THE GREAT DIVIDE

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
NEW YORK • BOSTON - CHICAGO
ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO

MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED
LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA
MELBOURNE

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LfD.
TORONTO

THE GREAT DIVIDE
BY

WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY

New York

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1909
All rights reserved

for the United States of America. Copyright, 1906, for Great
Britain. Protected in all those countries of Europe which
have adopted the articles of the Berne convention.
All rights reserved, including rights of production, translation,
and adaptation.
The American and English rights controlled by Henry Miller,
338 Fifth Avenue, New York. European rights controlled by
Elisabeth Marbury, 1430 Broadway, New York.

HENRY MILLER
IN GRATITUDE AND FRIENDSHIP
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED!

PERSONS OF THE PLAY
P H I L I P JORDAN
POLLY JORDAN,

Philip's

wife

MRS. JORDAN, his mother
R U T H JORDAN, his

sister

WINTHROP NEWBURY
D R . NEWBURY,

Winthropls

STEPHEN G H E N T
LON

ANDERSON

BURT WILLIAMS
DUTCH
A

MEXICAN

CONTRACTOR

ARCHITECT
BOY

father

ACT I

ACT I
Interior of Philip yordaris cabin in southern Arizona,
on a late afternoon in spring. A large room rudely
builf, adorned with blankets, pottery, weapons, and
sacred images of the local Indian tribes, and hung
with trophies of the chase, together with huntingknives, saddles, bridles, nose-bags for horses, lariats,
and other paraphernalia of frontier life. Through
a long low window at the back the desert is seen,
intensely colored, and covered with the uncouth shapes
of giant cacti, dotted with bunches of gorgeous bloom.
The entrance door is on the left {from the spectators
standpoint), in a projecting elbow of the room; farther
to the left is a door leading to the sleeping-quarters.
On the right is a cook-stove, a cupboard for dishes
and household utensils, and a chimney-piece, over
which hangs a bleached cow's-skull supporting a

rifle.

At a rude table in the centre sits Philip yordan, a man
of thirty fottr, mending a bridle. Polly, his wife,
kneels before an open trunk, assisted in her pack- ing by Winthrop Neivbury, a recent graduate of an
Eastern medical college. Ruth yordan, Philip's sister, a girl of nineteen, stands at the window looking
out.

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT I

WlNTHROP.
As he hands the last articles to Polly.
What on earth possessed you to bring such a load
of duds to Arizona?
POLLY.

They promised me a good time, meaning one
small shindig — one — in the three months I've
spent in this unholy place.
Philip makes an impatient movement with the bridle ;
speaks gruffly.
PHILIP.

You yd better hurry. I t *s getting late.
RUTH.

From the window.
I t ' s getting cooler, which is more to the point.
We can make the railroad easily by sunrise, with
this delicious breeze blowing.
POLLY.

Gives the finishing touches to the trunk and locks the
lid.
There, at last! Heaven help the contents.

ACT I]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

PHILIP.

Gruffly', as he rises.
Give me a lift with the trunk, Win.
They carry the trunk outside, Polly\ with the aid of a
cracked mirrortputs on her travelling hat and cloak.
RUTH.

My, Pollikins! You'll be the talk of all the jackrabbits and sage hens between here and the railroad.
POLLY.

Phil is furious at me for going, and it is rather
mean to sneak off for a visit in a grand house in
San Francisco, when you poor dears have to slave
on here. But really, I can't endure this life a day
longer.
RUTH.

It is n't in nature that you should. Fancy that
(she indicates Polly with a grandiose gesture) nourishing itself on salt-pork, chickory beans, and airtight!
POLLY.

Do you really mean to say that apart from your
pride in helping your brother, making the project

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT I

go, and saving the family fortunes, you really
enjoy yourself here?
RUTH.

Since Phil and I came out, one day has been more
radiantly exciting than the other. I don't know
what 's the matter with me. I think I shall be
punished for being so happy.
POLLY.

Punished for being happy! There's your simonpure New-Englander.
RUTH.

True! I was discovered at the age of seven in the
garret, perusing " T h e Twelve Pillars and Four
Cornerstones of a Godly Life."
POLLY.

Pointing at Ruth's heart, speaks with mock solemnity.
If Massachusetts and Arizona ever get in a mixup
in there, woe be! — Are you ever going to have
that coffee done?
RUTH.

I hope soon, before you get me analyzed out of
existence.

ACT I]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

POLLY.

As Ruth busies herself at the stove.
The main point is this, my dear, and y o u ' d
better listen to what the old lady is a-tellin' of ye.
Happiness is its own justification, and i t ' s the
sacreder the more unreasonable it is. It comes
or it does n't, t h a t ' s all you can say about it.
And when it comes, one has the sense to grasp
it or one has n't. There you have the Law and
the Prophets.
Winthrop and Philip enterfrom outside, Ruth, who
has set out the coffee and sandwiches on the table,
bows elaborately, with napkin over arm.
RUTH.

Messieurs et Mesdames I
WINTHROP.

Coffee! Well, rather, with an all-night ride in
the desert ahead of us.
They drink their coffee, Philip standing sullenly apart.
Where do we get our next feed?
RUTH.

With luck, at Cottonwood Wash.

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT I

WlNTHROP.

And how far may Cottonwood Wash be?
RUTH.

Thirty miles.
WlNTHROP.
Sarcastically.
Local measurement?
POLLY.

Poking Philip.
Phil, for Heaven's sake say something.
diffuse the gloom of the Pit.

You

PHILIP.

I Ve had my say out, and it makes absolutely
no impression on you.
POLLY.

I t ' s the impression on the public I 'm anxious
about.
PHILIP.

The public will have to excuse me.

ACT I]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

POLLY.

I am horribly sorry for you two poor dears, left
alone in this dreadful place. When Dr. Newbury
goes, I don't see how you '11 support life. I
should like to know how long this sojourn in the
wilderness is going to last, anyhow.
During the following, Ruth takes a candle from the
shelf lights it, and brings it to the table. The sun*
set gloiv has begun to fade.
RUTH.

Till Cactus Fibre makes our eternal fortune,
WINTHROP.

And how long will that be?
RUTH.

Counts on her fingers.
Two years to pay back the money we raised on
mother's estate, two years of invested profits,
two years of hard luck and marking time, two
years of booming prosperity. Say eight years!
POLLY.

Shades of the tomb! How long do you expect
to live?

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT I

RUTH.

Forever!
The sound of a galloping horse is heard, muffled by the
sand.
WlNTHROP.

Listen. What 7s that?
A boy of fifteen, panting from his rapid ride, appears
at the open door.
PHILIP.

Rising and going toward the door.
W h a t ' s the matter?
BOY.

I Ve come for the doctor.
PHILIP.

Who wants a doctor?
BOY.

Your man Sawyer, over to Lone Tree. — H e ' s
broke his leg.
RUTH.

Broken his leg! Sawyer? Our foreman?

ACT I]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

PHILIP.

There's a nice piece of luck!—How did it happen?
BOY.

They was doin' some Navajo stunts on horseback, pullin* chickens out of the sand at a gallop
and takin' a hurdle on the upswing. Sawyer's
horse renigged, and lunged off agin a 'dobe wall.
Smashed his leg all to thunder.
Winthrop looks vaguely about for his kit and travelling necessaries, while Polly gives the boy food,
which he accepts shyly as he goes outside with
Philip. Ruth has snatched saddle and bridle from
their peg.
RUTH.

I '11 have Buckskin saddled for you in a jiffy.
How long will it take you to set the leg?
WINTHROP.

Perhaps an hour, perhaps three.
RUTH.

I t ' s a big detour, but you can catch us at Cottonwood Wash by sunrise, allowing three hours
for Sawyer. Buckskin has done it before.
She goes out.

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT I

POLLY.

Pouting.
This will spoil all our fun! Why can't the creature wait till you get back?
WINTHROP.

Did you ever have a broken leg?
POLLY.

Well, no, not exactly a leg. But I Ve had a broken
heart! In fact, I Ve got one now, if you 're not
going with us.
WINTHROP.

To tell you the truth, mine is broken too.
Pause.
Did you ever dream of climbing a long hill, and
having to turn back before you saw what was
on the other side?
Polly nods enthusiastically.
I feel as if I 'd had my chance to-night to see
what was over there, and lost it.
POLLY.

You '11 excuse me if it sounds personal, Dr. New-

ACT I]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

bury, but did you expect to discern a — sort of
central figure in the outrolled landscape?
WINTHROP.

Embarrassed, repenting of his sentimental outburst.
No. That is —
POLLY.

With a sweep of her arm.
O, I see. Just scenery!
She laughs and goes into the inner room, left. Ruth
reenters. The sky has partly faded and a great full
moon begins to rise.
RUTH.

Buckskin is ready, and so is the moon. The boy
knows the trails like an Indian. He will bring
you through to Cottonwood by daylight.
WlNTHROP.
Taking heart.
We shall have the ride back together, at any rate.
RUTH.

Yes. — I would go with you, and try to do
something to make poor Sawyer comfortable, but

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT I

we have n't another horse that can do the distance.
She holds out her hand.
Good-bye.
WINTHROP.

Detaining her hand,
Won't you make it up to me?
He draws her toward him.
RUTH,

Gently but firmly.
No, Win. Please not.
WINTHROP.

Never ?
RUTH.

Life is so good just as it is! Let us not change it.
He drops her hand, and goes out, without looking back.
Polly reenters. The women wave Winthrop goodbye.
POLLY.

Takes Ruth by the shoulders and looks at her severely.
Conscience clear?

ACT I]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

RUTH*

Humoring her.
Crystal!
POLLY.

Counts on her fingers.
Promising young physician, charming girl, lonely
ranch, horseback excursions, spring of the year \
RUTH.

Not guilty.
POLLY.

Gracious! Then i t ' s not play, i t ' s earnest.
RUTH.

Neither the one nor the other. It 's just your little
blonde romantic noddle.
She takes Polly's head between her hands and shakes
it as if to show its emptiness.
Do you think if I wanted to flirt, I would select
a youth I Ve played hookey with, and seen his
mother spank?
Suddenly sobered.
Poor dear Win! He's so good, so gentle and

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT I

chivalrous. But — {with a movement of lifted arms,
as if for air) ah me, he 's — finished! I want one
that is n't finished!
POLLY.

Are you out of your head, you poor thing?
RUTH.

You know what I mean well enough. Winthrop
is all rounded off, a completed product. But the
man I sometimes see in my dreams i s — {pausing
for a simile) — well, like this country out here,
don't you know—?
She breaks off, searching for words, and makes a vague
outline in the air, to indicate bigness and incompletion.
POLLY.

Drily.
Yes, thank you. I do know! Heaven send you
joy of him!
RUTH

Heaven won't, because, alas, he does n't exist!
I am talking of a sublime abstraction — of the
glorious unfulfilled—of the West — the Desert.

ACT I]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

POLLY.

Lifts Ruth's chin, severely.
We h a v e n ' t by chance, some spring morning,
riding over to the trading-station or elsewhere —•
just by the merest chance beheld a sublime abstraction — say in blue overalls and jumper?
Ruth shakes her head.
Honest ?
More emphatic head-shaking. Polly drops Ruth's chin
with a shrug of the shoulders. Philip enters.
RUTH.

Putting on her riding-hat.
Is Pinto saddled?
PHILIP.

Pinto is gone.
RUTH.

Astonished.
Gone where ?
PHILIP.

To that Mexican blow-out over at Lone Tree.
Every man-jack on the ranch has disappeared,

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT I

without leave asked or notice given, except this
paper which I just found nailed to the factory
door.
Ruth takes the note and reads it anxiously. Then she
slowly removes her hat and lays it away.
What are you up to now? We Ve no time to lose!
RUTH*

With quiet determination.
I am not going.
POLLY.

As Philip turns in surprise:
Not going?
RUTH.

I must stay and look after the ranch.
PHILIP.

O, come, t h a t ' s out of the question!
RUTH.

We have put all mother's money into this venture,
We can't take any risks.

ACT I]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

PHILIP.

The men will be back to-morrow. I t ' s not to be
thought of — your staying here all alone.
POLLY.

Seats herself with decision.
One thing is certain: either Ruth goes or I stay.
PHILIP.

Takes off his hat and sets down the provision basket
That suits me perfectly!
POLLY.

Hysterical.
But I can't stay! I won't stay! I shall go mad
if I spend another night in this place.
RUTH.

No, you must n't stay. You would never get us
worked up to the point of letting you go, another
time.
She lifts Polly, and with arm around her waist leads
her to the door.
PHILIP.

1 refuse to leave you here alone, just to satisfy
a whim of Polly's. T h a t ' s flat!

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT I

RUTH.

But, Phil, you forget the stores you 're to fetch
back. They will be dumped out there on the
naked sand, and by to-morrow night —
She blows across her palm, as if scattering thistledown.
PHILIP.

Well, what of it? A few hundred dollars' worth
of stuff!
RUTH.

A few hundred dollars means sink or swim with us
just now.— Besides, there'spoor Sawyer. He'll
be brought back here to-morrow, and nobody to
nurse him. Then inflammation, fever, and goodbye Sawyer.
Philip, with a gesture of accepting the inevitable, picks
up the grain-sacks and basket.
POLLY.

At the door, embracing Ruth.
Good-bye, dear. Are n't you really afraid to stay?
RUTH.

I ' m awfully sorry to miss the fun, but as for

ACT I]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

danger, the great Arizona Desert is safer than
Beacon Hill.
POLLY.

You 're sure?
RUTH.

If marauders prowl, I '11 just fire the blunderbuss
out the window, and they won't stop running this
side of the Great Divide.
POLLY.

