Horse Heaven Hill. Zane Grey

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СКАЧАТЬ an invalid during his later years. He had been one of the pioneer settlers of that section of Washington, having traveled there from Pennsylvania as a young man.

      It was no wonder that the old man loved Sage Hill Ranch and that his great hope was for Stanley to carry on there. The location was beautiful, besides having many associations dear to the pioneer. The ranch house stood on a gradually rising bench of sage, which spread out from an eminence called Sage Hill. There was more pine on it than sage. The massive logs of which the house was built had come off that hill. A number of springs united to form a fine brook of cold, clear water, which was no small item in the value of the immense ranch. Weston had in the early days acquired thousands of acres which were now valuable. He owned fine standing timber; there were hundreds of horses on the thousand-acre pasture which he had fenced; and there was no end of cattle. Weston also owned wheat farms south of Wadestown.

      Stanley rode home early from Wadestown that night. An argument with Marigold, not the first by any means, had left him more than usually pensive and sad. Such moods had been more frequent of late. He had taken Marigold to task, and not for the first time, about something he believed she should not have done and they quarreled. Never again, he vowed! Then his thoughts turned to Marigold’s cousin, the girl from south Idaho who called herself Lark. “Name somehow suits her,” he thought.

      The air was cold and brisk. He slowed up a bit, so that the wind would not be so piercing. Sage Hill loomed dark against the star-fired sky. On each side of the road spread the almost flat land, dim and monotonous, spectral under the stars, and redolent with sage.

      Soon Stanley reached the winding road between the low foothills, from which it was only a short distance up the slope to the ranch house.

      The hour was still early enough for his father to be in the living room, his hands spread to a bright fire. He had a fine shaggy head and a gray rugged face. It was easy to see where Stanley got his stature.

      “Wal howdy, son, reckon I didn’t expect you home tonight,” the rancher greeted Stanley as he breezed in.

      “Glad to get home, believe me,” returned Stanley, eager to get near the fire. “It was cold. I met Marigold in town. She had a cousin with her, a girl named Burrell from Idaho. I rode back with them.”

      “Burrell. I remember him. Pardner of Wade’s years ago. Real Westerner of the old school. Married a part-Indian girl. What was the girl like?”

      “Pretty. Shy. Strange—after these girls. She won’t last long at Wade’s.”

      “Ahuh. How’d it come aboot thet she’s there?”

      “Well, I gathered that she was an orphan, living on a run-down ranch, on the Salmon River in Idaho. Do you know that country, Dad?”

      “Grand country, son. Wild yet, I reckon.”

      “I’d like to see it. . . . The Wades offered her a home and here she is. That’s all I know.”

      “Is she like these heah town lasses?” asked Weston shortly.

      “How do you mean, Dad?” inquired Stanley, his eyes twinkling.

      “Wal, aboot the flirtin’—leadin’ the boys on an’ so forth?”

      Stanley laughed heartily at his father. The modern young woman was one of the incomprehensible things to the older man’s generation. They were not out of accord on the subject, though Stanley, being a college graduate, sought to preserve a broad, liberal mind.

      “No, Dad. Lark is not in the least like ‘these here town lasses.’ I wonder—”

      “Lark? Thet her name?”

      “Yes. I couldn’t tell you just why, but it suits her.”

      “Sight better’n Marigold. Thet’s a hell of a name,” growled Weston. “Suppose you fetch Lark up to see me. I get lonesome oftener than I used to. Mebbe we’d hit it off. I’d like to know somethin’ aboot thet Salmon country.”

      “Dad, I’ll be glad to,” spoke up Stanley, surprised. “Bet she’d like to come. . . . It’s a long time, though, Dad, since you asked to see Marigold.”

      Stanley spoke with unconscious wistfulness, and half to himself. The old man was silent. He turned round before the fire. Stanley sighed.

      “Dad, you don’t approve of Marigold. Oh, I know, and it worries me.”

      “Wal, son, do you approve of her?” inquired the rancher, in his blunt way.

      The query shocked Stanley and brought a recurrence of the mood in which he had not long since left Marigold.

      “Dad, a fellow must certainly approve of the girl he’s going to marry.”

      “Ahuh. I reckon so, an’ make himself blind to do it.”

      “Dad, let’s have it out. Let’s lay the cards on the table. . . . Gradually you have lost something for Marigold. You used to love her.”

      The rancher pulled his chair closer to the fire, opening his big hands to the warmth, as was his habit.

      “Put a couple of chunks on, Stan. . . . Shore, I used to love Mari. Before you went to college an’ she growed up. Mother was livin’ then. She was fond of Mari. But all seems changed, son. I don’t say Mari isn’t lovable yet. She is. But, if you must know, I can’t stand the change in her lately.”

      “What do you mean, Dad?” questioned Stanley gravely.

      “Wal, you know, son, I reckon.”

      “Yes, I know, but do you?”

      “Son, I can see what the girl has on her mind, which is not much these days. I can see how she acts an’ I can heah what she says—an’ what’s said aboot her.”

      “You’ve heard gossip about Marigold?”

      “Reckon I have, son.”

      “Those gabby old women friends of yours! . . . Dad, I don’t want to get sore. But they don’t understand Marigold and neither do you. How often have I tried to make you see! Times are changing. More women go to college and become more independent.”

      Stanley spoke with earnest passion and he anticipated a pondering wait for an answer. But it came like a flash.

      “Stan,” the rancher said, “my advice to you is marry her just as quick as ever you can. Wifehood and motherhood have been natural to women for a long time. This heah foolin’ around hasn’t been. An’ it’s takin’ a risk. I’m not blamin’ the girls, Stan. I’m blamin’ the times. An’ if I was you I’d put a halter on Mari.”

      “Dad, I must confess to you,” returned Stanley shamefacedly, “I—I quarreled with Marigold tonight over that very thing. I wanted her to marry me in June. She refused—said she could not possibly get ready before June a year. I argued with her, tried to persuade her. No go! She wants her freedom for a while. That riled me, of course. We had it out hot and heavy. And I beat it home before the storm subsided.”

      “Ahuh. Wal, what’re you goin’ to do aboot it?”

      “I СКАЧАТЬ