Читать книгу Horse Heaven Hill - Zane Grey - Страница 7

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“Please say, Mr. Weston, that you—you’ll persuade Marigold to influence her brother and that Blanding cowboy not to drive wild horses again,” begged the girl.

Stanley sat up and opened his eyes. He felt he ought to use them without trying to think.

“I’ll do that little thing, Lark, but I fear it’s useless.”

“Thank you. Oh, I know I’m queer to you folks up here, Mr. Weston—”

“Stop saying ‘mister,’ won’t you, Lark? Call me Stan, or Stanley. But not Boots. Will you?”

“Why yes, of course, if you want—and Marigold doesn’t mind,” she returned shyly.

Stanley laughed loud and not without a little bitterness. “Child, what do you say to this? My fiancée calls other men—old friends—such names as darling and sweetheart. Of course, that doesn’t mean anything, but—”

“I—I didn’t mean anything.”

“Enough said. Never you mind about Marigold.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help minding. I haven’t known any engaged couples. But—but you two are all—all—”

“All wrong, Lark. You said it,” he began earnestly. “But listen. We’ve been engaged for over five years. College changed Marigold. Maybe it changed me, but I can’t see it.... Thank God, I can be honest with one girl.”

He had his reward in a lovely, startled face that was at once averted from his burning gaze.

“Don’t be upset, Lark,” he went on composedly. “I just wanted you to know that things aren’t just right between Marigold and me.”

“But she—she loves you,” returned Lark solemnly.

“How do you know? Did she say so?”

“Oh, no, she told me very little. But she must.”

“Why?” asked Stanley laconically.

Evidently this was a knotty question for Lark. “Because you’re engaged and—and everything.”

“My young friend from the Salmon River—listen. Being engaged doesn’t seem to affect Marigold at all. She—”

Stanley thought he had better check his impetuosity. But what a relief it would be to unburden himself!

“You’re just angry with Marigold,” went on Lark gently. “And you know how it is when one is that way. Marigold is a gay, happy, thoughtless, beautiful girl. You are very lucky, Stanley. She must love you.”

“All right. Maybe. Anyway, you’re good to champion her,” replied Stanley, forcing his mind off Marigold. “Tell me about yourself. Of course you have a sweetheart. Girls who live in the sticks always do.”

“Oh dear no! And what do you mean by ‘sticks’? It doesn’t sound nice.”

“I mean the backwoods. Lark, don’t try any south Idaho line with me. That is to say—don’t lie. This is a very serious occasion. You have a beau?”

“No, Stanley, I’ve never had even an admirer that Dad would let come to see me—or I would have seen after Dad was gone.”

“What’s the matter with the fellows down there?” asked Stanley incredulously.

“There aren’t any. Oh, a few tough cowboys around Batchford don’t count. You see it’s rough, unsettled country, poor grazing desert you’d call it. No ranches or towns for miles. I’ve lived there since I was ten. And since I was fifteen, alone, except for my old ranch hand. We seldom went to Batchford, and never any farther. That is why I am sort of dazed. Everything’s so different.”

“No wonder. How much land have you?”

“I don’t know how many acres, but miles. If it were irrigated, it’d be valuable. We’ve run a hundred head of cattle until lately, then one thing and another cut my herd down. We grew mighty poor. Still we didn’t starve. We raised corn, beans, potatoes. We had cows, pigs, chickens—and more horses than cattle, I reckon. But there’s no sale for horses in Idaho.”

“You’ve come to the Wades’ to make your home, Marigold said.”

“Yes. Mr. Wade offered me a home. It was Marigold’s doing. I love her for it. But I don’t know how I’ll make out. I want to work, but they don’t want me to.”

“I see. What’d you do with the ranch, the stock and your old ranch hand?”

“Left them. I couldn’t sell out even if there were a buyer.”

“Why not?”

“Be-because I reckon I’ll want to go back someday—if I can’t make a success of myself here.”