Kissing her.
Good-bye, dear.
RUTH.

Good-bye.
Polly goes out.
PHILIP.

Pausing beside Ruth, at the door.
Mind you put out the light early. It can be seen
from the Goodwater trail. There's no telling
what riff-raff will be straggling back that way
after the dance.

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT I

RUTH.

Riff-raff! They 're my sworn knights and brothers.
PHILIP.

In that case, what makes you uneasy about the
property?
RUTH.

O, property! T h a t ' s different.
PHILIP.

Well, you mind what I say and put out the light.
RUTH.

Yours for prudence!
She puts her arm around his waist and draws him to
her> kissing him tenderly.
Good-bye, Phil.
He kisses her and starts to go. She still detains him.
When she speaks again> her voice is softened and
awed.
What a lovely night! Who would ever think to
call this a desert, this moonlit ocean of flowers?
What millions of cactus blooms have opened
since yesterday!

ACT I]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

PHILIP.

Looking at her dubiously.
What 's the matter with you to-night?
RUTH.

Nothing. Everything. Life! —• I don't know
what's got into me of late. I 'm just drunk with
happiness the whole time.
PHILIP.

Well, you 're a queer one. — Good-bye. I shall
get back as soon as horseflesh will do it.
He goes out.
RUTH.

As the rumble of the wagon is heard.
Good-bye! Good-bye, Pollikins! Good-bye!
She takes the candle from the table and stands in the
door for a time, then raises the light in one hand and
waves her handkerchief with the other. She sets the
candle again on the table, goes to the mantel-shelf and
takes down a photograph.
Dear Win! I forgot how disappointed you were
going to be.
Pause, during which she still gases at the picture.

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT I

Clear, kind heart!
After a moment she replaces it brusquely on the mantelshelf and raises her arms above her head with a
deep breath. She stands thus, with arms crossed behind her head, looking at the photograph. Her gaze
becomes amused and mischievous; she points her
finger at the picture and whispers mockingly.
Finished! Finished!
She begins to prepare for bed, taking down her hair,
and re-coiling it loosely during the following. She
hums a tune vaguely and in snatches, then with a
stronger rhythm ; at last she sings.
Heart, wild heart,
Brooding apart,
Why dost thou doubt, and why art thou sullen ?
Flower and bird
Wait but thy word —
She breaks off, picks up a photograph from the table,
and looks at it for a moment in silence.
Poor little mother! You look out at me with such
patient, anxious eyes. There are better days
coming for you, and i t ' s troublesome me t h a t ' s
bringing them. Only you trust me!
A man'sface appears at the edge of the window, gazing
stealthily in. As Ruth turns, he disappears. She lays
down the picture and sings again.

ACT I]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

This is the hour.
And thine is the power.
Heart, high heart, be brave to begin it.
Dare you refuse ?
Think what we lose I
Think what we gain —
The words grow indistinct as she takes up the candle
and passes into the other room, from which her voice
sounds from time to time in interrupted song. The
man again appears, shading his face with a peaked
Mexican hat so as to see into the darkened room. He
turns and waves his hand as if signalling distant
persons to approach, then enters through the open
door. He looks cautiously about the room, tiptoes to
the inner door and listens, then steals softly out, and
is seen again at the window, beckoning. Ruth reenters, carrying the candle. She is shod in moccasins,
and clad in a loose, dark sleeping-dress, belted at the
waist, with wide, hanging sleeves and open throat.
As she crosses to the table she sings.
Heart which the cold
Long did enfold —
Hark, from the dark eaves the night thaw drummethl
Now as a god,
Speak to the sod,
Cry to the sky that the miracle comethl

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT I

She passes her hand over a great bunch of wild flowers
on the table.
Be still, you b e a u t i e s ! Y o u ' l l drive m e t o distraction with y o u r color a n d your odor. I'll t a k e
a hostage for y o u r good behavior.
She selects a red flower, puts it in the dark mass of
her hair, and looks out at the open door.
W h a t a scandal t h e moon is making, o u t there
in t h a t great crazy w o r l d ! W h o b u t m e could
t h i n k of sleeping on such a night?
She sits down, folds the flowers in her arms, and buries
her face in them. After a moment she starts up,
listens, goes hurriedly to the door, and peers out* She
then shuts and bolts the door, draws the curtains before the window, comes swiftly to the table, and blows
out the light. The room is left in total darkness.
There are muttering voices outside, the latch is tried,
then a heavy lunge breaks the bolt. A man pushes in,
but is hurled back by a taller man, with a snarling
oath. A third figure advances to the table, and strikes
a match. As soon as the match is lighted Ritth levels
the gun, which she has taken from its rack above the
mantel. There is heard the click of the hammer, as
the gun misses fire. It is instantly struck from her
hand by the first man {Dutch), who attempts to seize
her. She evades him, and tries to wrest a pistol from
a holster on the wall. She is met by the second man

A C T I]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

(Shorty), who frustrates the attempt, pocketing the
weapon. While this has been going on the third man
(Ghent) has been fumbling with the lamp, which
he has at last succeeded in lighting. All three are
dressed in rude frontier fashion;
the one called
Shorty is a Mexican half breed, the others are Americans. Ghent is younger than Dutch, and taller, but
less powerfully built. All are intoxicated, but not
sufficiently so to incapacitate them from rapid action.
The Mexican has seized Ruth and attempts to drag
her toward the inner room. She breaks loose, and
flies back again to the chimney-place, where she stands
at bay. Ghent remains motionless and silent by the
table, gazing at her.
DUTCH.

Uncorking a whiskey flask.
Plucky little c a t a m o u n t . I drink its h e a l t h .
Drinks.
RUTH.

W h a t do you w a n t here?
DUTCH.

Laughs, with sinister relish.
Did you hear t h a t , Steve?
He drinks agUin, and reaches out the flask to Ruth,

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT I

T a k e one, a n d pull in its p u r t y little claws, eh?
Jolly time. N o more fuss a n d fury.
Ruth reaches for a knife, hidden behind the elbow of
the chimney, Dutch wrests the knife from her and
seizes her in his arms.
Peppery little devil!
With desperate strength she breaks from his clutch and
reels from him in sickness of horror. Ghent remains
gazing at her in a fascinated semi-stupor Meanwhile, after closing the door, the Mexican has taken
dice from his pocket, and, throwing them into a small
vase on the table, shakes them and holds out the vase
to Dutch. He takes it and turns to Ghent; the latter
has moved a step or two toward Ruth, who in her retreat has reached the chimney-piece and stands at bay.
DUTCH.

Come, get into t h e game, curse you, S t e v e ! T h i s
is going t o be a free-for-all, b y G o d !
As he rattles the dice, Ruth makes a supplicating gesture to Ghent.
RUTH.

Save m e ! save m e !
Her gesture is frozen by his advancing towards her.
She looks wildly about, shrinking from him, then
with sudden desperate resolution speaks.

ACT I]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

Save me, and I will make it up to you!
Ghent again advances; she goes on pantingly, as she
stands at bay.
Don't touch me! Listen! Save me from these
others, and from yourself, and I will pay you—
with my life.
GHENT.

With dull wonder.
With — your life?
RUTH.

With all that I am or can be.
GHENT.

What do you mean? —
Pause.
You mean you '11 go along with me out of this?
Stick to me — on the square?
RUTH.

In a tragic whisper.
Yes.
GHENT.

On the dead square?

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT I

RUTH.

Yes.
GHENT.

You won't peach, and spoil it?
RUTH.

No.
Pause, during which he looks at her fixedly.
GHENT.

Give me your hand on it!
She gives him her hand. The other men, at the table^
have drawn their weapons, and hold them carelessly,
but alert to the slightest suspicious movement on the
part of Ghent
DUTCH.

As Ghent turns to them.
Shorty and me 's sittin' in this game, and interested, eh, Shorty?
The Mexican nods. Ghent comes slowly to the table,
eyeing the two.
Dutch holds out the vase containing the dice.
Shake for her!

ACT I]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

GHENT.

Shake how?
DUTCH.

Any damn way! Sole and exclusive rights. License to love and cherish on the premises!
Ghent takes the vase, shakes the dice meditatively, is
about to throw, then sets the vase down. He searches
through his pockets and produces a few bills and a
handful of silver, which he lays on the table,
GHENT.

There's all I Ve got in my clothes. Take it, and
give me a free field, will you?
DUTCH.

Leaning over the table to Ghent, in plaintive remonstrance.
You don't mean me, Steve!
GHENT.

To the Mexican,
Well, you, then!
The Mexican spreads the ffioney carelessly with his left
hand to ascertain its amount, then thrusts it away
with a disgusted grunt of refusal.

THE GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT I

DUTCH.

Don't blame you, Shorty! A ornery buck of a
dirt-eatin' Mojave 'd pay more 'n that for his
squaw.
Ruth covers her face shudderingly\ Ghent stands pondering, watching the two men under his brows\ and
slowly gathering up the money. As if on a sudden
thought) he opens his shirty and unwinds from his
neck a string of gold nuggets in the rough, strung on
a leather thread.
GHENT.

Well, it ain't much, t h a t ' s sure. But there 's a
string of gold nuggets I guess is worth some
money.
He throws it on the table, speaking to both men.
Take that, and clear out.
DUTCH.

Draws up angrily.
I Ve give you fair warning!
GHENT.

We '11 keep everything friendly between me and
you. A square stand-up shoot, and the best man
takes her.

ACT I]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

DUTCH.

Mollified.
Now you 're comm' t o !
GHENT.

To the Mexican.
Then i t ' s up to you, and you *d better answer
quick!
T H E MEXICAN.

Eyeing Ghent and Ruth, points to the gun lying on the
floor.
I take him, too.
GHENT.

No, you don't. You leave everything here the
way you found it.
T H E MEXICAN.

Alia right.
He pockets the chain and starts for the door.
GHENT.

Hold on a minute. You Ve got to promise to tie
the man who falls, on his horse, and take him to
Mesa Grande. Bargain?
The Mexican nods.

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT I

And mouth shut, mind you, or —
He makes a sign across his throat.
T H E MEXICAN.

Nods.
Alia right.
He goes out.
GHENT.

Motioning toward the door.
Outside.
DUTCH.

Surprised.
What for?
GHENT.

Sternly.
Outside!
They move toward the door. Dutch stops and waves
his hand to Ruth.
DUTCH.

Don't worry, my girl. Back soon.
GHENT.

Threateningly.
Cut that out!

ACT I]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

DUTCH.

W h a t ' s eatm' you? She ain't yours yet, and I
guess she won't be, not till hell freezes over.
He taps his pistol and goes out. Ghent picks up the
rifle which has previously missed fire ; he unloads it,
throws it on the window-seat', and follows Dutch.
Ruth stands beside the table, listening. Four shots
are heard. After a short time Ghent appears and
watches from the door the vanishing horses. He
comes to the table opposite Ruth.
RUTH.

In a low voice.
Is he dead?
GHENT.

No; but he '11 stay in the coop for a while.
She sinks down in a chair. Ghent seats himself at the
other side of the table, draws a whiskey flask from
his pocket, and uncorks it awkwardly, using only
his right hand.
RUTH.

As he is about to drink.
Don't!

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT I

GHENT.

Lowers the bottle and looks at her in a dazed way.
Is this on the square?
RUTH.

I gave you my promise.
Gazing at her, he lets the bottle sink slowly by his side;
the liquor runs out, while he sits as if in a stupor.
Ruth glances toward the door, and half starts from
her seat, sinking back as he looks up.
GHENT.

Give me a drink of water.
She brings the water from a bucket in the corner. He sets
the empty bottle on the table, drinks deeply of the
water, takes a handkerchief from his neck, wets it,
and mops his face.
GHENT.

Where are your folks?
RUTH.

My brother has gone out to the railroad.
GHENT.

Him and you ranching it here by yourselves?

ACT I]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

RUTH.

Yes.
GHENT.

Write him a note.
He shoves paper, pen> and ink before her.
Fix it up anyway you like.
RUTH.

Tell me first what you mean to do with me,
GHENT.

Ponders awhile in silence.
Have you got a horse to ride?
RUTH.

Yes.
GHENT.

We can reach San Jacinto before sun-up. Then
we 're off for the Cordilleras. I Ve got a claim
tucked away in them hills that '11 buy you the
city of Frisco some day, if you have a mind to it!
She shrinks and shudders.

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT I

What you shivering at?
Ruth does not answer', but begins to write. Ghent\ still
using only one hand, takes a pistol from his pocket,
examines it, and lays it carelessly on the table, within
RutHs reach. He rises and goes to thefireplace,takes
a cigarette from his pocket and lights it, and examines the objects on the mantel-shelf Ruth stops
writing, takes up the pistol, then lays it down, as he
speaks without turning round.
Read what you Ve written.
Ruth, about to read, snatches up the pistol again, rises,
and stands trembling and irresolute.
Why don't you shoot?
He turns round deliberately.
You promised on the square, but there 's nothing
square about this deal. You ought to shoot me
like a rattlesnake!
RUTH.

I know that.
GHENT,

Then why don't you?
RUTH.

Slowly.
I don't know.

ACT I]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

GHENT.

I guess you Ve got nerve enough, for that or anything. — Answer me; why not?
RUTH.

I don't — know. — You laid it there for me. —
And — you have no right to die.
GHENT.

How's that?
RUTH.

You must live —- to pay for having spoiled your
life.
GHENT.

Do you think it is spoiled?
RUTH.

Yes.
GHENT.

And how about your life?
RUTH,

I tried to do it.

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT I

GHENT.

To do what?
RUTH.

