by Zane Grey
It was still and cool in the forest, and she soon reached the zone where the Diamond cut off the morning sunlight. Here the dark shade was almost like twilight. The trail followed the creek and often crossed it. The amber water foamed around the boulders. Great gray rocks lined the banks, and above stood up the maples and oaks, and the lofty pines and spruces.
At every turn of the trail Molly would peep around before going on. Always, too, she had a keen eye for Slinger’s tracks. This was easy riding and there were miles of the gradual ascent before the trail entered one of the brakes, which was merely a local name for canyon. Open forest, with scarcely any brush, afforded vistas on all sides. Molly saw deer, but no cattle. She was still down out of the cattle zone.
In a few miles the forest changed and thickened. The maples and oaks had been left behind. Clumps of young pine obstructed vision. The silver spruces began to lord it over the yellow pines. Manzanita appeared, and tufts of grass in open spots. Molly had difficulty in keeping the charm of the forest from breaking her vigilance. The wall of brown-streaked green rose on both sides. Through openings in the foliage she saw the lofty gray crags of the Diamond promontories. Soon she would be climbing in earnest, and then she must exercise extreme caution.
Presently she missed Slinger’s tracks in the dust of the trail. Molly rode back, bending in anxious scrutiny. She had been careless. Soon she found where he had turned out of the trail. Molly slipped off her horse. What could this mean? She dared not go on for fear she might get ahead of him. Perhaps he was going to climb the Diamond by a trail known only to himself. Molly stood in dismay, pondering the problem.
Suddenly a rifle-shot clear and sharp up the trail gave her a violent start. A wild cry followed. Molly stood transfixed. Then came the clatter of rapid hoof beats. She drew her horse behind a thicket of pines.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
JIM TRAFT, RESTING on the soft, fragrant matt behind a spruce tree, and waiting for the call to supper, inadvertently heard conversation most assuredly not intended for his ears.
“Nope. You cain’t deal no more cairds to me,” Curly Prentiss was saying to someone. “I won’t take a hand in any more deals against the boss.”
“But, Curly, we all reckon you wasn’t at your best when he licked you,” rejoined Uphill Frost.
“How so?”
“Wal, you’d been drunk. An’ you know how weak likker makes you. An’ you was sort of in fun. You didn’t get mad.”
A silence betrayed that no doubt this eloquence and persuasion were balm to Curly’s wounded vanity.
“Mebbe so. Dog-gone!...But he hit me on the nose an’ seen how it hurt. Then he kept pokin’ me again right there. An’ thet’s what he’ll do to you, Up. He’ll find out how anythin’ ag’in’ your belly hurts you. Aw, you know you cain’t even stand a tight belt. You’ve et so many million sour-dough biscuits thet your insides is gone. An’ you, Jack Way, if you pick a fight with our boss, Gawd help you! Because you’re all weak spots. You’re not got a well bone in your body. An’ ev’ry time he cracks you with one of them big fists, you’ll yell. I’ll bet a month’s pay.”
“Take you up. Heah thet, Frost,” grumbled Way. “Fact is, though, I’m afeard he will lick me. He shore put it all over Lone-star last Saturday. But we gotta fight him. Somebody has gotta do it or the Diamond is done fer on the range.”
“Don’t you believe sech talk!” declared Curly. “We’re doin’ a big stunt with this fence. Boys, the boss is a chip of the old block.”
“Hack Jocelyn says so an’ Hack’s an old-timer heah.”
“You’d be smart not to listen to him,” replied Curly, in lower tone. “Hack’s out fer trouble. Not fun! He’s stuck on Molly Dunn an’ he cain’t stand fer the Flag talk aboot the boss winnin’ Molly. There’ll be a fight one of these days as will be a real one An’ I wanna see it.”
“Natural you’d like to see Hack get licked proper,” growled Frost.
“You can shore bet on thet,” said Curly, emphatically.
“Wal, you an’ Bud have double-crossed us,” complained Jackson. “Bud is clean out with it. He says: ‘You can all go to hell. I’m sidin’ with the boss.’”
“Boys, you cain’t blame Bud much. The boss kept me, out of jail, but thet ain’t a marker to what he done fer Bud. An’ if you look back hasn’t this heah Jim Traft done somethin’ fer each of us, ‘ceptin’ mebbe Hack? Now I ask you?”
