Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 1329
It was plain that his comrades had soon broken the line. Probably in such a case, where so many horses were running, it was not possible to keep a uniform front. But Pan thought they could have done better. He saw strings of horses passing him to the left. They had broken through. This was to be expected. No doubt the main solid mass was now on a stampede toward the south.
Pan let stragglers and small bunches go by him. There were, however, no large bands of horses running back, at least that he could see. He rode to and fro, at a fast clip, across this dust-clouded basin, heading what horses happened to come near him. The melee of dust and animals thickened. He now heard the clip-clop of hoofs, here, there, everywhere, with the mass of sound to the fore. Presently he appeared surrounded by circles of dust and stringing horses. It was like a huge corral full of frightened animals running wild through dust so thick that they could not be seen a hundred feet distant. Pan turned horses back, but he could not tell how quickly they would wheel again and elude him.
Once he thought he saw a rider on a white mount, yet could not be sure. Then he decided he was mistaken, for none of Blinky’s horses were white.
This melee down in the dusty basin was bad. Driving was hampered by the obscurity. Pan could only hope the main line of wild horses was sweeping on as it had started.
After a long patrol in the dust and heat of that valley flat, Pan emerged, it seemed, into clearer atmosphere. He was working up. Horses were everywhere, and it was ridiculous to try to drive all those he encountered. At length there were none running back. All were heading across, to and fro, or down the valley. And when Pan reached the long ascent of that bowl he saw a magnificent spectacle.
A long black mass of horses was sweeping onward toward the gateway to the corrals, and to the fence. Dust columns, like smoke, curled up from behind them and swung low on the breeze. Pan saw riders behind them, and to the left. He had perhaps been the only one to go through that valley bowl. The many bands of horses, now converged into one great herd, had no doubt crossed it. They were fully four miles distant. Pan saw his opportunity to cut across and down to the right toward where the fence met the wash. If the horses swerved, as surely some or all of them would do, he could head them off. To that end he gave Sorrel free rein and had a splendid run of several miles to the point halfway between the fence and the wash.
Here from a high point of ground he observed the moving pace of dust and saw the black wheel-shaped mass of horses sweep down the valley like a storm. The spectacle was worth all the toil and time he had given, even if not one beast was captured. But Pan, with swelling heart and beaming eye, felt assured of greater success than he had hoped for. There were five thousand horses in that band, more by ten times than he had ever before seen driven. They could not all get through that narrow gateway to the corrals. Pan wondered how his few riders could have done so well. Luck! The topography of the valley! The wild horses took the lanes of least resistance; and the level or downhill ground favored a broad direct line toward the fence trap Pan and his men had contrived.
“Looks like Dad and all the rest of them have swung round on this side,” soliloquized Pan, straining his eyes.
That was good, but Pan could not understand how they had ever accomplished it. Perhaps they had been keen enough to see that the wild horses would now have to go through the gateway or turn south along the fence.
Pan watched eagerly. Whatever was going to happen must come very soon, as swiftly as those fast wild horses could run another mile. He saw them sweep down on the bluff and round it, and then begin to spread, to disintegrate. Again dust clouds settled over one place. It was in the apex. What a vortex of furious horses must be there! Pan lost sight of them for some moments. Then out of the yellow curtain streaked black strings, traveling down the fence toward Pan, across the valley, back up the way they had come. Pan let out a stentorian yell of victory. He knew the action indicated that the horses had poured in a mass into the apex between bluff and fence.
“Whoopee!” yelled Pan, to relieve his surcharged emotions. “It’s a sure bet we’ve got a bunch!”
Then he spurred Sorrel to meet the horses fleeing down along the fence. They came in bunches, in lines, stringing for a mile or more along the barrier of cedars.
Pan met them with yells and shouts. Frantic now, the animals wheeled back. But few of them ran up out of the winding shallow ground along which the fence had been cunningly built. He drove them back, up over the slow ascent, toward the great dusty swarm of horses that ran helter-skelter under the dust haze.