To take my life. I ought to die. I have a right to
die. But I cannot, I cannot! I love my life, I
must live. In torment, in darkness — it does n't
matter. I want my life. I will have it!
She drops the weapon on the table, pushes it toward
him, and covers her eyes.
Take it away! Don't let me see it. If you want
me on these terms, take me, and may God forgive you for it; but if there is a soul in you to be
judged, don't let me do myself violence.
She sinks down by the table, hiding her face in her
hands.
O, God have pity on me!
Ghent puts the pistol back into his belt, goes slowly
to the outer door, opens it, and stands for some moments gazing out. He then closes the door, and takes
a step or two toward the table. As he speaks, Ruttis
sobs cease, she raises her head and looks strangely
at him.
GHENT.

I've lived hard and careless, and lately I've been
going down hill pretty fast. But I have n't got

ACT I]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

so low yet but what I can tell one woman from
another. If that was all of it, I'd be miles away
from here by now, riding like hell for liquor to
wash the taste of shame out of my mouth. But
that ain't all. I've seen what I've been looking
the world over for, and never knew it. —Say your
promise holds, and I '11 go away now.
RUTH.

Of Yes> g°> g° • You will be merciful. You will
not hold me to my cruel oath.
GHENT.

And when I come back?
Ruth does not answer. He takes a step nearer.
And when I come back?
RUTH.

You never — could — come back.
GHENT.

No, I guess I never could.
RUTH.

Eagery pleading.
You will go?

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT I

GHENT.

For good?
RUTH.

Yes.
GHENT.

Do you mean that?
RUTH.

Wildly.
Yes, yes, ten thousand times!
GHENT.

Is that your last word?
RUTH.

Yes.
Pause. She watches him with strained anxiety.
O, why did you come here to-night?
GHENT.

I come because I was blind-drunk and suncrazy, and looking for damnation the nearest way.
That 's why I come. But t h a t ' s not why I 'm
staying. I Tm talking to you in my right mind now.
I want you to try and see this thing the way it is.

ACT I]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

RUTH.

O, that is what I want you to do! You did yourself
and me a hideous wrong by coming here. Don't
do us both a more hideous wrong still! I was in
panic fear. I snatched at the first thing I could.
Think what our life would be, beginning as we
have begun! O, for God's pity go away now,
and never come back! Don't you see there can
never be anything between us but hatred, and
misery, and horror?
GHENT.

Hardening.
We '11 see about t h a t ! — Are you ready to start?
Ruth, conscious for the first time of her undress condition, shrinks, and folds her gown closer about her
neck.
Go, and be quick about it.
« She starts toward her room ; he detains her.
Where's your saddle?
She points at it and goes out. Ghent picks up the note
she has written, reads it, and stands for a moment in
reflection before laying it down. He gets more water
from the bucket, drinks deeply, mops his face, and rolls

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT I

up the sleeve of his left arm} which is soaked with
blood. He tries awkwardly to stanch a wound in his
forearm, gives it up in disgust, and rolls down his
sleeve again. He reads the note once more, then
takes Ruth's saddle and bridle from the wall and
goes out, Ruth comes in ; her face is white and haggard, but her manner determined and collected. She
comes to the table, and sees the bloody handkerchief
and basin of water. As Ghent enters, she turns to
him anxiously.
RUTH.

You are hurt.
GHENT.

I t ' s no matter.
RUTH.

Where?
He indicates his left arm. She throws off her hooded
riding-cloak, and impulsively gathers together water,
towels, liniment, and bandages ; she approaches him,
quite lost in her task, flushed and eager.
Sit d o w n . — R o l l up your sleeve.
He obeys mechanically. She rapidly and deftly washes
and binds the wound, speaking half to herself between long pauses.
Can you lift your arm? — The bone is not

ACT I]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

touched. — It will be all right in a few days. —
This balsam is a wonderful thing to heal.
GHENT.

Watching her dreamily, as she works.
W h a t ' s your name?
RUTH.

Ruth — R u t h — J o r d a n .
Long pause.
There, gently. — It must be very painful.
He shakes his head slowly, with half-humorous protest.
GHENT.

It 's not fair!
RUTH.

What is n't fair?
GHENT.

To treat me like this. I t ' s not in the rules of the
game.
RUTH.

As the sense of the situation again sweeps over her.
Binding your wound? I would do the same service for a dog.

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT I

GHENT.

Yes, I dare say. But the point is, I ain't a dog;
I'm a human — the worst way!
She rises and puts away the liniment and bandages.
He starts up, with an impulsive gesture.
Make this bad business over into something
good for both of us! You'll never regret it! I'm
a strong man!
He holds out his right army rigid.
I used to feel sometimes, before I went to the
bad, that I could take the world like that and
tilt her over. And I can do it, too, if you say
the word! I'll put you where you can look down
on the proudest. I'll give you the kingdoms of
the world and all the glory of 'em.
She covers herface with her hands. He comes nearerj
Give me a chance, and I '11 make good* By God,
girl, I'll make good! — I '11 make a queen of you.
I'll put the world under your feet!
Ruth makes a passionate gesture, as if to stop her
ears.
What makes you put your hands over your ears
like that? Don't you like what I 'm saying to you?

ACT I]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

RUTH.

Taking the words with difficulty.
Do you remember what that man said just now?
GHENT.

What about?
RUTH.

About the Indian — and — his squaw.
GHENT.

Yes. There was something in it, too. I was a
fool to offer him that mean little wad.
RUTH.

For — me!
GHENT.

Well, yes, for you, if you want to put it that way.
RUTH.

But — a chain of nuggets — that comes nearer
being a fair price?
GHENT.

O, to buy off a greaser!

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT I

RUTH.

But to buy the soul of a woman — one must go
higher. A mining-claim! The kingdoms of the
world and all the glory of them!
Breaking down in sudden sobs.
O, be careful how you treat me! Be careful! I
say it as much for your sake as mine. Be careful!
GHENT.

Turns from her, his bewilderment and discomfiture
translating itself into gruffness.
Well, I guess we '11 blunder through. — Come
along! We Ve no time to lose. — Where are your
things?
At her gesture, he picks up the saddle-pack which she
has brought out of the bedroom with her, and starts
toward the door.
RUTH.

Taking a hammer from the window-ledge and handing
it to Ghent,
Fix the bolt. My brother must not know.
He drives in the staple of the bolt, while she throws
the blood-stained water and handkerchief into the

ACT I]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

fire. He aids her in replacing the weapons on the
walls, then takes the saddle-pack and stands at the
door, waiting. She picks up her mother's picture,
and thrusts it in her bosom. After standing a moment in hesitation, she takes the picture out, kisses
it, lays it on the maniel, face down. She extinguishes
the lamp, and goes out hastily. He follows, closing
the door.

THE CURTAIN FALLS IN DARKNESS

ACT II

ACT II
Stephen Ghents home, in the Cordilleras. At the right,
crowning a rude terrace, is an adobe cabin, stained
a pale buff, mellowed to ivory by sun and dust.
Over it clamber vines loaded with purple bloom. The
front of the cabin is turned at an angle toward
the spectator, the farther side running parallel with
the brink of a canon, of which the distant wall and
upper reaches are crimsoned by the afternoon light.
In the level space before the rocky terrace is a stone
table and seats, made of natural rocks roughly worked
with the chisel. The rude materials have manifestly
been touched by a refined and artistic hand, bent on
making the most of the glorious natural background.
Against the rocks on the left stands a large hand-loom
of the Navajo type, with weaving-stool, and a blanket
half woven. On the table lies a half finished Indian
basket, and strips of colored weaving-materials lie in
a heap on the ground. Cactus plants in blossom fill
the niches of the rocks and lift their fantastic forms
above the stones which wall the canon brink. At one
point this wall is broken, where a path descends into
the canon.
Lon Anderson, a venerable-looking miner, with gray
hair and beard, sits smoking before the cabin. Burt
Williams, a younger man, peeps up over the edge of
the canon, from the path.

THE GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT II

BURT.

Hello, Lon. Is the Missus inside?
Lon smokes on, without looking at the questioner.
Look here, I put 3, nickel in you, you blame
rusty old slot-machine. Push out something!
LON,

Removes his pipe deliberately.
What you wantin' off 'n her now? A music lesson
or a headache powder?
BURT.

Boss 's waitin' down at the mine, with a couple
o' human wonders he *s brought back with him
from wherever he 's been this time. Something
doin' on the quiet.
LON.

You can tell him his wife ain't nowheres about.
Burt produces an enormous bandana from his pocket,
mounts the wall, and waves it. He sits on the wall
and smokes for a moment in silence, looking down
into the cation, as if watching the approaching party.
Hepoints with his pipe at the cabin.

ACT II]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

BURT.

Funny hitch-up — this here one — I think.
LON.

After a pause.
How much you gittin' a day now?
BURT.

Same little smilin' helpless three and six-bits.
LON.

Anything extry for thinkin'?
BURT.

Nope! Throwed in.
They smoke again. Burt glances down to reassure himself y then points at the loom and basket.
Queer business—this rug-weavin' and basketmakin', ain't it? — What d' ye s'pose she wants
to sit, day in and day out, like a half-starved
Navajo, slavin' over' them fool things fur? —
Boss ain't near, is he? Don't keep her short of
ice-cream sodas and trolley-rides, does 'e?
Lon rises and approaches Burt, regarding him grimly.

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT II

Saw 'er totin' a lot o' that stuff burro-back over
to the hotel week 'fore last. — An* Dod Ranger
— you know what a disgustin' liar Dod is — he
tells how he was makin' tests over in the crosscanon, an* all of a sudden plump he comes on
her talkin* to a sawed-off Mexican hobo, and
when she sees Dod, she turns white 's a sheet.
LON.

With suppressed ferocity.
You tell Dod Ranger to keep his mouth shet,
and you keep yourn shet too — or by Jee—
hosophat, I'll make the two of ye eat yer Adam'sapples and swaller the core!
BURT.

O, git down off 'n yer hind legs, Lon! Nobody's
intendin' any disrespect.
LON.

You boys keep yer blatherin' tongues off 'n her!
Or you 41 get mixed up with Alonzo P. Anderson
— (he taps his breast) —so 's it '11 take a coroner
to untangle ye!

ACT II]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

BURT.

Deprecatingly.
I guess I 'd stick up fur 'er 's quick as you would,
come to that.
LON.

Well, we don't need no stickin' up fur 'er. What
we need is less tongue.
He leans down and speaks lower.
Especially when the boss is round. You tell the
boys so.
Burt looks at him in. surprise and is about to speak ;
Lon makes a warning signal, indicating the approach
of the party below. Burt descends, saluting Ghent
respectfully.
GHENT.

Peeping up over the edge of the canon.
Coast clear, eh, Lon?
LON.

Yes, sir.
GHENT*

Where is she?

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT II

LON.

Points along the brink of the canon.
Kind o* think she went out to Look-off Ledge. —
Guess she did n't expect you back to-day.
GHENT.

Speaking below.
Come up, gentlemen.
Ghent emerges from the cafion, followed by an architect, a dapper young Easterner, and a contractor, a
bluff Western type. Ghent is neatly dressed in khaki,
with riding-boots and broad felt hat. He has a prosperous and biisy air, and is manifestly absorbed in
the national game of making money.
Take a seat.
CONTRACTOR,

Seats himself by the table.
Don't care if I do. That new stage of yours just
jumped stiff-legged from the go-off. And the trail
up here from the mine is a good deal of a proposition for the see-dentary.
ARCHITECT.

As he takes in the stupendous view.
What a wonderful place! Even better than you
described it.

ACT II]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

GHENT.

Yes. My wife picked it out. — Let's see your
plans.
He removes basket from the table, where the architect
unrolls several sheets of blue paper.
ARCHITECT.

I have followed your instructions to the letter.
I understand that nothing is to be touched except the house,
GHENT.

Not a stone, sir; not a head of cactus. Even the
vines you 've got to keep, exactly as they are.
ARCHITECT.

Smiling.
That will be a little difficult.
GHENT.

You can put 'em on a temporary trellis. - A little
pains will do it.
CONTRACTOR.

Maybe, with a man to shoo the masons off with
a shot-gun.

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT II

GHENT.

Over the plans.
Provide a dozen men, if necessary, with machine
guns.
CONTRACTOR.

As you please, Mr. Ghent. The owner of the
Verde mine has a right to his whims, I reckon.
ARCHITECT.

I have designed the whole house in the Spanish
style, very broad and simple. This open space
where we stand — {points to the plans) — I have
treated as a semi-enclosed patio, with arcaded
porches.
GHENT.

Dubiously.
Good.
ARCHITECT.

This large room fronting the main arcade is the
living-room.
GHENT.

I guess we '11 have 'em all living-rooms. This place
is to be lived in, from the word go.

ACT II]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

ARCHITECT.

Humoring him.
To be sure, everything cheerful and open. — Here
on the left of the inner court is the library and
music-room.
GHENT.

I'm afraid we won't have much use for that. My
wife don't go in much for frills. I used to play
the concertina once, but it was a long while ago.
ARCHITECT.

It can be used for other purposes. For instance,
as a nursery, though I had put that on the other
side.
GHENT.

Embarrassed and delighted.
Um, yes, nursery. — Stamping-ground for the —?
The architect nods; the contractor follows suit, with
emphasis. Lon nods solemnly over his pipe.
Good.
The architect bends over to make a note with his pencil.
Ghent restrains him and says somewhat sheepishly
in his ear.
You can leave it music-room on the map.

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT II

ARCHITECT.

Continuing his explanation.
This wing —
Ghent) interrupting him, holds the plan at arm!s length,
with head on one side and eyes squinted, as he looks
from the drawings to the cabin and surroundings.
GHENT.

