Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 1317
The little lady rode three whole days on the driver’s seat between Pan and Wells. She made the hours flee. When the stage reached Las Vegas, she got off with her father and turned in the crowd to wave good-by. Her eyes were wistful with what might have been. They haunted Pan for days, over the mountain uplands and on and on. Pan cherished the experience. To him it had been just a chance meeting with a nice girl, but somehow it opened his eyes to what he had missed. The way of cowboys with girls was the one way in which he had been totally unfamiliar. What he had missed was not the dancing and flirting and courting that cowboys loved so well, but something he could not quite grasp. It belonged to the never-fading influence of his mother; and likewise it had some inscrutable association with little Lucy Blake. Little? Surely she could not be little now. She was a grown girl, a young woman like this Emily Newman, beautiful perhaps, with all the nameless charms women had for men. Pan grew conscious of a mounting eagerness to see Lucy, and each day during the ride across the desert the feeling augmented, and with it a bewilderment equally incomprehensible to him.
New Mexico was strange and new. He saw the desert through eyes intensified by emotion. He knew the plains from Montana to Texas. But this was different country, with its stretches of valley, its walls of red and yellow, its strange shafts of rock, its amber ranges, and far away on every horizon the dim purple and white of great peaks were magnificent.
The Mormon ranches were scattered along the few green valleys. Cattle were scarce, only a few herds dotting the endless sweeps of green sage and bleached grass. As he traveled farther westward, however, the numbers of wild horses increased until they ran into the thousands.
Horses had meant more to Pan than anything. In his wanderings up and down the western slope of the prairie land east of the Rockies he had often encountered wild horses, and had enjoyed many a chase after them. Every cowboy was a wild horse hunter, on occasions. If he had ridden these desert ranges, he would inevitably have become permanently a hunter and lover of wild horses. Moreover, Pan did not see why there would not be vastly more money in it than in punching cows. He grew charmed with the idea.
Western New Mexico at last! It appeared a continuation and a magnifying of all the color and wildness and vastness. Sand dunes and wastes of black lava, dry lake beds and cone-shaped extinct volcanoes, with the ragged crater mouths gaping, low ranges of yellow cedar-dotted hills, valleys of purple, and green forests on the mountain slopes — all these in endless variety were new to the cowboy of the plains. Water was conspicuous for its absence, though at long intervals of travel he crossed a stream. The homesteader, that hopeful and lonely pioneer, was as scarce as the streams.
One night, hours after dark, the stage rolled into Marco, with Pan one of five passengers. Sunset had overtaken them miles from their destination. At that time Pan thought the country wild and beautiful in the extreme. Darkness had soon blotted out the strange formations of colored rocks, the endless sweep of valley, the cold white peaks in the far distance.
Marco! How unusual the swelling of his heart! The long three-week ride had ended. The stage had rolled down a main street the like of which Pan had never even imagined. It was crude, rough, garish with lights and stark board fronts of buildings, and a motley jostling crowd of men; women, too, were not wanting in the throngs streaming up and down. Again it was Saturday night. Always it appeared Pan hit town on this of all nights. Noise and dust filled the air. Pan pulled down his bag, and mounted the board steps of the hotel the stage driver had announced.
If Pan had not been keenly strung, after long weeks, with the thought of soon seeing his mother, father, his little sister and Lucy, he would yet have been excited over this adventure beyond the Rockies.
Contrary to his usual habit of throwing his money to the winds like most cowboys, he had exercised rigid economy on this trip. Indeed, it was the first time he had ever done such a thing. He had between four and five hundred dollars, consisting of wages he had saved and the proceeds from the sale of his horses and outfit. There was no telling in what difficulties he might find his father and what need there might be for his money. So Pan took cheap lodgings, and patronized a restaurant kept by a Chinaman.
He chose a table at which sat a young man whose face and hands and clothes told of rough life in the open in contact with elemental things. Pan could catch such significance as quickly as he could the points of a horse. He belonged to that fraternity himself.
“Mind if I sit here?” he asked, indicating the vacant chair.