Suddenly Pan espied a black stallion racing toward him. He remembered the horse. And the desire to capture this individual took strong hold upon him. The advantage lay all with Pan. So he held back to stop this stallion.
At the most favorable moment Pan spurred Sorrel to intercept the stallion. But the black, maddened with terror and instinct to rage, would not swerve out of Pan’s way. On he came, swift as the wind, lean black head out, mane flying, a wild creature at once beautiful and fearful. Pan had to jerk Sorrel out of his way. Then Pan, having the black between himself and the fence, turned Sorrel loose. The race began — with Pan still holding the advantage. It did not, however, last long that way. The black ran away from Pan. He wanted to shoot but thought it best not to use his last shells. What a stride! He was a big horse, too, ragged, rangy, with action and power that delighted Pan. Knowing he could not catch the black Pan cut across toward the wash. Then the stallion, seeing the yawning gulf ahead, turned toward the fence, and quickening that marvelous stride he made a magnificent leap right at the top of the obstruction. He cleared the heavy wood and crashed through the branches to freedom.
“You black son-of-a-gun!” yelled Pan in sheer admiration, and halting the sorrel he watched the stallion disappear.
Dust begrimed and wet, Pan once more headed toward the goal. His horse was tired and so was he. Far as he could view in a fan-shaped spread, wild horses were running back up the valley. Pan estimated he saw thousands, but there were no heavy black masses, no sweeping stormlike clouds of horses, such as had borne down on that corner of the valley.
He was weary, but he could have sung for very joy. Happily his thoughts reverted to Lucy and the future. He would pick out a couple of beautiful ponies for her, and break them gently. He would find some swift sturdy horses for himself. Then, as many thousands of times, he thought of his first horse Curly. None could ever take his place. But how he would have loved to own the black stallion!
“I’m just as glad, though, he got away,” mused Pan.
The afternoon was half gone and hazy, owing to the drifting clouds of dust that had risen from the valley. As Pan neared the end of the fence, which was still a goodly distance from the gateway, he was surprised that he did not see any horses or men. The wide brush gates had been closed. Beyond them and over the bluff he saw clouds of dust, like smoke, rising lazily, as if just stirred.
“Horses in the corrals!” he exclaimed. “I’ll bet they’re full...Gee! now comes the problem. But we could hold a thousand head there for a week — maybe ten days. There’s water and grass. Reckon, though, I’ll sell tomorrow.”
He would have hurried on but for the fact that Sorrel had begun to limp. Pan remembered going over a steep soft bank where the horse had stumbled. Dismounting, Pan walked the rest of the way to the bluff, beginning to think it strange he did not see or hear any of his comrades. No doubt they were back revelling in the corrals full of wild horses.
“It’s been a great day. If only I could get word to Lucy!”
Pan opened the small gate, and led Sorrel into the lane. Still he did not see anything of the men. He did hear, however, a snorting, trampling of many horses, over in the direction of the farther corral.
At the end of the bluff, where the line of slope curved in deep, Pan suddenly saw a number of saddled horses, without riders.
With a violent start he halted.
There were men, strange men, standing in groups, lounging on the rocks, sitting down, all as if waiting.
A little to the left of these Pan’s lightning swift gaze took in another group. His men! Not lounging, not conversing, but aloof from each other, lax and abject, or strung motionless!
Bewildered, shocked, Pan swept his eyes back upon the strangers.
“Hardman! Purcell!” he gasped, starting back as if struck.
Then his mind leaped to conclusions. He did not need to see Blinky approach him with hard sullen face. Hardman and outfit had timed the wild-horse drive. No doubt they had participated in it, and meant to profit by that, or worse, they meant to claim the drive, and by superior numbers force that issue.
Such a terrible fury possessed Pan that he burned and shook all over. He dropped his bridle and made a dragging step to meet Blinky. But so great was his emotion that he had no physical control. He waited. After that bursting of his heart, he slowly changed. This then was the strange untoward thing that had haunted him. All the time fate had held this horrible crisis in abeyance, waiting to crush at the last moment his marvelous good fortune. That had been the doubt, the misgiving, the inscrutable something which had opposed all Pan’s optimism, his hope, his love. An icy sickening misery convulsed him for a moment. But that could not exist in the white heat of his wrath.
