Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  “Out of heah, men! Grab yore rifles an’ rustle!”

  Two of the drivers moved in concert. They sat up, looked, dove for rifles, to leap up and follow the stalking Texas, now already in shadow. The third rider awoke slowly, bewildered. It was Hal Bender.

  “Get up, Bender,” called Brite, rising himself.

  “What’s up, boss?” queried the tenderfoot, aghast, as he pulled on his boots.

  “Somethin’, I don’t know what. Heahed shootin’ oot there. Fetch yore guns.”

  “Ah! — What’s that?”

  A low rolling rumble off to the south smote Brite’s keen ears.

  “Hawses. Rustlers after our remuda, I’ll bet,” declared Brite, quickening his stride to a trot. His gun barrel clinked on a sapling. He had to go slower or risk knocking himself on trees in the darkness. Bender panted closely behind him. Twice Brite halted to listen, each time getting the direction by sound. Then they emerged from the timber into the open — a gray level under the wan stars. Sharp voices drew Brite farther to the left. He ran, careful not to trip in the grass, holding his rifle forward and peering keenly ahead.

  “Who comes?” rasped from the opaque gloom. That was Texas’ voice.

  “Brite. Where air yu?”

  “This way. Look oot for a hole.”

  Brite and Bender soon joined a group of four, one of whom was mounted. This rider was talking: “...don’t know nothin’ ‘cept what I heahed. Hawses runnin’ wild. Then shots. Two big buffalo guns an’ a forty-five.”

  “Ahuh. Which way, Sans?”

  The vaquero stretched his arm to the south.

  “Everybody listen,” ordered Texas, and he for one got down to lay his ear to the ground.

  The silence was vibrant, intense. Nothing disturbed it. Texas stood up.

  “Hawses movin’ somewhere. Just restless. No more runnin’.... Now, listen some more.”

  Texas cupped his hands around his mouth. A whistling intake of air attested to his purpose. Suddenly he exploded: “HEY REDDIE!”

  The stentorian yell split the silence and rolled away across the level, strange and wild. At once came an answer, faint but unmistakable, from the south.

  “There! Sounds like...”

  “Ssshh! Listen hard,” interrupted Texas. Another reply came from the opposite direction, and then a very distant cry from the west. Lastly a nearer voice concluded the location of the herd.

  “Spread oot, fellars, an’ run this way,” ordered Texas. “Stop every hundred yards or so, an’ look sharp for the hawses. Hell to pay, I reckon.”

  San Sabe took the lead on his horse and was soon out of sight. Brite worked to the right and obeyed orders. He must have halted a dozen times before he was rewarded by any sound, and then he heard horses that he could not see. After this he walked, out of breath, and strung with eagerness. Texas Joe had not reacted quietly to this midnight disturbance. Shrill neigh of horses swerved Brite back to the left. Soon a compact black patch stood out against the gray.

  “Where’n hell air yu, Reddie?” called Shipman.

  “Heah I’m comin’,” came in the high-pitched voice Brite had learned to know. Presently he ran into the waiting group just as Reddie Bayne’s big black loomed out of the gray.

  “What yu doin’ oot heah at this hour?” demanded Texas, peremptorily.

  “I didn’t go to camp,” replied Bayne.

  “Ahuh. An’ why didn’t yu obey orders?”

  “I got suspicious, Shipman. An’ I stayed with the hawses. I heahed voices an’ I seen lights. Then I bunched the remuda an’ worked them toward camp away from the herd. Pretty soon I heahed poundin’ hoofs. Then a string of riders showed comin’ fast. I shot at the leader an’ hit him or his hawse. But he kept right on. He an’ the riders with him piled right into my remuda. When they began to shoot I savvied what they were up to. They cut oot some of my hawses an’ drove them away. I shot at them an’ they shot back.... Reckon thet’s aboot all.”

  “Stampeders!... Wal, Deuce had it figgered,” declared Texas.

  “Let’s fork our hawses an’ hunt ’em up,” suggested Holden.

  Brite did not think this advisable, but he held his tongue.

  “How many’d they run off, Reddie?” queried Texas.

  “I cain’t tell. Not many, though.”

  “Wal, we’ll wait till mawnin’, anyhow.... Reddie, go to camp an’ get some sleep. It’s most daybreak.”

  “If yu don’t mind, I’d as lief hang oot heah,” returned Bayne.

  “Mebbe thet’s just as wal.... Spread oot, boys, an’ surround the remuda loose like. Yell if yu heah any hawses comin’.”

