Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  It developed that Texas was a far tougher proposition than Smoky Reed. He was as tall as Andrew, as agile and supple, almost as heavy, and what he lacked in skill he made up in ferocity. He resembled a redheaded whirlwind, swinging, striking, feinting. Many vicious blows were struck. It appeared that Andrew received almost as many as he gave. Blood flowed down both furious faces. In the midst of a lunge Andrew tripped in the sand. Texas, swinging hard, struck him alongside the head, a blow that sent Andrew flat on his back. Like a cat he leaped up just as Texas reached him, meaning to throw himself down upon him. Bonning met the charge by knocking Texas down. Nimbly the cowboy was up and at it again, bleeding, snorting, cursing. They fought all over the place, plowing up the sand.

  In the end, the battle went against Texas. He could not cope with his antagonist, who appeared to release more vigor as the fight progressed. Again the cowboy went down. When he got to his feet, more slowly this time, warily countering and backing away, Andrew yelled: “Stand up and fight you range Romeo!”

  “Wal, I ain’t — no dancin’ tenderfoot!” panted Texas, and suddenly he dove to catch Andrew by the legs and trip him up.

  They rolled over and over in the sand. Then Martha saw where the cowboy had made a blunder. Andrew made no effort to rise again. With marvelous ease and swiftness he moved over the ground, breaking Texas’ hold, but never letting him go, battering him on head and body. Texas evidently saw his mistake and endeavored to get up, but it was too late. He was being made a toy in the hands of a giant. Martha understood it when she saw Andrew tackle the half-rising cowboy, almost to bury him in the sand. A little more of these football tactics, a few more thumping blows, and Texas lay still, while Andrew got up to brush his clothes, and wipe his bleeding face with a handkerchief.

  “Come — take a look — at your rustler friend,” called Andrew gruffly.

  Martha Ann left the trail, gathering strength as she went, until she reached Texas, who lay, a battered spectacle such as she had never seen.

  “Help — me — sit up,” he asked faintly.

  Martha Ann assisted him to gain a sitting posture, and half supported him.

  “Oh, Texas, he has hurt you — terribly,” cried Martha, distressed at the sight of the sagging head. Texas’ hair and face appeared a mass of sand and blood.

  “I — reckon,” whispered the cowboy.

  “Fetch some water, Andrew,” commanded Martha. “Doggone! What kinda — avalanche struck — around heah?”

  “Never mind, Texas. I’ll never — never forgive him,” sobbed Martha.

  Andrew fetched a canteen and, unscrewing the top, poured water on his scarf, which he handed to Martha.

  “Tex, you were okay — while you stayed on your feet,” said Andrew, breathing heavily. “But you shouldn’t have mixed it with me on the ground!”

  Martha Ann gave him a fleeting hateful look. “You big bully!” She wiped the blood and sand off the cowboy’s face, and her action disclosed sundry bruises and a bleeding nose.

  “Wal, I feel kinda shaky, but I can hold a gun. Come on, Bonnin’. Mebbe this won’t be — so easy fer you.”

  Martha fell on her knees beside him. “Don’t — don’t fight with guns! That would be awful. Texas! He whipped you — but he didn’t get off easy.” Then she turned to clasp Andrew’s knees.

  “Let go. Don’t do that,” cried Andrew harshly.

  But she would not let go. She clung to him. “Andrew — Andrew — don’t make it any worse!...I was to blame. I — I must be just — no good. But I hated you so — for being — so — so wrong about me...For God’s sake — give in!”

  Andrew gazed down upon her, his face working.

  “Bonnin’,” spoke up Texas, reaching for Andrew. “If you don’t show yellow — I will.”

  “That’s for me to do. I apologize...Texas, you’re a good sport. I must be the mad one...Martha, get up,” said Andrew huskily, and stooped to help her to her feet.

  CHAPTER XI

  SEPTEMBER CAME WITH its frosty mornings, its hot hazy days and cool nights, painting the gold and scarlet hues of autumn on the Sweetwater Range.

  The willows and cottonwoods along the river stood in colorful contrast with the dark-pooled, white-rippled wandering watercourse. And tiny bits of scarlet shone like fires amid the purple monotony of the plain. Flocks of wild ducks, flying from the north, heralding an early winter, alighted on the wide, still reaches.