Looks a little — sprawly on paper. I had sort of
imagined something more — more up in the air,
like them swell tepees on the Hill in Frisco.
He makes a grandiose outline of high roofs and turrets
in the air.
ARCHITECT.

I think this is more harmonious with the surroundings.
CONTRACTOR.

In answer to Ghents inquiring look.
Won't look so showy from the new hotel across
yonder.
He points to the left, down the curve of the canon wall.
GHENT.

W h a t ' s your estimate on this plan, now you Ve
seen the location?

ACT II]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

CONTRACTOR.

I t ' s a long way to haul the stuff. — Say somewheres between twenty and twenty-five thousand. Twenty-five will be safe.
GHENT.

Slightly staggered.
T h a t ' s a big lot of money, my friend!
CONTRACTOR.

With cold scorn.
I thought we was talkin' about a house I I can
build you a good sheep-corral for a right smart
less.
GHENT.

Well, I guess we don't want any sheep-corrals.
CONTRACTOR.

I should think not, with the Verde pumping
money at you the way they tell she does.
GHENT.

Holds up the plans again and looks at them in perplexed silence.
I '11 tell you, gentlemen, I '11 have to consult my

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT II

wife about this before I decide. The fact is, I Ve
been working the thing out on the sly, up to now.
CONTRACTOR.

Expect to build it of an afternoon, while the lady
was takin' her see-ester?
GHENT.

I thought I 'd smuggle her off somewhere for a
while.
He is silent a moment, pondering.
No! I t ' s her house, and she must O. K. the plans
before ground is broke.
He looks along the canon rim.
Would you mind waiting a few minutes till I see
if I can find her?
He starts irresolutely, then turns back.
Or better still, leave the plans, and I '11 see you at
the hotel to-morrow morning. I have n't been
over there since it was opened. I'd like to know
what they 're making of it.
CONTRACTOR.
Astonished.
Hain't been over to the Buny Visty yet ?

ACT II]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

GHENT.

Too busy.
CONTRACTOR.

Well, you '11 find it an up-to-date joint, and chock
full of tourist swells and lungers.
GHENT.

Good-afternoon, gentlemen. You '11 excuse me.
You can find your way back all right? Take the
left-hand path. I t ' s better going.
The architect bows ceremoniously\ the contractor nods.
Ghent disappears along the canon brink behind the
cabin.
ARCHITECT.

Has been examining the work on the loom, and has
then picked up the unfinished basket, admiringly.
What a beautiful pattern! I say, this is like those
we saw at the hotel. (To Lon.) May I ask who is
making this?
Lon smokes in silence ; the architect raises his voice,
slightly sharp.
May I ask who is making this?
LON.

Benignly.
You kin, my friend, you kin!

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT II

ARCHITECT.

Well, then, the question is put,
LON.

And very clear-put, too. You 'd ought to be in
the law business, young man.
He gets up deliberately.
Or some other business that 'd take up all yer
time.
ARCHITECT.

Between wrath and amusement.
Well, 111 be hanged!
He follows his*companion down the canon path, stopping a moment at the brink to look round with a professional air at the house and surroundings, then at
Lon.
Tart old party!
He descends, Lon crosses to the table, looks over the
plans, makes outlines in the air in imitation of
Ghent, then shakes his head dubiously, as he rolls up
theplans,
Ruth appears, emerging from the cafion path. She wears
the same dress as at the close of Act I, with a
dark scarf4ike handkerchief thrown over her head.

ACT II]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

She is pale and exhausted. She sinks on the rocks
at the edge of the canon.
LON.

Approaching her9 anxiously.
I t ' s too much fer you, ma'am. You 'd oughter
let me go.
He brings her a glass of waterfront an Indian waterjar before the cabin.
RUTH.

Tasting the water.
O, I thought I should never get back!
She leans against a rock> with closed eyes, then rouses
herself again.
Lon, take the glass, and see if you can make out
any one down yonder, on the nearer trail. I — I
thought some one was following me.
LON.

Speaks low.
Excuse me askin', Mis' Ghent, but is that dodblamed Mexican a-botherin' you again?
RUTH.

No. He has gone away, for good. I t ' s some one I

THE GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT II

saw at the hotel — some one I used to know. —
Look if you can make out a man's figure, coming
up.
LON.

Takes the glass from the niche in the rocks; and scans
the canon path.
Can't see nothin' but a stray burro, an' he ain't
got no figger to speak of. — Might be t'other
side o' Table Rock, down in the pinyon scrub.
Ruth gets up with an effort, takes the glass and looks
through it, then lays it on the ledge.
Excuse me, ma'am, but — Mister Ghent come
home this afternoon.
RUTH.

Startled.
Where is he?
LON.

Huntin' for you down Look-off Ledge way. I
'lowed you was there, not knowin' what else to
say.
RUTH.

Thank you, Lon. — You can go now.
He goes down the canon path. Ruth looks once more
through the glass, then crosses to the table, where she

ACT II]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

sits down and begins to finger the roll of plans.
Ghent reenters. He approaches with soft tread and
bends over Ruth. She starts up with a little cry,
avoiding his embrace.
You frightened me.—When did you comeback?
GHENT.

An hour ago.
RUTH.

Was your journey successful?
GHENT.

Yes. But my home-coming — that looks rather
like a failure.
Pause.
I expected to find you out on the bluff.
RUTH.

Lon was mistaken. I had gone the other way.
As she stands at the table, she begins to unroll the plans.
What are these papers?
GHENT.

Have n't you one word of welcome for me, after
five days?
Ruth remains silent, with averted head, absently unrolling the packet.

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT II

Not a look even?
He waits a moment, then sighs and seats himself
moodily by the table.
I never can remember! After I Ve been away
from you for twelve hours, I forget completely,
RUTH,

Forget what?
GHENT.

How it stands between us. I t ' s childish, but for
the life of me I can't help it. — After I Ve been
away a few hours, this place gets all lit up with
bright colors in my mind, like — {searching for a
simile) — well, like a Christmas tree! I daresay
a Christmas tree don't amount to much in real
life, but I saw one once, in a play, — I was a little
mining-camp roust-about, so high, — and ever
since it has sort of stood to me for the gates o*
glory.
RUTH.

With a hysterical laugh.
A Christmas tree!
She bows her head in her hands, and repeats the words,
as if to herself, in a tone in which bitterness haf
given place to tragic melancholy.

ACT II]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

A Christmas tree!
Ghent, watching her moodily, crumples up the plans
and throws them upon the ground. He goes toward
thecabiny hesitates, turns, and comes back to the table,
where Ruth still sits with buried head. He draws
from his pocket a jewel-case, which he opens and lays
before her.
GHENT.

There is a little present I brought home for you.
And here are some more trinkets.
He takes out several pieces of jewelry and tumbles them
together on the table.
I know you don't care much for these things, but
I had to buy something, the way I was feeling.
And these papers — (picks them up and spreads
them out on the table)—these mean that you're
not to live much longer in a mud shanty, with
pine boxes for furniture. These are the drawings
for a new house that I want to talk over with you.
Hepoints at the map and speaks glibly, trying to master
his discomfiture at her lack of interest.
Spanish style, everything broad and simple!
Large living-room opening on inner court. Library and music-room, bless your heart. Bedrooms; kitchen and thereunto pertaining. Wing

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT II

where the proprietor retires to express his inmost
feelings. General effect sprawly, but harmonious
with the surroundings. Twenty thousand estimated, twenty-five limit. Is she ours?
RUTH.

In a dead, flat tone.
How much did you say the house is to cost?
GHENT.

Twenty-five thousand dollars at the outside.
RUTH.

And these — trinkets?
GHENT.

O, I don't know. — A few hundred.
RUTH.

Draws the plans toward her and pours the jewels in a
heap upon them from her lifted hands.
Twenty-five thousand dollars and the odd hundreds !
She laughs suddenly and jarringly.

ACT II]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

My price has risen! My price has risen!
She laughs again, as she rises from the table and looks
down the canon path.
Keep those displayed to show to our visitors! My
honor is at stake.
She points down the path.
There is one coming now!
GHENT.

Visitors? What visitors?
RUTH.

Only an old school-friend of mine; a Mr. Winthrop Newbury.
GHENT,

What are you talking about? Are you crazy?
He joins her, where she stands looking down into the
canon.
This fellow, is he really what you say?
Ruth nods, with unnaturally bright eyes and mocking
smile.
What does this mean?

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT II

RUTH.

It means that he caught sight of me, an hour ago,
in the hotel.
GHENT.

In the hotel? What were you doing there?
RUTH.

With biting calm.
Nothing wicked — as yet. They don't pay twentyfive thousand dollars over there — at least not
yet!
Ghent turns sharply, as if stung by a physical blow.
She raises her hands to himy in a swift revulsion
of feeling.
O, don't judge me! Don't listen to me! I am not
in my right mind.
GHENT.

Sweeps the jewels together> and throws them over the
cliff.
Do you want me to be here, while you see him?
She does not answer.
Won't you answer me?

ACT II]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

RUTH.

Again cold.
Act as you think best.
GHENT,

I t ' s a question of what will be easiest for you.
RUTH.

0 , it's all easy for me!
Ghent stands irresolute, then raises his hand in a gesture of perplexity and despair, and goes into the
house, closing the door, Winthrop Newbury appears
at the top of the cafion path, looks curiously about,
catches sight of Ruth's averted figure, and rushes
toward her,
WINTHROP.

Ruth! Is it really you?
Ruth starts involuntarily toward him, stretching out
her arms. As he advances, she masters herself, and
speaks in a natural voice, with an attempt at gayety,
as she takes his hand,
RUTH.

Well, of all things! Winthrop Newbury! How
did you find your way to this eagle's nest?

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT II

WlNTHROP.

I — we saw you — we caught a glimpse of you
at the hotel, but we were n't sure. We followed
you, but lost you in the cation.
RUTH.

We? Who is we?
WlNTHROP.

Your brother and his wife.
RUTH.

Turning the shock, which she has been unable to conceal,
into conventional surprise.
Philip and Polly here!
WlNTHROP.

They took the other turn, down there where the
path forks. We did n't know which way you
had gone.
RUTH.

Yes, but why on earth are they here at all?
WlNTHROP.

They are on their way East. They stopped over
to see me.

ACT II]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

RUTH.

To see you? Are you — living here?
WINTHROP.

I have been here only a week.
He starts impulsively', trying to break through the conventional wall which she has raised between them.
Ruth — for God's sake —!
RUTH.

Interrupting him, with exaggerated animation.
But tell me! I am all curiosity. How do you
happen to be here — of all places?
WINTHROP.

What does it matter? I am here. We have found
you, after all these miserable months of anxiety
and searching. O Ruth — why —
RUTH.

I have acted badly, I know. But I wish not to
talk of that. Not now. I will explain everything
later. Tell me about yourself — about Philip and
Polly — and mother. I am thirsty for news.
What have you been doing all these months, since
— our queer parting?

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[AQT II

WlNTHROP.
Solemnly.
Looking for you.
Pause.
0 Ruth —• how could you do it? How could you
doit?
RUTH.

Touches him on the arm and looks at him with dumb
entreaty} speaking low.
Winthrop!
WlNTHROP.
In answer to her unspoken words.
As you will.
RUTH.

Resumes her hard, bright tone.
You have n't told me about mother. How is she?
WlNTHROP.

Well. Or she will be, now. Ruth, you ought at
least to have written to her. She has suffered
cruelly.

ACT II]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

RUTH.

Quickly', with a nervous uplift of her arms.
Yes, yes, I know that! — And you are — settled
here? You mean to remain?
WINTHROP.

I am physician at the End-of-the-Rainbow mines,
three miles below. At least I — I am making a
trial of it.
Pause.
How pale and worn you are. — Don't turn away.
Look at me.
She flinches\ then summons her courage and looks him
steadily in the face.
You are — you are ill — I fear you are desperately
ill!
RUTH.

Moving away nervously.
Nonsense. I was never better in my life.
She goes toward the canon brink.
You have n't praised our view. We are very proud
of it.

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT II

WlNTHROP.
Following her.
Yes, very fine. Magnificent.
RUTH.

But you 're not looking at it at all! Do you see
that bit of smoke far down yonder? That is the
stamp mill of the Rio Verde mine.
WlNTHROP.
Compelling himself to follow her lead.
Yes — the Rio Verde. One of the big strikes of
the region. Dispute about the ownership, I believe.
RUTH.

None that I ever heard of, and I ought to know.
For — (she makes a sweeping bow) — we are the Rio
Verde, at your service.
WlNTHROP.

You — your — husband is the owner of the
Verde mine?
RUTH.

No less!

ACT II]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

WlNTHROP.
Embarrassed.
We found the record of your marriage at San
Jacinto. The name was Ghent — Stephen Ghent.
RUTH.

Yes. He will be so glad to see some of my people.
Winthrop's eyes have fallen on the basket at the foot of
the table. He picks it up, examines it curiously, and
looks meaningly at Ruth, who snatches it from his
hand and throws it over the cliff.
A toy I play with! You know I always have to
keep my hands busy pottering at some rubbishy
craft or other.
WlNTHROP.
Is about to speak, but checks himself He points at the
loom.
And the blanket, too?
RUTH.

Yes, another fad of mine. It is really fascinating
work. The Indian women who taught me think
I am a wonder of cleverness.

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT II

WlNTHROP.

So do — the women — over there.
He points across the canon.
RUTH.

Flushing.
Ah, yes, you saw some of my stuff at the hotel.
You know how vain I am. I had to show it<
WlNTHROP.

Perhaps. But why should the wife of the man
who owns the Verde mine sell her handiwork, and
under such — such vulgar conditions?
RUTH.

