Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 1006
She complied hesitatingly, her glance going from her father to Rock.
“Thiry,” he went on, and when she drew close he put an arm around her. “Do you see thet big cowpuncher standin’ over there?”
“Yes, Dad — I couldn’t very well help it,” she replied.
“Sort of pale round the gills, ain’t he?”
“Dad, I — I’m afraid he looks a little guilty.”
“Wal, it’s not exactly guilt,” laughed Preston. “Lass, Rock has asked your hand in marriage — an’ I’ve given it.”
“Father!” cried Thiry incredulously, almost with horror.
In that exclamation of protest, of unbelief, of consternation, Rock delved further into this Preston mystery. It seemed to betray Preston’s guilt along with that of his son, and Thiry’s knowledge of it.
“Wal, lass, will you answer Rock now or do you want some time to think it over?” asked Preston coolly, unabashed or unconcerned by her agitation.
“Mr. Rock, I thank you,” said Thiry, through trembling pale lips, “for the honour you do me. I’m sorry I cannot accept.”
Rock bowed, with what little dignity he could assume.
“Thiry, wait a minute,” said her father, as she made for the door. He caught her and held her. “I’m sorry to upset you. Don’t think your dad wants to get rid of you. I’m powerful fond of you, Thiry. It’s only thet lately — wal, I don’t want to worry you about what might happen to me. I might not always be hyar to take care of you. I’d like to have your future settled before — before long. An’ Rock struck me about right. Aw, there you’re cryin’. Wal, run along. I shore cain’t stand a cryin’ woman, not even you. An’ it’s no great compliment to Rock.”
Thiry held her head high as she walked by Rock without giving him another word or glance; and he saw that she was weeping.
“Preston, I ought to knock the daylights out of you,” declared Rock wrathfully, when Thiry was gone. “If I ever had any hope to win Thiry, it’s sure gone now.”
“Much you know about women,” said Preston. “I had a hunch Thiry took a shine to you; now I know it.”
“Preston, I can’t be mad at you, but I sure want to be,” returned Rock, resigning himself.
“Set down,” said the rancher. “You’ll shore be goin’ in to town with the rest of the outfit. They’re leavin’ day after tomorrow. Thet reminds me. I run into thet pretty Mrs. Dabb, an’ she said to tell you to be shore an’ come to her dance. She’s havin’ the new town hall decorated.”
“Boss, you must have been a devil amongst the women, in your day,” said Rock slyly. “How would you handle this particular case of mine, regardin the dance?”
“Wal, as you’re a handsome cuss, you want to make the most of your chance. It’s to be a masquerade, you know.”
“Masquerade? I sure didn’t know.”
“You get yourself up in some dandy outfit. Then first off be cold to Thiry an’ sweeter’n pie to your old girl. But you want to be slick, cowboy. Don’t overdo it.”
“Old-timer, I’m afraid I couldn’t do it,” replied Rock with a grimace. “It’d be funny; it’d be great, if I dared. But I think I’ll rustle now, before you get me locoed. Good night.”
As he opened the door abruptly he almost bumped into Ash Preston. Rock could not help wondering if Ash had been eavesdropping.
Rock awakened at dawn with an idea which must have generated in his subconscious mind while asleep. It was that he should start toward Wagontongue ahead of the Prestons. He wanted to stop long enough with Slagle to dig through the husk of that rancher’s provocative reticence. Likewise, he wanted to ride over that part of the range which had been the scene of Preston’s latest labours. With Preston at home and his family on the road, there would be opportunity for Rock to confirm or disprove his suspicions.
At breakfast Rock asked permission to leave that day, and it was readily given. Saddling Egypt, and leading the rested and mettlesome horse up to the cabin, Rock tied a couple of blankets behind the cantle, and rode away under the pines, without being noticed, so far as he could tell, by any of the family.
He found where the wagon had left the road to halt in the first clump of cedars, and then had gone on again, back to the road. A mile or more this side of Slagle’s ranch, which was hidden in the rough hilly country west of the Flats, the wagon tracks and hoof tracks of saddle-horses turned off the road. Rock did not care to follow them until the Prestons had passed, and even then he would be extremely careful how he did follow.
