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Dennison Grant: A Novel of To-day

by Robert J. C. Stead · English · Gutenberg #3264 · 456,294 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Dennison Grant: A Novel of To-day

Author: Robert J. C. Stead


        
Release date: June 3, 2006 [eBook #3264]
                Most recently updated: November 19, 2016

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3264

Credits: Produced by Donald Lainson; David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DENNISON GRANT: A NOVEL OF TO-DAY ***




Produced by Donald Lainson





DENNISON GRANT

A Novel of To-day


By Robert Stead




CHAPTER I


“Chuck at the Y.D. to-night, and a bed under the shingles,” shouted
Transley, waving to the procession to be off.

Linder, foreman and head teamster, straightened up from the half load
of new hay in which he had been awaiting the final word, tightened the
lines, made an unique sound in his throat, and the horses pressed their
shoulders into the collars. Linder glanced back to see each wagon or
implement take up the slack with a jerk like the cars of a freight
train; the cushioned rumble of wagon wheels on the soft earth, and the
noisy chatter of the steel teeth of the hay-rakes came up from the rear.
Transley’s “outfit” was under way.

Transley was a contractor; a master of men and of circumstances. Six
weeks before, the suspension of a grading order had left him high and
dry, with a dozen men and as many teams on his hands and hired for the
season. Transley galloped all that night into the foothills; when he
returned next evening he had a contract with the Y.D. to cut all the
hay from the ranch buildings to The Forks. By some deft touch of those
financial strings on which he was one day to become so skilled a player
Transley converted his dump scrapers into mowing machines, and three
days later his outfit was at work in the upper reaches of the Y.D.

The contract had been decidedly profitable. Not an hour of broken
weather had interrupted the operations, and to-day, with two thousand
tons of hay in stack, Transley was moving down to the headquarters of
the Y.D. The trail lay along a broad valley, warded on either side by
ranges of foothills; hills which in any other country would have been
dignified by the name of mountains. From their summits the grey-green
up-tilted limestone protruded, whipped clean of soil by the chinooks of
centuries. Here and there on their northern slopes hung a beard of
scrub timber; sharp gulleys cut into their fastnesses to bring down the
turbulent waters of their snows.

Some miles to the left of the trail lay the bed of the Y.D., fringed
with poplar and cottonwood and occasional dark green splashes of spruce.
Beyond the bed of the Y.D., beyond the foothills that looked down upon
it, hung the mountains themselves, their giant crests pitched like
mighty tents drowsing placidly between earth and heaven. Now their four
o’clock veil of blue-purple mist lay filmed about their shoulders, but
later they would stand out in bold silhouette cutting into the twilight
sky. Everywhere was the soft smell of new-mown hay; everywhere the
silences of the eternal, broken only by the muffled noises of Transley’s
outfit trailing down to the Y.D.

Linder, foreman and head teamster, cushioned his shoulders against his
half load of hay and contemplated the scene with amiable satisfaction.
The hay fields of the foothills had been a pleasant change from the
railway grades of the plains below. Men and horses had fattened and
grown content, and the foreman had reason to know that Transley’s bank
account had profited by the sudden shift in his operations. Linder felt
in his pocket for pipe and matches; then, with a frown, withdrew his
fingers. He himself had laid down the law that there must be no smoking
in the hay fields. A carelessly dropped match might in an hour nullify
all their labor.

Linder’s frown had scarce vanished when hoof-beats pounded by the side
of his wagon, and a rider, throwing himself lightly from his horse,
dropped beside him in the hay.

“Thought I’d ride with you a spell, Lin. That Pete-horse acts like he
was goin’ sore on the off front foot. Chuck at the Y.D. to-night?”

“That’s what Transley says, George, and he knows.”

“Ever et at the Y.D?”

“Nope.”

“Know old Y.D?”

“Only to know his name is good on a cheque, and they say he still throws
a good rope.”

George wriggled to a more comfortable position in the hay. He had a
feeling that he was approaching a delicate subject with consummate
skill. After a considerable silence he continued--

“They say that’s quite a girl old Y.D.’s got.”

“Oh,” said Linder, slowly. The occasion of the soreness in that
Pete-horse’s off front foot was becoming apparent.

“You better stick to Pete,” Linder continued. “Women is most uncertain
critters.”

“Don’t I know it?” chuckled George, poking the foreman’s ribs
companionably with his elbow. “Don’t I know it?” he repeated, as his
mind apparently ran back over some reminiscence that verified Linder’s
remark. It was evident from the pleasant grimaces of George’s face that
whatever he had suffered from the uncertain sex was forgiven.

“Say, Lin,” he resumed after another pause, and this time in a more
confidential tone, “do you s’pose Transley’s got a notion that way?”

“Shouldn’t wonder. Transley always knows what he’s doing, and why. Y.D.
must be worth a million or so, and the girl is all he’s got to leave
it to. Besides all that, no doubt she’s well worth having on her own
account.”

“Well, I’m sorry for the boss,” George replied, with great soberness. “I
alus hate to disappoint the boss.”

“Huh!” said Linder. He knew George Drazk too well for further comment.
After his unlimited pride in and devotion to his horse, George gave his
heart unreservedly to womankind. He suffered from no cramping niceness
in his devotions; that would have limited the play of his passion; to
him all women were alike--or nearly so. And no number of rebuffs could
convince George that he was unpopular with the objects of his democratic
affections. Such a conclusion was, to him, too absurd to be entertained,
no matter how many experiences might support it. If opportunity offered
he doubtless would propose to Y.D.’s daughter that very night--and get a
boxed ear for his pains.

The Y.D. creek had crossed its valley, shouldering close against the
base of the foothills to the right. Here the current had created a
precipitous cutbank, and to avoid it and the stream the trail wound over
the side of the hill. As they crested a corner the silver ribbon of the
Y.D. was unravelled before them, and half a dozen miles down its
course the ranch buildings lay clustered in a grove of cottonwoods and
evergreens. All the great valley lay warm and pulsating in a flood
of yellow sunshine; the very earth seemed amorous and content in the
embrace of sun and sky. The majesty of the view seized even the unpoetic
souls of Linder and Drazk, and because they had no other means of
expression they swore vaguely and relapsed into silence.

Hoof-beats again sounded by the wagon side. It was Transley.

“Oh, here you are, Drazk. How long do you reckon it would take you to
ride down to the Y.D. on that Pete-horse?” Transley was a leader of men.

Drazk’s eyes sparkled at the subtle compliment to his horse.

“I tell you, Boss,” he said, “if there’s any jackrabbits in the road
they’ll get tramped on.”

“I bet they will,” said Transley, genially. “Well, you just slide down
and tell Y.D. we’re coming in. She’s going to be later than I figured,
but I can’t hurry the work horses. You know that, Drazk.”

“Sure I do, Boss,” said Drazk, springing into his saddle. “Just watch
me lose myself in the dust.” Then, to himself, “Here’s where I beat the
boss to it.”

The sun had fallen behind the mountains, the valley was filled with
shadow, the afterglow, mauve and purple and copper, was playing far up
the sky when Transley’s outfit reached the Y.D. corrals. George Drazk
had opened the gate and waited beside it.

“Y.D. wants you an’ Linder to eat with him at the house,” he said as
Transley halted beside him. “The rest of us eat in the bunk-house.”
 There was something strangely modest in Drazk’s manner.

“Had yours handed to you already?” Linder managed to banter in a low
voice as they swung through the gate.

“Hell!” protested Mr. Drazk. “A fellow that ain’t a boss or a foreman
don’t get a look-in. Never even seen her.... Come, you Pete-horse!” It
was evident George had gone back to his first love.

The wagons drew up in the yard, and there was a fine jingle of harness
as the teamsters quickly unhitched. Y.D. himself approached through the
dusk; his large frame and confident bearing were unmistakable even in
that group of confident, vigorous men.

“Glad to see you, Transley,” he said cordially. “You done well out
there. ‘So, Linder! You made a good job of it. Come up to the house--I
reckon the Missus has supper waitin’. We’ll find a room for you up
there, too; it’s different from bein’ under canvas.”

So saying, and turning the welfare of the men and the horses over to
his foreman, the rancher led Transley and Linder along a path through a
grove of cottonwoods, across a footbridge where from underneath came the
babble of water, to “the house,” marked by a yellow light which poured
through the windows and lost itself in the shadow of the trees.

The nucleus of the house was the log cabin where Y.D. and his wife had
lived in their first married years. With the passage of time additions
had been built to every side which offered a point of contact, but the
log cabin still remained the family centre, and into it Transley and
Linder were immediately admitted. The poplar floor had long since worn
thin, save at the knots, and had been covered with edge-grained fir, but
otherwise the cabin stood as it had for twenty years, the white-washed
logs glowing in the light of two bracket lamps and the reflections from
a wood fire which burned merrily in the stove. The skins of a grizzly
bear and a timber wolf lay on the floor, and two moose heads looked down
from opposite ends of the room. On the walls hung other trophies won by
Y.D.’s rifle, along with hand-made bits of harness, lariats, and other
insignia of the ranchman’s trade.

The rancher took his guests’ hats, and motioned each to a seat.
“Mother,” he said, directing his voice into an adjoining room, “here’s
the boys.”

In a moment “Mother” appeared drying her hands. In her appearance were
courage, resourcefulness, energy,--fit mate for the man who had made the
Y.D. known in every big cattle market of the country. As Linder’s eye
caught her and her husband in the same glance his mind involuntarily
leapt to the suggestion of what the offspring of such a pair must be.
The men of the cattle country have a proper appreciation of heredity....

“My wife--Mr. Transley, Mr. Linder,” said the rancher, with a
courtliness which sat strangely on his otherwise rough-and-ready speech.
“I been tellin’ her the fine job you boys has made in the hay fields,
an’ I reckon she’s got a bite of supper waitin’ you.”

“Y.D. has been full of your praises,” said the woman. There was a touch
of culture in her manner as she received them, which Y.D.’s hospitality
did not disclose.

She led them into another room, where a table was set for five. Linder
experienced a tang of happy excitement as he noted the number. Linder
allowed himself no foolishness about women, but, as he sometimes sagely
remarked to George Drazk, you never can tell what might happen. He shot
a quick glance at Transley, but the contractor’s face gave no sign. Even
as he looked Linder thought what an able face it was. Transley was not
more than twenty-six, but forcefulness, assertion, ability, stood in
every line of his clean-cut features. He was such a man as to capture at
a blow the heart of old Y.D., perhaps of Y.D.’s daughter.

“Where’s Zen?” demanded the rancher.

“She’ll be here presently,” his wife replied. “We don’t have Mr.
Transley and Mr. Linder every night, you know,” she added, with a smile.

“Dolling up,” thought Linder. “Trust a woman never to miss a bet.”

But at that moment a door opened, and the girl appeared. She did not
burst upon them, as Linder had half expected; she slipped quietly and
gracefully into their presence. She was dressed in black, in a costume
which did not too much conceal the charm of her figure, and the
nut-brown lustre of her face and hair played against the sober
background of her dress with an effect that was almost dazzling.

“My daughter, Zen,” said Y.D. “Mr. Transley, Mr. Linder.”

She shook hands frankly, first with Transley, then with Linder, as
had been the order of the introduction. In her manner was neither the
shyness which sometimes marks the women of remote settlements, nor the
boldness so readily bred of outdoor life. She gave the impression of one
who has herself, and the situation, in hand.

“We’re always glad to have guests at the Y.D.” she was saying. “We live
so far from everywhere.”

Linder thought that a strange peg on which to hang their welcome. But
she was continuing--

“And you have been so successful, haven’t you? You have made quite a hit
with Dad.”

“How about Dad’s daughter?” asked Transley. Transley had a manner of
direct and forceful action. These were his first words to her. Linder
would not have dared be so precipitate.

“Perhaps,” thought Linder to himself, as he turned the incident over in
his mind, “perhaps that is why Transley is boss, and I’m just foreman.”
 The young woman’s behavior seemed to support that conclusion. She did
not answer Transley’s question, but she gave no evidence of displeasure.

“You boys must be hungry,” Y.D. was saying. “Pile in.”

The rancher and his wife sat at the ends of the table; Transley on the
side at Y.D.’s right; Linder at Transley’s right. In the better light
Linder noted Y.D.’s face. It was the face of a man of fifty, possibly
sixty. Life in the open plays strange tricks with the appearance. Some
men it ages before their time; others seem to tap a spring of perpetual
youth. Save for the grey moustache and the puckerings about the eyes
Y.D.’s was still a young man’s face. Then, as the rancher turned his
head, Linder noted a long scar, as of a burn, almost grown over in the
right cheek.... Across the table from them sat the girl, impartially
dividing her position between the two.

A Chinese boy served soup, and the rancher set the example by “piling
in” without formality. Eight hours in the open air between meals is a
powerful deterrent of table small-talk. Then followed a huge joint
of beef, from which Y.D. cut generous slices with swift and dexterous
strokes of a great knife, and the Chinese boy added the vegetables from
a side table. As the meat disappeared the call of appetite became less
insistent.

“She’s been a great summer, ain’t she?” said the rancher, laying down
his knife and fork and lifting the carver. “Transley, some more meat?
Pshaw, you ain’t et enough for a chicken. Linder? That’s right, pass
up your plate. Powerful dry, though. That’s only a small bit; here’s
a better slice here. Dry summers gen’rally mean open winters, but you
can’t never tell. Zen, how ‘bout you? Old Y.D.’s been too long on the
job to take chances. Mother? How much did you say, Transley? About two
thousand tons? Not enough. Don’t care if I do,”--helping himself to
another piece of beef.

“I think you’ll find two thousand tons, good hay and good measurement,”
 said Transley.

“I’m sure of it,” rejoined his host, generously. “I’m carryin’ more
steers than usual, and’ll maybe run in a bunch of doggies from Manitoba
to boot. I got to have more hay.”

So the meal progressed, the rancher furnishing both the hospitality and
the conversation. Transley occasionally broke in to give assent to
some remark, but his interruption was quite unnecessary. It was Y.D.’s
practice to take assent for granted. Once or twice the women interjected
a lead to a different subject of conversation in which their words would
have carried greater authority, but Y.D. instantly swung it back to the
all-absorbing topic of hay.

The Chinese boy served a pudding of some sort, and presently the meal
was ended.

“She’s been a dry summer--powerful dry,” said the rancher, with a wink
at his guests. “Zen, I think there’s a bit of gopher poison in there
yet, ain’t there?”

The girl left the room without remark, returning shortly with a jug and
glasses, which she placed before her father.

“I suppose you wear a man’s size, Transley,” he said, pouring out a big
drink of brown liquor, despite Transley’s deprecating hand. “Linder, how
many fingers? Two? Well, we’ll throw in the thumb. Y.D? If you please,
just a little snifter. All set?”

The rancher rose to his feet, and the company followed his example.

“Here’s ho!--and more hay,” he said, genially.

“Ho!” said Linder.

“The daughter of the Y.D!” said Transley, looking across the table at
the girl. She met his eyes full; then, with a gleam of white teeth, she
raised an empty glass and clinked it against his.

The men drained their glasses and re-seated themselves, but the women
remained standing.

“Perhaps you will excuse us now,” said the rancher’s wife. “You will
wish to talk over business. Y.D. will show you upstairs, and we will
expect you to be with us for breakfast.”

With a bow she left the room, followed by her daughter. Linder had a
sense of being unsatisfied; it was as though a ravishing meal has been
placed before a hungry man, and only its aroma had reached his senses
when it had been taken away. Well, it provoked the appetite--

The rancher re-filled the glasses, but Transley left his untouched, and
Linder did the same. There were business matters to discuss, and it was
no fair contest to discuss business in the course of a drinking bout
with an old stager like Y.D.

“I got to have another thousand tons,” the rancher was saying. “Can’t
take chances on any less, and I want you boys to put it up for me.”

“Suits me,” said Transley, “if you’ll show me where to get the hay.”

“You know the South Y.D?”

“Never been on it.”

“Well, it’s a branch of the Y.D. which runs south-east from The Forks.
Guess it got its name from me, because I built my first cabin at The
Forks. That was about the time you was on a milk diet, Transley, and
us old-timers had all outdoors to play with. You see, the Y.D. is a
cantank’rous stream, like its godfather. At The Forks you’d nat’rally
suppose is where two branches joined, an’ jogged on henceforth in double
harness. Well, that ain’t it at all. This crick has modern ideas, an’
at The Forks it divides itself into two, an’ she hikes for the Gulf o’
Mexico an’ him for Hudson’s Bay. As I was sayin’, I built my first cabin
at The Forks--a sort o’ peek-a-boo cabin it was, where the wolves usta
come an’ look in at nights. Well, I usta look out through the same
holes. I had the advantage o’ usin’ language, an’ I reckon we was about
equal scared. There was no wife or kid in those days.”

The rancher paused, took a long draw on his pipe, and his eyes glowed
with the light of old recollections.

“Well, as I was sayin’,” he continued presently, “folks got to callin’
the stream the Y.D., after me. That’s what you get for bein’ first on
the ground--a monument for ever an ever. This bein’ the main stream got
the name proper, an’ the other branch bein’ smallest an’ running kind
o’ south nat’rally got called the South Y.D. I run stock in both valleys
when I was at The Forks, but not much since I came down here. Well,
there’s maybe a thousand tons o’ hay over in the South Y.D., an’ you
boys better trail over there to-morrow an’ pitch into it--that is, if
you’re satisfied with the price I’m payin’ you.”

“The price is all right,” said Transley, “and we’ll hit the trail at
sun-up. There’ll be no trouble--no confliction of interests, I mean?”

“Whose interests?” demanded the rancher, beligerently. “Ain’t I the
father of the Y.D? Ain’t the whole valley named for me? When it comes to
interests--”

“Of course,” Transley agreed, “but I just wanted to know how things
stood in case we ran up against something. It’s not like the old days,
when a rancher would rather lose twenty-five per cent. of his stock
over winter than bother putting up hay. Hay land is getting to be worth
money, and I just want to know where we stand.”

“Quite proper,” said Y.D., “quite proper. An’ now the matter’s under
discussion, I’ll jus’ show you my hand. There’s a fellow named Landson
down the valley of the South Y.D. that’s been flirtin’ with that hay
meadow for years, but he ain’t got no claim to it. I was first on the
ground an’ I cut it whenever I feel like it an’ I’m goin’ to go on
cuttin’ it. If anybody comes out raisin’ trouble, you just shoo ‘em off,
an’ go on cuttin’ that hay, spite o’ hell an’ high water. Y.D.’ll stand
behind you.”

“Thanks,” said Transley. “That’s what I wanted to know.”



CHAPTER II


The rancher had ridden into the Canadian plains country from below “the
line” long before barbed wire had become a menace in cattle-land. From
Pincher Creek to Maple Creek, and far beyond, the plains lay unbroken
save by the deep canyons where, through the process of ages, mountain
streams had worn their beds down to gravel bottoms, and by the
occasional trail which wandered through the wilderness like some
thousand-mile lariat carelessly dropped from the hand of the Master
Plainsman. Here and there, where the cutbanks of the river Canyons
widened out into sloping valleys, affording possible access to the
deep-lying streams, some ranchman had established his headquarters, and
his red-roofed, whitewashed buildings flashed back the hot rays which
fell from an opalescent heaven. At some of the more important fords
trading posts had come into being, whither the ranchmen journeyed twice
a year for groceries, clothing, kerosene, and other liquids handled as
surreptitiously as the vigilance of the Mounted Police might suggest.
The virgin prairie, with her strange, subtle facility for entangling the
hearts of men, lay undefiled by the mercenary plowshare; unprostituted
by the commercialism of the days that were to be.

Into such a country Y.D. had ridden from the South, trailing his little
bunch of scrub heifers, in search of grass and water and, it may be, of
a new environment. Up through the Milk River country; across the Belly
and the Old Man; up and down the valley of the Little Bow, and across
the plains as far as the Big Bow he rode in search of the essentials of
a ranch headquarters. The first of these is water, the second grass,
the third fuel, the fourth shelter. Grass there was everywhere; a fine,
short, hairy crop which has the peculiar quality of self-curing in the
autumn sunshine and so furnishing a natural, uncut hay for the herds
in the winter months. Water there was only where the mountain streams
plowed their canyons through the deep subsoil, or at little lakes of
surface drainage, or, at rare intervals, at points where pure springs
broke forth from the hillsides. Along the river banks dark, crumbling
seams exposed coal resources which solved all questions of fuel,
and fringes of cottonwood and poplar afforded rough but satisfactory
building material. As the rancher sat on his horse on a little knoll
which overlooked a landscape leading down on one side to a sheltering
bluff by the river, and on the other losing itself on the rim of the
heavens, no fairer prospect surely could have met his eye.

And yet he was not entirely satisfied. He was looking for no temporary
location, but for a spot where he might drive his claim-stakes deep.
That prairie, which stretched under the hot sunshine unbroken to the rim
of heaven; that brown grass glowing with an almost phosphorescent light
as it curled close to the mother sod;--a careless match, a cigar stub, a
bit of gun-wadding, and in an afternoon a million acres of pasture land
would carry not enough foliage to feed a gopher.

