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ZEN of the Y. D.
A Novel of the Foothills
By ROBERT STEAD
# •* tx.o Puneher***-** Tht Hom&
Copyright by ROBERT STEAD
“YOU AND l"
SYNOPSIS. Transley’s hay
. cutting outfit, after stacking
2.000 tons, is on its way to the
(,’[£ yD. ranch headquarters.
Transley is a master of men and
circumstances. Linder, foreman,
is substantial, but not self-asser
tive. George Drazk, one of the
men, is 'an irresponsible chap who
proposes to every woman he
meets. Transley and Linder dine
with Y.D. ■ and his wife and
daughter Zen. Transley resolves
to marry Zen. Y.D Instructs
Transley to cut the South Y.D.,
"spite o’ h-1 an' high water
and a fellow named Landson.
Drazk proposes to Zen and is
neatly rebuffed. Transley Pitches
camp on the South Y.D. and finds
Landson s outfit cutting hay. Den
nison Grant, Landson's manager,
notifies Transley that he is work
ing under a lease Trom the legal
owners and warns Transley off.
All of which means war. JL'r’
and Zen ride to the South Y.D.
Zen is a natural vamp, not yet
halter-broke and ripe for mating.
V D. has taken a liking to Trans
ley. Zen holds Transley oft and
encourages Linder. Zen enjoys
the prospect of a race between
Transley and Linder for her fa
vor, but secretly laughs at both.
She has another and more serious
encounter with Drazk. Y.D. mow
ing machines are ruined by Iron
stakes set in the grass. Zen pre
vents open war with Landson.
Transley half-way proposes and
is turned off. Drazk sets a fire
that attacks the Landson stacks.
The Y.D. outfit hastens to aid the
enemy. Zen rides off alone to
help. The wind changes and the
Y.D. people now have to fight
the prairie fire. Zen rides Into
the river to escape flames. Drazk
tries to abduct her. She drowns
him—or thinks she has. Grant
overtakes her. In trying to ride
through fire Zen Is thrown and
knocked senseless. Zen comes to
after several hours of uncon
sciousness to find herself In the
dark with Grant. She has a
sprained ankle .and both horses
have run away. So she and
Grant sit on a rock and tell their
past lives. Grant, it appears, is
a rich man’s son who scorns
wealth In order to live his own
life.
CHAPTER Vl—Continued.
"Well, there was more talk, and
the upshot was that I got out, accom
panied by an assurance from my fa
ther that I never would be burdened
with any of the family ducats. Roy
succeeded to the worries of wealth
and I came to the ranges, where I
have been able to make a living, and
have, incidentally, been profoundly
happy. I’ll take a wager that today
I look ten years younger than Roy, that
I can lick him with one hand, that
I have more real friends than he has,
and that I’m getting more out of life
than he is. I’m a man of whims.
When they beckon I follow.”
Grant paused, feeling that his en
thusiasm had carried him into rather
fuller confidences than he had Intend
ed.
"I'm sorry I bored you with that
harangue,” he said contritely. “You
couldn't possibly be Interested In it."
“On the contrary, I am very much
Interested In It,” she protested. “It
seems so much finer for a man to make
his own way, rather than be lifted up
by some one else. I am sure you are
already doing well In the West. Some
% you will go back to your father
with more money than he has..”
Grant uttered an amused little
laugh. “There’s no sign of It yet,”
he said. “A ranch hand, even a fore
man, doesn’t need any adding machine
to count his wages. Besides, lam get
t ng other things that are more worth
having.” - • ’ .
“What other things?”
“'' , ’by, this life —its freedom. Its con
fidence. And health! When one’s
s °ui Is a-tingle what does all the rest
matter?”
“Hut you need money, too,” she
n'hh-?, thoughtfully. “Money Is pow
frl it Is a mark of success. It would
r, per. up a wider life for you. It
1 - ring you Into new circles. Some
'•ay you will want to marry and sct-
O wn. and money would enable yon
t0 _ meet the kind of women—”
•' e stopped, confused. She had
I o g<>d farther than she had In
tended.
