Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 1359
In front of Emery’s place there was a crowd of two dozen or more. Lincoln backed up against the wall where the light could not strike him, and listened. There was a good deal of talk among individuals who seemed to have interests other than cattle running. One burly fellow with a white apron, evidently a barkeeper, was holding forth at a great rate.
“Bannister just croaked a few minutes ago,” he said. “He was conscious till the last. He cussed Emery somethin’ awful for sickin’ him on that cowboy. Emery is in there cussin’ just as bad ‘cause the doctor hadn’t had time to get to him. He’s not shot up much but he bled like a stuck pig. He’ll have to do his gamblin’ standin’ up for a while.”
“Four men shot,” added another speaker. “Looks as if Emery is the only one who’ll pull through and he’s the one that should have got it.”
“That’s sure right,” said another. “Emery is about played out in this man’s town.”
“Did anybody hear what made this cowboy run hell-bent for election?”
“Reckon it was just plain bad whisky.”
“I’ve had a heap to do with cowboys in my day and this feller’s work did not bear the earmarks of likker,” said a bald- headed man. “Bert Adams was comin’ out of the saloon when the cowboy run into him. His guns were smokin’. Bert said he never seen such eyes in any human bein’. He sure wasn’t drunk. You can always tell when a feller’s under the influence of drink. That cowboy was under the influence of somethin’ pretty damn awful.”
“I wonder what will come of it?”
They continued talking, and presently Lincoln left his post and entered the building. He peered into the saloon and discovered that business was going on as usual. Groups of drinkers were lined up at the bar; a gambling session was going full blast in the room where the shooting had taken place. In the large room the roulette and monte tables were also occupied. Linc strolled to the wide saloon door and entered. He noticed five cattlemen drinking at the far end, and simulating a man rather the worse for liquor, slid along the bar until he drew reasonably close to them. He called for a drink. One of the cattlemen looked as though he had seen the Nebraskan before but could not place him; all of them evidently were laboring under suppressed emotion. Lincoln heard one whisper hoarsely: “We’ve gone about it in a wrong way. Lee was right. These thieving, murdering cowboys need to be handled openly.”
A second, whose back was turned toward Lincoln, said, “Another deal like Hargrove’s and there’ll be war!”
“Wal, why not? The cowboys on this here range are ruined forever. Let’s drive them out of the country.”
“Men,” spoke up a tall rancher, “we’re split on that from the beginning. I lean toward Lee’s idea. There won’t be many of us, but we’ll mean business and if we carry out Lee’s plan this cursed festering sore down in the Sweetwater will be cured forever.”
“Impossible,” whispered another cattleman with a violent gesture. “That way’s unthinkable. I am from the South.”
“So is Lee from the South and he says it’s absolutely the only thing that can be done.”
“We doubt it. I’ll gamble he can’t get a score of cattlemen in the whole valley to see it his way.”
“If the cowboys got wise to that they’d clean us out. I tell you every cowboy in this valley is rank poison.”
“Well, one way or another it’s a bloody mess. Let’s wait until Lee calls his secret meeting next week. This shooting of Hargrove and Nesbit has brought the pot to a boil.”
The cattlemen filed out past Linc who was hunched over the bar. He left his liquor untouched and presently made his way outside. Once out of the Leave It he was careful to keep in the shadows and to give the cattlemen a wide berth.
Crossing the street he took the back way and then hurried up to the livery stable. There was no sign of anyone. The light in Headly’s little office was out. He heard the thumping of horses in the stalls. The cowboy seated himself to think and wait. All that he had heard was interesting, but only the last conversation was of any significance. The cattlemen had worked out some drastic move against the cowboys or some other plan calculated to end the trouble in the valley. It seemed that they wished to stop the stealing cowboys but did not know how to do so unless they resorted to direct violence. Knowing cattlemen well, Lincoln concluded that was what would come to pass, yet there were other baffling angles to the situation. All the ranchers in the valley were suffering from these rustler depredations but why could not Lee get them together in one band? One rancher had said, “Impossible! Unthinkable!” and he had added, “I am from the South!” Lincoln pondered long over this. But Lee was from the South also. Yet evidently Lee had stronger feelings about the movement he had instigated than any of the others. Again Lincoln’s thoughts turned to Kit Bandon. She had been the nucleus of this cowboy-cattlemen feud; it might be that Lee wanted to arrest her, disgrace her by somehow blaming this maverick stealing upon her. But how was he going to prove it? Hargrove’s fiasco and tragic death proved the futility of trying to exact any proof from the cowboys.
That evening Bradway came to the decision that he would ride to the Bandon ranch, hide in the brush and watch at night to see if he could unveil the mystery that he was sure centered about that part of the valley. Apparently the situation concerned a matter of honor with these cowboys involving principles that they would die before betraying. Yet he felt somewhat guilty at the idea of spying on Kit Bandon. If he failed to uncover any vital information then he must in some way induce Lucy to tell him all she knew, even if it necessitated his swearing to her that he would take no action, no matter whom her confession involved. He had five days before his momentous appointment with Lucy; during that time he should be able to find out a great deal. He debated the idea of bringing Vince and Thatcher with him, but concluded that it would be better if he went alone this time. If the cattlemen should happen to run across Thatcher and Vince down among the willows they would suspect something was afoot among the cowboys. He did not think he ran any great risk in attempting it by himself, even though any cowboy, local or strange, would be under suspicion if caught riding down by the river. His cogitations were interrupted by the return of Vince and Mel. They did not see him until he spoke.
