Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  “Sol, will you keep my money till I come askin’ for it?” queried Rock, with his hand inside his waistcoat.

  “Now what’re you up to?”

  “I’m’ goin’ out and get awful, terrible drunk,” declared Rock.

  Winter laughed, though he looked serious enough. “Don’t do it, True. It’ll only fetch back the old habit. You look so fine, I’d hate to see you, do it.”

  “I’m goin’ to drown my grief, Sol,” declared Rock, solemnly.

  “Well, wait till I come back,” returned Winter. “I’ve got to go to the station. My clerk is off today. Keep store for me — like you used to.”

  “All right. I’ll keep store. But you rustle back here pronto.”

  Winter hurried out, leaving Rock sitting on the counter, a prey to symptoms he well knew. If Sol did not hurry back —

  A light quick step arrested the current of Trueman’s thoughts. He looked up. A girl had entered the store. His first swift sight of her caused him to slip off the counter. She looked around expectantly, and seeing Rock she hesitated, then came forward. Rock suddenly realised that to get terribly drunk was the very remotest thing that he wanted or intended to do.

  “Is Mr. Winter in?” asked the girt, pausing before the counter.

  “No. He had to go to the station. Reckon he’ll be there quite some time. Can I do anythin’ for you?” Rock was cool, easy; respectful.

  “Are you the new clerk, Mr. Winter was expecting?” she queried.

  “Yes, miss, at your service.”

  “I’ve quite a list of things to get,” she said, opening a handbag.

  “I’ll do my best, miss. But I’m a little new to the business.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll help you,” she returned, graciously. “Now where is that paper?”

  The delay, gave Trueman opportunity to look at her covertly. She was thoroughbred Western, about 21 or 22, blonde, with fair hair more silver than gold. She was not robust of build, yet scarcely slender. She wore a faded little blue bonnet not of the latest style, and her plain white dress, though clean and neat, had seen long service.

  “Here it is,” she said, producing a slip of paper and looking up somewhat flushed. Her eyes were large, wide apart, grey in colour. Rock looked into them. Something happened to him then that had never happened before and which could never happen again.

  “Now, shall I read the list off one at a time or altogether?”

  “Well, miss, it really doesn’t — make any difference,” replied Trueman, vaguely, gazing at her lips. They were sweet and full and red, and just now curved into a little questioning smile. But, as he watched, it fled and then they seemed sad. Indeed her whole face seemed sad, particularly the deep grey eyes that had begun to regard him somewhat doubtfully.

  “Very well — the groceries first,” she said, consulting her list. “Five of sugar, five of rice, five—”

  “Five what?” interrupted Trueman, with alacrity. Everything was in plain sight. It ought to be easy, if he could keep his eyes off her.

  “Five what!” she echoed, in surprise. “Did you think I meant barrels? Five pounds.”

  “Sure. That’s what I thought,” replied Trueman, hastily. “But some people buy this stuff in bulk.”

  Rock began to grasp that he was bungling the greatest opportunity of his life. He found the sugar and had almost filled a large sack when she checked him: “Not brown sugar. White, please.”

  There was something in her tone that made Rock wonder if she were laughing at him. It stirred him to dexterity rather than clumsiness. He filled a large paper bag with white sugar.

  “But you didn’t weigh it,” she said.

  “I never weigh out small amounts,” he returned blandly. “I can guess very accurately.”

  “There’s more than five pounds of sugar in that bag,” she protested.

  “Probably, a little. Sure I never guess underweight. What next? Oh, the rice.”

  “Can you guess the weight of rice, too?”

  “Sure can. Even better. It’s not near so heavy as sugar.” And he filled a larger bag. In attempting to pass this to her he accidentally touched her bare hand with his. The soft contact shot a thrilling current through him. He dropped the bag. It burst, and the rice poured all over her, and like a white stream to the floor.

  “There — you’ve done’ it,” she said, aghast.

  “Excuse me, miss. I’m sure awkward this day. But rice is lucky. That might be a good omen. I’m superstitious. Spillin’ rice might mean a wedding.”

  She blushed, but spoke up with spirit. “It couldn’t, so far as I’m concerned,” she said. “Of course I don’t know your affairs. But you are wasting my time. I must hurry. They’ll be waiting.”

