Knights of the Range, page 26
He drove them out of the barn.
“Watch ’em, boys. If they look back—shoot!”
Brazos wheeled to confront the cattlemen, of whom Clements was the one most obviously shaken. He quailed before the fire-eyed cowboy.
“Clements; ——— ——— yore yellow soul! I cain’t be certain aboot how crooked yu air. But yore name is in Slaughter’s book. Yu bought cattle of him. How yu explain thet?”
“Unbranded stock, Keene—I swear to Gawd!” gasped out the cattleman, ashen-hued behind his beard.
“Aw, yu lie! I can see it in yore eyes. An honest man has nothin’ to fear. But yu ain’t honest. Yu knowed McCoy was crooked.”
“No—I swear—I didn’t!”
“Wal, yu knowed Slaughter was…. Oot with thet before I bore yu.”
“Yes—yes…. I knew it.”
“An’ yu bought Ripple stock from him?”
“I shet my eyes…. All unbranded calves—yearlings.”
“Ah-huh.—Wal, I’ll bore yu jest fer luck…. But if yu hadn’t been mean in yore talk to Miss Ripple, I might hev let yu off.”
“Oh my Gawd!—Keene ——!”
Brazos’ gun crash cut short that impassionate and desperate appeal.
“Rustle, yu conscientious cowmen, before I cut loose. An’ in the act. We got McCoy comin’ an’ goin’. We hev written proofs. We hev Saunders’ confession. Mill over thet, yu wise range galoots…. An’ pack these daid hombres away on their hawses, onless yu want them throwed to the hawgs.”
Half an hour later Brazos stepped to the side of a fresh mettlesome horse that Santone had fetched into the court. A light pack and a canteen were significantly bound upon the saddle. Brazos mounted with his slow inimitable grace.
“Whoa, Bounce, or I’ll rake yu,” he called, as he pulled the big bay down with iron arm. “So long, Jim, Rebel—all yu sons-of-guns!”
They muttered a farewell that they neither sanctioned nor approved of. Their acquiescence had in it something of Brazos’ detachment. Cowboys had to ride away. They bowed to the fate and the greatness of their comrade.
Britt and Frayne crowded close.
“Brazos, you don’t hev to go,” said Britt, huskily.
“Pard, the man confessed his guilt,” protested Frayne. “Hayward, Spencer—all of us heard him.”
Brazos lighted his cigarette, and flicking away the match he looked down with his slight enigmatical smile. His wonderful eyes lost their piercing blue hardness behind a shadow that might have been pain.
“Wal, I’m kinda tired of Don Carlos’ Rancho,” he drawled, in his slow cool speech. “Me fer the Pecos an’ the Texas longhorns.”
Britt was silent because he could not speak, while Frayne stared up with mute sorrow and a gathering, dark understanding in his gaze.
“Pard, do me a favor,” went on Brazos, his lean hand going to Frayne’s shoulder. “If yu—an’ Holly ever hev a boy—call him Brazos.”
Then, with a clink of spurs, and a clatter of hoofs, he was off, swift as the wind. They watched him cross the road and stretch out upon the gray range, headed for the pass, and the long, lonely trail to Texas.
Days passed. June warmed into July. Far and wide spread the fame of Holly Ripple’s cowboys. Both factions in the Lincoln County War sought to win them to their side. A month of peace had lulled the riders back into their old lazy ways. They rode, they bet, they played tricks, they watched the cattle, they revelled in their dearly won independence and the respect and aloofness of the range.
Holly’s birthday rolled around, and the event this year was to celebrate her wedding. Only the cowboys and her few neighbor friends were invited.
Britt, who felt himself responsible for this great and happy event, left the restless, primping, whispering cowboys to go up to the ranch-house. There he found Holly radiant at the close of preparations, ready almost to consign herself to Ann and Conchita.
“Oh, Cappy, the girls are going to dress me now,” she cried. “Will Renn like me? We made the dress ourselves…. Dear old padre Augustine is here. Renn swears he wants to marry me twice—the second time by an American preacher. He wants to make sure of me. But my old padre would do for me.”
At that juncture Ride-’Em Jackson came puffing to the living-room door, where he pounded.
“What you want, Jack?” queried Britt.
“Who is it?—Oh, Jackson! You poor fellow! What are you panting about?” exclaimed Holly.