Y.D. turned in his saddle. Along the far western sky hung the purple
draperies of the Rockies. For fifty miles eastward from the mighty range
lay the country of the foothills, its great valleys lost to the vision
which leapt only from summit to summit. In the clear air the peaks
themselves seemed not a dozen miles away, but Y.D. had not ridden
cactus, sagebrush and prairie from the Rio Grande to the St. Mary’s for
twenty years to be deceived by a so transparent illusion. Far over
the plains his eye could trace the dark outline of a trail leading
mountainward.

The heifers drowsed lazily in the brown grass. Y.D., shading his eyes
the better with his hand, gazed long and thoughtfully at the purple
range. Then he spat decisively over his horse’s shoulder and made a
strange “cluck” in his throat. The knowing animal at once set out on
a trot to stir the lazy heifers into movement, and presently they were
trailing slowly up into the foothill country.

Far up, where the trail ahead apparently dropped over the end of the
world, a horse and rider hove in view. They came on leisurely, and half
an hour elapsed before they met the rancher trailing west.

The stranger was a rancher of fifty, wind-whipped and weather-beaten of
countenance. The iron grey of his hair and moustache suggested the iron
of the man himself; iron of figure, of muscle, of will.

“‘Day,” he said, affably, coming to a halt a few feet from Y.D.
“Trailing into the foothills?”

Y.D. lolled in his saddle. His attitude did not invite conversation,
and, on the other hand, intimated no desire to avoid it.

“Maybe,” he said, noncommittally. Then, relaxing somewhat,--“Any water
farther up?”

“About eight miles. Sundown should see you there, and there’s a decent
spot to camp. You’re a stranger here?” The older man was evidently
puzzling over the big “Y.D.” branded on the ribs of the little herd.

“It’s a big country,” Y.D. answered. “It’s a plumb big country, for
sure, an’ I guess a man can be a stranger in some corners of it, can’t
he?”

Y.D. began to resent the other man’s close scrutiny of his brand.

“Well, what’s wrong with it?” he demanded.

“Oh, nothing. No offense. I just wondered what ‘Y.D.’ might stand for.”

“Might stand for Yankee devil,” said Y.D., with a none-of-your-business
curl of his lip. But he had carried his curtness too far, and was not
prepared for the quick retort.

“Might also stand for yellow dog, and be damned to you!” The stranger’s
strong figure sat up stern and knit in his saddle.

Y.D.’s hand went to his hip, but the other man was unarmed. You can’t
draw on a man who isn’t armed.

“Listen!” the older man continued, in sharp, clear-cut notes. “You are
a stranger not only to our trails, but our customs. You are a young man.
Let me give you some advice. First--get rid of that artillery. It will
do you more harm than good. And second, when a stranger speaks to you
civilly, answer him the same. My name is Wilson--Frank Wilson, and if
you settle in the foothills you’ll find me a decent neighbor, as soon as
you are able to appreciate decency.”

To his own great surprise, Y.D. took his dressing down in silence. There
was a poise in Wilson’s manner that enforced respect. He recognized in
him the English rancher of good family; usually a man of fine courtesy
within reasonable bounds; always a hard hitter when those bounds are
exceeded. Y.D. knew that he had made at least a tactical blunder;
his sensitiveness about his brand would arouse, rather than allay,
suspicion. His cheeks burned with a heat not of the afternoon sun as
he submitted to this unaccustomed discipline, but he could not bring
himself to express regret for his rudeness.

“Well, now that the shower is over, we’ll move on,” he said, turning his
back on Wilson and “clucking” to his horse.

Y.D. followed the stream which afterwards bore his name as far as the
Upper Forks. As he entered the foothills he found all the advantages
of the plains below, with others peculiar to the foothill country. The
richer herbage, induced by a heavier precipitation; the occasional belts
of woodland; the rugged ravines and limestone ridges affording
good natural protection against fire; abundant fuel and water
everywhere--these seemed to constitute the ideal ranch conditions. At
the Upper Forks, through some freak of formation, the stream divided
into two. From this point was easy access into the valleys of the Y.D.
and the South Y.D., as they were subsequently called. The stream rippled
over beds of grey gravel, and mountain trout darted from the rancher’s
shadow as it fell across the water. Up the valley, now ruddy gold with
the changing colors of autumn, white-capped mountains looked down from
amid the infinite silences; and below, broad vistas of brown prairie
and silver ribbons of running water. Y.D. turned his swarthy face to
the sunlight and took in the scene slowly, deliberately, but with a
commercialized eye; blue and white and ruddy gold were nothing to him;
his heart was set on grass and water and shelter. He had roved enough,
and he had a reason for seeking some secluded spot like this, where he
could settle down while his herds grew up, and, perhaps, forget some
things that were better forgotten.

With sudden decision the cattle man threw himself from his horse,
unstrapped the little kit of supplies which he carried by the saddle;
drew off saddle and bridle and turned the animal free. The die was cast;
this was the spot. Within ten minutes his ax was ringing in the grove of
spruce trees close by, and the following night he fried mountain trout
under the shelter of his own temporary roof.

It was the next summer when Y.D. had another encounter with Wilson. The
Upper Forks turned out to be less secluded than he had supposed; it was
on the trail of trappers and prospectors working into the mountains.
Traders, too, in mysterious commodities, moved mysteriously back and
forth, and the log cabin at The Forks became something of a centre of
interest. Strange companies forgathered within its rude walls.

It was at such a gathering, in which Y.D. and three companions sat about
the little square table, that one of the visitors facetiously inquired
of the rancher how his herd was progressing.

“Not so bad, not so bad,” said Y.D., casually. “Some winter losses, of
course; snow’s too deep this far up. Why?”

“Oh, some of your neighbors down the valley say your cows are uncommon
prolific.”

“They do?” said Y.D., laying down his cards. “Who says that?”

“Well, Wilson, for instance--”

Y.D. sprang to his feet. “I’ve had one run-in with that ----,” he
shouted, “an’ I let him talk to me like a Sunday School super’ntendent.
Here’s where I talk to him!”

“Well, finish the game first,” the others protested. “The night’s
young.”

Y.D. was sufficiently drunk to be supersensitive about his honor, and
the inference from Wilson’s remark was that he was too handy with his
branding-iron.

“No, boys, no!” he protested. “I’ll make that Englishman eat his words
or choke on them.”

“That’s right,” the company agreed. “The only thing to do. We’ll all go
down with you.”

“An’ you won’t do that, neither,” Y.D. answered. “Think I need a
body-guard for a little chore like that? Huh!” There was immeasurable
contempt in that monosyllable.

But a fresh bottle was produced, and Y.D. was persuaded that his honor
would suffer no serious damage until the morning. Before that time his
company, with many demonstrations of affection and admonitions to “make
a good job of it,” left for the mountains.

Y.D. saddled his horse early, buckled his gun on his hip, hung a lariat
from his saddle, and took the trail for the Wilson ranch. During the
drinking and gambling of the night he had been able to keep the insult
in the background, but, alone under the morning sun, it swept over him
and stung him to fury. There was just enough truth in the report to
demand its instant suppression.

Wilson was branding calves in his corral as Y.D. came up. He was alone
save for a girl of eighteen who tended the fire.

Wilson looked up with a hot iron in his hand, nodded, then turned to
apply the iron before it cooled. As he leaned over the calf Y.D. swung
his lariat. It fell true over the Englishman, catching him about the
arms and the middle of the body. Y.D. took a half-hitch of the lariat
about his saddle horn, and the well-trained horse dragged his victim in
the most matter-of-fact manner out of the gate of the corral and into
the open.

Y.D. shortened the line. After the first moment of confused surprise
Wilson tried to climb to his feet, but a quick jerk of the lariat sent
him prostrate again. In a moment Y.D. had taken up all the line, and sat
in his saddle looking down contemptuously upon him.

“Well,” he said, “who’s too handy with his branding-iron now?”

“You are!” cried Wilson. “Give me a man’s chance and I’ll thrash you
here and now to prove it.”

For answer Y.D. clucked to his horse and dragged his enemy a few yards
farther. “How’s the goin’, Frank?” he said, in mock cordiality. “Think
you can stand it as far as the crick?”

But at that instant an unexpected scene flashed before Y.D. He caught
just a glimpse of it--just enough to indicate what might happen. The
girl who had been tending the fire was rushing upon him with a red-hot
iron extended before her. Quicker than he could throw himself from the
saddle she had struck him in the face with it.

“You brand our calves!” she cried in a fury of recklessness. “I’ll brand
YOU--damn you!”

Y.D. threw himself from the saddle, but in the suddenness of her
onslaught he failed to clear it properly, and stumbled to the ground. In
a moment she was on him and had whipped his gun from his belt.

“Get up!” she said. And he got up.

“Walk to that post, put your arms around it with your back to me, and
stand there.” He did so.

The girl kept him covered with the revolver while she released the
lariat that bound her father.

“Are you hurt, Dad?” she inquired solicitously.

“No, just shaken up,” he answered, scrambling to his feet.

“All right. Now we’ll fix him!”

The girl walked to the next post from Y.D.’s, climbed it leisurely and
seated herself on the top.

“Now, Mr. Y.D.,” she said, “you are going to fight like a white man,
with your fists. I’ll sit up here and see that there’s no dirty work.
First, advance and shake hands.”

“I’m damned if I will,” said Y.D.

The revolver spoke, and the bullet cut dangerously close to him.

“Don’t talk back to me again,” she cried, “or you won’t be able to
fight. Now shake hands.”

He extended his hand and Wilson took it for a moment.

“Now when I count three,” said the girl, “pile in. There’s no time
limit. Fight ‘til somebody’s satisfied. One--two--three--”

At the sound of the last word Wilson caught his opponent a punch on the
chin which stretched him. He got up slowly, gathering his wits about
him. He was twenty years younger than Wilson, but a rancher of fifty
is occasionally a better man than he was at thirty. Any disadvantages
Wilson suffered from being shaken up in the lariat were counterbalanced
by Y.D.’s branding. His face was burning painfully, and his vision was
not the best. But he had not followed the herds since childhood without
learning to use his fists. He steadied himself on his knee to bring his
mind into tune with this unusual warfare. Then he rushed upon Wilson.

He received another straight knock-out on the chin. It jarred the joints
of his neck and left him dazed. It was half a minute before he could
steady himself. He realized now that he had a fight on his hands. He was
too cool a head to get into a panic, but he found he must take his time
and do some brain work. Another chin smash would put him out for good.

He advanced carefully. Wilson stood awaiting him, a picture of poise and
self-confidence. Y.D. led a quick left to Wilson’s ribs, but failed
to land. Wilson parried skilfully and immediately answered with a left
swing to the chin. But Y.D. was learning, and this time he was on guard.
He dodged the blow, broke in and seized Wilson about the body. The two
men stood for a moment like bulls with locked horns. Y.D. brought his
weight to bear on his antagonist to force him to the ground, but in some
way the Englishman got elbow room and began raining short jabs on his
face, already raw from the branding-iron. Y.D. jerked back from this
assault. Then came the third smash on the chin.

Y.D. gathered himself up very slowly. The world was swimming around in
circles. On a post sat a girl, covering him with a revolver and laughing
at him. Somewhere on the horizon Wilson’s figure whipped forward and
back. Then his horse came into the circle. Y.D. rose to his feet, strode
with quick, uncertain steps to his horse, threw himself into the saddle
and without a word started up the trail to The Forks.

“Seems to have gone with as little ceremony as he came,” Wilson remarked
to his daughter. “Now, let us get along with the calves.”...

Y.D. rode the trail to The Forks in bitterness of spirit. He had sallied
forth that morning strong and daring to administer summary punishment;
he was retracing his steps thrashed, humiliated, branded for life by a
red iron thrust in his face by a slip of a girl. He exhausted his by
no means limited vocabulary of epithets, but even his torrents of abuse
brought no solace to him. The hot sun beat down on his wounded face
and hurt terribly, but he almost forgot that pain in the agony of his
humiliation. He had been thrashed by an old man, with a wisp of a girl
sitting on a post and acting as referee. He turned in his saddle and
through the empty valley shouted an insulting name at her.

Then Y.D. slowly began to feel his face burn with a fire not of the
branding-iron nor of the afternoon sun. He knew that his word was a lie.
He knew that he would not have dared use it in her father’s hearing. He
knew that he was a coward. No man had ever called Y.D. a coward; no
man had ever known him for a coward; he had never known himself as
such--until to-day. With all his roughness Y.D. had a sense of honor
as keen as any razor blade. If he allowed himself wide latitude in some
matters it was because he had lived his life in an atmosphere where the
wide latitude was the thing. The prairie had been his bed, the sky his
roof, himself his own policeman, judge, and executioner since boyhood.
When responsibility is so centralized wide latitudes must be allowed.
But the uttermost borders of that latitude were fixed with iron
rigidity, and when he had thrown a vile epithet at a decent woman he
knew he had broken the law of honor. He was a cur--a cur who should be
shot in his tracks for the cur he was.

Y.D. did hard thinking all the way to The Forks. Again and again the
figure of the girl flashed before him; he would close his eyes and jerk
his head back to avoid the burning iron. Then he saw her on the post,
sitting, with apparent impartiality, on guard over the fight. Yes,
she had been impartial, in a way. Y.D. was willing to admit that much,
although he surmised that she knew more about her father’s prowess with
his fists than he had known. She had had no doubt about the outcome.

“Well, she’s good backing for her old man, anyway,” he admitted, with
returning generosity. He had reached his cabin, and was dressing his
face with salve and soda. “She sure played the game into the old man’s
hand.”

Y.D. could not sleep that night. He was busy sorting up his ideas of
life and revising them in the light of the day’s experience. The more he
thought of his behavior the less defensible it appeared. By midnight he
was admitting that he had got just what was coming to him.

Presently he began to feel lonely. It was a strange sensation to Y.D.,
whose life had been loneliness from the first, so that he had never
known it. Of course, there was the hunger for companionship; he had
often known that. A drinking bout, a night at cards, a whirl into
excess, and that would pass away. But this loneliness was different. The
moan of the wind in the spruce trees communicated itself to him with an
eerie oppressiveness. He sat up and lit a lamp. The light fell on the
bare logs of his hut; he had never known before how bare they were. He
got up and shuffled about; took a lid off the stove and put it back on
again; moved aimlessly about the room, and at last sat down on the bed.

“Y.D.,” he said with a laugh, “I believe you’ve got nerves. You’re
behavin’ like a woman.”

But he could not laugh it off. The mention of a woman brought Wilson’s
daughter back vividly before him. “She’s a man’s girl,” he found
himself, saying.

He sat up with a shock at his own words. Then he rested his chin on his
hands and gazed long at the blank wall before him. That was life--his
life. That blank wall was his life.... If only it had a window in it; a
bright space through which the vision could catch a glimpse of something
broader and better.... Well, he could put a window in it. He could put a
window in his life.

The next noon Frank Wilson looked up with surprise to see Y.D. riding
into his yard. Wilson stiffened instantly, as though setting himself
against the shock of an attack, but there was nothing belligerent in
Y.D.’s greeting.

“Wilson,” he said, “I pulled a dirty trick on you yesterday, an’ I got
more than I reckoned on. The old Y.D. would have come back with a gun
for vengeance. Well, I ain’t after vengeance. I reckon you an’ me has
got to live in this valley, an’ we might as well live peaceful. Does
that go with you?”

“Full weight and no shrinkage,” said Wilson, heartily, extending his
hand. “Come up to the house for dinner.”

Y.D. was nothing loth to accept the invitation, even though he had his
misgivings as to how he should meet the women folks. It turned out that
Mrs. Wilson had been at a neighboring ranch for some days, and the girl
was in charge of the home. The flash in her eyes did not conceal a glint
of triumph--or was it humor?

“Jessie,” her father said, with conspicuous matter-of-factness, “Y.D.
has just dropped in for dinner.”

Y.D. stood with his hat in his hand. This was harder than meeting
Wilson. He felt that he could manage better if Wilson would get out.

“Miss Wilson,” he managed to say at length, “I just thought I’d run in
an’ thank you for what you did yesterday.”

“You’re very welcome,” she answered, and he could not tell whether
the note in her voice was of fun or sarcasm. “Any time I can be of
service--”

“That’s what I wanted to talk about,” he broke in. There was something
bewitching about the girl. She more than realized his fantastic visions
of the night. She had mastered him. Perhaps it was a subtle masculine
desire to turn her mastery into ultimate surrender that led him on.

“That’s just what I want to talk about. You started breakin’ in an
outlaw yesterday, so to speak. How’d you like to finish the job?”

Y.D. was very red when this speech was finished. He had not known that a
wisp of a girl could so discomfit a man.

“Is that a proposal?” she asked, and this time he was sure the note in
her voice was one of banter. “I never had one, so I don’t know.”

“Well, yes, we’ll call it that,” he said, with returning courage.

“Well we won’t, either,” she flared back. “Just because I sat on a post
and superintended the--the ceremonies, is no reason that you should want
to marry me,--or I, you. You’ll find water and a basin on the bench at
the end of the house, and dinner will be ready in twenty minutes.”

Y.D. had a feeling of a little boy being sent to wash himself.

But the next spring he built a larger cabin down the valley from The
Forks, and to that cabin one day in June came Jessie Wilson to “finish
the job.”



CHAPTER III


Transley and Linder were so early about on the morning after their
conversation with Y.D. that there was no opportunity of another meeting
with the rancher’s wife or daughter. They were slipping quietly out of
the house to take breakfast with the men when Y.D. intercepted them.

“Breakfast is waitin’, boys,” he said, and led them back into the room
where they had had supper the previous evening. Y.D. ate with them, but
the meal was served by the Chinese boy.

In the yard all was jingling excitement. The men of the Y.D. were
fraternally assisting Transley’s gang in hitching up and getting away,
and there was much bustling activity to an accompaniment of friendly
profanity. It was not yet six o’clock, but the sun was well up over the
eastern ridges that fringed the valley, and to the west the snow-capped
summits of the mountains shone like polished ivory. The exhilaration in
the air was almost intoxicating.

Linder quickly converted the apparent chaos of horses, wagons and
implements into order; Transley had a last word with Y.D., and the
rancher, shouting “Good luck, boys! Make it a thousand tons or more,”
 waved them away.

Linder glanced back at the house. The bright sunshine had not awakened
it; it lay dreaming in its grove of cool, green trees.

The trail lay, not up the valley, but across the wedge of foothills
which divided the South Y.D. from the parent stream. The assent was
therefore much more rapid than the trails which followed the general
course of the stream. Huge hills, shouldering together, left at times
only wagon-track room between; at other places they skirted dangerous
cutbanks worn by spring freshets, and again trekked for long distances
over gently curving uplands. In an hour the horses were showing the
strain of it, and Linder halted them for a momentary rest.

It was at that moment that Drazk rode up, his face a study in obvious
annoyance.

“Danged if I ain’t left that Pete-horse’s blanket down at the Y.D.,” he
exclaimed.

“Oh, well, you can easily ride back for it and catch up on us this
afternoon,” said Linder, who was not in the least deceived.

“Thanks, Lin,” said Drazk. “I’ll beat it down an’ catch up on you
this afternoon, sure,” and he was off down the trail as fast as “that
Pete-horse” could carry him.

At the Y.D. George conducted the search for his horse blanket in the
strangest places. It took him mainly about the yard of the house, and
even to the kitchen door, where he interviewed the Chinese boy.

“You catchee horse blanket around here?” he inquired, with appropriate
gesticulations.

“You losee hoss blanket?”

“Yep.”

“What kind hoss blanket?”

“Jus’ a brown blanket for that Pete-horse.”

“Whose hoss?”

“Mine,” proudly.

“Where you catchee?”

“Raised him.”

“Good hoss?”

“You betcha.”

“Huh!”

Pause.

“You no catchee horse blanket, hey?”

“No!” said the Chinaman, whose manner instantly changed. In this brief
conversation he had classified Drazk, and classified him correctly. “You
catchee him, though--some hell, too--you stickee lound here. Beat it,”
 and Drazk found the kitchen door closed in his face.

Drazk wandered slowly around the side of the house, and was not above
a surreptitious glance through the windows. They revealed nothing. He
followed a path out by a little gate. His ruse had proven a blind trail,
and there was nothing to do but go down to the stables, take the horse
blanket from the peg where he had hung it, and set out again for the
South Y.D.

As he turned a corner of the fence the sight of a young woman burst upon
him. She was hatless and facing the sun. Drazk, for all his admiration
of the sex, had little eye for detail. “A sort of chestnut, about
sixteen hands high, and with the look of a thoroughbred,” he afterwards
described her to Linder.

She turned at the sound of his footsteps, and Drazk instantly summoned a
smirk which set his homely face beaming with good humor.

“Pardon me, ma’am,” he said, with an elaborate bow. “I am Mr. Drazk--Mr.
George Drazk--Mr. Transley’s assistant. No doubt he spoke of me.”

She was inside the enclosure formed by the fence, and he outside. She
turned on him eyes which set Drazk’s pulses strangely a-tingle, and
subjected him to a deliberate but not unfriendly inspection.

“No, I don’t believe he did,” she said at length. Drazk cautiously
approached, as though wondering how near he could come without
frightening her away. He reached the fence and leaned his elbows on it.
She showed no disposition to move. He cautiously raised one foot and
rested it on the lower rail.

“It’s a fine morning, ma’am,” he ventured.

“Rather,” she replied. “Why aren’t you with Mr. Transley’s gang?”