  Silence once more settled down over the prairie. The riders vanished one by one. Brite patrolled a beat that eventually fetched him close to Texas Joe.

  “What yu make of this, Joe?”

  “Wal, we oughta expected it. I reckon we’re in for rough sleddin’. Too many haid of stock an’ too few drivers.”

  “Thet’s how I figger it,” rejoined the boss, thoughtfully. “But I’ll tell yu, Shipman. If we get to Dodge with half our stock I’ll still make a big stake. An’ shore I won’t forget yu boys.”

  “Boss, I ain’t carin’ a damn how many haid we lose. But I won’t give up one single damn old long-horn without a fight. But hawse-stealin’! Thet riles me.... Say, Brite, did it strike yu — how game thet kid Bayne was, stayin’ oot heah all alone? Dog-gone him! He rubs me the wrong way, but somehow I gotta like him.”

  “So do I. — Tex, I wish yu’d treat Reddie a — a bit better.”

  “Ahuh. I seen thet. Wal, I ain’t a-goin’ to have any favorites this drive. Why, the whole ootfit will hate my guts before we reach Dodge!... At thet, the whole ootfit never will make it, Brite.”

  “Got a hunch, hey?” queried the boss, gloomily.

  “So bad it hurts.... Wal, the east is grayin’. Wonder what this heah day will bring forth.”

  Brite plodded back to his beat, and watched the stars pale and die, the east kindle, the gray steal away as if by magic, and the horses and cattle and land take shape.

  Presently Texas Joe waved him campward. The herd appeared to be up and on the slow move north. And again the day promised fine. As Brite trudged into camp he espied San Sabe, Bender, Ackerman, standing, cups in hand, around Alabama Moze.

  Then Texas came striding in on foot, his hawk eyes narrowed and his handsome lips tight.

  “Deuce, yu point the herd an’ get goin’,” he said, tersely. “Send Pan Handle back shore with the others.”

  “Air yu goin’ to rustle?”

  “Yu bet. Reddie’s drivin’ in some hawses. I reckon I’ll take a look at them tracks south... Boss, we lost upward of twenty-five haid of hawses.”

  “Small loss, if it ends there.”

  “Ahuh. Say, for an old Texan yu’re nice disposed toward these stampeders.”

  “Tex, I’ll bet he’ll rave one of these days,” laughed Deuce.

  Reddie came loping in behind half a dozen ragged mustangs. The drivers spread and waved arms and ropes to corral them in a corner. Soon, then, only Brite, Texas Joe, Reddie, and the negro were left in camp. Texas appeared taciturn, as well as hungry. He was in a hurry, too. Reddie received his pan of food and cup from Moze, and repaired to an improvised seat, where he devoted himself assiduously to his meal.

  The sun peeped up red over the purple horizon, and all the range land took on a rosy sheen. Even the birds heralded that transformation. Brite paused to take in the fresh radiance of the dawn. The long gramma grass shone bright as silver, and the flowers stood up with pale beautiful faces toward the east.

  All of a sudden Texas Joe got up, cursing inaudibly. His lean head stuck out like that of a hawk as he peered to the south.

  “What yu heah, Tex?” queried Brite, sharply.

  “Hawses.”

  Brite soon had to confess that Texas was correct.

  “What of thet?” went on the boss.

  “Wal, nothin’. Only couplin’ it
with what come off this mawnin’ it ain’t so good.”

  Presently a group of riders appeared at the far corner of timber. Brite counted seven or eight, all dark figures, coming at a brisk trot. Texas gave one long look, then turned to Brite.

  “Boss, thet bunch has been watchin’ us,” he said, his eyes gleaming. “Timed us nice. Our boys just left an’ the guard not in sight.”

  Suddenly Reddie Bayne leaped up, letting his pan clang to the ground.

  “Wallen an’ his ootfit!” cried Reddie, startled.

  “Shore aboot thet, boy?” asked Texas, darkly.

  “Yes, shore. I know him.... I’ll bet they stampeded my remuda.... An’ now they’re after me.”

  “Wal, keep back an’ be careful what yu say.... Brite, have yore Winchester handy. Let me do the talkin’.... This heah’s a time we may need yore Pan Handle Smith.”

  The dark compact bunch of riders closed the gap quickly and drew up in a semicircle just opposite the fire and chuck-wagon. Brite did not need to question their character and intent — not this time! He recognized the swarthy Wallen, whose big bold eyes swept the camp, and the range beyond. Foremost of the other riders was a more striking individual even than Wallen — a man of about fifty years, with a visage like a bleak stone bluff and eyes like fiery cracks. Brite had seen this same man somewhere. The five others were a likely crew for these leaders — all young, lean, unkempt cowboys.