To Rock’s disappointment, he found that Slagle was not at home, and he could do nothing but ride on. A couple of miles down the road Rock met the wagon tracks again, coming from across the Flats. C
CHAPTER 8
AFTER PONDERING AWHILE, Rock decided he might safely risk some careful scouting around, provided he left no traces and kept keen survey of the several miles of road. With this in mind he tied Egypt on hard ground, and taking to the thickest part of the cedars he mounted the hill, then went on to the summit of the ridge.
The wind carried more than heat, and as he gained his objective point he both smelled and saw dust in the air. Then something raw — an odour that was tainted!
Eagerly Rock came up behind a cedar, and from this cover he peered out and down. The slope on that side sheered steep and rough down to an open draw which appeared pale green, with a dry winding wash in the centre. It led up to a wide pocket, where yellow water gleamed. Cows were bawling. White objects flashed in the sunlight. Rock discerned a cabin and corral, covered with white spots, also men on horses and on foot. Rock slipped to his knees, and crawling to a low thick cedar bush he half buried himself in it, and peered out. The white objects were cowhides; thrown over the corral fence, and nailed on the cabin, hair side down. There were seven riders, several still sitting their saddles, the others walking around.
One of the cowboys, a tall fellow wearing a red scarf, turned same of the cowhides over to look at the under sides. Presently he and the others on foot collected in a group round their mounted comrades, and talked. Watching like a hawk, Rock convinced himself that these riders were curious about Preston’s butchering business.
Presently the mounted riders galloped off, and those on foot took to their horses and followed. They rode up the ridge, westward from the cabin. The fellow with the red scarf, following last, halted on the brink of that pocket and took final survey of the scene. Then he followed after his comrades.
“Dog-gone!” muttered Rock, rolling out of his uncomfortable covert and wiping his perspiring face. “What to make of that? Maybe means nothin an then again—”
No doubt at all was there that the cowhides in plain sight over in the draw bore one of several of Preston’s brands. If other stock betides Preston’s had been butchered, which Rock did not doubt in the least, the hides with their tell-tale brands had of course been well hidden.
Straddling Egypt once more Rock rode down the hill toward Wagontongue. Cedars and brush grew densely at the foot of this slope, where the road crossed a culvert ever a deep wash. Rock’s eyes, bent on the ground, suddenly spied the heel imprint of a rider’s boot. It stopped Rock. He had seen that heel track before. Slipping out of the saddle, Rock bent to scrutinize it. And he experienced a queer little cold chill.
The impression of the heel was well defined, but the toe part was dim. It pointed off the road. Rock found another, like it, though not so plain. But for his trained eyes the trail might as well have been made in snow: It led into the coarse white grass, down over the bank, to the edge of the culvert, where it vanished.
The culvert was not the handiwork of masons. The aperture was large. Crude walls of heavy stone had been laid about ten feet high and the same distance apart. Logs and brush had been placed across the top. Above this a heavy layer of earth formed the road.
When Rock stepped into the mouth of the culvert he saw a lumpy floor, which at first glance he thought consisted of rocks lying on dried mud. A foot track, the one he was trailing, brought a low exclamation from his lips. Bending quickly with his little sticks he tried them. They fitted perfectly. Moreover, this one had been made recently.
When Rock rose from that track he knew what he was going to find. The tunnel appeared about a hundred feet long, with light shining in at both ends, and the middle dark. The numerous stones on the floor were of uniform size and shape. Rock kicked one. It was soft. Bending to feel it and to look at it more closely, he ascertained that it was a burlap sack tied ‘round something. He laughed sardonically.
“Cowhides,” he said. These stonelike objects were all hides tied up in burlap sacks. They were old. Some of them were rotting. Then toward the middle of the culvert, where the bags were thickest, he found that those in sight were lying on a bed of bags, flat, decomposed. Altogether, hundreds, perhaps thousands of hides had been destroyed there.
Rock went back to the point where he had found the boot track. If fresh cowhides had lately been deposited in this hiding-place where were they? Rock searched the ground more carefully. Back from the opening it was difficult to see well. Nevertheless, he trailed the heel track a third of the length of the culvert, toward its centre.