  Rock humbly apologized and proceeded to fill another bag with rice. Then he went on with the order, and for several moments, in which he kept his eyes averted, he performed very well as a clerk. He certainly prayed that Sol would not come back soon.

  “That’s all the groceries,” she said. “Now I want buttons, thread, calico, dress goods, linen and—”

  At the dry-goods counter Rock could not find anything.

  The young lady calmly walked behind the counter. “Can’t you read?” she inquired, pointing at some boxes.

  “Read!” exclaimed Trueman, in an injured tone. “Sure I can read. I went to school for eight years. That’s about four more than any cowpuncher I ever met.”

  “Indeed! No one would suspect it,” she returned demurely. “If you’re a cowboy — what’re you doing in here?”

  “I just lately went to clerking.”

  “Show me the buttons. There — in the white boxes. Thank you.”

  While she bent over them, looking and assorting, Trueman feasted his eyes on the little stray locks of fair hair that peeped from under her bonnet, on the small well-shaped ear, on the nape of her neck; beautiful and white, and upon the contour of cheek.

  “It isn’t pearl?” she inquired holding a button in her palm.

  “Sure is,” he replied dreamily, meaning her cheek, suddenly terribly aware of its nearness and sweetness.

  “That pearl! Don’t you know bone when you see it?”

  “I’m sorry,” spoke up Rock, contritely. “I’m not usually so dumb. But you see I never before waited on such a — a girl as you.”

  She shot him a grey glance not wholly doubtful or unforgiving. And meeting his eyes caused her to look down again with a tinge of colour staining her cheeks.

  “I’m not a clerk. Good heavens! If the gangs I’ve ridden with would drop in here to see me — doin’ this. Whew! My name is Trueman Rock. I’m an old friend of Sol Winter’s.”

  “Trueman Rock?” she repeated, almost with a start, as she swiftly lifted big, surprised eyes.

  “Yes. I used to ride this range years ago. I’ve been gone six years — five of which I’ve spent in Texas, workin’ hard and — well,’ I’d like you to know, because maybe you’ve heard talk here. Workin’ hard and goin’ straight. I sold out. Somethin’ drew me back to Wagontongue. Got here today, and when I ran in to see Sol he left me here in charge of the store. I’m sorry I’ve annoyed you — kept you waitin’. But it was Sol’s fault. Only, I should have told you first off.”

  “You needn’t apologize, Mr. Rock,” she replied shyly. “Please wrap these for me. Charge to Thiry Preston.”

  He found a pencil near at hand, and bending over a piece of wrapping paper, very business-like, he inquired, “Miss Thiry Preston?”

  “Yes, Miss,” she replied.

  “What place?” he went on.

  “Sunset Pass.”

  “Way out there?” He glanced up in surprise. “Sixty miles. I know that country — every water-hole, stone, and jack-rabbit.”

  She smiled fully for the first time, and that further fascinated Rock. “You were well acquainted, weren’t you?”

  “I expect to renew old acquaintances out there. And I may be lucky enough to make new ones.”

&
nbsp; Miss Preston did not meet his glance.

  “What instructions about these parcels?”

  “None. I’ll carry them.”

  “Carry them! All this heavy load? Thirty pounds or more!”

  “Surely. I’m quite strong. I’ve carried far more.”

  “Where to?”

  “Out to the corral. Our buckboard is there. They’ll be waiting and I’m late. I must hurry.” In rather nervous haste she took up the several light packages and moved toward the other counter.

  Rock got there first and intercepted her. “I’ll carry these.”

  “But you shouldn’t leave the store,” she protested.

  Fortunately, at this juncture Sol Winter hurriedly entered. “Well, now, what’s this?” he queried, with a broad smile. “Thiry, to think you’d happen in just the wrong minute.”

  “Oh, Mr. Winter, I didn’t miss you at all,” returned Thiry, gayly. “Your new clerk was most obliging and — and capable — after I found the thing I needed.”

  “Haw! Haw! He’s shore a fine clerk. Thiry, meet True Rock, old rider an’ pard Of mine.”

  “Ah — I remember now,” she flashed. “Is Mr. Rock the rider who once saved your son, Nick?”

  “Yes, Thiry,” he replied, and turning, to Rock he added, “Son, this lass is Miss Thiry Preston, who’s helped to make some hard times easier for me.”

