Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  Suddenly like a panther Curly leaped. His left hand shot out to crack down upon Darnell’s and crush it flat on the table. Then his right followed, clutching a big blue gun, which he banged on the table, making the players jump, then freeze in their seats. Curly sank back and threw up his head to show blazing eyes as clear as crystal. His frank young face set cold. How vastly a single moment had transformed him!

  Darnell turned a greenish livid blue. He had been trapped. Malignance and fear betrayed him.

  “You — low-down —— of a caird sharp!” drawled Curly, in a voice with a terrible edge. “You reckoned I was drunk, eh?”

  The circle of men back of Darnell split and spread, with shuffling feet and hoarse whispers, in two wings, leaving the space there clear. That act was as significantly Western as Curly’s. Jim had seen it before.

  “Don’t anybody move a hair,” ordered Curly, and the pivoting of his gun indicated the other players. Bambridge gasped. Only the Winslow man remained cool. Perhaps he knew or guessed the nerve behind that gun-hammer, which plainly rose a trifle, sank back, to rise again, almost to full cock.

  “Gentlemen, look heah,” went on Curly, bitingly, and he turned Darnell’s crushed hand over. Bent and doubled in his palm were three cards that dropped out. Aces!

  “Pretty raw, I must say,” spoke up the Winslow man. “At that, I had a hunch.”

  “Darnell, we Westerners don’t often hang caird sharps, like we do cattle thieves. But on second offence we throw a gun,” said Curly, and the menace of him seemed singularly striking. Then in the same cool, careless voice he called Darnell all the profane epithets, vile and otherwise, known to the range. “You get out of Flag. Savvy?...An’ any time anywhere after this — if you run into me — you pull a gun!”

  Darnell whirled on his chair, knocking it to the floor, and he rushed through the opening in the crowd to disappear.

  Curly moved the gun, by accident or intent — no one could tell — until it had aligned itself with Bambridge.

  “Mister Bambridge, you’ve laid yourself open to suspicion round heah — long before this poker game,” said Curly, as cutting as before. “I told your daughter thet, an’ naturally it riled her. I reckon she’s a fine girl who doesn’t savvy her Dad.”

  “Who the hell is this hyar lyin’ cowpuncher?” demanded Bambridge, yellow of face, as he appealed to the other players.

  Curly’s arm moved like a snake. “Don’t you call me liar twice!...I’m Curly Prentiss, an’ I belong to the Diamond. We are on to you, Bambridge, if no other outfit round heah is. We know you’re a damn sight crookeder cattle thief than Jed Stone himself...Now listen closer. What I said aboot gun play to your gamblin’ new hand, Darnell, goes for you, too. Savvy?...Right now an’ heah, or anywhere after.”

  “You — you drunken puncher — you’ll pay for this hold-up of an innocent — and unarmed man,” panted Bambridge, as he got up his face ghastly, sweating, and his eyes bulging with a fury of passions. He swept the edge of the crowd aside and thumped away.

  “Gentlemen, I apologise for breaking up your game,” said Curly, sheathing his gun. “But I reckon I saved you money. Suppose we divide what’s on the table an’ call it quits.”

  “Agreed,” replied the Winslow man, gruffly. “Prentiss, we sure owe you a vote of thanks.”

  It was Jim, and not Curly, who told the rest of the Diamond what had happened at Snell’s late on Christmas Day.

  It seemed incredible to Jim that the quiet evening at home was real. How strange to glance at Curly now and recall the tremendous force he had exhibited at Snell’s only a few hours before! He was so easygoing, so droll and tranquil, as he unmercifully teased Molly, subtly including Gloriana in his philosophy.

  “You cain’t never tell aboot girls, Jim,” he said, sorrowfully. “I’ve shore had a deal of experience with all kinds. Redheaded girls, I reckon, are best to gamble on. Blondes are no good. Brunettes are dangerous. They’re like mules, an’ fer a spell will be powerful good, just to get a chance to kick you. Christmas an’ birthdays, though, a fellar’s girl can be relied upon to stand without a halter. But these girls between blondes an’ brunettes, the kind with hair like the ripple of amber moss, an’ eyes like violets under water — they’re scarce, thank the Lord...I’ve heahed of a few, only never saw but one.”

  Uncle Jim roared. Molly threw something at Curly, while Gloriana was convulsed with laughter. Curly evidently was a perpetual source of surprise, delight, and mystery to Gloriana. There dawned in Jim a hope that she would grow to find more.

