Читать книгу Horse Heaven Hill - Zane Grey - Страница 9

Stanley Weston lived alone with his father, an invalid during his later years. He had been one of the pioneer settlers of that section of Washington, having traveled there from Pennsylvania as a young man.

It was no wonder that the old man loved Sage Hill Ranch and that his great hope was for Stanley to carry on there. The location was beautiful, besides having many associations dear to the pioneer. The ranch house stood on a gradually rising bench of sage, which spread out from an eminence called Sage Hill. There was more pine on it than sage. The massive logs of which the house was built had come off that hill. A number of springs united to form a fine brook of cold, clear water, which was no small item in the value of the immense ranch. Weston had in the early days acquired thousands of acres which were now valuable. He owned fine standing timber; there were hundreds of horses on the thousand-acre pasture which he had fenced; and there was no end of cattle. Weston also owned wheat farms south of Wadestown.

Stanley rode home early from Wadestown that night. An argument with Marigold, not the first by any means, had left him more than usually pensive and sad. Such moods had been more frequent of late. He had taken Marigold to task, and not for the first time, about something he believed she should not have done and they quarreled. Never again, he vowed! Then his thoughts turned to Marigold’s cousin, the girl from south Idaho who called herself Lark. “Name somehow suits her,” he thought.

The air was cold and brisk. He slowed up a bit, so that the wind would not be so piercing. Sage Hill loomed dark against the star-fired sky. On each side of the road spread the almost flat land, dim and monotonous, spectral under the stars, and redolent with sage.

Soon Stanley reached the winding road between the low foothills, from which it was only a short distance up the slope to the ranch house.

The hour was still early enough for his father to be in the living room, his hands spread to a bright fire. He had a fine shaggy head and a gray rugged face. It was easy to see where Stanley got his stature.

“Wal howdy, son, reckon I didn’t expect you home tonight,” the rancher greeted Stanley as he breezed in.

“Glad to get home, believe me,” returned Stanley, eager to get near the fire. “It was cold. I met Marigold in town. She had a cousin with her, a girl named Burrell from Idaho. I rode back with them.”

“Burrell. I remember him. Pardner of Wade’s years ago. Real Westerner of the old school. Married a part-Indian girl. What was the girl like?”

“Pretty. Shy. Strange—after these girls. She won’t last long at Wade’s.”

“Ahuh. How’d it come aboot thet she’s there?”

“Well, I gathered that she was an orphan, living on a run-down ranch, on the Salmon River in Idaho. Do you know that country, Dad?”

“Grand country, son. Wild yet, I reckon.”

“I’d like to see it. . . . The Wades offered her a home and here she is. That’s all I know.”

“Is she like these heah town lasses?” asked Weston shortly.

“How do you mean, Dad?” inquired Stanley, his eyes twinkling.

“Wal, aboot the flirtin’—leadin’ the boys on an’ so forth?”

Stanley laughed heartily at his father. The modern young woman was one of the incomprehensible things to the older man’s generation. They were not out of accord on the subject, though Stanley, being a college graduate, sought to preserve a broad, liberal mind.

“No, Dad. Lark is not in the least like ‘these here town lasses.’ I wonder—”

“Lark? Thet her name?”

“Yes. I couldn’t tell you just why, but it suits her.”

“Sight better’n Marigold. Thet’s a hell of a name,” growled Weston. “Suppose you fetch Lark up to see me. I get lonesome oftener than I used to. Mebbe we’d hit it off. I’d like to know somethin’ aboot thet Salmon country.”

“Dad, I’ll be glad to,” spoke up Stanley, surprised. “Bet she’d like to come. . . . It’s a long time, though, Dad, since you asked to see Marigold.”

Stanley spoke with unconscious wistfulness, and half to himself. The old man was silent. He turned round before the fire. Stanley sighed.

“Dad, you don’t approve of Marigold. Oh, I know, and it worries me.”

“Wal, son, do you approve of her?” inquired the rancher, in his blunt way.

The query shocked Stanley and brought a recurrence of the mood in which he had not long since left Marigold.

“Dad, a fellow must certainly approve of the girl he’s going to marry.”

“Ahuh. I reckon so, an’ make himself blind to do it.”

“Dad, let’s have it out. Let’s lay the cards on the table. . . . Gradually you have lost something for Marigold. You used to love her.”

