Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 1233
Then he bent his gaze on the uplifted tense faces, down one side of the table, to the absorbed Britt, and up the other side to Brazos.
“The rest of my few remarks will be addressed to you, as man to man. To you Britt, you old leather-backed Texan trail-hound, to you Jackson, you black-faced, nose-bitting horse-driver, to you Cherry, you Indian buckaroo, to you half-breeds, to each and every one of you rowdy cowboys!. If what I say pinches your foot in its high-heeled boot, grin and say you like it.
“But before I make implications which at any other time and place would hurt your feelings, I shall tell a little about myself. I am an Easterner. I have been on the frontier fourteen years, since I was twenty. Many ignominies have been fastened upon the name of Renn Frayne, which is my own. But that one which made me a fugitive from justice was false. As a boy and young man I hated cities, crowds, work. I wanted adventure. The West called me. I landed at Independence in 1860. From buffalo hunting I drifted from one thing to another. I shot a cheating gambler on a steamboat — and that started me on the career some men unfortunately must be intended for. During the Civil War I was a soldier for a while. I killed an officer at one of the army-posts — over a woman — and I deserted to hide out with trappers in the mountains.
After the war I became a cowboy and rode the eastern ranges for years. The Pan Handle, Nebraska, Wyoming, eastern Colorado, but mostly Kansas. The time came when I couldn’t ride into Old Dodge, or Hays City, or Abilene, or Newton, without smelling smoke of my own gun. Finally I shot Sutherland, a big cattleman. It was the most justifiable killing of all. He was one of those cattlemen who operated in two ways, one open and honest, the other hidden and crooked. There are many such rustler-developing cattle kings. There are two right here in New Mexico. Sutherland had powerful friends, and they egged on the gun-fighters, the two-faced sheriffs, and the tough cowboys to put me out of the way. I became an outlaw, with a price on my head. When some clique exposed Sutherland, laying bare his crooked dealings, they forgot to remove the price from my head. It has never been removed, and if I went back to Kansas I’d have to shoot my way out. That’s the bad thing about being a marked man who is quick on the draw.... Lastly I’ve trained with some hard gangs, of which Heaver’s wasn’t a marker to others.... Rustler! I’m bound to admit it. But, men, you all know the status of cattle on the range. It is hard to define the line between branding and stealing. To appropriate beef wherever you found it has been a universal custom. To round up a bunch of cattle, not your own, drive them off their range, sell them for a fourth of their hoof value — that is cattle-stealing. In weak defence of all of us who have transgressed thus I can only say that the easy custom, the unfailing fact of cattlemen all accepting small losses, have been to blame. The cowboy hasn’t had a fair chance to be honest.
“But horse-stealing is another matter. A rancher will stand to lose some cattle; he raises Cain when he loses horses. My one offence, which I am ashamed to confess, was the Heaver deal in which we drove some two score of Miss Ripple’s thoroughbreds. Britt blocked that drive. I never felt right after Heaver double-crossed me about that deal. He didn’t say we were after horses, and I was into it before I realized. Then I hated him.... Well, he got shot for his deceit, and that saw the beginning and end of my career as a horse-thief.
“When I threw in with your outfit I promised Miss Ripple that I would be honest. That promise I shall keep — Boys, I wonder if you can appreciate it when I tell you that I sleep at nights, that I no longer hear steps upon my trail, that I know, absolutely, I will never dangle by my neck from a cottonwood. It will not be many years now before the noose will supersede the gun — in execution of rustlers.
“In our case there is no use, no sense, no reason for us to steal from our employer. We are a lucky outfit. Chisum’s top bunch of riders have left him cold — Russ Slaughter and his outfit. They look bad and they might go far — unless they run foul of us. Slaughter did not know that he missed it to-day by a hair. If he had soft-soaped Lascelles into opening his vile trap again — well, pards, there would have been two less for you to contend with. You all know as well as I that Slaughter quit Chisum because he saw big money for the next few years. Jackson tells us Chisum is a hard boss. He pays little and drives his men. Moreover, he’s not above making them do a little rustling. Except for the uncertainty of life Slaughter is figuring all right. He and his outfit will be very much better off going on their own hook. Or I should say their own guns! And there’s the rub. Guns make life uncertain. Guns in the hands of Brazos Keene and Laigs Mason and Cherokee and Mex Southard — or any of the Ripple outfit, not to forget our Texas Ranger boss — and your humble servant here speaking — guns in these hands make life most damned uncertain, all of which is to say that if Slaughter’s outfit go to rustling on this range they will not last long.
