Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 790
“Strange you didn’t meet Jett,” replied Mrs. Hudnall. “He left with three wagons yesterday afternoon. They went straight down the military road. We watched them. Milly waved her scarf for a long time. . . . She looked so cute an’ sweet in her boy’s clothes.”
“Boy’s clothes?” ejaculated Tom, miserably. “What do you mean?”
“Jett came here in the mornin’,” went on Mrs. Hudnall. “He was soberin’ up an’ sure looked mean. He asked for Milly an’ told her that she was to get ready to leave with him in the afternoon. His wife wasn’t with him, but we met her later in Sprague’s store. She struck us as a fit pardner for Jett. Well, Milly was heart-broken at first, an’ scared. We could see that. She didn’t want to go, but said she’d have to. He could take her by force. She didn’t say much. First she wrote you a letter, which I have for you, an’ then she packed her clothes. When Jett came about three o’clock he fetched boy’s pants, shirt, coat, an’ hat for Milly. Said on account of Indians scarin’ the soldiers the military department were orderin’ women out of the buffalo fields. Jett was disguisin’ his women in men’s clothes. Milly had to have her beautiful hair cut. Sally cut it. Well, Milly dressed in that boy’s suit an’ went with Jett. She was brave. We all knew she might come to harm, outside of Indians. An’ we felt worse when Sprague told us last night that this Mrs. Jett had been the wife of an outlaw named Hardin, killed last summer at Fort Dodge. That’s all.”
“Good heavens! it’s enough!” declared Tom, harshly, divided by fear for Milly and fury at himself. “What can I do? . . . I might catch up with Jett. But then what?”
“That’s what I’d do — hurry after her,” advised Mrs. Hudnall. “Somehow you might get her away from Jett. Tell my husband. He’ll do somethin’. . . . Tom, here’s Milly’s letter. I hope it tells you how she loves you. For you’re all the world to that child. She was cryin’ when she gave it to me.”
“Thank you,” said Tom, huskily, taking the letter and starting to go.
“Come back before you leave,” added Mrs. Hudnall. “We’ll want to send letters an’ things with you.”
“An’ say, Tom,” called Sally from the doorway, “you tell Dave Stronghurl if he doesn’t run here to me pronto it ‘ll be all day with him.”
“I’ll send him,” returned Tom, and hurried back to camp, where he delivered Sally’s message to Dave.
“Aw, I’ve all the time there is,” drawled Dave, with an assured smile.
“No! We’ll be leaving just as quick as I can sell these hides for Hudnall.”
“Wal, I’ll be goshed! What’s the rush, Tom! . . . Say, you look sick.”
“I am sick. I’m afraid I’m ruined,” replied Tom, hurriedly, and told Dave his trouble.
His comrade swore roundly, and paced a moment, thoughtfully. “Tom, mebbe it ain’t so bad as it looks. But it’s bad enough. I’d hate to see that girl fall into the hands of the Indians.”
“Indians? Dave, it’s Jett I’m afraid of. He’s bad and he means bad. . . . I — I think I’ll have to kill him.”
“Wal, quite right an’ proper, if he’s what you say. An’ I’ll back you. Let’s see. We’d better rustle. You tend to sellin’ the hides an’ what else Hudnall wanted. An’ I’ll tend to Sally.”
With that Stronghurl paid some elaborate though brief attention to his personal appearance, then strode off toward the post. Left alone, Tom hurriedly tore open Milly’s letter. It was written in ink on good paper, and the handwriting was neat and clear. Tom thrilled at his first sight of Milly’s writing.
Sprague’s Post
July 19.
DEAR TOM:
It is my prayer you get this letter soon — surely some day. Jett has come for me. I must go. There isn’t anything else I can do. But if you or Mr. Hudnall were here I’d refuse to go and let Jett do his worst.
He’ll surely take me back to the buffalo camps, and where they are you will be somewhere. I know you will find me.
I’m scared now and my heart’s broken. But I’ll get over that and do my best to fool Jett — to get away from him — to save myself. I’ve bought a little gun which I can hide, and if I have to use it to keep him from harming me — I will do it. I love you. You’re all I have in this world. God surely will protect me.
