Forlorn River. Zane Grey
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of questions at me, all about how you were, an’ I shore answered quick. After that she looked square up at me—reckon it was then I fell—an’ she asks, ‘Nevada, if you’re Ben’s friend you’re mine, too. Tell the truth. Are you an’ Ben livin’ honest?’ An’ I says, ‘Miss Hettie, I wouldn’t lie to no girl, let alone you. Me an’ Ben are shore livin’ honest!’ . . . She squeezed my hands an’ cried. It was awful for me. Then she fired up. ‘Aren’t you two boys ashamed to be thought—what you are? This is a new country. It’ll be big. You’re young, strong. You’re great riders. Why don’t you do somethin’? Chase wild hosses, if you must, but ketch them. Sell them. Buy cattle. Homestead land. Study an’ think an’ plan, an’ work. Fool these hard-shelled old people! Make big ranchmen out of yourselves.’ . . . Pard Ben, you could have roped me with a cobweb. An’ there I stood, burstin’ to talk, but couldn’t say a word. She told me how to fetch word from you an’ then she ran off.”
“Hettie! God bless her!” exclaimed Ben, heartily. “I’m not surprised. Even as a kid she was bighearted. Hettie has grown up. She’s sixteen. And to think I’ve not seen her for two years!”
Modoc returned with the pails of water. Ben soon had breakfast ready, and when his companions sat down at the rude table he went outside to read Hettie’s letter. He threw himself in the shade and with trembling fingers tried to open the envelope quickly yet not tear it.
The Ranch.
Dearest Ben:
I’m in a terrible rush and won’t be able to write half what I want to, as the little boy said “Nevada” is waiting for me outside and I must hurry. Oh, how I wish it were you!
Dad is away. He went to Klamath Falls with Mr. Setter. They’re making big cattle deals. So many poor ranchers are failing on account of the dry season. I think it’d be more to dad’s credit if he helped some of these little fellows, instead of taking advantage of their bad luck. I don’t like Mr. Setter, and when I see you I’ll tell you why.
Ben, it’s a long time since I wrote you last. Nearly a year. I’m through high school. Dad wants me to go to college and mother wants me to stay home. Dad and Mr. Blaine and several more of the old lake pioneers have made an awful lot of money since the government drained Tule Lake. I don’t know whether it’s good or not. In a few ways it’s nice, but there’s something gone. Dad always was hard, you know, and now he has gotten “stuck up.” And I’m afraid I must tell you that your brothers and sisters (except me) are almost as bad. I’d like to write you just what they do, but you must wait until I can tell you. And that brings me to the important thing in this letter.
Mother is not well, Ben. There’s no use to dodge the truth. She’s failing. It breaks my heart. You were her favorite, Ben, and she has pined in secret. I believe dad’s bitter hardness about you, his injustice to you, has broken mother. Anyway, she is ailing and I know longs to see you. She’d obey dad, of course, and not ask you to come. But you can surprise her. And, Ben, dearest, if you could only prove to mother that you were not wasting your life—that these vile things Mr. Setter and others have told dad are lies—I think she might improve. So the day you get this ride in to the ranch. I’ll be looking for you down the lane just about dusk. You can see mother for a little, and then you and I will go out in the grove and have a long, long talk.
I’ve a lot to tell you, Ben, about what’s going on here. And I’m going to put some pretty plain questions to you. Dare say you’ll know some of them before you see me, because if I have a minute with this “Nevada” I’ll sure put some to him.
Ben, I mustn’t end this without a word about Ina Blaine. She’s home from school. I was afraid to meet her, but, oh! Ben, she’s as sweet and nice as ever she was when you and she were kid sweethearts and I was forever pestering you. And she’s lovely. School has improved her, that’s certain, and if it weren’t for mother I’d grasp my opportunity and go.
I’ve seen Ina three times. I believe we’re going to be friends. We think the same about a lot of things. Ina isn’t crazy about money, and I’ll miss my guess if she goes in for the town gayety that has struck the Blaine family.
Ben, she remembers you. I’m not in her confidence yet, but I can feel how she feels. She likes you, Ben. I don’t believe the years of school have made any difference in her, except to improve. The difference in her looks, though, is tremendous. You’ll not know Ina. Already she’s heard this village gossip about you. For she asked me straight out. I told her no, that you had your choice and took it. She wants to help you, and says we are arch plotters. She was awfully curious about that terrible wild horse they say you’re mad to catch. Brother, you know I wouldn’t mislead you, and I’m telling you I couldn’t make a mistake about how I feel—or mother—or Ina Blaine. And if we care for you still you’ve got to do something. She’ll be the richest and most popular girl in this whole valley of towns and ranches. Do you imagine that’ll ever change her? No! Ben, you’ve more to catch around these sage hills than a beautiful wild mustang. You’ve your boyhood’s sweetheart, Ina Blaine. So there!
I must close now, but it’s hard. Don’t let anything keep you from coming. I’m quite capable of riding out to Forlorn River.
With love,
Hettie.
When Ben finished the letter his eyes were blurred and he had a hard dry contraction of his throat, a pang deep in his breastbone. Wave after wave of emotion had swept over him. And then he sat there motionless, the open letter in his hands, his gaze across the gray melancholy river to the dim gray hills of sage. He did not see them. The eyes of his mind were fixed on the dear familiar scenes of boyhood, home and mother, and freckled-faced Hettie with her big loving blue eyes, on the miles of wind-swept swamp land along Tule Lake, on the schoolhouse at Hammell, and the long lane that led from the Ide ranch down to Blaines’. He saw a girl of fourteen with a chestnut braid down her back, a white pearly skin that even the summer sun could not tan, and dark eyes of velvet softness. Then the heart-numbing pictures faded for the stalwart figure of his father, iron of muscle and of mind, the gray clear eye like sunlight on ice, and the weathered wrinkled face, a record of labor and strife.
* * * *
A second and more thoughtful perusal of Hettie’s letter fixed Ben’s mind upon the most poignant and unavoidable fact of it—that pertaining to his mother. She was failing. What a terrible sickening shock ran through him! Then he was gripped in the cruel clutches of remorse. It was a bitter moment, but short because his decision to go was almost instantaneous. Folding Hettie’s letter, Ben went into the cabin.
“Modoc, saddle the gray,” he said, shortly.
The Indian laid down pan and dishcloth and abruptly glided out. Nevada looked up quickly from his task, with swift curious gleam of eyes searching Ben’s face.
“Bad news, pard?” he queried.
“Yes. Hettie says mother is—is failing, and I must come in to see her,” returned Ben, getting down his spurs and chaps. “It’d hurt like hell, Nevada, in any case, but to realize I’ve broken mother’s heart—it’s—it’s—”
With bowed head he slouched to the bed, dragging his chaps and dropping the clinking spurs, and sat down heavily.
“Ben, it’s tough news, but don’t look on the dark side,” said Nevada, with swift hand going to Ben’s shoulder. “Your mother’s not old. Seein’ you will cheer her. She’ll get well. Don’t be downcast, Ben. That’s been your disease as drink was mine. Let’s make an end to both of them. . . . Shake on it, pard!”
“By Heaven! Nevada, you’ve got something in your mind that you must drive into mine,” replied Ben, rising with violence, and jerking up his head he wrung Nevada’s hand. “I’ve got to get over not caring. Oh, it’s not that. It was that I cared too much.”
“Ben, you can’t care too much,” went on Nevada. “When you don’t care you’re no good. I never cared—till I rode into your camp on Forlorn River. . . . Let’s brace