Nevada (1995) (11 page)

"Reckon I have, and I'll bet you Ina squeals with joy. Let's g
o
tell her this minute."

Hettie peeped through the corral fence at California Red.

"Good-by, you beautiful, stand-off wild thing!" she cried. "Som
e
day some one will come and he'll tame you to eat out of my hand."

With arms locked, Hettie and Ben hurried down the lane, eager wit
h
the import of new hopes, happier than they had been for a lon
g
time. It was Ben now who talked, while Hettie kept silent. Sh
e
thrilled with the consciousness that she had roused Ben from
a
creeping sad abstraction that had grown more noticeable of late.

Ben not only missed his old friend, Nevada, but also the wild-horse-
h
unting life which had been his sole occupation for years befor
e
his marriage, and which had been the cause of the alienation fro
m
his father.

Ina was in the yard, gathering violets, which certainly matched th
e
blue of her spring dress and the color of her eyes. Little Blain
e
babbled at sight of his father and ran as fast as his short fa
t
legs could carry him.

"Well, good-mawnin', you-all!" said Ina, gayly. "Say, you loo
k
excited." . . . Then she kissed Hettie and continued, "Many happy
,
happy returns of the day."

Ben snatched the boy up and, holding him on his arm, he confronte
d
Ina with a smile that held great portent.

"How soon can you get ready for a trip to San Francisco?" he asked
,
quite naturally, as if he were in the habit of speaking so ever
y
day.

"What! Oh, I knew something was up," she cried, the color flashin
g
to her beautiful face. "How soon? . . . Fifteen minutes!"

"Ha! Ha! I thought you'd hit the saddle and ride that ide
a
pronto," said Ben, happily. "But you needn't be so swift as that."

"Ben, are you really going to take me to Frisco?" asked Ina
,
eagerly.

"Yes. It's all settled. But--"

"You darling," she cried, kissing him. "I wanted to go somewhere.

The winter has been so long, so confining. Klamath Falls was m
y
hope. But San Francisco! Oh!"

"Ina, I'm sorry I don't think of such things," replied Ben
,
ruefully. "I guess I'd fallen into a rut. You must thank Hettie."

Whereupon Ina most heartily embraced Hettie, and then, coming dow
n
to earth, she said: "Let's go in to breakfast. You can tell m
e
there all about this grand idea."

"We'll tell you now," said Ben. "The trip to Frisco is on mother'
s
account and we mustn't discuss it before her. The fact is, Ina
,
mother is failing. Something wrong with her. Hettie suggested w
e
take her to San Francisco to see a competent physician. Blain
e
will be safe with Hettie and so will the ranch. What do you say
,
dearest?"

"I say it's a happy and wise suggestion," returned Ina, with a no
d
of commendation toward Hettie. "This damp cold Tule Lake does no
t
agree with mother."

The only hitch in the plans formulated by Ben and Hettie concerne
d
the coming of Marvie Blaine to stay at the Ide ranch. Hart Blain
e
would not allow his son to go.

"That boy can't run a mowin' machine, let alone a ranch," ol
d
Blaine had said to Ben.

There was trouble between Marvie and his father, for which, i
n
Ben's opinion, both were equally to blame.

"Sure reminds me of my scrap with dad," remarked Ben to Hettie.

"Only _I_ was right and dad was wrong. Marvie refused to go t
o
college. Reckon he's not so different from me. He likes horse
s
and the open country."

"Some day Marvie will run off just as you did, Ben Ide," Hettie ha
d
answered.

So Hettie was left alone in the Ide homestead with little Blain
e
and the two women servants. She rather welcomed the solitude. Sh
e
found how much her mother had taken of time and thought. Part o
f
the day she had the servants take care of Blaine while she devote
d
herself to the many set tasks at hand and the new ones alway
s
arising. After supper, when Blaine had been put to bed, she ha
d
hours to be alone and think before her own rest claimed her.

The running of the ranch had at first seemed something that woul
d
be pleasure, rather than work. She discovered presently that i
t
was not only work, but an extremely embarrassing and exasperatin
g
task. There were eighteen hands employed on the lake ranch, and a
s
many more out in the hills. Most of these employees were young me
n
of the valley, unmarried, and very desirous of changing that stat
e
of single blessedness. Some had been schoolmates of Hettie's. An
d
there were several riders, long, lean, rangy fellows from th
e
South, with whom Hettie grew most annoyed. They continually foun
d
reasons to ride in to the ranch. Some of the excuses wer
e
ridiculous in the extreme. These droll boys of the open range pai
d
court to her, wholly oblivious of her rebuffs. In two weeks' tim
e
the whole contingent was in love with Hettie or trying to make he
r
believe so. And the plowing, the planting, the movement of stock
,
the hauling of supplies, the herding of cattle, in fact all task
s
pertaining to the operation of Ben Ide's ranches, had to be talke
d
over elaborately with the temporary mistress.

