The Zane Grey Megapack, page 726
“Not such an awful lot, Blink. That game depends on the lay of the land.”
“Shore. An’ it lays bad in these parts. Will you throw in with us? An’ have you got any money?”
“Yes to both questions, old-timer. But I’ve got to find Dad before I get careless with my money. Where are you boys staying?”
“We got a camp just out of town. We eat at the Chink’s when we’re heah, an’ thet’s every few days. We got lots of room an’ welcome for you, but no bedroll.”
“I’ll buy an outfit in the morning and throw in with you.… Hello, there’s shooting. Gun play. Let’s get out of this place where there’s more room and air.”
With that they, and many others, left the hall and joined the moving crowd in the street. The night was delightfully cool. Stars shone white in a velvet sky. The dry wind from mountain and desert blew in their faces. Pan halted at the steps of the hotel.
“Blink, I’m going to turn in. Call for me in the morning. I can’t tell you how glad I am that I ran into you boys. And you, too, Brown. I’d like to see more of you.”
They shook hands and parted. Pan entered the hotel, and sat a while in the bare smoky lobby, where sharp-eyed men and women passed him by with one look at his cowboy attire. They were seeking bigger game. Pan experienced a strange excitation in the hour, in the place.
When he went to his room he was not sleepy. “Lucky to meet those boys,” he soliloquized, as he undressed. “Now to find Dad—Mother—Alice! Lord, I hope all’s well with them. But I’ve a feeling it isn’t.… And Lucy! I wonder will she be here too. Will she recognize me? I’ll bet a million she does. Funny about Dick Hardman. Never knew me. Didn’t he look, though?… And that girl Louise. She had to laugh and talk all the time to hide the sadness of her face.… At that, she’s too good for Dick Hardman.… I’ll bet another million he and I clash again.”
Pan was up bright and early, enjoying the keen desert air, and the vast difference between Marco at night and at dawn. The little spell of morbid doubt and worry that had settled upon him did not abide in the clear rosy light of day. Hope and thrill resurged in him.
Blinky and his partner soon appeared, and quarreled over which should carry Pan’s baggage out to their quarters. Pan decidedly preferred the locality to that he had just left. The boys had a big tent set up on a framework of wood, an open shed which they used as a kitchen, and a big corral. The site was up on a gradual slope, somewhat above the town, and rendered attractive by a small brook and straggling cedars. They had a Mexican cook who was known everywhere as Lying Juan. Pan grasped at once that he would have a lot of fun with Juan.
The boys talked so fast they almost neglected to eat their breakfast. They were full of enthusiasm, which fact Pan could not but see was owing to his arrival. It amused him. Moran, like many other cowboys, had always attributed to Pan a prowess and character he felt sure were undeserved. Yet it touched him.
“Wal, ole-timer, we’ll rustle now,” finally said Moran. “We’ve got aboot fifty broomies out heah in a canyon. We’ll drive ’em in today, an’ also some saddle hosses for you.”
“I’ll buy a horse,” interposed Pan.
“You’ll do nothin’ of the sort,” declared Blinky stoutly. “Ain’t we got a string of hosses, an’ there shore might be one of them good enough even for Panhandle Smith. But you want a saddle. There’s one in Black’s store. It’s Mexican, an’ a blamed good one. Cheap, too.”
Gus came trotting up on a spirited sorrel, leading two other well-pointed horses, saddled, champing their bits. Sight of them was good for Pan’s eyes. He would never long have been happy away from horses. Moran leaped astride one of them, and then said, hesitatingly:
“Pard, shore hope you hev good luck findin’ your dad.”
Pan watched them ride away down the slope to the road, and around a bend out of sight. It was wonderful country that faced him, cedar, piñon and sage, colored hills and flats, walls of yellow rock stretch away, and dim purple mountains all around. If his keen eyes did not deceive him there was a bunch of wild horses grazing on top of the first hill.
“Juan, are there lots of wild horses?” he asked the Mexican cook. And presently he came into knowledge of the justice of the name “Lying Juan.” Pan had met some great liars in his life on the range, but if Juan could do any better than this he would be the champion of them all.
Pan shaved, put on a clean flannel shirt and new scarf, and leaving his coat behind he strode off toward the town. The business of the day had begun, and there was considerable bustle. Certainly Marco showed no similarity to a cattle town. Somebody directed him to the stage and express office, a plain board building off the main street. Three men lounged before it, one on the steps, and the others against the hitching-rail. Pan took them in before they paid any particular attention to him.