  “Wal, heah’s our Reddie Bayne,” spoke up Wallen, gruffly, pointing a heavy hand at Reddie.

  “Shore an’ proper, Wal,” replied his lieutenant, in a dry, crisp voice.

  Whereupon Wallen turned his rolling eyes upon Brite. “Lied to me back on the trail a ways — hey, Brite?”

  “If I did I’ll stick to it,” retorted Brite, his blood leaping.

  Texas Joe strode forward and to one side, getting out of line of the chuck-wagon with a significance that no Texan could have mistaken.

  “Wallen, I see some of yore outfit packin’ needle guns on their saddles,” he said, with biting sarcasm.

  “What if they air? We’re huntin’ buffalo.”

  “Ahuh. Thet what yu say.”

  “I’ll talk to Brite, an’ not to yu, cowboy,” declared Wallen, aggressively.

  “Yu talk to Texas Joe,” interposed Brite, caustically.

  “Brite, we want thet youngster yu kidnapped. Reddie Bayne,” declared the leader of the visitors.

  “Wallen, I ain’t used to palaverin’ with men like yu,” rejoined Texas, bitingly. It struck Brite that his foreman was playing for time to let Pan Handle Smith and the others reach camp. Brite flashed a furtive glance across the rosy grassland. No sign of a rider! This was serious, for there surely would be violence here promptly.

  “Who the hell air yu?” shouted Wallen, hoarsely.

  “Wal, I know this hombre,” said Wallen’s partner. “It’s Texas Shipman.”

  “That means nothin’ to me.”

  “Then yu do the talkin’, pard,” returned his companion, in cool hard voice that told Brite much. This lieutenant was the more dangerous man.

  “I shore don’t need yu, Ross Hite, to do my talkin’,” snorted Wallen.

  Ross Hite! Brite responded to that name well known to trail drivers. Hite had run the gamut of all Texas occupations known to the range.

  “Wal, talk then, damn yu, an’ make it short,” shot out Texas. “What yu want?”

  “We’re drivin’ our stock on ahaid,” replied Wallen, bluntly. “Yu travel too slow, an’ they’re crowdin’ us.... I want this rider, Reddie Bayne. He come to me in a deal I made with Jones at Braseda.”

  “Ahuh. Does Bayne owe yu his services?”

  “He shore does.”

  “What yu say, Reddie?”

  Reddie leaped forward. “He’s a damn liar, Texas,” shrilled Reddie, passionately. “I’ve run off from three ranches to get away from him.”

  “Shet up or it’ll be the wuss for yu,” replied Wallen, stridently.

  “Slow there, Wallen,” rang out Texas. “This heah is a free country. The day of slaves, white or black, is over.”

  “Reddie, tell why Wallen wants yu,” spoke up Brite, cunningly. His Texan blood was not proof against this evasion. Besides, out on a far ridge top he descried a dark rider coming fast. Pan Handle!

  “Oh — Tex,” burst out Reddie, poignantly, “he’s after me because— ‘cause I’m — a — I’m not what yu — think.”

  Texas stiffened slightly, but never turned the breadth of a hair from the rider he was facing. Wallen’s face turned a dirty gray.

  “What air yu — Reddie?” queried Texas, low and cool.

  “I — I’m a — girl, Texas.... An’ thet’s why,” replied Reddie, huskily.

  “Look oot!” shouted Ross Hite, piercingly.

  Wallen clapped his hand to his hip. Texas appeared to blur in Brite’s strained sight. A gun belched red, and with the loud crack Wallen jerked up with terrible sudden rigidity. His dark face changed from hideous rage to an awful ghastliness, and he pitched from the saddle to fall with sodden crash. His horse lunged away. The other horse reared and snorted.

  “Haid aboot or I’ll bore yu!” yelled Texas, his gun outstretched. “Brite, back me up with yore rifle. Reddie, line oot heah!”

  Brite had scarcely needed the ringing order, for his rifle was levelled before Texas had finished. Likewise Reddie leaped forward, fearless and menacing.

  All the riders except Ross Hite had wheeled abruptly. Several were walking their horses away. Hite showed no fear in his lean sallow face as he peered from Texas to the prostrate Wallen, and then back across the camp. Brite heard the thud of flying hoofs, and farther back the violent cries of riding cowboys.

  “Brite, do yu want us to pack Wallen away?” queried Hite.