Hettie had fun out of it, except in the case of the several lean-
f
aced, quiet-eyed riders from the hills. They made love to her.

Moreover, they reminded her of Nevada, and that inflamed he
r
lonely, hungry heart.

If Nevada had come to mind often in the past, what did he do no
w
but haunt every hour? She saw him in every one of the rang
e
riders. Yet how incomparably he bestrode a horse! Hettie saw hi
s
lean, fine still face, so clean cut and brown, with the sleepy eye
s
that yet could wake to flame and also smile with a light she ha
d
never seen in any other. His old black sombrero, with bullet hole
s
in the crown, when laid aside had appeared a disreputable thing
,
but on his head it had seemed picturesque and beautiful. His ol
d
silk scarf with the checks of red, the yellow vest with the strin
g
of a little tobacco pouch always hanging out of a pocket, the wor
n
leather wristbands, the high top-boots with their scalloped edges
,
and their long bright jingling spurs--how well she remembered them
,
how vividly they were limned in the eye of her memory! Then, a
s
something inevitable at the end of reminiscence, something tha
t
seemed an inseparable part of Nevada, she recalled the dark an
d
heavy gun he had always worn. It had bumped against her as sh
e
walked beside him. When he had taken her in his arms, even in th
e
sweet madness of that moment, she had felt the gun hard and col
d
against her.

The years had brought Hettie stronger and deeper love for Nevada.

As she looked back now she remembered her open aversion to his gun
,
and to the something about him that hinted of its deadly use. Sh
e
had been a callow, sentimental girl, sickened at the thought o
f
bloodshed, hostile toward the spirit and skill that had eventuall
y
saved her brother from ruin and perhaps herself from the villainou
s
Setter.

She had lived and suffered during the four years since Nevada ha
d
ridden away, leaving death and calamity behind him. She was
a
woman now. She saw differently. She divined what she had been t
o
him--how her friendship and love had uplifted him. How great an
d
enduring had her own love become! She was his alone. Separatio
n
could never change her.

"What did it matter who Nevada was or what he was before he came t
o
Ben and me?" she mused, sitting by the open window in the dark
,
listening to the last sleepy honks of wild geese and the melanchol
y
peep-peep of spring frogs. "But he could not see that. Yet h
e
must have known it would not matter to me, so long as he kep
t
himself the Nevada we knew and loved. . . . Would he ever fall t
o
rustling cattle, if that had once been his crime? No! Would h
e
ever drink again? No! Could he sink to the embrace of some ba
d
woman? Never! . . . Will he use again that terrible gun? . . .

Ah, he WILL! I feel it. If not for himself, then for som
e
one. . . . He was flame and lightning to destroy!"

Chapter
six.

Hettie's folk did not return from San Francisco on the date the
y
had specified, nor did she receive any letter from them. Every da
y
thereafter she expected them, only to be disappointed. This, adde
d
to the increasing perplexity of the duties that had been left t
o
her, and the persistence of her admirers, wore her into such
a
nervous state that she failed to keep her boast about running th
e
ranch.

One day several strangers from Klamath Falls called upon Hettie.

They were business men, representing an Oregon syndicate, who wer
e
buying up land around Tule Lake Valley. There had bee
n
considerable speculation in that vicinity since the draining of th
e
lake. The Ides had received offers before, but never anything lik
e
the one made by these men. Hettie was shrewd enough to grasp tha
t
some situation had arisen, such as the possibility of a railroa
d
from Klamath Falls, to increase the value of the Ide propert
y
enormously. She neither refused nor accepted the offer, sayin
g
that control of the ranches was in her brother's hand. He
r
amazement and gratification, however, lingered after thei
r
departure. She scarcely ever thought of herself as sharing equall
y
with Ben the fortune their father had left them.

Hettie happened to be out on the farm somewhere when her peopl
e
returned; and upon coming back to the house, hot and dusty an
d
weary, what was her surprise and joy to be waylaid in the hall b
y
her mother and Ina. It took no second glance to see that th
e
little trip had been happily beneficial, especially to her mother.

When they reached the sitting room, Hettie was on the verge o
f
tears. Sight of Ben then was too much for her, and she ran weepin
g
into his outstretched arms.

"Oh--Ben," she cried, "I--I fell down on running the ranch! . . .

The silly fools nagged me--to death!"

"Who?" queried Ben, suddenly aghast.

"The boys--and some of the men--too. They just--made my life--
m
iserable."