1 i’re all wrong,” he said amused
did not even occur to Zen that
-“ as contradicting her. She had
n accustomed to being contra
'' ' then, neither had she been
, ,rr ‘ ed t 0 men Hke Dennison
nor to conversations such as
developed. She was too lnter
to be annoyed.
J ; r< ; all wrong. Miss—?”
V'"’ I'* 1 '* bonder that yon can’t All
! y na me,” she said. “Nobody
hi Dad except as Y.D. But I
,' T ' ym call me Zen ”
. ’ / was w hen you were coming
r , nlr nnconsclousnesa. I apolo
* the liberty taken. I thought
' '““Sht recall you—”
Weil, I’m sjill .coming out," she
interrupted, “1 am beginning to feel
that I have been unconscious for a
very long time'lndeed.” " ' *
Grant was aware of a pleasant’glow
.excited by 'her frank interest. She
was altogether a desirable girL
~ “I have observed,” he said, "that
poor people worry over what they
haven t got, and rich people worry
over what they have. It Is m.v dispo
sition not to worry over anything. As
for opening up a wider life; what wider
life could there be than this which
I*—which you and. I—-are living?"
She wondered why he had snid “yon
and I.” Evidently he Was Wondering
too, for he fell into reflection. She
changed her position to ease the dull
pain la her ankle, which his talk had
almost driven from her tnlnd. The
rock had a perpendicular edge, so
she let her feet hang over, resting the
injured one upon the other. He was
sitting in n similar position. The si
lence of the night had gathered about
them, broken occasionally by the yap
ping of coyotes far. down the valley.
Segments of dull light fringed the
horizon; the breeze was again blow
ing from the west, mild and balmy.
Presently one of the segments of light
grew and grew. It was as though
it were rushing up the valley. They
watched It. fascinated; then burst Into
laughter ns the orb of the moon be
came recognizable. . . . There was
something very companionable about
watching the moon rise, ns they did.
Zen had a feeling of being very
happy. True, a certain haunting
spectre at times would break Into
her consciousness, but In the compan
ionship of such a nuin as Grant she
could easily beat It off. She studied
the face in the moon, nnd invited her
soul. She was living through anew
experience—an experience she could
not understand. In spite of the dis
comfort of her injuries, in spite of
the events of the day, she was very,
very happy. . , .
If only that horrid memory of
Drazk would not keep tormenting her I
She began to have some glimpse of
what remorse must mean. She did
not blame herself; she could not have
done otherwise; nnd yet —it was hor
rible to think about, and it would not
stay away. She felt a tremendous de
sire to tel! Grant all about it. . . .
She wondered how much he knew.
He must have discovered that her
clothing had been wet.
She shivered slightly.
“You’re cold,” he said, as Tie placed
his arm about her.
“I’m a little chilly,” she admitted.
“I had to swim my horse across the
river today—he got into a deep spot—
and I got wet.” She congratulated
herself that she had made a very
clever explanation.
He put his coat about her shoulders
and drew It tight. Then he sat beside
her in silence. There were many
things he could have said, but this
seemed to be neither the time nor the
place. Grant was not Transley. He
had for this girl a delicate considera
tion which Transley’s nature could
never know. Grant was a thinker —
Transley a doer. Grant knew that the
charm which enveloped him in this
girl’s presence was the perfectly nat
ural product of a set of conditions. He
was worldly-wise enough to suspect
that Zen also felt that charm. It was
as natural as the bursting of a seed in
moist soil; as natural as the unfolding
of a rose in warm air. . . .
Presently he felt her head rest
against his shoulder. He looked down
upon her in awed delight. Her eyes
had closed; her lips were smiling
faintly; her figure had relaxed. He
could feel her warm breath upon his
face. He could have touched her lips
with his.
Slowly the moon traced its long arc
In the heavens.
CHAPTER VII
Just ns the first flush of dawn mel
lowed the east Grant heard the pound
ing of horses’ feet and the sound of
voices borne across the valley. They
rapidly approached; he could tell by
the hard pounding of the hoofs that
they were on a trail which he took to
be the one he had followed before be
met Zen. It passed possibly a hundred
yards to the left. He must In some
way make his presence known.