“Help yourself, stranger,” was the reply, accompanied by an appraising glance from level quiet eyes.
“I’m sure hungry. How’s the chuck here?” went on Pan, seating himself.
“The Chink is a first rate cook an’ clean...Just come to town?”
“Yes,” replied Pan, and after giving his order to a boy waiter he turned to his companion across the table and continued. “And it took a darn long ride to get here. From Texas.”
“That so? Well, I come from western Kansas, just across the Texas line.”
“Been here long?”
“Reckon a matter of six months.”
“What’s your work, if you’ll excuse curiosity. I’m green, you see, and want to know.”
“I’ve been workin’ a minin’ claim. Gold.”
“Ah-huh!” replied Pan with quickened interest. “Sounds awful good to me. I never saw any gold but a few gold eagles, and they’ve sure been scarce enough.”
Pan’s frankness, and that something simple and careless about him, combined with his appearance, always created the best of impressions upon men.
His companion grinned across the table, as if he had shared Pan’s experience. “Reckon you needn’t tell me you’re a cowpuncher. I heard you comin’ before I saw you...My name’s Brown.”
“Howdy, glad to meet you,” replied Pan, and then with evident hesitation. “Mine is Smith.”
“Panhandle Smith?” queried the other, quickly.
“Why, sure,” returned Pan with a laugh.
“Shake,” was all the reply Brown made, except to extend a lean strong hand.
“I’m most as lucky as I am unlucky,” said Pan warmly. “It’s a small world...Now tell me, Brown, have you seen or heard anything of my dad, Bill Smith?”
“No, sorry to say. But I haven’t mingled much. Been layin’ pretty low, because the fact is I think I’ve struck a rich claim. An’ it’s made me cautious.”
“Ah-uh. Pretty wide open town, I’ll bet. I appreciate your confidence in me.”
“To tell you the truth I’m darn glad to run into some one from near home. Lord, I wish you could have brought word from my wife an’ baby.”
“Married, and got a kid. That’s fine. Boy or girl?”
“It’s a girl. I never saw her, as she was born after I left home. My wife wasn’t very well when she wrote last. She wants to come out here, but I can’t see that yet a while.”
“Well, wish I could have brought you news. It must be tough to be separated from your family. I’m not married, but I know what a little girl means...Say, Brown, did you ever run into a man out here named Jim Blake?”
“No.”
“Or a man named Hardman? Jard Hardman?”
“Hardman! Now you’re talkin’, Panhandle. I should smile I have,” replied Brown, with a flash of quiet eyes that Pan had learned to recognize as dangerous in men. His own pulse heightened. It was like coming suddenly on a track for which he had long been searching. The one word Hardman had struck fire from this young miner.
“What’s Hardman doing?” asked Pan quietly.
“Everythin’ an’ between you an’ me, he’s doin’ everybody. Jard Hardman is in everythin’. Minin’, ranchin’, an’ I’ve heard he’s gone in for this wild horse chasin’. That’s the newest boom around Marco. But Hardman has big interests here in town. It’s rumored he’s back of the Yellow Mine, the biggest saloon an’ gamblin’ hell in town.”
“Well, I’ll be doggoned,” ejaculated Pan thoughtfully. “Things turn out funny. You can show me that place presently. Does Hardman hang out here in Marco?”
“Part of the time. He travels to Frisco, Salt Lake, an’ St. Louis where he sells cattle an’ horses. He has a big ranch out here in the valley, an’ stays there some. His son runs the outfit.”
“His son?” queried Pan, suddenly hot with a flash of memory.
“Yes, his son,” declared Brown eyeing Pan earnestly. “Reckon you must know Dick Hardman?”
“I used to — long ago,” replied Pan, pondering. How far in the past that seemed! How vivid now in memory!
“Old Hardman makes the money an’ Dick blows it in,” went on Brown, with something of contempt in his voice. “Dick plays, an’ they say he’s a rotten gambler. He drinks like a fish, too. I don’t run around much in this burg, believe me, but I see Dick often. I heard he’d fetched a girl here from Frisco.”
