by Zane Grey
“Darn few, mind you, son, an’ sure vague an untrailable. It might be owin’ to the slow gettin’ rich of Gage Preston. It’s a fact. He’s growin’ rich. Not so much in cattle, but in land an’ money in bank. I happen to know he has a bank account in Las Vegas. That’s pretty far off, an’ it looks queer to me. Found it out by accident. I buy from a wholesale grocer in Las Vegas. He happened here, an’ in a talk dropped that bit of information. It’s sure not known here in Wagontongue.”
“Is Gage Preston one of these lone cattlemen?” queried Rock.
“Not now, but he sure was once.”
“Who’s he in with now?”
“John Dabb. They own the Bar X outfit. It’s not so much. Dabb has the big end of it. Then Dabb runs a butcher shop. Fact is he undersold me an’ put me out of that kind of business. He buys mostly from Preston. An’ he ships a good many beeves.”
“Ships? Out of town?”
“I should smile. They have worked into a considerable business. I saw this opportunity years ago. But didn’t have the capital.”
Rock pondered over his friend’s disclosures, and Thiry Preston’s sad face returned to haunt him.
“Sol, what do you think about Ash Preston?” asked Rock.
“Well, son, I’m sure curious to ask you that same question,” replied Winter. “How did this fellow strike you?”
“Like a hard fist, right in the eye,” acknowledged Rock.
“Ahuh. Rock, the Prestons are all out of the ordinary. Take Thiry, for instance. How did she, strike you?”
Trueman placed a slow heavy hand on the region of his heart, as if words were useless.
“Well, I wouldn’t give two bits for you if she hadn’t. Son, I’ve a hunch your comin’ back means a lot. Wal, to go on — these Prestons are a mighty strikin’ outfit. An’ Ash Preston stands out even among them. He’s a great rider of the range in all pertainin’ to that, hard game. He can drink more, fight harder, shoot quicker than any man in these parts. He’s sure the meanest, coldest, nerviest, deadliest proposition you’re likely to stack up against in your life. I just want to give you a hunch, seein’ you went sweet on Thiry.”
“Sweet on that girl! No! I’ve been sweet on a hundred girls. This is different, somethin’ terrible. Ten thousand times sweet!”
“Trueman, your trail will sure be rough.”
“Listen, old friend. There’s only one thing that could stump me. Tell me. Do you know Thiry real well?”
“Yes, son, an’ I can answer that question so plain in your eyes. Thiry is not in love with anybody. I know, because she told me herself, not so long ago.”
“That’ll — help,” replied Rock, swallowing hard. “Now, Sol, I’ll sneak off alone somewhere and try to find out what’s the matter with me — and what to de about it.”
Trueman sallied forth into the sunlight like a man possessed. He did not notice the heat while he was striding out of town, but, when he got to the cedars and mounted a slope to a lonely spot he was grateful for the cool shade. He threw aside coat and sombrero, and lay down on the fragrant mat of cedar needles. How good to be there!
Only one thing had stood in the way of a happy return to Wagontongue, and that had been possibility of a clash with Cass Seward, the sheriff. This now no longer perturbed him. It had been reckless, perhaps foolish, for him to come back, when he had known that the probabilities were that Cass would try to make him show yellow and clap him in jail, because of a shooting affray which Rock had not started. But it had been Rock’s way to come, not knowing; and that hazard was past. Rock gladly welcomed the fact that he had a clean slate before him.
That grey-eyed girl, Thiry Preston! Here he did surrender. He had been struck through the heart. And all the fight there was seemed directed against himself — a wavering, lessening doubt that he could be as marvelously transformed as he thought. And then, one by one, in solemn procession, there passed before his memory’s eye the other girls he had known, trifled with, liked, or loved. He watched them pass by, out of the shade, it seemed, into the past forever.
Thiry Preston had made them vanish, as if by magic. She was the girl. All his life he had been dreaming of her. To realize she actually lived!
At length Rock started to retrace his steps toward town. A young woman coming out of Dabb’s large establishment, almost ran into him.
“True Rock. — aren’t you going to speak to me?” she burst out.
He knew the voice, the face, too, the sparkling, astonished eyes.
“True — don’t you know me? It’s Amy.”