The girl had slept soundly, almost
without stirring. Now he must wake
her. He shook her gently, and called
her name; her eyes opened; he could
see them, strange and wondering, in
the thin gray light. Then, with a sud
den start, she was quite awake.
“1 have been sleeping!” she ex
claimed, reproachfully. “You let me
sleep!”
“No use of two watching the moon,”
he returned, lightly.
“But you shouldn’t have let me
sleep.” she reprimanded. “Besides,
you had to stay awake. You have had
no sleep at all I”
There was a sympathy In her voice
verj pleasant to the ear. But Grant
THE DANIE.LSVILLE MONITOR, DAN IELSVILLE, GEORGIA.
could not continue so delightful an
indulgence.
“I had to wake you,” he exclaimed.
“There are several people riding up
the valley; undoubtedly a search
party. I must attract their attention.”
- They listened, and could now hear
the hoofbeats close at hand. Grant
called; not a loud shout; it seemed
little more thnn his speaking voice,
’ but instantly there was silence, save
for the echo of the sound rolling down
the valley. Then a voice answered,
and Grant gave a word or two of di
rections. In n minute or two several
horsemen loomed up through the
vague light.
“Here we are,” snld Zen, as she dis
tinguished her father. “Gone lame on
the off foot and hold up for repairs."
Y.D. swung down from his saddle.
“Are you all right, Zen?” he cried, as
he advanced with outstretched arms.
There was an eagerness and a relief
in ids voice which would have sur
prised many \vh6 knew Y.D. only as a
shrewd cattleman.
Zen accepted and returned his em
brace, with a word of nssurance that
she was really nothing the worse.
Then she introduced her companion.
“Tills is Mr. Dennison Grant, fore
man of the Landson ranch. Dad."
Grant extended ids hand, but Y.D.
hesitated. The truce occasioned by
the tire did not by any means imply
permanent peace. Far from it, with
the valley In ruins—.
Y.D. was stiffening, but his daughter
averted what would in another mo
ment have been an embarrassing sit
uation with a quick remark.
“Tills Is no time, even for explana
tions,” she said, “except that Mr
Grant saved my life Inst evening ut
the risk of his own, and has lost a
night’s sleep for his pains.”
“That was a man’s work,” said Y.D.
It would not have been possible for
his lips to have framed n greater com
pliment. “I’m obliged to you. Grant.
Y’ou know how it Is with us cattle
men; we run mostly to horn and
hoofs, but I suppose we have some
heart, too. If you can find It.”
They shook hands with as much
cordlnilty as the situation permitted,
and then Zen introduced Transley and
Linder, who were In the party. There
were two or three others whom she
did not know, but they all shook
hands.
“What hnppened, Zen?” said Trnns
ley, with his usual directness. “Give
us the whole story.”
Then she told them what she knew,
from the point where she had met
Grant on the flre-encircled hill.
"Two lucky people—two lucky peo
ple,” was all Trnnsley’s comment.
Words could not have expressed the
Jealousy he felt. But Linder was not
too shy to place his hand with a
friendly pressure upon Grunt’s shoul
der.
"Good work,” he snld, and with two
words sealed a friendship.
Two of the unnamed members of the
party volunteered their horses to Zen
nnd Grnnt, and all hands started back
to camp. Y.D. talked almost gar
rulously ; not even himself had known
how heavily the hand of Fate had
lain on him through the night.
“The haymakln’ Is nil off, Darter,”
he said. “We will trek back to the
Y.D. as soon as you see fit. The steers
will have to take chances next win
ter."
The girl professed her fitness to
make the trip at once, and Indeed they
did make it that very day. Y.D.
pressed Grant to remain for break
fust, and Tompkins, notwithstanding
the demoralization of equipment and
supplies effected by the fire, again
excelled himself. After breakfast the
old rancher found occasion for a word
with Grnnt.
