Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  Weeks, even months, might have passed since he had been here with Lucy. In tense action, in ceaseless vigilance, in stern thought, and in the resistless emotion of love that grew with leaps and bounds it seemed to Linc that he had lived that much time.

  “Lordy! I never felt this way before,” mused the Nebraskan, falling into his old habit of talking to himself. “Trying to dodge Kit’s advances and to court Lucy’s love would just about make a man balmy if it wasn’t that I’ve got the fight of my life on my hands.”

  Fight indeed, for his own life, for his friend’s good name, for love that called with all the tenderness and insistence and fire-filmed enchantment of this valley. The surroundings seemed as boundless as his emotions. In the clear air of early morning, the mountains, range upon range, to the farthest snowy peak stood out sharp in the distance. The rose-tinted peaks two hundred miles away seemed to loom just beyond the valley rampart; the carpet of sage seemed to stretch on endlessly. The wavering line of the river bed and the dots that were ranch houses accentuated the valley’s vastness. No veil of purple haze obscured the cowboy’s sight at this early hour. He wished that the future might be spread as clearly before his gaze as that valley in the clear morning light.

  Several times he replenished the fire. Column after column of gray smoke he sent aloft in the signal agreed upon with Lucy. He wondered whether the girl had seen his signal fire from her aunt’s ranch house below. Was she having trouble in getting away? Had Kit Bandon unexpectedly come home?

  As midmorning arrived he became aware of activity down below. His range eyes caught the telltale clouds of dust, the movement of countless black objects that meant that a roundup of cattle was in progress on the ranch belonging to Kit Bandon. There were herds of cattle on other ranches, as far as the eye could see. Linc wished he had brought his field glasses. He would like to have a closer view of the Bandon ranch.

  Time passed. The noon-day hour was at hand. The sun stood straight overhead. Lincoln paced to and fro, growing definitely worried over the girl’s delay. What could have detained Lucy? She had said positively that nothing could keep her from seeing him. Apparently something had, and he felt the beautiful spell that had been building up in his inner consciousness begin to fade away. Suddenly Lincoln knew that she was not coming. His first reaction was one of bitter disappointment. Then he began to wonder whether Lucy really ever had intended to come. He remembered the scene on the sidewalk in South Pass. But he remembered, too, the honesty in her level gaze, the genuineness of her emotions when he had told her he must see her again. No, little as he knew of women, he would stake his life on that blue- eyed girl. Her failure to keep her tryst with him was not just a young girl’s whimsy. There was something sinister behind her absence. Perhaps her aunt had found out. Perhaps it all had to do with the mystery of her strange tangled loyalties which had sealed her lips when she had so obviously wanted to confide in him. He shook his head hopelessly. Again he was up against that same blank wall that had confronted him ever since he had come to Wyoming.

  Lincoln extinguished the fire, and mounting Bay turned back toward the road. Soon he was descending the bluff, around long zigzags and winding turns. He found, presently, that from the base of the bluff, the road led in a gradual descent out into the gray sage. Its tangy fragrance filled his nostrils, and the seemingly endless expanse of the gray-green floor of the valley stirred his senses. But Lincoln bore a troubled mind. His perplexity and anxiety grew as Bay’s gentle pace covered distance and brought the belt of golden-green willows closer and closer. Cattle began to appear in increasing numbers on each side of the road, but none close enough for him to distinguish their brands. He rode on, conscious of an unaccountable foreboding pervading his heart. Had Kit Bandon bragged to Lucy of her conquest of Lincoln in South Pass? Once she had discovered his friendship with Lucy she would fight it with all the tremendous force and unscrupulous cunning of her dual nature. Lucy had experienced a cowboy’s faithlessness with Jim Weston. It would not take too much persuasion on the part of Kit to make the girl believe that he, Jim’s partner, was just another opportunist! But he would find a way to prove his love, no matter how completely Kit had prevailed upon the girl.