The question gave George an opening. “Well, you see,” he said, “it’s all
on account of that Pete-horse. That’s him down there. I rode away this
morning and plumb forgot his blanket. So when Mr. Transley seen it he
says, ‘Drazk, take the day off an’ go back for your blanket,’ he says.
‘There’s no hurry,’ he says. ‘Linder an’ me’ll manage,’ he says.”

“Oh!”

“So here I am.” He glanced at her again. She was showing no disposition
to run away. She was about two yards from him, along the fence. Drazk
wondered how long it would take him to bridge that distance. Even as he
looked she leaned her elbows on the fence and rested one of her feet on
the lower rail. Drazk fancied he saw the muscles about her mouth pulling
her face into little, laughing curves, but she was gazing soberly into
the distance.

“He’s some horse, that Pete-horse,” he said, taking up the subject which
lay most ready to his tongue. “He’s sure some horse.”

“I have no doubt.”

“Yep,” Drazk continued. “Him an’ me has seen some times. Whew! Things I
couldn’t tell you about, at all.”

“Well, aren’t you going to?”

Drazk glanced at her curiously. This girl showed signs of leading him
out of his depth. But it was a very delightful sensation to feel one’s
self being led out of his depth by such a girl. Her face was motionless;
her eyes fixed dreamily upon the brown prairies that swept up the flanks
of the foothills to the south. Far and away on their curving crests the
dark snake-line of Transley’s outfit could be seen apparently motionless
on the rim of the horizon.

Drazk changed his foot on the rail and the motion brought him six inches
nearer her.

“Well, f’r instance,” he said, spurring his imagination into action,
“there was the fellow I run down an’ shot in the Cypress Hills.”

“Shot!” she exclaimed, and the note of admiration in her voice stirred
him to further flights.

“Yep,” he continued, proudly. “Shot an’ buried him there, right by the
road where he fell. Only me an’ that Pete-horse knows the spot.”

George sighed sentimentally. “It’s awful sad, havin’ to kill a man,”
 he went on, “an’ it makes you feel strange an’ creepy, ‘specially at
nights. That is, the first one affects you that way, but you soon get
used to it. You see, he insulted--”

“The first one? Have you killed more than one?”

“Oh yes, lots of them. A man like me, what knocks around all over with
all sorts of people, has to do it.

“Then there’s the police. After you kill a few men nat’rally the police
begins to worry you. I always hate to kill a policeman.”

“It must be an interesting life.”

“It is, but it’s a hard one,” he said, after a pause during which he had
changed feet again and taken up another six inches of the distance which
separated them. He was almost afraid to continue the conversation. He
was finding progress so much easier than he had expected. It was evident
that he had made a tremendous hit with Y.D.’s daughter. What a story to
tell Linder! What would Transley say? He was shaking with excitement.

“It’s an awful hard life,” he went on, “an’ there comes a time, Miss,
when a man wants to quit it. There comes a time when every decent man
wants to settle down. I been thinkin’ about that a lot lately.... What
do YOU think about it?” Drazk had gone white. He felt that he actually
had proposed to her.

“Might be a good idea,” she replied, demurely. He changed feet again.
He had gone too far to stop. He must strike the iron when it was hot. Of
course he had no desire to stop, but it was all so wonderful. He could
speak to her now in a whisper.

“How about you, Miss? How about you an’ me jus’ settlin’ down?”

She did not answer for a moment. Then, in a low voice,

“It wouldn’t be fair to accept you like this, Mr. Drazk. You don’t know
anything about me.”

“An’ I don’t want to--I mean, I don’t care what about you.”

“But it wouldn’t be fair until you know,” she continued. “There are
things I’d have to tell you, and I don’t like to.”

She was looking downwards now, and he fancied he could see the color
rising about her cheeks and her frame trembling. He turned toward her
and extended his arms. “Tell me--tell your own George,” he cooed.

“No,” she said, with sudden rigidity. “I can’t confess.”

“Come on,” he pleaded. “Tell me. I’ve been a bad man, too.”

She seemed to be weighing the matter. “If I tell you, you will never,
never mention it to anyone?”

“Never. I swear it to you,” dramatically raising his hand.

“Well,” she said, looking down bashfully and making little marks with
her finger-nail in the pole on which they were leaning, “I never told
anyone before, and nobody in the world knows it except he and I, and he
doesn’t know it now either, because I killed him.... I had to do it.”

“Of course you did, dear,” he murmured. It was wonderful to receive a
woman’s confidence like this.

“Yes, I had to kill him,” she repeated. “You see, he--he proposed to me
without being introduced!”

It was some seconds before Drazk felt the blow. It came to him
gradually, like returning consciousness to a man who has been stunned.
Then anger swept him.

“You’re playin’ with me,” he cried. “You’re makin’ a fool of me!”

“Oh, George dear, how could I?” she protested. “Now perhaps you better
run along to that Pete-horse. He looks lonely.”

“All right,” he said, striding away angrily. As he walked his rage
deepened, and he turned and shook his fist at her, shouting, “All right,
but I’ll get you yet, see? You think you’re smart, and Transley thinks
he’s smart, but George Drazk is smarter than both of you, and he’ll get
you yet.”

She waved her hand complacently, but her composure had already maddened
him. He jerked his horse up roughly, threw himself into the saddle, and
set out at a hard gallop along the trail to the South Y.D.

It was mid-afternoon when he overtook Transley’s outfit, now winding
down the southern slope of the tongue of foothills which divided the
two valleys of the Y.D. Pete, wet over the flanks, pulled up of his own
accord beside Linder’s wagon.

“‘Lo, George,” said Linder. “What’s your hurry?” Then, glancing at his
saddle, “Where’s your blanket?”

Drazk’s jaw dropped, but he had a quick wit, although an unbalanced one.

“Well, Lin, I clean forgot all about it,” he admitted, with a laugh,
“but when a fellow spends the morning chatting with old Y.D.’s daughter
I guess he’s allowed to forget a few things.”

“Oh!”

“Reckon you don’t believe it, eh, Lin? Reckon you don’t believe I stood
an’ talked with her over the fence for so long I just had to pull myself
away?”

“You reckon right.”

George was thinking fast. Here was an opportunity to present the
incident in a light which had not before occurred to him.

“Guess you wouldn’t believe she told me her secret--told me somethin’
she had never told anybody else, an’ made me swear not to mention. Guess
you don’t believe that, neither?”

“You guess right again.” Linder was quite unperturbed. He knew something
of Drazk’s gift for romancing.

Drazk leaned over in the saddle until he could reach Linder’s ear with a
loud whisper. “And she called me ‘dear’; ‘George dear,’ she said, when I
came away.”

“The hell she did!” said Linder, at last prodded into interest. He
considered the “George dear” idea a daring flight, even for Drazk.
“Better not let old Y.D. hear you spinning anything like that, George,
or he’ll be likely to spoil your youthful beauty.”

“Oh, Y.D.’s all right,” said George, knowingly. “Y.D.’s all right. Well,
I guess I’ll let Pete feed a bit here, and then we’ll go back for his
blanket. You’ll have to excuse me a bit these days, Lin; you know how it
is when a fellow’s in love.”

“Huh!” said Linder.

George dropped behind, and an amused smile played on the foreman’s face.
He had known Drazk too long to be much surprised at anything he might
do. It was Drazk’s idea of gallantry to make love to every girl on
sight. Possibly Drazk had managed to exchange a word with Zen, and his
imagination would readily expand that into a love scene. Zen! Even the
placid, balanced Linder felt a slight leap in the blood at the unusual
name, which to him suggested the bright girl who had come into his life
the night before. Not exactly into his life; it would be fairer to say
she had touched the rim of his life. Perhaps she would never penetrate
it further; Linder rather expected that would be the case. As
for Drazk--she was in no danger from him. Drazk’s methods were so
precipitous that they could be counted upon to defeat themselves.

Below stretched the valley of the South Y.D., almost a duplicate of its
northern neighbor. The stream hugged the feet of the hills on the north
side of the valley; its ribbon of green and gold was like a fringe
gathered about the hem of their skirts. Beyond the stream lay the level
plains of the valley, and miles to the south rose the next ridge of
foothills. It was from these interlying plains that Y.D. expected his
thousand tons of hay. There is no sleugh hay in the foothill country;
the hay is cut on the uplands, a short, fine grass of great nutritive
value. This grass, if uncut, cures in its natural state, and affords
sustenance to the herds which graze over it all winter long. But it
occasionally happens that after a snow-fall the Chinook wind will
partially melt the snow, and then a sudden drop in the temperature
leaves the prairies and foothills covered with a thin coating of ice.
It is this ice covering, rather than heavy snow-fall or severe weather,
which is the principal menace to winter grazing, and the foresighted
rancher aims to protect himself and his stock from such a contingency by
having a good reserve of hay in stack.

Here, then, was the valley in which Y.D. hoped to supplement the crop of
his own hay lands. Linder’s appreciative eye took in the scene: a scene
of stupendous sizes and magnificent distances. As he slowly turned his
vision down the valley a speck in the distance caught his sight and
brought him to his feet. Shading his eyes from the bright afternoon sun
he surveyed it long and carefully. There was no doubt about it: a haying
outfit was already at work down the valley.

Leaving his team to manage themselves Linder dropped from his wagon and
joined Transley. “Some one has beat us to it,” he remarked.

“So I observed,” said Transley. “Well, it’s a big valley, and if they’re
satisfied to stay where they are there should be enough for both. If
they’re not--”

“If they’re not, what?” demanded Linder.

“You heard what Y.D. said. He said, ‘Cut it, spite o’ hell an’ high
water,’ and I always obey orders.”

They wound down the hillside until they came to the stream, the horses
quickening their pace with the smell of water in their eager nostrils.
It was a good ford, broad and shallow, with the typical boulder bottom
of the mountain stream. The horses crowded into it, drinking greedily
with a sort of droning noise caused by the bits in their mouths. When
they had satisfied their thirst they raised their heads, stretched their
noses far out and champed wide-mouthed upon their bits.

After a pause in the stream they drew out on the farther bank, where
were open spaces among cottonwood trees, and Transley indicated that
this would be their camping ground. Already smoke was issuing from the
chuck wagon, and in a few minutes the men’s sleeping tent and the two
stable tents were flashing back the afternoon sun. They carried no
eating tent; instead of that an eating wagon was backed up against the
chuck wagon, and the men were served in it. They had not paused for a
midday meal; the cook had provided sandwiches of bread and roast beef
to dull the edge of their appetite, and now all were keen to fall to as
soon as the welcome clanging of the plow-colter which hung from the end
of the chuck wagon should give the signal.

Presently this clanging filled the evening air with sweet music, and the
men filed with long, slouchy tread into the eating wagon. The table ran
down the centre, with bench seats at either side. The cook, properly
gauging the men’s appetites, had not taken time to prepare meat and
potatoes, but on the table were ample basins of graniteware filled with
beans and bread and stewed prunes and canned tomatoes, pitchers of syrup
and condensed milk, tins with marmalade and jam, and plates with butter
sadly suffering from the summer heat. The cook filled their granite cups
with hot tea from a granite pitcher, and when the cups were empty filled
them again and again. And when the tables were partly cleared he brought
out deep pies filled with raisins and with evaporated apples and a
thick cake from which the men cut hunks as generous as their appetite
suggested. Transley had learned, what women are said to have learned
long ago, that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, and the
cook had carte blanche. Not a man who ate at Transley’s table but would
have spilt his blood for the boss or for the honor of the gang.

The meal was nearing its end when through a window Linder’s eye caught
sight of a man on horseback rapidly approaching. “Visitors, Transley,”
 he was able to say before the rider pulled up at the open door of the
covered wagon.

He was such a rider as may still be seen in those last depths of the
ranching country where wheels have not entirely crowded Romance off
of horseback. Spare and well-knit, his figure had a suggestion of
slightness which the scales would have belied. His face, keen and
clean-shaven, was brown as the August hills, and above it his broad hat
sat in the careless dignity affected by the gentlemen of the plains. His
leather coat afforded protection from the heat of day and from the cold
of night.

“Good evening, men,” he said, courteously. “Don’t let me disturb your
meal. Afterwards perhaps I can have a word with the boss.”

“That’s me,” said Transley, rising.

“No, don’t get up,” the stranger protested, but Transley insisted that
he had finished, and, getting down from the wagon, led the way a little
distance from the eager ears of its occupants.

“My name is Grant,” said the stranger; “Dennison Grant. I am employed by
Mr. Landson, who has a ranch down the valley. If I am not mistaken you
are Mr. Transley.”

“You are not mistaken,” Transley replied.

“And I am perhaps further correct,” continued Grant, “in surmising that
you are here on behalf of the Y.D., and propose cutting hay in this
valley?”

“Your grasp of the situation does you credit.” Transley’s manner was
that of a man prepared to meet trouble somewhat more than half way.

“And I may further surmise,” continued Grant, quite unruffled, “that
Y.D. neglected to give you one or two points of information bearing upon
the ownership of this land, which would doubtless have been of interest
to you?”

“Suppose you dismount,” said Transley. “I like to look a man in the face
when I talk business to him.”

“That’s fair,” returned Grant, swinging lightly from his horse. “I have
a preference that way myself.” He advanced to within arm’s length of
Transley and for a few moments the two men stood measuring each other.
It was steel boring steel; there was not a flicker of an eyelid.

“We may as well get to business, Grant,” said Transley at length. “I
also can do some surmising. I surmise that you were sent here by Landson
to forbid me to cut hay in this valley. On what authority he acts I
neither know nor care. I take my orders from Y.D. Y.D. said cut the hay.
I am going to cut it.”

“YOU ARE NOT!”

Transley’s muscles could be seen to go tense beneath his shirt.

“Who will stop me?” he demanded.

“You will be stopped.”

“The Mounted Police?” There was contempt in his voice, but the contempt
was not for the Force. It was for the rancher who would appeal to the
police to settle a “friendly” dispute.

“No, I don’t think it will be necessary to call in the police,” returned
Grant, dropping back to his pleasant, casual manner. “You know Y.D.,
and doubtless you feel quite safe under his wing. But you don’t know
Landson. Neither do you know the facts of the case--the right and wrong
of it. Under these handicaps you cannot reach a decision which is fair
to yourself and to your men.”

“Further argument is simply waste of time,” Transley interrupted. “I
have told you my instructions, and I have told you that I am going to
carry them out. Have you had your supper?”

“Yes, thanks. All right, we won’t argue any more. I’m not arguing
now--I’m telling you, Y.D. has cut hay in this valley so long he thinks
he owns it, and the other ranchers began to think he owned it. But
Landson has been making a few inquiries. He finds that these are not
Crown lands, but are privately owned by speculators in New York. He has
contracted with the owners for the hay rights of these lands for five
years, beginning with the present season. He is already cutting farther
down the valley, and will be cutting here within a day or two.”

“The trout ought to bite on a fine evening like this,” said Transley. “I
have an extra rod and some flies. Will you try a throw or two with me?”

“I would be glad to, but I must get back to camp. I hope you land a good
string,” and so saying Grant remounted, nodded to Transley and again to
the men now scattered about the camp, and started his horse on an easy
lope down the valley.

“Well, what is it to be?” said Linder, coming up with the rest of the
boys. “War?”

“War if they fight,” Transley replied, unconcernedly. “Y.D. said cut the
hay; ‘spite o’ hell an’ high water,’ he said. That goes.”

Slowly the great orb of the sun sank until the crest of the mountains
pierced its molten glory and sent it burnishing their rugged heights. In
the east the plains were already wrapped in shadow. Up the valley crept
the veil of night, hushing even the limitless quiet of the day. The
stream babbled louder in the lowering gloom; the stamp and champing of
horses grew less insistent; the cloudlets overhead faded from crimson to
mauve to blue to grey.

Transley tapped the ashes from his pipe and went to bed.



CHAPTER IV


“How about a ride over to the South Fork this afternoon, Zen?” said Y.D.
to his daughter the following morning. “I just want to make sure them
boys is hittin’ the high spots. The grass is gettin’ powerful dry an’
you can never tell what may happen.”

“You’re on,” the girl replied across the breakfast table. Her mother
looked up sharply. She wondered if the prospect of another meeting with
Transley had anything to do with Zen’s alacrity.

“I had hoped you would outgrow your slang, Zen,” she remonstrated
gently. “Men like Mr. Transley are likely to judge your training by your
speech.”

“I should worry. Slang is to language what feathers are to a hat--they
give it distinction, class. They lift it out of the drab commonplace.”

“Still, I would not care to be dressed entirely in feathers,” her mother
thrust quietly.

“Good for you, Mother!” the girl exclaimed, throwing an arm about her
neck and planking a firm kiss on her forehead. “That was a solar plexus.
Now I’ll try to be good and wear a feather only here and there. But Mr.
Transley has nothing to do with it.”

“Of course not,” said Y.D. “Still, Transley is a man with snap in him.
That’s why he’s boss. So many of these ornery good-for-nothin’s is
always wishin’ they was boss, but they ain’t willin’ to pay the price.
It costs somethin’ to get to the head of the herd--an’ stay there.”

“He seems firm on all fours,” the girl agreed. “How do we travel, and
when?”

“Better take a democrat, I guess,” her father said. “We can throw in
a tent and some bedding for you, as we’ll maybe stay over a couple of
nights.”

“The blue sky is tent enough for me,” Zen protested, “and I can surely
rustle a blanket or two around the camp. Besides, I’ll want a riding
horse to get around with there.”

“You can run him beside the democrat,” said her father. “You’re gettin’
too big to go campin’ promisc’us like when you was a kid.”

“That’s the penalty for growing up,” Zen sighed. “All right, Dad. Say
two o’clock?”

The girl spent the morning helping her mother about the house, and
casting over in her mind the probable developments of the near future.
She would not have confessed outwardly to even a casual interest in
Transley, but inwardly she admitted that the promise of another meeting
with him gave zest to the prospect. Transley was interesting. At least
he was out of the commonplace. His bold directness had rather fascinated
her. He had a will. Her father had always admired men with a will, and
Zen shared his admiration. Then there was Linder. The fierce light of
Transley’s charms did not blind her to the glow of quiet capability
which she saw in Linder. If one were looking for a husband, Linder had
much to recommend him. He was probably less capable than Transley, but
he would be easier to manage.... But who was looking for a husband? Not
Zen. No, no, certainly not Zen.

Then there was George Drazk, whose devotions fluctuated between “that
Pete-horse” and the latest female to cross his orbit. At the thought of
George Drazk Zen laughed outright. She had played with him. She had made
a monkey of him, and he deserved all he had got. It was not the first
occasion upon which Zen had let herself drift with the tide, always
sure of justifying herself and discomfiting someone by the swift, strong
strokes with which, at the right moment, she reached the shore. Zen
liked to think of herself as careering through life in the same way as
she rode the half-broken horses of her father’s range. How many such a
horse had thought that the lithe body on his back was something to race
with, toy with, and, when tired of that, fling precipitately to earth!
And not one of those horses but had found that while he might race and
toy with his rider within limitations, at the last that light body was
master, and not he.... Yet Zen loved best the horse that raced wildest
and was hardest to bring into subjection.

That was her philosophy of life so far as a girl of twenty may have a
philosophy of life. It was to go on and see what would happen, supported
always by a quiet confidence that in any pinch she could take care of
herself. She had learned to ride and shoot, to sleep out and cook in the
open, to ride the ranges after dark by instinct and the stars--she had
learned these things while other girls of her age learned the rudiments
of fancy-work and the scales of the piano.

Her father and mother knew her disposition, loved it, and feared for it.
They knew that there was never a rider so brave, so skilful, so strong,
but some outlaw would throw him at last. So at fourteen they sent her
east to a boarding-school. In two months she was back with a letter of
expulsion, and the boast of having blacked the eyes of the principal’s
daughter.

“They couldn’t teach me any more, Mother,” she said. “They admitted it.
So here I am.”

Y.D. was plainly perplexed. “It’s about time you was halter-broke,” he
commented, “but who’s goin’ to do it?”

“If a girl has learned to read and think, what more can the schools do
for her?” she demanded.

And Y.D., never having been to school, could not answer.

The sun was capping the Rockies with molten gold when the rancher and
his daughter swung down the foothill slopes to the camp on the South
Y.D. Strings of men and horses returning from the upland meadows could
be seen from the hillside as they descended.

Y.D.’s sharp eyes measured the scale of operations.

“They’re hittin’ the high spots,” he said, approvingly. “That boy
Transley is a hum-dinger.”

Zen made no reply.

“I say he’s a hum-dinger,” her father repeated.

The girl looked up with a quick flush of surprise. Y.D. was no puzzle to
her, and if he went out of his way to commend Transley he had a purpose.

“Mr. Transley seems to have made a hit with you, Dad,” she remarked,
evasively.

“Well, I do like to see a man who’s got the goods in him. I like a man
that can get there, just as I like a horse that can get there. I’ve
often wondered, Zen, what kind you’d take up with, when it came to that,
an’ hoped he’d be a live crittur. After I’m dead an’ buried I don’t want
no other dead one spendin’ my simoleons.”

“How about Mr. Linder?” said Zen, naively.

Her father looked up sharply. “Zen,” he said, “you’re not serious?”

Zen laughed. “I don’t figure you’re exactly serious, Dad, in your
talk about Transley. You’re just feeling out. Well--let me do a little
feeling out. How about Linder?”