Both cowboys were significantly silent.
“I’m gonna pick a fight with him, anyway,” concluded Up Frost. “He’s sore at me an’ it’ll be easy.”
“When you aim to pick it?”
“I had my mind made up more’n onct. But when I get near the son-of-a-gun, I don’t stick to it.”
“Ahuh. You jest cain’t help likin’ Jim Traft. If Hack Jocelyn wasn’t in the outfit we’d all be fer the boss pronto.”
“Up, if you tackle him, I’ll do it, too, soon’s he licks you.” put in Jackson Way. “An’ mebbe we can get Cherry to try ag’in, if he licks me.”
“If? Haw! Haw! Say, you couldn’t hire Cherry to stand up ag’in under them sledge-hammer fists. Fer fact is he was sittin’ down all the time.”
“Wal, we can get Hump to tackle it.”
“I don’t know. He an’ Hump’s been tolerable civil lately. It’s workin’ on Hump.”
“Curly, air you helpin’ to keep this outfit from bustin’?” queried Frost, scornfully.
“I reckon I am,” replied Prentiss, in colder knife-edged tone. “An’ you can expect trouble between me an’ Jocelyn any day.”
“Hell you say!”
“Wal, Jack, I told you...Let’s go an’ try to talk Hump into suthin’.”
The cowboys strolled away into camp, arguing and complaining, while Jim Traft lay there amused and touched and singularly pleased. This incident occurred at a camp on Pine Creek in the forest on what was called the Saddle. It lay half-way between Black Butte and the Diamond. Not for weeks had Jim seen or heard anything so encouraging to him. He could not contain his delight. The drift fence was going on. He had not been in Flagerstown for weeks, but letters from his uncle kept him informed of the news at that end of the fence. He had long since worked and ridden out the soreness of muscle and bone that had made him suffer so excruciatingly. He was now strong and hard. He could stick in a saddle. He could dig fence-post holes all day. In truth he seemed vastly changed and improved, and almost happy, despite periodic spells of depression. The months did not pale Molly Dunn’s charm.
The call to supper disturbed Jim’s reverie. He got up and, keeping the thick, low-spreading spruce tree between him and camp, he walked off into the woods, and, circling, came back to camp on the other side. Meantime he had evolved a plan to help Uphill Frost and Jackson Way to realize their ambitions in regard to a physical clash with him. The prospect simply filled him with glee.
He found the boys at supper, and a sudden cessation of voices proved he had interrupted something unusual, for cowboys seldom talked during their brief mealtime.
“Sorry to spoil your talk, boys,” he said, with sarcasm and putting on a severe face. “But I can’t go without my meals to let you gab about me.”
“Boss, you might flatter yourself,” replied Bud Chalfack.
“Sure. But not this time,” said Jim, as he surveyed the masklike faces. “Hack looks mighty innocent and indifferent. The rest of you, though, strike me bad.”
“We was only talkin’ aboot the fence,” put in Frost. “Me an’ Jack stand by our argyment of this mawnin’. You’re runin’ thet line wrong lately, keepin’ to this thick woods hyar.”
“Well, tomorrow we’ll run off a way, then, into the open draws. And I’ll give you and Jack the job of digging post-holes for a few days.”
A long howl of mirth made the welkin ring. After that had subsided Uphill and Jackson rendered the air blue around camp.
Jim stood it a while and then, though it was not out of the ‘ordinary, he pretended to take exception to su
ch profanity.
“Shut your dirty mouths,” he ordered. “If you want to rave you can do it without such cuss words.”
“Wha-at!” bawled Uphill. “Ain’t this hyar a free range? Cain’t I open my mouth?”
“Why don’t you eat with it? This is supper time. And the rest of us are hungry.”
“You heered thet, Jack,” roared Up, in real or assumed wrath. “I shore did,” yelled Jack.
Whereupon the two of them burst out into another long string of profanity. Jim got up and deliberately punched Uphill in the mouth and then Jack. That certainly and effectually stilled the profanity, as well as all other vociferations.
“After supper I’ll oblige you boys with all the satisfaction you want,” said Jim, sitting down again.
Uphill’s face was brick red and he appeared about to explode. “You bet — you will — boss,” he choked.
Jackson Way bent thoughtfully over his supper, with the sombre air of a boy who had been let into something unawares.
Another silence fell. This time Hackamore Jocelyn broke it.
