Fighting Caravans

by Zane Grey

  “Speak up, lad,” called Maxwell, with kindly interest as well as teasing spirit.

  “I reckon I will,” replied Clint. He got it out deliberately and even managed to look at May, who sat wide-eyed, with parted lips. But the instant afterward he wanted the ground to open and swallow him. That instant spared him, however, for May Bell then got the brunt of the attack, which caused her face to turn rosy red.

  Clint’s fright had a chance to recede. Presently it occurred to him that he had asserted himself in a marvelous manner. He remembered that May Bell had not only been his childish sweetheart, but also his promised wife. She had been forced to remember. Her sweet face was a record of that. No flashing retort! No laughing denial! She was as true as steel. She endured the teasing and joined in the laugh at her expense. But never for an instant did she lift her shy veiled eyes to Clint.

  His mounting confidence, his vain assurance, his strange exultation, suffered an eclipse. Two army officers joined the group, and Maxwell presented them to the party. One was a young lieutenant, Clayborn by name, handsome, debonair, a West Pointer, and very plainly an eager admirer of the fair sex. He had many qualities which Clint envied, especially his grace, his ease, and the charming affability of manner that no plainsman ever attained. May Bell was undoubtedly pleased with him. She gave him her undivided attention, smiled up at him, listened to his low conversation—compliments, perhaps love-making, and she cast down her eyes and blushed even more rosily than she had for Clint.

  Whereupon Clint became prey to an absolutely new and insupportable variety of feelings. At first he was struck by a subtle shock of realization. May Bell did not belong to him. It was possible for her to admire—like—love some other person than himself. The thought seemed a sacrilege. Disloyal to May! But there was the evidence before his own eyes. How beautiful she looked! Clint’s new emotion gave birth to a terrible yearning. After all, he had only been a boy playmate. She was far above him.

  Suddenly he struck the descent of his vain imaginings, his hopes, and he shot down over the precipice. From the heights he plunged to the depths. He moved away from the group, no longer able to endure May’s absorption in this fascinating young soldier. He walked to the far end of the porch. A deep inward burning sickness assailed his breast. What ailed him? The old familiar trouble—the black despair of the past returned tenfold, augmented by this fierce, wild pain.

  Clint gazed out on the wild gray range, far over the speckled flat to the cedared ridge, rising and undulating, across the black pass between the mountains, to the purple nothingness of distance beyond. Out there, months had been multiplied into years. And the beauty, the solitude, the majesty and monotony of the plains, the travail that had come to him out of them, told him now that the greatest sorrow and sublimest joy of man had come to him—love of a woman. He had loved little May Bell from the hour of that meeting beside the brook; and in proportion to the labor and suffering and struggle that the years had magnified, his love had grown.

  Sunset found Clint still gazing through the gray distance to the heart of his woe. Couch discovered him then and dragged him into the dining-room.

  Clint shrank from the ordeal, but there seemed to be protection in the comparative darkness, and the hum of many voices, and the largest number of guests he had ever seen assembled there. He hated to look for May, because she would be under the spell of that captivating soldier, but as it seemed useless to resist, he let his eyes rove round the room. The chiefs, scouts, trappers, and hunters, already seated, occupied two-thirds of the long table. The freighters came next and there were a score or more. A number of military men had seats together, and that brought Clint’s glance to the head of the table and Maxwell’s especial guests for the evening. The several ladies of Dagget’s caravan, including Mrs. Clement, were on the left. May Bell had the place of honor at Maxwell’s right. She had removed her bonnet and looked bewitching.

  To Clint’s startled amaze the seat next to May was vacant. Undoubtedly that had been reserved for Lieutenant Clayborn. Clint longed to flee like the coward he was, but all the time Couch had been forcing his reluctant steps closer.

  “You blockhead! Thet empty place is for you,” declared Couch, and he gave Clint a shove. Its momentum carried him several steps farther. Then Maxwell, who was standing, espied him and motioned him to the seat beside May. As Clint had not quite taken leave of his senses, he managed to do as he was bidden, without excessive awkwardness. Then he squeezed his trembling hands between his knees and riveted his eyes upon his plate.