Naturally then he reached up to feel where he could not see. He had to put his toes in crevices between the stones to climb up and reach over the top of the wall. The thick logs placed across from wall to wall, and far apart, left considerable room along the top.
When Rock’s groping hand came in contact with a sack he felt no surprise. This one was not soft. It appeared to hold heat. Grasping it firmly, Rock dropped to the ground and hurried with it to the light. He ripped it open. Quicklime, hot and moist! A fresh cow-hide, wrapped with hair inside! With hands hands that actually shook, Rock unfolded the hide. No slight thing was this proof of somebody’s guilt — about to be disclosed! The brand was clear — a half moon. Rock had never heard of it.
He rolled up the hide, stuffed it in the sack, with the little quicklime he had spilled, and put it back where he had found it. Then he struck a match. By the dim light he saw rows of burlap sacks, neatly stowed away. Rock sneaked out of that culvert and up to his horse as if indeed he were the guilty one himself. Not until he was riding away, positive that he had been unseen, did he recover his equanimity.
That boot track had been made by Ash Preston. Rock knew it. Gage Preston was growing rich by butchering other ranchers’ cattle. The very least implication Rock accorded to Thiry Preston was that she shared the secret, and therefore indirectly, the guilt.
And Rock loved her — loved her terribly now, in view of her extremity. When he got to that confession he seemed unable to escape from the tumult and terror it roused in his mind.
Rock had no idea how far this extraordinary dealing of the Prestons had gone. It would take considerable time to find that out, if it were possible at all. But it had proceeded far enough to be extremely hazardous for them, and in fact for any riders connected with them. The situation would certainly become a delicate one for Rock unless he betrayed Preston at once. This was unthinkable. Rock knew his own reputation had always been above reproach, as far as honesty was concerned. It would still hold good with the old cattlemen who knew him. But that could scarcely apply to new ranchers, new outfits, who had come into the Wagontongue range of late years.
Rock believed that before another year was out, if the Prestons kept up this amazing and foolhardy stealing, they would be found out.
It was long past dark when Rock arrived at Wagontongue. He found a stable where Egypt would be well looked after. Next he hunted up a restaurant to appease his own hunger, and then he went to the hotel and to bed.
The sawmill whistle disrupted his deep dumber at six o’clock, but he enjoyed the luxury of the soft bed, and linen sheets awhile before rising. After breakfast he went round to see Sol Winter.
Winter was sweeping out the store. “My, you look good! All browned up. Dog-gone. I’m glad to see you!”
“Same here, old-timer,” replied Rock heartily. “Any news, Sol?”
“Not much. Everybody comin’ in for the Fourth. Amy Dabb’s givin’ the biggest dance ever held in these parts. How’re things generally out Sunset Pass way?”
“Preston drove in here a couple of day’s ago,” went on Rock, lowering his voice. “In the outfit were three wagons I know of. One was full of hides, which I helped pack. The other two were loaded with meat. Beeves! Now I want to find out how many beeves there were and where they went. But I don’t want this information unless we can get it absolutely without rousin’ the slightest curiosity or questions. Savvy, old partner?”
“Wal, i’ll be darned if that ain’t funny, for I shore can tell you right now what you’re so keen about knowin’. Heard it quite by accident. Jackson, who runs Dabb’s butcher shop, once worked for me. Wal, I went in last night to buy some beef-steak to take home. An’ I seen a lot of fresh meat hangin up. Shore I always was curious, but I never let on I was. All I said was: ‘See you’re stocked up plenty an’ fresh. How’re you ever goin’ to sell all that meat before it spoils?”
“‘It won’t last over the Fourth,’ he said. ‘Long as I got plenty an’ can sell cheap to the Mexicans an’ lumbermen, it shore goes fast. Wagontongue will soon stand another butcher shop, Sol, an’ any time you want to talk business with me I’m ready.’
“‘I’ll think it over, Jackson,’ I said. ‘But where’ll we get the meat? Reckon we couldn’t cut in on Dabb’s supply?’
“‘No, we can’t,’ he told me, ‘but Preston is killin’ now altogether instead of sellin’ any more on the hoof. He’s gettin’ thirty dollars more by killin, on each head of stock. He’ll sell to anybody. Today he shipped thirty-six beeves. Driscoll told me. Shipped them to Marigold.’”