“I hope you do. Now I’m going to tell you about my dad.”

When Stanley finished his rather eloquent talk about his father, he saw tears in Lark’s eyes. That was the climax of this morning’s adventure. He made not the slightest effort to stem or gauge the warm, sweet wave of emotion that flowed over him.

“Dad wants to meet you. I told him what little I’d got from Marigold. He knew your father. He remembers your mother. Lark, have you Indian blood?”

“A little, on my grandmother’s side ... I would love to meet your father.”

“Good. We’ll arrange it soon. You see Dad has been in poor health for a long time. Some days, though, he’s fine.”

“Life is very sad. I remember my dad breaking slowly, right before my eyes. And oh, when he was gone—the difference!”

They were silent for some moments. Lark had struck a chord of memory for herself and one of apprehension for Stanley. The wind stirred the pines pleasantly, and brown needles sifted down. The horses were quiet. The sage rippled like a gray lake. Loneliness and solitude enfolded this isolated hill. It was a dreamy, restful place.

“I must go. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?” spoke up Lark.

“Very short, I think. Do you want me to ride back with you, or part way?”

“Oh no, thank you. I’ll make the run in no time.”

“All right, Lark. I’ll watch you ride away. I have my glasses, you know, so you must do your prettiest.”

She rose and pulled on her sombrero and then her gloves. She was not little, as he had fancied. She came quite above his shoulder.

“Good-by—Stanley,” she said, the shyness returning. “I’m glad I ran across you out here in the sage.”

“Yes, it has been nice. I ride out here most every day.... Lark, do you think you might come tomorrow or the next day?”

“I—I reckon I might,” she said hurriedly, and left him.

Stanley watched her vault into her saddle and gallop down the trail, where she put the mustang to a run and in a few minutes was only a fast-disappearing dot on the sage. When she was gone he lay back on the pine needles and gazed up through the green and into the blue.

A feeling, a suspension of thought, something which he had used to woo on the lonely hillside and which had for years been a stranger to him, subtly and unconsciously returned, only making itself known afterward. It had to do with his boyhood, far back, and was not a recollection of events, but a vague, sweet, dreamy condition of the senses.

At length he sat up. The field glasses lay at his feet. Had he lain there only a moment or for a long time? There was no way to tell, but he believed it had been long. And if Lark Burrell had not directly induced this spell, the simplicity of her, the almost childlike intangible something he could not name, most assuredly had done so. He felt an absurd gratitude. By that he acknowledged and measured a certain unhappy mental burden which he had borne for months. To be rid of that for a little while, even though he was not conscious of it until afterward, to have come through that to the old youthful enchantment, was something to be grateful for.

But what had his senses grasped during this interval? Only the sailing white clouds across the blue sky, the quivering and soughing of the pine-needle foliage, the protection of the black-trunked, black-branched trees, the warmth of the sun on his face and the thick mat under his shoulders, the mingled spicy odor of pine and sage—these, and physical things that he could go on naming indefinitely, had been all that had occupied his mind. But to feel them again, as of old, their sweetness and beauty, their relation to the remote past, this was what charmed him so. Right there a connection between Lark Burrell and the cherished dreams of his boyhood had been established. Marigold Wade had never roused any associations that included his mother, or his barefoot days, his watching his image in still, deep pools, his hours on the windy sage hillsides.

“I see my finish. If I meet that girl again—” he thought, and broke off because there was no if. He would meet her. If she did not ride out again to the sage he would hunt for her. Marigold had so many times taunted him: “Why don’t you play around as I do? We’ll be married a long time and dead longer.” He had often wondered what she would do if he accepted her challenge. But that had held no appeal for him.

Once off the slope he let Boots cut loose at his own pace. Wherefore a half-dozen miles flashed by in a blur of sage. He was home in time for lunch.

“Stan, what’s thet cowboy Blanding out here for?” were the first words with which his father greeted him.

“I don’t know. Is he here?”