  They had a pleasant hour in the bright living-room, then the rancher left the young folk to themselves. Curly stayed a while longer.

  “Wal,” he said, presently, “I’ll say good-night, Miss Glory.”

  “What’s your hurry?” queried Gloriana, in surprise. “Don’t be so outlandishly thoughtful of my brother. He and Molly don’t know we exist...Oh, maybe you want to go to town.”

  “Wal, I had thought aboot it,” drawled Curly.

  “And maybe join in the general painting the Diamond is giving Flag?” went on Gloriana.

  “Wal, they shore cain’t do much paintin’ or anythin’ without me,” he admitted, his keen blue eyes studying Gloriana.

  Despite Gloriana’s conviction of Jim’s utter absorption, he still had eyes and ears for his sister and his best friend. Molly saw nothing except the ruddy coals of the fire, until Jim gave her a nudge.

  “Very well, Mister Prentiss, good-night,” said Gloriana, icily, as she rose.

  “Say, do you care a whoop aboot whether I get drunk or not?” demanded Curly, his face flaming. Gloriana was the one person who could stir him out of his nonchalance or coolness.

  “Certainly not,” replied Gloriana, in amaze. “Why should I?...But you are my brother’s right-hand man. And I had hoped you would develop some character, for his sake.”

  “Cain’t a man take a drink an’ still have some character?” asked Curly, stoutly.

  “Some men can,” replied Gloriana, with emphasis that excluded Curly from her generalisation.

  “Wal, I reckon I’ll go get drunk. Goodnight, Miss Traft.”

  “Good-bye!...Mister Prentiss.”

  Curly departed hastily. His heavy steps sounded faster and faster, until they died away.

  “Jim, this Curly cowboy irritates me,” remarked Gloriana, coming to the fire.

  “What? — Oh, I’m sorry, Glory.’ I thought you liked him,” replied Jim innocently.

  “I do. He’s a fine upstanding chap, so kind, easygoing, and big-hearted. He worships you, Jim. And, of course, that goes a long way with me. But it’s the other side of him I can’t — savvy, isn’t it? It’s that plagued cowboy side...For instance, just a moment ago he saw you holding Molly’s hand. So he possessed himself of mine. And I give you my word I could hardly get it away from him.”

  How sweet to hear Molly’s laugh trill out! And the perplexity of Glory’s expressive face, with its suggestion of colour, likewise pleased Jim.

  “Glory, the way to get along with Curly — and amuse yourself — is to let him hold your hand,” said Jim.

  “Don’t be silly. I — I did that very thing, at the dance, until I got scared. In fact, I scarcely knew I was letting him.”

  “Glory, I told you Curly was the finest fellow I ever knew, for a man’s friend, or a pard, as they call it out West. If you could stop his drinking he’d be that for a woman, too.”

  “I want to stop his drinking,” admitted Gloriana, now gravely, “but I — I am not prepared to — to—”

  “Sure you’re not,” interposed Jim, apologetically. “Don’t misunderstand me, Glory. On the other hand, don’t be cold to Curly just because you wasted some admiration — and sentiment — perhaps some kisses and caresses that would have raised poor Curly to the seventh heaven — on that Ed Darnell...”

  Next morning the bunk-house was incredibly quiet when Jim knocked and stamped in. Jeff was cooking a lonely breakfast. “Outfit’s stamp
eded, Boss. I seen it comin’.”

  “Dog-gone their hides!” complained Jim. “Now I’m afraid to go downtown.”

  Before he started, however, he consulted his uncle and advised a postponement of Molly’s party until New Year’s Eve.

  “Fine idee,” agreed the rancher. “But don’t be hard on the boys, Jim. Remember that Diamond was the toughest outfit in Arizona. Lovable punchers, if I ever knew any, but sure blue hell on holidays. Better go downtown an’ drag them out. Reckon thet four-flush Sheriff Bray had his chance at us last night. Don’t tell the girls.”

  Jim had no intention of that, though so far as Molly was concerned she would know. He had a talk with Ring Locke and told him about the affair at Snell’s. The foreman seemed both vastly concerned and pleased. “Son-of-a-gun, thet Prentiss boy...Jim, thet’ll settle Bambridge. He’ll have to shoot or git out. An’ he ain’t the shootin’ kind. All the same, I wish the Diamond was out of town.”