The rancher pulled his chair closer to the fire, opening his big hands to the warmth, as was his habit.

“Put a couple of chunks on, Stan. . . . Shore, I used to love Mari. Before you went to college an’ she growed up. Mother was livin’ then. She was fond of Mari. But all seems changed, son. I don’t say Mari isn’t lovable yet. She is. But, if you must know, I can’t stand the change in her lately.”

“What do you mean, Dad?” questioned Stanley gravely.

“Wal, you know, son, I reckon.”

“Yes, I know, but do you?”

“Son, I can see what the girl has on her mind, which is not much these days. I can see how she acts an’ I can heah what she says—an’ what’s said aboot her.”

“You’ve heard gossip about Marigold?”

“Reckon I have, son.”

“Those gabby old women friends of yours! . . . Dad, I don’t want to get sore. But they don’t understand Marigold and neither do you. How often have I tried to make you see! Times are changing. More women go to college and become more independent.”

Stanley spoke with earnest passion and he anticipated a pondering wait for an answer. But it came like a flash.

“Stan,” the rancher said, “my advice to you is marry her just as quick as ever you can. Wifehood and motherhood have been natural to women for a long time. This heah foolin’ around hasn’t been. An’ it’s takin’ a risk. I’m not blamin’ the girls, Stan. I’m blamin’ the times. An’ if I was you I’d put a halter on Mari.”

“Dad, I must confess to you,” returned Stanley shamefacedly, “I—I quarreled with Marigold tonight over that very thing. I wanted her to marry me in June. She refused—said she could not possibly get ready before June a year. I argued with her, tried to persuade her. No go! She wants her freedom for a while. That riled me, of course. We had it out hot and heavy. And I beat it home before the storm subsided.”

“Ahuh. Wal, what’re you goin’ to do aboot it?”

“I don’t know, Dad.”

“Humph. Do you still love Mari?”

“Love her!—Why, I never thought of anything different,” replied Stanley, aghast at the thought. It puzzled him, too.

“Love changes, son. An’ it doesn’t last forever, in some cases. I can’t see that Mari loves you heaps. If she did, she wouldn’t set such store on this precious freedom. She’d want you. She’d want to come out heah pronto, an’ give a woman’s touch to this old home once more, an’ see thet there were children around heah before I die.”

“Lord help me, Dad, you’re right! I’ve thought that, only I just wouldn’t believe it. What can I do?”

“Wal, I’m glad you asked thet,” responded the old man. “We’ve been close together, father an’ son, as blood ties go these days. When I sent you to college I was afraid you’d get a leanin’ toward the cities an’ mebbe prefer them. But you didn’t. You care for the old ranch. It’s shore made me happy. I couldn’t ask no more, unless for you to fetch a wife home.”

“Dad, I’ve been happy, too, until lately,” rejoined Stanley, just as earnestly. “I love the open country. City life would never suit me. There’s big development to work out on this ranch. But for weeks I’ve been at a standstill. No use lying. It’s on account of Marigold.”

“Ahuh. A woman can shore raise hell with a man,” replied his father grimly, nodding his shaggy head. “Listen, son. It may be hard for you to see, but it’s not for me. . . . If you feel thet Mari is honest an’ true, give her the benefit of a doubt an’ more time. Be good to her. No naggin’ or fightin’.”

“Thanks, Dad. I’ll think it over,” responded Stanley soberly.

“Don’t waste no more time, Stan. Life is short. . . . Reckon I’ll go to bed now. I’m glad you confided in me. Good night, son.”

Stanley sat there long after his father left, and until the fire burned down to a bed of glowing coals. The wind moaned outside and the coyotes howled. In this lonely hour Stanley thought he had made an end of indecision, of hoping against hope.

* * * *

Next morning, after breakfast, Stanley rode down away from the ranch toward the foothills to the west. He had donned his old riding outfit, and he rode his favorite horse. The spring morning was gloriously bright, cool, crisp; the sky shone bright blue; the wind off the sage brought a sweet, thick fragrance, always so strong and welcome.

Once down on the winding trail he put Boots to a long swinging lope toward an isolated foothill, round and beautiful, banded with gray sage halfway up and then covered with pines. It stood about an equal distance from Sage Hill and Wadestown, approximately ten miles.

