Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 1066
He was standing in front of the one hotel, watching the traffic and awaiting the dinner hour, when a car gingerly approached the curb.
The driver was the girl who had been causing him so much speculation. Her companion appeared to be a young local chap to whom this was an auspicious occasion. As Andrew recognized the hitchhiker, she simultaneously looked up to meet his gaze. Then a sudden light, a half-break of a smile, was blotted out in a crimson blush.
Andrew strode into the hotel, somehow glad that she had had the grace to blush. Caught with the goods, he thought scornfully! She had picked up this country bumpkin on the road and had ended a short or long, probably long, ride by driving his car, no doubt to allow him freer use of his arms. It made Andrew slightly sick, because that queer streak of chivalry in him had almost won a battle in her behalf. He wished she would appear in the dining room before he left. He wanted just one more look at her.
Andrew, however, had given up hope and had almost finished his meal when she did come in, escorted by the young fellow who was very overceremonious and obviously self-conscious. Andrew, considerably surprised at her appearance, could only stare.
She had changed the masculine hiking garb for a pretty blue dress that was exceedingly feminine. She had trim shapely legs and little feet on which were patent-leather slippers. Her dainty head, carried high, was bare. The wavy, golden hair caught and held the light. All this Andrew saw in a glance before her face transfixed him. Its opal hue, just hinting of tan, took on a little warmth and color. As she passed she spoke, impudently he thought.
“Howdy, Hiram Perkins. Hope you heerd from Mizzourie.”
“Good evening, Wyoming Mad,” he returned, rising and bowing.
Her escort seated her at a nearby table, and evidently was concerned by the exchange of greetings between her and Andrew. She made some casual explanation, with a deprecatory motion of her hand that seemed to satisfy her escort.
“Knows her stuff,” muttered Andrew to himself, and then, drawing a deep breath, as a man about to undergo an ordeal, he looked deliberately at her. It was to find that she was already gazing fixedly at him. For a long moment their eyes held their gaze. Andrew had an odd thought — if those wonderful eyes had expressed the least softness, the least hint of yielding, he would not have been accountable for himself. All Andrew could detect, however, was pride and disdain. And he caught these impressions only as she averted her face.
Then he had his opportunity and he made the most of it. Pretty? Beautiful? Such terms did not do her justice. She was lovely. Engrossed with his scrutiny Andrew had not at once grasped one dismaying fact. She was flirting outrageously with her escort. She never deigned to give Andrew another glance. Again his vision of her became distorted, though her actions were merely those of a gay young girl having an enjoyable dinner with a newly made acquaintance. Andrew knew that, but his biased mind would not accept it. He imagined them in the shadowy park — nay — riding along a country road in the moonlight to some lonesome spot. He shook his head angrily. Suddenly Andrew found himself hating the girl.
Abruptly he arose, leaving his dessert untasted, and stalked out. “One born every minute!” he muttered, and then in bitter conflict with his skepticism: “Connie, old girl, I guess you ruined the makings of a square fellow!” He got his car, and after driving half the night, he stopped to watch the moon go down over the western horizon.
CHAPTER IV
A WEEK LATER Andrew Bonning made camp outside a little Wyoming town called Split Rock. This was on the Old Oregon Trail, which he had followed all the way from Torrington, on the Nebraska line.
Many places along the famous old trail of the trappers, explorers, Indian fighters and pioneers had interested him and almost persuaded him to stop for a spell. But satisfying as had been the rolling sagebrush prairie, Andrew had continued on his way in answer to a call he could not define. On clear mornings he could see the mountains white-toothed in the blue. And they lured him. The Platte River saw three of his camps before he left it at Alcova. He passed over the Rattlesnake Range, and as he drove into Split Rock one golden sunset he saw the Granite Mountains on his right and the Green Mountains on his left. And westward, a hundred miles more or less, stood the Continental Divide, dim yet rosy-white in the sunset, the great wall of the Rockies.
Andrew left his car in a thicket not far off the road, deciding to walk the half mile into Split Rock for the exercise. Satisfying himself that it could not readily be detected by passersby, he proceeded into the town to make some much needed purchases.
