Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 1228
Frayne turned aside a slightly paled face to bend it while he lighted a cigarette.
“Old timer, why do you tell me that?” he inquired, with voice a little deepened.
“Wal, I’m concerned fer Holly’s happiness. Since she came home from school she’s had a dozen flames fer boys, like a Mexican senorita. But they never lasted. Whatever sbe feels aboot you, it’s different. Mebbe she’s jest piqued at yore indifference. If you know women atall you’ll understand thet.”
“No man can understand a woman. Still, you may be right. She might be young enough and crazy enough to be piqued. I doubt it. But no matter what she feels — I am an outlaw — a gunman with a bloody record that must grow bloodier before this West sees any law. The odds are all against me living that long.... Now do you see my side, Britt?”
“Yes. An’ I reckon you’re right,” replied Britt, gruffly. “All the same, you come to Holly’s party — at least thet dinner she’s givin’ fer the ootfit.”
“Very well, Britt, if you put it that way.... I’ll come.”
CHAPTER V
ONCE OR TWICE each spring of late years the trappers would come down out of the mountains with the Indians to sell their pelts.
Horn’s Post had seen the day when thousands of them came to barter. But the glory of the trapper had faded long ago. Perhaps a score of white men, and a hundred red men, comprised the motley crew which visited Don Carlos’ Rancho that Saturday in early June. The trappers were a greasy, bearded, rollicking lot; and the Indians a hungry, silent crowd with the prospect of the reservation in their sombre eyes. The beaver were almost gone from the mountain streams.
Britt was one who sympathized with the red man. He sensed the romance of Carson’s day, when the eastern demand for beaver hats made the fur hunters rich. Indians never depleted any natural resource. But the white trappers were the advance guard of that greedy army of adventurers who must strip the streams and hills.
Across the half-mile-wide trail from Horn’s Post, a large flat adobe structure, cracked and crumbling of wall, was the Indian encampment. Ponies and dogs, squaws in their beaded and fringed buckskin, braves lolling on their coloured blankets, a few tepees of painted hides, packs and pelts and fires — all these gave the old Texas Ranger a sad inkling of the past. Below the village in the wide bend of the creek the grey groups of prairie-schooners, the droves of oxen and horses, the movement of burly teamsters, somehow harmonized with Britt’s conception of the past glamour of the trappers’ era. The day of the caravan, too, was passing. In a few more years, when the steel rails reached Santa Fe, the great white rolling ship of the plains would be gone.
On Britt’s way to the trading-post he encountered an army sergeant who hailed him as an acquaintance. Britt remembered the ruddy Irish visage, but could not place the man. They chatted. The sergeant belonged to Gen. Mackenzie’s Fourth U.S. Cavalry bound for Fort Union and other points in southeastern New Mexico and Texas. They were making trails, and expected some hard Indian campaigns in the near future.
“Did you travel west along the Old Trail?” queried Britt, ever eager to add to his information of the day.
“Yes, from Fort Lyon,” replied the sergeant.
“How aboot movement of cattle?”
“Shure more than last summer. Las Animas reminds ye of Dodge.”
“Wal, you come up fer supper an’ tell us all aboot it.”
Before Britt got much farther on his way he was accosted by a young man whose apparel proclaimed him not long in the West, and whose dissipated face told the common story of many a tenderfoot.
“Are you Captain Britt, foreman for the Ripple ranch?”
“Yes, I’m Britt. What can I do fer you?”
“My name’s Taylor — Lee Taylor. I’m from the south. Miss Ripple will remember me. She knew my sister. I used to call at their school.”
“Ah-huh. Come in from Santa Fe?” asked Britt, casually, studying the young man. Long used to reading faces, he reacted unfavourably to this one.
“Yes. Up from El Paso.”
“Hawse-back, caravan or stage?”
“Came in the stage.”
“Had kinda a rough time, eh? What you want of me? A job ridin’?”
“No. I’d like to borrow some money. Don’t want to call on Miss Ripple in these rags. I’ll get money from home eventually.”
“Wal, I’ll ask Miss Holly aboot you. An’ if she knows you, why shore, I’ll help you oot.... Come in heah an’ meet the ootfit.”
Britt led Taylor into Horn’s saloon. At first glance he thought all his cowboys were there lined up at the rude bar. Brazos met him, surprised at his entrance and curious as to his companion.
“My Gawd, boss, air yu lost?”
