Nevada (1995) (10 page)

Hettie climbed to a seat beside her brother.

"Mawnin', pard," she drawled, mimicking the Southern accent of on
e
neither of them ever forgot.

Ben gave a little start. He had been gazing out over the re
d
stallion, over the corrals and fields and the sage slopes, t
o
something beyond. Hettie did not often take such liberty with he
r
brother. But this was her birthday and she meant to recal
l
something of the past that might hurt them both.

"Wal, howdy there, old girl!" replied Ben, surprising her with hi
s
answering drawl. Beneath the humor in his voice lay deep feeling.

But as he reached for her with his gloved hand he did not look a
t
her.

"What're you doing, Ben?" she asked, brightly, as she took his han
d
in both hers.

"I was just coaxing that red son-of-a-gun," he replied, nodding a
t
the stallion.

"Red doesn't seem to obey you very well."

"I'd have to rope him before he'd lay down those ears."

"Ben, you mustn't expect him to grow tame."

"Tame? No, I only want him to love me."

"Perhaps love was left out of Red's makeup," laughed Hettie. "O
r
perhaps he can't forgive you for taking him from his sage hills. I
c
ertainly wouldn't love you, if I were Red."

"It's four years now," said Ben, thoughtfully. "What a long time!

I couldn't ask a finer, gamer horse. Sure there isn't one in al
l
California that can touch him. But I--I always seem to wan
t
something from Red--I never get."

"Ben dear," replied Hettie, pressing his hand, "what you want i
s
something--some one to tame Red."

"I reckon. . . . The only man who ever could tame Red," muttere
d
Ben, more to himself than to her.

"Your old pard, Nevada," she whispered, leaning closer.

Ben dropped his head, and his gloved hand closed tight on Hettie's.

Not for a long time had Hettie dared to broach this subject and no
w
that she had, she meant to follow it up in a way to help her, an
d
perhaps Ben, too.

"Ben, this is my birthday," she spoke up, softly.

"Well, so it is," replied her brother, starting out of his reverie.

"I plumb forgot. But I reckon I can dig you up a present of som
e
kind. . . . Let's see, you must be eighteen--nineteen."

"Twenty," she added, gravely.

"How time flies! Why, you're a grown woman, and a darned fin
e
handsome one, too. But you always seem my kid sister."

And as he turned to kiss her cheek she saw tears in his dark eyes.

There were threads of gray, too, in the hair over Ben's temples.

That shocked Hettie. He, so young and strong and virile! But Ben
,
all those long years exiled from his home, outcast and wild-hors
e
hunter, had led a lonely and hard life. It was Nevada who ha
d
saved him. And now, as so often in the past, she prayed God t
o
bless Nevada, and keep him good and clean and brave as when she ha
d
known him.

"Ben," she spoke up, "I don't want any present on my twentiet
h
birthday. But I ask this. If I'm a woman now I'm old enough to b
e
listened to. Let me talk to you as I want--as I need to."

"Hettie, I'm sorry you had to ask me that," he returned
,
contritely. "But you hurt so. . . . And I thought you just a--
a
sentimental girl--that you'd forget."

"Forget HIM? Never," she whispered. "Have you forgotten?"

"If I ever do may God forgive me," replied Ben, poignantly.

"Ben, I know your secret, and I think Ina knows, too," went o
n
Hettie, earnestly. "We are dear friends--nay, we're sisters.

She's so good--so lovable. . . . We have talked often. Yo
u
remember when Ina came home from college--when you were a poor wild-
h
orse hunter of the hills and father almost hated you--remember ho
w
Ina and I plotted for you and Nevada. How we fought for you!"

"Ah, Hettie--I do remember," said Ben, dreamily.

"Well, Ina and I know what ails you. It's loss of your pard
,
Nevada!"

"No, Hettie dear, NOT all loss of mine," burst out Ben
,
passionately. "I'm not so selfish as that. I could stand loss.

But what has grieved and shamed me--and, well, broken my heart--i
s
that Nevada saved me, made all my good fortune, my happiness
,
possible, by sacrificing himself. Father forgave me, took me bac
k
home to mother and you. Hart Blaine was proud to give me--ME, th
e
lonely wild-horse hunter--his talented and beautiful daughter, th
e
richest girl in all this valley of rich ranchers. I had fame
,
family, home, love, happiness beyond belief. Then father died
,
leaving me rich. I should say leaving us rich, for half of al
l
this wonderful ranch is yours, Hettie. Next little Blaine came t
o
bless me--my boy! . . . And Nevada went back to where he cam
e
from. God only knows where that is. I've spent a lot of mone
y
searching the West for a lean-faced rider who drawled his Texa
s
accent--and answered to the name Nevada. And I can't find him."

"Some day you will, Ben," she whispered, thrillingly.

"Always I believed I would," went on Ben, whose tongue, onc
e
loosed, seemed in haste to unburden itself. "I lived on that hope.