“Morning, gents,” he said, easily. “Is the agent Smith around?”
“Howdy, stranger,” replied one of them, looking Pan over. “Smith just stepped over to the bank. He’ll be back pronto.”
Another of the group straightened up to run a hard gray eye from Pan’s spurs to his sombrero, and back for a second glance at his low hanging gun. He was a tall man, in loose tan garments, trousers stuffed in his boots. He had a big sandy mustache. He moved to face Pan, and either by accident or design the flap of his coat fell back to expose a bright silver shield on his vest.
“Reckon you’re new in these parts?” he queried.
“Yep. Just rode in,” replied Pan cheerfully.
“See you’re packin’ hardware,” went on the other, with significant glance at Pan’s gun.
Pan at once took this man to be Matthews, the town marshal mentioned by Charley Brown. He had not needed Brown’s hint; he had encountered many sheriffs of like stripe. Pan, usually the kindliest and most genial of cowboys, returned the sheriff’s curious scrutiny with a cool stare.
“Am I packing a gun?” rejoined Pan, with pretended surprise, as he looked down at his hip. “Sure, so I am. Clean forgot it, Mister. Habit of mine.”
“What’s a habit?” snapped the other.
Pan now shot a straight level gaze into the hard gray eyes of the sheriff. He knew he was going to have dealings with this man, and the sooner they began the better.
“Why, my packing a gun—when I’m in bad company,” said Pan.
“Pretty strong talk, cowboy, west of the Rockies.… I’m Matthews, the town marshal.”
“I knew that, and I’m right glad to meet you,” rejoined Pan pertly. He made no move to meet the half-proffered hand, and his steady gaze disconcerted the marshal.
Another man came briskly up, carrying papers in his hand.
“Are you the agent, Mr. Smith?” asked Pan.
“I am thet air, young fellar.”
“Can I see you a moment, on business?”
“Come right in.” He ushered Pan into his office and shut the door.
“My name’s Smith,” began Pan hurriedly. “I’m hunting for my dad…Bill Smith. Do you know him—if he’s in Marco?”
“Bill Smith’s cowboy! Wal, put her thar,” burst out the other, heartily, shoving out a big hand. His surprise and pleasure were marked. “Know Bill? Wal, I should smile. We’re neighbors an’ good friends.”
Pan was so overcome by relief and sudden joy that he could not speak for a moment, but he wrung the agent’s hand.
“Wal, now, sort of hit you in the gizzard, hey?” he queried, with humor and sympathy. He released his hand and put it on Pan’s shoulder. “I’ve heard all about you, cowboy. Bill always talked a lot—until lately. Reckon he’s deep hurt thet you never wrote.”
“I’ve been pretty low-down,” replied Pan with agitation. “But I never meant to be.… I just drifted along.… Always I was going back home soon. But I didn’t. And I haven’t written home for two years.”
“Wal, forget thet now, son,” said the agent kindly. “Boys will be boys, especially cowboys. You’ve been a wild one, if reports comin’ to Bill was true.… But you’ve come home to make up to him. Lord knows he needs you, boy.”
“Yes—I’ll make it—up,” replied Pan, trying to swallow his emotion. “Tell me.”
“Wal, I wish I had better news to tell,” replied Smith, gravely shaking his head. “Your dad’s had tough luck. He lost his ranch in Texas, as I reckon you know, an’ he follered—the man who’d done him out here to try to make him square up. Bill only got a worse deal. Then he got started again pretty good an’ lost out because of a dry year. Now he’s workin’ in Carter’s Wagon Shop. He’s a first-rate carpenter. But his wages are small, an’ he can’t never get no where. He’s talked some of wild-hoss wranglin’. But thet takes an outfit, which he ain’t got. I’ll give you a hunch, son. If you can stake your dad to an outfit an’ throw in with him you might give him another start.”
Pan had on his tongue an enthusiastic reply to that, but the entrance of the curious Matthews halted him.
“Thank you, Mr. Smith,” he said, eagerly. “Where’ll I find Carter’s Wagon Shop?”
“Other end of town. Right down Main Street. You can’t miss it.”