“Say, Brazos, cain’t I take a drink myself once?... Heah, meet Lee Taylor, from the south. Says he knows Miss Holly.... Taylor, this is Brazos Keene.”
Britt conveyed a good deal more with a look than by words. He had no compunctions in turning the stranger over to Brazos. If Taylor was all right, which he certainly did not look, Brazos would grasp it quickly. Britt was getting tired of strangers imposing upon Holly’s generous hospitality. Lascelles was still up at the ranch-house, to Holly’s annoyance and Britt’s helpless rage.
“Wal, dog-gone! Another old beau of our Lady’s,” drawled the devilish Brazos. “Come on, Mister Taylor, meet the ootfit.... Cap, will yu have one on me?”
“Don’t care if I do. An’ I’ll set them up once, anyway.”
“Gosh, fellars, the world’s shore comin’ to an end. Heah’s the boss, an’ he’s thirsty.”
“He looks guilty to me,” declared Skylark, with a keen grin.
“Boys, meet Lee Taylor, from the south,” announced Britt, glad to relinquish the stranger to the tender mercy of his cowboys. And he lined up with them, amused at Skylark’s perspicuity. In truth he had more than one sense of guilt. Frayne had always had the power to excite him, thrill him, upset him; and the colloquy in the bunk-house weighed hauntingly on Britt’s conscience. His feeling had gotten the better of his judgment, which seldom happened, and never except pertaining to Holly. He needed a bracer. On Frayne’s account he was glad to have had the talk. It gave more light on this fascinating complex outlaw. But it might have been a hasty and inexcusable exposure of his own conjectures. His love and concern for Holly often led him to impulsive speech. On the other hand, when he cudgelled himself with reproach, he had, to uphold him, certain acts and words of Holly’s. If he could have been cold and calculating they might have betrayed more. As it was, he feared Holly liked this indifferent Renn Frayne far more than was good for her happiness. In view of Frayne’s attitude, which Britt felt bound to admit was honourable and fine, a wild and hopeless infatuation on Holly’s part would be deplorable.
Britt partook of a good stiff drink, and then he had another. They stimulated him to the extent of eradicating the oppression of vague trouble that had weighed upon him.
As Britt shook off the happy Brazos and turned to go out he met Ride-’Em Jackson, the negro of the outfit, with Bluegrass and Trinidad, two more of his cowboys.
“Boss, we is sho lookin’ fer yo,” declared Jackson.
The red-headed Trinidad, and the sharp eagle-eyed Bluegrass, hailed Britt with glad hands, and both gabbled at once.
“You needn’t squawk at me,” said Britt, producing his roll of bills. “Come over heah.”
“Boss, doan gimme all dat,” objected Jackson, his black face and rolling eyes ludicrously expressive. “Dis hyar Goge Washington Jeffersun Jackson sho nebber could keep it me dan ten minnits.”
“Good, Ride-’Em. You got sense in yore woolly haid,” declared Britt. “Jest ride in?”
“Dis hyar minnit. An’ I’se got news.”
“Bad news?”
“Yes, suh. I reckon — orful bad fer Missy Holly.”
“Hawses?”
“Yas, suh.”
“Wal, report to me at the bunk-house in half an hour.”
Britt went out through the trading-post, lingering to watch the unaccustomed scene. Perhaps the most interesting place on the frontier was a trading-post during a big day. Dance-halls, gambling-halls, and saloons had more of raw drama and wildness of the period, but the trader’s emporium had the life, the vividness, the atmosphere and business of the West. Here Mexican pesos and American silver dollars jingled on the counters, and rolls of gold coins went into the greasy buckskin of the trappers. Lean, half-naked, befeathered, and painted savages sat and lounged around the great barn of a room, waiting to market their packs of hides. A dozen or more rugged white trappers held the floors, haranguing like auctioneers. Horn Brothers were close buyers. They knew these trappers dared not ship consignment of pelts east. And the trappers, earnest, desperate, knowing their day was past, argued with bulging jaws for a living wage. Fat squaws and comely maidens, with their coal-black shining hair hanging down their backs, fingered the dry-goods and gazed longingly at the coloured candy. Counters were piled high with merchandise; rows of shelves sagged under the weight of countless cans; the odour of tobacco vied with that of dried pelts. A swarm of flies buzzed in the warm air.
Of late a habit of procrastination had grown upon Britt. He was conscious of it, believed that in a measure it was deliberate. He hated to think — to get down to facts and figures. If he had been alone, with only that bunch of fire-eating cowboys, if he had not the responsibility of Holly’s future on his hands, he could have revelled in the near prospect of the cattle crisis.
