Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  “Who comes?” called out Ackerman, and his young voice had a steely ring.

  “Friends,” came a gruff reply.

  “Wal, advance friends an’ let’s see yu.”

  Just then a hard little hand clutched Brite’s arm. He turned to see Reddie Bayne kneeling beside him. The lad’s sombrero was off, exposing his face. It was pale, and the big dark eyes burned.

  “Wallen! He’s after me,” whispered Bayne, hoarsely. “Don’t let him — —”

  Brite gripped the lad and gave him a little shake. “Keep still.”

  The riders approached the camp fire, but did not come close enough to be distinctly seen. The leader appeared to be of stalwart frame, dark of face, somehow forceful and forbidding. Brite had seen a hundred men like him ride into Texas camps.

  “Trail drivers, huh?” he queried, with gleaming eyes taking in the boys round the camp fire.

  “Wal, we ain’t Comanche Injuns,” retorted Deuce, curtly.

  “Who’s ootfit?”

  “Brite, of Santone. We got four thousand haid an’ twenty drivers. Any more yu want to know?”

  “Reckon yu took on a new rider lately, huh?”

  “Wal, if we did — —”

  Brite rose to stride out into the firelight.

  “Who’re yu an’ what’s yore business heah?”

  “My name’s Wallen. From Braseda. We tracked a — a young — wal, a fellar whose handle was Reddie Bayne.”

  “Reddie Bayne. So thet was thet rider’s name? What yu trackin’ him for?”

  “Thet’s my business. Is he heah?”

  “No, he isn’t.”

  “Wal then, he was heah, Brite.”

  “Shore. Had supper with us. An’ then he cut oot for Santone. Reckon he’s there by now. What yu say, Deuce?”

  “Reddie was forkin’ a fast hawse,” replied Ackerman, casually.

  “Any camps between heah an’ Santone?” went on the rider.

  “Not when we passed along. May be by this time.”

  “Brite, if yu don’t mind we’ll spend the night heah,” said Wallen, speculatively.

  “Wal, stranger, I’m sorry. One of my rules is not to be too hospitable on the old Trail,” drawled Brite. “Yu see thet sort of thing has cost me too much.”

  “Air yu handin’ me a slap?” queried Wallen, roughly.

  “No offense. Just my rule, thet’s all.”

  “Ahuh. Wal, it’s a damn pore rule for a Texan.”

  “Shore,” agreed Brite, coolly.

  The rider wheeled, cursing under his breath, and, accompanied by his silent companion, thudded off into the darkness. Brite waited until he could make sure they took the road, then he returned to the spot where he had left the lad. Bayne sat against the tree. By the dim light Brite saw the gleam of a gun in his hand.

  “Wal, I steered them off, Bayne,” said Brite. “Hope I did yu a good turn.”

  “Yu bet yu did.... Thank yu — Mr. Brite,” replied the lad in a low voice.

  Deuce Ackerman had followed Brite under the tree. “Boss, thet Wallen shore didn’t get nowheres with me. Strikes me I’d seen him some place.”

  “Who is Wallen, son?”

  “Rancher I rode for over Braseda way.”

  “What’s he got against yu?”

  There was no reply. Ackerman bent over to peer down. “Throwed yore hardware, hey, Reddie? Wal, I don’t blame yu. Now, cowboy, come clean if yu want to, or keep mum. It’s all the same to us.”

  “Thank yu.... I’m no rustler — or thief — or anythin’ bad.... It was just... Oh, I cain’t tell yu,” replied the lad, with emotion.

  “Ahuh. Wal, then it must be somethin’ to do aboot a gurl?”

  “Yes.... Somethin’ aboot a gurl,” hurriedly replied Bayne.

  “I’ve been there, cowboy.... But I hope thet hombre wasn’t her dad. ‘Cause she’s liable to be an orphan.”

  Ackerman returned to the camp fire, calling out: “Roll in, fellers. Yu’re a-gonna need sleep this heah trip.”

  “Bayne, I’m shore glad it wasn’t anythin’ bad,” said Brite, in a kindly tone.

  One of the boys rekindled the fire, which burned up brightly. By its light the old cattleman had a better view of young Bayne’s face. The hard and bitter expression appeared softening. He made a forlorn little figure that touched Brite.

  “I — I’ll tell yu — sometime — if yu won’t give me away,” whispered the lad, and then hurried off into the darkness.

