Boulder Dam. Zane Grey
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“Only I’ll always be afraid to hunt for a job again. Because that is how I fell into this terrible fix.”
“Miss, you needn’t tell me if you’d rather not. Only I—”
“Oh, I must tell you,” she interposed earnestly. “You’re kind—and nice . . . I can trust you. I’m alone—no friends—no relations—no home. You might be the friend I need so dreadfully.”
“I will be,” rejoined Lynn. “As I told you, Lynn Weston is my name. Did you ever hear of it?”
“No. But your face is familiar. I’ve seen it somewhere. Are you in the movies?”
“Good Lord, no. I was just a football player—soon forgotten.”
Apparently the girl had gotten over the worst of her fright by this time for she began, eagerly. “My name is Anne Vandergrift. I’m nearly twenty. I was born in Salem, Illinois. My mother died when I was little. A few years ago my father followed her. But before he died he arranged for a friend of his, Henry Smith, who had gone to Los Angeles, to give me work. I came West. Mr. Smith sent me to business school for six months and then employed me. I lived with his family and was happy. Then came the Depression. It ruined Mr. Smith. He committed suicide. His family had to get out and fare for themselves. So did I. Jobs were easy to get. But I couldn’t keep them—I—I couldn’t—”
“Why not?” Lynn interposed deliberately and turned to look at her. That done he had neither inclination nor power to avert his fascinated gaze.
“Because the men who offered me jobs or tried me out wanted me to—to go out with them. I just couldn’t see it their way. So I kept tramping the streets. I lived on my savings, and they dwindled until I was broke. My landlady kept my few belongings and turned me out. . . . That day on Main Street I found an employment agency with a sign in the window, girls wanted. I went in. A woman told me she had jobs for waitresses in Las Vegas. That the town was booming with the building of Boulder Dam. I said I’d be glad to take any wages and go at once. Then she questioned me sharply, asked about relatives or friends in Los Angeles. When I explained I had none she said she would send me to Las Vegas that day by bus. She’d pay my fare and have someone meet me in Las Vegas. I had only an hour to get ready. I was ready, right then, and so I told her.”
“Well, Anne,” Lynn spoke up dryly as she paused for breath. “Strikes me you were pretty much of a tenderfoot to fall for that line so easily.”
“I was. . . . That woman went with me, put me on a bus. There were several other girls, two that I didn’t care to talk to. And one who couldn’t speak English. Other passengers got on at San Bernardino and Barstow. But I didn’t get acquainted with them. It was after dark when the bus got to Las Vegas. A man with a thin dark face and sharp dark eyes met me as if he knew me and took me to a house and gave me a room upstairs. He said he’d send my supper up to me—that Las Vegas was a wild town and I mustn’t go out. I was too tired and excited even to eat much.”
“Anne, you don’t look like a dumbbell,” Lynn burst out almost heatedly at the girl’s evident innocence. “Why, any kid would have been suspicious of that situation.”
“I thought it was strange, but I had no choice,” she went on mournfully. “I slept like a log. And I was awakened by a hard-faced woman who brought my breakfast. She told me to hurry and eat and said she’d be up again right away to talk about work. I ate my breakfast in bed and was just about to get up and dress when the woman came in again. She locked the door and gathered up my clothes. Then she went out and locked the door. I was horrified. But still I didn’t quite understand. When I began to look around I discovered the only window was a skylight in the ceiling. The walls were thick—the door heavy. Then I realized I was a captive. I wrapped a blanket round me. It seemed a long time before I heard any noise. Then I heard voices outside the door. It was a young man that entered—a well-dressed, smooth-faced chap, good-looking except for his eyes. They were hot, like molten metal. He carried a thin shiny whip in his hand. He talked sweet—I forget his words—tried to get fresh, and when I flung him off he cut me across the leg with the whip. . . . Look here.”
Whereupon the girl, now pale and earnest in her story, dropped the slipper off her right foot and let the blanket fall from her knees. She pulled up the pajamas Lynn had lent her and showed a shapely leg with a cruel red welt marring its white beauty.
Lynn bit his tongue to keep back a wrathful curse and could only stare in amazement and anger.
“That cut hurt so terribly I fell right down on the floor,” resumed the girl, once more lifting the blanket over her knees. “He would have struck me again, surely, when another man entered. He was older and had a face like a hawk. His right hand was in his pocket, and he stuck it out at the younger fellow. ‘Beat it!’ he said. As the first man ran out a third man came in. He was not young and somehow he was different. He looked only at my face. ‘It’s the girl I want, Bellew,’ he said. ‘She’s the one I saw brought off the bus. . . .’ Bellew said, ‘Cost you ten grand, Ben Sneed,’ ‘Listen, hophead,’ replied Sneed, and his voice cut like a blade, ‘I’ll pay the ten grand, but right now—and take her away as soon as I can.’
“I remember every word they spoke. And I saw how Bellew stood with that pocket of his pointed toward Sneed. He had a gun in it, because I’d seen that in the movies. . . . ‘Bellew, I’ll talk turkey with you,’ Sneed said, cold as ice. ‘You lock this girl in here. You can go with me while I dig up that ten grand.’ ‘Ben you’re not the big shot in this burg,’ snarled Bellew. ‘You’re only a booze peddler. This is my racket.’ ‘Yes,’ said Sneed, ‘this racket is yours, all right, along with other dirty rackets, one of which is hijacking my trucks. I’m wise to you. And one more blow like that will be curtains for you and all of your gang. It’s not my way to talk turkey with men like you. That’s on account of this girl. . . . Come on, now, scram.’
“They left the room,” whispered Anne Vandergrift, moistening her lips. “I was alone. I don’t know whether the time dragged or flew. But the room began to get dark. I knew the sun had set. It grew night. I could only wait and pray. After a while I heard loud voices—footsteps. I listened. The woman was being dragged up the stairs. More men came running up the stairs. A fight followed. Blows, curses! I found myself free and stumbled down a stairway that opened into an alley. From there I got on the main street. I ran as fast as I could, holding the blanket round me. At first someone followed me, I was sure. But I got away—up that side street—where I found your car. I tried to start it, but couldn’t. I only had enough strength to crawl in the back and hide. . . . That’s all, Mr. Weston—and here I am.”
She sat back in the rocker, pale and breathless from her recital, her gaze intent upon Lynn. He saw that her eyes were unusually large and gray-green in color. She had nut-brown hair, curly and disheveled, with glints of a lighter shade in it. Her face was cast in a mold that would have been beautiful even without expression or glow. Her eyes were wide apart under level brows. Cheek and chin and neck all merged in a perfect contour without line or blemish, and a faint blue tracery of veins showed through the pearly skin.
“Some story!” Lynn exclaimed huskily. “You had a lucky break! . . . Let me find you pencil and paper so you can write out that list before you go to bed.”
“Won’t it look strange—you buying all these woman’s things?”
“I’ll get a woman to do it.”
“What will she think?”
“By George! I’ll have to fix that somehow. Because I want to find a job for you over at the supply camp. I’ll puzzle it out. . . . Slip out of that coat, please. I’ll need it. And I’ll take this blanket you brought with you. Go to bed now and sleep. You’ll be warm—and safe.”
She stood up to comply with his request, and despite his ill-fitting pajamas she presented a picture he would not soon forget.
“And you—you’ll be where you can hear me?”
“Just outside.”
“Won’t