Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 559
“Moore — I’ll kill — you!” he hissed, with glance flying everywhere for a weapon. From ground to cowboys he looked. Bludsoe was the only one packing a gun. Belllounds saw it, and he was so swift in bounding forward that he got a hand on it before Bludsoe could prevent.
“Let go! Give me — that gun! By God! I’ll fix him!” yelled Belllounds, as Bludsoe grappled with him.
There was a sharp struggle. Bludsoe wrenched the other’s hands free, and, pulling the gun, he essayed to throw it. But Belllounds blocked his action and the gun fell at their feet.
“Grab it!” sang out Bludsoe, ringingly. “Quick, somebody! The damned fool’ll kill Wils.”
Lem, running in, kicked the gun just as Belllounds reached for it. When it rolled against the fence Jim was there to secure it. Lem likewise grappled with the struggling Belllounds.
“Hyar, you Jack Belllounds,” said Lem, “couldn’t you see Wils wasn’t packin’ no gun? A-r’arin’ like thet!... Stop your rantin’ or we’ll sure handle you rough.”
“The old man’s comin’,” called Jim, warningly.
The rancher appeared. He strode swiftly, ponderously. His gray hair waved. His look was as stern as that of an eagle.
“What the hell’s goin’ on?” he roared.
The cowboys released Jack. That worthy, sullen and downcast, muttering to himself, stalked for the house.
“Jack, stand your ground,” called old Belllounds.
But the son gave no heed. Once he looked back over his shoulder, and his dark glance saw no one save Moore.
“Boss, thar’s been a little argyment,” explained Jim, as with swift hand he hid Bludsoe’s gun. “Nuthin’ much.”
“Jim, you’re a liar,” replied the old rancher.
“Aw!” exclaimed Jim, crestfallen.
“What’re you hidin’?... You’ve got somethin’ there. Gimme thet gun.”
Without more ado Jim handed the gun over.
“It’s mine, boss,” put in Bludsoe.
“Ahuh? Wal, what was Jim hidin’ it fer?” demanded Belllounds.
“Why, I jest tossed it to him — when I — sort of j’ined in with the argyment. We was tusslin’ some an’ I didn’t want no gun.”
How characteristic of cowboys that they lied to shield Jack Belllounds! But it was futile to attempt to deceive the old rancher. Here was a man who had been forty years dealing with all kinds of men and events.
“Bludsoe, you can’t fool me,” said old Bill, calmly. He had roared at them, and his eyes still flashed like blue fire, but he was calm and cool. Returning the gun to its owner, he continued: “I reckon you’d spare my feelin’s an’ lie about some trick of Jack’s. Did he bust out?”
“Wal, tolerable like,” replied Bludsoe, dryly.
“Ahuh! Tell me, then — an’ no lies.”
Belllounds’s shrewd eyes had rested upon Wilson Moore. The cowboy’s face showed the red marks of battle and the white of passion.
“I’m not going to lie, you can bet on that,” he declared, forcefully.
“Ahuh! I might hev knowed you an’ Jack’d clash,” said Belllounds, gruffly. “What happened?”
“He hurt my horse. If it hadn’t been for that there’d been no trouble.”
A light leaped up in the old man’s bold eyes. He was a lover of horses. Many hard words, and blows, too, he had dealt cowboys for being brutal.
“What’d he do?”
“Look at Spottie’s mouth.”
The rancher’s way of approaching a horse was singularly different from his son’s, notwithstanding the fact that Spottie knew him and showed no uneasiness. The examination took only a moment.
“Tongue cut bad. Thet’s a damn shame. Take thet bridle off.... There. If it’d been an ornery hoss, now.... Moore, how’d this happen?”
“We just rode in,” replied Wilson, hurriedly. “I was saddling Spottie when Jack came up. He took a shine to the mustang and wanted to ride him. When Spottie reared — he’s shy with strangers — why, Jack gave a hell of a jerk on the bridle. The bit cut Spottie.... Well, that made me mad, but I held in. I objected to Jack riding Spottie. You see, Hudson was hurt yesterday and he appointed me foreman for to-day. I needed Spottie. But your son couldn’t see it, and that made me sore. Jack said the mustang was his—”
“His?” interrupted Belllounds.
“Yes. He claimed Spottie. Well, he wasn’t really mine, so I gave in. When I threw off the saddle, which was mine, Jack began to roar. He said he was foreman and he’d have me discharged. But I said I’d quit already. We both kept getting sorer and I called him Buster Jack.... He hit me first. Then we fought. I reckon I was getting the best of him when he made a dive for Bludsoe’s gun. And that’s all.”