“Linder’s all right,” Y.D. replied. “Better than the average, I admit.
But he’s not the man Transley is. If he was, he wouldn’t be workin’ for
Transley. You can’t keep a man down, Zen, if he’s got the goods in him.
Linder comes up over the average, so’s you can notice it, but not like
Transley does.”

Zen did not pursue the subject. She understood her father’s philosophy
very well indeed, and, to a large degree, she accepted it as her own. It
was natural that a man of Y.D.’s experience, who had begun life with
no favors and had asked none since, and had made of himself a big
success--it was natural that such a man should judge all others by their
material achievements. The only quality Y.D. took off his hat to was the
ability to do things. And Y.D.’s idea of things was very concrete; it
had to do with steers and land, with hay and money and men. It was by
such things he measured success. And Zen was disposed to agree with him.
Why not? It was the only success she knew.

Transley was greeting them as they drew into camp.

“Glad to see you, Y.D.; honored to have a visit from you, Ma’am,” he
said, as he helped them from the democrat, and gave instructions for the
care of their horses. “Supper is waiting, and the men won’t be ready for
some time.”

Y.D. shook hands with Transley cordially. “Zen an’ me just thought we’d
run over and see how the wind blew,” he said. “You got a good spot here
for a camp, Transley. But we won’t go in to supper just now. Let the
men eat first; I always say the work horses should be first at the barn.
Well, how’s she goin’?”

“Fine,” said Transley, “fine,” but it was evident his mind was divided.
He was glancing at Zen, who stood by during the conversation.

“I must try and make your daughter at home,” he continued. “I allow
myself the luxury of a private tent, and as you will be staying over
night I will ask you to accept it for her.”

“But I have my own tent with me, in the democrat,” said Zen. “If you
will let the men pitch it under the trees where I can hear the water
murmuring in the night--”

“Who’d have thought it, from the daughter of the practical Y.D!”
 Transley bantered. “All right, Ma’am, but in the meantime take my tent.
I’ll get water, and there’s a basin.” He already was leading the way.
“Make yourself at home--Zen. May I call you Zen?” he added, in a lower
voice, as they left Y.D. at a distance.

“Everybody calls me Zen.”

They were standing at the door of the tent, he holding back the flap
that she might enter. The valley was already in shadow, and there was no
sunlight to play on her hair, but her face and figure in the mellow
dusk seemed entirely winsome and adorable. There was no taint of Y.D.’s
millions in the admiration that Transley bent upon her.... Of course, as
an adjunct, the millions were not to be despised.

When the men had finished supper Transley summoned her. On the way to
the chuck-wagon she passed close to George Drazk. It was evident that
he had chosen a station with that result in view. She had passed by when
she turned, whimsically.

“Well, George, how’s that Pete-horse?” she said.

“Up an comin’ all the time, Zen,” he answered.

She bit her lip over his familiarity, but she had no come-back. She had
given him the opening, by calling him “George.”

“You see, I got quite well acquainted with Mr. Drazk when he came back
to hunt for a horse blanket which had mysteriously disappeared,” she
explained to Transley.

They ascended the steps which led from the ground into the wagon. The
table had been reset for four, and as the shadows were now heavy in the
valley, candles had been lighted. Y.D. and his daughter sat on one side,
Transley on the other. In a moment Linder entered. He had already had a
talk with Y.D., but had not met Zen since their supper together in the
rancher’s house.

“Glad to see you again, Mr. Linder,” said the girl, rising and extending
her hand across the table. “You see we lost no time in returning your
call.”

Linder took her hand in a frank grasp, but could think of nothing in
particular to say. “We’re glad to have you,” was all he could manage.

Zen was rather sorry that Linder had not made more of the situation.
She wondered what quick repartee, shot, no doubt, with double meaning,
Transley would have returned. It was evident that, as her father had
said, Linder was second best. And yet there was something about his
shyness that appealed to her even more than did Transley’s superb
self-confidence.

The meal was spent in small talk about horses and steers and the merits
of the different makes of mowing machines. When it was finished Transley
apologized for not offering his guests any liquor. “I never keep it
about the camp,” he said.

“Quite right,” Y.D. agreed, “quite right. Booze is like fire; a valuable
thing in careful hands, but mighty dangerous when everybody gets playin’
with it. I reckon the grass is gettin’ pretty dry, Transley?”

“Mighty dry, all right, but we’re taking every precaution.”

“I’m sure you are, but you can’t take precautions for other people. Has
anybody been puttin’ you up to any trouble here?”

“Well, no, I can’t exactly say trouble,” said Transley, “but we’ve got
notice it’s coming. A chap named Grant, foreman, I think, for Landson,
down the valley, rode over last night, and invited us not to cut any hay
hereabouts. He was very courteous, and all that, but he had the manner
of a man who’d go quite a distance in a pinch.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Told him I was working for Y.D., and then asked him to stay for
supper.”

“Did he stay?” Zen asked.

“He did not. He cantered off back, courteous as he came. And this
morning we went out on the job, and have cut all day, and nothing has
happened.”

“I guess he found you were not to be bluffed,” said Zen, and Transley
could not prevent a flush of pleasure at her compliment. “Of course
Landson has no real claim to the hay, has he, Dad?”

“Of course not. I reckon them’ll be his stacks we saw down the valley.
Well, I’m not wantin’ to rob him of the fruit of his labor, an’ if
he keeps calm perhaps we’ll let him have what he has cut, but if he
don’t--” Y.D.’s face hardened with the set of a man accustomed to fight,
and win, his own battles. “I think we’ll just stick around a day or two
in case he tries to start anythin’,” he continued.

“Well, five o’clock comes early,” said Transley, “and you folks must
be tired with your long drive. We’ve had your tent pitched down by the
water, Zen, so that its murmurs may sing you to sleep. You see, I have
some of the poetic in me, too. Mr. Linder will show you down, and I will
see that your father is made comfortable. And remember--five o’clock
does not apply to visitors.”

The camp now lay in complete darkness, save where a lantern threw its
light from a tent by the river. Zen walked by Linder’s side. Presently
she reached out and took his arm.

“I beg your pardon,” said Linder. “I should have offered--”

“Of course you should. Mr. Transley would not have waited to be told.
Dad thinks that anything that’s worth having in this world is worth
going after, and going after hard. I guess I’m Dad’s daughter in more
ways than one.”

“I suppose he’s right,” Linder confessed, “but I’ve always been shy. I
get along all right with men.”

“The truth is, Mr Linder, you’re not shy--you’re frightened. Now I can
well believe that no man could frighten you. Consequently you get along
all right with men. Do I need to tell you the rest?”

“I never thought of myself as being afraid of women,” he replied. “It
has always seemed that they were, well, just out of my line.”

They had reached the tent but the girl made no sign of going in. In the
silence the sibilant lisp of the stream rose loud about them.

“Mr. Linder,” she said at length, “do you know why Mr. Transley sent you
down here with me?”

“I’m sure I don’t, except to show you to your tent.”

“That was the least of his purposes. He wanted to show you that he
wasn’t afraid of you; and he wanted to show me that he wasn’t afraid of
you. Mr. Transley is a very self-confident individual. There is such a
thing as being too self-confident, Mr. Linder, just as there is such a
thing as being too shy. Do you get me? Good night!” And with a little
rush she was in her tent.

Linder walked slowly down to the water’s edge, and stood there,
thinking, until her light went out. His brain was in a whirl with a
sensation entirely strange to it. A light wind, laden with snow-smell
from the mountains, pressed gently against his features, and presently
Linder took deeper breaths than he had ever known before.

“By Jove!” he said. “Who’d have thought it possible?”



CHAPTER V


When Zen awoke next morning the mowing machines of Transley’s outfit
were already singing their symphony in the meadows; she could hear the
metallic rhythm as it came borne on the early breeze. She lay awake on
her camp cot for a few minutes, stretching her fingers to the canvas
ceiling and feeling that it was good to be alive. And it was. The ripple
of water came from almost underneath the walls of her tent; the smell
of spruce trees and balm-o’-Gilead and new-mown hay was in the air. She
could feel the warmth of the sunshine already pouring upon her white
roof; she could trace the gentle sway of the trees by the leafy patterns
gliding forward and back. A cheeky gopher, exploring about the door
of her tent, ventured in, and, sitting bolt upright, sent his shrill
whistle boldly forth. She watched his fine bravery for a minute, then
clapped her hands together, and laughed as he fled.

“Therein we have the figures of both Transley and Linder,” she mused
to herself. “Upright, Transley; horizontal, Linder. I doubt if the poor
fellow slept last night after the fright I gave him.” Slowly and calmly
she turned the incident over in her mind. She wondered a little if she
had been quite fair with Linder. Her words and conduct were capable of
very broad interpretations. She was not at all in love with Linder; of
that Zen was very sure. She was equally sure that she was not at all in
love with Transley. She admitted that she admired Transley for his calm
assumptions, but they nettled her a little nevertheless. If this should
develop into a love affair--IF it should--she had no intention that it
was to be a pleasant afternoon’s canter. It was to be a race--a race,
mind you--and may the best man win! She had a feeling, amounting almost
to a conviction, that Transley underrated his foreman’s possibilities
in such a contest. She had seen many a dark horse, less promising than
Linder, gallop home with the stakes.

Then Zen smiled her own quiet, self-confident smile, the smile which had
come down to her from Y.D. and from the Wilsons--the only family that
had ever mastered him. The idea of either Transley or Linder thinking he
could gallop home with HER! For the moment she forgot to do Linder the
justice of remembering that nothing was further from his thoughts. She
would show them. She would make a race of it--ALMOST to the wire. In the
home stretch she would make the leap, out and over the fence. She was in
it for the race, not for the finish.

Zen contemplated for some minutes the possibilities of that race; then,
as the imagination threatened to become involved, she sprang from her
cot and thrust a cautious head through the door of her tent. The gang
had long since gone to the fields, and friendly bushes sheltered her
from view from the cook-car. She drew on her boots, shook out her hair,
threw a towel across her shoulders, and, soap in hand, walked boldly the
few steps to the stream rippling over its shiny gravel bed. She stopped
and tested the water with her fingers; then brought it in fresh, cool
handfuls about her face and neck.

“Mornin’, Zen!” said a familiar voice. “‘Scuse me for happenin’ to be
here. I was jus’ waterin’ that Pete-horse after a hard ride.”

“Now look here, Mr. Drazk!” said the girl, whipping her scanty clothing
about her, “if I had a gun that Pete-horse would be scheduled for his
fastest travel in the next twenty seconds, and he’d end it without a
rider, too. I won’t have you spying about!”

“Aw, don’ be cross,” Drazk protested. He was sitting on his horse in
the ford a dozen yards away. “I jus’ happened along. I guess the outside
belongs to all of us. Say, Zen, if I was to get properly interduced,
what’s the chances?”

“Not one in a million, and if that isn’t odds enough I’ll double it.”

“You’re not goin’ to hitch up with Linder, are you?”

“Linder? Who said anything about Linder?”

“Gee, but ain’t she innercent?” Drazk stepped his horse up a few feet to
facilitate conversation. “I alus take an interest in innercent gals away
from home, so I kinda kep’ my angel eye on you las’ night. An’ I see
Linder stalkin’ aroun’ here an’ sighin’ out over the water when he
should ‘ave been in bed. But, of course, he’s been interduced.”

“George Drazk, if you speak to me again I’ll horse-whip you out of the
camp at noon before all the men. Now, beat it!”

“Jus’ as you say, Ma’am,” he returned, with mock courtesy. “But I could
tell a strange story if I would. But you don’t need to be scared. That’s
one thing I never do--I never squeal on a friend.”

She was burning with his insults, and if she had had a gun at hand she
undoubtedly would have made good her threat. But she had none. Drazk
very deliberately turned his horse and rode away toward the meadows.

“Oh, won’t I fix him!” she said, as she continued her toilet in a fury.
She had not the faintest idea what revenge she would take, but she
promised herself that it would leave nothing to be desired. Then,
because she was young and healthy and an optimist, and did not know
what it meant to be afraid, she dismissed the incident from her mind to
consider the more urgent matter of breakfast.

Tompkins, the cook, had not needed Transley’s suggestion to put his
best foot forward when catering to Y.D. and his daughter. Tompkins’ soul
yearned for a cooking berth that could be occupied the year round.
Work in the railway camps had always left him high and dry at the
freeze-up--dry, particularly, and a few nights in Calgary or Edmonton
saw the end of his season’s earnings. Then came a precarious existence
for Tompkins until the scrapers were back on the dump the following
spring. A steady job, cooking on a ranch like the Y.D.; if Tompkins had
written the Apocalypse that would have been his picture of heaven. So he
had left nothing undone, even to despatching a courier over night to a
railway station thirty miles away for fresh fruit and other delicacies.
Another of the gang had been impressed into a trip up the river to a
squatter who was suspected of keeping one or two milch cows and sundry
hens.

“This way, Ma’am,” Tompkins was waving as Zen emerged from the grove.
“Another of our usual mornings. Hope you slep’ well, Ma’am.” He stood
deferentially aside while she ascended the three steps that led into the
covered wagon.

Zen gave a little shriek of delight, and Tompkins felt that all his
efforts had been well repaid. One end of the table--it was with a
sore heart Tompkins had realized that he could not cut down the big
table--one end of the table was set with a clean linen cloth and granite
dishware scoured until it shone. Beside Zen’s plate were grape fruit and
sliced oranges and real cream.

“However did you manage it?” she gasped.

“Nothing’s too good for Y.D.’s daughter,” was the only explanation
Tompkins would offer, but, as Zen afterwards said, the smile on his face
was as good as another breakfast. After the fruit came porridge,
and more cream; then fresh boiled eggs with toast; then fresh ripe
strawberries with more cream.

“Mr.--Mr.--”

“Tompkins, Ma’am; Cyrus Tompkins,” he supplied.

“Well, Mr. Tompkins, you’re a wonder, and when there’s a new cook to be
engaged for the Y.D. I shall think of you.”

“Indeed I wish you would, Ma’am,” he said, earnestly. “This road
work’s all right, and nobody ever cooked for a better boss than Mr.
Transley--savin’ it would be your father, Ma’am--but I’m a man of
family, an’ it’s pretty hard--”

“Family, did you say, Mr. Tompkins? How many of a family have you?”

“Well, it’s seven years since I heard from them--I haven’t corresponded
very reg’lar of late, but they WAS six--”

The story of Tompkins’ family was cut short by the arrival of a team and
mowing machine.

“What’s up, Fred?” called Tompkins through a window of his dining car to
the driver. “Breakfust is just over, an’ dinner ain’t begun.”

For answer the man addressed as Fred slowly produced an iron stake about
eighteen inches long and somewhat less than an inch in diameter.

“What kind of shrubbery do you call that, Tompkins?” he demanded.

“Well, it ain’t buffalo grass, an’ it ain’t brome grass, an’ I don’t
figger it’s alfalfa,” said Tompkins, meditatively.

“No, and it ain’t a grub-stake,” Fred replied, with some sarcasm. “It’s
a iron stake, growin’ right in a nice little clump of grass, and I run
on to it and bust my cuttin’-bar all to--that is, all to pieces,” he
completed rather lamely, taking Zen into his glance.

“I think I follow you,” she said, with a smile. “Can you fix it here?”

“Nope. Have to go to town for a new one. Two days’ lost time, when every
hour counts. Hello! Here comes someone else.”

Another of the teamsters was drawing into camp. “Hello, Fred!” he said,
upon coming up with his fellow workman, “you in too? I had a bit of
bad luck. I run smash on to an iron stake right there in the ground and
crumpled my knife like so much soap.”

“I did worse,” said Fred, with a grin. “I bust my cuttin’-bar.”

The two men exchanged a steady glance for half a minute. Then the
new-comer gave vent to a long, low whistle.

“So that’s the way of it,” he said. “That’s the kind of war Mr. Landson
makes. Well, we can fight back with the same weapons, but that won’t cut
the hay, will it?”

By this time Y.D. and Transley, with four other teamsters, were observed
coming in. Each driver had had the same experience. An iron stake,
carefully hidden in a clump of grass, had been driven down into the
ground until it was just high enough to intercept the cutting-bar. The
fine, sharp knives were crumpled against it; in some cases the heavy
cutting-bar, in which the knives operate, was damaged.

Y.D.’s face was black with fury.

“That’s the lowest, mangyest, cowardliest trick I ever had pulled on
me,” he was saying. “I’m plumb equal to ridin’ down to Landson’s an’
drivin’ one of them stakes through under his short ribs.”

“But can you prove that Landson did it?” said Zen, who had an element
of caution in her when her father was concerned. She had a vision of
a fight, with Landson pleading entire ignorance of the whole cause of
offence, and her father probably summoned by the police for unprovoked
assault.

“No, I can’t prove that Landson did it, an’ I can’t prove that the grass
my steers eat turns to hair on their backs,” he retorted, “but I reach
my own conclusions. Is there any shootin’ irons in the place?”

“Now, Dad, that’s enough,” said the girl, firmly. “There’ll be no
shooting between you and Landson. If there is to be anything of that
kind I’ll ride down ahead and warn him of what’s coming.”

“Darter,” said Y.D.--it was only on momentous occasions that he
addressed her as daughter--“I brought you over here as a guest, not
as manager o’ my affairs. I’ve taken care of those affairs for some
considerable years, an’ I reckon I still have the qualifications. If
you’re a-goin’ to act up obstrep’rous I’ll get Mr. Transley to lend me a
man to escort you home.”

“At your service, Y.D.,” said George Drazk, who was in the crowd which
had gathered about the rancher, his daughter, and Transley. “That
Pete-horse an’ me would jus’ see her over the hills a-whoopin’.”

“I don’t think it would be wise to take any extreme measures, at least,
not just yet,” said Transley. “It’s out of the question to suppose that
Landson has picketed the whole valley with those stakes. It is now quite
clear why we were left in peace yesterday. He wanted us to get started,
and get a few swaths cut, so that he would know where to drive the
stakes to catch us the next morning. Some of these machines can be
repaired at once, and the others within a day or two. We will just move
over a little and start on new fields. There’s pretty good moonlight
these nights and we’ll leave a few men out on guard, and perhaps we can
catch the enemy at his little game. Let us get one of Landson’s men with
the goods on him.”

Y.D. was somewhat pacified by this suggestion. “You’re a practical
devil, Transley,” he said, with considerable admiration. “Now, in a case
of this kind I jus’ get plumb fightin’ mad. I want to bore somebody.
I guess it’s the only kind o’ procedure that comes easy to my hand. I
guess you’re right, but I hate to let anybody have the laugh on me.”
 Y.D. looked down the valley, shading his eyes with his hand. “That
son-of-a-gun has got a dozen or more stacks down there. I don’t wish
nobody any hard luck, but if some tenderfoot was to drop a cigar--”

“In that case I suppose you’d pray for a west wind, Dad,” Zen suggested,
“but the winds in these valleys, even with your prayers to direct them,
are none too reliable.”

“Everybody to work on fixing up these machines,” Transley ordered.
“Linder, make a list of what repairs are needed and Drazk will ride to
town with it at once. Some of them may have to come out from the city by
express. Drazk can get the orders in and a team will follow to bring out
the repairs.”

In a moment Transley’s men were busy with wrenches and hammers,
replacing knives and appraising damages. Even in his anger Y.D. took
approving note of the promptness of Transley’s decisions and the zest
with which his men carried them into effect.

“A he-man, that fellow, Zen,” he confided to his daughter, “If he’d
blowed into this country thirty years ago, like I did, he’d own it by
this time plumb to the sky-line.”

When the list of repairs was completed Linder handed it to Drazk.

“Beat it to town on that Pete-horse of yours, George,” he said. “Burn
the grass on the road.”

“I bet I’ll be ten miles on the road back when I meet my shadow goin’,”
 said Drazk, making a spectacular leap into his saddle. “Bye, Y.D!; bye,
Zen!” he shouted while he whirled his horse’s head eastward and waved
his hand to where they stood. In spite of her annoyance at him she had
to smile and return his salute.

“Mr. Drazk is irrepressible,” she remarked to Transley.

“And irresponsible,” the contractor returned. “I sometimes wonder why I
keep him. In fact, I don’t really keep him; he just stays. Every spring
he hunts me up and fastens on. Still, I get a lot of good service out
of him. Praise ‘that Pete-horse,’ and George would ride his head off for
you. He has a weakness for wanting to marry every woman he sees, but his
infatuations seem harmless enough.”

“I know something of his weakness,” Zen replied. “I have already been
honored with a proposal.”

Transley looked in her face. It was slightly flushed, whether with the
summer sun or with her confession, but it was a wonderfully good face to
look in.

“Zen,” he said, in a low voice that Y.D. and the others might not hear,
“how would you take a serious proposal, made seriously by one who loves
you, and who knows that you are, and always will be, a queen among
women?”

“If you had been a cow puncher instead of a contractor,” she told him,
“I’m sure you would long ago have ended your life in some dash over a
cutbank.”