“But, gentlemen, that is not so important, in my mind, as what Britt called inside rustling. You’re bound to respect a bunch of hard nuts who go out in the open and steal cattle, and fight on sight. It’s the gang that has inside help that I’m leary about. You know what I mean. A big cattleman, outwardly honest, mixed up in all that’s doing on the range, but secretly in league with one or more crooked outfits, and with some crooked boys in his own outfit. This was what always ruined the cattle business in Kansas, when cattle were cheap and plentiful. Sutherland was such a man. And, men, as sure as I stand here to-night, that kind of rustler will develop here soon, if he is not already here.... Savvy, men? He may be here now.
“Well, such a leader, with his large holdings, his many deals, his influence, and his crooked cowboys, is what we must expect and prepare for now. Some of you boys will be approached. Attractive propositions will be made you. This big fellow will want a spy, a scout or two, even in the camp of Don Carlos’ Rancho. There is the case of Dillon who was just weak, dishonest and ignorant. He was a damn fool. A likeable cowboy, so I’ve heard, full of fun, lend you his last dollar, or stand your watch, or nurse you when you were sick — but when under the influence of whisky he was a poor, easy, yellow dog. He deceived Brazos, because Brazos is kind-hearted and likes everybody.... Men — that fool break of Mugg Dillon’s cost him his life! And I say if there is one among you to whom life is not sweet he had better ride away pronto — or else cultivate a keen and passionate desire to live. Otherwise Don Carlos’ Rancho will be the last place for him.
“Now, comrades, a last word. The deal ahead of us on this range is hell. Some of us — half of us will get killed. But it appeals to me because of the right — which I have disregarded for so long — and because a thoroughbred Westerner, a game kid, a girl, refuses to go back on her father’s wishes, on her ranch, and her cowboys. We cannot go back on her. It would be too low-down.
“Pards, from now on we are a pack of lone wolves. We ride the range together. We are no longer good fellows, to talk, to drink with cowboys of other outfits, or strangers. We reverse the old habit of cowboys. And always one of us, or two of us, will keep the others from drinking too much.... Now, gentlemen, please stand up!”
As Frayne’s ringing voice ceased, the cowboys, with scarcely a sound, rose erect, most of them pale and all of them stern. Frayne’s cold, harsh facts and arguments had told.
“Britt has asked me to propose a toast,” went on Frayne. “We will drink to — Holly Ripple and her Knights of the Range!”
When Holly fled from her cowboys to her room, with her hands over her ears pretending to shut out their thundering applause, she knew herself to be a deceitful creature, because she should have pressed those white members over her tumultuous and bursting heart.
Before Frayne had ended his talk Holly knew that she loved him. She fled now because she had to be alone a few moments or go mad. Safe in her room, barred in, behind closed curtains she paced swiftly to and fro, in a torment that was rapture.
She knew now who and what he was. Had he come out openly with his ignominy for her sake, as much as to impress her men? He was finer than she had dreamed. Cold and hard as rock! Like Nemesis he had faced those rowdy wild cowboys, to convince them of the inevitable law of right itself, of how great they might become in loyalty to her, in chivalrous friendship among themselves, in unrewarded and unsung duty to the empire in the making.
Holly made no compromise with herself. She flung doubts and moods to the four winds. She loved Renn Frayne, and her happiness depended on winning his love. It would not have mattered now if he were really bad. She had to be his wife. But he was not bad — not in the sense that she had feared. She believed him, she loved him, and her heart sickened and froze at remembrance of his past indifference. That did not last. He had killed a man over a woman. Then Holly knew the real horrible pangs of jealousy. But Frayne could not have been more than a boy.