  “Happy to meet you, Miss Preston,” beamed Rock.

  “How do you do, Mr. Rock,” returned Thiry, with just a hint of mischief in her grey eyes.

  They went out together and Trueman felt that he was soaring to the blue sky. Outside in the sunshine he could see her better and it was as if some magic had transformed her.

  They soon reached the end of the street and started across an open flat toward the corrals.

  “You’re in an awful hurry,” finally complained Trueman.

  “Yes, I am. I’m late, and you don’t know—” She did not complete the sentence, but nevertheless it told Rock much.

  By this time they had reached the first corral. The big gate swung ajar. The fence was planked and too high to see over. Thiry led the way in. Rock espied some saddle-horses, a wagon, and then a double-seated buckboard hitched to a fine-looking team of roans.

  “Here we, are,” said the girl, with evident relief. “No one come yet! I’m glad. Put the bundles under the back seat, Mr. Rock.”

  He did as directed, and then faced her, not knowing what to say, fearing the mingled feelings that swept over him and bewildered by them.

  “After all, you’ve been very kind — even if—”

  “Don’t say if,” he broke in, entreatingly. “Don’t spoil it by a single if. It’s been the greatest adventure of my life.”

  “Of many like adventures, no doubt,” she replied, her clear grey eyes on him.

  “I’ve met many girls in many ways, but there has never been anything like this,” he returned.

  “Mr. Rock!” she protested, lifting a hand to her cheek, where a wave of scarlet burned.

  Then a clink of spins, slow steps, and thuds of hoofs sounded behind Rock. He saw the girl’s colour fade and her face turn white.

  “Hyah she ish, Range,” called out a coarse voice, somehow vibrant, despite a thick hint of liquor. “With ‘nother galoot, b’gosh! Schecond one terday.”

  Slowly Rock turned on his heel, and in the turning went back to the original self that had been in abeyance for a while. When it came to dealing with men he was not a clerk.

  Two riders had entered the coral, and the foremost was dismounting. He was partly drunk, but that was not the striking thing about him. He looked and breathed the very spirit of the range at its wildest. He was tall, lean, lithe, with a handsome red face, eyes hot as blue flame and yellow hair that curled scraggily from under a dusty-black sombrero. Drops of sweat stood out like beads on his lean jowls and his curved lips. A gun swung below his hip.

  The other rider, called Range, was a cowboy, young in years, with still grey eyes like Miss Preston’s, and intent, expressionless face. Rock gathered from the resemblance that this boy was Thiry’s brother. But who was the other?

  “Thiry, who’s thish?” queried the rider, striding forward.

  “I can introduce myself,” struck in Rock coolly. “I’m Trueman Rock, late of Texas.”

  “Hell, you shay!” returned the other ponderingly, as if trying to fit the name to something in memory. “Whash you doin’ hyar?”

  “Well, if it’s any of your business, I was in Winter’s store and packed over Miss Preston’s bundles,” replied Rock.

  “Haw! Haw!” guffawed the rider derisively. Who was he? Surely not a lover! The thought seemed to cut fiercely into Rock’s inner flesh.

  “Wal,” went on the tall rider presently, swaggering closer to Rock, “run along, Big Hat, ‘fore I reach you with a boot.”

  “Ash! You’re drunk!” burst out the girl.

  The disgust and scorn and fear, and something else in her outbreak, instantly gave Rock tight rein on his own feelings. This rider, then, was Ash Preston. Her brother! The relief Rock experienced out-stressed anything else for the moment.

  “Whosh drunk?” queried Preston. “Your mistake, Thiry.”

  “Yes, you are drunk,” she returned with heat. “You’ve insulted Mr. Rock, who was kind enough to help me carry things from the store.”

  “Wal, I’ll help Mishter Rock on his way,” replied Preston leering.

  Range, the other rider, like a flash leaped out of his saddle and jerked Preston’s gun from its sheath. “Ash, you look out,” he called sharply. “You don’t know this fellar.”

  CHAPTER 2

  “WHASH THE HELL I care? He’s Big Hat, an’ I’m a-goin’ to chase him pronto.”

  Thiry Preston stepped out as if impelled, yet she was evidently clamped with fear. “Please, Ash, be decent if you can’t be a gentleman,” begged Thiry.