Meanwhile Drazk pursued his way to town. The trail, after crossing the
ford, turned abruptly to the right from that which led across country to
the North Y.D. For a mile or more it skirted the stream in a park-like
drive through groves of spruce and cottonwood. Sunshine and the babble
of water everywhere filled the air. Sunshine, too, filled George Drazk’s
heart. The importance of his mission was pleasantly heavy upon him. He
pictured the impression he would make in town, galloping in with his
horse wet over the back, and rushing to the implement agency with all
the importance of a courier from Y.D. He would let two of the boys take
Pete to the stable, and then, seated on a mower seat in the shade, he
would tell the story. It would lose nothing in the telling. He would
even add how Zen had thrown a kiss at him in parting. Perhaps he would
have Zen kiss him on the cheek before the whole camp. He turned that
possibility over in his mind, weighing nicely the credulity of his
imaginary audience.... At any rate, whether he decided to put that in
the story or not, it was very pleasant to think about.

Presently the trail turned abruptly up a gully leading into the hills.
A huge cutbank, jutting into the river, barred the way in front, and
its precipitous side, a hundred feet or more in height, kept continually
crumbling and falling into the stream. These cutbanks are a terror to
inexperienced riders. The valleys are swallowed up in the tawny sameness
of the ranges; the vision catches only the higher levels, and one
may gallop to the verge of a precipice before becoming aware of
its existence. It was to this that Zen had referred in speaking of
Transley’s precipitateness.

Drazk followed the gully up into the hills, letting his horse drop back
to a walk in the hard going along the dry bed of a stream which flowed
only in the spring freshets. Pete had to pick his way over boulders and
across stretches of sand and boggy patches of black mud formed by little
springs leaking out under clumps of willows. Here and there the white
ribs of a steer’s skeleton peered through the brush; once or twice an
overpowering stench gave notice of a carcass not wholly decomposed.

It was not a pleasant environment, but in an hour Drazk was out again
on the brow of the brown hills, where the sunshine flooded about and a
fresh breeze beat up against his face. After all his winding about in
the gully he was not more than a mile from the cutbank.

“I reckon I could get a great view from that cutbank of what Landson
is doin’,” he suddenly remarked to himself. He took off his hat and
scratched his tousled head in reflection. “Linder said to beat it,” he
ruminated, “but I can’t get back to-night anyway, an’ it might be worth
while to do a little scoutin’. Here goes!”

He struck a smart gallop to the southward, and brought his horse up,
spectacularly, a yard from the edge of the precipice. The view which
his position commanded was superb. Up the valley lay the white tents of
Transley’s outfit, almost hidden in green foliage; the ford across the
river was distinctly visible, and stretching south from it lay, like a
great curving snake, the trail which wound across the valley and lost
itself in the foothills far to the south; across the western horizon
hung the purple curtain of the mountains, soft and vague in their
noonday mists, but touched with settings of ivory where the snow fields
beat back the blazing sunshine; far down the valley was the gleam of
Landson’s whitewashed buildings, and nearer at hand the greenish-brown
of the upland meadows which his haymakers had already cleared of their
crop of prairie wool. This was now arising in enormous stacks; it must
have been three miles to where they lay, but Drazk’s keen eyes could
distinguish ten completed stacks and two others in course of building.
He could even see the sweeps hauling the new hay, after only a few hours
of sun-drying, and sliding it up the inclined platforms which dumped it
into the form of stacks. The foothill rancher makes hay by horse power,
and almost without the aid of a pitch-fork. Even as Drazk watched he
saw a load skidded up; saw its apparent momentary poise in air; saw
the well-trained horses stop and turn and start back to the meadow with
their sweep. And up the valley Transley’s outfit was at a standstill.

Drazk employed his limited but expressive vocabulary. It was against
all human nature to look on such a scene unmoved. He recalled Y.D.’s
half-spoken wish about a random cigar. Then suddenly George Drazk’s
mouth dropped open and his eyes rounded with a great idea.

Of course, it was against all the rules of the range--it was outlaw
business--but what about driving iron stakes in a hay meadow? Drazk’s
philosophy was that the end justifies the means. And if the end would
win the approval of Y.D.--and of Y.D.’s daughter--then any means was
justified. Had not Linder said, “Burn the grass on the road?” Drazk
knew well enough that Linder’s remark was a figure of speech, but
his eccentric mind found no trouble in converting it into literal
instructions.

Drazk sniffed the air and looked at the sun. A soft breeze was moving
slowly up the valley; the sun was just past noon. There was every reason
to expect that as the lowland prairies grew hot with the afternoon
sunshine a breeze would come down out of the mountains to occupy the
area of great atmospheric expansion. Drazk knew nothing about the theory
of the thing; all that concerned him was the fact that by mid-afternoon
the wind would probably change to the west.

Two miles down the valley he found a gully which gave access to the
water’s edge. He descended, located a ford, and crossed. There were
cattle-trails through the cottonwoods; he might have followed them, but
he feared the telltale shoe-prints. He elected the more difficult route
down the stream itself. The South Y.D. ran mostly on a wide gravel
bottom; it was possible to pick out a course which kept Pete in water
seldom higher than his knees. An hour of this, and Drazk, peering
through the trees, could see the nearest of Landson’s stacks not half
a mile away. The Landson gang were working farther down the valley, and
the stack itself covered approach from the river.

Drazk slipped from the saddle, and stole quietly into the open. The
breeze was now coming down the valley.



CHAPTER VI


Transley’s men had repaired such machines as they could and returned to
work. The clatter of mowing machines filled the valley; the horses were
speeded up to recover lost time. Transley and Y.D. rode about, carefully
scrutinizing the short grass for iron stakes, and keeping a general eye
on operations.

Suddenly Transley sat bolt-still on his horse. Then, in a low voice,

“Y.D!” he said.

The rancher turned and followed the line of Transley’s vision. The
nearest of Landson’s stacks was ablaze, and a great pillar of smoke was
rolling skyward. Even as they watched, the base of the fire seemed to
spread; then, in a moment, tongues of flame were seen leaping from a
stack farther on.

“Looks like your prayers were answered, Y.D.,” said Transley. “I bet
they haven’t a plow nearer than the ranch.”

Y.D. seemed fascinated by the sight. He could not take his eyes off
it. He drew a cigar from his pocket and thrust it far into his mouth,
chewing it savagely and rolling it in his lips, but, according to the
law of the hayfield, refraining from lighting it. At first there was a
gleam of vengeance in his eyes, but presently that gave way to a sort of
horror. Every honorable tradition of the range demanded that he enlist
his force against the common enemy.

“Hell, Transley!” he ejaculated, “we can’t sit and look at that! Order
the men out! What have we got to fight with?”

For answer Transley swung round in his saddle and struck his palm into
Y.D.’s.

“Good boy, Y.D!” he said. “I did you an injustice--I mean, about your
prayers being answered. We haven’t as much as a plow, either, but we can
gallop down with some barrels in a wagon and put a sack brigade to
work. I’m afraid it won’t save Landson’s hay, but it will show where our
hearts are.”

Transley and Y.D. galloped off to round up the men, some of whom had
already noticed the fire. Transley despatched four men and two teams
to take barrels, sacks, and horse blankets to the Landson meadows. The
others he sent off at once on horseback to give what help they could.

Zen rode up just as they left, and already her fine horse seemed to
realize the tension in the air. His keen, hard-strung muscles quivered
as she brought his gallop to a stop.

“How did it start, Dad?” she demanded.

“How do I know?” he returned, shortly. “D’ye think I fired it?”

“No, but I just asked the question that Landson will ask, so you better
have your answer handy. I’m going to gallop down to their ranch; perhaps
I can help Mrs. Landson.”

“The ranch buildings are safe enough, I think,” said Transley. “The
grass there is close cropped, and there is some plowing.”

For a moment the three sat, watching the spread of the flames. By this
time the whole lower valley was blanketed in smoke. Clouds of blue and
mauve and creamy yellow rolled from the meadows and stacks. The fire was
whipping the light breeze of the afternoon to a gale, and was already
running wildly over the flanks of the foothills.

“Well, I’m off,” said Zen. “Good-bye!”

“Be careful, Zen!” her father shouted. “Fire is fire.” But already her
horse was stretching low and straight in a hard gallop down the valley.

“I’ll ride in to camp and tell Tompkins to make up a double supply of
sandwiches and coffee,” said Transley. “I guess there’ll be no cooking
in Landson’s outfit this afternoon. After that we can both run down and
lend a hand, if that suits you.”

As they rode to camp together Y.D. drew up close to the contractor.
“Transley,” he said, “how do you reckon that fire started?”

“I don’t know,” said Transley, “any more than you do.”

“I didn’t ask you what you KNEW. I asked you what you reckoned.”

Transley rode for some minutes in silence. Then at last he spoke:

“A man isn’t supposed to reckon in things of this kind. He should know,
or keep his mouth shut. But I allow myself just one guess. Drazk.”

“Why Drazk?” Y.D. demanded. “He has nothin’ to gain, and this prank may
put him in the cooler.”

“Drazk would do anything to be spectacular,” Transley explained. “He
probably will boast openly about it. You know, he’s trying to make an
impression on Zen.”

“Nonsense!”

“Of course it’s nonsense, but Drazk doesn’t see it that way.”

“I’d string him to the nearest cottonwood if I thought he--”

“Now don’t do him an injustice, Y.D. Drazk doesn’t realize that he is
no mate for Zen. He doesn’t know of any reason why Zen shouldn’t look on
him with favor; indeed, with pride. It’s ridiculous, I know, but Drazk
is built that way.”

“Then I’ll change his style of architecture the first time I run into
him,” said Y.D. savagely. “Zen is too young to think of such a thing,
anyway.”

“She will always be too young to think of such a thing, so far as Drazk
or his type is concerned,” Transley returned. “But suppose--Y.D., to be
quite frank, suppose _I_ suggested--”

“Transley, you work quick,” said Y.D. “I admit I like a quick worker.
But just now we have a fire on our hands.”

By this time they had reached the camp. Transley gave his instructions
in a few words, and then turned to ride down to Landson’s. They had gone
only a few hundred yards when Y.D. pulled his horse to a stop.

“Transley!” he exclaimed, and his voice was shaking. “What do you
smell?”

The contractor drew up and sniffed the air. When he turned to Y.D. his
face was white.

“Smoke, Y.D!” he gasped. “The wind has changed!”

It was true. Already low clouds of smoke were drifting overhead like a
broken veil. The erratic foothill wind, which a few minutes before had
been coming down the valley, was now blowing back up again. Even while
they took in the situation they could feel the hot breath of the distant
fire borne against their faces.

“Well, it’s up to us,” said Transley tersely. “We’ll make a fight of it.
Got any speed in that nag of yours?” Without waiting for an answer he
put spurs to his horse and set forward on a wild gallop into the smoke.

A mile down the line he found that Linder had already gathered his
forces and laid out a plan of defence. The valley, from the South Y.D.
to the hills, was about four miles wide, and up the full breadth of
it was now coming the fire from Landson’s fields. There was no natural
fighting line; Linder had not so much as a buffalo path to work against.
But he was already starting back-fires at intervals of fifty yards,
allotting three men to each fire. A back-fire is a fire started for the
purpose of stopping another. Usually a road, or a plowed strip, or even
a cattle path, is used for a base. On the windward side of this base the
back-fire is started and allowed to eat its way back against the wind
until it meets the main fire which is rushing forward with the wind, and
chokes it out for lack of fuel. A few men, stationed along a furrow or a
trail, can keep the small back-fire from jumping it, although they would
be powerless to check the momentum of the main fire.

This was Linder’s position, except that he had no furrow to work
against. All he could do was tell off men with sacks and horse blankets
soaked in the barrels of water to hold the back-fire in check as best
they could. So far they were succeeding. As soon as the fire had burned
a few feet the forward side of it was pounded out with wet sacks. It
didn’t matter about the other side. It could be allowed to eat back as
far as it liked; the farther the better.

“Good boy, Lin!” Transley shouted, as he drew up and surveyed
operations. “She played us a dirty trick, didn’t she?”

Linder looked up, red-eyed and coughing. “We can hold it here,” he said,
“but we can never cross the valley. The fire will be on us before we
have burned a mile. It will beat around our south flank and lick up
everything!”

Transley jumped from his horse. He seized Linder in his arms and
literally threw him into the saddle. “You’re played, boy!” he shouted in
his foreman’s ear. “Ride down to the river and get into the water, and
stay there until you know we can win!”

Then Transley threw himself into the fight. As the men said afterwards,
Linder fought like a wildcat, but Transley fought like a den of lions.
When the wagon galloped up from the river with barrels of water Transley
seized a barrel at the end and set it bodily on the ground. He sprang
into the wagon, shouting commands to horses and men. A hundred yards
they galloped along the fighting front; then Transley sprang out and set
another barrel on the ground. In this way, instead of having the men all
coming to the wagon to wet their sacks, he distributed water along the
line. Then they turned back, picked up the empty barrels, and galloped
to the river for a fresh supply.

Soon they had the first mile secure. The backfires had all met; the
forward line of flames had all been pounded out; the rear line had
burned back until there was no danger of it jumping the burned space.
Then Transley picked up his kit and rushed it on to a new front farther
south. At intervals of a hundred yards he started fires, holding them in
check and beating out the western edge as before.

But his difficulties were increasing. He was farther from the river.
It took longer to get water. One of the barrels fell off and collapsed.
Some of the men were playing out. The horses were wild with excitement
and terror. The smoke was growing denser and hotter. Men were coughing
and gasping through dry, seared lips.

“You can’t hold it, Transley; you can’t hold it!” said one of the men.

Transley hit him from the shoulder. He crumpled up and collapsed.

A mile and a half had been made safe, but the smoke was suffocatingly
thick and the roar of the oncoming fire rose above the shouts of the
fighters. Up galloped the water wagon; made a sharp lurch and turn,
and a front wheel collapsed with the shock. The wagon went down at one
corner and the barrels were dumped on the ground.

The men looked at Transley. For one moment he surveyed the situation.

“Is there a chain?” he demanded. There was.

“Hitch on to the tire of this broken wheel. Some of you men yank the hub
out of it. Others pull grass. Pull, like hell was after you!”

They pulled. In a minute or two Transley had the rim of the wheel flat
on the ground, with a team hitched to it and a little pile of dry grass
inside. Then he set fire to the little pile of grass and started the
team slowly along the battle front. As they moved the burning grass in
the rim set fire to the grass on the prairie underneath; the rim partly
rubbed it out again as it came over, and the men were able to keep what
remained in check, but as he lengthened his line Transley had to leave
more and more men to beat out the fire, and had fewer to pull grass.
The sacks were too wet to burn; he had to have grass to feed his moving
fire-spreader.

At length he had only a teamster and himself, and his fire was going
out. Transley whipped off his shirt, rolled it into a little heap,
set fire to it, and ran along beside the rim, firing the little moving
circle of grass inside.

It was the teamster, looking back, who saw Transley fall. He had to drop
the lines to run to his assistance, and the horses, terrified by smoke
and fire and the excitement of the fight, immediately bolted. The
teamster took Transley in his arms and half carried, half dragged him
into the safe area behind the backfires. And a few minutes later the
main fire, checked on its front, swept by on the flank and raced on up
through the valley.

In riding down to the assistance of Mrs. Landson Zen found herself
suddenly caught in an eddy of smoke. She did not realize at the moment
that the wind had turned; she thought she must have ridden into the fire
area. To avoid the possibility of being cut off by the fire, and also
for better air, she turned her horse to the river. All through the
valley were billows of smoke, with here and there a reddish-yellow
glare marking the more vicious sections of flame. Vaguely, at times, she
thought she caught the shouting of men, but all the heavens seemed full
of roaring.

When Zen reached the water the smoke was hanging low on it, and she
drove her horse well in. Then she swung down the stream, believing that
by making a detour in this way she could pass the wedge of fire that had
interrupted her and get back on to the trail leading to Landson’s.
She was coughing with the smoke, but rode on in the confidence that
presently it would lift.

It did. A whip of wind raised it like a strong arm throwing off a
blanket. She sat up and breathed freely. The hot sun shone through rifts
in the canopy of smoke; the blue sky looked down serene and unmoved by
this outburst of the elements. Then as Zen brought her eyes back to
the water she saw a man on horseback not forty yards ahead. Her first
thought was that it must be one of the fire fighters, driven like
herself to safety, but a second glance revealed George Drazk. For
a moment she had an impulse to wheel and ride out, but even as she
smothered that impulse a tinge of color rose in her cheeks that she
should for a moment have entertained it. To let George Drazk think she
was afraid of him would be utmost humiliation.

She continued straight down the stream, but he had already seen her and
was headed her way. In the excitement of what he had just done Drazk was
less responsible than usual.

“Hello, Zen!” he said. “Mighty decent of you to ride down an’ meet me
like this. Mighty decent, Zen!”

“I didn’t ride down to meet you, Drazk, and you know it. Keep out of the
way or I’ll use a whip on you!”

“Oh, how haughty! Y.D. all over! Never mind, dear, I like you all the
better for that. Who wants a tame horse? An’ as for comin’ down to meet
me, what’s the odds, so long as we’ve met?”

He had turned his horse and blocked the way in front of her. When Zen’s
horse came within reach Drazk caught him by the bridle.

“Will you let go?” the girl said, speaking as calmly as she could, but
in a white passion. “Will you let go of that bridle, or shall I make
you?”

He looked her full in the face. “Gad, but you’re a stunner!” he
exclaimed. “I’m glad we met--here.”

She brought her whip with a biting cut around the wrist that held her
bridle. Drazk winced, but did not let go.

“Jus’ for that, young Y.D.,” he hissed, “jus’ for that we drop all
formalities, so to speak.”

With a dexterous spurring he brought his horse alongside and threw an
arm about Zen before she could beat him off. She used her whip at short
range on his face, but had not arm-room in which to land a blow. They
were stirrup-deep in water, and as they struggled the horses edged in
deeper still. Finding that she could not beat Drazk off Zen clutched
her saddle and drove the spurs into her horse. At this unaccustomed
treatment he plunged wildly forward, but Drazk’s grip on her was too
strong to be broken. The manoeuvre had, however, the effect of unhorsing
Drazk. He fell in the water, but kept his grip on Zen. With his free
hand he still had the reins of his own horse, and he managed also to
get hold of hers. Although her horse was plunging and jumping, Drazk’s
strong grip on his rein kept him from breaking away.

“You fight well, Zen, damn you--you fight well,” he cried. “So you
might. You played with me--you made a fool of me. We’ll see who’s the
fool in the end.” With a mighty wrench he tore her from her saddle and
she found herself struggling with him in the water.

“If I put you under for a minute I guess you’ll be good,” he threatened.
“I’ll half drown you, Zen, if I have to.”

“Go ahead,” she challenged. “I’ll drown myself, if I have to.”

“Not just yet, Zen; not just yet. Afterwards you can do as you like.”

In their struggles they had been getting gradually into deeper water. At
this moment they found their feet carried free, and the horses began
to swim for the shore. Drazk held to both reins with one hand, still
clutching his victim with the other. More than once they went under
water together and came up half choking.

Zen was not a good swimmer, but she would gladly have broken away and
taken chances with the current. Once on land she would be at his mercy.
She was using her head frantically, but could think of no device to foil
him. It was not her practice to carry weapons; her whip had already gone
down the stream. Presently she saw a long leather thong floating out
from the saddle of Drazk’s horse. It was no larger than a whiplash;
apparently it was a spare lace which Drazk carried, and which had worked
loose in the struggle. It was floating close to Drazk.

“Don’t let me sink, George!” she cried frantically, in sudden fright.
“Save me! I won’t fight any more.”

“That’s better,” he said, drawing her up to him. “I knew you’d come to
your senses.”

Her hand reached the lash. With a quick motion of the arm, such as is
given in throwing a rope, she had looped it once around his neck. Then,
pulling the lash violently, she fought herself out of his grip. He
clutched at her wildly, but could reach only some stray locks of her
brown hair which had broken loose and were floating on the water.

She saw his eyes grow round and big and horrified; saw his mouth open
and refuse to close; heard strange little gurgles and chokings. But she
did not let go.

“When you insulted me this morning I promised to settle with you; I did
not expect to have the chance so soon.”

His head had gone under water.... Suddenly she realized that he was
drowning. She let go of the thong, clutched her horse’s tail, and was
pulled quickly ashore.

Sitting on the gravel, she tried to think. Drazk had disappeared; his
horse had landed somewhat farther down.... Doubtless Drazk had drowned.
Yes, that would be the explanation. Why change it?

Zen turned it over in her mind. Why make any explanations? It would be
a good thing to forget. She could not have done otherwise under the
circumstances; no jury would expect her to do otherwise. But why trouble
a jury about it?

“He got what was coming to him,” she said to herself presently. She
admitted no regret. On the contrary, her inborn self-confidence, her
assurance that she could take care of herself under any circumstances,
seemed to be strengthened by the experience.

She got up, drew her hair into some kind of shape, and scrambled a
little way up the steep bank. Clouds of smoke were rolling up the
valley. She did not grasp the significance of the fact at the first
glance, but in a moment it impacted home to her. The wind had changed!
Her help now would be needed, not by Mrs. Landson, but probably at their
own camp. She sprang on her horse, re-crossed the stream, and set out on
a gallop for the camp. On the way she had to ride through one thin line
of fire, which she accomplished successfully. Through the smoke she
could dimly see Transley’s gang fighting the back-fires. She knew that
was in good hands, and hastened on to the camp. Zen had had prairie
experience enough to know that in hours like this there is almost sure
to be something or somebody, in vital need, overlooked.

She galloped into the camp and found only Tompkins there. He had already
run a little back-fire to protect the tents and the chuck-wagon.