  Nevertheless, he was most torturingly aware of May’s presence. The seats were benches, and owing to the large number of guests they were closer together than ordinarily. Clint felt May’s elbow touching his and the contact set him thrilling. He thought wildly that he must rush away and do something desperate.

  The acuteness of his pangs was not soothed by May’s attention to him. She had spoken when he first sat down beside her. The tone was gay, but the content escaped Clint. Out of the tail of his eye he could see her locking at him, casually, then with interest, and in a moment with more concern. No doubt his fool face betrayed him. It always had.

  “Clint, isn’t it won-der-ful?” she whispered, leaning a little closer.

  He nodded and muttered something incoherent.

  “Why—you’re pale!”

  Clint could just catch her voice. Everybody appeared to be talking at once.

  “Clint, you don’t look natural,” she went on, and the sweet solicitude only increased his despair. He could not pull out now. “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m sick,” he muttered.

  “Oh, Clint! . . . Was that why you went away?”

  “Yes—I reckon.”

  “Where are you sick, Clint?” she importuned him. “You’re all doubled up. . . . Your hands!—Where do you feel bad?”

  Clint loosened one of his hands long enough to indicate that his malady was situated rather high for the common ills of mankind.

  “It’s here—an’ I’m tur-rible sick.”

  At this point Maxwell rapped loudly on the table and stilled the many voices. He looked the genial host, happy to give pleasure, yet he had that air of dignity and impressiveness which presupposed that gatherings of this nature at his table had their niche in frontier history.

  “Folks,” began Maxwell, in his resonant voice, “there are a hundred and twenty of us at table tonight, an’ that’s a record for Maxwell’s Ranch. It makes me glad an’ proud to welcome you all. To prove to you newcomers the hospitality of the West, an’ that all Indians are not scalp-hunters. I welcome you more because of the meanin’ of your presence here . . . the vanguard of the settlers who will populate the West! . . . Our beautiful, rich, an’ savage West. Some day, despite the hard trials, you will love it as I do.”

  Maxwell paused a moment as if to let that sink in, or to gain force for his next utterance. Certain it was that a benevolence beamed from his face; and those seated near might have caught a deeper something—the phantom of a ceaseless sorrow under his benign exterior.

  “Our guest of honor is Miss May Bell here at my right,” he went on. “She was originally from Ohio, an’ when she was ten years old came with her parents to join Jim Couch’s caravan, at Independence, in the spring of 1854. They left that caravan at Council Grove, an’ turned back, discouraged, no doubt, by the perils an’ terrors of the frontier. Small wonder! . . . Well, on the return little May lost her parents. The old, old frontier story, bloody an’ terrible—a massacre. But May hid in the brush under the river bank, an’ escaped. Next day emigrants bound for Texas picked her up an’ took her along to the great Lone Star State. There she had the good fortune to fall under the notice of Hall Clement—long my partner on the plains—good soldier—great Ranger—an’ all that is typified in the word frontiersman. . . . Sometimes it seems God forgets us, but I reckon that is not so. Anyway, God did not forget little May Bell. An’ she has come West to throw in her lot with us. Mrs. Clement, who has
been mother to her, has come also, an’ other women of that grand Texas breed. It might be exaggeration to say that the West never could be settled without Texans. Sure it would never have belonged to the Union but for Texans. An’ in this connection I grieve to say, no doubt with all of you, that war between South an’ North has come. That will pass, we pray soon. An’ the great West will feel the impetus of new travel an’ progress. The West needs women—pioneer women. No hunger on earth is as terrible an’ destroyin’ as man’s hunger for a woman.”

  Maxwell paused again, and stroked his thin fine beard, while his eyes glowed upon his guests from the last chief at the foot of the table up to the radiant young girl by his side. He smiled down upon her, and the past, far away and long ago, sweet and full of pathos, shone in that smile.

