Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 494
“Beasley’s comin’ one way an’ Shady’s comin’ another. We’ll be off this hot point of rock by noon,” said the outlaw leader.
Riggs went on to the promontory to look for himself.
“Where’s the girl?” demanded Anson, in surprise, when he got back to the camp.
“Wal, she’s walkin’ ‘round between heah an’ Pine,” drawled Wilson.
“Jim, you let her loose?”
“Shore I did. She’s been hawg-tied all the time. An’ she said she’d not run off. I’d take thet girl’s word even to a sheep-thief.”
“A-huh. So would I, for all of thet. But, Jim, somethin’s workin’ in you. Ain’t you sort of rememberin’ a time when you was young — an’ mebbe knowed pretty kids like this one?”
“Wal, if I am it ‘ll shore turn out bad fer somebody.”
Anson gave him a surprised stare and suddenly lost the bantering tone.
“A-huh! So thet’s how it’s workin’,” he replied, and flung himself down in the shade.
Young Burt made his appearance then, wiping his sallow face. His deep-set, hungry eyes, upon which his comrades set such store, roved around the camp.
“Whar’s the gurl?” he queried.
“Jim let her go out fer a stroll,” replied Anson.
“I seen Jim was gittin’ softy over her. Haw! Haw! Haw!”
But Snake Anson did not crack a smile. The atmosphere appeared not to be congenial for jokes, a fact Burt rather suddenly divined. Riggs and Moze returned from the promontory, the latter reporting that Shady Jones was riding up close. Then the girl walked slowly into sight and approached to find a seat within ten yards of the group. They waited in silence until the expected horseman rode up with water-bottles slung on both sides of his saddle. His advent was welcome. All the men were thirsty. Wilson took water to the girl before drinking himself.
“Thet’s an all-fired hot ride fer water,” declared the outlaw Shady, who somehow fitted his name in color and impression. “An’, boss, if it’s the same to you I won’t take it ag’in.”
“Cheer up, Shady. We’ll be rustlin’ back in the mountains before sundown,” said Anson.
“Hang me if that ain’t the cheerfulest news I’ve hed in some days. Hey, Moze?”
The black-faced Moze nodded his shaggy head.
“I’m sick an’ sore of this deal,” broke out Burt, evidently encouraged by his elders. “Ever since last fall we’ve been hangin’ ‘round — till jest lately freezin’ in camps — no money — no drink — no grub wuth havin’. All on promises!”
Not improbably this young and reckless member of the gang had struck the note of discord. Wilson seemed most detached from any sentiment prevailing there. Some strong thoughts were revolving in his brain.
“Burt, you ain’t insinuatin’ thet I made promises?” inquired Anson, ominously.
“No, boss, I ain’t. You allus said we might hit it rich. But them promises was made to you. An’ it ‘d be jest like thet greaser to go back on his word now we got the gurl.”
“Son, it happens we got the wrong one. Our long-haired pard hyar — Mister Riggs — him with the big gun — he waltzes up with this sassy kid instead of the woman Beasley wanted.”
Burt snorted his disgust while Shady Jones, roundly swearing, pelted the smoldering camp-fire with stones. Then they all lapsed into surly silence. The object of their growing scorn, Riggs, sat a little way apart, facing none of them, but maintaining as bold a front as apparently he could muster.
Presently a horse shot up his ears, the first indication of scent or sound imperceptible to the men. But with this cue they all, except Wilson, sat up attentively. Soon the crack of iron-shod hoofs on stone broke the silence. Riggs nervously rose to his feet. And the others, still excepting Wilson, one by one followed suit. In another moment a rangy bay horse trotted out of the cedars, up to the camp, and his rider jumped off nimbly for so heavy a man.
“Howdy, Beasley?” was Anson’s greeting.
“Hello, Snake, old man!” replied Beasley, as his bold, snapping black eyes swept the group. He was dusty and hot, and wet with sweat, yet evidently too excited to feel discomfort. “I seen your smoke signal first off an’ jumped my hoss quick. But I rode north of Pine before I headed ‘round this way. Did you corral the girl or did Riggs? Say! — you look queer!... What’s wrong here? You haven’t signaled me for nothin’?”
Snake Anson beckoned to Bo.