“Boss, as sure as I’m a born cowman,” put in Bludsoe, “he’d hev plugged Wils if he’d got my gun. At thet he damn near got it!”
The old man stroked his scant gray beard with his huge, steady hand, apparently not greatly concerned by the disclosure.
“Montana, what do you say?” he queried, as if he held strong store by that quiet cowboy’s opinion.
“Wal, boss,” replied Jim, reluctantly, “Buster Jack’s temper was bad onct, but now it’s plumb wuss.”
Whereupon Belllounds turned to Moore with a gesture and a look of a man who, in justice to something in himself, had to speak.
“Wils, it’s onlucky you clashed with Jack right off,” he said. “But thet was to be expected. I reckon Jack was in the wrong. Thet hoss was yours by all a cowboy holds right an’ square. Mebbe by law Spottie belonged to White Slides Ranch — to me. But he’s yours now, fer I give him to you.”
“Much obliged, Belllounds. I sure do appreciate that,” replied Moore, warmly. “It’s what anybody’d gamble Bill Belllounds would do.”
“Ahuh! An’ I’d take it as a favor if you’d stay on to-day an’ get thet brandin’ done:”
“All right, I’ll do that for you,” replied Moore. “Lem, I guess you won’t get your sleep till to-night. Come on.”
“Awl” sighed Lem, as he picked up his bridle.
Late that afternoon Columbine sat upon the porch, watching the sunset. It had been a quiet day for her, mostly indoors. Once only had she seen Jack, and then he was riding by toward the pasture, whirling a lasso round his head. Jack could ride like one born to the range, but he was not an adept in the use of a rope. Nor had Columbine seen the old rancher since breakfast. She had heard his footsteps, however, pacing slowly up and down his room.
She was watching the last rays of the setting sun rimming with gold the ramparts of the mountain eastward, and burning a crown for Old White Slides peak. A distant bawl and bellow of cattle had died away. The branding was over for that fall. How glad she felt! The wind, beginning to grow cold as the sun declined, cooled her hot face. In the solitude of her room Columbine had cried enough that day to scald her cheeks.
Presently, down the lane between the pastures, she saw a cowboy ride into view. Very slowly he came, leading another horse. Columbine recognized Lem a second before she saw that he was leading Pronto. That struck her as strange. Another glance showed Pronto to be limping. Apparently he could just get along, and that was all. Columbine ran out in dismay, reaching the corral gate before Lem did. At first she had eyes only for her beloved mustang.
“Oh, Lem — Pronto’s hurt!” she cried.
“Wal, I should smile he is,” replied Lem.
But Lem was not smiling. And when he wore a serious face for Columbine something had indeed happened. The cowboy was the color of dust and so tired that he reeled.
“Lem, he’s all bloody!” exclaimed Columbine, as she ran toward Pronto.
“Hyar, you jest wait,” ordered Lem, testily. “Pronto’s all cut up, an’ you gotta hustle some linen an’ salve.”
Columbine flew away to do his bidding, and so quick and violent was she that when she got back to the corral she was out of breath. Pronto whinnied as she fell, panting, on her knees beside Lem, who was examining bloody gashes on the legs of the mustang.
“Wal, I reckon no great harm did,” said Lem, with relief. “But he shore hed a close shave. Now you help me doctor him up.”
“Yes — I’ll help,” panted Columbine. “I’ve done this kind — of thing often — but never — to Pronto.... Oh, I was afraid — he’d been gored by a steer.”
“Wal, he come damn near bein’,” replied Lem, grimly. “An’ if it hedn’t been fer ridin’ you don’t see every day, why thet ornery Texas steer’d hev got him.”
“Who was riding? Lem, was it you? Oh, I’ll never be able to do enough for you!”
“Wuss luck, it weren’t me,” said Lem.
“No? Who, then?”
“Wal, it was Wils, an’ he made me swear to tell you nuthin’ — leastways about him.”
“Wils! Did he save Pronto?... And didn’t want you to tell me? Lem, something has happened. You’re not like yourself.”
“Miss Collie, I reckon I’m nigh all in,” replied Lem, wearily. “When I git this bandagin’ done I’ll fall right off my hoss.”
“But you’re on the ground now, Lem,” said Columbine, with a nervous laugh. “What happened?”
“Did you hear about the argyment this mawnin’?”