Blinky did not stride up to Pan. He hated this necessity. His will was forcing his steps, and they were slow.
“Blink — Blink,” whispered Pan, hoarsely. “It’s come! That damned hunch we feared, but wouldn’t believe!”
“By Gawd, I — I couldn’t hev told you,” replied Blinky, just as hoarsely. “An’ it couldn’t be worse.”
“Blink — then we made a good haul?”
“Cowboy, nobody ever heerd of such a haul. We could moonshine wild hosses fer a hundred years an’ never ketch as many.”
“How — many?” queried Pan, sharply, his voice breaking clear.
“Reckon we don’t agree on figgerin’ thet. I say fifteen hundred haid. Your dad, who’s aboot crazy, reckons two thousand. An’ the other fellars come in between.”
“Fifteen hundred horses!” ejaculated Pan intensely. “Heavens, but it’s great!”
“Pan, I wish to Gawd we hadn’t ketched any,” declared Blinky, in hard fierce voice.
That brought Pan back to earth.
“What’s their game?” he asked swiftly, indicating the watching whispering group.
“I had only a few words with Hardman. Your dad went out of his haid. Reckon he’d have done fer Hardman with his bare hands, if Purcell hadn’t knocked him down with the butt of a gun.”
Again there was a violent leap of Pan’s blood. It jerked his whole frame.
“Blink, did that big brute?—” asked Pan hoarsely, suddenly breaking off.
“He shore did. Your dad’s got a nasty knock over the eye...No, I hadn’t any chance to talk to Hardman. But his game’s as plain as that big nose of his.”
“Well, what is it?” snapped Pan.
“Shore he’ll grab our hosses, or most of them,” returned Blinky.
“You mean straight horse stealing?”
“Shore, thet’s what it’ll be. But the hell of it is, Hardman’s outfit helped make the drive.”
“No!”
“You bet they did. Thet’s what galls me. Either they was layin’ fer the day or just happened to ride up on us, an’ figgered it out. Mebbe thet’s where Mac New comes in.”
“Blink, I don’t believe he’s double-crossed us,” declared Pan stoutly.
“Wal, he’s an outlaw.”
“No difference. I just don’t believe it. But we’ll find out...So you think Hardman will claim most of our horses or take them all?”
“I shore do.”
“Blink, if he gets one of our horses it’ll be over my dead body. You fellows sure showed yellow clear through — to let them ride in here without a fight.”
“Hellsfire!” cried Blinky, as if stung. “What you think?...There wasn’t a one of us thet had a single lead left fer our guns. Thet’s where the rub comes in. We played their game. Wasted a lot of shells on them damn broomies! So how could we fight?”
“Ah-huh!” groaned Pan, appalled at the fatality of the whole incident.
“Pan, I reckon you’d better swaller the dose, bitter as it is, an’ bluff Hardman into leavin’ us a share of the hosses.”
“Say, man, are you drunk or loco?” flashed Pan scornfully.
With that he whirled on his heel and strode toward where Hardman, Purcell, and another man stood somewhat apart from the lounging riders.
Slowly Blinky followed in Pan’s footsteps, and then Mac New left the group in the shade of the wall, and shuffled out into the sunlight. His action was that of a forceful man, dangerous to encounter.
In the dozen rods or more that Pan traversed to get to Hardman he had reverted to the old wild spirit of the Cimarron. That cold dark wind which had at times swept his soul returned with his realization of the only recourse here. When he had walked the streets of Marco waiting for Matthews to prove his mettle or show his cowardice, he had gambled on the latter. He had an uncanny certainty that he had only to bluff the sheriff. Here was a different proposition. It would take bloodshed to halt this gang.
As Pan approached, Purcell swung around square with his hands low, a significant posture. Hardman evinced signs of extreme nervous tension. The third man walked apart from them. All the others suddenly abandoned their lounging attitude.