  Some of the cowboys might as well have been out of town, for all Jim could find of them. Jackson Way, of course, had gone to Winslow with his girl. Hump, Cherry, and Uphill had disappeared, after a bloodless and funny fight with some rival cowboys over a pool game. Lonestar Holliday was discovered lurching out of a cheap Mexican lodging-house, almost speechless, and certainly lost to a sense of direction. Jim bundled him into the buckboard. “Sit on him, Charley,” ordered Jim, “and take him home. Then hurry back.”

  Bud was in jail, and all Jim could find out, in the nature of offence, was a charge of disorderly conduct, including unusual profanity. Bray, the sheriff, was not to be found on the moment, and probably that was a good thing for all concerned. Bud was locked up with a tramp, two Mexicans, and a Navajo, and a madder cowboy Jim never had seen. “Boss, I’m gonna shoot thet — coyote of a sheriff!” he asserted. Jim paid his fine and got him out, greatly relieved that it had been no worse.

  “Where’s Curly?” demanded Jim.

  “Shore haven’t the slightest idee. I reckoned he’d stay home on Christmas — considerin’.”

  “When’d you see him last?”

  “Yestiddy sometime, I think it was, but I ain’t shore. The last time I seen him was when he was helpin’ Miss Glory in the sleigh, after the dance. My Gawd! you’d took him fer the Prince of Wales.”

  “Then you went an’ got drunk?”

  “Must have, Boss, or suthin’ like. My haid feels sorta queer.”

  Jim went back to the ranch considerably concerned over Curly’s disappearance. Lonestar and Bud were back, and late that night Uphill came, so Ring Locke informed Jim. The next day and the next passed. On the third Hump and Cherry rolled in, more or less dilapidated. But no Curly! Jim discovered that he was not the only one who missed the drawling-voiced cowboy. Gloriana passed from coldness to disdain and then to pique, and from that to a curiosity which involved her own state of mind as well as interest in Curly’s whereabouts.

  “Curly is a proud fellow,” observed Jim, for Gloriana’s benefit, though he directed the remark to his uncle. “Belongs to a fine old Southern family. Rich before the war. He has taken offence at something or other. Or else he’s just gone to the bad. I don’t know what the Diamond will do without him.”

  Later, Gloriana, with one of those rare flashes of her eyes, said to Jim: “Brother mine, your remarks were directed at me. Very well. The point is, not what the Diamond will do without Curly, but what I will.”

  “Glory! — What are you saying?” expostulated Jim, both thrilled and shocked. “It’s just pique. You don’t care a rap for Curly. But because he bucked against your imperious will your vanity is hurt.”

  “Some of your deductions are amazingly correct,” retorted Gloriana, satirically. “But you’re off on this one. And I’m afraid your prediction about my bucking up the Diamond must be reversed. If you were not blind you’d see that.”

  “Glory, hang on to this strange new, sweet, loving character you’ve developed, won’t you?”

  “I’ll hang on for dear life,” laughed Gloriana, finally won over.

  The last day of the old year dawned — the day of Molly’s party. The cowboys, excepting Bud, had given up ever expecting to see Curly Prentiss again, who, they claimed, had eloped. Bud, however, was mysterious. “You cain’t ever tell aboot thet son-of-a-gun. He’ll bob up, mebbe.”

  Jim was not sanguine, and felt deeply regretful. Had he unduly lectured Curly? But he could not see that he had, and he resigned himself to one of those inexplicable circumstances regarding cowboys, which he had come to regard as inevitable.

  Jim’s small family were all in the living-room early that morning, planning games for the party, when there came a familiar slow step outside, and a knock on the door, Jim opened it.

  There stood Curly, rosy-cheeked as any girl, smiling and cool as ever.

  “Mawnin’, Boss,” he drawled.

  “How do, Curly...Come in,” replied Jim, soberly. It was too sudden for him to be delighted.

  Curly sauntered in. He wore a new coloured blouse, new blue jeans, and new high top-boots, adorned with new spurs. He did not have on a coat or vest, the absence of which brought his worn gun-belt and gun into startling prominence.

  “Mawnin’, folks. I dropped in to wish you-all a happy New Year,” he drawled.

  Uncle Jim, Molly, and Gloriana all replied in unison. The old rancher’s face wreathed itself into smiles; Molly looked delighted; and Gloriana tranquil, aloof, with darkening eyes.