Brilliantly explanatory.
To see if it will sell, of course! That is the test of
its merit.
He looks at her in mute protest, then with .a shake of
the heady rises and puts on his hat.
WlNTHROP.

Do you want to see the others?

ACT II]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

RUTH.

Why, yes, to be sure I do. How should I not?
WINTHROP.

You have n't seemed very anxious — these last
eight months.
RUTH.

True. I have been at fault. I so dread explanations. And Phil's tempests of rage! Poor boy, he
must feel sadly ill-used.
WINTHROP.

He does.
Hesitates.
If there is any reason why you would rather he
did n't see you, just now, —
RUTH.

There is no reason. At least, none valid.
WINTHROP.

Then I will bring them up.
RUTH.

By all means.
She holds out her hand, smiling.

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT II

Auf wiedersehen!
Winthrop releases her hand and goes toward the canon
path. He waves, and turns to Ruth.
WINTHROP.

They are just below.
As Ruth advances he takes her hand and looks searchingly into her eyes.
For old friendship's sake, won't you give me one
human word before they come? At least answer
me honestly one human question?
RUTH.

Keeping up her hard, bright gayety.
In the great lottery of a woman's answers there is
always one such prize!
WINTHROP.

Dejectedly, as he drops her hand.
I t ' s no use, if that is your mood.
RUTH.

My mood! Your old bugbear! I am as soberserious as my stars ever let me be.

ACT II]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

WlNTHROP.

Did you, that night you bade me good-bye, know
that — this was going to happen?
RUTH.

Cordially explanatory.
No. It was half accident, half wild impulse.
Phil left me at the ranch alone. My lover came,
impatient, importunate, and I — went with him.
WlNTHROP.

And your — this man — to whom you are married
— pardon me, you don't need to answer unless
you wish — for how long had you known him?
RUTH.

Solemnlyy as she looks him straight in the eyes.
AH my life! And for aeons before.
He looks at her for a moment\ then goes toward the
canon path. Polly s voice is heard calling.
POLLY.

Not yet visible.
Win! Win!

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT II

WlNTHROP.
Calls down the canon.
Come up! Come u p !
Ruth goes past him down the canon path. In a moment she reappears', with Polly. They are laughing
and talking as they come.
POLLY.

Ruth!
RUTH.

Dear old Polly!
POLLY.

You naughty girl!
RUTH.

If our sins must fjnd us out, you are the kind of
Nemesis I choose.
POLLY.

M y ! But you 're a shady character. And sly!
Philip appears. Ruth hurries to embrace him, while
Pollyy fanning herself with her handkerchiefy examines the house and surroundings with curiosity.

ACT II]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

RUTH.

O Phil! — Dear old man!
She covers his face lightly with her hands.
No scolding, no frowns. This is the finding of the
prodigal, and she expects a robe and a ring.
POLLY.

Seating herself on a rock.
Heavens, what a climb! — I ' m a rag.
RUTH.

Motions to the men to be seated.
The cabin would n't hold us all, but there's one
good thing about this place; there's plenty of
outdoors.
WlNTHROP.
Looking about.
I should say there was!
POLLY.

To think ot our practical Ruth doing the one
really theatrical thing known in the annals of
Milford Corners, Mass.! — And what a setting!
My dear, your stage arrangements are perfect.

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT II

RUTH.

In this case Providence deserves the credit. We
may have come here to have our pictures taken,
but we stayed to make a living.
Philip has drawn apart, gloomy and threatening. Polly
keeps up her heroic efforts to give the situation a
casual and humorous air.
POLLY.

With jaunty challenge.
Well, where is he?
RUTH.

Who?
POLLY.

He!
Ruth points at the cabin, smiling.
Well, produce him!
RUTH.

Following, with gratitude in her eyes, the key of lightness and raillery which Polly has struck.
You insist?
POLLY.

Absolutely,

A C T II]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

RUTH.

O, very well!
She goes up the rocky incline, and enters the cabin,
calling: " Steve ! Steve ! " Polly goes to Philip, and
shakes him.
POLLY.

Now you b e h a v e !
Indicates Winthrop.
H e ' s behaving.
Ruth reappears in the doorway, followed by Ghent.
RUTH.

With elaborate gayety, as they descend the rocks.
Well, Stephen, since t h e y V e run us t o earth, I
suppose we m u s t p u t a good face on it, a n d acknowledge them. — T h i s is Polly, of whom I V e
talked so much. Polly t h e irresistible. Beware
of h e r !
Polly shakes his hand cordially.
And this is — m y brother Philip.
Ghent extends his hand, which Philip pointedly

ig-

nores. Ruth goes on hastily, to cover the insult.
And this is m y old school-friend, W i n t h r o p Newbury.
They shake hands.

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT II

WlNTHROP.
To Philip, formally explanatory,
Mr. Ghent is the owner of the famous Verde
mine.
GHENT.

Part owner, sir. I had n't the capital to develop
with, so I had to dispose of a half-interest.
WlNTHROP.

Is n't there some litigation under way?
RUTH.

Looking at Ghent, surprised.
Litigation?
GHENT.

Yes — a whole rigmarole.
POLLY.

Catching at a straw to make talk.
Heaven help you if you have got entangled in the
law! I can conceive of nothing more horrible or
ghostly than a court of law; unless {she glances
at Philip) it is that other court of high justice,

ACT II]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

which people hold in private to judge their fellows, from hearsay and half-knowledge!
RUTH.

Keeping up the play desperately, as she blesses Polly
with a look.
But there must be law, just the same, and penalties and rewards and all that. Else w h a t ' s the
use of being good?
POLLY.

Like you — for instance!
RUTH.

Well, yes, like me!
POLLY.

You are not good, you are merely magnificent. I
want to be magnificent! I want to live on the
roof of the world and own a gold mine!
To Ghent.
Show me where the sweet thing is.
GHENT.

We can get a better view of the plant from the
ledge below. Will you go down?
Ghent, Polly, and Winthrop go down the canon path.
Ruth takes Philip by the arm, to lead him after.

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT II

PHILIP.

No. We must have a word together, before the
gabble begins again. Winthrop has given me
your explanation, which explains nothing.
RUTH.

Trying to keep up the light tone.
Has n't that usually been the verdict on explanations of my conduct?
PHILIP.

Don't try to put me off! Tell me in two words
how you came to run away with this fellow.
RUTH.

Hardening.
Remember to whom you are speaking, and about
whom.
PHILIP/

I got your note, with its curt announcement of
your resolve. Later, by mere accident, we found
the record of your marriage at San Jacinto — if
you call it a marriage, made hugger-mugger at
midnight by a tipsy justice of the peace. I don't
want to question its validity. I only pray that

ACT II]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

no one will. But I want to know how it came to
be made, in such hurry and secrecy — how it
came to be made at all, for that matter. How did
you ever come to disgrace yourself and your
family by clandestine meetings and a hedge-row
marriage with a person of this class? And why,
after the crazy leap was taken, did you see fit
to hide yourself away without a word to me or
your distracted mother? Though that perhaps is
easier to understand!
RUTH.

The manner of your questions absolves me from
the obligation to answer them.
PHILIP.

I refuse tb be put off with any such patent subterfuge.
RUTH.

Subterfuge or not, it will have to suffice, until
you remember that my right to choose my course
in life is unimpeachable, and that the man whose
destiny I elect to share cannot be insulted in my
presenceo

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT II

PHILIP.

Very well, I can wait. The truth will come out
some day. Meanwhile, you can take comfort
from the fact that your desertion at the critical moment of our enterprise has spelled ruin for
me.
RUTH.

Overwhelmed.
Philip, you don't mean —!
PHILIP.

Absolute and irretrievable ruin.
RUTH.

Then you are going back East — for good?
PHILIP.

Yes.
RUTH.

But — mother's money! What will she do?
Philip shrugs his shoulders.

Is everything gone — everything?
PHILIP.

I shall get something from the sale.

Perhaps

ACT II]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

enough to make a fresh start, somewhere, in some
small way.
RUTH.

Comes to him, and lays her arms on his shoulders.
Phil, I am sorry, sorry!
He caresses her; she bursts- into suppressed convulsive weeping and clings to him> hiding her face in
his breast,
PHILIP.

Ruth, you are not happy! You have made a
hideous mistake. Come home with me.
Ruth shakes her head.
At least for a time. You are not well. You look
really ill. Come home with us, if only for a
month.
RUTH.

No, no, dear Phil, dear brother!
She draws dozvn his face and kisses him; then lifts her
head, with an attempt at lightness.
There! I have had my cry, and feel better. The
excitement of seeing you all again is a little too
much for me.

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT II

PHILIP.

If there is anything that you want to tell me
about all this, tell me now.
RUTH.

O, there will be plenty of time for explanations
and all t h a t ! Let us just be happy now in our reunion.
PHILIP.

There will not be plenty of time. We leave tomorrow morning.
RUTH.

Then you will take me on trust — like a dear good
brother. Perhaps I shall never explain! I like my
air of mystery.
PHILIP.

Remember that if you ever have anything to
complain of — in your life — it is my right to
know it. The offender shall answer to me, and
dearly, too.
RUTH.

Takes his head between her handsy and shakes it, as
with recovered gayety.
Of course they will, you old fire-eater!

ACT II]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

PHILIP.

Pointing to the blanket on the loom.
Ruth, at least tell me why —.
Ruth does not see his gesture, as she is looking at the
others, who come up from below. The men linger in
. the background, Ghent pointing out objects in the
landscape.
RUTH.

To Polly, who advances.
Well, what do you think of us, in a bird's-eye
view?
POLLY.

In a bird's-eye view you are superb!
She draws Ruth to her, and speaks in a lower tone.
And looked at near, you are an enthralling
puzzle.
RUTH.

Half to herself.
If you only knew how much!
POLLY.

Taking Ruth by the chin as in Act L
So you had — just by chance — riding over to

98,

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT II

the trading-station or so — met the glorious
unfulfilled — in blue overalls and a jumper! I
thought so!
Ruth bows her head in a spasm of pain. Polly, who
does not see her face, goes on teasingly.
I see now what you meant about wanting one
that was n't finished. This one certainly is n't
finished. But when he is, he '11 be grand!
Ruth moves away with averted head. Polly follows
her, peeping round to view her face.
Don't sulk! I meant nothing disrespectful. On
the contrary, I 'm crazy about him.
In a loiider tone.
And now that I 've seen the outside of you, I must
peep into that fascinating little house!
RUTH.

To Ghent, who has drawn nearer.
Polly wants to go inside the cabin. I can't let
her until we have shown her what i t ' s going to
be.
With Ghent s aid she spreads out the plans, which Polly
examines with curiosity\
These are the plans for our new house. You call

ACT II]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

us magnificent. We will show you that we are
not. We are overwhelming!
WINTHROP.

Looking at his watch.
I am afraid we must be getting back. It grows
dark very suddenly in the cafion.
RUTH.

To Polly.
Well, then you may come in, if you will promise
to view the simple present in the light of the
ornate future.
Polly goes in. Ruthy lingering at the door for an instant, looks back anxiously at the men.
PHILIP.

Curtly', to Ghent.
If you will permit me, I should like a word with
you.
GHENT.

Certainly.
Winthrop effaces himself making and lighting a cigarette, as he looks out over the canon.

ioo

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT II

PHILIP.

In deference to my sister's wishes, I refrain
from asking you for the explanation which is
due me.
Ghent bows in silence.
But there is one thing which I think I am at
liberty to question.
GHENT.

Do so.
PHILIP.

I hear of your interest in a valuable mine. I hear
of plans for an elaborate house. Why, then, is my
sister compelled to peddle her own handiwork
in a public caravansery?
GHENT.

What do you mean? I don't understand you.
PHILIP.

Points at the loom.
Her rugs and baskets are on sale in the corridor
of the hotel, fingered and discussed by the tourist
mob.

ACT II]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

101

GHENT.

Astonished.
This can't be true!
PHILIP.

I t is, however.
GHENT.

I know nothing of it. I Ve had to be away a great
deal. I knew she worked too hard over these
things, but I took it for a mere pastime. Perhaps — No, I can't understand it at all!
PHILIP.

I advise you to make inquiries. She has taken
pains to conceal her identity, but it is known
nevertheless, and the subject of public curiosity.
Polly and Ruth come out from the cabin.
POLLY.

To Philip.
Take me away quickly, or I shall never enjoy
upholstery again!
To Ruth.
Please change your mind, dear, and come with us
for the night.

io2

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT II

RUTH.

No. I will see you in the morning.
WINTHROP.

We leave by the early stage.
RUTH.

Looking at him quickly.
You too?
WINTHROP.

Yes, I have decided so.
RUTH.

I will be there in good time, trust me.
She kisses Polly and Philip.
Good-bye, till morning.
Gives her hand to Winthrop.
Good-bye.
Philip ignores Ghent pointedly in the leave-takings.
Polly bids him farewell with corresponding cordiality.
POLLY.

Good-bye, Mr. Ghent.

ACT II]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

103

As they descend the canon path, she is heard chatting
enthusiastically.
O Phil, you ought t o h a v e seen t h e inside of t h a t
delightful little h o u s e !
Her voice is heard for some time, indistinctly. Ruth, at
the top of the path, waves to them as they descend.
GHENT.

Looks long at her, with deep gratitude.
God bless y o u !
She sits down on the rocks of the cabin terrace. He
walks up and down in anxious thought. Once or
twice he makes as if to speak. At length he stops before her.
You m u s t go in a n d lie down. You are worn out.
RUTH.

Rousing herself.
No, there is something I m u s t tell you first.
GHENT.

Points at the rug.
I t ' s about this — work you h a v e been doing?
RUTH.

Slightly

startled.

You know of t h a t ?

io4

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT II

GHENT.

