Dennison Grant Part 17

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 appet.i.te of antic.i.p.ation 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 a.s.sumed 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 a.s.sociate 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 embarra.s.sed 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...."