By this time Andrew had become accustomed to the Wyoming villages along the trail. Casper had been a fairly large place. The other towns from central to western Wyoming held little of interest for the wayfarer. Some of them appeared to be no more than the old wide streeted, board fronted frontier towns modernized principally by the gasoline stations of the present. He found that Split Rock leaned a little more toward the past.
Indeed, his observing eyes detected more cowboys than truck drivers or garage attendants. He listened to snatches of their conversation satisfying for the hundredth time his avid pleasure in things western. Deciding to make inquiries on the morrow about the range country hereabouts he returned to his car.
By this time it was quite dark. A wonderful light still glowed in the west, whence came a cold breeze, keen and penetrating, sweet with a tang of the mountain and the range. Andrew breathed deeply of it, and reveled in the lonesomeness of his surroundings. Every camp of late had been visited by coyotes to his growing delight. These wild prairie dogs could not bark and yelp and mourn and ki-yi too much for him. He even threw scraps of his meals to the stealthy prowlers.
He had collected a bundle of dry sticks and bits of sagebrush when a clip-clop of hoofs drew his attention. A rider was passing on the road. He halted opposite Andrew, lighted a cigarette, then rode on a little further, only to come back. It was evident that he was waiting for someone. Andrew had no mind to disclose his hiding place, so he sat down to watch and listen.
The rider appeared to be impatient. Andrew heard his spurs clinking. Evidently he smoked his cigarette half through, then lit another. His spirited horse would not stand still. And the night was so still, the air so clear that this rider’s voice carried to Andrew’s vibrant ears.
“You dawggone ornery hawse — cain’t you stand on yore fo’ feet?” drawled the rider. After another cigarette he appeared to start, to crouch and then to stare up the road toward the town. Andrew heard rapid footsteps approaching from that direction.
“Thet you, McCall?” queried the rider, in a sharp tone which carried far.
“Yes, it’s me,” came the answer.
“Git off the road over heah,” commanded the rider, heading his horse toward the thicket that screened Andrew’s car.
Rider and pedestrian met half way and continued as far as a large rock scarcely thirty feet from where Andrew crouched behind a clump of low sagebrush. There the two halted, and the unmounted one hunched himself up on the rock.
“Tex, I been lookin’ fer you at my ranch,” he said. “Jest happened to be in town today an’ got your word.”
“Wal, I shore would have rid down on you pronto, if you hadn’t showed up tonight,” retorted the rider, curtly. “Mac, I want some money.”
“Hyar’s all I got,” returned the other hastily, and passed his hand up to the horseman. “You’ll have to wait till I ship some more cattle.”
“Ahuh! Always waitin’,” growled the younger man. “I cain’t see. How much you got heah?”
“Two-hundred-odd.”
“Wal, I’ll let you off on thet. But only fer a while. I reckon I’m not long fer this range. I got to pull oot, Mac, an’ it’s mostly yore cattle deals thet’s chasin’ me.”
“Aw, Texas, thet ain’t so. You was talked of before you ever forked a hoss fer me.”
“Shore I was. But fer makin’ love an’ throwin’ a gun — not fer burnin’ yore brand on calves,” snapped the cowboy, in a voice so cold and strange to Andrew that it sent shivers up his spine.
“Have it your own way, Tex. I don’t want to argue with you. But I heerd Sheriff Slade hang suspicion on you. Right before half a dozen cattlemen, one of which was Jeff Little, who you rode fer once.”
“Ahuh. An’ what did Jeff say?”
“He got a little het up at Slade. Said you was a wild one all right, but straight as a string, an’ thet Slade hadn’t savvied thet you was from the old Texas breed.”
“Damn thet four-flush of a sheriff!” cursed the cowboy. “He’s not so above a slick deal himself. I know...Reckon I’m liable to take a shot at him one of these heah nights.”
“Tex, you’ll kill somebody yet,” declared McCall, anxiously.
“Shouldn’t wonder. All you gotta do, Mac, is to make damn good an’ shore it ain’t you...When do I git the rest of the dough?”
“Reckon pronto...Tex, I got a new deal on.”
“Ahuh. Wal, spring it on me.”