Your brother told me. I should have found it out
to-morrow anyhow.
Pause.
Have you wanted money ?
RUTH.

Yes.
GHENT.

I thought I — I thought you had enough.
have often begged you to take more.

RUTH.

I have n't spent what you gave me. I t is in there.
She points toward the house.
GHENT.

Astonished.
You have n't spent — any of it?
RUTH.

A little. Nothing for myself.

ACT II]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

105

GHENT.

But there has been no need to save, not after the
first month or two. You surely knew that!
RUTH.

Yes, I knew it. It was not economy.
GHENT.

Slowly.
You have n't been willing to take money from
me?
RUTH.

No. I know it was small of me, but I could n't
help it. I have paid for everything. — I have kept
account of it — O, to the last dreadful penny!
These clothes are the ones I wore from my brother's house that night. This shelter — you know
I helped to raise that with my own hands. And
— and some things I paid for secretly, from the
little hoard I brought away with me. You were
careless; you did not notice.
GHENT.

Sits dozvn, dizzy from the shock of her words.
I must try to grasp this!

106

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT II

There is a silence, during which he sits perfectly motionless. At last he turns to her.
Why — why did you stand up so plucky, so
splendid, just now? Put a good face on everything about our life ? Call me by my first name
and all that — before your own people ?
RUTH.

We are man and wife. Beside that, my own people are as strangers.
GHENT.

Eagerly,
You say that? You can still say t h a t ?
RUTH.

Looks upy startled.
Can't you?
She awaits his answer tensely,
GHENT.

Desperately.
O, I don't know. I can't say or think anything,
after what you have just told me!

ACT II]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

107

RUTH.

Wails.
You can't say it! And it is n't true! It is we who
are strangers. —- Worse, a thousand times worse!
GHENT.

Rises and stands over her.
Don't let us dash ourselves to hell in one crazy
minute!
He pauses and hesitates. When he speaks again it is
with wistful tenderness.
Ruth, do you remember our journey here?
She lifts her head, looking at him with white, thirsty
face.
I thought — it seemed to me you had — begun
to care for me.
RUTH.

That night, when we rode away from the justice's
office at San Jacinto, and the sky began to
brighten over the desert — t h e ice that had gathered here — (she touches her heart) — began to melt
in spite of me. And when the next night and the
next day passed, and the next, and still you
spared me and treated me with beautiful rough

108

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT II

chivalry, I said to myself, " H e has heard my
prayer to him. He knows what a girl's heart is."
As you rode before me down the arroyos, and
up over the mesas, through the dazzling sunlight
and the majestic silence, it seemed as if you were
leading me out of a world of little codes and customs into a great new world. — So it was for
those first days. —• And then — and then — I
woke, and saw you standing in my tent-door in
the starlight! I knew before you spoke that we
were lost. You had n't had the strength to save
us!
GHENT.

Huskily.
Surely it has n't all been —• hateful to you?
There have been times, since that. — The afternoon we climbed up here. The day we made
the table; the day we planted the vines.
RUTH.

In a half whisper.
Yes! -— Beautiful days!
She puts her hands suddenly before her face and sobs.
O, it was not my fault! I have struggled against
it. You don't know how I have struggled!

ACT II]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

109

GHENT.

Against what? Struggled against what?
RUTH.

Against the hateful image you had raised up
beside your own image.
GHENT.

What do you mean?
RUTH.

I mean that sometimes — often — when you stand
there before my eyes, you fade away, and in your
place I see — the Other One!
GHENT.

Speak plainly, for God's sake! I don't understand this talk.
RUTH.

Looking steadfastlyy as at an invisible shape, speaks in
a horrified whisper.
There he stands behind you now! — The human
beast, that goes to its horrible pleasure as not
even a wild animal will go — in pack, in pack /

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT II

Ghent> stung beyond endurance, rises and paces up and
down. Ruth continues in a broken tone, spent by the
violence of her own words.
I have tried — O, you don't know how I have
tried to save myself from these thoughts. —While
we were poor and struggling I thought I could
do it. —' Then — (she points toward the canon)
— then that hole down there began belching its
stream of gold. You began to load me with
gifts —• to force easy ways upon me —
GHENT.

Well, what else did I care to make money for?
Ruth does not answer for a moment\ then speaks slowly\
taking the words with loathing upon her tongue\
RUTH.

Every time you giye me anything, or talk about
the mine and what it is going to do, there rings in
my ears that dreadful sneer: " A dirt-eating Mojave would pay more than that for his squaw!"
She rises, lifting her arms.
I held myself so dear! And you bought me for
a handful of gold, like a woman of the street!

ACT II]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

You drove me before you like an animal from
the market!
Ghent has seated himself again, elbows on knees and
face in his hands. Ruth takes slowly from her bosom
the nugget cliain and holds it crumpled up in her
palm. Her tone is quiet, almost matter-of-fact.
I have got back the chain again.
GHENT.

Looks up.
Chain? — What chain?
RuTii.
In the same tone, as she holds it up, letting it unwind.
The one you bought me with.
GHENT.

Dumfounded,
Where the devil —? Has that fellow been around
here?
RUTH.

It would have had no meaning for me except from
his hand.

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT II

GHENT.

So t h a t ' s what you Ve been doing with this rugweaving and basket-making tomfoolery?
Ruth does not answer, but continues looking at the chain,
running it through herfingersand weighing it in her
hand.
How long has this been going on ?
RUTH.

How long ? — How long can one live without
breathing? Two minutes? A few lifetimes? How
long!
GHENT.

It was about a month after we came here that
you began to potter with this work.
RUTH.

Draws her hand about her neck as if loosening something there ; convulsively.
Since then this has been round my neck, around
my limbs, a chain of eating fire. Link by link I
have unwound it. You will never know what it
has cost me, but I have paid it all. Take it and
let me go free.
She tries to force it upon kirn, with wailing entreaty.
Take it, take it, I beseech you!

ACT II]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE
GHENT.

Holding himself under stern control.
You are killing yourself. You must n't go on this
way. Go and rest. We will talk of this to-morrow.
RUTH.

Rest! To-morrow! O, how little you have understood of all I have said! I know it is only a
symbol — a make-believe. I know I am childish
to ask it. Still, take it and tell me I am free.
Ghent takes the chain reluctantly, stands for a moment
looking at it, then speaks with iron firmness,
GHENT.

As you say, your price has risen. This is not
enough.
He throws the chain about her neck and draws her to
him by it.
You are mine, mine, do you hear? Now and forever!
He starts toward the house. She holds out her hand
blindly to detain him.
RUTH.

In a stifled voice.
Wait! There is —something else.

ii4

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT It

He returns to her, anxiously, and stands waiting. She
goes on, touching the chain.
It is n't only for my sake I ask you to take this
off me, nor only for your sake. There is —another life — to think of.
GHENT.

Leaning to look into her averted face.
Ruth! — Is it true ? — Thank God!
RUTH.

Now will you take this off me ?
GHENT.

Starts to do so, then draws back.
No. Now less than ever. For now, more than
ever, you are mine.
RUTH.

But—how yours? O, remember, have pity! How
yours ?
Philip appears at the head of the canon path. Hearing
their voices, he waits, half concealed.
GHENT.

No matter how! Bought if you like, but mine!

ACT II]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

115

Mine by blind chance and the hell in a man's
veins, if you like! Mine by almighty Nature
whether you like it or not!
RUTH.

Nature! Almighty Nature!
She takes the chain slowly from her neck.
Not yours! By everything my people have held
sacred!
She drops the chain.
Not yours! Not yours!
She turns slowly. Philip has come forward, and supports her as she sinks half fainting upon his neck.
PHILIP,

To Ghent.
I came back to get my sister for the night. — I
don't know by what ugly spell you have held her,
but I know* from her own lips, that it is broken.
To Ruth.
Come! I have horses below.
GHENT.

No!

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT II

PHILIP.

Measuring him.
Yes.
Pause.
GHENT.

Let her say!
RUTH.

Looks long at Ghent, then at the house and surroundings. At last she turns to her brother.
Take me — with you. Take me — home!
Philip, supporting her, leads her down the canon path.
Ghent stands gazing after them as they disappear
below the rim. He picks up the chain and goes back,
looking down after the descending figures. The sunset light has faded, and darkness has begun to settle
over the mountain world.

CURTAIN

ACT III

ACT III
Sitting-room of Mrs. Jordan's house at Milford Corners> Massachusetts. An old fashioned New England
interior, faded but showing signs of former distinction. The walls are hung with family portraits, several in clerical attire of the eighteenth century, one
in the uniform of the Revolutionary War. Doors open
right and left. At the back is afireplace,flanked by
windows, the curtains of which are drawn. On the
left is a small table, with a lamp, books, and magazines; on the right, near thefireplace,a sewing-table,
with lamp and sewing-basket. A bookcase and a
writing-desk occupy opposite corners of the room,
forward.
Winthrop and Philip stand near the desk, chatting.
Polly is reading a newspaper at the table, left. Ruth
sits before the grate, sewing; her face is turned
away toward the fire.
PHILIP.

Offers Winthrop his cigar-case.
Have another cigar.
WINTHROP.

Well, as a celebration.
Takes one and lights it.

120

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT III

PHILIP.

Rather small business for the Jordan family, to
be celebrating a bare escape from the poorhouse.
WINTHROP.

Where did you scare up the benevolent uncle?
I never heard of him before.
PHILIP.

Nor I, scarcely. He *s always lived abroad.
Winthrop, strolling about, peeps over Polly's shoulder.
WINTHROP.

To Philip, with a scandalized gesture.
Stock reports!
PHILIP.

Her latest craze.
WINTHROP.

Last week it was Japanese Samurai.
POLLY.

Crushingly.
And next week it will be — Smart Alecks.

ACT ill]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

121

The door on the left opens•, and Mrs. Jordan enters, with
Dr. Newbury. During the preceding conversation
Ruth has sat sewing, paying no heed to the chatter.
Mrs. Jordan and the doctor look at her as they come
in, but she does not look up.
M R S . JORDAN.

Sit down, Doctor, at least for a moment.
D R . NEWBURY.

Seats himself, Mrs. Jordan near him.
I can never resist such an invitation, in this
house.
M R S . JORDAN.

Dear Doctor, you've been a wonderful friend to
me and mine all these years, since poor Josiah
was taken.
D R . NEWBURY.

But just when you needed help most —
M R S . JORDAN.

I know how gladly you would have offered it, if
you could.

122

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT HI

D R . NEWBURY.

Your brother-in-law in England was able to redeem the property?
M R S . JORDAN.

Hastily.
Yes, yes. — But what we are to do for the future,
with my little capital gone —
She speaks lower.
O, that dreadful West! If my children had only
stayed where they were born and bred.
She glances at Ruth, who has let her sewing fall in her
lap and sits staring into the fire.
D R . NEWBURY.

Sotto voce.
Poor child!
Polly looks up from the newspaper excitedly, holding
her finger at a place on the sheet.
POLLY.

I say, Phil! Win! Look here.
Philip and Winthrop, who have been chatting and
• smoking apart, come to the table.

ACT in]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

123

PHILIP.

What is it now?
POLLY.

Tapping on the paper.
Something about your Arizona scheme.
PHILIP.

Bending over her, reads :
"Alleghany pig-iron, 93K1 National Brick —
POLLY.

Pointing.
No, there!
PHILIP.

Arizona Cactus Fibre, 84,
He picks up the papery astounded.
Cactus Fibre listed! Selling at 84!
He tosses the paper to Winthrop.
This is the last straw!
M R S . JORDAN.

Who has been listening anxiously.
What does it mean, Phil?

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT III

PHILIP.

Only that the people who bought our plant and
patents for a song, have made a fortune out of
them.
Ruth has resumed her needle-work. Winthrop offers her
the paper, with his finger at the line. She takes it,
looks at it vaguely\ and lays it on the table.
POLLY.

Leaning across.
Does n't that interest you?
RUTH.

Tonelessly.
O, yes.
She rises, lays her work aside, and goes toward the
door, left.
D R . NEWBURY.

As she passes him.
Won't you bid me good-night, my child?
RUTH.

Giving him her hand.
Good-night, Doctor.

ACT in]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

125

D R . NEWBURY.

Shaking his finger.
Remember, no more moping!
morrow, outdoors with you

And from to-

Ruth looks at him vacantly, attempting to smile. She
moves toward the door, which Winthrop opens for her.
WiNTHROP.
Holding out his hand.
You must bid me good-night, too, and good-bye.
RUTH.

With a faint kindling of interest.
Are you going away?
WINTHROP.

Only back to Boston. Some time, when you are
stronger, you will come down and see our new
sailors' hospital.
RUTH.

Yes. — Good-bye.
She goes out, Winthrop closing the door.

126

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT III

WlNTHROP.
To Dr. Newbury.
I must be going along, father. Good-night, everybody !
Patting Philip's shoulder.
Hard luck, old man!
He goes out by the hall door on the right, Philip accompanying him.
D R . NEWBURY.

Looking after his son.
Brave boy! Brave boy! He keeps up a good show.
M R S . JORDAN.

You think he still grieves over her?
D R . NEWBURY.

Ah, poor chap! He 's made of the right stuff, if
he is mine.
M R S . JORDAN.

Let us not talk of it. It is too sad, too dreadful.
Philip reenters.

ACT ill]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

127

D R . NEWBURY.

About part of it we must talk.
He speaks so as to include Philip and Polly in the conversation.
Mrs. Jordan, I don't want to alarm you, but your
daughter — I may as well put it bluntly — is in
a dangerous state.
M R S . JORDAN.

Frightened.
Doctor! I thought she seemed so much stronger.
D R . NEWBURY.