“Come out of the shade. Let him look you over.”
The girl walked out from under the spreading cedar that had hidden her from sight.
Beasley stared aghast — his jaw dropped.
“Thet’s the kid sister of the woman I wanted!” he ejaculated.
“So we’ve jest been told.”
Astonishment still held Beasley.
“Told?” he echoed. Suddenly his big body leaped with a start. “Who got her? Who fetched her?”
“Why, Mister Gunman Riggs hyar,” replied Anson, with a subtle scorn.
“Riggs, you got the wrong girl,” shouted Beasley. “You made thet mistake once before. What’re you up to?”
“I chased her an’ when I got her, seein’ it wasn’t Nell Rayner — why — I kept her, anyhow,” replied Riggs. “An’ I’ve got a word for your ear alone.”
“Man, you’re crazy — queerin’ my deal thet way!” roared Beasley. “You heard my plans.... Riggs, this girl-stealin’ can’t be done twice. Was you drinkin’ or locoed or what?”
“Beasley, he was giving you the double-cross,” cut in Bo Rayner’s cool voice.
The rancher stared speechlessly at her, then at Anson, then at Wilson, and last at Riggs, when his brown visage shaded dark with rush of purple blood. With one lunge he knocked Riggs flat, then stood over him with a convulsive hand at his gun.
“You white-livered card-sharp! I’ve a notion to bore you.... They told me you had a deal of your own, an’ now I believe it.”
“Yes — I had,” replied Riggs, cautiously getting up. He was ghastly. “But I wasn’t double-crossin’ you. Your deal was to get the girl away from home so you could take possession of her property. An’ I wanted her.”
“What for did you fetch the sister, then?” demanded Beasley, his big jaw bulging.
“Because I’ve a plan to—”
“Plan hell! You’ve spoiled my plan an’ I’ve seen about enough of you.” Beasley breathed hard; his lowering gaze boded an uncertain will toward the man who had crossed him; his hand still hung low and clutching.
“Beasley, tell them to get my horse. I want to go home,” said Bo Rayner.
Slowly Beasley turned. Her words enjoined a silence. What to do with her now appeared a problem.
“I had nothin’ to do with fetchin’ you here an’ I’ll have nothin’ to do with sendin’ you back or whatever’s done with you,” declared Beasley.
Then the girl’s face flashed white again and her eyes changed to fire.
“You’re as big a liar as Riggs,” she cried, passionately. “And you’re a thief, a bully who picks on defenseless girls. Oh, we know your game! Milt Dale heard your plot with this outlaw Anson to steal my sister. You ought to be hanged — you half-breed greaser!”
“I’ll cut out your tongue!” hissed Beasley.
“Yes, I’ll bet you would if you had me alone. But these outlaws — these sheep-thieves — these tools you hire are better than you and Riggs.... What do you suppose Carmichael will do to you? Carmichael! He’s my sweetheart — that cowboy. You know what he did to Riggs. Have you brains enough to know what he’ll do to you?”
“He’ll not do much,” growled Beasley. But the thick purplish blood was receding from his face. “Your cowpuncher—”
“Bah!” she interrupted, and she snapped her fingers in his face. “He’s from Texas! He’s from TEXAS!”
“Supposin’ he is from Texas?” demanded Beasley, in angry irritation. “What’s thet? Texans are all over. There’s Jim Wilson, Snake Anson’s right-hand man. He’s from Texas. But thet ain’t scarin’ any one.”
He pointed toward Wilson, who shifted uneasily from foot to foot. The girl’s flaming glance followed his hand.
“Are you from Texas?” she asked.
“Yes, Miss, I am — an’ I reckon I don’t deserve it,” replied Wilson. It was certain that a vague shame attended his confession.
“Oh! I believed even a bandit from Texas would fight for a helpless girl!” she replied, in withering scorn of disappointment.
Jim Wilson dropped his head. If any one there suspected a serious turn to Wilson’s attitude toward that situation it was the keen outlaw leader.
“Beasley, you’re courtin’ death,” he broke in.
“You bet you are!” added Bo, with a passion that made her listeners quiver. “You’ve put me at the mercy of a gang of outlaws! You may force my sister out of her home! But your day will come.’ Tom Carmichael will KILL you.”
