Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 1324
“Found the jail easy, but got off comin’ back. Pronto now. Must be near eleven.”
Pan kept the dark silent moving form in sight. The dim light grew larger. Then the low flat building loomed up faintly in the dense gloom.
“Go ahead,” whispered Blinky. “I’ll hold the hoss.”
Pan went swiftly up to the wall, and thence along it to the corner. The light came from an open door. He listened. There was no sound. Luckily Hurd was alone. Pan slipped round the corner and entered. Hurd sat at the table in the flare of a lamp, turned down low.
“Ha! Was waitin’ fer you, an’ beginnin’ to worry,” he said, in hoarse whisper.
“Plenty of time, if Blake’s all ready,” replied Pan.
“I’m givin’ you a hunch. He’s damn queer fer a fellar who expects to break jail.”
“No matter. Let’s get at it, pronto.”
Hurd got up, and laid his gun on the table. Then he turned over the bench, threw papers on the floor. “Thar’s the key, an’ heah’s a rope. Hawg-tie me.”
With that he turned his back. Swiftly Pan bound him securely, and let him down upon the floor. Then he unlocked the door, opened it. Pitch darkness inside and no sound! He called in low voice. Blake did not reply. Muttering in surprise, Pan took the lamp and went into the room. He found Blake asleep, though fully dressed. Pan jerked him roughly out of that indifferent slumber.
“It’s Smith,” he said, bluntly. “You sure must want to get out...Damn you, Blake, this whole deal looks fishy to me!...Come on.”
Leaving the lamp there, Pan dragged the man out, through the dark entrance room, into the night. In another moment they had reached the horse and Blinky.
“Here’s money and a gun,” whispered Pan, swiftly. “You’ll find grub, blanket, grain on your saddle. Get on!” Pan had to half lift Blake upon the horse. He felt of the stirrups. “They’re all right...The road is that way, about fifty yards. Turn to the left and ride. Remember, Siccane.”
Blake rode away into the darkness without a word. Pan watched and listened. Presently he heard the hard clip-clop of hoofs on the road, making to the left.
“Good! He’ll ride past where Lucy’s sleeping. I wish she could know,” muttered Pan.
“Was he drunk?” queried Blinky, in a hoarse whisper. “Shore funny fer a sober man.”
“He didn’t breathe like he was drunk,” replied Pan. “But he flabbergasted me. Found him asleep! And he never said a darned word...Blink, it sticks in my craw. Reckon he didn’t want to leave that nice warm bed.”
“Ahuh! Wal, let’s rustle back to our warm beds,” said the cowboy gruffly.
Pan awakened during the latter part of the night. Rain was pattering on the tent. The wind moaned. He thought of Blake, not clad for bad weather and in unfit condition for a long ride, facing the storm. Even then a vague doubt penetrated his drowsy mind.
Morning dawned bright and sparkling after the rain. The air was keen and crisp. The cedars glistened as if decked with diamonds. Pan felt the sweet scent of the damp dust, and it gave him a thrill and a longing for the saddle and the open country.
“Wal, reckon this heah’ll be our busy day,” drawled Blinky, after making a hearty breakfast of bacon and flapjacks. “Pan, what’s first on the ticket?”
“Show me a horse, you bow-legged grub destroyer,” replied Pan eagerly.
“Come out to the corral. We got a sorrel as is a real shore enough hoss if you can ride him.”
There were a dozen or more horses in the corral. Pan, glancing over them with appraising eye, decided the cowboys had not spoken of them with the degree of satisfaction that they really merited.
“Fine string, Blinky,” said Pan, with glistening eyes. “Is that sorrel the one I can’t ride?”
“Yep, thet’s him. Ain’t he a real hoss?”
“Best of the bunch, at first sight. Blinky, are you sure you’re not giving me your own horse?”
“Me? I don’t care nothin’ aboot him,” declared Blinky, lying glibly. “Shore he’s the orfullest pitchin’ son-of-a-gun I ever forked. But mebbe you can ride him.”
It developed presently that Pan could ride the sorrel, and that Blinky had done the horse a great injustice. How good to be back in the saddle! Pan wanted to ride down at once to show Lucy his first mount west of the Rockies. Indeed he was possessed of a strong yearning desire to hurry to see Lucy, a feeling that he had to dispel. If all went well he could go to his mother’s for dinner. Meanwhile he must meet the exigencies here in Marco.