She is, so far as her body is concerned.
Mrs. yordan sits in an attitude of nervous attention,
gazing at the doctor as if trying to formulate one of
many questions pressing upon her. Philip comes forward and sits by the table, near them.
PHILIP.

Don't you think that the routirie of life which
she has taken up will soon restore her to a normal
state of mind?
D R . NEWBURY.

Perhaps. — I hope so. — I would have good hope

128

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT III

of it, if it were not for her attitude toward her
child.
M R S . JORDAN.

Overwhelmed.
You have noticed that, too! I have n't spoken
to you of it, because — I have n't been willing
to see it myself.
PHILIP.

I can't see that there is anything particularly
strange in her attitude. She takes care of the brat
scrupulously enough.
POLLY.

Brat!
M R S . JORDAN.

Brat!
To Dr. Newbury, after a reproachful gaze at Philip.
With the most watchful, the minutest care, but
— (she speaks in a distrained voice; with a nervous
glance at the door) — exactly as if it were a piece
of machinery! — Phil, do please lay down that
paper-knife before you break it! Your father
brought that to me from India.

ACT in]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

129

He obeys, but picks it up again absent-mindedly', after
a few seconds.
Pardon me, Doctor. She goes about her daily
business, and answers when she is spoken to,
but as for her really being here —
She breaks out.
Doctor, what shall we do ?
D R . NEWBURY.

She must be roused from this state, but how to
do it, I don't know.
POLLY.

Rising, with heightened color and nervous emphasis.
Well, I do!
M R S . JORDAN.

Looking at her with frightened interrogation.
Polly—?
POLLY.

What she needs is her husband, and I have sent
for him!
PHILIP.

Inarticulate with surprise and anger.
You—!

130

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT ill

POLLY.

Yes, I. H e ' s been here a week. And he's an
angel, is n't he, mother?
Philip snaps the paper-knife in two, flings the pieces to
theflooryand rises, pale with rage.
M R S . JORDAN.

Gathering up the pieces with a wail.
O Phil! How could you! One of my most precious relics!
PHILIP.

To Mrs. Jordan.
Is this true, or is it another of her tedious jokes?
POLLY.

Protesting.
O, my dear, tedious!
M R S . JORDAN.

Wipes her eyes, after ruefully fitting the broken pieces
of the knife together and laying them tenderly on the
table.
You don't deserve to have me answer you, but
it is true.

ACT III]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

131

PHILIP.

Was this action taken with your knowledge?
M R S . JORDAN.

I do not expect to be spoken to in that tone. Polly
telegraphed merely the facts. He came at his
own instance.
PHILIP.

But you have consented to enter into relations
with him?
M R S . JORDAN.

I have seen him several times.
POLLY.

Triumphantly.
And yesterday we showed him the baby! Such
fun, was n't it, mother?
M R S . JORDAN.

Wiping her eyes, sheepishly.
Yes, it was rather — enjoyable.
PHILIP.

He can't be in this town. I should have heard
of it.

132

THE GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT HI

POLLY.

We Ve hid him safe.
PHILIP.

Where?
POLLY.

Never mind. He's on tap, and the sooner we
turn on the spigot the better, is what I think.
Doctor, what do you think?
DR. NEWBURY.

Let me ask you again to state your view of Ruth's
case. I don't think I quite grasp your view.
POLLY.

Pluming herself, doctrinaire.
Well! Here on the one hand is the primitive, the
barbaric woman, falling in love with a romantic
stranger, who, like some old Viking on a harry,
cuts her with his two-handed sword from the
circle of her kinsmen, and bears her away on his
dragon ship toward the midnight sun. Here on
the other hand is the derived, the civilized woman, with a civilized nervous system, observing

ACT in]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

133

that the creature eats bacon with his bowie knife,
knows not the manicure, has the conversation
of a preoccupied walrus, the instincts of a jealous
caribou, and the endearments of a dancing crab
in the mating season.
M R S . JORDAN.

Polly! What ideas! What language!
D R . NEWBURY.

Don't be alarmed, Mrs. Jordan. The vocabulary
has changed since our day, and — the point of
view has shifted a little.
To Polly.
Well?
POLLY.

Well, Ruth is one of those people who can't live
in a state of divided feeling. She sits staring at
this cleavage in her life, like — like that man in
Dante, don't you know, who is pierced by the
serpent, and who stands there in hell staring at
his wound, yawning like a sleepy man.
M R S . JORDAN.

O, Polly, do please try not to get our heads muddled up with literature!

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT in

POLLY.

All I mean is that when she married her man she
married him for keeps. And he did the same by
her.
Philip risesy with uncontrollable impatience, and goes
back to the mantelpiece, against which he leans, nervously tearing a bit ofpaper to pieces.
D R . NEWBURY.

Don't you think that a mere difference of cultivation, polish — or — or something of that sort
— is rather small to have led to a rupture, and
so painful a one too?
POLLY.

A little nonplussed.
Well, yes, perhaps it does look small. But we
don't know the particulars; and men are such
colossal brutes, you know, dear Doctor!
D R . NEWBURY.

Judicially.
Yes, so they are, so they are!
POLLY.

And then her pride! You know when it comes

ACT in]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

135

to pride, Ruth would make Lucifer look like a
charity-boy asking for more soup.
D R . NEWBURY.

I think perhaps the plan should be tried.
After a pause.
Yes, I think so decidedly.
PHILIP.

I call this a plot against her dignity and peace of
mind!
D R . NEWBURY.

Rising.
Well, this conspirator must be going.
He shakes hands with Polly and Mrs. Jordan, takes his
hat and stick. Philip remains plunged in angry reflection. Dr. Newbury taps Philip jestingly on the
shoulder with the tip of his cane.
When you have lived as long as I have, my boy,
you'll — you'll be just as old as I am!
He goes out, Polly accompanying him to the door.
Philip, disregarding his mothers conciliatory look and
gesture as he passes her, goes out left. Polly stretches
her arms and draws a deep breath as the door closes
after him.

i36

THE GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT III

MRS. JORDAN.

Looking at her severely.
Pray what does that mean?
POLLY.

O, Phil is such a walking thunder-cloud, these
days. I t ' s a relief to get rid of him.
MRS. JORDAN.

Have you done what you could to make his life
brighter?
POLLY.

I never had a chance. He has always been too
much wrapped up in Ruth to think of me.
MRS. JORDAN.

How can you say such a thing? What do you
suppose he married you for?
POLLY.

Heaven knows! What do they ever do it for? It
is a most curious and savage propensity. But
immensely interesting to watch.

ACT in]

THE GREAT DIVIDE
MRS. JORDAN.

With a despairing gesture.

If you hold such heathenish views, why are you
so bent on bringing those two together?
POLLY.

Soberly.

Because they represent — what Philip and I
have missed.
MRS. JORDAN.

And pray what have " Philip and I " missed?
POLLY.

O, we 're all right. But we 're not like those two.
MRS. JORDAN.

I should hope not!
POLLY.

Even I believe that now and then a marriage is
made in Heaven. This one was. They are predestined lovers!

i38

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT HI

M R S . JORDAN.

Mournfully, hypnotized by the evangelical note.
I pray it may be so.
She looks suspiciously at Polly.
You wretched girl! Predestined lovers and marriage made in Heaven, after all you Ve just been
saying about how impossible he is.
POLLY.

He is quite impossible, but h e ' s the kind we can't
resist, any of us. He 'd only have to crook his
little finger at me.
M R S . JORDAN.

Lifting her hands in despair.
What are you young women coming to!
Pause.
He seems to me a good man.
POLLY.

Delighted.
O, he's good! So is a volcano between eruptions.
And commonplace, too, until you happen to get
a glimpse down one of the old volcanic rifts in

ACT in]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

139

his surface, and see — far below — underneath
the cold lava-beds — fire, fire, the molten heart
of a continent!
M R S . JORDAN.

I only hope you have some vague general notion
of what you are talking about.
POLLY.

Amen. — And now let's consider when, where,
and how we are to hale this dubious pair together.
M R S . JORDAN

One thing is sure, it must n't be here,
POLLY.

Why not?
M R S . JORDAN.

On Philip's account.
POLLY.

O, bother Philip! — Was n't that the doorbell?
M R S . JORDAN.

Yes. You had better go.
Polly goes out. After a moment she reenters, excitedly.

140

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT HI

POLLY.

I t ' s Mr. Ghent!
M R S . JORDAN.

Amazed,
Mr. Ghent?
Polly nods enthusiastically, Ghent enters. He is conventionally dressed, a black string tie and the
broad-brimmed hat which he carries being the only
suggestions of Western costume remaining, Mrs,
yordan receives him in a flutter of excitement and
alarm,
Mr. Ghent —! Surely at this hour —!
GHENT.

I beg your pardon. There was no other way.
I am going West to-night. — Can I see you
alone?
M R S . JORDAN.

Looks at Polly, who goes out, pouting.
Going West to-night?
GHENT.

Yes. Trouble at the mine.

ACT in]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

141

M R S . JORDAN.

Is n't your business partner competent to attend
to it?
GHENT.

He 's competent to steal the whole outfit. In
fact, is doing it, or has done it already.
M R S . JORDAN.

Vaguely alarmed.
And — my property here? Is that involved in
the danger?
GHENT.

Certainly not.
M R S : JORDAN.

Relieved.
I have gone through such months of misery at
the thought of losing the dear old place! — If
Ruth only knew that we owe the very roof over
our heads to you —
GHENT.

Well, she is n't to know, t h a t ' s understood, is n't
it? Besides, it 's nothing to speak of. Glad if you
think it a service. She would n't.

i42

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT HI

M R S . JORDAN.

You mean —?
GHENT.

I mean that if she knew about it, she would n't
stay here overnight.
M R S . JORDAN.

Sit down.
She motions him to a seat at the table; she sits near
him, speaking with nervous impulsiveness.
Tell me what is the trouble between you! It
has all been a dreadful mystery from the beginning!
GHENT.

Is it a mystery that a woman like your daughter —?
He stops and sinks into gloomy thought.
M R S . JORDAN.

Should have chosen you? — Pardon me, I don't
mean anything unkind —
He makes a gesture of brusque exoneration.
But having chosen — and broken faith with her
brother to do it —

ACT in]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

143

GHENT.

Nervously.
Let's drop that!
Pause.
Mrs. Jordan, you come of the old stock. Do you
believe in the devil?
M R S . JORDAN.

Perhaps not in the sense you mean.
GHENT.

Tapping his breast.
I mean the devil inside of a man -— the devil in
the heart!
M R S . JORDAN.

O, yes. We are all forced by our lives to believe
in that.
GHENT.

Our lives!
He looks slowly round the room.
How long have you lived here?
M R S . JORDAN.

For thirty years, in this house. Before I was
married I lived in the old house down the road
yonder, opposite the church.

i44

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT III

GHENT.

To himself.
Think of it!
M R S . JORDAN,

What did you say?
GHENT.

Gathers himself together.
Mrs. Jordan, I want you to promise that what I
put in your hands from time to time comes to
your daughter as if from another source.
M R S . JORDAN.

You are going away for good?
GHENT.

Yes.
M R S . JORDAN.

You give her up?
GHENT.

A man can't give up what is n't his.
M R S . JORDAN.

What is n't his? She is your wife.

ACT in]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

145

GHENT.

No. Never has been.
M R S . JORDAN.

Terrified.
O, pitiful heavens!
GHENT.

I beg your pardon. — I was only trying to say —
I used to think that when a couple was married,
there they were, man and wife, and that was the
end of it. I used to think that when they had a
child, well, sure enough it was their child, and
all said.—And there's something in that, too.
He stares before him> smiting the table and speaking
with low intensity.
Damn me if there ain't something eternal in it!
He sits for a moment more in gloomy thought.
Do you think she '11 make up to the young one,
after a bit?
M R S . JORDAN.

O, surely! To think otherwise would be too
dreadful!

i46

THE GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT in

GHENT.

I 'd give a good deal to know. — It's kind of
lonesome for the little rooster, sitting out there
all by himself on the world's doorstep! — I must
see her for a minute before I go. — Do your best
for me.
MRS. JORDAN.

I will do what I can.
GHENT.

You can put it as a matter of business. There
is a matter of business I want to talk over with
her, if I can get up the gumption.
MRS. JORDAN.

Had n't you better tell me what it is?
GHENT.

Well, it's about your son Philip. That little
scheme he started out in my country — the
Cactus Fibre industry.
MRS. JORDAN.

Yes?

ACT in]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

147

GHENT.

I believe he thinks his sister's going away when
she did queered his game.
M R S . JORDAN.

It was a severe blow to him in every way. She
was the life and soul of his enterprise.
GHENT.

I want her to give him back the Cactus Fibre
outfit, worth something more than when he
dropped it.
M R S . JORDAN.

Give if; back to him? She?
GHENT.

Takes papers from his pocket.
Yes. I happened to hear it was knocking around
for nothing in the market, and I bought it — for
the house, really. Hated to see that go to the
dogs. Then I looked over the plant, and got a
hustler to boom it. I thought as a matter of
transfer, to cancel her debt, or what she thinks
her debt —
Pause.

148

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT ill

M R S . JORDAN.

Fingering the paper with hesitation.
Mr. Ghent, we really can't accept such a thing.
Your offer is quixotic.
GHENT.

Quix — what?
M R S . JORDAN.

Quixotic, it really is.
GHENT.

Doubtfully.
I guess you're right. It depends oh the way you
look at it. One way it looks like a pure business
proposition — so much lost, so much made good.
The other way it looks, as you say, quix — um —.
Anyway, there are the papers! Do what you
think best with them.
He lays the papers on the table, and picks up his hat.
M R S . JORDAN.