  Since Andrew’s encounter with the rustling cowboy out in the hills, Bligh had refused to allow him to ride alone. Accordingly, Fenner accompanied Andrew on his scouting trips, of which they made several each week, sometimes camping out overnight. It did not take long for the old Arizonian to size up the situation. They never got within miles of any cowboys who were not minding their own business. As far as the Antelope Hills were concerned, the Cross Bar, Triangle X, and the Wyoming Cattlemen’s Association had set a date in early October for the fall roundup. The smaller outfits, of which Bligh’s was the smallest, necessarily had to wait for that event. McCall’s Double X cattle had ranged, or been driven two days’ ride around on the south side of the hills.

  But Jim and Andrew came upon an increasing number of branding fires, many of which must have been built by perfectly honest cowmen in the pursuit of their work. It was impossible to tell anything about them. On a few occasions, however, they had happened upon cowboys burning brands. These men had complaints of their own. They were losing cows and calves, as they had always lost them, but not in numbers that warranted any procedure such as Bligh’s men were engaged in. This was the feature that made the case all but hopeless. What could two riders, one of them crippled and the other inexperienced, do in a big country where they could not find half the N.B. cattle in a month of searching? Nevertheless, up in the canyons, in the rough thickets and rocky fastnesses which they did get into, they came upon enough dead cows to make them sick and furious. These days the sky was black with buzzards and there was no choice of canyons over which the birds of prey hovered.

  “Too slick fer us,” said Jim one day, as he and Andrew rode the homeward trail. “They must have a lookout with a pair of glasses. He spots us long before we get near the canyons. He tips them off an’ they ride somewhere else.”

  “How much are we losing, Jim?” queried Andrew, gloomily. He used the plural pronoun unconsciously, identifying himself with Bligh and his old stockman.

  “Wal, thet’s impossible to say. I hate to figger on it. But at least a few calves an’ cows a day. Cows daid an’ calves branded. Say two hundred dollars’ loss every day. An thet’s low.”

  Andrew cursed through clenched teeth. Between McCall and these rustlers, Bligh would be ruined before the snow fell. There did not appear to be any redress. It was ridiculous to call on the law when Bligh’s two riders could not prove anything except the presence of dead cows.

  “What’s to be done?” queried Andrew.

  “Wal, if the worst comes, we’ll go to farmin’,” replied Fenner, with a sigh.

  “Will you tell Bligh?”

  “Let’s hold off a while yet, Andy. We might ketch this hombre Reed, an’ if we do we’ll make it so damned hot for him thet he’ll quit. An’ he’s runnin’ this two-bit rustlin’.”

  “Will we hale him into court?”

  “Hell, no! Thet’d do no good an jest cost the boss more money. We’ll try some old time Arizony medicine on thet hombre.”

  “Jim, let’s camp out for a week, hiding all the time. Leave the ranch after dark, so they can’t spot us on the way up.”

  “Not a bad idee. I’ll figger it over.”

  When they rode up out of the river bottom, to pass the corrals and the barn, Jim who was ahead, reined in his mount.

  “Look there, Andy,” he said, pointing toward Andrew’s cabin on the bank. “You shore ain’t makin’ any hay with Martha Ann these days!”

  Andrew did not need to look, but he did. It was Sunday afternoon, and he knew what to expect. One reason why he rode on Su
ndays as well as on week days was to avoid seeing Martha with her admirers. On this occasion, she was evidently playing tag around his cabin with several boys. Three cars were parked in front of the ranch house. Andrew heard a shriek of gay laughter.

  “Andy, damn if I wouldn’t do somethin’,” said the old Arizonian, doggedly.

  “What about, Jim?”

  “Wal, if I was you, I’d either fall in with this outfit of youngsters an’ play their game, or I’d bust it up.”

  Andrew dismounted without a reply, and set to unsaddling his horse. For the day, at least, he had been free of the state of mind engendered by Martha Ann Dixon. It came back now. He walked slowly toward his cabin, to find the spacious front porch occupied by Martha and her friends, among whom were Nellie Glemm and her brother Tom, a girl named Bradshaw, whom he had met before, two young fellows whose faces were familiar, and Texas Jack Haynes.