“How goes it, Tompkins?” she cried, bursting upon him like a courier
from battle.

“All set here, Ma’am,” he answered. “All set an’ safe. But they’ll never
hold the main fire; it’ll go up the valley hell-scootin’,--beggin’ your
pardon, Ma’am.”

“Anyone live up the valley?”

“There is. There’s the Lints--squatters about six miles up--it was
from them I got the cream an’ fresh eggs you was good enough to notice,
Ma’am. An’ there’s no men folks about; jus’ Mrs. Lint an’ a young herd
of little Lints; least, that’s all was there las’ night.”

“I must go up,” said Zen, with instant decision. “I can get there before
the fire, and as the Lints are evidently farmers there will be some
plowed land, or at least a plow with which to run a furrow so that we
can start a back-fire. Direct me.”

Tompkins directed her as to the way, and, leaving a word of explanation
to be passed on to her father, she was off. A half hour’s hard riding
brought her to Lint’s, but she found that this careful settler had made
full provision against such a contingency as was now come about. The
farm buildings, implements, stables, everything was surrounded, not by a
fire-guard, but by a broad plowed field. Mrs. Lint, however, was little
less thankful for Zen’s interest than she would have been had their
little steading been in danger. She pressed Zen to wait and have at
least a cup of tea, and the girl, knowing that she could be of little
or no service down the valley, allowed herself to be persuaded. In this
little harbor of quiet her mind began to arrange the day’s events. The
tragic happening at the river was as yet too recent to appear real; had
it not been for the touch of her wet clothing Zen could have thought
that all an unhappy dream of days ago. She reflected that neither
Tompkins nor Mrs. Lint had commented upon her appearance. The hot sun
had soon dried her outer apparel, and her general dishevelled condition
was not remarkable on such a day as this.

The wind had gone down as the afternoon waned, and the fire was working
up the valley leisurely when Zen set out on her return trip. A couple of
miles from the Lint homestead she met its advance guard. It was evening
now; the sun shone dull red through the banked clouds of smoke resting
against the mountains to the west; the flames danced and flickered,
advanced and receded, sprang up and died down again, along mile after
mile of front. It was a beautiful thing to behold, and Zen drew her
horse to a stop on a hill-top to take in the grandeur of the scene. Near
at hand frolicking flames were working about the base of the hill,
and far down the valley and over the foothills the flanks of the fire
stretched like lines of impish infantry in single file.

Suddenly she heard the sound of hoofs, and a rider drew up at her side.
She supposed him one of Transley’s men, but could not recall having seen
him in the camp. He sat his horse with an ease and grace that her eye
was quick to appraise; he removed his broad felt hat before he spoke;
and he did not call her “ma’am.”

“Pardon me--I believe I am speaking to Y.D.’s daughter?” he asked, and
before waiting for a reply hastened to introduce himself. “My name is
Dennison Grant, foreman on the Landson ranch.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “I thought--I thought you were one of Mr.
Transley’s men.” Then, with a quick sense of the barrier between them,
she added, “I hope you don’t think that I--that we--had anything to do
with this?” She indicated the ruined valley with her hand.

“No more than I had to do with those coward’s stakes,” he answered.
“Neither of us understand just now, but can we take that much for
granted?”

There was something about him that rather appealed to her. “I think we
can,” she said, simply.

For a moment they watched the kaleidoscopic scene below them. “It may
help you to understand,” she continued, “if I say that I was riding down
to see if I could be of some use to Mrs. Landson when the wind changed,
and I saw I would be more likely to be needed here.”

“And it may help you to understand,” he said, “if I say that as soon as
immediate danger to the Landson ranch was over I rode up to Transley’s
camp. Only the cook was there, and he told me of your having set out
to help Mrs. Lint, so I followed up. Fortunately the fire has lost its
punch; it will probably go out through the night.”

There was a short silence, in which she began to realize her peculiar
position. This man was the rival of Transley and Linder in the business
of hay-cutting in the valley. He was the foreman of the Landson
crowd--Landson, against whom her father had been voicing something very
near to murder threats not many hours ago. Had she met him before the
fire she would have spurned and despised him, but nothing unites the
factions of man like a fight against a common elemental enemy. Besides,
there was the question, How DID the fire start? That was a question
which every Landson man would be asking. Grant had been generous about
it; he had asked her to be equally generous about the episode of the
stakes.... And there was something about the man that appealed to her.
She had never felt that way about Transley or Linder. She had been
interested in them; amused, perhaps; out for an adventure, perhaps; but
this man--Nonsense! It was the environment--the romantic setting. As for
Drazk--A quick sense of horror caught her as the memory of his choking
face protruded into her consciousness....

“Well, suppose we ride home,” he suggested. “By Jove! The fire has
worked around us.”

It was true. The hill on which they stood was now entirely surrounded
by a ring of fire, eating slowly up the side. The warmth of its breath
already pressed against their faces; the funnel effect created by the
circle of fire was whipping up a stronger draught. The smoke seemed to
be gathering to a centre above them.

He swung up close to her. “Will your horse face it?” he asked. “If not,
we’d better blindfold him.”

“I’ll try him,” she said. “He was all right this afternoon, but he was
reckless then with a hard gallop.”

Zen’s horse trotted forward at her urging to within a dozen yards of the
circle of fire. Then he stopped, snorting and shivering. She rode back
up the hill.

“Better blindfold him,” Grant advised, pulling off his leather coat. “A
sleeve of my shirt should be about right. Will you cut it off?”

She protested.

“There’s no time to lose,” he reminded her, as he placed his knife in
her hand. “My horse will go through it all right.”

So urged she deftly cut off his sleeve above the elbow and drew it
through the bridle of her horse across his eyes.

“Now keep your head down close to his neck. You’ll go through all right.
Give him the spurs, and good luck!” he shouted.

She was already careering down the hillside. A few paces from the fire
the horse plunged into a badger hole and fell headlong. She went over
his head, down, with a terrific shock, almost in the very teeth of the
fire.



CHAPTER VII


When Zen came to herself it was with a sense of a strange swimming in
her head. Gradually it resolved itself into a sound of water about her
head; a splashing, fighting water; two heads in the water; two heads in
the water; a lash floating in the water--

“Oh!” She was sure she felt water on her face....

“Where am I?”

“You’re all right--you’ll be all right in a little while.”

“But where am I? What has happened?” She tried to sit up. All was dark.
“Where am I?” she demanded.

“Don’t be alarmed, Zen--I think your name is Zen,” she heard a man’s
voice saying. “You’ve been hurt, but you’ll be all right presently.”

Then the curtain lifted. “You are Dennison Grant,” she said. “I remember
you now. But what has happened? Why am I here--with you?”

“Well, so far, you’ve been enjoying about three hours’ unconsciousness,”
 he told her. “At a distance which seems about a mile from here--although
it may be less--is a little pond. I’ve carried water in the sleeve of my
coat--fortunately it is leather--and poured it somewhat generously upon
your brow. And at last I’ve been rewarded by a conscious word.”

She tried to sit up, but desisted when a sudden twitch of pain held her
fast.

“Let me help you,” he said, gently. “We have camped, as you may notice,
on a big, flat rock. I found it not far from the scene of the accident,
so I carried you over to it. It is drier than the earth, and, for the
forepart of the night at least, will be warmer.” With a strong arm about
her shoulders he drew her into a sitting posture.

Her eyes were becoming accustomed to the darkness. “What’s wrong with my
foot?” she demanded. “My boot’s off.”

“I’m afraid you turned your ankle getting free from your stirrup,” he
explained. “I had to do a little surgery. I could find nothing broken.
It will be painful, but I fear there is nothing to do but bear it.”

She reached down and felt her foot. It was neatly bandaged with cloth
very much like that which she had used to blindfold Quiver. It was easy
to surmise where it came from. Evidently her protector had stopped at
nothing.

“Well, are we to stay here permanently?” she asked, presently.

“Only for the night,” he told her. “If we’re lucky, not that long.
Search parties will be hunting for you, and they will doubtless ride
this way. Both of our horses bolted in the fire--”

“Oh yes, the fire! Tell me what happened.”

He hesitated.

“I remember riding into the fire,” she continued, “and then next thing I
was on this rock. How did it all happen?”

“Your horse fell,” he explained, “just as you reached the fire, and
threw you, pretty heavily, to the ground. I was behind, so I dismounted
and dragged you through.”

“Oh!” She felt her face. “But I am not even singed!” she exclaimed.

It was plain that he was holding something back. She turned and laid her
fingers on his arm. “Tell me how you did it,” she pressed.

The darkness hid his modest confusion. “It was really nothing,” he
stammered. “You see, I had a leather coat, and I just threw it over your
head--and mine--and dragged you out.”

She was silent for a moment while the meaning of his words came home to
her. Then she placed her hand frankly in his.

“Thank you,” she said, and even in the darkness she knew that their eyes
had met.

“You are very resourceful,” she continued presently. “Must we sit here
all night?”

“I can think of no alternative,” he confessed. “If we had fire-arms
we could shoot a signal, or if there were grass about we could start a
fire, although it probably would not be noticed with so many glows on
the horizon to-night.” He stopped to look about. Dull splashes of red
in the sky pointed out remnants of the day’s conflagration still eating
their way through the foothills. The air was full of the pungent but not
unpleasant smell of burnt grass.

“A pretty hard night to send a signal,” he said, “but they’re almost
sure to ride this way.”

She wondered why he did not offer to walk to the camp for help; it
could not be more than four or five miles. Suddenly she thought she
understood.

“I am not afraid to stay here alone,” she said, with a little laugh.
It was the first time Grant had heard her laugh, and he thought it very
musical indeed. “I’ve slept out many a night, and you would be back
within a couple of hours.”

“I’m quite sure you’re not afraid,” he agreed, “but, you see, I am. You
got quite a tap on the head, and for some time before you came to you
were talking--rather foolishly. Now if I should leave you it is not
only possible, but quite probable, that you would lapse again into
unconsciousness.... I really think you’ll have to put up with me here.”

“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of that!... Did I--did I talk--foolishly?”

“Rather. Seemed to think you were swimming--or fighting--I couldn’t be
sure which. Sometimes you seemed to be doing both.”

“Oh!” With a cold chill the events of the day came back upon her. That
struggle in the water; it came to her now like a bad dream out of the
long, long past. How much had she said? How much would she have given to
know what she said? She felt herself recounting events....

Presently she pulled herself up with a start. She must not let him think
her moody.

“Well, if we MUST enjoy each other’s company, we may as well do so
companionably,” she said, with an effort at gaiety. “Let us talk. Tell
me about yourself.”

“First things first,” he parried.

“Oh, I’ve nothing to tell. My life has been very unromantic. A few years
at school, and the rest of it on the range. A very every-day kind of
existence.”

“I think it’s the ‘every-day kind of existence’ that IS romantic,” he
returned. “It is a great mistake to think of romance as belonging to
other times and other places. Even the most commonplace person has
experienced romance enough for a dozen books. Quite possibly he has not
recognized the romance, but it was there. The trouble is that with our
limited sense of humor, what we think of as romance in other people’s
lives becomes tragedy in our own.”

How much DID he know?... “Yes,” she said, “I suppose that is so.”

“I know it is so,” he went on. “If we could read the thoughts--know the
experiences--of those nearest to us, we would never need to look out of
our own circles for either romance or tragedy. But it is as well that
we can’t. Take the experience of to-day, for example. I admit it has
not been a commonplace day, and yet it has not been altogether
extraordinary. Think of the experiences we have been through just this
day, and how, if they were presented in fiction they would be romantic,
almost unbelievable. And here we are at the close, sitting on a rock,
matter-of-fact people in a matter-of-fact world, accepting everything as
commonplace and unexceptional.”

“Not quite that,” she said daringly. “I see that you are neither
commonplace nor unexceptional.” She spoke with sudden impulse out of the
depth of her sincerity. She had not met a man like this before. In her
mind she fixed him in contrast with Transley, the self-confident
and aggressive, and Linder, the shy and unassertive. None of those
adjectives seemed to fit this new acquaintance. Nevertheless, he
suffered nothing by the contrast.

“If I had been bright enough I would have said that first,” he
apologized, “but I got rather carried away in one of my pet theories
about romance. Now my life, I suppose, to many people would seem quite
tame and unromantic, but to me it has been a delightful succession of
somewhat placid adventures. It began in a very orthodox way, in a very
orthodox family. My father, under the guidance, no doubt, of whatever
star governs such lucky affairs, became possessed of a piece of land. In
doing so he contributed to society no service whatever, so far as I
have been able to ascertain. But it so fell about that society, in
considerable numbers, wanted his land to live on, so society made of
my father a wealthy man, and gave him power over many people. Could
anything be more romantic than that? Could the fairy tales of your
childhood surpass it for benevolent irresponsibility?”

“My father has also become wealthy,” she said, “although I never thought
of it in that way.”

“Yes, but in exchange for his wealth your father has given service to
society; supplied many thousands of steers for hungry people to eat.
That’s a different story, but not less romantic.

“Well, to proceed. I was brought up to fit my station in life, whatever
that means. There were just two boys of us, and I was the elder. My
father had become a broker. I believe he had become quite a successful
broker, using the word in its ordinary sense, which denotes the making
of money. You see, he already had too much money, so it was very easy
for him to make more. He wanted me to go into the office with him, but
some way I didn’t fit in. I’ve no doubt there was lots of romance there,
too, but I was of the wrong nature; I simply couldn’t get enthusiastic
over it. As we already had more money than we could possibly spend on
things that were good for us, I failed to see the point in sitting up
nights to increase it. Being of a frank disposition I confided in my
father that I felt I was wasting my time in a broker’s office. He, being
of an equally frank disposition, confided in me that he entertained the
same opinion.

“Then I delivered myself of some of my pet theories about wealth. I told
him that I didn’t believe that any man had a right to money unless he
earned it in return for service given to society, and I said that as
society had to supply the money, society should determine the amount. I
confessed that I was a little hazy about how that was to be carried out,
but I insisted that the principle was right, and, that being so, the
working of it out was only a matter of detail. I realize now that this
was all fanatical heresy to my father; I remember the pained look that
came into his eyes. I thought at the time that it was anger, but I know
now that it was grief--grief and humiliation that a son of his should
entertain such wild and unbalanced ideas.

“Well, there was more talk, and the upshot of it was that I got out,
accompanied by an assurance from my father that I would never
be burdened with any of the family ducats. Roy--my younger
brother--succeeded to the worries of wealth, and I came to the ranges
where, no doubt to the deep chagrin of my father, I have been able to
make a living, and have, incidentally, been profoundly happy. I’ll take
a wager that to-day I look ten years younger than Roy, that I can lick
him with one hand, that I have more real friends than he has, and that
I’m getting more out of life than he is. I’m a man of whims. When they
beckon I follow.”

Grant had been talking intensely. He paused now, feeling that his
enthusiasm had carried him into rather fuller confidences than he had
intended.

“I’m sorry I bored you with that harangue,” he said contritely. “You
couldn’t possibly be interested in it.”

“On the contrary, I am very much interested in it,” she protested. “It
seems so much finer for a man to make his own way, rather than be lifted
up by someone else. I am sure you are already doing well in the West.
Some day you will go back to your father with more money than he has.”

Grant uttered an amused little laugh.

“I was afraid you would say that,” he answered. “You see, you don’t
understand me, either. I don’t want to make money. Can you understand
that?”

“Don’t want to make money? Why not?”

“Why should I?”

“Well, everybody does. Money is power--it is a mark of success. It would
open up a wider life for you. It would bring you into new circles. Some
day you will want to marry and settle down, and money would enable you
to meet the kind of women--”

She stopped, confused. She had plunged farther than she had intended.

“You’re all wrong,” he said amusedly. It did not even occur to Zen
that he was contradicting her. She had not been accustomed to being
contradicted, but then, neither had she been accustomed to men like
Dennison Grant, nor to conversations such as had developed. She was too
interested to be annoyed.

“You’re all wrong, Miss--?”

“I don’t wonder that you can’t fill in my name,” she said. “Nobody knows
Dad except as Y.D. But I heard you call me Zen--”

“That was when you were coming out of your unconsciousness. I apologize
for the liberty taken. I thought it might recall you--”

“Well, I’m still coming out,” she interrupted. “I am beginning to feel
that I have been unconscious for a very long time indeed. Let me hear
why you don’t want money.”

Grant was aware of a pleasant glow excited by her frank interest. She
was altogether a desirable girl.

“I have observed,” he said, “that poor people worry over what they
haven’t got, and rich people worry over what they have. It is my
disposition not to worry over anything. You said that money is power.
That is one of its deceits. It offers a man power, but in reality it
makes him its slave. It enchains him for life; I have seen it in too
many cases--I am not mistaken. As for opening up a wider life, what
wider life could there be than this which I--which you and I--are
living?”

She wondered why he had said “you and I.” Evidently he was wondering
too, for he fell into reflection. She changed her position to ease the
dull pain in her ankle, which his talk had almost driven from her
mind. The rock had a perpendicular edge, so she let her feet hang over,
resting the injured one upon the other. He was sitting in a similar
position. The silence of the night had gathered about them, broken
occasionally by the yapping of coyotes far down the valley. Segments of
dull light fringed the horizon; the breeze was again blowing from the
west, mild and balmy. Presently one of the segments of light grew and
grew. It was as though it were rushing up the valley. They watched
it, fascinated; then burst into laughter as the orb of the moon became
recognizable.... There was something very companionable about watching
the moon rise, as they did.

“The greatest wealth in the world,” he said at length, as though his
thoughts had been far afield, searching, perchance, the mazy corridors
of Truth for this atom of wisdom; “the greatest wealth in the world is
to be able to do something useful. That is the only wealth which will
not be disturbed in the coming reorganization of society.”

Zen did not reply. For the first time in her life she stood convicted,
before her own mind, of a very profound ignorance. Dennison Grant had
been drawing back the curtain of a world of the existence of which she
had never known. He had talked to her about “the coming reorganization
of society”? What did it mean? She was at home in discussions of herds
or horses; she was at home with the duties of kitchen or reception-room;
she was at home with her father or Transley or Linder or Drazk or
Tompkins the cook, but Dennison Grant in an hour had carried her into a
far country, where she would be hopelessly lost but for his guidance....
Yet it seemed a good and interesting country. She wanted to enter in--to
know it better.

“Tell me about the coming reorganization of society,” she said.

“That is an all-night order,” he returned. “Besides, I can’t tell you
all, because I don’t know all. I know only very, very little. I see my
little gleam of light and keep my eye close upon it. But you must know
that society is always in a state of reorganization. Nothing continues
as it was. Those who dismiss a problem glibly by saying it has always
been so and always will be so don’t read history and don’t understand
human nature.”

He turned toward her as interest in his theme developed. The moonlight
was now pouring upon them; her face was beautiful and fine as marble
in its soft rays. For a moment he hesitated, overwhelmed by a sudden
realization of her attractiveness. He had just been saying that the law
of nature was the law of change, and nature itself stood up to refute
him.

He brought himself back to earth. “I was saying that everything
changes,” he continued. “Look at our economic system, for instance. Not
so many centuries ago the man who got the most wealth was the man with
the biggest muscle and the toughest skin. He wielded a stout club, and
what he wanted, he took. His system of operation was simple and direct.
You have money, you have cattle, you have a wife--I’m speaking of
the times that were. I am stronger than you. I take them. Simplicity
itself!”

“But very unjust,” she protested.

“Our sense of justice is due to our education,” he continued. “If we are
taught to believe that a certain thing is just, we believe it is just.
I am convinced that there is no sense of justice inherent in humanity;
whatever sense we have is the result of education, and the kind of
justice we believe in is the kind of justice to which we are educated.
For example, the justice of the plains is not the justice of the cities;
the justice of the vigilance committee is not the justice of judge and
jury. Now to get back to our subject. When Baron Battle Ax, back in
the fifth or sixth century, knocked all his rivals on the head and
took their wealth away from them, I suppose there was here and there an
advanced thinker who said the thing was unjust, but I am quite sure the
great majority of people said things had always been that way and always
would be that way. But the little minority of thinkers gradually grew
in strength. The Truth was with them. It is worthy of notice that the
advance guard of Truth always travels with minorities. And the day came
that society organized itself to say that the man who uses physical
force to take wealth from another is an enemy of society and must not be
allowed at large.

“But we have passed largely out of the era of physical force. To-day, an
engineer presses a button and releases more physical force than could be
commanded by all the armies of Rome. Brain power is to-day the dominant
power. And just as physical force was once used to take wealth without
earning it, so is brain force now used to take wealth without earning
it. And just as the masses in the days of Battle Ax said things had
always been that way and always would be that way, just so do the masses
in these days of brain supremacy say things have always been that way
and always will be that way. But just as there was a minority with an
advanced vision of Truth in those days, so is there a minority with an
advanced vision of Truth in these days. You may be absolutely sure that,
just as society found a way to deal with muscle brigands, so also it
will find a way to deal with brain brigands. I confess I don’t see how
the details are to be worked out, but there must be a plan under which
the value of the services rendered to society by every man and every
woman will be determined, and they will be rewarded according to the
services rendered.”

“Is that Socialism?” she ventured.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Certainly it does not contemplate
an equal distribution of the world’s wealth. Some men are a menace to
themselves and society when they have a hundred dollars. Others can be
trusted with a hundred million. All men have not been equally gifted
by nature--we know that. We can’t make them equal. But surely we can
prevent the gifted ones from preying upon those who are not gifted. That
is what the coming reorganization of society will aim to do.”