“Wal, what’s next on the ticket?” queried Blinky, who appeared to be rather jerky this morning.
“I’m going downtown,” replied Pan.
“Ahuh! I want to trail along with you.”
“No, I’ll go alone. I’ll make my bluff strong, Blinky, or draw Matthews out. Honest, I don’t think he’ll show.”
“Thet yellow dawg? He won’t face you, Pan. But he’s in thet Hardman outfit, an’ one of them — mebbe Purcell — might take a shot at you from a winder. It’s been done heah. Let me go with you.”
“Well, if they’re that low down your being with me wouldn’t help much,” replied Pan, pondering the matter. “I’ll tell you, Blink. Here’s how I figure. Marco is a pretty big place. It’s full of men. And western men are much alike anywhere. Matthews is no fool. He couldn’t risk murdering me in broad daylight, from ambush.”
“I’m not trustin’ him,” said Blinky, somberly. “But I admit the chances are he won’t do thet.”
“You and Gus pack up for the wild-horse drive,” went on Pan briskly. “We ought to get off in the morning. One of you ride out to see if Charley Brown will throw in with us. I’ll see Dad at dinner. He’ll need horse and outfit. It may turn out we can get our jailer friend, Hurd. Wonder if he lost his job...Ha! Ha! Well, boys, I’ll know more when I see you again.”
Pan strolled down toward the town. A familiar unpleasant mental strain dominated his consciousness. His slow, cool, easy nonchalance was all outward. He had done this thing before, but that seemed long ago. His father, Lucy, his mother, somehow made an immense difference between the cowboy reactions of long ago and this stern duty he had set himself today. He hated what his actions meant, what might well ensue from them, yet he was glad it was in him to meet the issue in this way of the West.
By the time he had reached a point opposite the stage office all reflections had passed out of his mind to give place to something sinister.
His alert faculties of observation belied the leisurely manner of his approach to the main street. He was a keen-strung, watching, listening machine. The lighting and smoking of a cigarette was mechanical pretense — he did not want to smoke.
Two men stood in front of the stage office. One was Smith, the agent. Pan approached them, leaned on the hitching rail. But he favored his right side and he faced the street.
“Mornin’, cowboy,” Smith greeted him, not without nervousness. “See you’re down early to git arrested.”
“Howdy, Smith. Can you give me a drink?” returned Pan.
“Sorry, but I haven’t a drop.”
The other man was an old fellow, though evidently he was still active, for his boots and clothes showed the stain and wear of mining.
“Tell you, cowboy,” he spoke up, dryly, “you might buy a bottle at the Yellow Mine.”
Pan made no reply, and presently the old man shambled away while Smith entered his office. Pan kept his vigil there, watching, waiting. He was seen by dozens of passing men, but none of them crossed toward the stage office. Down the street straggling pedestrians halted to form little groups. In an hour the business of Marco had apparently halted.
Its citizens, the miners who had started to work, the teamsters, Mexicans, cowboys who happened upon the street, suddenly struck attitudes of curious attention, with faces turned toward Pan. They too were waiting, watching.
The porch of the Yellow Mine was in plain sight, standing out on a corner, scarcely more than a hundred yards down the street. Pan saw Hardman and Matthews come out of the hotel. They could not fail to observe the quiet, the absence of movement, the waiting knots of men.
This was the climax of strain for Pan. Leisurely he strolled away from the hitching rail, out into the middle of the street, and down. The closer groups of watchers vanished.
Hardman could be seen gesticulating, stamping as if in rage; and then he went into the hotel, leaving Matthews standing alone. Other men, in the background disappeared. The sheriff stood a moment irresolute, sagging, with his pale hamlike face gleaming. Then he wheeled to enter the hotel.
He had damned himself. He had refused the even break, the man-to-man, the unwritten edict of westerners.
Pan saw this evasion with grim relief. The next move was one easier to perform, though fraught with great peril. Every man in Marco now knew that Pan had come out to meet the men he had denounced. They had been aware of his intention. They had seen him sauntering down the middle of the street. And they had showed what the West called yellow. But they had not showed their claws, if they had any. Pan could well have ended his quest then and there. But to follow it up, to beard the jackals in their den — that was the last word.
