Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  Insolently she laughed in his face. “You forget I can scratch.” Then she drew Pan away from the table, beckoning for Brown to come also. Halting presently near the wide opening into the dance hall she said:

  “I’m always starting fights. What might your name be, cowboy?”

  “Well, it might be Tinkerdam, but it isn’t,” replied Pan nonchalantly.

  “Aren’t you funny?” she queried, half-inclined to be affronted. But she thought better of it, and turned to Brown. “I know your face.”

  “Sure you do, Miss Louise,” said Brown, easily. “I’m a miner. Was here when you came to town, an’ I often drop in to see the fun.”

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Charley Brown, an’ that’s straight.”

  “Thanks, Charley. Now tell me who’s this big good-looking pard of yours? I just want to know. You can’t fool me about men. He doffs his hat to me. He talks nice and low, and smiles as no men smile at me. Then he bluffs the toughest nut in this town...Who is he?”

  “All right, I’ll introduce you,” drawled Brown. “Meet Panhandle Smith, from Texas.”

  “Well,” she mused, fastening her hands in the lapels of his coat. “I thought you’d have a high-sounding handle...Will you dance with me?”

  “Sure, but I’m afraid I step pretty high and wide.”

  They entered another garish room, around which a throng of couples spun and wagged and tramped and romped. Pan danced with the girl, and despite the jostling of the heavy-footed miners acquitted himself in a manner he thought was creditable for him. He had not been one of the dancing cowboys.

  “That was a treat after those clodhoppers,” she said, when the dance ended. “You’re a modest boy, Panhandle. You’ve got me guessing. I’m not used to your kind — out here...Let’s go have a drink. I’ve got to have whisky.”

  That jarred somewhat upon Pan and, as she led him back to Brown and then both of them to an empty table, he began to grasp the significance of these bare-armed white-faced girls with their dark-hollowed eyes and scarlet lips.

  She drank straight whisky, and it was liquor that burned Pan like fire. Brown, too, made a wry face.

  “Panhandle, are you going to stay here in Marco?” she inquired, leaning on her white round arms.

  “Yes, if I find my folks,” he replied simply. “They lost all they had — ranch, cattle, horses — and moved out here. I never knew until I went back home. Makes me feel pretty mean. But Dad was doing well when I left home.”

  “Mother — sister, too?”

  “Yes. And my sister Alice must be quite a girl now,” mused Pan.

  “And you’re going to help them?” she asked softly.

  “I should smile,” said Pan feelingly.

  “Then, you mustn’t buy drinks for me — or run after me — as I was going to make you do.”

  Pan was at a loss for a reply to that frank statement. And as he gazed at her, conscious of a subtle change, someone pounded him on the back and then fell on his neck.

  “My Gawd — if heah ain’t Panhandle!” burst out a husky voice.

  Pan got up as best he could, and pulled free from the fellow. The voice had prepared Pan for an old acquaintance, and when he saw that lean red face and blue eyes he knew them.

  “Well, I’ll be darned. Blinky Moran! You son of a gun! Drunk — the same as when I saw you last.”

  “Aw, Pan, I ain’t jes drunk,” he replied. “Mebbe I was — but shein’ you — ole pard — my Gawd! It’s like cold sweet water on my hot face.”

  “Blink, I’m sure glad to see you, drunk or sober,” replied Pan warmly. “What’re you doing out here?”

  Moran braced himself, not without the help of his hold upon Pan, and it was evident that this meeting had roused him.

  “Pan, meet my pard heah,” he began, indicating a stalwart young man in overalls and high boots. “Gus Hans, puncher of Montana.”

  Pan shook hands with the grinning cowboy.

  “Pard, yore shakin’ the paw of Panhandle Smith,” announced Moran in solemn emotion. “This heah’s the boy, frens. You’ve heerd me rave many’s the time. He was my pard, my bunkmate, my brother. We rode the Cimarron together, an’ the Arkansaw, an’ we was the only straight punchers in the Long Bar C outfit that was drove out of Wyomin’...His beat never forked a hoss or coiled a rope. An’ shorer’n hell, pard, I’d been a rustler but fer Panhandle. More’n onct he throwed his gun fer me an—”

  “Say, Blink, I’ll have to choke you,” interrupted Pan, laughing. “Now, you meet my friends here, Miss Louise — and Charley Brown.”