  “Where you been — old-timer?” queried Jim, coolly. Curly’s presence always steadied him, whether in amaze, anger, or indecision.

  “Wal, I took a little holiday trip to Albuquerque — to see a sweetheart of mine,” replied Curly. “Shore had fun. I wanted particular to brush up on dancin’. An’ my girl Nancy shore is a high stepper. I got some new steps now that’ll make Bud green.”

  “Albuquerque!” exclaimed Jim, beginning to realise this was Curly Prentiss.

  “Curly, I never heahed of no Albuquerque girl before,” said Molly, bluntly.

  “Molly, this was one I forgot to tell you aboot.”

  “Did you fetch her down for my party?”

  “No. I couldn’t very well. Nancy’s married an’ her husband’s a jealous old geezer. But I shore would have loved to fetch her.”

  It was the expression in Molly’s big dark eyes that gave Jim his clue. The cowboy did not live who could deceive Molly Dunn. Curly’s story was a monstrous fabrication to conceal his drunken spree. Yet how impossible to believe this clear-faced, clear-eyed cowboy had ever been drunk! Not the slightest trace of dissipation showed in Curly’s handsome fair face. He looked so innocent that it was an insult to suspect such a degrading thing. Suddenly Molly shrieked with mirth, which had the effect of almost startling the others.

  “Say, anythin’ funny aboot me?” queried Curly, mildly.

  “Oh, Curly Prentiss! You’re so funny I — I could kiss you.”

  “Wal, come on. I’ve shore been in a particular kissable spell lately.”

  Gloriana was the quiet, wondering one of the group. She had been gullible enough to believe Curly’s story, and had no inkling from Molly’s mirth. Moreover, the growing light in her beautiful eyes gave the lie to cool indifference to Curly’s presence. She was too cool. Gloriana could never wholly hide her true feelings. That was part of the price she had to pay for those magnificent orbs of violet.

  “Molly,” put in Jim, “if you have an urge to kiss anybody, you can come to me. I won’t have you wasting kisses on this handsome, heartless cowboy...Well, let’s get back to our plans for the party...Curly, we’d be glad to have you sit in with us on this discussion — that is, of course, if you’re coming to the party.”

  “Wal, you shore flattered me, postponin’ Molly’s party once on my account,” he drawled, with a blue flash of eyes upon Gloriana. “An’ I wouldn’t want you to do thet again. I gave up the society of a wonderful damsel to come to this heah party.”

  “You dog-gone lovable fraud!�
�� burst out Molly, unable longer to conceal her feelings.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE DAY AFTER the New Year gaieties they rode forty miles ahead of the chuck-wagon, down out of the snow and cold, to the sunny cedared and pinoned forest. Back to saddle and chaps, sourdough biscuits and flapjacks, to chopping wood and smoky campfires — in a word — back to the range! And as if by magic they were all in a day the same old Diamond. Jim felt that he could burst with pride and affection. Where was there to be found another group like this? Yet that was only his personal opinion, for Uncle Jim and Locke had laughed at his conceit and told him of other noted Arizona outfits. “You get an outfit that sticks together for a spell — anywhere in Arizona — an’ you have the makin’s of another Diamond,” declared Locke.

  The fourth day they rode along their blazed trail, down into wild and beautiful Yellow Jacket. All the long way down that zigzag trail Jim whistled or stopped his horse at the turns to gaze down. Once he heard Bud remark, laconically: “My Gawd! it must be great to be in love like the boss. Jest soarin’. He’ll come down with a hell of a thump pronto.”

  Jim laughed at Bud, but a couple of hours later, when he gazed at a huge blackened, charred mass, all that remained of the wonderful peeled pine logs which had been cut to build his ranch-house, he did come down with a sickening thump.

  “Haw haw! — Reckon the Hash-Knife has had a party, too,” yelled Bud, shrilly.

  “Croak Malloy’s compliments, Boss. See the latest cut in the aspen there,” added Curly, grimly, pointing to the largest of the beautiful white-barked quaking-asps near at hand.

  Curly had sharp eyes. Jim dismounted and walked over to the tree. The crude, yet well-fashioned outline of a hash-knife had been cut in the bark, and inside the blade was the letter M. Jim had seen enough of these hash-knife symbols to be familiar with it, but not before had he noticed the single letter. That was significant. It seemed to eliminate Jed Stone. In a sudden violent burst of temper Jim wheeled to his men and cursed as never before in his life.