So don’t feel too badly and don’t lose hope. Don’t ever give up looking for me. Whenever you pass a camp you haven’t seen before, look for a red scarf tied somewhere in sight. It’ll be mine.
MILLY.
Tom sat there with clenched hands and surging heart. The letter at once uplifted him and plunged him into the depths. He writhed with remorse that he had ever left her alone. The succeeding moments were the most bitter of his life. Then another perusal of Milly’s letter roused his courage. He must be true to the brave spirit that called to him; and he must hope for the best and never give up seeking her, though he realized how forlorn it was.
Tom sold Hudnall’s hides at a higher figure than Hudnall had received for his first batch. Sprague not only corroborated the rumors that had been the cause of Hudnall sending Tom out, but also added something from his own judgment. The peak of prices for hides had not been reached. He offered so much himself that Tom wondered whether or not Hudnall would sell at all to the buyers from Dodge City. Tom gathered that there was now great rivalry among the several firms buying hides, a circumstance of profit to the hunters.
“I’ll give you another hunch,” said Sprague. “After the hides, the bones of the carcasses will fetch big money. I just heard thet a twenty-mile pile of buffalo bones along the Santa Fe railroad sold for ten dollars a ton. For fertilizer!”
“You don’t say!” exclaimed Tom, in surprise.
“What’ll Hudnall think of that? But, Sprague, it isn’t possible to haul bones from the Red River country in quantity enough to pay.”
“Reckon that seems far fetched, I’ll admit. But you can never tell.”
“Now about the Indian scare,” went on Tom, anxiously. “What’s your honest opinion? Is it serious?”
“Doan, listen,” replied Sprague, impressively. “Believe what the scouts an’ plainsmen say. They know. The whole half of Texas is bein’ run over by a lot of farmers — hide-hunters for the time bein’. They don’t know the West. An’ some of them will be killed. That’s the least we can expect.”
“Then — these hide thieves. What do you know about them?” inquired Tom.
“Not much. Thet’s not my business. I’m buyin’ hides from anybody an’ everybody. I can’t afford to be suspicious of hunters.”
“Did you know the little girl, Milly Fayre, who was staying with Mrs. Hudnall?”
“Shore did, an’ I took to her pronto. Mrs. Hudnall told me aboot Jett bein’ her stepfather, an’ was packin’ her off with him, togged out as a boy. I sold Jett the boy’s clothes, but didn’t know then what he wanted them for.”
“She’s engaged to marry me. She hates Jett and is afraid of him.”
“So thet’s the story!” ejaculated the sharp-featured Westerner, with quick gesture of comprehension. “Doan, I ain’t sayin’ much, but this deal looks bad.”
“It looks terrible to me. Is Jett just a — a rough customer?”
“Doan, what he may be doesn’t matter, I reckon,” returned Sprague, in a low voice. “But take this hunch from me. Follow Jett an’ get your girl out of his clutches — if you have to kill him. Savvy?”
Tom had seen the same dancing light gleam, sharp as fiery sparks, in the eyes of Pilchuck, that now shot from Sprague’s.
“Yes — I savvy,” replied Tom, swallowing hard.
An hour later he was driving his team at a brisk trot south on the military road, and Stronghurl was hard put to it to keep up with him.
CHAPTER X
RISING EARLY AND driving late, Tom Doan, with Stronghurl keeping in sight, traveled southward over the prairie toward the buffalo fields. He made it a point always to reach at night the camp of outfits that had been ahead of him. Thus every day was a dragging one of anxious hope to catch up with Jett, and every sunset was a time fraught with keen, throbbing excitement. Always, however, his search among the outfits ended in bitter disappointment.
A remarkable thing about this journey was that every outfit he passed on the way put on more speed and tried to keep him and Stronghurl in sight. Tom considered it just as well that they did so, for they were fast penetrating into the Indian country.
Early on the ninth morning of that long journey Tom and Stronghurl forded the Pease River, at a dangerous crossing, and entered the zone of slaughter. No live buffalo were in sight, but the carcasses left by the advancing hunters polluted the summer air and made of the prairie a hideous shambles. They passed thousands and thousands of bone piles and rotten carcasses; and as they advanced the bone piles became fewer and the solid carcasses more. Coyotes in droves, like wild dogs, fought along the road, regardless of the wagons. Indeed, many of them were so gorged that they could not run. And as for buzzards, they were as thick as crows in a Kansas cornfield in October, likewise gorged to repletion.