  “I said before—the West needs women,” he resumed. “Women who can be true!” How his deep voice rang the poignancy of the word! “Women who can endure an’ fight an’ stick. . . . I think little May Bell will turn out one. When she was ten years old—on that caravan trip I told about—she met a lad an’ plighted her troth to him, as she sat beside him on the seat of a prairie schooner. . . . Our lucky young friend here—Buff Belmet, who was known to the frontier before he reached fourteen. . . . These youthful lovers were torn asunder, but though she believed he was dead, she lived on true to him. . . . An’ now they have found each other again. What could be more beautiful an’ hopeful than that? . . . Ladies, gentlemen, chiefs, we do not drink at table in Maxwell’s house. Yet I propose in place of a toast a right hearty cheer for little May Bell.”

  The assembled company rose and gave vent to a mighty cheer, that was the stronger for the wild, piercing staccato note of Indian whoop.

  Clint, blind and stricken, had yet been aware of May’s tug at his arm, and he had arisen in order, but he was mute. And it took a more urgent tug to drag him down again.

  “Friends,” went on Maxwell, who had remained standing, “we have tonight a privilege an’ honor seldom accorded here on the frontier—a man of God amongst us. . . . Preacher Smith, will you say grace?”

  As the minister rose he appeared as sturdy and virile as any of his company. All heads bowed.

  “Bless this food to our use, O Lord! . . . Bless this gathering of pioneers, frontiersmen, soldiers, and red men. Bless the young people who have chosen to carve out homes in the West. . . . Bless little May Bell and the lad she chose years ago. Bless them and guide them further in faithfulness, in hope, in the glory and dream of love, in the hard trials of the frontier land. Amen!”

  During this prayer Clint was uplifted and exalted out of the conflicting emotions that in the end had dulled and stunned him. Under cover of the table May took his clenched hand, and pressed it open, and softly clasped it, her palm to his, warm, pulsing, in a tenderness that even his stupidity could not misjudge.

  Maxwell clapped his hands, the door banged open, and a stream of Mexican lads poured in, to spread a savory and bounteous feast before the guests. Appetite did not wait upon gaiety. Both were indulged to the fullest. And Maxwell at the head of the table watched and listened as a man whose heart was enriched by this occasion.

  Chapter Twelve

  THEY lagged a little more and more behind the older folk. The grass slope shone silver in the moonlight. Below, the camp fires of the caravan flickered, and the long line of wagons gleamed pale against the dark cottonwoods. A hound bayed, and from the hill a coyote answered in wild defiance. Jack, trotting at Clint’s heels, growled his disapproval.

  At a rough place in the road Clint took May’s hand. Then, when it was the last thing he wanted to do, he let go. They had not exchanged two sentences since leaving Maxwell’s table. At times Clint could scarcely keep up with May without running; at others he had to wait for her.

  There was enchantment in the cool sweet air. Down in the creek the spring frogs were peeping. The smell of wood smoke mingled with the fragrance of sage. The cottonwood leaves, small and young, rustled faintly in the soft wind. The moon had just topped the black rim that looked so close, yet was far away; and the range lay blanched and lonely and beautiful under the sky.

  At last Clint reached the end of the stubborn complexity that had stultified him. He felt dammed up, with an accumulation of emotions, thoughts, and words that must find freedom. But he could not free them.

  They passed wagon after wagon. Somewhere a Mexican twanged a guitar and sang a languorous Spanish song. Then, to Clint’s dismay, they reached the camp**, where the Clements and their party waited.

  “Wal, it’s been good to meet you-all,” Couch was saying. “I’m powerful glad you’re to hang up here awhile. Good night.”

  Then the freighter, espying Clint, added, genially, “Buff, I reckon you needn’t hurry back.”

  The girl trilled sweet laughter, as if she caught his import and found it pleasant. “Good night, Mister Jim Couch.”

  “Good night, lass,” replied Couch, his voice deeper with a rich note.

  “You young folks needn’t hurry,” said Mrs. Clement.

  “Shore you must have a lot to say,” drawled Hall Clement. “Climb up on the wagon seat heah. Didn’t Couch tell us how you used to drive an’ ride an’ talk all day long? . . . Mebbe then you can find your tongues an’ talk the old moon down.”

  Beyond the tents a little way, under a giant cottonwood, stood the wagon Clement had designated.

  “May, will you come?” asked Clint, eagerly inspired.

  “Come! Do you imagine I’m going to bed?”

