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.