“Thirty-six!” muttered Rock, with unreadable face and voice.
“Yep. An’ I counted ten beeves hangin’ up on Jackson’s hooks. All fresh. So that makes forty-six. What you want to know all this for?”
“Gee Sol, you’re a gabby old lady!” returned Rock. “I was just askin’, because you and I might go into the meat business. And say, who runs the Half Moon brand?”
“New cattleman named Hesbitt,” replied Winter. “He’s been on the range over two years. They say he hails from Wyomin’, has got lots of money, an’ runs a hard outfit. Clink Peeples is foreman. You ought to know him, Rock.”
“Clink Peeples. By gum! that sounds familiar. What does he look like, Sol?”
“Unusual tall puncher. Sandy-complected. Eyes sharp like a hawk’s, but tawny. Somethin’ of a dandy, leastways in town. Always wears a red scarf. An’ he’s one of the gun-packin’ fraternity. Clink will be in town shore over the Fourth.”
“Red scarf? Ahum!” said Rock. “Well, Sol, I’ll run along, and drop in again.”
Reaching Dabb’s new store, Rock hunted up the suit department. It chanced that there was in stock a black broadcloth suit, with frock coat, which might have been made for him, so well did it fit. Rock purchased it and an embroidered vest of fancy design, a white shirt with ruffles in the bosom, a wide white collar and a black flowing bow tie to go with it. Lastly he bought shiny leather shoes, rather light and soft, which augured well for dancing. Not forgetting a mask, he asked for a plain black one. None of any kind was available.
Rock carried his possessions back to the hotel. While in his room he cut a pattern of a mask out of paper, and taking this back to the store he bought a piece of black cloth and fashioned it after the pattern he had cut.
After supper the hotel man, Clark, got hold of him and in a genial way tried to pump him about the Prestons. Rock did not commit himself. Then who but Jess Slagle stamped into the hotel lobby, in his rough range garb.
Slagle had been trifling with the bottle, but he was not by any means drunk. He was, however, under the influence of rum, and his happened to be a disposition adversely affected by it. “Howdy, than Sunset Pass puncher!” he said, loud and leering.
“Hello, Jess! How are you? I called on the way in.”
“Left home yesterday. Stayin’ till after the fireworks. Are you goin’ back to Preston?”
“Why, certainly! Like my new job fine,” responded Rock. “I’m sort of a foreman over the younger Prestons.”
“Rock, it was a hell of a good bet that Gage Preston would never put you to butcherin’. Want a drink with me?”
“No, thanks. I’ve sworn off,” replied Rock shortly, and he went out to walk in the darkness. Slagle’s remarks were trenchant with meaning. Slagle, of course, hated Preston, and naturally would be prone to cast slurs. But would he make two-sided remarks like that, just out of rancour? It would go severely with him if one of them ever came to Preston’s ears. And rattlesnake Ash Preston would strike at less than that.
Rock strolled to and fro between the hotel lights and those on the corner.
As he came into the yellow flare of light, a hand, small, eager and strong, seized his arm, and a feminine voice he knew rang under his ear. “True Rock, I’ve been on your trail all afternoon.”
Rock stared down into the piquant flushed face of his old sweetheart, Amy Wund.
“Now I’ve got you and I’m going to hang on to you,” she said, with a roguishness that did not conceal a firm determination.
“Why — how do — Mrs. Dabb? You sure—”
“Oh, Mrs. Dabb,” she interrupted, flashing dark passionate eyes at him. “Call me Amy, can’t you? What’s the sense of being so formal? You used to call me ‘darling Amy.’”
There was no gainsaying that. “Well, good evenin’, Amy,” he drawled. “I’ve forgotten what I used to call you. Reckon it’s not just good taste for you to remind me.”
“Perhaps not, True. But you make me furious. Let’s get out of the light. I’ve got to talk to you.” Pressing his arm tight she hurried him down the dark street.
“Amy, listen to sense. Oughtn’t you be home?” asked Rock gravely.
“Sense from True Rock? Ye gods! When I was sixteen you made me meet you out, at night, because my father wouldn’t let you come to our house,” she retorted.