  “Hello, Andrew,” called Martha, waving. “We’ve been dancing and picnicking on your front porch. Hope you don’t mind!”

  “Evening, Martha, and everybody. You’re quite welcome, if you don’t mind my ablutions.”

  “Andrew, you’re gettin’ to be the ridin’ est cowpuncher,” said Nellie Glemm. “Any old day and Sunday, too. You’re missin’ a lot, Mister.”

  “I dare say I am,” replied Andrew slowly. He was dog tired, and the bewitching, excited face of Martha, the glad light in her amber eyes, and the smile that she seemed to have for everybody but him kept smoldering in him a jealousy against which he was powerless. He removed the grime of his long hot ride, and went inside to change his shirt, while the young people kept on with their games.

  Presently Martha Ann called through the doorway: “Are you presentable, cowboy? May I come in?”

  “I’d hardly shock you. Come along,” he replied.

  She stood framed in the doorway, a perfect picture of joyous youth and beauty. Slowly she entered, and as she did so it seemed to Andrew that she lost something of her radiance.

  “Andrew, please don’t mind my taking possession of your cabin,” she said. “There are some nice old people calling on Uncle. We were being rather noisy, so I brought my company over here.”

  “Why should I mind, Martha?” he asked.

  “I thought — because Texas is here,” she replied hurriedly. “Nellie brought him out. I’ve seen him, of course, since — since...He seems to want to be friendly, Andrew. Will you meet him halfway?”

  “For your sake?” asked Andrew quickly.

  “Be yourself,” she retorted, flushing. “Not for mine — or yours. But for his.”

  “Oh, I see. Still on the reform job?”

  “Andrew, you’d make an angel curse,” she answered, glaring at him. “Forget it. Go out and break some more of his ribs.”

  “Gosh! Did I mess him up that bad? I’m sorry.”

  But Martha was hurrying out the front door, evidently on her way to the ranch house. Andrew presented himself on the porch and made himself agreeable. They were pleasant, wholesome young people, and excepting Texas, a little shy in his presence, yet obviously eager to know him better. When the supper bell rang they ran pell-mell for the house, leaving him and Texas to follow.

  “Jack, I hope you didn’t come out to hold me to my word,” said Andrew with a smile.

  “What aboot?”

  “That gun fight we damned near had.”

  “Aw, I thought better of thet, Bonnin’,” drawled Texas. “It’d been oot an’ oot murder. I’d had to beat it, leavin’ Martha with a wuss name than she’s already got.

  “Very considerate of you, cowboy,” replied Andrew coldly.

  “Not at all. An’ don’t git sore. These range folks have nothin’ to do but talk aboot each other. An’ the women don’t savvy Martha. Why, I heahed they reckoned she was thick with Smoky Reed, an’ thet was why you licked him.”

  “It wasn’t. But that’s just as well,” said Andrew curtly.

  “Wal, I don’t know. If this panther-eyed kid would behave herself I reckon thet turrible beatin’ you gave Smoky would keep other fellars kinda shy. But Martha does the damnedest things anyone ever heahed of.”

  “What has she done now?” asked Andrew with a groan.

  “Wal, it do beat hell. What do you call them night duds girls wear nowadays? Paji-bers, or somethin’ like.”

  “Pajamas. Eastern girls wear them during the day now. They’re all the rage for the seashore or for lounging about. Bright colors, very pretty, and modest, too, believe me, compared to former styles.”

  “Ahuh. Wal, I don’t give a damn aboot thet. This heah is Wyomin’ . An’ when Martha rode Jem Hart’s pinto down Main Street the other day when it was crowded in them flimsy paja-mas — wal, no circus could have beat thet.”

  “Good Lord!” gasped Andrew.

  “She didn’t even know Jem. Piled on to his hawse in front of the Glemm’s, an’ jest rode off. She damn near got throwed, too. Thet was what jarred me. I gave Martha fits aboot it, called her good an’ plenty. She swore she meant to ride oot of town, instead of down Main Street. You know Glemm’s is at the end of town. But the blasted pinto run off with her.”

  “How on earth did she come to wear pajamas?” asked Andrew, helplessly.

  “Wal, the Glemms had a party an’ Martha stayed there all night. They slept late next mawnin’ an’ when the girls got up, then it happened. The wust of it, for Martha anyhow, was when Jem Hart reckoned thet stunt entitled him to get free with Martha.”