“Shore. Rode out early this mornin’ an’ hasn’t left yet.”

“Was he alone?”

“He had two or three fellows with him.”

“Maybe he wants to make a drive for wild horses over Sage Hill.”

“Wal, I shouldn’t wonder. An’ if he does you block it.”

“Sure I will, Dad. But what have you against Hurd Blanding? He appears to stand well with the Wades.”

“Humph. I’ve got enough,” growled the old man.

Stanley made his thoughtful way back to the bunkhouse which was a long, one-story, many-roomed building opposite the barns. Horses stood, heads down, at the hitching rail; and there was a buckboard where it could not be easily seen. It turned out to be one of the Wades’, Marigold’s in fact, the one in which she had driven Lark and him back from town. Either Blanding had appropriated it for a while, as cowboys had a habit of doing, or Marigold had lent it to him. Whichever way it was, Stanley did not like it. He was tired of a lot of things.

He went into the messroom, where a dozen or more cowboys were eating at a long table. Several of these men, besides Blanding, did not belong to the Weston ranch. Having been trained by his father, Stanley had never gotten too friendly with his help. He was easygoing and kind, but he insisted on discipline, and he did not have any use for a drinking cowboy. His own foreman, Howard, had transgressed of late, after repeated warnings; and Stanley thought this might be a favorable time to talk forcibly to him, especially if he were bent on any deals with Blanding.

“Howdy, men,” replied Stanley, in reply to their greeting. “What’s up?”

There followed a scraping of boots. Howard coughed in a rather embarrassed fashion, and answered: “Blanding’s wantin’ some help on a wild-horse drive.”

Stanley lifted a heavy boot to the edge of the bench and leaned his elbow on his knee, while he took a cool stare at the handsome Blanding. At first sight of this cowboy Stanley had been conscious of a boiling in his blood.

“Hello, Blanding. Did you ride over?”

“Naw, we drove over,” returned the cowboy easily.

“Did you steal the buckboard?” went on Stanley, welcoming an opportunity like this.

Blanding’s laconic assurance suffered a blight. The question struck like a blow. A dark red surged across his clean, tanned face and, receding, left it white.

“No, Mr. Weston, I didn’t steal the buckboard!” he retorted. “Marigold lent it to me.”

“Marigold! What business has a hired hand to call Miss Wade by her first name?”

The lightning leaped to Blanding’s cold, hard gray eyes. In the passion of them he betrayed more than temper at the arraignment proffered. He had reason for resentment, aside from the wounding of his vanity.

“What business is it of yours?” returned Blanding insolently. He showed not the least physical fear; also, there was something in his mind that gave him a mastery here.

“Blanding, I’m not quite sure yet, or I would tell you,” declared Stanley. “But I’ll say this. You get off my ranch. Is that clear to you?”

The cowboy leaped to his feet, sending the bench crashing backward and upsetting two of the men. His hair stood up like a mane. His eyes were steel fire.

“Hell, yes, that’s clear. But it’s not clear why you insult me before your own outfit,” returned Blanding hotly.

“Take it any way you want.”

“All right, Weston. I take it you’re sore at me because Marigold Wade—”

“Shut your mouth!” interrupted Stanley, thumping his boot to the floor and taking long strides to carry him within reaching distance of the cowboy. Stanley well knew that he was going to hit him, and further restraint seemed impossible. Controlling physical violence had long been trained into him, but the flood of his anger was new and unexpected.

“Well, I guess not, Weston,” flared Blanding, in whom passion now had the upper hand. “You can’t make a monkey out of me. Not even in your own back yard!”

“Go ahead, then,” Stanley flung back at him contemptuously. “Give yourself away—that you haven’t the first instincts of a gentleman.”

“Weston,” rasped Blanding, his lips curving in scorn, “you’ve no call on earth to insult me.”

“We don’t agree, Blanding.”

Then the cowboy, true to his egotism and his hate, pushed a livid face closer to Stanley.

