Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  “Mr. Brite, we’ll be drivin’ yore herd again before we cross the Red,” said the hunter. “We’ll have these robbers buffaloed from now on. They’ll have to leave the herd or croak, thet’s all. Reckon thet tall fellar on the bay hawse was Hite, reckonin’ from the way they ranted at him.”

  “Load up, everybody. We mustn’t forget we’re now in Comanche country,” advised Texas. “Boss, who’s the young fellar with burnt powder on his nose?”

  “This heah? — Oh, this is Red Bayne,” replied Brite, eager for some fun now the tension was removed. “Did yore rifle kick?”

  “Did it? Wuss than a mule. I forgot to hold the darn thing tight,” rejoined Reddie, in rueful disgust.

  “Let’s rustle back to camp, eat, an’ get goin’ ‘cross this river,” said Texas. “It’ll shore be little sleep or rest Ross Hite will get from now on.”

  CHAPTER XII

  IF IT WERE needed, Texas’ coup inspirited the drivers who had not shared it. Deuce Ackerman let out one long wild whoop.

  “Hip hip, thet’s great! Look what we missed, Rolly. But some of us had to stay behind.... Tex, we’ll get goin’ yet an’ then Gawd help ’em!”

  In an hour they were on the move, and soon after that halted at the crossing where Hite’s men had been routed. The three dead horses had floated downstream some distance to lodge in shallower water. Williams had sent a scout back in the trail, another up on the bluff, and a third ahead. They met the outfit at the ford, to report nothing in sight but buffalo.

  “How aboot us bein’ ambushed?” queried Texas.

  “Wal, strikes me Hite would pick oot a better place than thet over there,” replied Williams. “Mr. Brite, suppose yu hand up yore glass to young Ackerman, so he can have a look.... Stand up on the seat, son.”

  After a long survey Ackerman shook his head decisively. “Nope. I can see all under the trees an’ right through thet thin skift of brush.”

  “Wal, just to make shore, some of us’ll ride over ahaid,” said Texas. “Come, San, an’ yu Bender, an’ Less.... Look sharp, an’ if yu see puffs of smoke wheel an’ ride for dear life.”

  These riders crossed in good order, proving the validity of Ackerman’s judgment. Reddie crossed next with the remuda, and then Moze made it without going over his wagon wheels. The Hardy vehicle had to have help, stalling a little beyond the middle.

  “Rustle before she mires down,” yelled Texas, who had ridden out. “Come, Miss Ann. I’ll pack yu ashore. Yu’ll get all wet there.”

  Ackerman’s face was a study while Ann Hardy readily leaned out to be taken in Texas Joe’s arms and carried ashore. Then the riders, hitching on with their ropes, aided the team to pull the wagon out. Williams drove the third wagon across without mishap. But the fourth and last stuck in the mud, about halfway over.

  This accident held up the caravan. It was the largest wagon, half full of buffalo hides, and it sank deeper in the mire after every effort to dislodge it. The drivers broke their ropes. Then they got off in water up to their waists and performed all manner of strenuous labor, to no avail.

  Finally, Williams waded in and, unhitching the team, drove them ashore.

  “Wagon’s no good, anyhow, an’ never mind the hides. Thar’s ten million of ’em loose oot heah.”

  They went on with two teams hitched to the Hardy wagon, which held the heaviest load. And soon they were up out of the bottom land upon the vast heave of the range. The cattle herd had been driven almost due east. Williams said that had been done to strike the Chisholm Trail. Before long this proved to be a correct surmise.

  The day was sultry and brooded storm. Bands of buffalo grazed on all sides, attended by droves of wolves and coyotes and flocks of birds. By noon Ackerman, who still retained Brite’s glass, reported the herd in sight ahead less than ten miles. All afternoon the caravan gained, which fact probably was known to the Hite outfit. At sunset Hite halted the herd on the open range, where not a tree or a bush could be picked up with the glass. A little swale well watered and wooded appealed to Texas Joe, who turned off here and selected a camp site. Scarcely half a dozen miles separated the two outfits.

  The sun set in a red flare and dusk trooped up from the west, sultry and ominous. Dull rumbles of thunder heralded an approaching storm, and flashes of sheet lightning flared along the dark horizon. The silence, the absence of even a slightest movement of air, the brooding wait of nature, were not propitious to the caravan caught out upon the open range. Brite told the girls how the electric storms prevalent in that latitude of Texas were the bane of the trail drivers, actually more dreaded than redskins or buffalo.

  “But why?” asked Ann Hardy, wonderingly.