“No. What — who—”
“You can ask Ole Bill aboot thet. The way Pronto was hurt come off like this. Buster Jack rode out to where we was brandin’ an’ jumped his hoss over a fence into the pasture. He hed a rope an’ he got to chasin’ some hosses over thar. One was Pronto, an’ the son-of-a-gun somehow did git the noose over Pronto’s head. But he couldn’t hold it, or didn’t want to, fer Pronto broke loose an’ jumped the fence. This wasn’t so bad as far as it went. But one of them bad steers got after Pronto. He run an’ sure stepped on the rope, an’ fell. The big steer nearly piled on him. Pronto broke some records then. He shore was scared. Howsoever he picked out rough ground an’ run plumb into some dead brush. Reckon thar he got cut up. We was all a good ways off. The steer went bawlin’ an’ plungin’ after Pronto. Wils yelled fer a rifle, but nobody hed one. Nor a six-shooter, either.... I’m goin’ back to packin’ a gun. Wal, Wils did some ridin’ to git over thar in time to save Pronto.”
“Lem, that is not all,” said Columbine, earnestly, as the cowboy concluded. Her knowledge of the range told her that Lem had narrated nothing so far which could have been cause for his cold, grim, evasive manner; and her woman’s intuition divined a catastrophe.
“Nope.... Wils’s hoss fell on him.”
Lem broke that final news with all a cowboy’s bluntness.
“Was he hurt — Lem!” cried Columbine.
“Say, Miss Collie,” remonstrated Lem, “we’re doctorin’ up your hoss. You needn’t drop everythin’ an’ grab me like thet. An’ you’re white as a sheet, too. It ain’t nuthin’ much fer a cowboy to hev a hoss fall on him.”
“Lem Billings, I’ll hate you if you don’t tell me quick,” flashed Columbine, fiercely.
“Ahuh! So thet’s how the land lays,” replied Lem, shrewdly. “Wal, I’m sorry to tell you thet Wils was bad hurt. Now, not real bad!... The hoss fell on his leg an’ broke it. I cut off his boot. His foot was all smashed. But thar wasn’t any other hurt — honest! They’re takin’ him to Kremmlin’.”
“Ah!” Columbine’s low cry sounded strangely in her ears, as if some one else had uttered it.
“Buster Jack made two bursts this hyar day,” concluded Lem, reflectively. “Miss Collie, I ain’t shore how you’re regardin’ thet individool, but I’m tellin’ you this, fer your own good. He’s bad medicine. He has his old man’s temper thet riles up at nuthin’ an’ never felt a halter. Wusser’n thet, he’s spoiled an’ he acts like a colt thet’d tasted loco. The idee of his ropin’ Pronto right thar near the round-up! Any one would think he jest come West. Old Bill is no fool. But he wears blinders when he looks at his son. I’m predictin’ bad days fer White Slides Ranch.”
CHAPTER IV
ONLY ONE MAN at Meeker appeared to be attracted by the news that Rancher Bill Belllounds was offering employment. This was a little cadaverous-looking fellow, apparently neither young nor old, who said his name was Bent Wade. He had drifted into Meeker with two poor horses and a pack.
“Whar you from?” asked the innkeeper, observing how Wade cared for his horses before he thought of himself. The query had to be repeated.
“Cripple Creek. I was cook for some miners an’ I panned gold between times,” was the reply.
“Humph! Thet oughter been a better-payin’ job than any to be hed hereabouts.”
“Yes, got big pay there,” said Wade, with a sigh.
“What’d you leave fer?”
“We hed a fight over the diggin’s an’ I was the only one left. I’ll tell you....” Whereupon Wade sat down on a box, removed his old sombrero, and began to talk. An idler sauntered over, attracted by something. Then a miner happened by to halt and join the group.
Next, old Kemp, the patriarch of the village, came and listened attentively. Wade seemed to have a strange magnetism, a magic tongue.
He was small of stature, but wiry and muscular. His garments were old, soiled, worn. When he removed the wide-brimmed sombrero he exposed a remarkable face. It was smooth except for a drooping mustache, and pallid, with drops of sweat standing out on the high, broad forehead; gaunt and hollow-cheeked, with an enormous nose, and cavernous eyes set deep under shaggy brows. These features, however, were not so striking in themselves. Long, sloping, almost invisible lines of pain, the shadow of mystery and gloom in the deep-set, dark eyes, a sad harmony between features and expression, these marked the man’s face with a record no keen eye could miss.
Wade told a terrible tale of gold and blood and death. It seemed to relieve him. His face changed, and lost what might have been called its tragic light, its driven intensity.