As Pan proceeded slowly down the middle of the street the little groups of spectators disintegrated, and slipped out of sight into the stores and saloons. Those farthest from him moved on to halt again. And when any neared the Yellow Mine, they scurried completely out of sight. Pan had the main street to himself. For a few moments not a single man showed himself. Then they began to reappear behind him out of range, slowly following him.
At the entrance to the Yellow Mine, Pan threw away his cigarette, and mounted the steps. He was gambling his life on the code of the westerners. The big hall-like saloon was vacant except for the two bartenders behind the bar, and a Mexican sweeping out the sawdust. Pan had heard subdued voices, the shuffle of feet, the closing of doors. Every muscle in his body was cramped with tension, ready to leap like lightning into action. Advancing to the bar he called for a drink.
“On the house this mawnin’,” replied the nearest bartender, smiling. He showed a little nervousness with his hands, otherwise he was composed, and his offer to treat expressed his sentiment. Pan took the bottle with his left hand, poured out some liquor, set the bottle down, and lifted the glass. He had his drink. His tension relaxed.
“Sort of quiet this morning,” he said.
“Reckon it is, just now,” replied the bartender, significantly.
“Is this Sunday?” went on Pan casually.
“No. Yestiddy was Sunday, so this must be Monday.”
“Reckon I might as well move along,” remarked Pan, but he did not stir. The bartender went on cleaning glasses. Sounds of footsteps came from outside. Presently Pan walked back through the open door, then halted a moment, to light another cigarette. His back was turned to the bar and the doors. That seemed the climax of his effrontery. It was deliberate, the utter recklessness of the cowboy who had been trained in a hard school. But all that happened was the silence breaking to a gay wild sweet voice: “Call again, cowboy, when there’s somebody home!”
Louise had been watching him through some secret peephole. That had been her tribute to him and her scorn of his opponents. It about closed the incident, Pan concluded. Men were now coming along the street in both directions, though not yet close. Some wag yelled from a distance: “Thar ain’t no sheriff, Panhandle.”
Pan retraced his steps up the street, finding, as before, a clear passage. Men hailed him from doorways, from windows, from behind obstructions. He did not need to be told that they were with him. Marco had been treated to precisely what it wanted. Pan was quick to grasp the mood of these residents who had been so keen about his endeavor to draw out Hardman and Matthews. That hour saw the beginning of the end for these dominant factors in the evil doings of Marco. What deep gratification it afforded Pan! They might thrive for a time, but their heyday had passed. Matthews would be the laughing stock of the town. He could never retrieve. He had been proclaimed only another in the long list of self-appointed officers of the law.
By the time Pan got back to camp his mood actually harmonized with his leisurely, free and careless movements. Still he was hiding something, for he wanted to yell. Blinky saw him coming and yelled for him.
The cowboy was beside himself with a frenzy of delight. It had been hard for him to stay there in camp. He cursed radiantly.
“How’s the pack job? All done?” queried Pan, when he could get a word in.
“Pack hell! We plumb forgot,” replied Blinky. “What you think — you — you—”
Blinky failed to find adequate words to express his sentiments. Gus was quiet as usual, but he too showed relaxation from a severe ordeal.
“Well, let’s get at it now,” suggested Pan. “I’ll start you boys on it, then ride down to Mother’s.”
In the succeeding hour, leading to noon, what with sundry trips down to the store, the trio learned some news that afforded much satisfaction. Jim Blake had assaulted a guard and broken jail. No doubt he must have had outside assistance. According to rumor Matthews accused Hurd, the guard, of being party to the escape, and had discharged him. Sentiment in town was not equally divided. Most everybody, according to the informers, was glad Blake had escaped. It developed that the jail was not a civic institution. Already there had been talk of the permanent citizens getting together.
All this was exceedingly welcome to Pan. He could hardly wait till noon to saddle the sorrel, to ride over to his mother’s.
“Aw, cowboy, hug thet gurl fer me!” sang Blinky, with ecstatic upward gaze. “Shore she’s put the devil in you. An’ this heah outfit is steppin’ high!”