  “Get free? My God! — What the devil did she do?”

  “I didn’t see it, wuss luck. But the girls told me thet she slapped Jem so hard he lost his hat. Later I called Jem all I could think of, which was wrong of me, seem’ we was in a crowded drug store. ‘Cause he yelped murder. He’d had a couple of sodas with a kick in them. ‘Ahuh, I’m on to you, Tex. Want to hawg all the pettin’ to yoreself!’...Wal, course I socked him one. He busted a showcase, which cost me fifty bucks. An’ now Jem, same as Smoky, is hell-rattlin’ agin me an’ Martha.”

  “It can’t be helped,” said Andrew, as if to himself.

  “Nope. I reckon it cain’t till some hombre kidnaps thet kid, breaks her an’ marries her. An’ even then I ain’t so damned shore.”

  “Original idea, to say the least,” laughed Andrew. “Speaking of breaking — Martha hinted I’d broken a rib for you, Texas. I hope that isn’t true.”

  “It shore was. Busted two ribs. I was laid up fer a week. Doggone, I don’t savvy why I ain’t gunnin’ fer you, Bonnin’. Thet girl has worked a turrible change in me. I kinda like you, dammit.”

  “Texas, that girl, as you call her, plays hell with all men.”

  “Shore, but only ‘cause she’s so infernal sweet. Them eyes! My Gawd, did she ever look at you when she was mad? Thet’s wuss fer me than when she’s jest full of the old Nick...Bonnin’, you oughta know you cain’t touch thet kid with a ten-foot pole.”

  “I don’t know about that,” replied Bonning shortly. “Texas, I like you, too, in spite of myself. But please don’t try to kid me.”

  Texas threw up his hands. “Wal, they’re yellin’ fer us to come an’ get it,” he drawled. “Let’s eat even if we air in love.”

  Something about the cowboy’s frank and open friendliness shamed Andrew. His first, almost irresistible impulse had been to rush off, forgo his supper, and as he had done many times before, sulk moodily on his porch or out under the stars. But for once he was able to overcome his moodiness and went in to supper. With Texas’ example before him, he drove himself to a gaiety and spontaneity of which he had never believed himself capable. His unusual attitude drew from Martha Ann a look of amazement, and then of grateful and pleased attention. Her obvious pleasure spurred Andrew on. After supper he invited them all over to his cabin, and as the night was cool he started a roaring fire in the big open fireplace, around which the company sat in a circle with no other light save the ruddy blaze. They popped corn, and passed from merry badinage to storytelling.
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  It may not have added to Andrew’s enjoyment that when his turn came he was well aware of Texas’ close proximity to Martha Ann, and that the cowboy had his arm round her in the shadow. But so well did Bonning have his emotions under control that he did not even appear to notice.

  He told a story of a famous football game, during which in reality he had sat on the side lines, but which he now related as if he had actually participated. The bitterness of the memory of his failure in college coupled with a prescience of a deeper failure here in the West lent his tale a vital and compelling interest which held his little audience spellbound. Once, at least, he was aware that he was holding the interest of the amber-eyed girl from Chicago.

  “Doggone!” ejaculated Texas, the only one to break the silence. “Now I savvy why Bonnin’ is like a mud turtle full of chain lightnin’ .”

  Only Martha failed to join in the laugh that followed Texas’ remark, as her thoughtful eyes were fixed upon the narrator.

  Another week went by. Andrew rode the range four days, spent one day in town, and the weekend at the ranch. Looking backward on that Sunday night after the young people had gone, it seemed the hardest week of all since his arrival in Wyoming. The longest, fiercest riding had piled evidence upon evidence without the necessary proofs. In town there had been rumors that he was an upstart Easterner bent upon undermining the good name of certain Wyoming cowmen. Might seemed to be right on that range. Bligh could not pay his bills and Andrew was faced with the problem of a definite decision as to his future action.

  On this late Sunday night as he sat smoking before the dying embers of his fire, and watched them glow and fade, two indisputable facts stood out from that eventful day and night in town, and the previous unforgettable weekend at the ranch. Both had to do with Martha Ann. The whole world seemed to revolve around her now.