“Missy Ripple—I’se done—powerful—sorry. I sho is,” panted Jackson, solemnly rolling his eyes.
“Sorry! What for?”
“I’se de bearer of turrible sad news.”
“Jack, get out. This is no time to worry Miss Ripple,” protested Britt, angrily. The negro was serious and probably had some dismaying news that might just as well be left until some other time.
“Dis message comes fro Massa Renn.”
“Renn!—For goodness sake!” cried Holly, excitedly. “What is it, Jackson?”
“He say to tell yu dat he’s turrible sorry dat he cain’t marry yu today.”
“Oh, mercy!—Britt—Ann, did you hear Jackson?—Heavens, what is it now? Oh, I never felt sure of Renn! He’ll ride away—leave me ——”
“Nonsense, Holly,” interposed Britt. “Don’t take on so. It cain’t be anythin’ serious. Why, less than an hour ago I saw Renn so locoed he couldn’t heah the boys. Mad aboot you, Holly. I never saw a man so happy.”
“Mad?—Happy!—Then why on earth…. Jackson, you staring ebony lunk-head! Why can’t Frayne marry me today?”
“’Cause Missy, dere’s a raid on de cattle. Santone jest rode in. He tole us. Oot by Gray Hill. Gosh! I nebber seen Massa Renn so mad. He cuss turrible. ‘Hellsfire! Cain’t they give me a day to be married?’”
“But, Jack—he didn’t ride off?” wailed Holly.
“Yassum, he sho did. Wif de whole ootfit all dressed up. An’ I’ll sho hev to rustle to ketch them.”
“Did he say—when he’d come back?” asked Holly faintly.
“He say to tell yu he cain’t be sho. Mebbe tomorrow. Mebbe not.”
Holly fell into a magnificent rage—the first Britt had ever seen her exhibit. At first she was so speechless she could only throw things. But soon she burst out: “Oh, damn the cattle! What do I care for cattle? … On my wedding-day! He leaves me to chase rustlers! Oh, to hell with my cattle!—I want to be married. I want my husband!”
“Missy, I sho forgot,” said the negro. “He say fer yu to wave yu scarf—like yo always do. But yu mus hurry befo dey’s oot of sight.”
“No. I won’t. Wave to him—when he deserts me for some miserable cows? I see myself…. Oh, Britt, it must be very bad. A big raid! Renn would not leave me otherwise…. Where’s my scarf? Ann—Conchita. My scarf, you ninnies!”
Holly ran to and fro, weeping, wringing her hands, wild with mingled emotions. Presently she snatched the scarf from Ann and fled precipitously out on the porch. Britt ran after her. Off the porch she leaped, into the open path, her arm aloft, her beautiful eyes strained.
The range was empty. But in the path, not twenty rods down the gentle slope, Holly espied a procession of marching cowboys, with Renn Frayne at their head, looking handsome, foolish and unutterably happy.
Holly backed with a scream until she reached the porch steps, where she sat down suddenly. The scarf fell to the ground. A flash of joy quickly left her face. Britt was transfixed by the black dilated eyes. She was a tragic savage child.
“Hello, Holly,” called out Frayne, as he neared her. “How do I—we look?—We’re early. But couldn’t wait.”
“It’s—a trick,” panted Holly.
“Trick? Indeed not. This wedding is the most serious, the most beautiful—the most glorious ——”
“Devil!” shrieked Holly.
“What?” gasped Renn, blankly.
“Perfidious wretch!”
At that he could only stare down at her. The smile left his face.
“Villain!”
Frayne appealed to Britt in mute consternation. But for once the foreman was equally mute. He had an almost irresistible desire to imitate Jackson, who was rolling in the grass. All of the other cowboys were beginning to manifest terrific and uncontrolled agitation.
“Cowboy! I can think of no more horrible name to call you…. Cowboy!” cried Holly.
“But, darling, what have I done?” asked the bewildered Frayne, sitting beside her.
“Don’t darling me! I hate you! I’ll never marry you! … Look! Look at your friendly conspirators.”
Frayne did look, to be more mystified than ever. His cowboy comrades, heedless of their best suits, so cleanly brushed and carefully pressed, were rolling over and over in the grass, giving vent to growing sounds of irresistible glee.
“Holly, whatever it is—I am innocent,” declared Frayne.