“Howdy, gents. What’s the good word?”
“It wasn’t so good,” replied Vince. “Lot of talk by different people who were in the dark about what come off. All of them speculatin’ on a fight between the cowboys an’ the cowmen.”
“Didn’t you hear a word of speculation as to why the cattlemen beat up Harkness?” queried Lincoln.
Vince said no, but his boss was not too sure that he was telling the truth.
“How about you, Mel? What did you run across?” asked Bradway.
“Lot of gab — no sense to it at all,” replied Thatcher, shortly.
“A lot of help you hombres are,” retorted the Nebraskan, and as they both fell silent he reproached himself for insinuating they were not being loyal. No doubt in the same situation he would have been quite as evasive and tight-lipped. Still his impatience was such that he vented one sarcastic protest. “You cowpokes must all have thought a hell of a lot of Kit Bandon.”
Vince spat out his cigar and sat down without a word.
“Don’t you?” queried Thatcher quietly.
Linc cracked his fist in his palm. “By God, I deserved that one! I did and I do.... I guess we’ve all got something we’re keeping under our hats.”
“All O.K., boss. We savvy what a tough place this is fer you. We ask you again to git Lucy and ride with us to hell out of this damn country.”
“We can’t do it. For one thing I’m locoed on this Wyoming country. And I don’t expect to see Lucy till next Wednesday. You hombres are going with me. She wants to show me the most beautiful ranch site in the West. It’s a valley up at the source of the Sweetwater.”
“Boss, you don’t mean to say yore goin’ to settle down hyar permanently?” asked Vince.
“Yes, and by golly, you fellows are going to be here with me,” retorted Bradway. Then he reported to them in detail the conversations he had heard along the street. They made no comment until he included the conversation among the cattlemen in the saloon. At that Vince leaped to his feet with an oath.
“By God, Mel! I had a hunch about thet,” he said hoarsely. “I had figgered thet all along.”
Thatcher’s response was a quick nod of affirmation.
“I reckon I gotta go bore Lee an’ do it quick,” muttered Vince fiercely.
Linc jumped to his feet and confronted the two angry cowboys.
“What’n the hell has got into you fellows? What kind of talk is this? I don’t care what you’ve got up your sleeve, but I won’t let you make outlaws of yourselves like Harkness did. You promised to throw in with me — to stick with me. I like you both. I see big cattle prospects for us in this valley. No matter what your reason, you couldn’t be justified in shooting Lee. Now I want a showdown from both of you.”
Thatcher spoke up first. “It’s not so easy to do, Bradway — but I give you my word of honor that I’ll try to see this thing your way.”
“Wal, me too, boss,” added Vince, somewhat mollified. “I lost my temper. I see thet this man Lee is goin’ to pull a low-down trick an’ I saw red. Jest overlook it, pard. I will be all right.”
“Much obliged, boys. You had me worried for a minute,” said their boss, sitting down again. “Now let me figure a minute. I’ll be gone tomorrow and maybe Saturday and Sunday. But I’ll see you in the morning and we’ll buy that hardware. You hombres stay in town and keep out of mischief. Kit Bandon will be in town Saturday and, between you and me, she’s going to break with Emery. You might be lucky enough to hear what comes off. Well, I’m pretty tired and I think I’ll hit the hay.”
The cowboys bade him good night and, lighting cigarettes, they sat down on the steps, evidently for further talk. Lincoln returned to his lodgings by the back way and was soon in bed and asleep.
Next morning he found his friends waiting for him at the Chinese restaurant. They were cheerful and talkative but refrained from alluding to the topics of yesterday. After breakfast the three men went to the general store and while Lincoln stocked up on needed supplies for himself he gave the others money to buy what they needed. Vince had given his coat to Harkness and he was well satisfied to get a new and better one. They made careful selection of guns. Lincoln told them not to forget any of his instructions of the night before and then he took his leave. Returning to his lodgings, Lincoln considered his next action. He had planned to go down to the valley that night and scout around. To that end he had bought dried fruit, some sliced beef, biscuits, and a good-sized sack of oats. His plan had been to fill his saddlebags, pack his blanket and the sack of oats, to facilitate his staying there for a couple of days in reasonable comfort.
By midafternoon his plans were set. Headly was at the livery stable when he arrived, but his cowboy friends were not in evidence. For the first time in his life Linc Bradway was baffled by a feeling of indecision. Something seemed to be holding him back from this venture, yet something more powerful seemed to be urging him on. After packing and saddling his horse he was assailed by another spell of doubt as to the wisdom and the correctness of his plan. Finally in a fit of angry wonder at himself he mounted his horse and set out across the open lots toward the creek.