  Pan did not miss the effect the bright-eyed red-lipped girl made upon the cowboys, especially Moran who, he remembered, had always succumbed easily to feminine charms.

  “Blinky, you’ve been drinking too much to dance with a lady,” presently remarked Louise.

  “Wal, now, Miss, I’m as sober as Panhandle there,” replied Moran ardently.

  She shook her curly head smilingly and, rising from the table, went round to Pan and leaned up to him with both wistfulness and recklessness in her face.

  “Panhandle Smith, I’ll leave you to your friends,” she said. “But don’t you drift in here again — for if you do — I’ll forget my sacrifice for little Alice...There!”

  She kissed him square on the lips and ran off without a backward glance.

  Blinky fell into a chair, overcome with some unusual kind of emotion. He stared comically at Pan.

  “Say, ole pard, you used to be shy of skirts!” he expostulated.

  “Reckon I am yet, for all the evidence,” retorted Pan, half amused and half angry at the unexpected move of the girl.

  Charley Brown joined in the mirth at Pan’s expense.

  “Guess the drinks are on me,” he said. “And they’ll be the last.”

  “Pan, thet there girl is Louie Melliss!” ejaculated Moran.

  “Is it? Well, who in the deuce is she?”

  “Say, cowboy, quit your foolin’!”

  “Honest, I never saw or heard of the young lady till a few minutes ago. Ask Brown.”

  “That’s a fact,” corroborated Brown, thus appealed to. “She’s the belle of this hell. Sure, Smith, you savvy that?”

  “No,” rejoined Pan bluntly. He began to fear he had been rather thickheaded. “I’ve holed up in a few gambling hells where drinks and scraps went pretty lively. But this is the first one for me where there were a lot of half-naked girls.”

  “You’re west of the Rockies, now,” replied Brown, grimly. “An’ you’ll soon find that out in more ways than one...Louie Melliss is straight from Frisco, an’ chain-lightnin’ to her fingertips, so they say. Been some bad messes over her. But they say too, she’s as white an’ square as any good woman.”

  “Aw!...Reckon I’m pretty much of a tenderfoot,” returned Pan. His regret was for the pretty audacious girl whose boldness of approach he had not understood.

  “For Gawd’s sake, pard,” began Moran, recovering from his shock. “Don’t you come ridin’ around heah fer thet little devil to get stuck on you. She’s shore agoin’ to give young Hardman a bootiful trimmin’. An’ let her do it!”

  “Oh. So you don’t care much about young Hardman?” inquired Pan with interest. He certainly felt that he was falling into news.

  “I’d like to throw a gun on him an’ onct I damn near done it,” declared Moran.

  “What for?”

  “He an’ another fellar jumped the only claim I ever struck thet showed any color,” went on the cowboy with an earnestness that showed excitement had sobered him. “I went back one mawnin’ an’ there was Hardman an’ a miner named Purcell. They ran me off, swore it was their claim. Purcell said he’d worked it before an’ sold it to Jard Hardman. Thet’s young Hardman’s dad, an’ he wouldn’t fit in any square hole. I went to Matthews an’ raised a holler. But I couldn’t prove nothin’...An’ by Gawd, Pan, thet claim is a mine now, payin’ well.”

  “Tough luck, Blink. You
always did have the darndest luck...Say, Brown, is that sort of deal worked often?”

  “Common as dirt, in the early days of a find,” replied Brown. “I haven’t heard of any claim jumpin’ just lately, though. It’s somethin’ like rustlin’ cattle. You know most every cowman now and then picks up some unbranded stock that he knows isn’t his. But he takes it along. Now claim jumpin’ is somethin’ like that. If a fellar leaves his claim for a day or a week he’s liable to come back an’ find some one has jumped it. I never leave mine in the daytime, an’ I have witnesses to that.”

  “Blinky, I came out here to find my dad,” said Pan. “Have you ever run across him?”

  “Nope. Never heerd of him. I’d shore have asked aboot you.”

  “How am I going to find out quick if Dad is here, and where?”

  “Easy as pie. Go to the stage office, where they get the mail an’ express. Matty Smith has been handlin’ thet since this heah burg was a kid in short dresses.”

  “Good. I’ll go the first thing in the morning...Now, you little knock-kneed, bow-legged two-bit cowpuncher! What’re you doing with those things on your boots?”

  “Huh! What things?” queried Moran.