“Innocent! When you sent that grinning demon of a nigger up here to tell me you couldn’t marry me today?—Rustlers! You had to ride off. You couldn’t get back—maybe not tomorrow!—Oh, how could you? Such a horrible trick! Can’t you cowboys tell what is fun—and what is cruel? … It broke my heart. I—I’ll never marry you now.”
“Holly!—Don’t say that. I didn’t know. They played it on me, too. I thought something was afoot. But I was loco. In a trance! Honey, don’t visit their sins upon my poor head.”
“Oh, Frayne!—I warn you. Don’t—don’t lie. That would be too much.”
“Holly, I’ll prove it,” declared Frayne, and he jumped up to give the rolling Jackson a resounding kick. “You black rascal! Come here!—Tell her, on your knees, or I’ll beat you half to death.”
He dragged the convulsed negro to Holly’s feet, where she regarded him with parting lips and startled eyes.
“Good Lud—Missy Holly…. I done knowed—dis would fall on my haid. But Brazos made me do it.”
“Brazos?” cried Holly, as if stabbed.
“Yes-sum. Brazos. Dat tow-haided debbil. He done it all before he left, Missy Holly. He planned de trick—swored us all in—an’ made me tink nobody but me could fool yu…. I’se turrible sorry. I is.”
“Jackson, get up off your knees,” returned Holly. “I forgive you. But only because Brazos trapped you in one of his infernal tricks.”
“Thank yo, Missy Ripple. I swear I’ll nebber play tricks no mo.”
“Jackson, haven’t you any heart?” went on Holly, overcome by curiosity. “Were you ever about to get married?”
“Yas-sum. I done come orful near such castrophy onct. I sho did. But de good Lud who watches ober niggahs saved me. Dat wench runned off wid a long goose-neck niggah who suttinly got let in bad. An’ she tooked sixty-nine dollars of mah money.”
“Jackson, we will excuse you,” said Holly. “Boys, go into the living-room and have Roseta brush off your clothes.”
They trooped indoors like a lot of school-boys glad to be let off so easily. Holly leaned her glossy head against Frayne’s shoulder.
“Bless their hearts!” she whispered. “I came very nearly letting them see.”
“What? Don’t tell me you were not furious.”
“I was—at first—wild with rage and disappointment. But when I understood and saw their glee—I wanted to shriek.”
“You did shriek, Holly,” replied Frayne, nodding gravely. “You called me some dreadful names. Didn’t she, Cappy?”
“Wal, I should smile she did.”
“You were tickled, you old reprobate! Renn, once a cowboy always a cowboy!”
As if to corroborate this unique statement Ride-’Em Jackson appeared at the door, his round black head protruding, his solemn black orbs rolling.
“Missy Ripple, it sho might have happened dat way. It sho might. ’Cause me an’ Santone seen some rustlers dis mawnin’. An’ we didn’t say nuffin’ to Mars Frayne aboot it.”
“Cappy, throw something at that black monster!”
Britt complied with alacrity. “Gosh, they’ll shore drive you mad tonight.”
“Cap, they’ve got me buffaloed,” admitted Frayne.
“I don’t care what they do—after—” murmured Holly.
“After what?” asked Frayne, softly, when she left off. But she kept silent. “Holly, I’d feel better if you substituted some nice names for those you called me.”
“Renn!” she whispered.
“That’s fair.”
“Darling!”
“Better. But try again.”
“Sweetheart!”
Frayne appeared overcome with her sweet coquetry, under which breathed a passionate tenderness. He could only press her dusky head to his lips.
Holly sprang up. “I’ll be calling you husband pronto!” she flashed, with a gay laugh of joy, and ran indoors.
Frayne stood up beside Britt to gaze out over the range. The old foreman did not care to voice his feelings then. But he knew that Holly was safe at last. He knew the West and he knew Westerners. There would still be years of rustling and hard-lipped, hard-eyed men would come and go. He doubted that there was one living who could match Renn Frayne. He thought a moment of that fire-eyed, great-hearted cowboy who had ridden away into the lonely, melancholy wastes of Texas. Britt’s loyalty embodied in Brazos all that was great on the range. But on the moment he remembered with a pang those cowboys, molded in the same heroic crucible, who made merry inside Holly Ripple’s house, keen to ride out on the moment, ready to die for her as had their comrades—the wild-spirited knights who slept in unmarked graves, out on the lone prairie.
THE END
Zane Grey, Knights of the Range