“There’s an old geezer named Nick Bligh just drove in a thousand head of cows, a sprinklin’ of yearlings, an’ a lot of calves. Hails from Randall, somewhere near the Montana line. This rancher hasn’t no outfit at all — jest a middle-aged man to help him handle thet stock. Why, before the snow flies there’ll be a couple hundred unbranded calves bawlin’ around.”
“Humph. How come this Nick Bligh hasn’t got no punchers?”
“There can be only one reason fer thet, if he’s a Westerner. No money.”
“Wal, thet’s no reason why a cowboy worth a damn wouldn’t ride fer him. I’ve done it. All depends on the rancher.”
“Tex, thet gives me an idee. Suppose you go ride fer this Bligh—”
“Ump-umm, Mac. I don’t mind brandin’ a few mavericks. Thet’s legitimate. An’ even when a cattleman knows the mavericks ain’t his — he brands them anyhow. All ranchers have done thet — gettin’ their start. But what you propose would be stealin’ .”
“If you’re set on splittin’ hairs over it — hell, yes!” replied McCall, testily.
“I’ll go in on the deal — burnin’ your brand on stray calves.”
“But, Tex, there ain’t much money in thet for me or you,” continued the other persuasively. “On the other hand, two hundred calves would fetch between forty an’ fifty dollars a head next year.”
“Mac, thet’s most like old-time rustlin’,” expostulated the cowboy.
“Look hyar, puncher. You oughta know thet there’s plenty of rustlin’ goin’ on on Wyomin’ ranges right now.”
“Shore. But what’s a few haid of stock to a cattleman who owns ten thousand? Mac, safety lies in small numbers. You aim to hire me to be crooked. An’ I’ll be damned if I’ll fall for it.”
Silence ensued after the puncher’s forceful speech. Andrew scarcely breathed in the intensity of his interest and the peril he risked in being discovered. The cowboy struck a match for his cigarette. By its light Andrew saw a youthful reckless face, singularly handsome, almost as red as his flaming hair.
“Tex, I don’t trust Smoky Reed over much,” at length replied McCall.
“Wal, Smoky is on the level. If you want him to snake oot all the calves thet poor devil owns he’ll do it. Smoky told me he’d lost out with the K-Bar ootfit an’ was goin’ to ride fer the Three Flags. I reckon he won’t last much longer heah, no more’n me.”
“Will you make Smoky an offer fer me?”
“Wal, I’ll carry any word you say. But get this, McCall, I won’t have nothin’ to do with Smoky’s work.”
“Thet’s all right, Tex. Don’t get het up.”
“This Bligh deal ain’t so good. I’m advisin’ you, Mac. If you go whale bang at it you may lose oot. Shore, I’ve got you figgered. If it come to a showdown you’d lay it on to a coupla range-marked punchers.”
“Tex, I wouldn’t give no one away.”
“Aw, the hell’s fire you wouldn’t,” retorted the cowboy shortly. “To save yore own skin you’d do thet an’ more. But so far as I’m concerned I can look oot fer myself. I was thinkin’ of Smoky.”
“Safest way,” continued McCall as if he had not heard Texas, “is to drive cow an’ calf into rough brush or timber, or a rocky draw — kill the cow, then brand the calf an’ fetch it out. Coyotes an’ buzzards would make short work of the carcass. An’ there ain’t one chance in a thousand of Bligh missin’ his cows until the job’s all done.”
“Aw, it’s safe enough, but it just sticks in my craw, McCall,” rejoined the cowboy in disgust.
“Thet ain’t the point. Will you put Smoky wise to this deal?”
“Shore, I’ll do thet. An’ I’ll do my part. But before you bust into this, Mac, listen to me. I never heahed of this Nick Bligh. Most likely he’s a pore cattleman, drove west, an’ makin’ a stand. But s’pose this all happened. S’pose aboot the time you got yore deal half done, say, thet a pardner with money enough to buy more stock an’ hire some real cowboys — s’pose he’d show up?”
“Ha! Tex, miracles like thet don’t happen in these cattle times.”
“Hell they don’t! Anythin’ can happen, man. Where’s yore sense? I ain’t carin’ a damn, ‘cept for the old geezer Bligh. But I’m jest tellin’ you.”
“Reckon you’re losin’ your nerve, Tex, or figgerin’ overcareful.”