“So the Diamond’s come to this!” he exclaimed, in derision. “My Gawd! no wonder we’re the talk of the range.”
Jim bent a clear, straight gaze upon his one real enemy.
“Jocelyn, the Diamond is doing fine, according to reports from Flag,” he said, deliberately. “And I can see how it could do better.”
“Ahuh. So can I,” replied Jocelyn, with far less subtlety than Jim’s.
“Aw, hell,” interposed Bud Chalfack, “there ain’t no outfit on the range thet could run this drift fence.”
“Wal, cowboy, you mean would run it, an’ thet’s no lie,” returned Jocelyn, sneeringly.
“All stale talk, Hack,” spoke up Jim. “Can’t you think of something new? I sure get tired of it. You’ve got a reputation for hatching up tricks and deals. Why can’t you be original in your gab? It’d amuse us, anyhow.”
Jim had spoken cheerfully, yet with scintillating pointedness. And this remark fell like a blanket upon the company. Most of the cowboys took a bold look at Jocelyn, to see what effect this strong talk from the boss might have. Jocelyn’s lean face paled and he bent over his plate. The tension relaxed, but Jim felt that he had inserted a wedge into the breach.
Uphill Frost finished his meal in remarkably quick time for him. And he arose to make most elaborate preparations for the fray.
“Boss, tell me where you want your carcass planted,” spoke up Bud, quizzically. “An’ give me word to send home.”
That resurrected the humour of the cowboys, except in several instances.
“Any money to bet, Up?” inquired Curly.
“This ain’t goin’ to be fun,” quoth Frost.
“I should smile not. Lay you ten to one you cain’t lick Jim.”
“Jim!” ejaculated Uphill, with a fierce snort. “Who’s Jim?”
“Why, our boss, you damn fule,” replied Curly, innocently. Jim got up with alacrity, and threw off his vest.
“Bud, you be my second,” he said, cheerily. “Fetch those soft gloves of mine.”
Bud complied and Jim pulled them on. These were heavy, soft, woollen gloves that Jim wore occasionally.
“Lemme see? What’s the idee of gloves?” asked Uphill, suspiciously.
“I don’t want to hurt you badly, Up. These gloves are like pads.”
“You don’t say. Wal, you might have a hoss-shoe or nail hid in them. Lemme see...Ahuh, I’ll take my chanct with your bare fists.”
“Come on. Let’s get it over,” said Jim, business-like. “We’ve fence to build, you know.”
After a few passes at each other Uphill swung in like a snorting bull, and Jim, making a feint with his right, came up hard with his left. It connected. Barn!
Up got rid of breath he could not retain.
“Wow!” yelled Curly.
“Got Up’s bread-basket fust off,” added Bud, merrily. “Fellars, we’d better move back,” suggested Cherry. “Fer if the boss soaks him thar ag’in we’ll be dodgin’ biscuits.”
Up had begun valiantly, evidently adhering to a preconceived plan of battle. Jackson Way behind him kept calling encouragements. They danced around, and presently Jim ran in to take a couple of blows in order to plant another, at the pit of Up’s stomach. Biff! It had a solid sound. Up let out a groan. His face changed remarkably, and from that instant he became a changed man. He left his face and head wholly unguarded, endeavouring to stem the attack on his lower anatomy. Jim could have landed at will on nose or eye or chin. But he wanted to hit Up’s weak spot and he fought accordingly. He got in two or three blows, glancing ones, and not quite on the mark. Yet they spread consternation and terror to poor Up’s heart. He had nothing left to get enraged upon. He grew mortally afraid that he would sustain another blow in his vital spot. And he made a ludicrous spectacle. Hack Jocelyn stood in the background, smoking a cigarette, disdainful and aloof. The other cowboys, including Jackson Way, gave vent to their riotous feelings.
Jim took the fight in hand then.
“You cussin’ cowpuncher,” he said, imitating the vernacular of his men. “You lazy hole-diggin’ gopher! Take this one in the gizzard.”...Wham!...”You bow-legged, biscuit-eatin’ rhinoosceross!”...Pop! “Right on the kisser! Forgot you had a face, hey, Up? Look out now.”...Crack! Smack!...Zugg!
That last one, a solid blow over Up’s rather stout middle, elicited an awful groan from him. He sagged, and bent forward like a jack-knife.