“Why, Mrs. Dabb, this is a surprise!” he said, doffing his sombrero. “I’m sure glad to see you.”
“Mrs. Dabb? Not Amy?” she replied with captivating smile and look Rock found strangely familiar.
“Someone told me you were married to my old boss, John Dabb,” said Rock easily. “You sure look fine. And prosperous, too.”
She did not like his slow, cool speech.
“True, I can return the compliment. You are handsomer than ever.”
“Thanks.”
“True, you’re not glad to see me,” she rejoined petulantly.
“Why, sure I am! Glad you’re settled and happy and—”
“Happy! Do I look that?” she interrupted bitterly.
“If my memory’s any good you look as gay and happy as ever.”
“Your memory is bad — about that — and other things. Trueman, have you come back on a visit?”
“No; I aim to stay. I always was comin’ back.”
“If you only had come!” She sighed. “I’m glad — terribly glad you’re going to stay, We must be good friends again, True, You’ll come to, see me — ride with — me — like you used to. Won’t you?”
“I’m afraid Mr. Dabb wouldn’t like that. He never had any use for me.”
“It doesn’t matter what he likes. Say you will, Trueman. I’m horribly lonesome.”
Rock remembered that Amy had always been a flirt. Evidently she had not changed. He was sorry for her and wished to spare her discomfiture.
“I’ll call on you and John sometime,” he replied.
“Me and — John! Well, your long absence in Texas hasn’t made you, any brighter. I dare say it hasn’t changed you any — about girls, either. I saw you with Thiry Preston. At your old tricks, cowboy!”
“Did you? I don’t call it old tricks to carry a few bundles for a girl,” replied Rock stiffly. It annoyed him to feel the blood heat in his face.
“Bundles, rot!” she retorted. “I know you, True Rock, inside and out. You’ve lost your head pronto over Thiry Preston.”
“I’m not denyin’ it, am I?”
She would be his enemy, unless he allowed himself once more to be attached to her train. The idea was preposterous. In a few short hours — no, they were hours incalculably, long in their power — he, had grown past flirting with any woman.
Rock returned to Winter and proceeded to unburden himself.
“So you ran into Amy,” meditated Sol, with a thoughtful twinkle. “Wal, son, take my advice and keep shy of Amy, She’s got old Dabb so jealous he can’t attend to his business. She always has some buckaroo runnin’ after her. That won’t do for you. The Dabbs about own Wagontongue, not to say a lot of the range outfits. Then I always see Thiry with Amy, when she comes to town. If you aim to snub your old girl for this new one — wal, son, you’ll have a tough row to hoe.”
“Sol, I’ll not snub Amy, but I can’t, go playin’ round with her. Sol, how much money do you owe?”
“Couple of thousand, an’ when that’s paid off I’ll be on the road to prosperity again.”
“Old-timer, you’re on it right now. I’ll take that much stock in your business,” went on Rock, as he took out his pocketbook.
“Son, I don’t want you to do that,” protested Winter.
“But I want to. I think it’s a good investment. Now here’s your two thousand. And here’s five more, which I want you to put in your bank, on interes
t. Reckon we’d better add another thousand to that five. I only need enough money to buy a spankin’ outfit.
“I’m goin’ to be a plain cowpuncher and start in where I left off here six years ago. I want a jim-dandy outfit; two saddle-horses — the best on the range, if money can buy them.”
“We can find one of them pronto,” replied Winter with satisfaction. “After supper we’ll walk out to Leslie’s. He’s sellin’ out an’ he has some good stock, One horse in particular. I never saw his beat, Dabb has been hagglin’ with Leslie over the price. It’s high, but the horse is worth it.”
“How much?”
“Three hundred.”
“All right, Sol. We’ll buy. But I reckon one saddle-horse will do. Then I’ll need a pack-horse and outfit. In the mornin’ we’ll pick out a tarp and blankets, grub and campin’ outfit. I’ve got saddle, bridle, spurs, riata — all Mexican, Sol, and if they don’t knock the punchers on this range, I’ll eat them. And last, I reckon I’ll require some more hardware.”
“Ahuh! An’ with all this outfit you’re headin’ for Sunset Pass.”