In the course of an hour or more Stanley reached the edge of the gradual slope, where he reined Boots to a walk. His habit was to ride up to the pines, tie his horse there, and with his field glass study the range.

This intention, however, was frustrated by a rider coming down the trail from the direction Stanley was bent upon. He saw that he had been noticed as quickly as his keen eyes had sighted a horse. The rider had just come around the slope and looked like a bareheaded boy, mounted on Marigold’s cream-colored mustang. Stanley thought that was strange, for Marigold certainly would not let any boy use that horse. Perhaps Hurd Blanding was responsible.

The rider looked, halted, then, jamming on a sombrero, wheeled the mustang as if to depart hurriedly. The distance was more than a hundred yards, but Stanley recognized that shining, curly head before it was covered.

“Hold on, Lark!” he called piercingly.

That stopped her, whereupon Stanley, spurring Boots, quickly covered the intervening distance.

“Well, of all things, Lark Burrell, way out here in the sage!” exclaimed Stanley, in surprise and pleasure. His swift glance took her in from the battered old sombrero to her top boots and long spurs. She looked the real thing.

“Good morning, Mr. Weston,” she replied.

“Didn’t you recognize me? You were going to beat it.”

“Yes, I—I’m ashamed to say I knew you and was going to run.”

“Why, for goodness’ sake?”

“I was sure you wouldn’t know me—in this rig. . . . And I—well—fact is, I haven’t any good excuse, except I was scared.”

“You had a right to be,” he returned seriously. “You shouldn’t ride way out here alone. There are Indians and outlaws back in those hills. It’s just as well, too, for you not to meet some of our cowboys.”

“Shucks. They couldn’t catch me.”

“Chaps is fast, all right. But can you ride?”

“A little,” she replied, leaning over, the better to see all around Stanley’s horse. Then she sat up, eager and excited. “Oh, that’s a horse you’re on. Can he run?”

“Rather. Best on the range.”

“Is he? But he couldn’t catch me.”

“I’ll bet you he could. Want to try?”

“No. But he couldn’t. You are too heavy.”

Stanley conceded the point without argument. Evidently this girl from southern Idaho understood horses. With what ease and grace she sat her saddle! She was as lithe as an Indian. Stanley’s eyes made note of the service her rider’s outfit had evidently rendered. His glance, however, quickly traveled back to her face, only partly hidden under the limp, wide flap of the old sombrero. Stanley had seen her before, and bareheaded, too, but somehow she was marvelously different today.

“What are you doing way out here?” he asked.

“Riding. Seeing your country. Oh, it’s glorious. I’m afraid I’m drunk on sage. We have sage down in Idaho, but not like this. Not blue and thick!”

“You like my sage country then?”

“I love it. I had no idea it was so beautiful—so sweet. Marigold never said a word about the sage or the hills or, well, anything except I’d get a thrill out of town, anyway.”

“Did you?”

“Not one thrill. Not one, Mr. Weston, and it worries me,” she replied.

“How about the pretty dresses?”

“Oh, they had some effect on me. No thrill though. Should they?”

“Some girls think so. I just had a very pleasant one—when I came around the slope to see you. I’m afraid my mood was rather gloomy.”

That remark brought back her shyness, and he regretted it. He would have to be sincere with this girl. A tinge of red slowly receded from the gold-brown cheek.

“By the way, where is Marigold?” he asked, getting back to sterner reality, which he certainly was reluctant to do.

“Home. She said she’d come. But she didn’t. She was out late last night.”

Stanley gazed away across the sage. So Marigold went, after all! A little fire ran along his veins. Presently he turned again to the girl, to observe that instantly she averted her eyes.

“Chaps is pretty warm. Why not rest him?”

“Yes, I was about to walk him when you came in sight. . . . His name is not Chaps for me, but Cream Puff.”

“Good. I like yours better,” commended Stanley, but did not divulge that the reason was that Blanding had named the mustang.

“What’s the name of yours?” asked Lark, reaching a guarded hand to his horse.

“Boots.”

“The same as Marigold calls you? Very poorly named, both of you.”

“Boots harks back to my football days at the university.”

“Football. There’s so much I’ve never seen,” said the girl dreamily. “When were you in college?”

“I graduated in June, two years ago.”

“Did Marigold ever see you play?”

“Oh, yes, often.” Then abruptly changing the subject, he said, “Lark, let’s get off and rest ourselves, while your horse is resting.”