  Nearing the willows and the river he decided to leave the road, and not go directly to the Bandon ranch until he had formed some definite plan of procedure. To this end he took a trail leading off to the left which approached the willows at an angle. Presently the trail leading toward the willow-bordered Sweetwater showed the tracks where antelopes had crossed it on their way to water. The presence of game in such profusion reminded Lincoln that he had not brought a rifle, almost a necessity if he expected to travel about the range, camping at night. Rabbits and other small furry animals fled before him. The river was evidently still some distance ahead. Many of the ancient willows were as large as cottonwoods. Following the well-worn trail, which wound in and out among the trees, the cowboy presently smelled smoke. Halting Bay, Lincoln slid out of the saddle and led the horse by the reins. It was soft loam and the shod hoofs gave forth no sound. Lincoln heard the gurgle of swift water some distance ahead of him. The smell of smoke grew stronger. There was a camp, or at least a smoldering fire, not far away. The trees thinned out and suddenly Lincoln found himself in a clearing that bordered a swift-running, amber-colored stream. Beyond shone the bright gray sage, but close to the stream the cowboy could see tarpaulin stretched on poles, some camp duffle and a burned-out fire with skillet and coffeepot upon it.

  Suddenly Bay’s long ears shot up. Lincoln’s restraining hand prevented him from snorting. Then a rustle in a treetop to the right of him drew Lincoln’s swift gaze. High up in a giant lone willow he espied a man with a leveled telescope pointed toward the sage in the direction of the Bandon ranch. Stepping aside from his horse Lincoln drew his gun and called out: “Hey you! up in the tree! — What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  CHAPTER VI

  THE MAN HANDLING the spyglass was so startled by Lincoln’s terse call that he all but lost his balance and fell out of the tree. He stared. He saw the gun. His jaw sagged and his eyes popped.

  “Well, pile down out of there in a hurry! I might take you for a squirrel,” ordered Lincoln, truculently. “I don’t hold with spying on folks!”

  The man came scrambling and sliding down the rough tree trunk, at the expense of his worn garments. Once upon the ground he appeared to be a squat middle-aged individual, mild of eye and homely of face. He approached Lincoln with hesitation, but after a moment with more confidence.

  “Ain’t you that cowboy, Bradway?” he queried.

  “Never mind who I am. The thing is who are you?”

  “My name’s Bloom Burton. I have part interest in Jim Hargrove’s cattle.”

  “Hargrove? Where’s his ranch?”

  “Twenty miles, I reckon, below Lee’s.”

  “And where’s Lee’s?”

  “His range joins Kit Bandon’s, about ten miles down the river.”

  “How’d you come to take me for Bradway?”

  “Wal, I’ve heerd about the look of you.”

  “And why aren’t you so scared as you were, when you first saw me?”

  “Hargrove told us you was one cowboy who’d be on our side.”

  “Our side! Who’s your side?”

  “Wal, we’re the cattlemen of Sweetwater Valley.”

  “Ahuh. I begin to savvy. What were you doing up in that tree?”

  “Did I look like I was pickin’ flowers?” retorted Burton, coolly.

  “You looked like a spy.”

  “I reckon thet’s what I was.”

  “On your own account? Or under orders?”

  “Wal, I reckon I’d better say my own.”

  “Suppose I walk you over to Kit Bandon’s and tell her what I caught you doing?” demanded Lincoln.

  “My Gawd — don’t do thet, Bradway!... She’s packin’ a gun and she can throw it. She’d kill me as quick as you could say ‘maverick.’?”r />
  “All the same, Burton, I think that’s what I’ll do.”

  “You got the advantage, Bradway.... I’m shore damn disappointed. I reckon Lee was right about you bein’ taken with Kit Bandon. An’ Hargrove was wrong.”

  “What did Hargrove think that was wrong?”

  “He saw you meet Gun Haskel, an’ then call Emery to his face, an’ most damn plain, Hargrove swears, you turned yore back on thet woman, an’ he took from thet you are one cowboy she won’t bamboozle.”

  “Hargrove is right. I’m no friend of Kit Bandon’s. And I’m dead set against Emery’s outfit. All the same, it’s to my interest to turn you over to Bandon.”

  “Yore interest! — How? I cain’t see how gettin’ me shot will benefit you.”

  “All right. If you’ll consent to do some talking I won’t give you away.”

  “Talk? Say, I’ve already shot my mouth plenty — thet is, about myself an’ my pardners.”

  “What I want you to tell me is all you know about Jimmy Weston’s death.”

  “An’ thet’s all?”