  “Wal, they’re just naturally fearful in the first place, an’ they drive hawses an’ cattle crazy. Fred Bell, a trail driver I know, said he got caught once in a storm near the Canadian an’ had thirty-seven haid of cattle an’ one driver struck daid by lightnin’.”

  Reddie was no less shocked than Ann and vowed she would surely pray that they miss such a storm as that.

  “I been in a coupla electric storms,” spoke up Texas, who had paused in his walk to listen. “Been in hundreds of plain lightnin’-an’-thunder storms. Only two of these darn floods of electricity thet cover the earth an’ everythin’ on it. I’ve seen balls of fire on the tops of all the cows’ horns. I’ve seen fire run along a hawse’s mane, an’ heahed it too. Yes, sir, bad storms air hell for cowhands.”

  Later, when the girls had walked away, Texas spoke low and seriously to Brite.

  “Boss, any kind of a storm tonight, if it’ll only flash lightnin’ enough, will shore suit me an’ Pan Handle.”

  “Tex! — What’s in yore mind?” queried Brite, hastily.

  “We’re gonna get back our herd tonight.”

  “Yu an’ Pan? Alone?”

  “Shore alone. Thet’s the way to do it. Pan wanted to tackle it by hisself, an’ so did I. But we compromised by joinin’ forces. We’re goin’ together.”

  “Shipman, I — I don’t know thet I’ll permit it,” rejoined Brite, gravely.

  “Shore yu will. I’d hate to disobey yu, Mr. Brite. But I’m Trail boss. An’ as for Pan Handle, hell! Thet fellar cain’t be bossed.”

  “What’s yore idee, Tex? I hope to heaven it ain’t crazy. Yu an’ Pan air grown men. An’ yu shore know yore responsibility heah. Two young girls to protect now, an’ a crippled man.”

  “Wal, the idee strikes yu wuss than it really is,” went on Texas. “Pan an’ me plan to strike the herd in the thickest of the thunder an’ lightnin’. When we do I’ll circle it one way an’ he’ll circle the other. If the cattle stampede, as is likely, we’ll ride along an’ wait till they begin to mill or stop. Now Hite’s ootfit will be havin’ their hands full. They’ll be separatin’, naturally, tryin’ to keep the herd bunched an’ stopped. An’ in a flash of lightnin’, when any one of them seen us, he wouldn’t know us from Adam. Savvy, boss?”

  “I cain’t say thet I do,” replied Brite, puzzled.

  “Wal, yu’re gettin’ thick-haided in yore old age. Kinda gettin’ dotty adoptin’ this pretty kid, huh?”

  “Tex, don’t rile me. Shore I’m dotty, aboot her, anyway. But I don’t get yore hunch. Now, for instance, when yu an’ Pan circle thet herd, goin’ in opposite directions, when yu meet how’n hell will yu know each other? Shootin’ by lightnin’ flash had ought to be as quick as lightnin’, I’d say. How’n hell would yu keep from shootin’ each other?”

  “Wal, thet’s got me stumped, I’ll admit. Let’s put our haids together after supper. Mebbe one of us will hit on just the idee. If we think up somethin’ shore — wal, it’s all day with Hite an’ his ootfit.”

  Moze rolled out his familiar clarion blast.

  “Gosh! this’s fine, all heah together, first time,” exclaimed Ackerman, whose spirits ran high. He had just seated Ann on a pack beside him.

  “Wal, it may be the last, so make the most of it,” drawled Texas, his dark, piercing ey
es upon Reddie. Brite saw her catch her breath. Then silence fell.

  Dusk deepened into night, still close, humid, threatening, with the rumbles sounding closer and more frequent. In the western sky all the stars disappeared. The moon was not yet up.

  “Chuck on some firewood an’ gather aboot me heah,” said Texas, after the meal ended. “It’s shore gonna storm pronto. An’ me an’ Pan have a job on.”

  “What?” bluntly jerked out Holden.

  “Thought yu was kinda glum,” added San Sabe.

  “Reddie, yu’re in on this,” called Texas. “An’ Ann, too, if she likes. Shore no one ever seen an idee come oot of a pretty girl’s haid. But I’m sorta desperate tonight.”

  In the bright light of the replenished fire they all surrounded their foreman, curious and expectant.

  “Wal, heah’s at yu. Me an’ Pan air ridin’ oot to round up Hite. Soon as the storm’s aboot to break we’ll ride up on the herd an’ the guards. I’ve got them located. We plan to circle the herd in different directions, an’ we want to know ab-so-loot-lee when we meet each other. How we goin’ to do thet?”

