Knights of the Range. Zane Grey
thet they’d stick. Shore I’d have to stand fer hell itself. But I could do it.”
“Britt, I agree you can handle cows and men. Your idea is great. There’s only one drawback. My daughter. Think of that young girl, lovely, like an unfoldin’ rose, innocent, full of fire and joy, as mistress of the hardest outfit of cowboys ever thrown together in the West. . . . My God, Britt—think of it!”
“I been thinkin’. It’d been better fer us, an’ Holly, too, if she hadn’t had them nine years in school. But thet cain’t be helped now. If you are keen to have Holly live her life oot heah, keep up the great house of Ripple, thet’s the way to do it—an’ the only way.”
“Would you risk it, if Holly was your child?” queried the rancher, hoarsely.
“I shore would. Holly is no ordinary girl. She will rise to the occasion. . . . Run yore herd an’ yore house—wal, by thunder! I’ll bet on her!”
“She shall choose,” shot out Colonel Ripple, strung with emotion. “We will tell her the truth and let her decide. I have been tortured between the devil and the deep sea. I want her to live here. Yet if she prefers San Antonio or New Orleans, I shall not let her see my disappointment.”
“Boss, you’ll shore never be disappointed in Holly. I reckon, seein’ how het up you air, thet we’d better call her oot an’ get it over. But I’d rather face a bunch of ridin’ Comanches.”
“Holly!” called the Colonel, his rich voice ringing.
As there was no answer from the house, Britt arose to go in search of the girl. All the rooms in the front of the wonderful old Spanish mansion opened out on the arched porch. Britt went through the wide hall to the patio, where his spurs clinked musically upon the flagstones. But the girl was not to be found near the sunny fountain, or among the roses, or in the hammock under the dense canopy of vines. Britt went into the living-room, and halted a moment in the shadowed light. Then from the porch came a gay contralto voice. He went out, lagging a little.
Holly stood beside her father’s chair. And Britt had a tingling recurrence of the emotion the girl had roused in him when he saw her first after her arrival from New Orleans: a strange yearning to be young again, to be the very flower of fine, noble manhood, handsome, gifted, rich, worthy.
“Howdy, Holly,” he drawled. “I was oot lookin’ fer you.”
“You old hawk-nosed, hawk-eyed devil! What have you been putting into Dad’s head?”
Britt laughed and found himself forthwith. Holly Ripple had a regal air. She looked her aristocratic Spanish lineage. Her great dark eyes and her exquisitely pale skin came to her from the Castilian Valverdes. But Britt had only to hear her to know that she was American, and Lee Ripple’s daughter, and that she belonged to the West.
“Lass, I reckon it’s been yore Dad puttin’ things into my haid,” replied Britt, and resumed his comfortable seat.
“You both look like owls,” said the girl, and she slid on to the arm of her father’s chair.
“Holly, dear, it’s only fair that you learn at once the serious side of your home-comin’,” replied the Colonel.
“Serious?” she asked, with a puzzled smile.
“Indeed it is. Back me up, Britt.”
“Wal, lass, I reckon it’s nothin’ to make you feel bad,” said Britt, feeling his way and meeting squarely those compelling eyes. “You’re oot West now. You’ve been heah three days. An’ it’s just sense to tell you pronto what we air up against.”
“Ah, I see,” Holly rejoined, soberly. “Very well. Tell me. I left Don Carlos’ Rancho a child and I have come back a woman.”
“Holly, look down there,” spoke up her father, pointing to the grazing lands below. “All those black dots are cattle. Thousands of cattle. They are mine. And all I have to hold them is a wavy brand from shoulder to flank. A ripple! . . . Times are changin’. We expect the wildest years this section of the West has ever known. When we came back from Santone by stage, you saw Indians, soldiers, cowboys, pioneers, rough men galore. You saw buffalo by the million, and cattle and horses almost as many. In short, you rode across Texas and you saw wild life. . . . But nothin’, my daughter, compared to what you will see heah in New Mexico the next decade—if you stay.”
“If I stay?” she echoed, with a curious intentness.
“Yes. Because I meant it to be a matter of your own choice,” he went on, swiftly. “Rustlers—that is the western name for cattle-thieves—and a horde of hardened men of differin’ types will ride into New Mexico. There will be fightin’, Holly. . . . Now, for instance, suppose I happened to be shot. What——”
“Oh, Dad!” she cried, poignantly.
“Holly, the chance is remote, but it might happen. Suppose I were shot by rustlers. What would you do?”
“Do!—I’d hang every rustler in this country,” exclaimed the girl hotly.
Britt met the piercing eyes of the rancher. Holly Ripple had answered to the subtle call of the Texan.
“All right,” went on Ripple, a little huskily. “Now, say for example that I—I didn’t get shot, but just passed—on, you know. . . . Died. . . . Holly, listen. That, too, might happen. It’s natural. I’m gettin’ on in years and I’ve led a strenuous life. . . . Well, suppose that happened. . . . Would you want to stay on heah at Don Carlos’ Rancho?”
“Yes, Dad,” she answered quietly.
“But, listen, child. You will have wealth. You—you could go to your mother’s people. I have no near relatives, but those I have would welcome my daughter. . . . Holly, the time has come to make your choice.”
“It was made—long ago. I hate cities. I don’t care for crowds—or relatives, either. I was cooped up in school. I am free now—free! . . . I was unhappy there—I love it here. . . . Dad, I will never, never leave.”
Britt saw the long, dusky lashes close over tear-filled eyes. Ripple bent over to kiss the lustrous dark hair. Under his tan a pallor showed and his jaw quivered. Britt turned away to gaze down the valley. Holly had seen through her father’s attempt to disguise the truth.
“Then—that is your choice—Holly?” the rancher resumed, presently.
“Dad, there never was any choice. There was only—home. My West! I have never forgotten a single thing.”
“My beloved—I am ashamed,” returned the Colonel, with agitation. “I should have known you would be like Carlotta. I imagined you might. . . . Well, never mind what, since it can never be. . . . Holly, in the days to come you will learn how I run my ranch—how I keep open house for all. Never have I turned away anyone from Don Carlos’ Rancho. Indians, outlaws, wanderers, travellers, all have been welcome heah. That is why no white or red hand has ever been against me yet. . . . When the time comes, Holly, will you preserve my open hand to all?”
“I will, Dad.”
Ripple clasped her in a close embrace, then turned a working visage and beaming eye upon his foreman.
“Britt, you old rebel, you know my child. And I’m thankin’ God that when I have to go you will look after her. . . . There, Holly. Our serious talk is over.”
“Not yet, Dad,” she murmured. “I have my turn. There are some questions I want to ask you.”
“Ah!—Fire away, daughter,” he replied, gayly, but it was easy for Britt to see his perturbation.
“Dad, I know hardly a word of Spanish,” said Holly, softly, with her eyes downcast. “It was forbidden me at school. I did not realize until I got home. Your Mexicans speak Spanish to me. The living-room I remembered so well has all been done over, refurnished. The beautiful rooms you have given me—the same. Everything