  “Yes. You don’t need to tell me why you were up in that willow spying upon Kit Bandon’s roundup. You were taking a count of cattle — probably calves and yearlings that were mavericks a little while back.... But you spill all you know about Weston’s death right now and quick — or I’ll walk you over to the Maverick Queen’s.”

  “I honestly don’t know much, Bradway,” returned the cattleman, plainly disturbed and turning pale.

  “Wasn’t he murdered?”

  “We ranchers reckon he was.”

  “Ranchers! — What do the cowboys think?”

  “Nobody knows. They are close-mouthed as hell about thet.”

  “Weston was killed out here on the range?” ventured Lincoln.

  “Yes. He was drove to South Pass in the daid of night.”

  “From where?”

  “Out heah in the valley someplace. A cowboy named Hank Miller was teamster for Hirsh, my neighbor down the valley. He hadn’t been long heah. But he drove Hirsh’s wagon to town thet night — an’ nobody never seen him again. The wagon was left in town, an’ Weston’s Stetson was found in it. Course thet doesn’t prove Weston was murdered, or drove from the valley into town, or shot in a card game at Emery’s late thet night. But the wagon part in it, an’ Miller’s disappearance, looked queer to us out heah.”

  “Hank Miller? — Did you ever see him? Describe him.”

  “Strappin’ cowboy. Young. Nice face an’ sleepy eyes. He was seen in Rock Springs two days ago by Jeff Slocum, driver of the eastbound stage. Thet news I got today — from a visitor I had. . .. An’ thet’s all I know positive about the Weston case.”

  “Thanks — Burton,” returned Lincoln, almost gently. “It’s a good deal.”

  “You was Weston’s pard, I heah?”

  “Yes, his best friend. And I let him run away out here to be murdered!”

  “Jim was a great rider an’ a likable boy. He rode for me once.”

  “Did you — let him go?”

  “No. He quit. He wanted to be near Bandon’s ranch.”

  “Why?”

  “Wal, he was sweet on Lucy, first off — an’ then he went the way of most cowboys on this range.”

  “Kit Bandon’s way, you mean?”

  But the squat man turned away to his smoldering campfire, without replying.

  “How long will you stay here?” asked Lincoln.

  “Reckon I’ll leave soon as thet roundup is over. Pretty pronto.”

  Burton’s information, uncertain as it was, had rekindled Bradway’s smoldering flame of vengeance. He swore he would see this thing through unless he found that by persisting in his search he would lose Lucy. She had been right — to kill Weston’s murderers, even to clear his name, would not bring their friend back. Nevertheless, it would take a great deal to turn him aside from the task he had sworn to fulfill.

  “Burton, tell your partner Hargrove, that I’ll be calling on him before long,” said Lincoln, as he kicked the stirrup around so that he could step up in it. He mounted. Burton was gazing up at him, evidently withholding speech with difficulty. There was a glint in his eye.

  “Shore. I’ll tell him. But I reckon my meetin’ you heah won’t please him none. I was to hide my movements.”

  “Well, on second thought, then, don’t tell him I caught you in the act. That won’t do any good. I can drop in to see him without sending word.”

  “Thanks, Bradway. Thet suits me plumb better,” rejoined the other, considerably relieved. “But I won’t be expectin’ you so positive.”

  “Yeah? I said I’d come, didn’t I?”

  “Shore. You said so. But judgin’ by thet spark in yore eye I’d say you was huntin’ trouble. An’ you’ll get it over there, mebbe.”

  “Where?”

  “At thet roundup.”

  “Thanks for tipping me off. Do you know any of the outfit I’ll run into?”

  “Not a damn one. But them riders jest don’t belong to this Sweetwater range.”

  “Ahuh. Outsiders. Well, in that case I won’t be so sensitive about stepping on their toes,” drawled Lincoln.

  “Bradway, you’re a cool ‘un!” declared the little cattleman. “Naturally I distrust your bizness out heah. You cain’t be offended at thet. But doggone it, I like you, an’ I’m goin’ to tell the members of our — er, my neighbors so.”

  “That’ll be fine. But wait a while.”

  “Shore, I’ll do thet.... Are you ridin’ right into Bandon an’ her outfit?”

  “Yes. I’m powerful interested in what’s going on over there.”