  Brite sought his own blankets and lay thinking of the lad’s confession — something about a girl! That had been true of him once, long ago, and to it could be traced the fact of his lonely years. He warmed to this orphaned lad. The old Trail was a tough and bloody proposition; but anything might be met with upon it.

  CHAPTER III

  BRITE OPENED HIS eyes to gray dawn. A rifle-shot had awakened him. Moze was singing about darkies and cotton, which argued that the camp had not been attacked by Indians. Brite crawled out of his blankets, stiff and sore, to pull on his boots and don his vest, which simple actions left him dressed for the day. He rolled his bed. Then securing a towel, he made through camp for the creek. Texas Joe was in the act of getting up. Three other boys lay prone, quiet, youthful, hard faces clear in the gray light.

  “Boss, it’s sho turrible gittin’ oot in de mawnin’,” was Moze’s laconic greeting.

  “Moze, I reckon I’m not so young as I was.”

  Down by the stream Brite encountered Reddie Bayne busy with his ablutions. “Howdy, son. I see yu’re up an’ doin’.”

  “Mawnin’, Mr. Brite,” replied the youth as he turned on his knees to show a wet and shining face as comely as a girl’s. Brite thought the lad rather hurriedly got into his jacket and covered his red-gold curly hair with the battered old sombrero. Then he wiped face and hands with his scarf.

  “I’ll rustle my hawse before breakfast.”

  The water was cold and clear. Brite drank and washed with the pleasure of a trail driver who valued this privilege. At most places the water was muddy, or stinking and warm, or there was none at all. Upon his return up to the level bank he heard the lowing of cattle. Daylight had come. The eastern sky was ruddy. Mocking birds were making melody in the grove. Rabbits scurried away into the willows. Across the wide shallow stream deer stood on the opposite bank, with long ears erect. A fragrance of wood smoke assailed Brite’s keen nostrils. There seemed to be something singularly full and rich in the moment.

  Brite got back to camp in time to hear an interesting colloquy.

  “Say, boy, who’n hell air yu?” Texas Joe was asking, in genuine surprise. “I cain’t recollect seein’ yu before.”

  “My name’s Reddie Bayne,” replied the lad. “I rode in last night. The boss gave me a job.”

  “He did? Packin’ water, or what?” went on Shipman.

  “Hawse-wranglin’,” said Reddie, shortly.

  “Humph! Yu’re pretty much of a kid, ain’t yu?”

  “I cain’t help it if I’m not an old geezer like — —”

  “Like who? — Me! — Say, youngster, I’m cantankerous early in the mawnin’.”

  “So it would seem,” dryly responded Bayne.

  “What yu packin’ thet big gun on yore left hip for?”

  “Kind of a protection against mean cusses.”

  “Heah, I didn’t mean was yu wearin’ it ornamental. But what for on the left side?”

  “I’m left-handed.”

  “Aw, I see. Gun-slinger from the left hip, huh? Wal, I reckon yu got a lot of notches on the handle.”

  Bayne did not deign to make a reply to this, but it was evident that he was a little upset by the cool and sarcastic foreman. As Brite came on he saw the lad’s fine eyes flash.

  “Mawnin’, boss. I see yu have gone an’ hired another gunman,” drawled Texas Joe.

  “Who? Reddie Bayne, heah?”

  “Shore. No one else. What’s Texas comin’ to thet boys who ought to be home a milkin’ cows rus
tle oot on bloody trails packin’ big guns?”

  “I haven’t any home,” retorted Bayne, with spirit.

  “Reddie, shake hands with my foreman, Texas Joe Shipman,” said Brite.

  “Howdy, Mr. Shipman,” rejoined Bayne, resentfully, with emphasis on the prefix, and he did not offer his hand.

  “Howdy, Girlie Boy,” drawled Joe. “Suppose yu rustle yore hawse an’ let me see him an’ yore ootfit.”

  Bayne’s face flamed red and he trotted off into the grove, whereupon Brite took occasion to acquaint Shipman with the incident that had made Bayne one of the outfit.

  “Hell yu say! Wal! — Pore kid!... Wallen, now I just wonder where I’ve heahed thet name. Odd sort of handle. I’ll bet my spurs he’s no good. It’s the no-good fellars’ names thet stick in yore craw.”

  “Yu cow-tail twisters, come an’ git it,” sang out Moze.

  San Sabe romped into camp with a string of mustangs which the men had to dodge or catch.