Beasley mounted his horse. Sullen, livid, furious, he sat shaking in the saddle, to glare down at the outlaw leader.
“Snake, thet’s no fault of mine the deal’s miscarried. I was square. I made my offer for the workin’ out of my plan. It ‘ain’t been done. Now there’s hell to pay an’ I’m through.”
“Beasley, I reckon I couldn’t hold you to anythin’,” replied Anson, slowly. “But if you was square you ain’t square now. We’ve hung around an’ tried hard. My men are all sore. An’ we’re broke, with no outfit to speak of. Me an’ you never fell out before. But I reckon we might.”
“Do I owe you any money — accordin’ to the deal?” demanded Beasley.
“No, you don’t,” responded Anson, sharply.
“Then thet’s square. I wash my hands of the whole deal. Make Riggs pay up. He’s got money an’ he’s got plans. Go in with him.”
With that Beasley spurred his horse, wheeled and rode away. The outlaws gazed after him until he disappeared in the cedars.
“What’d you expect from a greaser?” queried Shady Jones.
“Anson, didn’t I say so?” added Burt.
The black-visaged Moze rolled his eyes like a mad bull and Jim Wilson studiously examined a stick he held in his hands. Riggs showed immense relief.
“Anson, stake me to some of your outfit an’ I’ll ride off with the girl,” he said, eagerly.
“Where’d you go now?” queried Anson, curiously.
Riggs appeared at a loss for a quick answer; his wits were no more equal to this predicament than his nerve.
“You’re no woodsman. An’ onless you’re plumb locoed you’d never risk goin’ near Pine or Show Down. There’ll be real trackers huntin’ your trail.”
The listening girl suddenly appealed to Wilson.
“Don’t let him take me off — alone — in the woods!” she faltered. That was the first indication of her weakening.
Jim Wilson broke into gruff reply. “I’m not bossin’ this gang.”
“But you’re a man!” she importuned.
“Riggs, you fetch along your precious firebrand an’ come with us,” said Anson, craftily. “I’m particular curious to see her brand you.”
“Snake, lemme take the girl back to Pine,” said Jim Wilson.
Anson swore his amaze.
“It’s sense,” continued Wilson. “We’ve shore got our own troubles, an’ keepin’ her ‘ll only add to them. I’ve a hunch. Now you know I ain’t often givin’ to buckin’ your say-so. But this deal ain’t tastin’ good to me. Thet girl ought to be sent home.”
“But mebbe there’s somethin’ in it for us. Her sister ‘d pay to git her back.”
“Wal, I shore hope you’ll recollect I offered — thet’s all,” concluded Wilson.
“Jim, if we wanted to git rid of her we’d let Riggs take her off,” remonstrated the outlaw leader. He was perturbed and undecided. Wilson worried him.
The long Texan veered around full faced. What subtle transformation in him!
“Like hell we would!” he said.
It could not have been the tone that caused Anson to quail. He might have been leader here, but he was not the greater man. His face clouded.
“Break camp,” he ordered.
Riggs had probably not heard that last exchange between Anson and Wilson, for he had walked a few rods aside to get his horse.
In a few moments when they started off, Burt, Jones, and Moze were in the lead driving the pack-horses, Anson rode next, the girl came between him and Riggs, and significantly, it seemed, Jim Wilson brought up the rear.
This start was made a little after the noon hour. They zigzagged up the slope, took to a deep ravine, and followed it up to where it headed in the level forest. From there travel was rapid, the pack-horses being driven at a jogtrot. Once when a troop of deer burst out of a thicket into a glade, to stand with ears high, young Burt halted the cavalcade. His well-aimed shot brought down a deer. Then the men rode on, leaving him behind to dress and pack the meat. The only other halt made was at the crossing of the first water, a clear, swift brook, where both horses and men drank thirstily. Here Burt caught up with his comrades.
They traversed glade and park, and wended a crooked trail through the deepening forest, and climbed, bench after bench, to higher ground, while the sun sloped to the westward, lower and redder. Sunset had gone, and twilight was momentarily brightening to the afterglow when Anson, breaking his silence of the afternoon, ordered a halt.