The wake of the hide-hunters was something to sicken the heart of the stoutest man and bring him face to face with an awful sacrifice.
Tom verified another thing that had long troubled him and of which he had heard hunters speak. For every single buffalo that was killed and skinned there was one which had been crippled and had escaped to die, so that if ever found its hide would be useless. In every ravine or coulee or wash off the main line of travel Tom knew, by investigation of those near where he and Stronghurl camped or halted at noon, there lay dead and unskinned buffalo. If he saw a hundred, how many thousands must there be? It was a staggering arraignment to confront the hide-hunters.
Toward noon of that day herds of live buffalo came in sight, and thereafter grew and widened and showed movement. Tom eventually overhauled a single wagon drawn by four horses, and drew up beside it, asking the usual query.
“Whoa, thar!” called the stout old driver to his team. “Jett? No, I ain’t heard that name, Hev you, Sam?”
His companion likewise could not remember such a name as Jett.
“We’ve met up with lots of outfits an’ never heerd nary name a-tall,” added the former.
Then Tom asked if they had seen an outfit of three large wagons, three men, a woman, and a boy.
“Big outfit — wal, I reckon. Was the boss a yaller-bearded man?”
“Yes, that’s Jett,” replied Tom, eagerly.
“Passed us this mawnin’ back a ways. I recollect sure, ‘cause the boy looked at us an’ waved a red kerchief. He had big black eyes.”
“Milly!” breathed Tom, to himself. “Thank you, men. That’s the outfit I’m after.”
He drove on, urging the tired horses, and he was deaf to the queries his informants called after him upon their own account. Hope and resolve augmented in Tom as he traveled onward. Jett was hurrying back to the main camps, and he would not be hard to locate, if Tom did not catch up with him on the road. Milly’s letter lay in the breast pocket of Tom’s flannel shirt, and every now and then he would press his hand there, as if to answer Milly’s appeal. He drove so persistently and rapidly that he drew far ahead of Stronghurl and the string of outfits which followed.
Miles farther, with straggling herds on each side, and then the boom-boom-boom of heavy guns! From the last ridge above the river he saw a pall of dust away to the west. Here there was action. But it must have been miles away. The river meandered across the prairie, a wide strip of dark green cottonwood and elm. In an hour Tom reached it. Not yet had he come in sight of a three-wagon outfit. With keen eyes he searched the dusty road to make sure that no wheel tracks swerved off without his notice.
Not long after this time he drew near the zones of camps, and presently passed the first one, new since he had come by that way about two weeks before. It was now August.
Tom’s misery had diminished to a great extent, and he could contain himself with the assurance that Milly would be somewhere along this tributary of the Pease River.
Boom-boom-boom boomed the big fifties, not louder than at first, yet more numerous and on both sides of the river. Tom rolled by camp after camp, some familiar to him, most of them new. But no red scarf adorned any tent or wagon to gladden his eye. Miles he drove along the river, passing many more camps, with like result. The hunters were returning from the chase; a gradual cessation in gun-fire marked Tom’s approach to Hudnall’s outfit. It was now impossible to see all the camps; some were too far from the road; others down in the widening brakes of the river. There were wagon tracks that turned off the main road to cross the river. Tom found no sign of Jett’s outfit; yet, though much disappointed, it did not discourage him. Jett would be among the hunters after this main herd.
Before sunset he drove into Hudnall’s camp.
“If it ain’t Tom!” yelled Burn, who was the first to see him.
But Hudnall was the first to get to Tom, and almost embraced him, so glad and amazed was he.
“Back so soon? Gosh! you must have come hummin’!” he rolled out, heartily. “Say, we’ve had great huntin’. Hard, but just like diggin’ gold. What’d you get for my hides?”
“Fifty cents more on every hide,” replied Tom, producing an enormous wad of bills. “Maybe I’m not glad to get rid of that! And here’re letters. There are newspapers, magazines, and other stuff in a basket under the seat.”
“How’s my women folks?” asked Hudnall, fingering the greenbacks.
“Just fine. You couldn’t hope for better. But my — but Milly was gone,” answered Tom.