Repairing to the bunk-house, he jotted down his payments to the men, and then figured carefully details of the two cattle drives he would advise Holly to sanction right after her party. The rise in price of beef was unprecedented, and it had two sides, one of them cardinally serious.
Presently Renn Frayne sauntered in leisurely, thoughtful of brow and smouldering of eye.
“Howdy, cowboy. Whar you been?” asked Britt, closing his account book.
“Didn’t you see me trailing you around?” was the laconic answer.
“Nope, I never did.”
“Cap, you are a worried man?’
“Hell yes.”
“I don’t blame you. It’s Miss Ripple, of course. An old Texas Ranger like you wouldn’t wink an eyelash about cattle or rustlers, or a tough outfit.”
“Shore. It’s Holly — bless her heart! I’m the only Dad she’s got.... What’d you see down at the post?”
“Getting lively. By to-night it’ll be going strong. Reminds me of Dodge and Hays City. But tame.”
“So you know Hays, eh? Ever run up against Wild Bill?”
“I saw Bill shoot five cowboys in a row, across the street, and he never got a scratch. But they were drunk and had buck-fever beside.”
“I used to trail-drive up oot of Texas. Them was the days.
Dodge ‘peared the wust town to me.... Wal, everythin’ is haidin’ west. We’ll think we’re back in Kansas pronto. Jackson has some bad news fer me. It jest keeps on comin’.”
“Britt, was it a good plan to draw all your riders in off the range?”
“No. Miss Holly’s orders.”
“It’ll cost her plenty.”
“I’m not so shore, Frayne. Everybody inside of a hundred miles will be heah. It’s an open invite, you know. Old Kurnel Ripple’s idee.”
Ride-’Em Jackson came trudging in to interrupt them. Walking did not appear to be his best method of locomotion. His shiny black face was wet with sweat.
“Hyar I is, boss.”
“Set down, Jackson, an’ get it off yore chest.”
“Yas suh,” he returned, with hesitation, rolling his eyes at Frayne. “Howdy, Marsh Frayne. How yo is?”
“Shoot, Jack. I’m able to help Cap bear up under your bad news.”
“Boss, dem hosses was gone.”
Britt cursed under his breath, though he had expected no less. It was not the loss of a score and more of good stock so much as verification of the closing in of a net about Don Carlos’ Rancho. Since the Heaver raid all of the Ripple thoroughbreds had been driven into the pastures and corrals. This bunch of many remaining out on the range had been left in Cedar Draw, an out-of-the-way place.
“We tracked ’em tree days, an’ den we gibe up,” went on the negro.
“Hawse-thieves, of course?”
“Yas suh. Dey sho nebber runned off by demselves. De tiefs rode shod hosses. Blue an’ Trinidad disagreed wif me aboot how many dey was. I made oot fo shod hosses, an’ one of dem was a little hoss carryin’ a heavy man.”
“Which way did they go, Jackson?”
“To de souf. We tracked ’em till we could see Seven Rivers. Den we reckoned we’d better mosey back.”
“Ha! I rather snicker you reckoned correct,” retorted Britt, sarcastically. “Frayne, do you know the Seven River country down on the Pecos?”
“No. Only by hearsay.”
“Wal, thet’s Chisum country. The old reprobate. Boss cattleman of the West! An’ boss cattlethief, too! He laughs an’ owns up to it. Frayne, I reckon Chisum has his Long Rail brand on a hundred thousand haid of stock.”
“No!” ejaculated Frayne, incredulously.
“Des thick as bees, Marsh Frayne,” corroborated the negro. “I rode for Chisum an’ I knows.”
“Wal, Jackson, I hope thet’s all.”
“Yas, suh. But it ain’t, suh. I sho ain’t tole yo nuthin’ yet.... Fust camp we made comin’ back Chisum’s top ootfit rid down on us. We sho was scared, boss. But dey wuz friendly. A plumb dozen riders, boss, an’ Chisum’s top riders. I knowed ‘em. I’d rid with dem. Russ Slaughter was haid of dat ootfit. Only ornery Slaughter in all dat Texas familee.... Wal, Russ tole ’em dey had quit Chisum. Dey wuz goin’ in de cattle game demselves. Russ says, ‘Jack, what yo want to ride fer thirty dollars a month when yo can git a hundred?’ — An’ I asks Russ how. An’ he says dere’s half a million hed of cattle in de country an’ no law. Railroad market payin’ forty dollars a hed, an’ government buyers givin’ ten an’ no questions ast.... Russ talked till he was red in de face. We sho didn’t want to tro in wid dem an’ we was sort of flabustered.”