“Oh, what shall I do?” she whispered, frantically. “No mother! No woman friend!... I am twenty.... My party — all the range here!... I must go out there — smile — talk — dance — be Holly Ripple — when I am so terribly in love that I’ll die — if — if he—”
But as she passed the mirror and caught her reflection in it, some instinct, deep and strong and female, stirred in her. Holly sat down on her bed, there to face this catastrophe as she had faced the future on the day of her father’s death. From some unplumbed depth welled strength. In a few moments she was again outwardly composed. She had had her fight, and it was more terrible than that of loneliness. She was a Ripple of the South, she had the pride and passion of the Valverdes in her veins. She could not kill pride. She knew her vagrant moods, her temper and spirit. She had to change them or suffer horribly through them. As it did not seem reasonable to expect that she could change her nature she accepted suffering. It would be her portion. Renn Frayne would be hard to win. Holly slew her vanity; nevertheless, as all was fair in love she would use her beauty, even to lowering herself to the wiles of a Conchita Velasquez. All these lonely frontier men were hungry for women. This very night her cowboys would surround her like a pack of wolves. Why could not Renn Frayne be human? She would be happy with so little. His protection, his presence, his kisses.... She realized, then that she had yearned for them. Vague fancies, yes, but seen now in this hour, how different, how sweet and terrifying!
“He called me a thoroughbred Westerner — a game kid — a girl who refused to show yellow,” soliloquized Holly, as she arose, exalted and unquenchable. “All right, Renn. That is my star and my anchor. You never dreamed — that then you won yourself a friend — a sweetheart — a wife!”
Holly swept out to capture Britt and a cowboy, who happened to be Skylark. With their assistance she addressed herself to the task ahead — of greeting her guests. They were soon joined by the Doanes; and Ann, merrily attaching herself to Skylark, went along with them.
The dining-room and living-room were being stripped of all furniture, except lights and decorations, to prepare for the dance. A horde of strangers, Indians, Mexicans, were being served in the patio. Outside on the porch and in the front of the house were groups of men who held aloof. Holly instructed Britt to invite them through the main hall to the patio, where they too would be served. Cowboys were everywhere. Bevy after bevy of Mexican girls, pretty and graceful in their brilliant colours, paraded to and fro, dusky-eyed and coquettish, waiting for the music to start. Holly had engaged all the musicians in the valley, and as they were lamentably few in number she would have been short but for Mexicans with their guitars. The two big rooms would accommodate a hundred or more dancers, and the wide stone-floored L-shaped patio porch a like number. There were seven American girls present, beside Ann and herself, and perhaps two score of Mexican girls. There were also two decidedly pretty Indian maidens. They were outnumbered ten to one by the male contingent, avidly ready to dance.
“How many here to-night?” asked Holly, breathlessly.
“Thunderin’ big crowd. All of five hundred, countin’ the Indians,” replied Britt.
“Say, boss, hev you taken a peek out in front?” queried Skylark.
“Shore, but I forgot them.”
“Almost twice as many as last year. Oh, how lovely!” cried Holly, delighted. “If only all goes well!”
“Lass, you’ve done yore part. Leave the rest to us. I’ll take my stand at the front door. An’ some of the boys will take turns at the back. No rowdy drunk or armed will get in.”
A whooping howl and a rhythmic stamp from the diningroom drew Holly to the door with her companions. The cowboys were lined in a half-circle around the little negro Jackson who was engaged in some incredibly active and ludicrous movements. One of the fiddlers was sawing violently upon his instrument. Upon Holly’s entrance the hullabaloo ceased.
“Jackson, what in the world were you doing?” queried Holly, most interested and curious.
“Missy — Ripple —— —” panted the coloured cowboy, wiping the beads of sweat from his shining black face. “Dey done provoke me — dese heah white trash. Dey bet me — I wuz a swamp niggah — wot couldn’t dance — an’ I was sho showin”em.”
“Very well. Show me. I will be judge,” replied Holly.
“Nix, fellars,” shouted Laigs Mason, in alarm. “Ride-’Em is the jumpin’-jackinest darky thet ever come out of Texas. Take thet bet back.”
“Yo cain’t take it back, Laigs, ‘cause I’se put up my money.... Come arustlin’ dere, Mistah fiddler. I’se rarin’ to go.”