  For answer Preston lurched by Thiry and swept out a long slow arm, with open hand, aimed at Rock’s face. But Rock dodged, and at the sane time stuck out his foot dexterously. The rider, his momentum unchecked, tripped and lost his balance. He fell slowly, helplessly, and striking on his shoulder he rolled over in the dirt. He sat up, ludicrously, and wiping the dust off his cheek he extended a long arm, with shaking hand, up at Rock. “Shay, you hit me, fellar.”

  “Preston you’re quite wrong. I didn’t,” replied Rock.

  “Whash you hit me with?”

  “I didn’t hit you with anythin’.”

  “Range, is thish hyar Big Hat lyin’ to ‘me?”

  “Nope. You jest fell over him,” returned the younger rider.

  “Ash, you’re so drunk you can’t stand up,” interposed. Thiry.

  “Wal, stranger, I’m ‘ceptin’ your apology.”

  “Thanks. You’re sure considerate,” returned Rock with sarcasm. He was not used to total restraint and he could not remember when any man had jarred him so. Turning to the girl, he said: “I’ll go. Goodbye, Miss Preston.”

  With his back to the brothers Trueman made his eyes speak a great deal more than his words. The dullest of girls would have grasped that he did not mean goodbye forever. Thiry’s response to his gaze was a silent one of regret, of confusion.

  Rock stepped up on the corral fence, reached the top rail, and vaulted over. “Ash Preston! Bad medicine! And he’s her brother!” muttered Rock, aloud. “Sure as fate we’re goin’ to clash.”

  He strode back to Sol Winter’s store.

  “Now, son, what’s happened?” queried Sol, with concern.

  “Lord knows. I — don’t,” panted Rock, spilling off his sombrero and wiping his face. “But it’s — a lot.”

  “True, you took a shine to Thiry Preston, I seen that. No wonder. She’s the sweetest lass who ever struck these parts.”

  “So, we’ll investigate my state of mind last,” replied Rock, ruefully. “Listen. I ran into the Preston outfit. At least, two of them.” And he related all that had occurred
at the corral.

  “Same old Rock,” mused Winter. “No, not the same, either. There’s a difference I can’t name yet. Wal, this Preston outfit is sure prominent in these parts. They call them ‘The Thirteen Prestons of Sunset Pass.’ Nobody seems to know where they come from. Anyway, they drove a herd of cattle in here some time after you left. An’ ‘ceptin’ Ash Preston, they’re just about the most likeable outfit you ever seen. Fact is, they’re like Thiry. They located in Sunset Pass, right on the Divide. You know the place. An’ it wasn’t long until they’ were known all over the range. Wonderful outfit with horses and ropes.”

  “Go on, Sol. What was the trouble you had?”

  “They ran up a big bill in my store. The old store. I taxed the boys about it. Well, it was Ash Preston who raised the hell. He wasn’t drunk then. An’, son, you need to be told that Ash is wild when he’s drunk. When sober he’s — well, he’s different. Nick was alone in the store. Nick was a spunky lad, you know, an’ he razzed Ash somethin’ fierce. Result was Ash piled the lad in a corner an’ always hated him afterward. Fact is the range talk says Ash Preston hates everybody except Thiry. She’s the only one who can do anythin’ with him.”

  “She didn’t do a whole lot, today. The drunken — ! And Nick was shot off his horse out there in Sunset Pass?”

  “Yes. I think Ash Preston must have killed Nick. They must have met an’ fought it out. There were four empty shells, fresh shot, in Nick’s gun.”

  “The boy had nerve and he was no slouch with a six-shooter. I wonder—”

  “Well, Gage paid the bill. Then for a while he didn’t buy from me. But one day Thiry came in, an’ ever since I’ve sold goods to the Prestons. But none of them save Thiry have ever been in my store since.”

  “Ahuh. Any range talk among the punchers about these Prestons?”

  “Well, son, there used to be no more than concerned the Culvers, or Tolls, or Smiths, an’ not so much as used to be about the little outfits down in the woods. You know the range. All the outfits eat one another’s cattle. It was a kind of unwritten code. But lately, the last two years, conditions have gone on the same, in that way, an’ some different in another. I hear a good deal of complaint about the rustlin’ of cattle. An’ a few dark hints about the Prestons.