“It is very interesting,” she said. “And very deep. I have never heard
it discussed before. Why don’t people think about these things more?”

“I don’t know,” he answered, “but I suppose it is because they are too
busy in the fight. When a self was dodging Battle Ax he hadn’t much time
to think about evolving a Magna Charta. But most of all I suppose it is
just natural laziness. People refuse to think. It calls for effort. Most
people would find it easier to pitch a load of hay than to think of a
new thought.”

The moon was now well up; the smoke clouds had been scattered by the
breeze; the sky was studded with diamonds. Zen had a feeling of being
very happy. True, a certain haunting spectre at times would break into
her consciousness, but in the companionship of such a man as Grant she
could easily beat it off. She studied the face in the moon, and invited
her soul. She was living through a new experience--an experience she
could not understand. In spite of the discomfort of her injuries, in
spite of the events of the day, she was very, very happy....

If only that horrid memory of Drazk would not keep tormenting her! She
began to have some glimpse of what remorse must mean. She did not blame
herself; she could not have done otherwise; and yet--it was horrible to
think about, and it would not stay away. She felt a tremendous desire to
tell Grant all about it.... She wondered how much he knew. He must have
discovered that her clothing had been wet.

She shivered slightly.

“You’re cold,” he said, as he placed his arm about her, and there was
something very far removed from political economy in the timbre of his
voice.

“I’m a little chilly,” she admitted. “I had to swim my horse across the
river to-day--he got into a deep spot--and I got wet.” She congratulated
herself that she had made a very clever explanation.

He put his coat about her shoulders and drew it tight. Then he sat
beside her in silence. There were many things he could have said,
but this seemed to be neither the time nor the place. Grant was not
Transley. He had for this girl a delicate consideration which Transley’s
nature could never know. Grant was a thinker--Transley a doer. Grant
knew that the charm which enveloped him in this girl’s presence was the
perfectly natural product of a set of conditions. He was worldly-wise
enough to suspect that Zen also felt that charm. It was as natural as
the bursting of a seed in moist soil; as natural as the unfolding of a
rose in warm air....

Presently he felt her head rest against his shoulder. He looked down
upon her in awed delight. Her eyes had closed; her lips were smiling
faintly; her figure had relaxed. He could feel her warm breath upon his
face. He could have touched her lips with his.

Slowly the moon traced its long arc in the heavens.



CHAPTER VIII


Just as the first flush of dawn mellowed the East Grant heard the
pounding of horses’ feet and the sound of voices borne across the
valley. They rapidly approached; he could tell by the hard pounding of
the hoofs that they were on a trail which he took to be the one he had
followed before he met Zen. It passed possibly a hundred yards to the
left. He must in some way make his presence known.

The girl had slept soundly, almost without stirring. Now he must wake
her. He shook her gently, and called her name; her eyes opened; he could
see them, strange and wondering, in the thin grey light. Then, with a
sudden start, she was quite awake.

“I have been sleeping!” she exclaimed, reproachfully. “You let me
sleep!”

“No use of two watching the moon,” he returned, lightly.

“But you shouldn’t have let me sleep,” she reprimanded. “Besides, you
had to stay awake. You have had no sleep at all!”

There was a sympathy in her voice very pleasant to the ear. But Grant
could not continue so delightful an indulgence.

“I had to wake you,” he explained. “There are several people riding up
the valley; undoubtedly a search party. I must attract their attention.”

They listened, and could now hear the hoof-beats close at hand. Grant
called; not a loud shout; it seemed little more than his speaking voice,
but instantly there was silence, save for the echo of the sound rolling
down the valley. Then a voice answered, and Grant gave a word or two of
directions. In a minute or two several horsemen loomed up through the
vague light.

“Here we are,” said Zen, as she distinguished her father. “Gone lame on
the off foot and held up for repairs.”

Y.D. swung down from his saddle. “Are you all right, Zen?” he cried, as
he advanced with outstretched arms. There was an eagerness and a relief
in his voice which would have surprised many who knew Y.D. only as a
shrewd cattleman.

Zen accepted and returned his embrace, with a word of assurance that she
was really nothing the worse. Then she introduced her companion.

“This is Mr. Dennison Grant, foreman of the Landson ranch, Dad.”

Grant extended his hand, but Y.D. hesitated. The truce occasioned by the
fire did not by any means imply permanent peace. Far from it, with the
valley in ruins--

Y.D. was stiffening, but his daughter averted what would in another
moment have been an embarrassing situation with a quick remark.

“This is no time, even for explanations,” she said, “except that Mr.
Grant saved my life last evening at the risk of his own, and has lost a
night’s sleep for his pains.”

“That was a man’s work,” said Y.D. It would not have been possible
for his lips to have framed a greater compliment. “I’m obliged to you,
Grant. You know how it is with us cattlemen; we run mostly to horns and
hoofs, but I suppose we have some heart, too, if you can find it.”

They shook hands with as much cordiality as the situation permitted, and
then Zen introduced Transley and Linder, who were in the party. There
were two or three others whom she did not know, but they all shook
hands.

“What happened, Zen?” said Transley, with his usual directness. “Give us
the whole story.”

Then she told them what she knew, from the point where she had met Grant
on the fire-encircled hill.

“Two lucky people--two lucky people,” was all Transley’s comment. Words
could not have expressed the jealousy he felt. But Linder was not too
shy to place his hand with a friendly pressure upon Grant’s shoulder.

“Good work,” he said, and with two words sealed a friendship.

Two of the unnamed members of the party volunteered their horses to
Zen and Grant, and all hands started back to camp. Y.D. talked almost
garrulously; not even himself had known how heavily the hand of Fate had
lain on him through the night.

“The haymakin’ is all off, Darter,” he said. “We will trek back to the
Y.D. as soon as you feel fit. The steers will have to take chances next
winter.”

The girl professed her fitness to make the trip at once, and indeed they
did make it that very day. Y.D. pressed Grant to remain for breakfast,
and Tompkins, notwithstanding the demoralization of equipment and
supplies effected by the fire, again excelled himself. After breakfast
the old rancher found occasion for a word with Grant.

“You know how it is, Grant,” he said. “There’s a couple of things that
ain’t explained, an’ perhaps it’s as well all round not to press for
opinions. I don’t know how the iron stakes got in my meadow, an’ you
don’t know how the fire got in yours. But I give you Y.D.’s word--which
goes at par except in a cattle trade--” and Y.D. laughed cordially at
his own limitations--“I give you my word that I don’t know any more
about the fire than you do.”

“And I don’t know anything more about the stakes than you do,” returned
Grant.

“Well, then, let it stand at that. But mind,” he added, with returning
heat, “I’m not committin’ myself to anythin’ in advance. This grass’ll
grow again next year, an’ by heavens if I want it I’ll cut it! No son of
a sheep herder can bluff Y.D!”

Grant did not reply. He had heard enough of Y.D.’s boisterous nature to
make some allowances.

“An’ mind I mean it,” continued Y.D., whose chagrin over being baffled
out of a thousand tons of hay overrode, temporarily at least, his
appreciation of Grant’s services. “Mind, I mean it. No monkey-doodles
next season, young man.”

Obviously Y.D. was becoming worked up, and it seemed to Grant that the
time had come to speak.

“There will be none,” he said, quietly. “If you come over the hills to
cut the South Y.D. next summer I will personally escort you home again.”

Y.D. stood open-mouthed. It was preposterous that this young upstart
foreman on a second-rate ranch like Landson’s should deliberately defy
him.

“You see, Y.D.,” continued Grant, with provoking calmness, “I’ve seen
the papers. You’ve run a big bluff in this country. You’ve occupied
rather more territory than was coming to you. In a word, you’ve been a
good bit of a bully. Now--let me break it to you gently--those good old
days are over. In future you’re going to stay on your own side of the
line. If you crowd over you’ll be pushed back. You have no more right
to the hay in this valley than you have to the hide on Landson’s steers,
and you’re not going to cut it any more, at all.”

Y.D. exploded in somewhat ineffective profanity. He had a wide
vocabulary of invective, but most of it was of the stand-and-fight
variety. There is some language which is not to be used, unless you are
willing to have it out on the ground, there and then. Y.D. had no such
desire. Possibly a curious sense of honor entered into the case. It was
not fair to call a young man names, and although there was considerable
truth in Grant’s remark that Y.D. was a bully, his bullying did not take
that form. Possibly, also, he recalled at that moment the obligation
under which Zen’s accident had placed him. At any rate he wound up
rather lamely.

“Grant,” he said, “if I want that hay next year I’ll cut it, spite o’
hell an’ high water.”

“All right, Y.D.,” said Grant, cheerfully. “We’ll see. Now, if you can
spare me a horse to ride home, I’ll have him sent back immediately.”

Y.D. went to find Transley and arrange for a horse, and in a moment Zen
appeared from somewhere.

“You’ve been quarreling with Dad,” she said, half reproachfully, and yet
in a tone which suggested that she could understand.

“Not exactly that,” he parried. “We were just having a frank talk with
each other.”

“I know something of Dad’s frank talks... I’m sorry... I would have
liked to ask you to come and see me--to see us--my mother would be glad
to see you. I can hardly ask you to come if you are going to be bad
friends with Dad.”

“No, I suppose not,” he admitted.

“You were very good to me; very--decent,” she continued.

At that moment Transley, Linder, and Y.D. appeared, with two horses.

“Linder will ride over with you and bring back the spare beast,” said
Y.D.

Grant shook hands, rather formally, with Y.D. and Transley, and then
with Zen. She murmured some words of thanks, and just as he would have
withdrawn his hand he felt her fingers tighten very firmly about his. He
answered the pressure, and turned quickly away.

Transley immediately struck camp, and Y.D. and his daughter drove
homeward, somewhat painfully, over the blackened hills.

Transley lost no time in finding other employment. It was late in the
season to look for railway contracts, and continued dry weather had made
grading, at best, a somewhat difficult business. Influx of ready money
and of those who follow it had created considerable activity in a
neighboring centre which for twenty years had been the principal
cow-town of the foothill country. In defiance of all tradition, and,
most of all, in defiance of the predictions of the ranchers who had
known it so long for a cow-town and nothing more, the place began to
grow. No one troubled to inquire exactly why it should grow, or how. As
for Transley, it was enough for him that team labor was in demand. He
took a contract, and three days after the fire in the foothills he was
excavating for business blocks about to be built in the new metropolis.

It was no part of Transley’s plan, however, to quite lose touch with
the people on the Y.D. They were, in fact, the centre about which he had
been doing some very serious thinking. His outspokenness with Zen and
her father had had in it a good deal of bravado--the bravado of a man
who could afford to lose the stake, and smile over it. In short, he
had not cared whether he offended them or not. Transley was a very
self-reliant contractor; he gave, even to the millionaire rancher,
no more homage than he demanded in return.... Still, Zen was a very
desirable girl. As he turned the matter over in his mind Transley became
convinced that he wanted Zen. With Transley, to want a thing meant to
get it. He always found a way. And he was now quite sure that he wanted
Zen. He had not known that positively until the morning when he
found her in the grey light of dawn with Dennison Grant. There was a
suggestion of companionship there between the two which had cut him to
the quick. Like most ambitious men, Transley was intensely jealous.

Up to this time Transley had not thought seriously of matrimony. A
wife and children he regarded as desirable appendages for declining
years--for the quiet and shade of that evening toward which every active
man looks with such irrational confidence. But for the heat of the
day--for the climb up the hill--they would be unnecessary encumbrances.
Transley always took a practical view of these matters. It need hardly
be stated that he had never been in love; in fact Transley would have
scouted the idea of any passion which would throw the practical to the
winds. That was a thing for weaklings, and, possibly, for women.

But his attachment for Zen was a very practical matter. Zen was the
only heir to the Y.D. wealth. She would bring to her husband capital and
credit which Transley could use to good advantage in his business. She
would also bring personality--a delightful individuality--of which any
man might be proud. She had that fine combination of attractions which
is expressed in the word charm. She had health, constitution, beauty.
She had courage and sympathy. She had qualities of leadership. She
would bring to him not only the material means to build a house, but the
spiritual qualities which make a home. She would make him the envy of
all his acquaintances. And a jealous man loves to be envied.

So after the work on the excavations had been properly started Transley
turned over the detail to the always dependable Linder, and, remarking
that he had not had a final settlement with Y.D., set out for the ranch
in the foothills. While spending the long autumn day alone in the buggy
he was able to turn over and develop plans on an even more ambitious
scale than had occurred to him amid the hustle of his men and horses.

The valley was lying very warm and beautiful in yellow light, and the
setting sun was just capping the mountains with gold and painting great
splashes of copper and bronze on the few clouds becalmed in the heavens,
when Transley’s tired team jogged in among the cluster of buildings
known as the Y.D. The rancher met him at the bunk-house. He greeted
Transley with a firm grip of his great palm, and with jaws open in
suggestion of a sort of carnivorous hospitality.

“Come up to the house, Transley,” he said, turning the horses over to
the attention of a ranch hand. “Supper is just ready, an’ the women will
be glad to see you.”

Zen, walking with a limp, met them at the gate. Transley’s eyes
reassured him that he had not been led astray by any process of
idealization; Zen was all his mind had been picturing her. She was worth
the effort. Indeed, a strange sensation of tenderness suffused him as he
walked by her side to the door, supporting her a little with his hand.
There they were ushered in by the rancher’s wife, and Zen herself showed
Transley to a cool room where were white towels and soft water from the
river and quiet and restful furnishings. Transley congratulated himself
that he could hardly hope to be better received.

After supper he had a social drink with Y.D., and then the two sat on
the veranda and smoked and discussed business. Transley found Y.D. more
liberal in the adjustment than he had expected. He had not yet realized
to what an extent he had won the old rancher’s confidence, and Y.D. was
a man who, when his confidence had been won, never haggled over details.
He was willing to compromise the loss on the operations on the South
Y.D. on a scale that was not merely just, but generous.

This settled, Transley proceeded to interest Y.D. in the work in which
he was now engaged. He drew a picture of activities in the little
metropolis such as stirred the rancher’s incredulity.

“Well, well,” Y.D. would say. “Transley, I’ve known that little hole for
about thirty years, an’ never seen it was any good excep’ to get drunk
in.... I’ve seen more things there than is down in the books.”

“You wouldn’t know the change that has come about in a few months,” said
Transley, with enthusiasm. “Double shifts working by electric light,
Y.D! What do you think of that? Men with rolls of money that would choke
a cow sleeping out in tents because they can’t get a roof over them.
Why, man, I didn’t have to hunt a job there; the job hunted me. I could
have had a dozen jobs at my own price if I could have handled them. It’s
just as if prosperity was a river which had been trickling through that
town for thirty years, and all of a sudden the dam up in the foothills
gives away and down she comes with a rush. Lots which sold a year ago
for a hundred dollars are selling now for five hundred--sometimes more.
Old ranchers living on the bald-headed a few years ago find themselves
today the owners of city property worth millions, and are dressing
uncomfortably, in keeping with their wealth, or vainly trying to drink
up the surplus. So far sense and brains has had nothing to do with it,
Y.D., absolutely nothing. It has been fool luck. But the brains are
coming in now, and the brains will get the money, in the long run.”

Transley paused and lit another cigar. Y.D. rolled his in his lips,
reflectively.

“I mind some doin’s in that burg,” he said, as though the memory of them
was of greater importance than all that might be happening now.

Transley switched back to business. “We ought to be in on it, Y.D.,”
 he said. “Not on the fly-by-night stuff; I don’t mean that. But I could
take twice the contracts if I had twice the outfit.”

Y.D. brought his chair down on to all four legs and removed his cigar.

“You mean we should hit her together?” he demanded.

“It would be a great compliment to me, if you had that confidence in me,
and I’m sure it would make some good money for you.”

“How’d you work it?”

“You have a bunch of horses running here on the ranch, eating their
heads off. Many of them are broke, and the others would soon tame down
with a scraper behind them. Give them to me and let me put them to work.
I’d have to have equipment, too. Your name on the back of my note would
get it, and you wouldn’t actually have to put up a dollar. Then we’d
make an inventory of what you put into the firm and what I put into it,
and we’d divide the earnings in proportion.”

“After payin’ you a salary as manager, of course,” suggested Y.D.

“That’s immaterial. With a bigger outfit and more capital I can make so
much more money out of the earnings that I don’t care whether I get a
salary or not. But I wouldn’t figure on going on contracting all the
time for other people. We might as well have the cream as the skimmed
milk. This is the way it’s done. We go to the owner of a block of lots
somewhere where there’s no building going on. He’s anxious to start
something, because as soon as building starts in that district the lots
will sell for two or three times what they do now. We say to him, ‘Give
us every second lot in your block and we’ll put a house on it.’ In this
way we get the lots for a trifle; perhaps for nothing. Then we build a
lot of houses, more or less to the same plan. We put ‘em up quick and
cheap. We build ‘em to sell, not to live in. Then we mortgage ‘em for
the last cent we can get. Then we put the price up to twice what the
mortgage is and sell them as fast as we can build them, getting our
equity out and leaving the purchasers to settle with the mortgage
company. It’s good for from thirty to forty per cent, profit, not per
annum, but per transaction.”

“It sounds interesting,” said Y.D., “an’ I suppose I might as well put
my spare horses an’ credit to work. I don’t mind drivin’ down with you
to-morrow an’ looking her over first hand.”

This was all Transley had hoped for, and the talk turned to less
material matters. After a while Zen joined them, and a little later Y.D.
left to attend to some business at the bunk-house.

“Your father and I may go into partnership, Zen,” Transley said to her,
when they were alone together. He explained in a general way the venture
that was afoot.

“That will be very interesting,” she agreed.

“Will you be interested?”

“Of course. I am interested in everything that Dad undertakes.”

“And are you not--will you not be--just a little interested in the
things that I undertake?”

She paused a moment before replying. The dusk had settled about them,
and he could not see the contour of her face, but he knew that she had
realized the significance of his question.

“Why yes,” she said at length, “I will be interested in what you
undertake. You will be Dad’s partner.”

Her evasion nettled him.

“Zen,” he said, “why shouldn’t we understand each other?”

“Don’t we?” She had turned slightly toward him, and he could feel the
laughing mockery in her eyes.

“I rather think we do,” he answered, “only we--at least, you--won’t
admit it.”

“Oh!”

“Seriously, Zen, do you imagine I came over here to-day simply to make a
deal with your father?”

“Wasn’t that worth while?”

“Of course it was. But it wasn’t the whole purpose--it wasn’t half the
purpose. I wanted to see Y.D., it is true, but more, very much more, I
wanted to see you.”

She did not answer, and he could only guess what was the trend of her
thoughts. After a silence he continued.

“You may think I am precipitate. You intimated as much to me once. I am.
I know of no reason why an honest man should go beating about the bush.
When I want something I want it, and I make a bee-line for it. If it is
a contract--if it is a business matter--I go right after it, with all
the energy that’s in me. When I’m looking for a contract I don’t start
by talking about the weather. Well--this is my first experience in love,
and perhaps my methods are all wrong, but it seems to me they should
apply. At any rate a girl of your intelligence will understand.”

“Applying your business principles,” she interrupted, “I suppose if you
wanted a wife and there was none in sight you would advertise for her?”

He defended his position. “I don’t see why not,” he declared. “I
can’t understand the general attitude of levity toward matrimonial
advertisements. Apparently they are too open and above-board. Matrimony
should not be committed in a round-about, indirect, hit-or-miss manner.
A young man sees a girl whom he thinks he would like to marry. Does he
go to her house and say, ‘Miss So-and-So, I think I would like to
marry you. Will you allow me to call on you so that we may get better
acquainted, with that object in view?’ He does not. Such honesty would
be considered almost brutal. He calls on her and pretends he would like
to take her to the theatre, if it is in town, or for a ride, if it is in
the country. She pretends she would like to go. Both of them know what
the real purpose is, and both of them pretend they don’t. They start the
farce by pretending a deceit which deceives nobody. They wait for nature
to set up an attraction which shall overrule their judgment, rather than
act by judgment first and leave it to nature to take care of herself.
How much better it would be to be perfectly frank--to boldly announce
the purpose--to come as I now come to you and say, ‘Zen, I want to marry
you. My reason, my judgment, tells me that you would be an ideal mate.
I shall be proud of you, and I will try to make you proud of me. I will
gratify your desires in every way that my means will permit. I pledge
you my fidelity in return for yours. I--I--’ Zen, will you say yes? Can
you believe that there is in my simple words more sincerity than there
could be in any mad ravings about love? You are young, Zen, younger than
I, but you must have observed some things. One of them is that marriage,
founded on mutual respect, which increases with the years, is a much
safer and wiser business than marriage founded on a passion which
quickly burns itself out and leaves the victims cold, unresponsive, with
nothing in common. You may not feel that you know me well enough for a
decision. I will give you every opportunity to know me better--I will do
nothing to deceive you--I will put on no veneer--I will let you know me
as I really am. Will you say yes?”