“Fer Gawd’s sake!” gasped Up, his face convulsed. “Boss, don’t hit me — there — no more.”
Jim lowered his fists and ceased prancing around the bewildered cowboy.
“Very well. Have you got enough?”
“Aplenty,” groaned Up.
“All right, then, provided you call it square for keeps and shake hands. Otherwise—”
“Boss,” interrupted Frost, hastily, “I’ve ben ag’in you, jest natural an’ cussed. But there was no sense in it. An’ hyar you are!”
Uphill showed the true manliness back of his contrary, cantankerous spirit.
“Now, Jack, come on. It’s the only way for us to settle the difficulty.”
“I reckon so, boss,” returned Jack, ruefully. “But it ain’t fair.”
“Why not? Sure, I didn’t start this. If you want to apologize—”
“Nope. I ain’t takin’ nothin’ back. But my pore body has too many sprains an’ dislocations an’ cracks to stand your hammerin’. All the same, I’ll take my medicine.”
And he did take it, putting up a better fight than Frost’s, though of obvious pain to himself and less fun for the cowboys. He brought the blood from Jim’s nose, an inconsequential blow, yet one loudly applauded by his companions. Shortly after that Jim caught him in the ribs. Jack went down in a heap, rolled over, and laboriously sat up, his face ashen.
“Jim — it was — bad enough — hittin’ all my other — places,” he panted. “But them busted — ribs! I knowed you’d find them...Would you mind — callin’ it off fer keeps?”
“If you want,” replied Jim. “But you’ve bloodied my nose! And I reckon I’d like to soak you some more.”
“Aw no! Take it out on Hackamore,” replied Jack, beseechingly, and he got up to offer his hand to Jim.
His suggestion instantly charged the atmosphere with something more compelling.
“Strikes me,” said Jim, quickly. “How about it, Jocelyn? You’ve a sore head. You’ve been mean and full of poison talk. And I haven’t been as decent as I might have been. Let’s have a whack at each other. It can’t do any harm and it might do good.”
“I wouldn’t soil my gloves on you, Mister Traft,” drawled Jocelyn, with undisguised malignity.
“Oh, wouldn’t you? I reckon you’re thinking more of your handsome face.”
“Yep, I ben told it’s handsome lately, an’ I’m shore keepin’ it so,” returned Jocelyn, with caustic significance. No one there could have misinterpreted
him.
Jim bit his tongue. It was no time for him to say more or make a move. Jocelyn packed his gun and had the look of a man who would strain any chance to use it.
That incident marked the definite break between Jim and Jocelyn. There was no hope of a better state of feeling. Jim hoped this disgruntled cowboy would keep to his threat to quit the Diamond. Both Bud and Curly had warned Jim to let Hack alone to take his own time. They assured Jim that Hack would go presently, but they could not quite figure just what he was up to. Jim was glad of their advice and this late evidence of friendship. It seemed, indeed, that Jocelyn was now the only thorn in the flesh of the Diamond. Day by day he became more alienated from Cherry Winters and Hump Stevens, who had been the last of his stand-bys.
Another Saturday came. Some of the boys went to Flagerstown. Hack had disappeared before daylight, and according to Bud and Curly his horse tracks led south.
“Boss, he’s gone to West Fork,” claimed Bud, with a wise look. “Shore as you’re born,” agreed Curly, wagging his bright head. “Curly, let’s ride down there, too,” suggested Bud.
The idea found favour with Curly, who looked at Jim for approval.
“It ain’t a bad idee, boss. We’ll hit the Sycamore trail at Tobe’s Well an’ go off the mountain there. Thet’s aboot at the haid of the brakes. We’ll get a line on driftin’ cattle, an’ mebbe other thin’s, too.”
“Go, by all means,” replied Jim, and he found himself fighting an almost irresistible longing to go with them.
That was the longest week-end Jim had put in since his advent in Arizona. He was on pins and needles until Bud and Curly returned, late on Sunday night. To his disappointment, they seemed uncommunicative and brought no news of any moment. They had not seen Hackamore Jocelyn. They did not mention either Slinger or Molly Dunn. They reported considerably more cattle than they had expected to run across. Numerous dead cows, and old carcasses, neither of which had been killed by wolves or lions, lying in the open along the trails, attested to a changed and startling condition of affairs since the drift fence had been started.