  “Yu mean recognize each other by lightnin’ flashes?” queried Less.

  “Shore.”

  “It cain’t be did.”

  “Aw, yes it can. A lightnin’ flash lasts a second — sometimes a good deal longer. How much time do I need to see to throw a gun — or not?”

  “Oh-ho! Thet’s the idee!”

  “Lemme go along.”

  “No, it’s a two man job.... Use yore gray matter now, pards.”

  “It’ll be rainin’, most likely, an’ the herd will be driftin’, mebbe movin’ fast. An’ of course Hite’s ootfit will be surroundin’ it, all separated. It’s a grand idee, Tex, if yu don’t plug each other.”

  “Wal, let’s see,” put in another driver. “When yu separate yu’ll know for shore yu cain’t meet very soon. It’ll take most a quarter or mebbe half an hour to trot around a big herd, guidin’ by lightnin’ flashes.”

  “Boys,” drawled Pan Handle, in amusement, “yore minds work slow. What we want to know is what to wear thet can be seen quick. Somethin’ shore to identify each other. Remember we’ll both be holdin’ cocked guns.”

  One by one the male contingent came forward with suggestions, each of which was summarily dismissed.

  “If it storms, the wind will blow, shore?” interposed Reddie.

  “Breeze blowin’ already. There’ll be a stiff wind with the rain,” replied Texas.

  “Tie somethin’ white aboot yore sombreros an’ leave the ends long so they’ll flap in the wind.”

  “White?” responded Pan Handle, sharply.

  “Dog-gone!” added Texas.

  “Men, thet is a splendid idee,” interposed Brite, earnestly. “Somethin’ white streakin’ oot! It couldn’t be beat.”

  “Where’ll we get this heah somethin’ white?” asked Texas. “In this dirty ootfit it’d be huntin’ a needle in a haystack.”

  “Ann has a clean white towel,” replied Reddie.

  “Yes, I have,” said the girl, eagerly. “I’ll get it.”

  When the article was produced and placed in Texas’ hands he began to tear it into strips. “Wal, Reddie, yu’ve saved my life. I shore want this Pan Handle galoot to make quick an’ shore thet I’m Tex Shipman.... Heah, we’ll knot two strips together, an’ then tie the double piece round our hats.... Come, Reddie, take it.”

  She complied, and when he bent his head she clumsily wound the long streamer around the crown of his sombrero. The firelight showed her face white as the towel.

  “What yu shakin’ for?” demanded Texas. “Anyone would get the halloocinnation yu reckoned I was gonna be killed an’ yu felt bad.”

  “I would feel — very bad — Tex,” she faltered.

  “Wal, thet makes up for a lot.... Tie it tighter, so the wind cain’t blow it off.... There. I reckon that’ll do. How aboot yu, Pan?”

  “I’m decorated, too.”

  “Wal, I could ‘most see thet in the dark.... Now, fellars, listen. Like as not we won’t come back tonight, onless our plan fails. If it works we’ll be with the herd, yu bet. So yu rout Moze oot early, grab some grub, an’ ride oot soon as it’s light. The wagons can foller on the road. Yu’ll find us somewhere.”

  In utter silence, then, the two men mounted their horses, that had been kept haltered close by, and rode away into the sulphurous, melancholy night.

  “Thet’s a new wrinkle on Hash Williams,” ejaculated that worthy. “What them gun-throwers cain’t think of would beat hell!”

  His caustic remark broke the tensity of the moment. Reddie had stood like a statue, her face in shadow, gazing into the blackness where Texas Joe had vanished. Brite did not need this time to see her eyes; her form, instinct with speechless protest, betrayed her.

  The wind swept in from the range with a moan, blowing a stream of red sparks aloft. Thunder boomed. And a flare of lightning showed inky black clouds swooping down from the west.

  “We better think aboot keepin’ ourselves an’ beds dry,” advised Brite. “Deuce, see thet Ann an’ her father will be protected. Moze, get oot our tarp. Come, Reddie, we’ll bunk under the chuck-wagon an’ say we like it.”

  “Dad, I wonder if my remuda will hang in a storm?” inquired Reddie, undecided what to do.

  “Wal, thet bunch of dogies can go hang if they want.”

  “Reddie, I’ll have a look at ’em before the storm busts,” said San Sabe.

  “Yu’ll have to rustle, then.”

  “Thet’s only wind. It ain’t rainin’ yet.”