“Ah-uh! Well, that’s enough about my old schoolmate, thank you,” rejoined Pan. “Tell me, Brown, what’s this Marco town anyway?”
“Well, it’s both old an’ new,” replied the other. “That’s about all, I reckon. Findin’ gold an’ silver out in the hills has made a boom this last year or so. That’s what fetched me. The town is twice the size it was when I saw it first, an’ many times more people. There’s a lot of these people, riffraff, that work these minin’ towns. Gamblers, sharks, claim jumpers, outlaws, adventurers, tramps, an’ of course the kind of women that go along with them. A good many cow outfits make this their headquarters now. An’ last, this horse tradin’, an’ wild horse catchin’. Sellin’ an’ shippin’ has attracted lots of men. Every day or so a new fellar, like you, drops in from east of the Rockies. There are some big mining men investigatin’ the claims. An’ if good mineral is found Marco will be solid, an’ not just a mushroom town.”
“Any law?” inquired Pan thoughtfully.
“Not so you’d notice it much, especially when you need it,” asserted Brown grimly. “Matthews is the town marshal. Self-elected so far as I could see. An’ he’s hand an’ glove with Hardman. He’s mayor, magistrate, sheriff, an’ the whole caboodle, includin’ the court. But there are substantial men here, who sooner or later will organize an’ do things. They’re too darned busy now workin’, gettin’ on their feet.”
“Ah-uh. I savvy. I reckon you’re giving me a hunch that in your private opinion Matthews isn’t exactly straight where some interests are concerned. Hardman’s for instance. I’ve run across that sort of deal in half a dozen towns.”
“You got me,” replied Brown, soberly. “But please regard that as my confidential opinion. I couldn’t prove it. This town hasn’t grown up to political corruption an’ graft. But it’s headed that way.”
“Well, I was lucky to run into you,” said Pan with satisfaction. “I’ll tell you why some other time. I’m pretty sure to stick here...Now let’s go out and see the town, especially the Yellow Mine.”
Pan had not strolled the length of the main street before he realized that there was an atmosphere here strangely unfamiliar to him. Yet he had visited some fairly wild and wide-open towns. But they had owed their wildness and excitement and atmosphere to the range and the omnipresent cowboy. Old-timers had told him stories of Abilene and Dodge, when they were in their heyday. He had gambled in the hells of Juárez, across the Texas border where there was no law. Some of the Montana cattle towns were far from slow, in cowboy vernacular. But here he sensed a new element. And soon he grasped it as the fever of the rush for gold. The excitement of it took hold of him, so that he had to reason with himself to shake it off.
The town appeared about a mile long, spread out on two sides of the main street, graduating from the big buildings of stone and wood in the center to flimsy frame structures and tents along the outskirts. Pan estimated that he must have passed three thousand people during his stroll, up one side of the street and down the other. Even if these made up the whole population it was enough to insure a good-sized town. There were no street lamps. And the many yellow lights from open doors and windows fell upon the throngs moving to and fro, in the street as well as on the sidewalks.
Pan’s guide eventually led him into the Yellow Mine.
He saw a long wide room full of moving figures, thin wreaths of blue smoke that floated in the glaring yellow lights. A bar ran the whole length of this room, and drinkers were crowded in front of it. The clink of glass, the clink of gold, the incessant murmur of hoarse voices almost drowned faint strains of music from another room that opened from this one.
The thousand and one saloons and gambling dives that Pan had seen could not in any sense compare with this one. This was on a big scale without restraint of law or order. Piles of gold and greenbacks littered the tables where roulette, faro, poker were in progress. Black garbed, pale hard-faced gamblers sat with long mobile hands on the tables. Bearded men, lean-faced youths bent with intent gaze over their cards. Sloe-eyed Mexicans in their high-peaked sombreros and gaudy trappings lounged here and there, watching, waiting — for what did not seem clear to Pan. Drunken miners in their shirt sleeves stamped through the open door, to or from the bar. An odor of whisky mingled with that of tobacco smoke. Young women with bare arms and necks and painted faces were in evidence, some alone, most of them attended by men.