  She tripped lightly ahead of him to the wagon, and was climbing up the wheel, with her bonnet hanging over her shoulders, when Clint got there to lend her a helping hand. He leaped up beside her to the seat. It was high and the low-spreading foliage cast a shadow pierced by rays of moonlight.

  Clint bent to look at her. Her dark head was bare**, her hair rebellious, her eyes radiant and unfathomable in the moonlight. How terribly afraid he was of her!

  “Well, Buff?” she asked, roguishly.

  “Aw—you can’t like that nickname,” he expostulated.

  “I do, though.”

  “Better than Clint?”

  “It means a lot. Mister Couch told me Kit Carson gave it to you.”

  “No. It was Dick Curtis, another scout—a pardner of Kit’s.”

  “You’ve made a name on the frontier,” she said, regarding him gravely.

  “Aw, I only drove a wagon.”

  “I shall call you Buff—always.”

  “Always?”

  “Don’t you want me to—always?”

  “May!” he whispered, with a shock. “You told him!”

  “Him? Who? Told what?”

  “You told Maxwell about—about us . . . on the wagon seat, like this together, years ago. . . . No one else knew. I never even told my own father.”

  “Oh, then you hadn’t forgotten?” she asked, archly.

  “Never! Never the littlest word you ever said.”

  His sincerity swayed her. “Yes, I told Mr. Maxwell,” she returned, gravely.

  “But how—why?” Clint burst out.

  “That Mr. Maxwell doesn’t miss much. When the handsome soldier with the dainty moustache sat down beside me—well, Buff, you changed.”

  “Did I? No wonder.”

  “I’ve met a good many soldiers like him. They are all the same. They make love to every girl. . . . You were so queer. You didn’t try to make love to me. So I—well, I didn’t snub Lieutenant Clayborn. . . . Presently you rushed off—and I was sorry. Mr. Maxwell had been watching you—saw you go. He politely took me away from the lieutenant. And he said, ‘Little lady, our lad Buff is hurt.’ And I told him I knew it and was sorry. Then it seemed I was drawn so strangely to him. I talked—and talked. . . . I—I—told him about the time on the wagon seat—that we—we were engaged. He seemed so glad. He squeezed my hand till it hurt. Oh, Clint—I mean Buff—it’ll take me long to get used to this new name. Ever since we were parted it has been Clint
—Clint—Clint. . . . Mr. Maxwell likes you dearly. He didn’t say so, but I knew. And, Buff, he got some strange happiness out of my faithfulness to you. Oh, I felt it.”

  “I near died when he said that—about us, right out.”

  “Yes, I remember you had a terrible pain.” She let out a little peal of laughter. “And I—silly goose—thought you had colic.”

  “May, it was no joke,” said Clint, shaking his head. “I’ve had Indian arrows shot into me, but they weren’t a marker to what I had then.”

  “What was it, Buff?” she asked, edging a little closer to him.

  “Reckon I didn’t know then, but I do now,” he returned, ruefully. “I was jealous of that handsome soldier. I had a burnin’ hell inside me.”

  “Oh, you mustn’t swear,” she whispered, and slipped her hand through his arm.

  “May, dear, it’s a swearin’ matter. I read in the Bible about jealousy. ‘Who can stand before jealousy?’”

  “Buff Belmet, don’t you ever make me jealous,” she threatened. “Oh, I’m beginning to feel that I know you. At first you seemed a stranger. But you haven’t changed. You’re older, of course, and quiet—and sad. . . . Dear boy Clint!”

  She leaned her face against his shoulder. Clint felt tears fall upon his hand.

  “Don’t cry,” he whispered, wanting to cry himself. “It’s been hard—but now we—we ——”

  “Have each other,” she finished when he broke off haltingly.

  Clint reached over with his left hand and clasped hers. The instant response, warm, clinging, strengthened him to overcome his backwardness.

  “We’re engaged—you said?”

  “Don’t you say so?”

  “Huh! I reckon. . . . But, May, be serious. Engaged people get married, don’t they?”

  “It’s customary,” she replied, with a little low laugh, nestling closer to him. “Unless—the man proves faithless!”

  “Aw!”

  “Go on, Buff,” she whispered, thrillingly. “I think you were about to propose to me.”