“Hardman, what’s your game?” queried Pan bluntly, as he halted.
The words, the pause manifestly relieved Hardman, for he swallowed hard and braced himself.
“Game?” he parried gruffly. “There’s no game about drivin’ a million wild hosses through the dust. It was work.”
“Don’t try to twist words with me,” replied Pan fiercely. “What’s your game? Do you mean a straight out and out horse-thief deal? Or a share and share divvy on the strength of your riding in where you weren’t asked?”
“Young man, I’m warnin’ you not to call me a hoss thief,” shouted Hardman, growing red under his beard.
“I’ll call you one, damn quick, if you don’t tell your game.”
“We made the drive, Smith,” returned Hardman. “You’d never made it without us. An’ that gives us the biggest share. Say two-thirds, I’ll buy your third at ten dollars a head.”
“Hardman, that’s a rotten deal,” burst out Pan. “Haven’t you any sense? If you could make it, you’d be outlawed in this country. Men won’t stand for such things. You may be strong in Marco but I tell you even there you can’t go too far. We planned this trap. We worked like dogs. And we made the drive. You might account for more horses trapped, but no difference. You had no business here. We can prove it.”
“Wal, if I’ve got the hosses I don’t care what you say,” retorted Hardman, finding bravado as the interview progressed.
It was no use to try to appeal to any sense of fairness in this man. Pan saw that and his passionate eloquence died in his throat. Coldly he eyed Hardman and then the greasy dust-caked face of Purcell. He could catch only the steely speculation in Purcell’s evil eyes. He read there that, if the man had possessed the nerve, he would have drawn on him at the first.
Meanwhile Blinky had come up beside Pan and a moment later Mac New. Neither had anything to say but their actions, especially Mac New’s, were not to be misunderstood. The situation became intense. Hardman suddenly showed the strain.
Pan’s demeanor, however, might have been deceiving, except to the keenest of men, long versed in such encounters.
“Jard Hardman, you’re a low-down horse thief,” said Pan deliberately.
The taunt, thrown in Hardman’s face, added to the tension of the moment. He had lost the ruddy color under his beard. His eyes stood out. He recognized at last something beyond his power to change or stop.
“Smith, reckon you’ve cause for temper,” he said, huskily. “I’ll take half the hosses — an’ buy your half.”
“No! Not one damn broomtail do you get,” returned Pan in a voice that cut. “Look out, Hardman! I can prove you hatched up this deal to rob me.”
“How, I’d like to know?” blustered the rancher, relaxing again.
“Mac New can prove it.”
“Who’s he?”
“Hurd here. His real name is Mac New. You hired him to get in with me — to keep you posted on my movements.”
Again Hardman showed his kind of fiber under extreme provocation:
“Yes, I hired him — an’ he’s double-crossed you as well as me.”
“Did he? Well, now you prove that,” flashed Pan who had read the furious falseness of the man.
“Purcell here,” replied Hardman hoarsely, “he’s been camped below. Hurd met him at night — kept him posted on your work. Then, when all was ready for the drive Purcell sent for me. Ask him yourself.”
Pan did not answer to the suggestion. “Mac, what do you say to that?” he queried, sharply, but he never took his eyes off Purcell.
“Hardman, you’re a liar!” roared Mac New, sonorously. If ever Pan heard menace in a voice, it was then.
“Take it back!” went on the outlaw, now with a hiss. “Square me with Panhandle Smith!”
“Mac, he doesn’t have to square you. Anyone could see he’s a liar,” called Pan derisively.
“Hurd, I — I’ll have you shot — I’ll shoot you myself,” burst out Hardman, wrestling his arm toward his hip.
A thundering report close beside Pan almost deafened him. Hardman uttered a loud gasp. His eyes rolled — fixed in awful stony stare. Then like a flung sack he fell heavily.
“Thar, Jard Hardman,” declared the outlaw, “I had one bullet left.” And he threw his empty gun with violence at the prostrate body.