The gambling games attracted Pan. Like all cowboys he had felt the fascination of games of chance. He watched the roulette wheel, then the faro games. In one corner of the big room, almost an alcove, Pan espied a large round table at which were seated six players engrossed in a game of poker. He saw thousands of dollars in gold and notes on that table. A pretty flashy girl with bold eyes and a lazy sleepy smile hung over the shoulder of one of the gamblers.
Pan’s comrade nudged him in the side.
“What? Where?” whispered Pan answering quickly to the suggestion and his glance swept everywhere.
Brown was gazing with gleaming eyes at the young card player over whose shoulder the white-armed girl hung.
Then Pan saw a face that was strangely familiar — a handsome face of a complexion between red and white, with large sensual mouth, bold eyes, and a broad low brow. The young gambler was Dick Hardman.
Pan knew him. The recognition meant nothing, yet it gave Pan a start, a twinge, and then sent a slow heat along his veins. He laughed to find the boyishness of old still alive in him. After eight years of hard life on the ranges! By that sudden resurging of long forgotten emotion Pan judged the nature of what the years had made him. It would be interesting to see how Dick Hardman met him.
But it was the girl who first seemed drawn by Pan’s piercing gaze. She caught it — then looked a second time. Sliding off the arms of Hardman’s chair she moved with undulating motion of her slender form, and with bright eyes, round the table toward Pan. And at that moment Dick Hardman looked up from his cards and watched her.
CHAPTER SIX
“HELLO, COWBOY. HOW’D I ever miss you?” she queried roguishly, running her bright eyes from his face down to his spurs and back again.
“Good evening, Lady,” replied Pan, removing his sombrero and bowing, with his genial smile. “I just come to town.”
She hesitated as if struck by a deference she was not accustomed to. Then she took his hands in hers and dragged him out a little away from Brown, whom she gave a curt nod. Again she looked Pan up and down.
“Did you take off that big hat because you know you’re mighty good to look at?” she asked, archly.
“Well, no, hardly,” answered Pan.
“What for then?”
“It’s a habit I have when I meet a pretty girl.”
“Thank you. Does she have to be pretty?”
“Reckon not. Any girl, Miss.”
“You are a stranger in Marco. Look out somebody doesn’t shoot a hole in that hat when you doff it.”
While she smiled up at him, losing something of the hawklike, possession-taking manner that had at first characterized her, Pan could see Dick Hardman staring hard across the table. Before Pan could find a reply for the girl one of the gamesters, an unshaven scowling fellow, addressed Hardman.
“Say, air you playin’ cairds or watchin’ your dame make up to that big hat an’ high boots?”
Pan grasped the opportunity, though he never would have let that remark pass under any circumstances. He disengaged his right hand from the girl’s, and stepping up to the table, drawing her with him, he bent a glance upon the disgruntled gambler.
“Excuse me, Mister,” he began in the slow easy cool speech of a cowboy, “but did you mean me?”
His tone, his presence, drew the attention of all at the table, especially the one he addressed, and Hardman. The former laid down his cards. Shrewd eyes took Pan’s measure, surely not missing the gun at his hip.
“Suppose I did mean you?” demanded the gambler, curiously.
“Well, if you did I’d have to break up your game,” replied Pan, apologetically. “You see, Mister, it hurts my feelings to have anyone make fun of my clothes.”
“All right, cowboy, no offense meant,” returned the other, at which everyone except Hardman, let out a laugh. “But you’ll break up our game anyhow, if you don’t trot off with Louise there.”
His further remark, dryly sarcastic, mostly directed at Hardman did not help the situation, so far as Pan was concerned. It was, however, exactly what Pan wanted. Dick stared insolently and fixedly at Pan. He appeared as much puzzled as annoyed. Manifestly he was trying to place Pan, and did not succeed. Pan had hardly expected to be recognized, though he stood there a moment, head uncovered, under the light, giving his old enemy eye for eye. In fact his steady gaze disconcerted Dick, who turned his glance on the amused girl. Then his face darkened and he spat out his cigar to utter harshly: “Go on, you cat! And don’t purr round me any more!”