“Really I—I ought to start back,” she rejoined, but it was certain that she seemed impelled to stay.

“Come. It’s hours till lunchtime. And what’s the difference, anyhow?” he urged, seriously enough.

“All right,” she agreed, and swinging her leg she slipped off in a single movement. Then, standing there, she seemed different again, taller, slimmer, yet undeniably a girl.

Stanley dismounted, and taking the reins of her horse he suggested, “Let’s go up to the pines. It’s only a step or so. You’ll like the view.”

It was more than a step, but she followed him without comment. Soon they reached the band of pines, growing far apart, black and straight, with their spreading branches of thin foliage rustling in the wind. The ground was brown with pine needles.

“It’s pleasant here—if you have no hounding memories,” said Stanley, smiling at her, as she stood uncertain and shy before him, bareheaded again. How rich and thick her brown hair was with its glints of gold! In the clear open light he saw her eyes to better advantage than at any time before—dark, velvety eyes, full of tawny, slumberous depths. They did not meet his.

“Sit here, Lark, and look out across the sage toward Horse Heaven Hill. Isn’t that the limit of a name? I’ll get my field glasses.”

He returned presently to find Lark absorbed in the view. It pleased him that she seemed rapt. Once upon a time Marigold, sitting right there, had lain back on the pine needles to laugh at his rhapsodies on the scenery, and she had drawled, “Ain’t nature grand?” He had never let himself go again, regarding the beauty of anything. Remembering, he was curious to see how this girl would respond. He waited a long while, during which he did not yield to his desire to look at her instead of the expanse before them.

Still, the scene was always soul-satisfying to Stanley, somehow unaccountably tranquilizing and helpful. He needed it now. The wind was out of the west and had just lost its cool edge, but appeared more laden with the incense of the sage. The slope below them slanted away gradually, down to the level expanse, which extended westward in fifty miles of unbroken plain, rolling in leagues of slow ascent or descent, onto the blue mountain that was called a haven for wild horses.

“Oh, so lovely!” murmured the girl at last. “All so gray, so lonely, so monotonous!”

“Lark, you have hit upon its fascination,” replied Stanley gladly. “The endless gray, the loneliness, the eternal monotony!—Oh, you have not disappointed me.”

She flashed at him a fleeting, surprised look, enough to make him marvel at what her eyes might express if they were given a cue to love or passion. She had depth, this girl, and feeling.

“I see wild horses out there,” she said.

“You do? Where? I can’t see any. You must have the eye of an eagle.”

“I might be wrong. Let me have your glasses.”

While she adjusted these and trained them on the gray expanse, Stanley bent his own unsatisfied gaze upon the curly, shapely head, the clear, tanned cheek, the rounded neck and shoulder, the strong brown wrists and hands. She was astoundingly attractive.

“Yes, I thought so. Wild horses! And sure a lot of them.”

“Lark, you love wild horses,” he asserted, not asking.

“More than anything. My country is full of them. Oh, how I wish those wild horses out there could get down to the ranges of the Salmon! Then they would be free.”

“I’m with you, Lark. You’ve heard of the drive made recently. Hurd Blanding and El Wade pulled it off. Bribed the Clespelems. It stuck in my craw, that deal. Three dollars a head—for chicken feed!”

“Oh, it was hideous!” cried Lark, in sudden low passion. “All for a little money! Those wild horses are not grazing off the range. There’s ten times as much feed here as we have in Idaho.”

“Pretty raw, I’ll agree, Lark,” rejoined Stanley. “There were some good ponies in that wild bunch. I saw them. Made me sick—the way they had them tailed.”

“Tailed! What’s that?” asked Lark swiftly, and now he almost jumped under the full gaze of her eyes, wonderful, clear, almost hard.

“The cowboys call it tailing. It’s done after they trap the horses.”

“They lasso them, throw them, and tie the tail of one to the head of another?”

“Precisely. And it’s rotten, believe me.”

“I feared that. I’ve heard of it. Oh, I hate them—I hate them! If any cowpunchers did that on my range, I’d shoot them.”

Stanley realized then, with the bell-like ring of her voice in his ear, that he had passed the stage of interest in Lark Burrell. He was wholly fascinated. Lying back upon the pine needles, he closed his eyes and tried to think.