His listeners shook their heads in awe. Hard tales were common in Colorado, but this one was exceptional. Two of the group left without comment. Old Kemp stared with narrow, half-recognizing eyes at the new-comer.
“Wal! Wal!” ejaculated the innkeeper. “It do beat hell what can happen!... Stranger, will you put up your hosses an’ stay?”
“I’m lookin’ for work,” replied Wade.
It was then that mention was made of Belllounds sending to Meeker for hands.
“Old Bill Belllounds thet settled Middle Park an’ made friends with the Utes,” said Wade, as if certain of his facts.
“Yep, you have Bill to rights. Do you know him?”
“I seen him once twenty years ago.”
“Ever been to Middle Park? Belllounds owns ranches there,” said the innkeeper.
“He ain’t livin’ in the Park now,” interposed Kemp. “He’s at White Slides, I reckon, these last eight or ten years. Thet’s over the Gore Range.”
“Prospected all through that country,” said Wade.
“Wal, it’s a fine part of Colorado. Hay an’ stock country — too high fer grain. Did you mean you’d been through the Park?”
“Once — long ago,” replied Wade, staring with his great, cavernous eyes into space. Some memory of Middle Park haunted him.
“Wal, then, I won’t be steerin’ you wrong,” said the innkeeper. “I like thet country. Some people don’t. An’ I say if you can cook or pack or punch cows or ‘most anythin’ you’ll find a bunk with Old Bill. I understand he was needin’ a hunter most of all. Lions an’ wolves bad! Can you hunt?”
“Hey?” queried Wade, absently, as he inclined his ear. “I’m deaf on one side.”
“Are you a good man with dogs an’ guns?” shouted his questioner.
“Tolerable,” replied Wade.
“Then you’re sure of a job.”
“I’ll go. Much obliged to you.”
“Not a-tall. I’m doin’ Belllounds a favor. Reckon you’ll put up here to-night?”
“I always sleep out. But I’ll buy feed an’ supplies,” replied Wade, as he turned to his horses.
Old Kemp trudged down the road, wagging his gray head as if he was contending with a memory sadly failing him. An hour later when Bent Wade rode out of town he passed Kemp, and hailed him. The old-timer suddenly slapped his leg: “By Golly! I knowed I’d met him before!”
Later, he said with a show of gossipy excitement to his friend the innkeeper, “Thet fellar was Bent Wade!”
“So he told me,” returned the other.
“But didn’t you never hear of him? Bent Wade?”
“Now you tax me, thet name do ‘pear familiar. But dash take it, I can’t remember. I knowed he was somebody, though. Hope I didn’t wish a gun-fighter or outlaw on Old Bill. Who was he, anyhow?”
“They call him Hell-Bent Wade. I seen him in Wyomin’, whar he were a stage-driver. But I never heerd who he was an’ what he was till years after. Thet was onct I dropped down into Boulder. Wade was thar, all shot up, bein’ nussed by Sam Coles. Sam’s dead now. He was a friend of Wade’s an’ knowed him fer long. Wal, I heerd all thet anybody ever heerd about him, I reckon. Accordin’ to Coles this hyar Hell-Bent Wade was a strange, wonderful sort of fellar. He had the most amazin’ ways. He could do anythin’ under the sun better’n any one else. Bad with guns! He never stayed in one place fer long. He never hunted trouble, but trouble follered him. As I remember Coles, thet was Wade’s queer idee — he couldn’t shake trouble. No matter whar he went, always thar was hell. Thet’s what gave him the name Hell-Bent.... An’ Coles swore thet Wade was the whitest man he ever knew. Heart of gold, he said. Always savin’ somebody, helpin’ somebody, givin’ his money or time — never thinkin’ of himself a-tall.... When he began to tell thet story about Cripple Creek then my ole head begun to ache with rememberin’. Fer I’d heerd Bent Wade talk before. Jest the same kind of story he told hyar, only wuss. Lordy! but thet fellar has seen times. An’ queerest of all is thet idee he has how hell’s on his trail an’ everywhere he roams it ketches up with him, an’ thar he meets the man who’s got to hear his tale!”
Sunset found Bent Wade far up the valley of White River under the shadow of the Flat Top Mountains. It was beautiful country. Grassy hills, with colored aspen groves, swelled up on his left, and across the brawling stream rose a league-long slope of black spruce, above which the bare red-and-gray walls of the range towered, glorious with the blaze of sinking sun. White patches of snow showed in the sheltered nooks. Wade’s gaze rested longest on the colored heights.
