The Second Western Megapack. Zane Grey

did not want her to see him like this, no hold on himself and his mind without direction. Sitting there, she would have the advantage. Without so much as a sound except for the slight noise he made in walking, Martin went through the parlor towards the front door and out to the steps, where he leaned for a moment against the weather-boarding, letting the rain fall on him as he stared dully down at the ground. It felt good to stand there. No eyes were on him, and the rain was refreshing. This had been too much for him. Never had he known himself to be so near to bewilderment. How fortunate that he had escaped by this simple trick of leaving the house. Then he thought of the car—a half-mile north—and the horses in the stable. He must do something. He would bring the car into the garage. It was relieving to hurry across the dripping grass toward the barn. How wonderful it was to keep the body doing something when the breath in him was short, his heart battering like an engine with burned-out bearings, his brain in insane chaos. As he applied a match to the lantern he thought of his wife again, and his face regained its scowl.

      Only when he had his great heavy team in the yard, his lantern hanging from his arm, the reins in his hands, and was pulling back with all his strength as he followed the horses—only then did he permit himself to think about the tragedy that had befallen.

      “He’s dead—killed,” he groaned. “It had to come. Shot-firers don’t last long. Whoa, there, Lottie; not so fast, Jet, whoa!” His protesting team in control again, he trudged heavily behind. “It’s terrible to die that way—not a chance in a thousand. And a kid of sixteen didn’t have the judgment—couldn’t have. But Bill knew what he was facing every evening. He didn’t go in blindly. They’ll blame me, as though it was my fault. I didn’t want him to go there. I wanted him to take a hand here, to run the place by himself in good time. It was his mother who sent him away first.” He went on like that, justifying himself more positively as excuse after excuse suggested itself.

      Not until he had convinced himself that he was in no way responsible, did he allow his heart to beat a little for this boy of his. “Poor Bill,” he thought on, “it has been a tough game for him. Lost in the shuffle. Born into something he didn’t like and trying to escape, only to get caught. What did he expect out of life, anyway? Why didn’t he learn that it’s only a lot of senseless pain? Every moment of it pain—from coming into the world to going out. Oh, Bill, why didn’t you learn what I know? You had brains, boy, but it would have been better if you had never used them. I’ve brains, too, but I’ve always managed to keep them tied down—buckled to the farm, to investments, and work—thinking about things that make us forget life. It’s all dust and dust, with rain once in a while, only the rain steams off and it’s dust again.”

      Martin began to review the course of his own past, and smiled bitterly. Others were able to live the same kind of an existence, but, unlike himself, took it as a preparation for another day, another existence which, it seemed to him, was measured and cut to order by professionals who understood how to fix up the meaning of life so that it would soothe and satisfy. He thought how much better it was to be a dumb, unquestioning beast, or a human being conscious of his soul, than to be as he was—alone, a materialist, who saw the meaninglessness of matter and whose mind, in some manner which he did not understand, had developed a slant that made him doubt what others accepted so easily as facts. Martin knew he was bound to things of substance but he followed the lure of property and accumulation as he might have followed some other game had he learned it, knowing all along that it was a delusion and at the same time acknowledging that for him there was nothing else as sufficing.

      How simple, if Bill’s future could be a settled thing in his mind as it was to the boy’s mother. Or his own future! If only he could believe—then how different it would be for him. He could go on placidly and die with a smile. But he could not believe. His atheism was both mental and instinctive. It was something he could not understand, and which he knew he could never change, try as he might. Take this very evening. Here was death in his home. And he was escaping a lot of anguish, not by praying for Bill’s soul or his own forgiveness, but by the simple process of harnessing a team and dragging a car through the mud. It was a great game, work was—the one weapon with which to meet life. This was not a cut and dried philosophy with him, but a glimmer that, though always suggesting itself but dimly, never failed when put to the test. Martin felt better. He began to probe a little farther, albeit with an aimlessness about his questions that almost frightened him. He asked himself whether he loved Bill, now that he was dead, and he had to admit that he did not. The boy had always been something other than he had expected—a disappointment. Did he love anyone? No. Not a person; not even any longer that lovely Rose of Sharon who had flowered in his dust for a brief hour. His wife? God Almighty, no. Then who? Himself? No, his very selfishness had other springs than that. He was one of those men, not so uncommon either, he surmised, who loved no one on the whole wide earth.

      When he re-entered the house, he found his wife still seated in the rocker, softly weeping, the tears flowing down her cheeks and dropping unheeded into her lap. He pitied her.

      “I feel as though he didn’t die tonight,” she mourned, looking at Martin through full eyes. “He died when he was born, like the first one.”

      “I know how you feel,” said Martin, sympathy in his voice.

      “I made him so many promises before he came, but I wasn’t able to keep a single one of them.”

      “I’m sorry; I wish I could help you in some way.”

      “Oh, Martin, I know you’re not a praying man—but if you could only learn.”

      Martin looked at her respectfully but with profound curiosity.

      “There must be an answer to all this,” Rose went on brokenly. “There must! Billy is lying in the arms of Jesus now—no pain, only sweet rest. I believe that.”

      “I’m glad you have the faith that can put such meaning into it all.”

      “Martin, I want to pray for strength to bear it.”

      “Yes, Rose.”

      “You’ll pray with me, won’t you?”

      “You just said I wasn’t a praying man.”

      “Yes, but I can’t pray alone, with him in there alone, too, and you here with me, scoffing.”

      “I can’t be other than I am, Rose; but you pray, and as you pray I’ll bow my head.”

      Chapter X

      Into The Dust-Bin

      With the loss of her boy, time ceased to exist for Rose. The days came and went, lengthening into years, full of duties, leaving her as they found her, outwardly little changed and habitually calm and kind, but inwardly sunk in apathy. She moved as if in a dream, seeming to live in a strange world that would never again seem real—this world without Billy. Occasionally, she would forget and think he was out in the field or down in the mine; more rarely still, she would slip even further backward and wonder what he was about in his play. During these moments she would feel normal, but some object catching her eye would jerk her back to the present and the cruel truth. She and Martin had less than ever to say to each other, though in his own grim way he was more thoughtful, giving her to understand that there were no longer any restrictions laid upon her purchasing, and even suggesting that they remodel the house; as if, she thought impassively, at this late day, it could matter what she bought or in what she lived. His one interest in making money, just as if they had some one to leave it to, puzzled her. Always investing, then reinvesting the interest, and spending comparatively little of his income, his fortune had now reached the point where it was growing rapidly of its own momentum and, as there was nothing to which he looked forward, nothing he particularly wanted to do, he set himself the task of making it cross the half million mark, much as a man plays solitaire, to occupy his mind, betting against himself, to give point to his efforts.

      Yet, it gave him a most disconcerting, uncanny start, when one bright winter day, he faced the fact that he, too, was about to be shovelled into the great dust-bin. Death was actually at his side, his long, bony finger on his shoulder and whispering impersonally, “You’re next.”

      “Very