“You know how It is. Grant,” be
said. "There’s a couple of things that
ain’t explained, on’ perhaps it’s as
well all round not to press for opin
ions. I don’t know how the Iron stakes
got In my meadow, an’ you don’t know
how the fire got in yours. But I give
you Y.D.’s word—which goes at par
except In a cattle trade—” and Y.D.
laughed cordially at his own limita
tions —“I give you my word that I
don’t know any more about tbu Ore
than you do.”
"And I don’t know anything more
about the stakes than you do,” re
turned Grant.
“Well, then, let it stand at that. Hut
mind,” he added, with returning heat,
"I’m not commutin’ myself to any
thin’ in advance. This grass ’ll grow
again next year, an’ by heavens If I
want It I’ll cut It!- No son of a sheep
herder can bluff Y.D. 1”
Grnnt did not reply. He had heard
enough of Y.D.’s boisterous nature to
make some allowances.
“An’ mind I mean it,” continued
Y.D., whose chagrin over being baf
fled out of a thousand tons of hay
overrode, temporarily at least, his ap
preciation of Grant’s services. “Mind,
I mean it. No monkey-doodles next
season, young man.”
Obviously Y.D. was becoming
worked up, nnd it seemed to Grant
that the time had come to speak.
“There will be none,” tie said, quiet
ly. “If you come over the bills to cut
the South Y.D. next summer I will per
sonally escort you borne again."
Y.D. stood open-mouthed. It was
pre?festerous that this young upstart
foreman on a second-rate ranch like
Landsou’s should deliberately defy
him.
“You see. Y.D.,” continued Grant,
with provoking calmness, “I’ve seen
the papers. You’ve run a big bluff in
this country. You’ve occupied rather
more territory thnn was coming to
you. In a word, you’ve been a good
bit of a bully. Now —let me break it
to you gently—those good old days are
over. In future you’re going to stay
on your side of the line. If you crowd
over you’ll he puslied back. You have
no more right to the hay In this vnlley
thnn you have to the hide on Land
son’s steers, and you’re.not going to
cut It any more, at nil."
Y.D. exploded in somewhat ineffec
tive profanity. He had a wide vocabu
lary of Invective, but most of it was of
the stand-nnd tight variety. There Is
some Innguage which ,1s not to be
used, unless you are willing to have it
out on the ground, there and then.
Y.D. lmd no such desire. Possibly a
curious sense of honor entered into
the case. It wns not fnlr to call a
young man names, nnd although there
wns considerable truth in Grant’s re
mark that Y.D. was n bully, his bully
ing did not tnke that form, possibly,
nlso, he recalled at that moment the
obligation under which Zen’s accident
had placed him. At any fate be wound
up vnther lamely.
“Grant,” he said, "if 1 want that hay
next yea.* 11l cut it. spite o’ h —l an’
h'gh v.-atfr. ”
‘ All right, Y.ri,‘ mfjf! (v-jiut, Aeer
fulty. “We’ll see. Kvwv, ii >a can
spare me a horse to ride home, I’ll
have 1)1 m sent back Immediately."
Y.D. went to find Transley and ar
range for a horse, and in n moment
Zen appeared from somewhere.
“You’ve been quarreling with Dad,”
she said, half repronchfully, nnd yet In
a tone which suggested that she could
understand.
“Not exactly that," lie parried. "We
were Just having a frank talk with
each other.”
"I know something of Dad’s frank
talks. . . . I’m sorry. ... I
would have liked to ask you to come
nnd see me—to see us—my mother
would be glad to set?you. I enn hardly
ask you to come if you are going to be
bad friends with Dad.”
“No, I suppose not,” he admitted.
“You were very good to me; very—
decent,” she continued.
At that moment Transley, Linder
nnd Y.Li appeared, with two horses.
"Linder will ride over with you and
bring back the spnre beast,” snld Y.D.
Grant shook hands, rather formal
ly, with Y.D. and Transley, nnd thef,
with Zen. She murmured some words
of thanks, and just as lie would have
withdrawn Ids hand he felt her fin
gers tighten very (irmly about bis. He
answered the pressure, and turned
quickly away.
Transley Immediately struck camp,
and Y.D. nnd ids daughter drove
homeward, somewhat pulnfully, over
the blackened hills.
