made this tryst unutterably sweet and fearful was her love for Clifton Forrest. And listening to the merciless voice that was her conscience, she confessed her motive was not only to save herself from Malpass. Somehow she justified it. Yet what a monstrous thing she had to pretend! If his actual presence did not still her mounting agitation she would be lost. Then she put a hand to her breast. How it swelled! How her heart beat, beat, beat! Her blood was throbbing and thrilling through her veins.

  The giant cottonwood that she knew so well stood near the corner of the wall. She had hidden in its capacious hollow as a child. Its dark spreading foliage gave forth a low rustle of many leaves. Beyond, other cottonwoods stood spectrally.

  It seemed simple and inevitable that the crowning adventure of her life should begin here, in the familiar solitude of this old home and in the lonely gloaming hour. The wind off the desert fanned her moist brow. Black and bold loomed the great mountains. This was her West. No arch plotter could drive her from it or kill her joy in it. Riches were superficial and, if ill-gotten, wholly destructive to such happiness as appealed to her.

  Presently she moved on, though reluctantly. The little wait had only accelerated her thrills and starts. She gained the break in the old wall. Again she paused, and leaned against the corner, to peer into the vague shadows. She quivered as if she had expected to meet a lover and leap into his arms. She was mad. Quien sabe? In making her his wife, Clifton might be getting back the fortunes of the Forrests.

  She went on, feeling her way. How black the garden corner! She peered on all sides. Nothing moved except the gentle leaves. The section of wall where she had talked with Clifton was vacant. She whispered his name. No answer! Suddenly she sank down on the wall. He had not come.

  Chapter Nine

  CLIFF, I’m damn good an’ glad they burned you out,”
Clay Forrest averred to his son as they sat in the shade of the cottonwoods. It was a day in July, hot and still. The cicadas were in shrill blast.

  “Dad, you make me tired,” returned Clifton, with good-humored patience. “Why do you always say that? I think the store just caught on fire. Spontaneous combustion, or something.”

  “Huh! Somethin’. You bet. An’ that somethin’ was a greaser in the pay of Jed Lundeen.”

  “Oh no, dad! You’re hipped on the Lundeen stuff. You lay everything to the Lundeens. If it were anyone it might have been Malpass. I didn’t tell you before. He was in my store the day that Eastern crowd of young folks bought me out. And, well, we had some sharp words.”

  “What’d it lead to?”

  “Nothing on my part. He struck me. Knocked me over. . . . It was just as well I didn’t have a gun handy. I’ve got sort of used to one.”

  “Cliff Forrest! You never told me. . . . I’ll beat that Malpass half to death.”

  “Dad, I’d rather you waited till I get strong enough to do it myself,” replied Clifton, grimly.

  “Humph! An’ how soon will that be?”

  “Not so very long. I’m gaining pretty fast now. Mother says I’ll eat her out of house and home. Besides, it wouldn’t take much of a man to lick Malpass.”

  “That greaser will have a knife about him somewhere. Wal, I’ll tell you, son. You an’ Ma have kept my hands off that Lundeen outfit too long. An’ the longer I wait the harder it’ll go with them.”

  “Revenge is natural, dad. But is it anything to give in to here? Suppose you went to horsewhip Lundeen and Malpass? You know how hate works if you give in to it. You might end in killing one or both of them. You’d go to prison. Then what of mother?”

  “Hell, son, your arguments are unanswerable. Long ago I seen that. . . . A fight would end in blood-spillin’. All the same I don’t believe any court in New Mexico would convict me.”

  “Don’t you fool yourself,” retorted Clifton. “What did that Las Vegas court do to you? It was fixed, no doubt. Well, Lundeen could fix it again.”