The Desert of Wheat. Zane Grey

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ line ahead, and half the time they were wholly obscured in yellow dust. He began thinking about Lenore Anderson, just pondering that strange, steady look of a girl's eyes; and then he did not mind the dust or heat or distance. Never could he be cheated of his thoughts. And those of her, even the painful ones, gave birth to a comfort that he knew must abide with him henceforth on lonely labors such as this, perhaps in the lonelier watches of a soldier's duty. She had been curious, aloof, then sympathetic; she had studied his face; she had been an eloquent-eyed listener to his discourse on wheat. But she had not guessed his secret. Not until her last look—strange, deep, potent—had he guessed that secret himself.

      So, with mind both busy and absent, Kurt Dorn harrowed the fallow ground abandoned by his men; and when the day was done, with the sun setting hot and coppery beyond the dim, dark ranges, he guided the tired horses homeward and plodded back of them, weary and spent.

      He was to learn from Morgan, at the stables, that the old man had discharged both Andrew and Jansen. And Jansen, liberating some newly assimilated poison, had threatened revenge. He would see that any hired men would learn a thing or two, so that they would not sign up with Chris Dorn. In a fury the old man had driven Jansen out into the road.

      Sober and moody, Kurt put the horses away, and, washing the dust grime from sunburnt face and hands, he went to his little attic room, where he changed his damp and sweaty clothes. Then he went down to supper with mind made up to be lenient and silent with his old and sorely tried father.

      Chris Dorn sat in the light of the kitchen lamps. He was a huge man with a great, round, bullet-shaped head and a shock of gray hair and bristling, grizzled beard. His face was broad, heavy, and seemed sodden with dark, brooding thought. His eyes, under bushy brows, were pale gleams of fire. He looked immovable as to both bulk and will.

      Never before had Kurt Dorn so acutely felt the fixed, contrary, ruthless nature of his parent. Never had the distance between them seemed so great. Kurt shivered and sighed at once. Then, being hungry, he fell to eating in silence. Presently the old man shoved his plate back, and, wiping his face, he growled, in German:

      "I discharged Andrew and Jansen."

      "Yes, I know," replied Kurt. "It wasn't good judgment. What'll we do for hands?"

      "I'll hire more. Men are coming for the harvest."

      "But they all belong to the I.W.W.," protested Kurt.

      "And what's that?"

      In scarcely subdued wrath Kurt described in detail, and to the best of his knowledge, what the I.W.W. was, and he ended by declaring the organization treacherous to the United States.

      "How's that?" asked old Dorn, gruffly.

      Kurt was actually afraid to tell his father, who never read newspapers, who knew little of what was going on, that if the Allies were to win the war it was wheat that would be the greatest factor. Instead of that he said if the I.W.W. inaugurated strikes and disorder in the Northwest it would embarrass the government.

      "Then I'll hire I.W.W. men," said old Dorn.

      Kurt battled against a rising temper. This blind old man was his father.

      "But I'll not have I.W.W. men on the farm," retorted Kurt. "I just punched one I.W.W. solicitor."

      "I'll run this farm. If you don't like my way you can leave," darkly asserted the father.

      Kurt fell back in his chair and stared at the turgid, bulging forehead and hard eyes before him. What could be behind them? Had the war brought out a twist in his father's brain? Why were Germans so impossible?

      "My Heavens! father, would you turn me out of my home because we disagree?" he asked, desperately.

      "In my country sons obey their fathers or they go out for themselves."

      "I've not been a disobedient son," declared Kurt. "And here in America sons have more freedom—more say."

      "America has no sense of family life—no honest government. I hate the country."

      A ball of fire seemed to burst in Kurt.

      "That kind of talk infuriates me," he blazed. "I don't care if you are my father. Why in the hell did you come to America? Why did you stay? Why did you marry my mother—an American woman? … That's rot—just spiteful rot! I've heard you tell what life was in Europe when you were a boy. You ran off. You stayed in this country because it was a better country than yours. … Fifty years you've been in America—many years on this farm. And you love this land. … My God! father, can't you and men like you see the truth?"

      "Aye, I can," gloomily replied the old man. "The truth is we'll lose the land. That greedy Anderson will drive me off."

      "He will not. He's fine—generous," asserted Kurt, earnestly. "All he wanted was to see the prospects of the harvest and perhaps to help you. Anderson has not had interest on his money for three years. I'll bet he's paid interest demanded by the other stockholders in that bank you borrowed from. Why, he's our friend!"

      "Aye, and I see more," boomed the father. "He fetched his lass up here to make eyes at my son. I saw her—the sly wench! … Boy, you'll not marry her!"

      Kurt choked back his mounting rage.

      "Certainly I never will," he said, bitterly. "But I would if she'd have me."

      "What!" thundered Dorn, his white locks standing up and shaking like the mane of a lion. "That wheat banker's daughter! Never! I forbid it. You shall not marry any American girl."

      "Father, this is idle, foolish rant," cried Kurt, with a high warning note in his voice. "I've no idea of marrying. … But if I had one—whom else could I marry except an American girl?"

      "I'll sell the wheat—the land. We'll go back to Germany!"

      That was maddening to Kurt. He sprang up, sending dishes to the floor with a crash. He bent over to pound the table with a fist. Violent speech choked him and he felt a cold, tight blanching of his face.

      "Listen!" he rang out. "If I go to Germany it'll be as a soldier—to kill Germans! … I'm done—I'm through with the very name. … Listen to the last words I'll ever speak to you in German—the last! To hell with Germany!"

      Then Kurt plunged, blind in his passion, out of the door into the night. And as he went he heard his father cry out, brokenly:

      "My son! Oh, my son!"

      The night was dark and cool. A faint wind blew across the hills, and it was dry, redolent, sweet. The sky seemed an endless curving canopy of dark blue blazing with myriads of stars.

      Kurt staggered out of the yard, down along the edge of a wheat-field, to one of the straw-stacks, and there he flung himself down in an agony.

      "Oh, I'm ruined—ruined!" he moaned. "The break—has come! … Poor old dad!"

      He leaned there against the straw, shaking and throbbing, with a cold perspiration bathing face and body. Even the palms of his hands were wet. A terrible fit of anger was beginning to loose its hold upon him. His breathing was labored in gasps and sobs. Unutterable stupidity of his father—horrible cruelty of his position! What had he ever done in all his life to suffer under such СКАЧАТЬ