Wait in the parlor.
He opens the hall door.
The second door on the left.
With an awkward bow to Mrs. Jordan, he partly closes

ACT in]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

149

the door after him, when the inner door opens and
Ruth appears. She goes to the sewing-table and picks
up her sewing. Her mother, with a frightenedglance
at the half open hall door, draws her back and kisses
her. Ghent, unseen by Ruth, remains standing, with
his hand on the door-knob.
M R S . JORDAN.

Ruth, you are a brave girl, and I will treat you
like one. — Your husband is here.
RUTH.

Here? — Where?
Ghent pushes the door open, and closes it behind him.
Ruth, sinking back against the opposite wall, stares at
him blankly.
M R S . JORDAN.

He is leaving for the West again to-night. He
has asked to see you before he goes.
Ruth covers her face with her hands, then fumbles
blindly for the latch of the door. Her mother restrains
her.
It is your duty to hear what he has to say. You
owe that to the love you once bore him.
RUTH.

He killed my love before it was born!

150

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT HI

M R S . JORDAN.

It is your duty to hear him, and part with him in
a Christian spirit, for our sakes, if not for your
own.
RUTH.

For whose sake?
M R S . JORDAN.

For mine, and your brother's. — We owe it to
him, as a family.
GHENT.

Raises his hand restrainingly.
Mrs. Jordan —!
RUTH.

Owe?
M R S . JORDAN.

We owe it to him, for what he has done and
wishes to do.
RUTH.

What he has done? — Wishes to do?
M R S . JORDAN.

Yes, don't echo me like a parrot! He has done a

ACT in]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

151

great deal for us, and is anxious to do more, if
you will only let him.
RUTH.

What is this? Explain it to me quickly.
M R S . JORDAN.

With growing impatience.
Don't think to judge your mother!
RUTH.

I demand to hear what all this is! Tell me.
M R S . JORDAN.

Losing control of herself.
He has kept us from being turned into the street!
Ghenty who has tried dumbly to restrain hery turns away
in stoic resignation to his fate.
He has given us the very roof over our heads!
RUTH.

You said that uncle —
M R S . JORDAN.

Well, it was not your uncle! I said so to shield
you in your stubborn and cold-hearted pride.

152

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT HI

RUTH.

Is there more of this?
M R S . JORDAN.

Yes, there is more. You wronged your brother
to follow your own path of wilful love, and now
you wrong him again by following your own path
of wilful aversion. Here comes your husband,
offering to make restitution —
RUTH.

What restitution?
M R S . JORDAN.

He has bought Philip's property out there, and
wants* you to give it back to him.
Ruth stands motionless for a moment\ then looks vacantly about\ speaking in a dull voice, as at first.
RUTH.

I must go away from this house.
M R S . JORDAN.

You don't understand. He claims nothing. He
is going away himself immediately. Whatever

ACT III]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

153

this dreadful trouble is between you, you are his
wife, and he has a right to help you and yours.
RUTH.

I am not his wife.
M R S . JORDAN.

Ruth, don't frighten me.
words —

He said those same

RUTH.

He said — what?
M R S . JORDAN.

That you were not his wife.
RUTH.

He said — that?
M R S . JORDAN.

Yes, but afterward he explained —
RUTH.

Flaming into white wrath.
Explained! Did he explain that when I was left
alone that night at the ranch he came — with

154

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT HI

two others — and when gun and knife had failed
me, and nothing stood between me and their
drunken fury, I sold myself to the strongest of
them, hiding my head behind the name of marriage? Did he explain that between him and
the others money clinked — {she raps on the table)
— m y price in hard money on the table? And
now that I have run away to the only refuge I
have on earth, he comes to buy the very house
where I have hidden, and every miserable being
within it!
Long pause. She looks about blankly and sinks down
by the table.
M R S . JORDAN.

Cold and rigid.
And you — married him — after that?
She turns away in horror-stricken judgment.
You ought to have — died — first!
Philip opens the door and enters', staring at Ghent with
dislike and menace.
O Philip, she has told me! — You can't imagine
what horrors!
Ruth risesy with fright in herfacey and approaches her
brother to restrain him.

ACT in]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

155

PHILIP.

Horrors? What horrors?
M R S , JORDAN.

It was your fault! You ought never to have left
her alone in that dreadful place! She — she
married him •— to save herself — from — O horrible!
Philip waits an instant, the truth penetrating his mind
slowly. Then, with mortal rage in his face, he starts
toward Ghent.
PHILIP.

You — dog!
Ruth throws herself in Philip's path.
RUTH.

No, no, no!
PHILIP.

Get out of my way. This is my business now,
RUTH.

No, it is mine. I tell you it is mine.
PHILIP.

We '11 see whose it is. I said that if the truth ever

156

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT HI

came out, this man should answer to me, and
now, by God, he shall answer!
With another access of rage he tries to thrust Ruth from
his path. Mrs. Jordan, terrified at the storm she has
raised, clings desperately to her sotis arm.
RUTH.

I told him long ago it should be between us. Now
it shall be between us.
M R S . JORDAN.

Philip! For my sake, for your father's sake!
Don't, don't! You will only make it worse. In
pity's name, leave them alone together. Leave
them alone — together!
They force Philip bach to the door, where he stands
glaring at Ghent.
PHILIP.

To Ghent.
My time will come. Meanwhile, hide behind the
skirts of the woman whose life you have ruined
and whose heart you have broken. Hide behind
her. I t is the coward's privilege. Take it.
Philip, with Mrs. Jordan still clinging to his arm, goes
out, Ruth closing the door after them. She and Ghent

ACT ill]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

157

confront each other in silence for a moment, across
the width of the room.
RUTH.

God forgive me! You never can.
GHENT.

I t was a pity — but — you were in a corner. I
drove you to it, by coming here,
RUTH.

It was base of me — base!
GHENT.

The way your mother took it showed me one
thing. — I Ve never understood you, because —
I don't understand your people.
RUTH.

You mean — her saying I ought to have died
rather than accept life as I did?
GHENT.

Yes.
RUTH.

She spoke the truth. I have always seen it.

158

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT HI

GHENT.

Ruth, i t ' s a queer thing for me to be saying, but
— it seems to me, you 've never seen the truth
between us.
RUTH.

What is the truth — between us?
GHENT.

The truth is —
He pauses•, then continues with a disconsolate gesture.
Well, there fs no use going into that.
He fumbles in his pockety and takes from it the nugget
chain, which he looks at in silence for a time, then
speaks in quiet resignation.
I Ve got here the chain, t h a t ' s come, one way
and another, to have a meaning for us. For you
it 's a bitter meaning, but, all the sapie, I want
you to keep it. Show it some day to the boy,
and tell him — about me.
He lays it on the desk and goes toward the door.
RUTH.

What is the truth — between us?

ACT ill]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

159

GHENT.

I guess it was only of myself I was thinking.
RUTH.

What is it — about yourself?
GHENT.

After a pause.
I drifted into one of your meeting-houses last
Sunday, not knowing where else to go, and I
heard a young fellow preaching about what he
called " The Second Birth." A year and a half ago
I should have thought it was all hocus-pocus,
but you can believe me or not, the way he went
on he might have been behind the door that
night in that little justice den at San Jacinto,
saying to the Recording Angel: tl Do you see that
rascal? Take notice ! There ain't an ounce of
bone or a drop of blood in him but what 's new
man!"
RUTH.

You think it has been all my fault — the failure
we Ve made of our life?

160

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT III

GHENT.

I t ' s been no failure* However it is, it Js been our
life, and in my heart I think i t ' s been — all —
right!
RUTH.

All right! O, how can you say that?
She repeats the words with a touch of awe and wonder,
All right!
GHENT.

Some of it has been wrong, but as a whole it has
been right — right! I know that does n't happen often, but it has happened to us, because —
(he stops, unable to find words for his idea) because
— because the first time our eyes met, they
burned away all that was bad in our meeting,
and left only the fact that we had met —• pure
good — pure joy — a fortune of it — for both
of us. Yes, for both of us! You '11 see it yourself some day.
RUTH.

If you had only heard my cry to you, to wait,
to cleanse yourself and me — by suffering and
sacrifice — before we dared begin to live! But

ACT ill]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

161

you would n't see the need! — O, if you could
have felt for yourself what I felt for you! If you
coxild have said, " T h e wages of sin is death!"
and suffered the anguish of death, and risen again
purified! But instead of that, what you had done
fell off from you like any daily trifle.
GHENT.

Steps impulsively nearer her, sweeping his hand to
indicate the portraits on the walls.
Ruth, i t ' s these fellows are fooling you! I t ' s they
who keep your head set on the wages of sin, and
all that rubbish. What have we got to do with
suffering and sacrifice? That may be the law for
some, and I 've tried hard to see it as our law,
and thought I had succeeded. But I h a v e n ' t !
Our law is joy, and selfishness; the curve of your
shoulder and the light on your hair as you sit there
says that as plain as preaching. —• Does it gall
*
you the way we came together? You asked me
that night what brought me, and I told you
whiskey, and sun, and the devil. Well, I tell you
now I'm thankful on my knees for all three!
Does it rankle in your mind that I took you when
I could get you, by main strength and fraud? I
guess most good women are taken that way, if

162

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT in

they only knew it. Don't you want to be paid
for? I guess every wife is paid for in some good
coin or other. And as for you, I Ve paid for you
not only with a trumpery chain, but with the
heart in my breast, do you hear? T h a t ' s one
thing you can't throw back at me — the man
you 've made of me, the life and the meaning of
life you Ve showed me the way t o !
Ruth's face is hidden in her hands, her elbows on the
table. He stands over her, flushed and waiting.
Gradually the light fades from his face. When he
speaks again, the ring of exultation which has been
in his voice is replaced by a sober intensity.
If you can't see it my way, give me another
chance to live it out in yours.
He waits, but she does not speak or look up. He takes
a package of letters and papers from his pocket, and
runs them over, in deep reflection.
During the six months I 've been East —
RUTH.

Looking up.
Six months? Mother said a week!
GHENT.

Your sister-in-law's telegram was forwarded to

ACT III]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

163

me here. I let her think it brought me, but as a
matter of fact, I came East in the next train after
yours. It was rather a low-lived thing to do, I
suppose, hanging about and bribing your servant
for news —
Ruth lets her head sink in her hands. He pauses and
continues ruefully.
I might have known how that would strike you!
Well, it would have come out sooner or later. —
T h a t ' s not what I started to talk about. — You
ask me to suffer for my wrong. Since you left me
I have suffered — God knows! You ask me to
make some sacrifice. Well — how would the
mine do? Since I Ve been away they Ve as good
as stolen it from me. I could get it back easy
enough by fighting; but supposing I don't fight.
Then we '11 start all over again, just as we stand
in our shoes, and make another fortune — for
our boy.
Ruth utters a faint moan as her head sinks in *her
arms on the table. With trembling handsy Ghent
caresses her hair lightly, and speaks between a laugh
and a sob.
Little mother! Little mother! What does the
past matter, when we Ve got the future — and
him?

164

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT III

Ruth does not move. He remains bending over her for
some moments, then straightens up> with a gesture of
stoic despair.
I know what you 're saying there to yourself,
and I guess you 're right. Wrong is wrong, from
the moment it happens till the crack of doom,
and all the angels in Heaven, working overtime,
can't make it less or different by a hair. That
seems to be the law. I've learned it hard, but I
guess I've learned it. I've seen it written in
mountain letters across the continent of this life.
— Done is done, and lost is lost, and smashed to
hell is smashed to hell. We fuss and potter and
patch up. You might as well try to batter down
the Rocky Mountains with a rabbit's heart-beat!
He goes to the door, where he turns.
You 've fought hard for me, God bless you for it.
— But i t ' s been a losing game with you from
the first! — You belong here, and I belong out
yonder — beyond the Rockies, beyond — i h e
Great Divide!
He opens the door and is abdut to pass out Ruth looks
up with streaming eyes.
RUTH.

NNa\t\

ACT ill]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

165

He closes the door and stands waiting for her to speak.
Ruth masters herself and goes on, her eyes shining,
her face exalted.
Tell me you know that if I could have followed
you, and been your wife, without struggle and
without bitterness, I would have done it.
GHENT.

Solemnly.
I believe you would.
RUTH.

Tell me you know that when I tore down with
bleeding fingers the life you were trying to
build for us, I did it only — because — I loved
you!
GHENT.

Comes slowly to the table, looking at her with bewilder*
ment.
How was that?
RUTH.

O, I don't wonder you ask! Another woman
would have gone straight to her goal. You might
have found such a one. But instead you found

166

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

[ACT III

me, a woman in whose ears rang night and day
the cry of an angry Heaven to us both —
" Cleanse yourselves! " And I went about doing
it in the only way I knew — {she points at the portraits on the wall) —the only way my fathers knew
— by wretchedness, by self-torture, by trying
blindly to pierce your careless heart with pain.
And all the while you — O, as I lay there and
listened to you, I realized it for the first time—
you had risen, in one hour, to a wholly new existence, which flooded the present and the future
with brightness, yes, and reached back into
our past, and made of it — made of all of it —
something to cherish!
She takes the chain, and comes closer.
You have taken the good of our life and grown
strong. I have taken the evil and grown weak,
weak unto death. Teach me to live as you do!
She puts the chain about her neck.
GHENT.

Puzzled, not yet realizing the full force of her
words.
Teach you — to live — as I do?

ACT ill]

T H E GREAT DIVIDE

167

RUTH.

And teach — him !
GHENT.

Unable to realize his fortune.
You 11 let me help make a kind of a happy life
for — the little rooster?
RUTH.

Holds out her artns, herface flooded with happiness.
And for us! For us!

CURTAIN