“But you bet your sweet life you’ve call to be jealous!”

How true that taunt was Stanley realized from more than the hot triumph in Blanding’s voice. It was worse than he had feared. He wavered an instant. Then loyalty and manhood, and the jealousy Blanding had seen all too readily, united in one tremendous impulse. Stanley swung on the cowboy, and knocked him thudding to the floor. Blanding lay motionless. Then suddenly the messroom was in an uproar.

“Take him out,” thundered Stanley. Blanding’ s comrades, with the help of others, made short work of that job. Then, when the men shuffled in again, closing the door, Stanley accosted Howard.

“What about this wild-horse drive?”

“Nothin’ to fuss over, boss,” returned the foreman nervously. “Blanding wanted me an’ some of our outfit in the job. Seems he’s had a row with young Wade.”

“Did you agree to go in with Blanding on that drive?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Without asking my permission?”

“Why, I reckoned you’d be all for it. Ridin’ the range of a lot of riffraff.”

“Howard, the riffraff isn’t all out on the sage. You were supposed to be working for me. Now pack your stuff and beat it.”

“You’re firin’ me?” ejaculated the foreman, incredulous and dismayed.

“Yes. And anyone else who agreed to go in with Blanding.”

“None of the boys agreed. He’d asked several, an’ they was arguin’ about their share.”

“Very well, then. We’ll let it go at that. I’ll send your check down.”

Stanley strode out to the house, thinking grimly of what choice material he had supplied for the gossips of Wadestown. A fight always exhilarated him—reminiscent of his old football days. He had not a regret for his violence. That conceited lady-killer had played right into his hands. Blanding was only a coarse cowboy, without wit, tact or any semblance of fine feeling. What a fool Marigold had been! Stanley, bitter as he was, inevitable as he felt the coming issue, remained loyal. Marigold had only played with the cowboy, flirted with him—led him on to amuse herself.

“Oh, but won’t she be furious!” he ejaculated gleefully.

Later, in the living room, his observant father remarked: “Son, you went out a while ago draggin’ yourself, with a clouded face. Now you show up whistlin’ an’ otherwise bright. What come off?”

“Dad, I broke loose,” laughed Stanley.

“Humph. It was about time. Did you block the wild-horse drive?”

“I sure did, as far as our range and Sage Hill are concerned.”

“An’ what else?”

“Well, I fired Howard.”

“Say, son, you surprise me. You’re wakin’ up. Thet loafer ought to have been fired long ago. Anythin’ else?”

“Yes, Dad. I took a crack at Hurd Blanding.”

“You don’t say!” The old man’s manifest pleasure worked powerfully upon Stanley, inciting him to tell the particulars of the meeting. The recital, however, operated to inflame his father more against Marigold.

“She’s ruined you, son. It’s her fault,” he raved.

“Hardly that, Dad.”

“But it’ll be town talk, this very night.”

“I daresay. But a little fact is no worse than the usual gossip.”

“Did you believe Blanding?” asked the old rancher stormily. “He shore must have been drunk or crazy to brag thet way aboot a woman, before a crowd of men, unless—”

“Dad, Blanding wasn’t lying,” replied Stanley. “I probably had call to be jealous of him. I knew it. And I was, though it seems to have died a violent death. But just how much reason I have, I can’t see. Not much, I reckon. He is a conceited jackass. He thinks he’s what cowboys call a lady-killer. I suspect that women have spoiled him. He’s a wonderful-looking fellow. But I know that Marigold has only flirted with him, as she has with other fellows.”

“How do you know thet?” asked old Weston bluntly.

“Why, Dad, I couldn’t conceive of anything else,” retorted Stanley, suddenly hot under the collar.

“Ahuh. Wal, you’re young an’ like your mother. She couldn’t believe bad of nobody. I reckon it’s a good trait in human nature. But son, if I ever had thet, it shore got stung out of me.”