With the music and the beating of time with hands and feet by the cowboys, Jackson flung himself into violent motion. Holly became aware then that; funny as he looked, he had a remarkable ability to keep time, not only with his pattering feet but with all his body, even to the rolling of his eyes. Music, clapping, stamping, and the shouts of the cowboys, increased in intensity, swiftness, and volume. Suddenly Laigs Mason, evidently unable to resist the combination, flung himself into action with the negro. Laigs was as small in stature, as bow-legged, and as clownish as Jackson. No doubt he was bent upon out-doing the negro. But he was far from being such a master as his comrade. Finally the speed and fury of the dance precipitated Laigs to the floor, amid a roar that Holly feared would lift the roof. It likewise proclaimed Jackson the victor on two counts.
“You win, Jackson,” said Holly, when she could make herself heard. “You are a wonderful dancer.... Mason, may I inquire what that was you were doing?”
“Aw, Miss Holly,” protested Laigs, “I was jiggin’, too.”
“You did very well indeed. Perhaps Brazos or Frayne would like to try you out. I’ll be glad to back you.”
“Not much,” yelped Brazos. “I’m a lady’s dancer,” while Frayne smiled his disinclination to compete with Mason.
“Fork over, yose gennelmen,” spoke up Jackson. “I’m collectin’ mah bet.... Two-bits, suh, frum every dawg-gone one ob yo.”
“Boys, get your partners,” called Holly. “Dancing will begin in ten minutes. I shall ask one of you to start with me.” Brazos led a charge of eager cowboys toward Holly. She fled, while Britt and Skylark blocked the door. Holly had long ago made up her mind whom she intended to choose. Her sudden flight had its inception in fun, perhaps a little coquetry, and assuredly, as the moment arrived, in strange lack of courage. She raced from one place to another, announcing the dance, sending girls and boys in flocks to the big rooms. When she returned to the dining-room, a score and more couples were waiting with bright eyes and restless feet.
Holly glided in, once more mistress of her feelings and of Don Carlos’ Rancho. She espied her choice, Renn Frayne, evidently paired with Conchita Velasquez. But Brazos was present, also, and she might have been mistaken. Nevertheless, sight of Frayne, subtly less cold and formal, with this Mexican belle who had never before appeared so alluring, with the vivid contrast of her beautiful white arms and shoulders to her dusky eyes and raven hair, brought to Holly the staggering fact that here was a rival. Holly went directly up to Frayne. “Renn, will you start the dance with me?”
For once his reserve, his poise, was shattered. Most obviously amazed, embarrassed, he turned red and stammered: “Why — er? — I — I’m sorry.... I’ve asked Conchita.”
Holly gazed straight up into his grey eyes.
“Did you not know I would ask you?”
“Miss Ripple!... I — I never dreamed of that. Why should I? — Please excuse me.”
Holly turned her back upon him. Brazos was beside her, with that same cool, audacious smile. He had come to her rescue.
“Lady, I had them hombres all figgered,” he drawled. “An’ I waited fer yu. But at thet I ain’t so turrible flattered to be second choice.”
Holly waved her signal to the musicians and slipped into Brazos’ arms, to be whirled away upon the floor. All cowboys could waltz, but Brazos was the best she had ever danced with. And the sudden pleasure of the moment edged into the hot pain of the jealousy she could not control.
“Old Faithful Brazos,” she murmured.
“Shore. I’m the only one of thet ootfit who luves yu deep, who’s been true, who’d die fer—”
“Brazos, did you say true? I just happened to remember. And I called you Old Faithful Brazos.”
“Wal, I would die fer yu, wouldn’t I?”
“I’m quite sure you would. Brazos, but be true to me. Oh, cowboy, that’s different.”
“Dawg-gone-it, Holly. You never give me the tiniest little hope.”
“Of what?”
“Thet you’d marry me.”
“Brazos! — I’d have to love you first.... Don’t hold me so tight. If you must hug me, wait till — the floor is full.”
“Wal, I’ll wait, but I shore must,” replied Brazos, breathing heavily.
“Then I’ll never dance with you again.”
“But I’m the best dancer.”
“Yes, you are. But I don’t care.”
“Look at Frayne,” whispered Brazos, gleefully. “Said he hasn’t danced fer ten years. Shore looks it. But Conchita doesn’t ‘pear to mind. She’s wrapped up in him.... Look, Holly.”