“Shore, if thet’s the way you get me...Where’s this Bligh feller located?”
“Down across the Sweetwater River,” replied McCall eagerly. “He’s bought or leased the old Boseman ranch, on the south bank of the river, halfway between the Antelope Hills an’ the Green Mountains. Damn fine range, when the grass is good. An’ this spring it’s comin’ strong.”
“Ahuh. I know thet ranch,” mused Texas. “Looked at it with a longin’ eye myself, more’n once. But it’d take some dough to make good there.”
“Thet’s not our concern. For your an’ Smoky’s information put this under your hat. There are three outfits on thet big range south of the Sweetwater. The Cross Bar, owned by Cheney Brothers, the Triangle X, run by Hale Smith, an’ the Wyomin’ Cattle Association, runnin’ the W.C. They all work up into the foothills of the Green Mountains, an’ anyone ridin’ in there must have sharp eyes. Savvy?”
“Shore, I savvy. Slade is in thet Wyomin’ Cattle Association,” returned Texas, thoughtfully.
“Yes, but not very deep. Slade’s in more’n one deal jest for a blind.” McCall slid down off the rock. “Reckon thet’s about all fer tonight.”
“Wal, it’ll last me a spell, Mac,” drawled the cowboy.
“Don’t overlook my hunch. So long.”
With a wave of his hand the cowboy loped his horse over to the road, and taking the direction away from town, soon disappeared in the darkness. McCall watched him out of sight and stood listening to the dying clip-clop of hoofs.
“By Gawd, thet Texas puncher will spill the beans fer me yet — if I don’t fix him,” he muttered, and then with a snap of his fingers strode away toward the town.
When he, too, had gone Andrew arose to stretch his cramped legs. His face was wet with sweat and his heart was thumping. He had to laugh at his first introduction to a western drama that was not in any sense fictitious.
“Well, Andy, what do you know about this?” he asked himself. “By golly, I like that redheaded cowpuncher. I’ll bet he’s the goods. But McCall is that same little old proposition one meets the world around, I guess. And Bligh, just the old fall guy who’s to be fleeced. Now I wonder where do I come in?”
Andrew almost forgot that he was cold and hungry. After some deliberation he built a fire, deciding that if the cowboy or McCall should happen back there — which was wholly unlikely — he could allay suspicion by claiming he had just arrived. To be thrown upon his own resources had become an increasing joy to Andrew, but so far he did not exactly shine as a cook. He burned both the ham and the potatoes, and let the coffee boil over. Nevertheless he ate what he had cooked with a relish.
This night he decided not to sleep in the car. He had added a couple of blankets to the old lap robe, and he made his bed on the ground beside the fire. Then he gathered all the available firewood in the near vicinity, and removing only his shoes he prepared to make a night of it.
All the same, slumber soon gripped Andrew and held him tight for half the night. Awakening stiff with cold, he got up to renew the fire. Despite his discomfort, the traveler decided that life in the open had its good points. Andrew had known camp life, but only in a luxurious way. As he sat beside the little fire warming his hands and feet, he knew that he had become a part of this land of the purple sage.
The sky was a deep dark blue, studded with innumerable stars. Black rocks stood up bold and sharp above the brush. There was not a sound except the faint rustling of leaves in the night wind.
On and off, he was up like this during the remainder of the night, until the blackness yielded to gray, when he fell soundly asleep for a couple of hours. He drove into town with the sunrise. While eating breakfast at a lunch counter frequented by dusty-booted men, refueling his car at the service station, stocking a goodly supply of food at a grocery, buying a very fine secondhand cowboy outfit at a merchandise store, Andrew asked the cheerful and casual questions of the tenderfoot. Having thus acquired a lot of general information, he was about to leave town when he happened to think that he had not inquired the way to the Sweetwater River and Nick Bligh’s ranch.
He leaned out of his car to accost a Westerner who happened along at that moment. He was a man of about sixty years of age, gray and weather-beaten. His boots and garb gave ample evidence of considerable contact with the soil.
“Excuse me, sir,” said Andrew. “Can you direct me to the Sweetwater River?”
“Good morning, young man,” the Westerner replied, as he halted. “Straight ahead about thirty miles out.”