  “Man, I cain’t help but think you’re...”

  “I’m what?” interrupted Lincoln, tersely, as the other hesitated.

  “Wal, ya don’t seem to be a feller thet it’d be safe to tell yore mind to.”

  “I savvy, Burton. You figure I’m like all the other cowboys — loco about this Bandon woman?”

  “Wal, that’s gone over the range — an’ it wouldn’t be no surprise to nobody.”

  “I see, and your personal angle is that you’re damn sorry?” queried Lincoln, with a grin.

  “Eggsactly,” replied Burton, also with a grin.

  “How do you feel in regard to the destroying angel in question?”

  “Wal, the fact is I never knowed what to think,” returned Burton, seriously. “I’ve seen Kit Bandon a lot of times — talked to her a few. When I was close to her I jest couldn’t think at all! — But then I’m a lonely man. I never had no woman. An’ I reckon in Gawd’s sight thet ain’t natural or good. So any woman affects me queer. I jest ain’t no jedge of woman. But as for Kit — wal, it’s my notion thet you called her proper. She’s a destroyin’ angel.”

  “So long, Burton,” concluded Lincoln, soberly, after a long look at the earnest little man. “Hope to see you soon. And if you’re friendly, don’t worry about me.”

  “Well, I’m friendly, Bradway. I cain’t help it. Hell, I oughta know men an’ cowboys an’ horses, even if I don’t know women. Else I’ve lived twenty years on the range for nothin’.... So long. Good luck.” He let Lincoln turn away to leave the clearing, then called after him: “Them riders are bad medicine if you rile them. But they’re Mormons an’ chances are they’ll be straight.”

  Lincoln might not have heard this strange and parting sally, for all the response he made. Nevertheless, it surprised and startled him. Mormon riders were something absolutely new to him. After a moment’s thought, however, he believed he would have less to fear from them than from the valley cowboys who were involved in more or less degree with the mysterious doings of this Maverick Queen.

  The ride back through the willow brake to the sage seemed very short, owing to his preoccupation of mind. But once on the road he began to realize that he was nearing the home of Lucy, and what was even more disturbing, the presence of Kit Bandon. What if he were to meet them together? How he would conduct himself in s
uch event he had no idea.

  He saw the lane where the road bisected the willow brake, at that point not nearly so wide. And at last he came to the river and the ford. The amber water ran clear and shallow over a gravel bottom. Bay could not pass through it without drinking. Presently Lincoln surmounted the high bank to find he was close to a long white log cabin that stood out in the open. The mental picture he had of Kit Bandon’s home, given him by Lucy, did not fit this pretty and picturesque place. Boldly Lincoln rode into the grassy yard, and dismounting, he knocked on the door with his heart in his throat. But there was no response. He repeated the knock, louder. But if there were anyone in the house, there was no evidence of it. No doubt Kit and her niece would be out with the roundup. That would be better, Lincoln thought. Nevertheless, to face both of them, even before a bunch of curious cowboys, would be an ordeal Lincoln had to steel himself to undertake.

  Mounting Bay he rode out to where he could see the clouds of dust marking the roundup. He located them beyond some corrals and sheds back of the house. Kit Bandon’s home appeared to be more of a farm than a ranch: chickens overran the yard, which reminded Lincoln of the Missouri farmland of his boyhood. Fenced pasture ran all the way back to the river bank, within which some fine horses grazed. He sighted, too, some cows and calves far down near the willows. The barn was a substantial structure, constructed to provide for severe winters and to shelter at least a score of horses. Beyond that a long shed extended, open in the front, but with a long manger running along the sheltered side, evidently intended to house cattle in cold weather. Linc examined everything with keen interest as he rode past to turn into the sage.

  The dust cloud hung over a roll in the sageland a mile or more from the corrals. Lincoln espied stray cattle all over the range, but did not catch sight of the main herd until he reached the ridge top. He was somewhat surprised to see perhaps two thousand head. As he approached, his sharp eye detected four riders. They were circling the herd, cutting a large bunch of yearlings and calves out to one side. The cattle seemed rather tame. Many cows and a few steers, all full grown, bore the brand K I T and as the roundup showed no indication of branding work he supposed the younger cattle had also been similarly marked. He was sighted by one of the riders the moment he topped the ridge.