  “Why, those long shiny things that jingle when you walk.”

  “Haw! Haw!...Say, Pan, I might ask you the same. What you travel with them spurs on your boots fer?”

  “I tried traveling without them, but I couldn’t feel that I was moving.”

  “Wal, by gum, I been needin’ mine. Ask Gus there. We’ve been wranglin’ wild hosses. Broomtails they calls them heah. We’ve been doin’ pretty good. Hardman an’ Wiggate pay twelve dollars an’ four bits a hoss on the hoof. Right heah in Marco. We could get more if we could risk shippin’ to St. Louis. But thet’s a hell of a job. Long ways to the railroad, an’ say, mebbe drivin’ them broomies isn’t tough! Then two of us anyhow would have to go on the freight train with the hosses. Shore we cain’t figger it thet way now. But later when we ketch a thousand haid we may try it.”

  “A thousand head! Blinky, are you still on the ground? You’re talkin’ fifteen thousand dollars.”

  “Shore. An’ I’m tellin’ you, Pan, thet we can make it. But ketchin’ these wild hosses in any number hasn’t been done yet. Hardman has an outfit ridin’. But them fellars couldn’t get away from their own dust. We’re not so blame swift, either. S’pose you throw in with us, Pan. You’ve chased wild hosses.”

  “Not such an awful lot, Blink. That game depends on the lay of the land.”

  “Shore. An’ it lays bad in these parts. Will you throw in with us? An’ have you got any money?”

  “Yes to both questions, old-timer. But I’ve got to find Dad before I get careless with my money. Where are you boys staying?”

  “We got a camp just out of town. We eat at the Chink’s when we’re heah, an’ thet’s every few days. We got lots of room an’ welcome for you, but no bedroll.”

  “I’ll buy an outfit in the morning and throw in with you...Hello, there’s shooting. Gun play. Let’s get out of this place where there’s more room and air.”

  With that they, and many others, left the hall and joined the moving crowd in the street. The night was delightfully cool. Stars shone white in a velvet sky. The dry wind from mountain and desert blew in their faces. Pan halted at the steps of the hotel.

  “Blink, I’m going to turn in. Call for me in the morning. I can’t tell you how glad I am that I ran into you boys. And you, too, Brown. I’d like to see more of you.”

  They shook hands and parted. Pan entered the hotel, and sat a while in the bare smoky lobby, where sharp-eyed men and women passed him by with one look at his cowboy attire. They were seeking bigger game. Pan experienced a strange excitation in the hour, in the place.

  When he went to his room he was not sleepy. “Lucky to meet those boys,” he soliloquized, as he undressed. “Now to find Dad — Mother — Alice! Lord, I hope all’s well with them. But I’ve a feeling it isn’t...And Lucy! I wonder will she be here too. Will she recognize me? I’ll bet a million she does. Funny about Dick Hardman. Never knew me. Didn’t he look, though?...And that girl Louise. She had to laugh and talk all the time to hide the sadness of her face...At that, she’s too good for Dick Hardman...I’ll bet another million he and I clash again.”

  Pan was up bright and early, enjoying the keen desert air, and the vast difference between Marco at night and at dawn. The little spell of morbid doubt and worry that had settled upon him did not abide in the clear rosy light of day. Hope and thrill resurged in him.

  Blinky and his partner soon appeared, and quarreled over which should carry Pan’s baggage out to their quarters. Pan decidedly preferred the locality to that he had just left. The boys had a big tent set up on a framework of wood, an open shed which they used as a kitchen, and a big corral. The site was up on a gradual slope, somewhat above the town, and rendered attractive by a small brook and straggling cedars. They had a Mexican cook who was known everywhere as Lying Juan. Pan grasped at once that he would have a lot of fun with Juan.

  The boys talked so fast they almost neglected to eat their breakfast. They were full of enthusiasm, which fact Pan could not but see was owing to his arrival. It amused him. Moran, like many other cowboys, had always attributed to Pan a prowess and character he felt sure were undeserved. Yet it touched him.

  “Wal, ole-timer, we’ll rustle now,” finally said Moran. “We’ve got aboot fifty broomies out heah in a canyon. We’ll drive ’em in today, an’ also some saddle hosses for you.”

  “I’ll buy a horse,” interposed Pan.