The place was wild, dismal, a shallow vale between dark slopes of spruce. Grass, fire-wood, and water were there in abundance. All the men were off, throwing saddles and packs, before the tired girl made an effort to get down. Riggs, observing her, made a not ungentle move to pull her off. She gave him a sounding slap with her gloved hand.
“Keep your paws to yourself,” she said. No evidence of exhaustion was there in her spirit.
Wilson had observed this by-play, but Anson had not.
“What come off?” he asked.
“Wal, the Honorable Gunman Riggs jest got caressed by the lady — as he was doin’ the elegant,” replied Moze, who stood nearest.
“Jim, was you watchin’?” queried Anson. His curiosity had held through the afternoon.
“He tried to yank her off an’ she biffed him,” replied Wilson.
“That Riggs is jest daffy or plain locoed,” said Snake, in an aside to Moze.
“Boss, you mean plain cussed. Mark my words, he’ll hoodoo this outfit. Jim was figgerin’ correct.”
“Hoodoo—” cursed Anson, under his breath.
Many hands made quick work. In a few moments a fire was burning brightly, water was boiling, pots were steaming, the odor of venison permeated the cool air. The girl had at last slipped off her saddle to the ground, where she sat while Riggs led the horse away. She sat there apparently forgotten, a pathetic droop to her head.
Wilson had taken an ax and was vigorously wielding it among the spruces. One by one they fell with swish and soft crash. Then the sliding ring of the ax told how he was slicing off the branches with long sweeps. Presently he appeared in the semi-darkness, dragging half-trimmed spruces behind him. He made several trips, the last of which was to stagger under a huge burden of spruce boughs. These he spread under a low, projecting branch of an aspen. Then he leaned the bushy spruces slantingly against this branch on both sides, quickly improvising a V-shaped shelter with narrow aperture in front. Next from one of the packs he took a blanket and threw that inside the shelter. Then, touching the girl on the shoulder, he whispered:
“When you’re ready, slip in there. An’ don’t lose no sleep by worryin’, fer I’ll be layin’ right here.”
He made a motion to indicate his length across the front of the narrow aperture.
“Oh, thank you! Maybe you really are a Texan,” she whispered back.
“Mebbe,” was his gloomy reply.
CHAPTER XXI
THE GIRL REFUSED to take food proffered her by Riggs, but she ate and drank a little that Wilson brought her, then she disappeared in the spruce lean-to.
Whatever loquacity and companionship had previously existed in Snake Anson’s gang were not manifest in this camp. Each man seemed preoccupied, as if pondering the dawn in his mind of an ill omen not clear to him yet and not yet dreamed of by his fellows. They all smoked. Then Moze and Shady played cards awhile by the light of the fire, but it was a dull game, in which either seldom spoke. Riggs sought his blanket first, and the fact was significant that he lay down some distance from the spruce shelter which contained Bo Rayner. Presently young Burt went off grumbling to his bed. And not long afterward the card-players did likewise.
Snake Anson and Jim Wilson were left brooding in silence beside the dying camp-fire.
The night was dark, with only a few stars showing. A fitful wind moaned unearthly through the spruce. An occasional thump of hoof sounded from the dark woods. No cry of wolf or coyote or cat gave reality to the wildness of forest-land.
By and by those men who had rolled in their blankets were breathing deep and slow in heavy slumber.
“Jim, I take it this hyar Riggs has queered our deal,” said Snake Anson, in low voice.
“I reckon,” replied Wilson.
“An’ I’m feared he’s queered this hyar White Mountain country fer us.”
“Shore I ‘ain’t got so far as thet. What d’ ye mean, Snake?”
“Damme if I savvy,” was the gloomy reply. “I only know what was bad looks growin’ wuss. Last fall — an’ winter — an’ now it’s near April. We’ve got no outfit to make a long stand in the woods.... Jim, jest how strong is thet Beasley down in the settlements?”
“I’ve a hunch he ain’t half as strong as he bluffs.”
“Me, too. I got thet idee yesterday. He was scared of the kid — when she fired up an’ sent thet hot-shot about her cowboy sweetheart killin’ him. He’ll do it, Jim. I seen that Carmichael at Magdalena some years ago. Then he was only a youngster. But, whew! Mebbe he wasn’t bad after toyin’ with a little red liquor.”
“Shore. He was from Texas, she said.”