But it's four years now. Four years. And that Forlorn River Ranc
h
of ours is now worth a fortune. Half of that is Nevada's. Half o
f
the Mule Deer Flat Ranch is Nevada's. He's worth money. . . . Wh
y
didn't he come back? The whole country rose up to bless him fo
r
killing Less Setter and his two accomplices. Why didn't he eve
r
write? Just a line--a word to let me know he was alive and hadn'
t
forgotten. Oh, damn him--damn him!"

"Hush--Ben," returned Hettie, almost faltering. "You don't mean t
o
damn Nevada. . . . Don't you understand that the reason h
e
disappeared like that, and became as one dead to you, was no
t
because he feared the law might hold him for killing those wicke
d
men who had trapped you. No! But because he feared we would fin
d
out who he really was. Oh, I know, Ben. That was it. Nevada ha
d
been bad. How bad I dare not imagine. . . . Don't you remembe
r
that day when he rode so furiously into the crowd to face Setter?

How the mere sight of him froze them with terror. . . . Oh, Ben, I
f
ear Nevada had been some great and terrible gunman. . . . Tha
t
gentle, soft-voiced boy who was afraid to touch me with his littl
e
finger! Oh, the mystery, the pity of it!"

"Gunman?" queried Ben, almost harshly. "I reckon so. I think I
g
uessed it, he was so strange with guns. He handled a gun s
o
marvellously. But what was that to me? . . . He could be Bill
y
the Kid, or Plummer, or Wess Hardin, or Kingfisher, or Jim Lacy, o
r
any other desperado I ever heard the name of--and what would I
c
are?"

"Ben, dear, you quite overlooked something," rejoined Hettie
,
bravely, while she felt the hot blood mount to cheek and temple.

"Nevada loved not only you--but me too . . . and I--I loved him."

"Well, now, Hettie," replied Ben, strangely softened, "I recko
n
that's no news, though you never declared it so--so openly. Bu
t
even though that was true, why should it make such a difference?"

"The boy came of a good family," replied Hettie. "He had fin
e
instincts. And one of them was an instinct to disappear when ther
e
was danger of my learning who he really was. There can be no othe
r
reason. He had pride. And he loved me so--so well, he couldn'
t
bear to shame me."

"Damn him, anyway!" burst out Ben, again. "He's broken your heart
,
too."

"Not yet," replied Hettie, in strong vibrating tones.

"Hettie, did that son-of-a-gun make love to you?" queried Ben
,
struggling with his resentment and remorse.

"Did--he?" murmured she, with a little broken laugh. "Ben, when h
e
found out I cared--he--he made the most terrible love to me. . . .

Oh, I can never forget--never get over it!"

"Well!" ejaculated her brother, amazed out of his own pain. "Ho
w
and when did he ever get the chance?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" asked Hettie, archly.

"And you--my little sixteen-year-old sister! . . . Who can eve
r
tell about a girl?"

"Ben, didn't Ina Blaine love YOU when she was five years old--an
d
ten--and fourteen?" queried Hettie. "And at eighteen after she'
d
been away from you four years?"

"Thank the Lord, she did. I've never begun to understand it. Bu
t
it's beautiful, wonderful. . . . Did my pard, Nevada, ever kno
w
you, too, had that strange, glorious thing--woman's love--for him?"

"Yes, Nevada knew," replied Hettie, eloquently. "He knew he had m
y
faith, too. . . . And, Ben, THAT is why I've never lost him. I
k
now. It's the way a woman feels. Nevada is not dead. He is no
t
false to me--to what I believed he had become. And somewhere
,
somehow, he will come back to me--to us."

"My God! that's good to hear!" exclaimed Ben, with fervent emotion.

"You strike me right in the heart, Hettie."

"I'm glad. I've wanted to speak for long," replied Hettie, simply.

"And there's another thing that touches us closely."

"What's that?" he asked, anxiously, as she gazed solemnly up a
t
him, and hesitated.

"Mother is failing. Haven't you noticed it?"

Ben nodded his head sorrowfully. "I reckon I try not to see, but I
d
o."

"She has brightened up since spring came," went on Hettie. "Mothe
r
loves the sun, the trees, the flowers, the birds. She likes to b
e
outdoors. Winter is long and cold here. It rains and snows an
d
sleets. She dreads the icy wind. Honestly, Ben, I don't thin
k
it's grief for father. She has gotten over that. I believe thi
s
valley is bad for her. It's bad for me, too, in winter."

"I've been afraid of that very thing," declared her brother
,
thoughtfully. "But there's a possibility of some organic disease."

"Mother's not old," said Hettie. "She ought to live many year
s
yet. But we must do something to help her. Ben, I suggest yo
u
take her to San Francisco. Get the opinion and advice of some up-
t
o-date physician. Take Ina with you. Blaine will be safe wit
h
me. I'll run the ranch, never fear."

"By George! it's a great idea," declared Ben, with amazin
g
enthusiasm. He leaped down off the corral fence, then turned t
o
help Hettie. "Ina will be tickled. She'll get her brother Marvi
e
to stay with you."

"Ben, I actually believe you've decided already," replied Hettie
,
suddenly feeling radiant.