Pan hurried out, and through the door he heard Matthews’ loud voice:
“Carter’s Wagon Shop!… By thunder, I’ve got the hunch! That cowboy is Panhandle Smith!”
Pan smiled grimly to himself, as he passed on out of hearing. The name and fame that had meant so little to him back on the prairie ranges might stand him in good stead out here west of the Rockies. He strode swiftly, his thought reverting to his father. He wanted to run. Remorse knocked at his heart. Desertion! He had gone off, like so many cowboys, forgetting home, father, mother, duty. They had suffered. Never a word of it had come to him.
The way appeared long, and the line of stone houses and board shacks, never ending. At last he reached the outskirts of Marco and espied the building and sign he was so eagerly seeking. Resounding hammer strokes came from the shop. Outward coolness, an achievement habitual with him when excitement mounted to a certain stage, came with effort and he paused a moment to gaze at the sweeping country, green and purple, dotted by gray rocks, rising to hills gold with autumn colors. His long journey was at an end. In a moment more anxiety would be a thing of the past. Let him only see his father actually in the flesh!
Pan entered the shop. It was open, like any other wagon shop with wood scattered about, shavings everywhere, a long bench laden with tools, a forge. Then he espied a man wielding a hammer on a wheel. His back was turned. But Pan knew him. Knew that back, that shaggy head beginning to turn gray, knew even the swing of arm! He approached leisurely. The moment seemed big, splendid.
“Howdy, Dad,” he called, at the end of one of the hammer strokes.
His father’s lax figure stiffened. He dropped the wheel, then the hammer. But not on the instant did he turn. His posture was strained, doubtful. Then he sprang erect, and whirled. Pan saw his father greatly changed, but how it was impossible to grasp because his seamed face was suddenly transformed.
“For the good—Lord’s sake—if it ain’t Pan!” he gasped.
“It sure is, Dad. Are you glad to see me?”
“Glad!… Reckon this’ll save your mother’s life!” and to Pan’s amaze he felt himself crushed in his father’s arms. That sort of thing had never been Bill Smith’s way. He thrilled to it, and tried again to beat back the remorse mounting higher. His father released him, and drew back, as if suddenly ashamed of his emotion. His face, which he had been trying to control, smoothed out.
“Wal, Pan, you come back now—after long ago I gave up hopin’?” he queried, haltingly.
“Yes, Dad,” began Pan with swift rush of words. “I’m sorry. I always meant to come home. But one thing and another prevented. Then I never heard of your troubles. I never knew you needed me. You didn’t write. Why didn’t you tell me?… But forget that. I rode the ranges—drifted with the cowboys—till I got homesick. Now I’ve found you—and well, I want to make up to you and mother.”
“Ah-huh! Sounds like music to me,” replied Smith, growing slow and cool. He eyed Pan up and down, walked round him twice. Then he suddenly burst out, “Wal, you long-legged strappin’ son of a gun! If sight of you ain’t good for sore eyes!… Ah-huh! Look where he packs that gun!”
With slow strange action he reached down to draw Pan’s gun from its holster. It was long and heavy, blue, with a deadly look. The father’s intent gaze moved from it up to the face of the son. Pan realized what his father knew, what he thought. The moment was sickening for Pan. A cold shadow, forgotten for long, seemed to pass through his mind.
“Pan, I’ve kept tab on you for years,” spoke his father slowly, “but I’d have heard, even if I hadn’t took pains to learn.… Panhandle Smith! You damned hard-ridin’, gun-throwin’ son of mine!… Once my heart broke because you drifted with the wild cowpunchers—but now—by God, I believe I’m glad.”
“Dad, never mind range talk. You know how cowboys brag and blow.… I’m not ashamed to face you and mother. I’ve come clean, Dad.”
“But, son, you’ve—you’ve used that gun!” whispered Smith, hoarsely.
“Sure I have. On some two-legged coyotes an’ skunks.… And maybe greasers. I forget.”
“Panhandle Smith!” ejaculated his father, refusing to take the matter in Pan’s light vein. “They know here in Marco.… You’re known, Pan, here west of the Rockies.”
“Well, what of it?” flashed Pan, suddenly gripped again by that strange cold emotion in the depths of him. “I should think you’d be glad. Reckon it was all good practice for what I’ll have to do out here.”
“Don’t talk that way. You’ve read my mind,” replied Smith, huskily. “I’m afraid. I’m almost sorry you came. Yet, right now I feel more of a man than for years.”