“Yeah. I’m goin’ to Gage Preston’s and strike him for a job.”
“Son, it’s a bold move, if it’s all on account of Thiry. Gage can’t hardly refuse you a job. He needs riders. He has hired about every cowpuncher on the range. But they don’t last. Ash gets rid of them, sooner or later. Reckon about as soon as they Shine up to Thiry.”
“How does he do that?”
“Wal, he scares most of them. Some he has bumped up with his fists. An’ several punchers he’s driven to throw guns.”
“Kill them?”
“Nope. They say he just crippled them. Ash shoots quick an where he wants.”
“Most interestin’ cuss — Ash Preston,” said Rock lightly.
“Son, this is what worries me,” went on Winter with gravity. “It’ll be some different when Ash Preston butts into you. No matter how easy and cool you start — no matter how clever you are — it’s bound to wind up a deadly business.”
“Thanks, old-timer. I get your hunch. I’m takin’ it serious and strong. Don’t worry unreasonable about me, I’ve got to go.”
CHAPTER 3
TRUEMAN ROCK WAS not one of the cowboy breed who cared only for pitching, biting, kicking horses. He could ride them when exigency demanded, but he never loved a horse for other than thoroughbred qualities. And sitting on the corral fence watching Leslie’s white favourite, he was bound to confess that he felt emotions of his earliest days on the range.
“Wal, True, did you ever see the beat of that boss?” asked Sol Winter for the twentieth time.
Rock shook his head silently. Then, “I’ll take him, Leslie, and consider the deal a lastin’ favour.”
“Mrs. Dabb has been wantin’ this hoss, didn’t you tell me, Jim,” asked Winter.
“Wal, I reckon so. She has been out here often. But I don’t think Mrs. Dabb really cared about the horse so much. She just wanted to show off with him. But today there was a girl here who loved him.”
“Who was she, Jim?”
“Thiry Preston. She passed here today with her dad an’ some of the boys. She just petted the hoss while the other Prestons walked around talkin’. Never said a word. But I seen her heart in her eyes.”
“Speaks well for her,” replied Rock, as he slid off the fence and approached the animal. If this beautiful white horse had appeared desirable in his eyes upon first sight, what was he now? Rock smoothed the silky mane, thrilling at the thought that Thiry’s gentle hand had rested there. “Leslie, I’ll come out in the mornin’. I want a packhorse or a mule. Here’s your money. Shake on it.”
“I’ll throw the pack-horse in to boot,” replied Leslie.
“Sol,” Said Rock, thoughtfully, as they retraced their steps toward town, “do the Prestons come in often?”
“Some of them every Saturday, Thiry about twice a month.”
“Pretty long ride in from Sunset. Sixty miles by trail. Reckon the Prestons make a one-night stop at some ranch?”
“No, They camp it, makin’ Cedar Creek, where they turn off into a flat. There’s an old cabin — belonged to a homesteader. Preston owns it now. Thiry was tellin’ me they’d fixed it up.”
“Queer how all about these Prestons interests me so,” said Rock.
“Not so queer. Leavin’ Thiry aside, they’re a mighty interestin’ outfit,” returned Winter. “It’s wild, perhaps, to let yourself go over this girl all in a minute. But then, wild or no it might turn out good for Thiry Preston.”
“Sol, why is her face so sad?”
“I don’t know. I’ve asked her why she looks sad — which you can see when she’s not speakin’, but she always makes herself smile an’ laugh then.”
“It’s for me to find out,” said. Rock.
It was nearly noon the following day when Rock had his pack outfit ready for travel. Leslie came up presently with the white horse.
“Black leather an’ silver trimmings,” said, the rancher, admiringly. “Never seen him so dressed up. An’ the son-of-a-gun is smart enough to know he looks grand.”
“He’s smart, all right,” agreed Rock, with shining eyes. “Now we’ll see if he’ll hang me on the fence.”
The white horse took Rock’s mount easily, pranced and champed a little, and tossed his head.
“Good day and good luck, rancher,” said Rock, lifting the halter of the pack animal off a post. With that he headed down the road which the Prestons had taken the preceding day.
Several hours’ ride out of the town, Rock reached the top of a long slope and there halted the horses.