  “No, thanks, we’ll ‘tend to him,” retorted Brite, sarcastically.

  Just then a horse plunged by the chuck-wagon and, being pulled up short, slid to a halt, scattering dust and gravel everywhere. Pan Handle Smith leaped off in their midst, a gun magically appearing in each hand. It was then Brite’s tension relaxed.

  “What’s the deal?” asked Smith, quietly.

  Ross Hite stared hard at Smith and then laughed harshly.

  “Wal, Brite, yu air a trail driver thet goes heeled. Texas Shipman an’ now Pan Handle Smith!”

  “Rustle oot of heah!” ordered Texas.

  “Men, this was Wallen’s deal, not mine,” returned Hite, and turning his horse he drove his companions ahead of him, quickly breaking into a gallop. Soon they passed round the corner of timber whence they had come.

  Only then did Texas Joe move. He gave a quick glance at the dead Wallen and then wheeled with pale face and glittering eyes.

  “Heah yu, Reddie Bayne,” he called, and in two long strides he confronted Reddie. “Did yu say yu was a girl?”

  “Yes, Texas Joe — I — I am,” replied Reddie, and took off her sombrero to prove it. Her face was ashen and her eyes darkly dilated with receding terror. Texas fastened his left hand in her blouse and drew her up on her toes, close under his piercing gaze. His tawny hair stood up like the mane of a lion. But his cold fury was waning. Bewilderment hung close upon his passion.

  “Yu — yu... all the time — yu’ve been a — a girl?” he broke out, hoarsely.

  “Yes, Texas, all the time,” she whispered, sagging in his iron grasp. “I — I didn’t mean to fool yu. I told the boss.... I — I wanted to tell you, but he wouldn’t let me.... I — I’m sorry.”

  CHAPTER V

  TEXAS JOE APPEARED to shrink. He released Reddie so suddenly that she sagged and almost sank down, her hand at the neck of her blouse.

  “Ootrag-eous of yu!” panted Texas as his pallid face grew red. “Makin’ oot yu was a boy — before us all!... An’ lettin’ me spank yu — an’ — —”

  “Let yu!” flashed Reddie, her face flaming worse than his. “Why, yu dam big brute, I couldn’t help myself!”

  “An’ all thet
camp cussin’ of ours — an’ dirty talk before a girl!... My Gawd! Yu done a turrible thing, Miss Reddie Bayne!”

  “I reckon, but it was these damn hombres like him — thet drove me to it,” declared Reddie, passionately, pointing a shaking finger at the ghastly, quiet Wallen.

  With that Texas Joe seemed to realize the tragic side of what had happened. Wheeling abruptly away from the girl, he sheathed his gun and bent a grim, strange look upon the dead man.

  “Search him, some of yu,” he said, sharp and cold. “Drag him oot an’ throw him in thet wash.... Come a-rustlin’ now, all of yu. Let’s get oot of this.”

  “Where yu goin’, Tex?” called Brite, as the driver strode away.

  “Take my hawse,” cried Reddie, after him.

  But Texas Joe paid no heed to either. Soon he passed out of sight in the low brush. Then the strain among those around the camp fire relaxed. Reddie sat down as if her legs had grown weak.

  “I’ve seen men shot before — but never for me,” she whispered. “I feel like a — a murderer.”

  “Nonsense, Reddie,” spoke up Brite, brusquely. “I’d have bored Wallen myself if Texas hadn’t.... Pan Handle, did yu see thet one of Wallen’s ootfit forked a hawse of mine?”

  “No, boss, I didn’t. Fact is I had eyes only for Ross Hite.”

  “Wal, it’s true. When I bought thet bunch of stock I happened to take notice of a little bay mustang with a white face. I don’t mistake hawses I’ve once looked over. Wallen’s ootfit stampeded some of our remuda this mawnin’.”

  “Boss, I don’t know Wallen, but he shore was ridin’ in bad company,” said Pan Handle.

  “Ahuh. Yu know this Ross Hite?” rejoined Brite.

  “Wal, rather. He was a cattle-buyer at Abilene. But he got into shady deals an’ found Abilene too hot for him. Surprises me, though, to find him stampedin’ a few hawses. I reckon thet was just by the way. Or else he’s goin’ to work somethin’ big on this Chisholm Trail.”

  “Humph! Mebbe Hite is at the haid of this new game,” declared the boss, seriously. “Cattle-drivers sometimes lose half their stock from stampeders. I’ve heahed of one whole herd bein’ stole.”