On the way out to the farm, halfway beyond the outskirts of town, Pan met his father rushing up the road. At sight of Pan he almost collapsed.
“Just — heard — the news,” he panted, as Pan reined in the sorrel.
“What news, Dad?” queried Pan, gazing down with both thrill and anxiety at that haggard face, slowly warming out of its havoc.
“Bill Dolan an’ his — boys — stopped at the ranch to — tell me,” Smith, wiping his clammy face. “They just left town...Bill saw you take that walk down main street.”
“Well, what’s that to be all set up about?”
“Reckon I was scared wild...Bill says to me, ‘Bill, you oughtn’t show yellow like thet. You shore don’t savvy thet boy of yours.’...I thought I did, son, but when it come to a showdown I was chicken-hearted. Your comin’ home was a Godsend to Mother an’ Lucy. An’ more to me! Then to think you might get shot right off...Wal, it was too much for my stomach.”
“Dad, I bluffed them — that’s all. I braced them quick and hard, before they could figure. It worked, and I believe I got most of the town with me.”
“Pan, is it true that you accused Jard Hardman of robbin’ me — an’ you knocked him flat?”
“Sure it’s true.”
“Lord, but I’d like to have seen that,” declared Smith vehemently. “An’ son, you got Jim Blake out of jail. Bill didn’t hint you had anythin’ to do with that. But I knew. It was sure great. If only Jim does his part!”
“You doubt that, Dad?”
“Shore do. But I’ll tell you, Pan. If we could be with Jim all the time we could pull him up.”
“Let’s hope he’s far on the way to Siccane by now...Does Lucy know? I hope you didn’t tell her about my meeting with Hardman and Matthews?”
“I didn’t. But Bill shore did,” replied his father. “Reckon I would have squealed, though. Mother an’ Lucy have a lot more nerve than me. Fact is, though, Bill didn’t give ’em time to go to pieces. He just busted out with news of Blake’s escape. Say, boy, you should have seen Lucy.”
“I will see her pronto,” replied Pan eagerly. “Come on. What’re you holding me up for, anyhow?”
Pan walked the horse while his father kept pace alongside.
“Some more news I most forgot,” Smith went on. “Bill told about a shootin’ scrape out in Cedar Gulch. Them claim jumpers drove a miner named Brown off his claim. They had to fight for it. Brown said he wounded one of ‘em. They chased him clean to Satlee’s ranch. Shore wanted to kill him or scare him off for good.”
“I know Brown,” replied Pan. “And from what he told me I’ve a hunch I know the claim jumpers.”
“Wal, that’d be hard to prove. In the early days of a minin’ boom there’s a lot of trouble. A miner is a crazy fellar often. He’ll dig a hole, then move on to dig another. Then if some other prospector comes along to find gold on his last diggin’s he yells claim jumpin’. As a matter of fact most of them haven’t a real claim till they find gold. An’ all that makes the trouble.”
“I’ll hunt Brown up and persuade him to make the wild-horse drive with us. He’s—”
“By George, I forgot some more,” interrupted Smith, slapping his leg. “Bill said Wiggate broke with Jard Hardman. Wiggate started this wild-hoss buyin’ an’ shippin’ east. Hardman had to get his finger in the pie. Now Wiggate is a big man an’ he has plenty of money. I always heard him well spoken of. Now I’ll gamble your callin’ Jard Hardman the way you did had a lot to do with Wiggate’s break with him.”
“Shouldn’t wonder,” rejoined Pan. “And it’s darned good luck for us. The boys ran across a valley full of wild horses over here about twenty miles. Dad, I believe I can trap several thousand wild horses.”
“No!” ejaculated his father, incredulously.
“If the boys aren’t loco, I sure can,” declared Pan positively.
“I can vouch for numbers myself,” replied Smith. “An’ I’ve not a doubt in the world but that there valley’s not yet hunted. But to ketch the darned scooters, that’s the hell of it! Pan, even a thousand head would give me a new start somewhere.”
“It’s as good as done. Before the snow flies we will be on the way south to Siccane.”
“Lord! I’m a younger man than I was a few days ago. Before the snow flies? That’s hardly another month. Pan, how’ll we travel?”