He had left his seat and approached her; he was leaning close over her
chair. While his words had suggested marriage on a purely intellectual
basis he did not hesitate to bring his physical presence into the scale.
He was accustomed to having his way--he had always had it--never did he
want it more than he did now.... And although he had made his plea from
the intellectual angle he was sure, he was very, very sure there
was more than that. This girl; whose very presence delighted
him--intoxicated him--would have made him mad--

“Will you say yes?” he repeated, and his hands found hers and drew her
with his great strength up from her chair. She did not resist, but when
she was on her feet she avoided his embrace.

“You must not hurry me,” she whispered. “I must have time to think. I
did not realize what you were saying until--”

“Say yes now,” he urged. Transley was a man very hard to resist. She
felt as though she were in the grip of a powerful machine; it was as
though she were being swept along by a stream against which her feeble
strength was as nothing. Zen was as nearly frightened as she had ever
been in her vigorous young life. And yet there was something delightful.
It would have been so easy to surrender--it was so hard to resist.

“Say yes now,” he repeated, drawing her close at last and breathing the
question into her ear. “You shall have time to think--you shall ask your
own heart, and if it does not confirm your words you will be released
from your promise.”

They heard the footsteps of her father approaching, and Transley waited
no longer for an answer. He turned her face to his; he pressed his lips
against hers.



CHAPTER IX


Zen thought over the events of that evening until they became a blur in
her memory. Her principal recollection was that she had been quite swept
off her feet. Transley had interpreted her submission as assent, and
she had not corrected him in the vital moment when they stood before her
father that night in the deep shadow of the veranda.

“Y.D.,” Transley had said, “your consent and your blessing! Zen and I
are to be married as soon as she can be ready.”

That was the moment at which she should have spoken, but she did not.
She, who had prided herself that she would make a race of it--she,
who had always been able to slip out of a predicament in the nick of
time--stood mutely by and let Transley and her father interpret her
silence as consent. She was not sure that she was sorry; she was not
sure but she would have consented anyway; but Transley had taken the
matter quite out of her hands. And yet she could not bring herself to
feel resentment toward him; that was the strangest part of it. It seemed
that she had come under his domination; that she even had to think as he
would have her think.

In the darkness she could not see her father’s face, for which she was
sorry; and he could not see hers, for which she was glad. There was a
long moment of tense silence before she heard him say,

“Well, well! I had a hunch it might come to that, but I didn’t reckon
you youngsters would work so fast.”

“This was a stake worth working fast for,” Transley was saying, as he
shook Y.D.’s hand. “I wouldn’t trade places with any man alive.” And Zen
was sure he meant exactly what he said.

“She’s a good girl, Transley,” her father commented; “a good girl, even
if a bit obstrep’rous at times. She’s got spirit, Transley, an’ you’ll
have to handle her with sense. She’s a--a thoroughbred!”

Y.D. had reached his arms toward his daughter, and at these words he
closed them about her. Zen had never known her father to be emotional;
she had known him to face matters of life and death without the quiver
of an eyelid, but as he held her there in his arms that night she felt
his big frame tremble. Suddenly she had a powerful desire to cry. She
broke from his embrace and ran upstairs to her room.

When she came down her father and mother and Transley were sitting about
the table in the living-room; the room hung with trophies of the chase
and of competition; the room which had been the nucleus of the Y.D.
estate. There was a colored cover on the table, and the shaded oil lamp
in the centre sent a comfortable glow of light downward and about.
The mammoth shadows of the three people fell on the log walls, darting
silently from position to position with their every movement.

Her mother arose as Zen entered the room and took her hands in a warm,
tender grip.

“You’re early leaving us,” she said. “I’m not saying I object. I think
Mr. Transley will make you a good husband. He is a man of energy, like
your father. He will do well. You will not know the hardships that
we knew in our early married life.” Their eyes met, and there was a
moment’s pause.

“You will not understand for many years what this means to me, Zenith,”
 her mother said, and turned quickly to her place at the table.

She could not remember what they had talked about after that. She
had been conscious of Transley’s eyes often on her, and of a certain
spiritual exaltation within her. She could not remember what she had
said, but she knew she had talked with unusual vivacity and charm. It
was as though certain storehouses of brilliance in her being, of which
she had been unaware, had been suddenly opened to her. It was as though
she had been intoxicated by a very subtle wine which did not deaden, but
rather quickened, all her faculties.

Afterwards, she had spent long hours among the foothills, thinking and
thinking. There were times when the flame of that strange exaltation
burned low indeed; times when it seemed almost to expire. There were
moments--hours--of misgivings. She could not understand the strange
docility which had come over her; the unprecedented willingness to have
her course shaped by another. That strange willingness came as near to
frightening Zen as anything had ever done. She felt that she was being
carried along in a stream; that she was making no resistance; that she
had no desire to resist. She had a strange fear that some day she
would need to resist; some day she would mightily need qualities
of self-direction, and those qualities would refuse to arise at her
command.

She did not fear Transley. She believed in him. She believed in his
ability to grapple with anything that stood in his way; to thrust it
aside, and press on. She respected the judgment of her father and her
mother, and both of them believed in Transley. He would succeed; he
would seize the opportunities this young country afforded and rise to
power and influence upon them. He would be kind, he would be generous.
He would make her proud of him. What more could she want?

That was just it. There were dark moments when she felt that surely
there must be something more than all this. She did not know what it
was--she could not analyze her thoughts or give them definite form--but
in these dark moments she feared that she was being tricked, that the
whole thing was a sham which she would discover when it was too late.
She did not suspect her mother, or her father, or Transley, one or all,
of being parties to this trick; she believed that they did not know it
existed. She herself did not know it existed. But the fear was there.

After a week she admitted, much against her will, that possibly Dennison
Grant had something to do with it. She had not seen him since she had
pressed his fingers and he had ridden away through the smoke-haze of the
South Y.D. She had dutifully tried to force him from her mind. But he
would not stay out of it. It was about that fact that her misgivings
seemed most to centre. When she would be thinking of Transley, and
wondering about the future, suddenly she would discover that she was not
thinking of Transley, but of Dennison Grant. These discoveries shocked
and humiliated her. It was an impossible position. She would throw Grant
forcibly out of her mind and turn to Transley. And then, in an unguarded
moment, Transley would fade from her consciousness, and she would know
again that she was thinking of Grant.

At length she allowed herself the luxury of thinking frankly about
Dennison Grant. It WAS a luxury. It brought her a secret happiness which
she was wholly at a loss to understand, but which was very delightful,
nevertheless. She amused herself with comparing Grant with Transley.
They had two points in common: their physical perfection and their
fearless, self-confident manner. With these exceptions they seemed to be
complete contradictions. The ambitious Transley worshipped success; the
philosophical Grant despised it. That difference in attitude toward the
world and its affairs was a ridge which separated the whole current of
their lives. It even, in a way, shut one from the view of the other;
at least it shut Grant from the view of Transley. Transley would
never understand Grant, but Grant might, and probably did, understand
Transley. That was why Grant was the greater of the two....

She reproached herself for such a thought; it was disloyal to admit
that this stranger on the Landson ranch was a greater man than her
husband-to-be. And yet honesty--or, perhaps, something deeper than
honesty--compelled her to make that admission.... She ran back over the
remembered incidents of the night they had spent together, marooned like
shipwrecked sailors on a rock in the foothills. His attentiveness, his
courtesy, his freedom from any conventional restraint, his manly respect
which was so much greater than conventional restraint--all these came
back to her with a poignant tenderness. She pictured Transley in his
place. Transley would probably have proposed even before he bandaged her
ankle. Grant had not said a word of love, or even of affection. He had
talked freely of himself--at her request--but there had been nothing
that might not have been said before the world. She had been safe with
Grant....

After she had thought on this theme for a while Zen would acknowledge to
herself that the situation was absurd and impossible. Grant had given
no evidence of thinking more of her than of any other girl whom he might
have met. He had been chivalrous only. She had sat up with a start at
the thought that there might be another girl.... Or there might be no
girl. Grant was an unusual character....

At any rate, the thing for her to do was to forget about him. She should
have no place in her mind for any man but Transley. It was true he had
stampeded her, but she had accepted the situation in which she found
herself. Transley was worthy of her--she had nothing to take back--she
would go through with it.

On the principle that the way to drive an unwelcome thought out of the
mind is to think vigorously about something else, Zen occupied herself
with plans and day-dreams centering about the new home that was to be
built in town. Neither her father nor Transley had as yet returned from
the trip on which they had gone with a view to forming a partnership, so
there had been no opportunity to discuss the plans for the future, but
Zen took it for granted that Transley would build in town. He was so
enthusiastic over the possibilities of that young and bustling centre
of population that there was no doubt he would want to throw in his lot
with it. This prospect was quite pleasing to the girl; it would leave
her within easy distance of her old home; it would introduce her to a
type of society with which she was well acquainted, and where she could
do herself justice, and it would not break up the associations of her
young life. She would still be able, now and again, to take long rides
through the tawny foothills; to mingle with her old friends; possibly to
maintain a somewhat sisterly acquaintance with Dennison Grant....

After ten days Y.D. returned--alone. He had scarcely been able to
believe the developments which he had seen. It was as though the sleepy,
lazy cow-town had become electrified. Y.D. had looked on for three days,
wondering if he were not in some kind of a dream from which he would
awaken presently among his herds in the foothills. After three days he
bought a property. Before he left he sold it at a profit greater than
the earnings of his first five years on the ranch. It would be indeed
a stubborn confidence which could not be won by such an experience, and
before leaving for the ranch Y.D. had arranged for Transley practically
an open credit with his bankers, and had undertaken to send down all the
horses and equipment that could be spared.

Transley had planned to return to the foothills with Y.D., but at the
last moment business matters developed which required his attention. He
placed a tiny package in Y.D.’s capacious palm.

“For the girl,” he said. “I should deliver it myself, but you’ll
explain?”

Y.D. fumbled the tiny package into a vest pocket. “Sure, I’ll attend to
that,” he promised. “Wasn’t much of these fancy trimmin’s when I settled
into double harness, but lots of things has changed since then. You’ll
be out soon?”

“Just as soon as business will stand for it. Not a minute longer.”

On his return home Y.D., after maintaining an exasperating silence until
supper was finished, casually handed the package to his daughter.

“Some trinket Transley sent out,” he explained. “He’ll be here himself
as soon as business permits.”

She took the package with a glow of expectancy, started to open it, then
folded the paper again and ran up to her room. Here she tempted herself
for minutes before she would finally open it, whetting the appetite of
anticipation to the full.... The gem justified her little play. It was
magnificent; more beautiful and more expensive than anything her father
ever bought her.

She hesitated strangely about putting it on. To Zen it seemed that the
putting on of Transley’s ring would be a voluntary act symbolizing her
acceptance of him. If she had been carried off her feet--swept into the
position in which she found herself--that explanation would not apply
to the deliberate placing of his ring upon her finger. There would be
no excuse; she could never again plead that she had been the victim of
Transley’s precipitateness. This would be deliberate, and she must do it
herself.

She rather blamed Transley for not having left his old business and come
to perform this rite himself, as he should have done. What was one day
of business, more or less? Yet Zen gathered no hint from that
incident that always, with Transley, business would come first. It was
symbolic--prophetic--but she did not see the sign nor understand the
prophecy.

She held the ring between her fingers; slipped it off and on her little
fingers; held it so the rays of the sun fell through the window upon it
and danced before her eyes in all their primal colors.

“I have to put this on,” she said, pursing her lips firmly, “and--and
forget about Dennison Grant!”

For a long time she thought of that and all it meant. Then she raised
the jewel to her lips.

“Help me--help me--” she murmured. With a quick little impetuous motion
she drew it on to the finger where it belonged. There she gazed upon it
for a moment, as though fascinated by it. Then she fell upon her bed and
lay motionless until long after the valley was wrapped in shadow.

The events of these days had almost driven from Zen’s mind the tragedy
of George Drazk. When she thought of it at all it presented such a
grotesque unreality--it was such an unreasonable thing--that it assumed
the vague qualities of a dream. It was something unreal and very much
better forgotten, and it was only by an unwilling effort at such times
that she could bring herself to know that it was not unreal. It was
a matter that concerned her tremendously. Sooner or later Drazk’s
disappearance must be noted,--perhaps his body would be found--and while
she had little fear that anyone would associate her with the tragedy it
was a most unpleasant thing to think about. Sometimes she wondered if
she should not tell her father or Transley just what had happened, but
she shrank from doing so as from the confession of a crime. Mostly she
was able to think of other matters.

Her father brought it up in a startling way at breakfast. Absolutely out
of a blue sky he said, “Did you know, Zen, that Drazk has disappeared?
Transley tells me you were int’rested a bit in him, or perhaps I should
say he was int’rested in you.”

Zen was so overcome by this startling change in the conversation that
she was unable to answer. The color went from her face and she leaned
low over her plate to conceal her agitation.

“Yep,” continued Y.D., with no more concern than if a steer had been
lost from the herd. “Transley said to tell you Drazk had disappeared an’
he reckoned you wouldn’t be bothered any more with him.”

“Drazk was nothing to me,” she managed to say. “How can you think he
was?”

“Now who said he was?” her father retorted. “For a young woman with the
price of a herd of steers on her third finger you’re sort o’ short this
mornin’. Now I’m jus’ wonderin’ how far you can see through a board
fence, Zen. Are you surprised that Drazk has disappeared?”

She was entirely at a loss to understand the drift of her father’s talk.
He could not connect her with Drazk’s disappearance, or he would not
approach the matter with such unconcern. That was unthinkable. Neither
could Transley, or he would not have sent so brutal a message. And yet
it was clear that they thought she should be interested.

Her father’s question demanded an answer.

“What should I care?” she ventured at length.

“I didn’t ask you whether you cared. I asked you whether you was
surprised.”

“Drazk’s movements were--are nothing to me. I don’t know that I have any
occasion to be surprised about anything he may do.”

“Well, I’m rather glad you’re not, because if you don’t jump to
conclusions, perhaps other people won’t. Not that it makes any
partic’lar diff’rence.”

“Dad,” she cried in desperation, “whatever do you mean?”

“It was all plain enough to me, an’ plain enough to Transley,” her
father continued with remarkable calmness. “We seen it right from the
first.”

“You’re talking in riddles, Y.D.,” his wife remonstrated. “You’re
getting Zen all worked up.”

“Jewelry seems to be mighty upsettin’,” Y.D. commented. “There was
nothin’ like that in our engagement, eh, Jessie? Well, to come to the
point. There was a fire which burned up the valley of the South Y.D.
Fires don’t start themselves--usually. This one started among the
Landson stacks, so it was natural enough to suspec’ Y.D. or some of his
sympathizers. Well it wasn’t Y.D., an’ I reckon it wasn’t Zen, an’ it
wasn’t Transley nor Linder an’ every one of the gang’s accounted for
excep’ Drazk. Drazk thought he was doin’ a great piece of business when
he fired the Landson hay, but when the wind turned an’ burned up the
whole valley Drazk sees where he can’t play no hero part around here so
he loses himself for good. I gathered from Transley that Drazk had been
botherin’ you a little, Zen, which is why I told you.”

The girl’s heart was pounding violently at this explanation. It was
logical, and would be accepted readily by those who knew Drazk. She
would not trust herself in further conversation, so she slipped away as
soon as she could and spent the day riding down by the river.

The afternoon wore on, and as the day was warm she dismounted by a ford
and sat down upon a flat rock close to the water. The rock reminded her
of the one on which she and Grant had sat that night while the thin red
lines of fire played far up and down the valley. Her ankle was paining
a little so she removed her boot and stocking and soothed it in the cool
water.

As she sat watching her reflection in the clear stream and toying with
the ripple about her foot a horseman rode quickly down through the
cottonwoods on the other side and plunged into the ford. It happened
so quickly that neither saw the other until he was well into the river.
Although she had had no dream of seeing him here, in some way she felt
no surprise. Her heart was behaving boisterously, but she sat outwardly
demure, and when he was close enough she sent a frank smile up to him.
The look on his sunburned face as he returned her greeting convinced her
that the meeting, on his part, was no less unexpected and welcome than
it was to her.

When his horse was out of the water he dismounted and walked to her with
extended hand.

“This is an unexpected pleasure,” he said. “How is the ankle
progressing?”

“Well enough,” she returned, “but it gets tired as the day wears on. I
am just resting a bit.”

There was a moment of somewhat embarrassed silence.

“That is a good-sized rock,” he suggested, at length.

“Yes, isn’t it? And here in the shade, at that.”

She did not invite him with words, but she gave her body a slight hitch,
as though to make room, although there was enough already. He sat down
without comment.

“Not unlike a rock I remember up in the foothills,” he remarked, after a
silence.

“Oh, you remember that? It WAS like this, wasn’t it?”

“Same two people sitting on it.”

“.... Yes.”

“Not like this, though.”

“No.... You’re mean. You know I didn’t intend to fall asleep.”

“Of course not. Still....”

His voice lingered on it as though it were a delightful remembrance.

She found herself holding one of her hands in the other. She could feel
the pressure of Transley’s ring on her palm, and she held it tighter
still.

“Riding anywhere in particular?” he inquired.

“No. Just mooning.” She looked up at him again, this time at close
quarters. It was a quick, bright flash on his face--a moment only.

“Why mooning?”

She did not answer. Looking down in the water he met her gaze there.

“You’re troubled!” he exclaimed.

“Oh, no! My--my ankle hurts a little.”

He looked at her sympathetically. “But not that much,” he said.

She gave a forced little laugh. “What a mind reader you are! Can you
tell my fortune?”

“I should have to read it in your hand.”

She would have extended her hand, but for Transley’s ring.

“No.... No. You’ll have to read it in--in the stars.”

“Then look at me.” She did so, innocently.

“I cannot read it there,” he said, after his long gaze had begun to whip
the color to her cheeks. “There is no answer.”

She turned again to the water, and after a long while she heard his
voice, very low and earnest.

“Zen, I could read a fortune for you, if you would not be offended. We
are only chance acquaintances--not very well acquainted, yet--”

She knew what he meant, but she pretended she did not. Even in that
moment something came to her of Transley’s speech about love being a
game of pretence. Very well, she would play the game--this once.

“I don’t see how I could be offended at your reading my fortune,” she
murmured.

“Then this is the fortune I would read for you,” he said boldly. “I see
a young man, a rather foolish young man, perhaps, by ordinary standards,
and yet one who has found a great deal of happiness in his simple,
unconventional life. Until a short time ago he felt that life could give
him all the happiness that was worth having. He had health, strength,
hours of work and hours of pleasure, the fields, the hills, the
mountains, the sky--all God’s open places to live in and enjoy. He
thought there was nothing more.

“Well, then he found, all of a sudden, that there was something
more--everything more. He made that discovery on a calm autumn night,
when fire had blackened all the foothills and still ran in dancing red
ribbons over their distant crests. That night a great thing--two great
things--came into his life. First was something he gave. Not very much,
indeed, but typical of all it might be. It was service. And next was
something he received, something so wonderful he did not understand it
then, and does not understand it yet. It was trust. These were things he
had been leaving largely out of his life, and suddenly he discovered how
empty it was. I think there is one word for both these things, and, it
may be, for even more. You know?”

“I know,” she said, and her voice was scarcely audible.

“But it is YOUR fortune I am to read,” he corrected himself. “It has
been your fortune to open that new world to me. That can never be
undone--those gates can never be closed--no matter where the paths may
lead. Those two paths go down to the future--as all paths must--even
as this road leads away through the valley to the sunset. Zen--if only,
like this road, they could run side by side to the sunset--Oh! Zen, if
they could?”

“I know,” she said, and as she raised her face he saw that her eyes were
wet. “I know--if only they could!”

There was a little sob in her voice, and in her beauty and distress
she was altogether irresistible. He reached out his arms and would have
taken her in them, but she thrust her hands in his and held herself
back. She turned the diamond deliberately to his eyes. She could feel
his grip relax and apparently grow suddenly cold. He stood speechless,
like one dazed--benumbed.

“You see, I should not have let you talk--it is my fault,” she said,
speaking hurriedly. “I should not have let you talk. Please do not think
I am shallow; that I let you suffer to gratify my vanity.” Her eyes
found his again. “If I had not believed every word you said--if I had
not liked every word you said--if I had not--HOPED--every word you said,
I would not have listened.... But you see how it is.”

He was silent for so long that she thought he was not going to answer
her at all. When he spoke it was in a dry, parched voice.

“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I should not have presumed--”

“I know, I know. If only--”

Then he looked straight at her and talked out.

“You liked me enough to let me speak as I did. I opened my heart to
you. I ask no such concession in return. I hope you will not think me
presumptuous, but I do not plead now for my happiness, but for yours. Is
this irrevocable? Are--you--sure?”

He said the last words so slowly and deliberately that she felt that
each of them was cutting the very rock from underneath her. She knew
she was at a junction point in her life, and her mind strove to quickly
appraise the situation. On one side was this man who had for her so
strange and so powerful an appeal. It was only by sheer force of will
that she could hold herself aloof from him. But he was a man who had
broken with his family and quarrelled with her father--a man whom her
father would certainly not for a moment consider as a son-in-law. He
was a foreman; practically a ranch hand. Neither Zen nor her father were
snobs, and if Grant worked for a living, so did Transley. That was not
to be counted against him. The point was, what kind of living did he
earn? What Transley had to offer was perhaps on a lower plane, but
it was more substantial. It had been approved by her father, and her
mother, and herself. It wasn’t as though one man were good and the other
bad; it wasn’t as though one thing were right and the other 

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