“Jack, thet was a fix. How’d you get oot of it?”
“Wal, suh, I says to Russ— ‘Yo knows I’se turned ober a new leaf, an’ I’ll be dawg-goned if I’ll quit. Missy Ripple has been good to me an’ I sho gonna stick.’... Blue an’ Trinidad talked like one man. Dawg-gone they did! An’ they says, Tse not gibben up providin’ a husband fer Missy Ripple.’... Russ looked ugly an’ talked ugly, which I ain’t gonna squeal to yo-all.’Cept he said, ‘Say, if all you heah boot the little lady is so, dere’s a chance fer any hombre to grab dat million.’”
“Ride-’Em, what did Blue an’ Trin say to that?” quietly asked Frayne.
“Marsh Frayne, you know Blue. Thet Kaintucky boy got kinda pale, but he kept mum. Russ hed been hittin’ de bottle, an’ anyway, he wuzn’t acquainted wif Blue. I was scared ‘cause it looked like Blue might bore him. But Trinidad he got red-der’n a beet an’ busted oot, ‘The — hell yo say?
Shore yo come ober to Don Carlos’ Rancho, an’ try dat game yoself, Russ Slaughter.’... An’ Russ laughed kinda mean. ‘Why not?’ he says. ‘If niggahs, Injuns, ootlaws, all hev a show with Holly Ripple, then sho a white cowman can buck his luck. We’ll come to de party an’ look yo all over.’... Den dey rode off an’ Blue hed a hell of a time keepin’ Trin frum trowin’ his rifle on Slaughter. An’ we rustled home. Dat’s all, boss.”
“Jackson, keep yore mouth shut aboot this,” replied Britt, authoritatively. “Hurry back to Bluegrass an’ Trinidad an’ tell them my orders air they’re not to tell the ootfit.”
“Yes, suh. I’se rustlin’, suh,” replied the little negro, and bolted out of the door.
“Frayne, what you think of thet?” queried Britt, meeting the outlaw’s piercing grey eyes.
“It never rains but it pours.”
“Slaughter’s ootfit will come, shore as Gawd made little apples. They’ll use Holly’s party as a blind to look over the lay of our cattle. I don’t know what could be wuss than their quittin’ Chisum. I remember Maxwell tellin’ Kurnel Ripple why he was sellin’ oot. He knew.”
“Britt, didn’t you get the significance of that nigger’s report?” asked Frayne, cuttingly.
“Hell yes!” retorted Britt, heatedly. “Thet aboot Holly.... I’ve heahed it before. But Frayne, these hard-nut range-riders have vile minds an’ vile mouths. If only Holly would get married! Thet’d stop all this crazy courtin’ an’ gossipin’.... Slaughter will come an’ he’ll have the gall to make up to Holly. Thet needn’t bother us. She can take care of herself. But if Blue or Trin get drunk they’re liable to squeal what Russ said aboot Holly. If Brazos heahs it! — He’ll draw on Russ at fust sight.”
“Why Brazos?” queried Frayne, with cold detachment. “Why not Blue? Or someone else?”
Britt gave Frayne a sharp glance and threw up his hands. He paced the floor for a few minutes, while Frayne leaned in the doorway gazing out.
“Frayne, gimme yore angle on this idee,” spoke up the foreman, presently. “After Holly’s party I’d like to drive all our cattle on this side of Cottonwood Creek, an’ hold them fer a while heah in sight of the ranch. Then cut oot as big a bunch as would be safe to drive to Las Animas. An’ do the same in the fall.”
“I’d advise that very thing. Only we can’t drive all the Ripple stock along the Cottonwood. But if we bunched the cattle closer and put out a night-guard we would cut down rustling. And I’d say the more Miss Ripple sells now the less she’ll lose.”
“My sentiments. I’ll advise thet strongly.... Now, Renn, I’m lookin’ to you fer help. Our problem is to hold these cowboys. Can we do it? What effect will Russ Slaughter’s quittin’ Chisum have on them?”
“You may pay the penalty of hiring the riff-raff of the ranges. They’re most bad, these cowboys, and some of them as bad as Slaughter. I’d say in the ordinary run of things your outfit would break under this deal. Then, of course, you’d suffer an enormous loss, perhaps ruin. It has happened before.”