  By the time Moze, Brite, and Reddie had tied and stoned the ends of the tarpaulin so that it could not blow away the rain was coming in big scattered drops. Brite felt them cool and fresh upon his face. He and Reddie rushed for their shelter, and had made it fast when the pitch blackness blazed into an intense blue-white brilliance which lighted camp, wagons, horses, and all the vicinity into a supernatural silvery clearness. A thunderbolt followed that seemed to rend the earth.

  The succeeding blackness appeared an intensified medium impenetrable and pitchy. Then the thunder reverberated away in terrific concussions.

  “Where air yu, Dad?” shouted Reddie.

  “I’m right heah,” Brite replied. “Listen to the roar of thet rain comin’.”

  “Gosh! I better say my prayers pronto, or the good Lawd’ll never heah me,” cried Reddie.

  “Lass, it might be a good idee,” replied Brite. “Let’s don’t unroll our beds till this storm is over.”

  Reddie answered something to that, but in the pressing fury of the deluge he could not distinguish what it was. With a rippling onslaught upon their canvas shield, rain and wind enveloped the wagon. Then the pitch black split to a weird white light that quivered all around them, showing the torrent of rain, the flooded land, the horses bunched, heads down, together. Thunder burst like disrupted mountains. Again the black mantle fell. But before that reverberation rolled away another zigzag rope of lightning divided the dense cloud, letting loose an all-embracing supernatural glow, silver-green, that lent unreality to everything. White flash after white flash followed until for moments there appeared scarcely a dark interval between, and the tremendous boom and peal of thunder was continuous.

  Reddie sat huddled under the wagon, covered with the long slicker. Brite could see her pale face and dark eyes in the lightning flare. Fear shone there, but it did not seem to be for herself. Reddie was gazing out over the blaze-swept range with the terrible consciousness of what was taking place out there.

  That, too, obsessed Brite’s mind. He reclined on his elbow close beside Reddie and not far from Moze, who had also sought shelter under the wagon. Reddie appeared to be fairly shielded from the deluge that beat in everywhere. But Brite needed the old canvas with which he covered himself. The other drivers had huddled under the other wagons, and could be seen, a dark mass, inside the wheels.

  Brite was not at all fond of Texa
s storms, even of the ordinary kind. He had a wholesome fear of the real electric storm, which this one did not appear to be. At this time, however, he scarcely thought of the fact that lightning struck camp frequently.

  His thoughts dwelt on the unparalleled action of Texas Joe and Pan Handle, riding forth in that storm to mete dire justice to the stampeders. It must have been an original idea — stalking Hite’s outfit in face of the furious rain and deafening thunder and scintillating flashes. For sheer iron nerve it had no equal in Brite’s memory of cold, hard deeds. These men would be drenched to the skin by now, blinded by piercing rain and lightning, almost blown from their saddles, in imminent peril of being run down by a stampeding herd, and lastly of being shot by the men they had set out to kill.

  By the strange green light Brite calculated whether or not he could shoot accurately under such conditions. The flashes lasted long enough for a swift eye and hand. All the same he would not have cared to match wits and faculties with hunted desperadoes on a night like this.

  It took an hour or longer for the heavy center of the storm to pass, after which rain and wind, and an occasional flare, diminished in volume. Perceptibly the storm boomed and roared and flashed away. Whatever had been fated to happen out there was over. Brite had no doubt of its deadly outcome. Still, that might be over-confidence in his gunmen. He had nothing sure to go by. Ross Hite was a crafty desperado, and for all Brite knew he might be the equal of Texas Joe. But not of Pan Handle Smith! Pan Handle could only be compared to the great Texas killer of that decade.

  Reddie had rolled in her blankets and was asleep, as Brite dimly made out by the receding flares. He sought his own bed, weary, strangely calm, somehow fixed in his sense of victory.

  It was still dark when noise aroused him from slumber. A grayness, however, betrayed the east and was the harbinger of day. He reached over to give Reddie a shake, but the dark object he had taken for her was her bed. Moze was out, too, splitting wood. Brite hurried out to lend a hand.

  Gruff voices sounded toward the other wagons. Dark forms of men strode to and fro against that gray light. “Pete, we got to grease the wagon,” Williams called gruffly. Reddie’s clean, high-pitched call came floating in. She had the remuda moving. One by one the cowboys appeared at the brightening camp fire, cold, cramped, wet, silent, and morose. Ackerman was not present, wherefore Brite concluded that he had gone with Reddie to round up the remuda. This surmise proved correct. When the mustangs got in there followed the sharp whistle of wet ropes, the stamp of little hoofs, the grind of hard heels, and an occasional low growl or curse from a cowhand. That task done, the riders flocked around Moze to snatch at something to eat.