  “Boots an’ saddles heah, my tenderfoot Hal from Pennsylvania,” yelled Texas Joe to the slow-moving Bender. “Thet’s for all of yu. Rustle. An’ get ootside some chuck. This’s our busy day, mixin’ a wild herd of long-horns with a tame one.”

  Strong brown hands flashed and tugged. As if by magic the restless ponies were bridled and saddled. The trail drivers ate standing. Texas Joe was the first to mount.

  “Fork yore hawses, boys,” he called, vibrantly. “Boss, I’ll point the herd, then send Ackerman in with his guard to eat. Follow along, an’ don’t forget yore new hawse-wrangler, young Bayne.”

  In a few moments Brite was left alone with Moze. The red sun peeped over the eastern rim and the world of rolling ranges changed. The grove appeared full of bird melody. Far out the bawl of new-born calves attested to the night’s addition to the herd. A black steed came flashing under the pecans. Bayne rode into camp and leaped off.

  “All bunched an’ ready, boss,” he said, in keen pleasure. “Gee! thet’s a remuda. Finest I ever seen. I can wrangle thet ootfit all by myself.”

  “Wal, son, if yu do yu’ll earn Texas Joe’s praise,” returned Brite.

  “Pooh for thet cowboy! I’d like to earn yores, though, Mr. Brite.”

  “Fall to, son, an’ eat.”

  Brite bestrode his horse on the top of the slope and watched the riders point the herd and start the drive up out of the creek bottom.

  Used as he was to all things pertaining to cattle, he could not but admit to himself that this was a magnificent spectacle. The sun had just come up red and glorious, spreading a wonderful light over the leagues of range; the air was cool, fresh, sweet, with a promise of warmth for midday; flocks of blackbirds rose like clouds over the cattle, and from the grove of pecans a chorus of mocking-bird melody floated to his ears; the shining creek was blocked by a mile-wide bar of massed cattle, splashing and plowing across; shots pealed above the bawl and trample, attesting to the fact that the drivers were shooting new-born calves that could not keep up with their mothers.

  Like a colossal triangle the wedge-shaped herd, with the apex to the fore, laboriously worked up out of the valley. Ackerman’s Uvalde herd had the lead, and that appeared well, for they had become used to the Trail, and Brite’s second and third herds, massing in behind were as wild a bunch of long-horns as he had ever seen. Their wide-spread horns, gray and white and black, resembled an endless mass of uprooted stumps of trees, milling, eddying, streaming across the flat and up the green slope. The movement was processional, rhythmic, steady as a whole, though irregular in spots, and gave an impression of irresistible power. To Brite it represented the great cattle movement now in full momentum, the swing of Texas toward an Empire, the epic of the herds and the trail drivers that was to make history of the West. Never before had the old cattleman realized the tremendous significance of the colorful scene he was watching. Behind it seemed to ride and yell and sing all the stalwart sons of Texas. It was their chance after the Civil War that had left so many of them orphaned and all of them penniless. Brite’s heart thrilled and swelled to those lithe riders. He alone had a thought of the true nature of this undertaking, and the uplift of his heart was followed by a pang. They had no thought of the morrow. The moment sufficed for them. To drive the herd, to stick to the task, to reach their objective — that was an unalterable obligation assumed when they started. Right then Brite conceived his ultimate appreciation of the trail driver.

  At last the wide base of the herd cleared the stream bed, leaving it like a wet plowed field. Then the remuda in orderly bunch crossed behind. Brite recognized Reddie Bayne on his spirited black mount. The lad was at home with horses. Moze, driving the chuck-wagon, passed up the road behind Brite and out on the level range.

  Then the sharp point of the herd, with Texas Joe on the left and Less Holden on the right, passed out of sight over the hill. Farther down the widening wedge, two other riders performed a like guard. The rest held no stable position. They flanked the sides and flashed along the rear wherever an outcropping of unruly long-horns raised a trampling roar and a cloud of dust. Each rider appeared to have his own yell, which Brite felt assured he would learn to recognize in time. And these yells rang out like bells or shrilled aloft or pealed across the valley.

  Brite watched the dashing drivers, the puffs of dust rising pink in the sunrise flush, the surging body of long-horns crowding up the slope. A forest of spear-pointed horns pierced the sky line. And when the last third of the herd got up out of the valley, on the wide slope, the effect was something to daunt even old Adam Brite. Half that number of cattle, without the wilder element, would have been more than enough to drive to Dodge. Brite realized this now. But there could not be any turning back. He wondered how many head of stock, and how many drivers, would never get to Dodge.