A 30-mile gulf yawned wide and shallow, a yellow-green sea of desert grass and sage, which sloped into ridge on ridge of cedar and white grass. The length of the valley both east and west extended beyond the limit of vision, and here began the vast, cattle range that made Wagontongue possible. Lonely land! Rock’s heart swelled. He, was coming back to the valleys and hills that he now discovered he had loved.
An hour’s ride down the slow incline brought Rock into a verdant swale of 50 acres surrounding a pretty ranch-house. Here Adam Pringle had lived.
The barn and corrals were closer to the road than the house. Rock saw a man at work under an open shed. The big gate leading in was shut. Rock halloed, whereupon the farmer started out leisurely, then quickened his steps. It was Adam — stalwart, middle-aged, weather-beaten settler.
“True Rock, or I’m a born sinner,” shouted Pringle.
“Howdy, Adam! How’s the old-timer?” returned; Rock.
“I knowed that hoss. An’ I shore knowed you jest from the way you straddled him. How air you? This is plumb a surprise. Get down an’ come in.”
“Haven’t time, Adam. I’m rustlin’ along to make camp below. Adam, you’re lookin’ good. I see you’ve made this homestead go.”
“Never seen you look any better, if I remember. Whar you been?”
“Texas.”
“Whar you goin’?”
“Sunset Pass.”
“Cowboy, if you want work, pile right off heah.”
“Thanks, Adam, but I’ve got a hankerin’ for wilder country. I’ll try Preston. Think he’ll take me?”
“Shore. But don’t ask him.”
“Why not?”
“I’m advisin’ you — not talkin’,” returned the rancher, with a sharp gleam in his eye. “Stay away from Sunset, Pass.”
“Adam, I just never could take advice,” drawled Rock. “Much obliged, though. How you doin’?”
“Been on my feet these two years,” returned Pringle, with, satisfaction. “Been raisin’ turnips an potatoes an’ some corn. Got three thousand haid of stock. An’ sellin’ eight-’ hundred haid this fall.”
“Losin’ much stock?”
“Some. But not enough to rare aboot. Though there’s more rustlin’ than for some years past. Queer rustlin’, too. You lose a few haid of steers, an’ then you never hear of anyone seein’ hid
e nor hair of them again.”
“How’s Jess Slagle? I used to ride for Jess, and want to see him.”
“Humph! Slagle couldn’t make it go in Sunset Pass after the Prestons come.”
“Why not? It’s sure big enough country for ten outfits.”
“Wal there’s only one left, an’ thet’s Preston’s. Ask Slagle.”
“I sure will. Is he still located in the Pass?”
“No. He’s ten miles this side. Stone cabin. You’ll remember it.”
“If I do, that’s no ranch for Jess Slagle. Marshland, what there was of it fit to graze cattle, salty water, mostly rocks and cedars.”
“Your memory’s good. Drop in to see Slagle. An’ don’t miss callin’ heah when you come out.”
“Which you’re thinkin’ won’t be so very long. Huh, Adam?”
“Wal, if it was anyone else I’d give him three days — aboot,” replied Pringle, with a guffaw.
Toward sundown Rock reached the south slope of the valley and entered the zone of the cedars. He halted for camp near a rugged little creek.
He was on his way before sunrise the next morning, and about noon he halted before the cabin that he knew must belong to his old friend and employer, Jess Slagle. Rock rode into what was a sorry excuse for a yard, where fences were down and dilapidated wagons, long out of use, stood around amid a litter of stones and wood.
Dismounting, Rock went to the door and knocked. The door opened half a foot to disclose a red-haired, homely woman in dirty garb, more like a sack than a dress.
“Does Jess Slagle live here?” asked Rock.
“Yes. He’s out round the barn somewheres,” she replied.
As Rock thanked her he sew that she was barefooted. So Jess Slagle had come to squalor, and poverty. Who was the woman? Presently Rock heard the sound of hammer or axe blows on wood, and he came upon Slagle at work on a pen beside the barn.
“Howdy, Rock! I knew you were in town. Range Preston rode by this mornin’ an’ passed the news.”
This gaunt man was Slagle, changed vastly, no doubt like his fortunes. The grasp of his hand was rough, hard, but lacked warmth or response.