Transley lost no time In finding
other employment. It was late In the
seuson to look for railway contracts,
and continued dry weather had made
grading, at best, n somewhat difficult
business. Influx of ready money nnd
of tiiose who follow it had crented con
siderable activity In n neighboring
center which for twenty years bad
been the principal cow-town of the
foothill country, in defiance of nil
tradition, nnd, most of nil, In defiance
of the predictions of the ranchers who
had known It so long for n cow-town
nnd nothing more, the place began to
grow. No one troubled to Inquire ex
actly why It should grow, or how. A*
for Transley, it was enough for him
jhat team labor was In demand. He
took a contract, nnd three days nfter
the fire in the foothills he was exca
vating for business blocks about to be
built In the new metropolis.
1 It wns no part of Transley’s plan
however, to quite lose touch with thtf
people on the Y.D. They were, in fact,
the center about which he had been
doing some very serious thinking. His
outspokenness with Zen and her fa
ther had bad In It a good deal of
bravado —tho bravado of a man wbo
could afford to lose the stake, and
smile over It. In short, lie had not
rar ed whether he offended them or
not. Transley wag a very self-reliant
contractor; he gave, even to the mil
lionaire rancher, no more homage thnn
he demanded in return. . . . Still.
Zen was n very desirable girl. As he
turned the matter over in his mind
Transley became convinced that be
wanted Zen. With Transley, to want
a thing meant to get It. He always
found a way. And he was now qnlte
sure that he wanted Zen. He had not
known that positively until the morn
ing when he found her lr> the gray
light of dawn with Dennison Grant.
There wns n suggestion of companion
ship there between the. two which had
cut him to the quick. Like most am
bitious men. Transley was Intensely
Jealous.
No more haying and the fight
off. What ia Tranaley’a next
move to win Zen?
(TO HE CONTINUED.)
Married men are conundrums that
keec their wives constantly guessing.
Current
vntjj
Hurticwu\
WHEN TALK IS EXPENSIVE
“Mr. Perkins,” began the secret
Sendee man who was going through
the countryside cautioning merchants
against counterfeiters. “I have here
a bogus $lO bill and—"
"No, ye don’t 1" cackled the pro
prietor of Ilucklqyllle’s largest and
only general store. “Ye don’t git me
to bite again, young feller. I bought
a hunch last week from some feller,
an’ I had the goldurndest time tryln’
to get rid of ’em.” —American Legion
Weekly.
NEXT TO COME
W’lfle —Now that we've gotten the
dining room completely furnished,
what will come next?
Hubby—The collector.
Song
I am the spirit men call love;
All other spirits I reign above,
Where youthful strength and beauty
vie,
My mission Is. and there am I.
A Long Way Off
A group of visitors was goln*
through the county Jail, and a burly
negro trusty was culled to open doors
for them.
“How do you like It here?” one of
the women asked.
“Like 11, ma’am? If evnh Ah gits
out, All'll go so for from here It’ll take
til to sen’ me a postal card."
Improvement
“Did you have a pleasant time at thb
party ?”
“Yes," answered Miss Cayenne. "I
fell that Immunity must lie Improving
when I saw so many people who I hap
pen to know don't-approve of one an
other able to he so perfectly cordial
nnd polite.” —Washington Star.
NOT EASILY FORGOTTEN
ghe—The best thing you can do ts
to forget you ever knew me.
He —How can I when I’ve spent
every cent I had on you?
Pointa of View
This world's a fleeting -show, ’tla true
And no one cares to miss It;
The optimist applauds all through.
Ttie cynic wants to hiss It.
Quite Certain, Yea or No
A young lady went Into n music
store and asked the clerk: “Do you
know If you have any ‘Yes, We Have
No Bananas’?”
And the clerk replied; "Yes. I know
we have no ‘Yes, We Have No Ba
nanas.’ ”
LONESOME
"He’s ns dumb as nn oyster.”
“How do you know that an oyster
Is dumb?"
“Because, if it wasn’t, tt would kick
because It didn’t hive uny company
In a stew.”
Thoae Were Happy Daya
Once we could meet
Amid the throng
A woman with skirts
And hair both long.