  “You’ll do nothin’ of the sort,” declared Blinky stoutly. “Ain’t we got a string of hosses, an’ there shore might be one of them good enough even for Panhandle Smith. But you want a saddle. There’s one in Black’s store. It’s Mexican, an’ a blamed good one. Cheap, too.”

  Gus came trotting up on a spirited sorrel, leading two other well-pointed horses, saddled, champing their bits. Sight of them was good for Pan’s eyes. He would never long have been happy away from horses. Moran leaped astride one of them, and then said, hesitatingly:

  “Pard, shore hope you hev good luck findin’ your dad.”

  Pan watched them ride away down the slope to the road, and around a bend out of sight. It was wonderful country that faced him, cedar, piñon and sage, colored hills and flats, walls of yellow rock stretch away, and dim purple mountains all around. If his keen eyes did not deceive him there was a bunch of wild horses grazing on top of the first hill.

  “Juan, are there lots of wild horses?” he asked the Mexican cook. And presently he came into knowledge of the justice of the name “Lying Juan.” Pan had met some great liars in his life on the range, but if Juan could do any better than this he would be the champion of them all.

  Pan shaved, put on a clean flannel shirt and new scarf, and leaving his coat behind he strode off toward the town. The business of the day had begun, and there was considerable bustle. Certainly Marco showed no similarity to a cattle town. Somebody directed him to the stage and express office, a plain board building off the main street. Three men lounged before it, one on the steps, and the others against the hitching-rail. Pan took them in before they paid any particular attention to him.

  “Morning, gents,” he said, easily. “Is the agent Smith around?”

  “Howdy, stranger,” replied one of them, looking Pan over. “Smith just stepped over to the bank. He’ll be back pronto.”

  Another of the group straightened up to run a hard gray eye from Pan’s spurs to his sombrero, and back for a second glance at his low hanging gun. He was a tall man, in loose tan garments, trousers stuffed in his boots. He had a big sandy mustache. He moved to face Pan, and either by accident or design the flap of his coat fell back to expose a bright silver shield on his vest.

  “Reckon you’re new in these parts?” he queried.

  “Yep. Just rode in,” replied Pan cheerfully.

  “See you’re packin’ hardwa
re,” went on the other, with significant glance at Pan’s gun.

  Pan at once took this man to be Matthews, the town marshal mentioned by Charley Brown. He had not needed Brown’s hint; he had encountered many sheriffs of like stripe. Pan, usually the kindliest and most genial of cowboys, returned the sheriff’s curious scrutiny with a cool stare.

  “Am I packing a gun?” rejoined Pan, with pretended surprise, as he looked down at his hip. “Sure, so I am. Clean forgot it, Mister. Habit of mine.”

  “What’s a habit?” snapped the other.

  Pan now shot a straight level gaze into the hard gray eyes of the sheriff. He knew he was going to have dealings with this man, and the sooner they began the better.

  “Why, my packing a gun — when I’m in bad company,” said Pan.

  “Pretty strong talk, cowboy, west of the Rockies...I’m Matthews, the town marshal.”

  “I knew that, and I’m right glad to meet you,” rejoined Pan pertly. He made no move to meet the half-proffered hand, and his steady gaze disconcerted the marshal.

  Another man came briskly up, carrying papers in his hand.

  “Are you the agent, Mr. Smith?” asked Pan.

  “I am thet air, young fellar.”

  “Can I see you a moment, on business?”

  “Come right in.” He ushered Pan into his office and shut the door.

  “My name’s Smith,” began Pan hurriedly. “I’m hunting for my dad...Bill Smith. Do you know him — if he’s in Marco?”

  “Bill Smith’s cowboy! Wal, put her thar,” burst out the other, heartily, shoving out a big hand. His surprise and pleasure were marked. “Know Bill? Wal, I should smile. We’re neighbors an’ good friends.”

  Pan was so overcome by relief and sudden joy that he could not speak for a moment, but he wrung the agent’s hand.

  “Wal, now, sort of hit you in the gizzard, hey?” he queried, with humor and sympathy. He released his hand and put it on Pan’s shoulder. “I’ve heard all about you, cowboy. Bill always talked a lot — until lately. Reckon he’s deep hurt thet you never wrote.”

  “I’ve been pretty low-down,” replied Pan with agitation. “But I never meant to be...I just drifted along...Always I was going back home soon. But I didn’t. And I haven’t written home for two years.”