It was approaching dusk; sunset waved red banners across the grassy slopes of the pass and turned the snow peaks to gold. By the time Lincoln had topped the long slopes that led to the pass the road that zigzagged into the valley was in darkness. He rode more and more slowly as he approached the edge of the plateau. After a quick glance down into the black gulf below he halted, abruptly.
“Lordy, I must have the jitters or something,” he muttered. “Am I losing my nerve? I’m not afraid of those cowpokes and cattlemen. What’s wrong with me, then?”
Dismounting, he stood there staring down into the mysterious depths of that great valley. Here and there he perceived pin points of light, flickering vaguely, enhancing the silence and the loneliness, rather than relieving them. One of those faraway lights was the Bandon ranch. Bay nickered gently and rubbed his nose against the cowboy’s sleeve. He seemed to feel the loneliness and the mysterious spell, too. And as Linc stood there his doubts and his indecision disappeared. Something stronger than a hunch had brought him on this errand. He no longer felt that he was pursuing a doubtful course. Some force, wiser, stronger, truer was impelling him forward. Quickly he mounted and spurred his horse down the road.
When he reached the level he put Bay into a long, swinging lope. It was not long before he discerned the black strip of timber against the dark sage. Less than a mile from the bridge which led to the Bandon homestead he came to the willows and searched carefully for a spot to tether Bay, one which he could find quickly upon his return. Then he took off his spurs and set out toward the ranch house on foot.
He knew then that he was certain as to his motive. When he reached the open again he skirted the edge of the willows near the ranch. Every few paces he would stop to listen. Coyotes were barking in the distance. Now and then he heard an owl in the willows, and presently the rush of the swiftly running river. It would be moonlight shortly; and by that time he wanted to be safely hidden near the maverick corral. He listened for the sound of wheels or the clip-clop of horses’ hoofs, but no close sound broke the cool stillness of the night. Warily he crossed the bridge and, keeping to the shadow of the trees along the river, made a wide detour that brought him up behind the corrals. He shortened his step, straining his keen faculties to hear sounds that would tell him of the activities he wanted to know. When he reached the long line of sheds, the moon topped the valley wall and shone upon the roof of the white homestead. Lincoln cautiously moved on in the shadows until he came to the shed that opened out upon the maverick corral. Waiting until his eyes could discern objects in the darkness, he entered the shed. He made sure of his location by peering out of the window. He recognized the bleached pole fence and high gate, and beyond him he searched for the neatly stacked pile of firewood. At first he could not find it, but presently he discerned it, dismayed to realize that it had shrunk to half its bulk. Part of that pile had been used; fires had been built; mavericks had been branded since he had been there!
It grew light enough in the shed for Linc to make his way about. He found a seat close to the wall in the deepest shadow where he could not be seen, yet could watch any activities that might be taking place. Then with a sigh he settled back to wait. Lincoln tried hard not to let his thoughts wander. He wanted all his mind objectively riveted upon the issue at hand. He could have gambled everything he owned that something startling and significant would come to pass before many hours were gone. He made no effort to explain to himself this certainty. Ever since that moment when he had stood looking down into the darkness of the valley below he had known that it would happen.
The minutes passed by. Time dragged. Somewhere near at hand horses thumped in their stalls; coyotes ranged across the sage with their hue and cry; otherwise the dreaming silence of the night continued. Perhaps an hour passed by, though it seemed an age. Suddenly the watcher’s keen senses became conscious of a sound. What was it that he had heard? Then again it stopped his pulse and he recognized the sound of horses’ hoofs. Then they ceased. It might have been an animal in the corral or over in the pasture but his sharp perceptions told him otherwise. Presently he heard another slight sound which he recognized to be the faint metallic clink of a spur. Linc listened, scarcely breathing. Then he heard the squeaking, complaining noise of wood rubbing against wood — the opening of the corral gate. Peering out, Lincoln espied a shadowy figure letting a calf into the corral. Breathing heavily, the man halted a moment in the open gate. Bradway heard the snaky sound of a lasso being dragged along the ground; then the calf jumped to find he was free and gave an exhausted little bawl. The man cursed under his breath, then went out, closed the gate behind him, and disappeared. Linc traced his faint footsteps by the tinkle of spurs. Then they, too, ceased.
The watcher relaxed from his tense strain. His suspicions were being confirmed; here was a cowboy with a stolen maverick and he had gone to exact his tribute from the Maverick Queen. What would he do when the cowboy came back? Perhaps he could risk holding the cowboy up, catch him red-handed, as he was, in his guilt. But the Nebraskan reasoned that he would be just like all other cowboys: he would fight before he would talk. Linc did not want to risk a possible killing in Kit Bandon’s corral.
As the moments dragged by he broke out in a cold sweat. In spite of his self-control, he wanted that cowboy back quickly — at once — right now! To his unutterable relief, the cowboy was returning, but this time he was cursing under his breath and making no effort to walk noiselessly. He jerked open the door of the corral. Lincoln heard the slap of a coiled lasso against the fence. Then the rustler froze in his tracks.
“Well, I’ll be —— !” he muttered.
The hoofbeats of another horse sounded softly on the ground. Lincoln heard the tussling of a half-choked calf that was evidently being dragged toward the corral. Then came the crunch of boots pounding hard on the gravel.