  Brite turned away to ride to the highest ridge above the valley, from which he scanned the Trail to the south. For a trail drive what was coming behind was as important almost as what lay to the fore. To mix a herd with that of a following trail driver’s was bad business. It made extra toil and lost cattle. To his relief, the road and the range southward were barren of moving objects. A haze of dust marked where San Antonio lay. To the north the purple, rolling prairie-land spread for leagues, marked in the distance by black dots and patches and dark lines of trees. It resembled an undulating sea of rosy grass. Only the unknown dim horizon held any menace.

  The great herd had topped the slope below and now showed in its entirety, an arrow-headed mass assuming proper perspective. It had looked too big for the valley; here up on the range it seemed to lengthen and spread and find room. The herd began its slow, easy, grazing march northward, at the most eight or ten miles a day. In fine weather and if nothing molested the cattle, this leisurely travel was joy for the drivers. The infernal paradox of the trail driver’s life was that a herd might be driven north wholly under such comfortable circumstances, and again the journey might be fraught with terrific hardship and peril. Brite had never experienced one of the extreme adventures, such as he had heard of, but the ordinary trip had been strenuous and hazardous enough for him.

  Brite caught up with the chuck-wagon and walked his horse alongside it for a while, conversing with the genial negro. From queries about the Rio Grande country and the Uvalde cattlemen, Brite progressed to interest in the quintet of riders who had brought the southern herd up. Moze was loquacious and soon divulged all his knowledge of Deuce Ackerman and his comrades. “Yas, suh, dey’s de finest an’ fightenest boys I ever seen, dat’s shore,” concluded Moze. “I ben cookin’ fer two-t’ree years fer de U-V ootfit. Kurnel Miller run dat ootfit fust, an’ den sold oot to Jones. An’ yo bet Jones was sho glad to git rid of dem five boys. What wid shootin’ up de towns every pay day an’ sparkin’ Miss Molly, de Kurnel’s dotter, why, dat gennelman led a turrible life.”

  “Wal, I reckon they weren’t no different from other boys where a pretty girl was concerned.”

  “Yas, suh, dere wuz a difference, ‘cause d
ese boys wuz like twin brothers, an’ Miss Molly jes’ couldn’t choose among ’em. She sho wanted ’em all, so Mars Jones had to sell ’em to yo along wid de cattle.”

  “Wal, Moze, we shore might run into anythin’ along the old Trail,” replied Brite, with a laugh. “But it’s reasonable to hope there won’t be any girls till we reach Dodge.”

  “Dat’s a hot ole town dese days, I heah, boss.”

  “Haw! Haw! Just yu wait, Moze.... Wal, we’re catchin’ up with the herd, an’ from now it’ll be lazy driftin’ along.”

  Soon Brite came up with the uneven, mile-wide rear of the herd. Four riders were in sight, and the first he reached was Hallett, who sat cross-legged in his saddle and let his pony graze along.

  “How’re yu boys makin’ oot, Roy?”

  “Jes’ like pie, boss, since we got up on the range,” was the reply. “There’s some mean old mossy-horns an’ some twisters in thet second herd of yores. Texas Joe shot two bulls before we got ’em leavin thet valley.”

  “Bad luck to shoot cattle,” replied Brite, seriously.

  “Wal, we’re short-handed an’ we gotta get there, which I think we never will.”

  “Shore we will.... Where’s Reddie Bayne with the remuda?”

  “Aboot a half over, I reckon. Thet’s Rolly next in line. He’s been helpin’ the kid with the remuda.”

  “Ahuh. How’s Reddie drivin’?”

  “Fine, boss. But thet’s a sight of hawses for one boy. Reckon he could wrangle them alone but fer them damn old mossy-horns.”

  Brite passed along. Rolly Little was the next rider in line, and he appeared to be raising the dust after some refractory steers. Cows were bellowing and charging back, evidently wanting to return to calves left behind.

  “Hey, boss, we got some onery old drags in this herd,” he sang out.

  “Wal, have patience, Little, but don’t wear it oot,” called Brite.

  The horses were grazing along in a wide straggling drove, some hundred yards or more behind the herd. Reddie Bayne on the moment was bending over the neck of his black, letting him graze. Brite trotted over to join him.