“Milly? Who’s she? Aw yes, your girl. I’d forgotten. . . . Say, Doan, you’re thin, you look used up. Trip wear you out?”
Hudnall was all kindliness and solicitude now.
“No. Worry. I’ll tell you presently. . . . Dave is somewhere along behind, heading a whole caravan of new hide-hunters.”
“The more the merrier. There’s room an’ we don’t see any slackin’ up of buffalo,” said Hudnall. “Pilchuck got two hundred an’ eighty-six day before yesterday. That’s his top notch. But he says he’ll beat it. Tom, I forgot to tell you we’ll pay you for drivin’ out the hides. Five dollars a day, if that’s all right?”
“Much obliged,” replied Tom, wearily, as he sank down to rest. “Guess I’m fagged, too. You see, I tried to catch up with Jett. He left Sprague’s a day ahead of me with Milly.”
“The hell you say!” ejaculated Hudnall, suddenly losing all his animation. “We’ve heard bad rumors about that Jett outfit. You must take Milly away from them.”
“Couldn’t get track of Jett until to-day,” went on Tom. “He was just ahead of me, though I couldn’t see his wagons. He hit the river along about midafternoon and he’s somewhere.”
“Wal, we’ll find him, an’ don’t you worry. These camps are no place for women folks. I’ve come to seein’ that, Tom.”
“What’s happened since I left?” queried Tom.
“Son, if I believed all I heard I’d be pullin’ stakes for Sprague’s,” declared Hudnall. “Reckon some of it’s true, though. All I seen for myself was some Kiowas that got killed at the forks of the river above. They raided a camp, an’ was crossin’ the river when some hunters on the other side piled them up, horses an’ all.”
“Believe I expected to hear worse,” replied Tom, soberly.
“Wash up an’ take a rest,” advised Hudnall. “I’ll look after the horses. Reckon we’d better hold off supper a little. Pilchuck’s always late these days. He likes the evenin’ hunt an’ I don’t see any sign of Stronghurl.”
“Dave was in sight when I struck the river,” said Tom. “Then I slowed up. So he can’t be far behind, unless he broke down.”
Later, after a bath and shave and the donning of clean clothes, Tom felt somewhat relieved in body. His mind, however, was busy, pondering, clouded; and so it must continue until he had found Milly.
Pilchuck rode in after sunset, a dust-covered, powder-begrimed figure, ragged, worn, proven, everything about him attesting to the excessive endeavor that made him a great hunter. His jaded horse was scarcely recognizable; froth and sweat and dust had accumulated in a caked lather, yellow and hard as sun-baked mud, over front and hind quarters.
“Howdy, Doan!” was his greeting to Tom, with the offer of a horny, grimy hand. “As a freighter you’re A number one. Reckon you look sorta washed out — an’ washed up, too. Shore you’re spick an’ span. I’ll go fall in the crick, myself.”
“Did you have a good day?” asked Tom, after returning his greeting.
“Huh! Not much. I dropped fourteen bulls early, then got jammed in a herd an’ had to quit shootin’. Wasn’t no stampede or mebbe my story would never have been told. But the pesky bunch took me more’n twenty miles along Soapberry, an’ when I did get clear of them I run plumb into some mean-lookin’ Kiowas. They was between me an’ camp. I had to head off west a little. They rode along for a couple of miles, keepin’ on the wrong side for me, an’ then seein’ I was sure alone, they took after me.”
The scout abruptly ended his narrative there, and went about his tasks. Tom, strange to realize, took the incident with a degree of calmness that seemed to him to be an acceptance of times grown heroic and perilous.
A little later Dave Stronghurl drove into camp with weary team, and tired himself, yet unusually loquacious and robustly merry for him. Tom could tell that Dave had something on his mind, and awaited results with interest. Hudnall greeted Dave in the same cordial way as he had Tom, asked the same questions, made the same statements about the hide-hunting and news of camp. And he also took charge of Dave’s team.
“Get any line on Milly?” asked Dave, as he peeled off his shirt. “By gum! you shore rustled across the prairie to-day.”
Tom was glad to acquaint his comrade with the trace he had obtained of Jett’s outfit. Dave vented his satisfaction in forceful, though profane, speech.