“Dad, you can tell me everything some other time,” rejoined Pan, throwing off the sinister spell. “Now, I only want to know about Mother and Alice.”
“They’re well an’ fine, son, though your mother grieves for you. She never got over that. An’ Alice, she’s a big girl, goin’ to school an’ helpin’ with work.… An’ Pan, you’ve got a baby brother nearly two years old.”
“Jumping cowbells!” shouted Pan, in delight. “Where are they? Tell me quick.”
“We live on a farm a mile or so out. I rent it for most nothin’. Hall, who owns it, has a big ranch. I’ve got an option on this farm, an’ it shore is a bargain. Hundred an’ ten acres, most of it cultivated. Good water, pasture, barn, an’ nice little cabin. I work here mornin’s, an’ out there afternoons. You’ll—”
“Stop talking about it. I’ll buy the farm,” interrupted Pan. “But where is it?”
“Keep right out this road. Second farmhouse,” said his father, pointing to the west. “I’d go with you, but I promised some work. But I’ll be home at noon.… Hey, hold on. There’s more to tell. You’ll get a—a jolt. Wait.”
But Pan rushed on out of the shop, and took to the road with the stride of a giant. To be compelled to walk, when if he had had his horse he could ride that mile in two minutes! His heart was beating high. Mother! Grieving for me. Alice a big girl. And a baby boy! This is too good for a prodigal like me.
All else he had forgotten for the moment. Shadows of memories overhung his consciousness, striving for entrance, but he denied them. How shaken his father had been at sight of him! Poor old Dad! And then what was the significance of all that talk about his range name, Panhandle Smith, and his father’s strange fascinated handling of Pan’s gun? Would his mother know him at first glance? Oh! no doubt of that! But Alice would not; she had been a child; and he had grown, changed.
While his thoughts raced he kept gazing near and far. The farm land showed a fair degree of cultivation. Grassy hills shone in the bright morning sun; high up, flares of gold spoke eloquently of aspen thickets tinged by the frost; purple belts crossing the mountains told of forests. The wall of rock that he had observed from Moran’s camp wound away over the eastern horizon. A new country it was, a fair and wild country, rugged and hard on the uplands, suitable for pasture and cultivation in the lowlands.
Pan passed the first farmhouse. Beyond that he could make out only a green patch, where he judged lay the home he was hunting. His buoyant step swallowed up the rods. Cattle and horses grazed in a pasture. The road turned to the right, round the slope of a low hill. Pan’s quick eye caught a column of curling blue smoke that rose from a grove of trees. The house would be in there. Pasture, orchard, cornfield, ragged and uncut, a grove of low trees with thick foliage, barns and corrals he noted with appreciative enthusiasm. The place did not have the bareness characteristic of a ranch.
At last Pan reached the wagon gate that led into the farm. It bordered an orchard of fair-sized trees, the leaves of which were colored. He cut across the orchard so as to reach the house more quickly. It was still mostly hidden among the trees. Smell of hay, of fruit, of the barnyard assailed his nostrils. And then the fragrance of wood smoke and burning leaves! His heart swelled full high in his breast. He could never meet his mother with his usual cool easy nonchalance.
Suddenly he espied a woman through the trees. She was quite close. He almost ran. No, it could not be his mother. This was a girl, lithe, tall, swift stepping. His mother had been rather short and stout. Could this girl be his sister Alice? The swift supposition was absurd, because Alice was only about ten, and this girl was grown. She had a grace of motion that struck Pan. He hurried around some trees to intercept her, losing sight of her for a moment.
Suddenly he came out of the shade to confront her, face to face in the open sunlight. She uttered a cry and dropped something she had been carrying.
“Don’t be scared, Miss,” he said, happily. “I’m no tramp, though I did rant in like a trespasser. I want to find Mrs. Bill Smith. I’m—”
But Pan got no farther. The girl had reason to be scared, but should her hands fly to her bosom like that, and press there as if she had been hurt. He must have frightened her. And he was about to stammer his apologies and make himself known, when the expression on her face struck him mute. Her healthy golden skin turned white. Her lips quivered, opened. Then her eyes—their color was violet and something about them seemed to stab Pan. His mind went into a deadlock—seemed to whirl—and to flash again into magnified thoughts.
