by Zane Grey
The end of June saw more than fifteen hundred head of four-year-old steers in the large pasture on Red Rock Ranch, ready for the drive. Selby heard Hepford say to Hawk Siebert: “That’ll do till after the Fourth. Some of these go to Holbrook. Jones’ outfit will come after the rest.”
So, on the face of it, Hepford’s mismanagement of stock was not so easy to unravel, after any considerable time had passed. In the present case Ernest had enough data, if the matter had to go to court, which he greatly doubted.
Selby’s left arm had been injured in a fall, and he used that as an excuse to get permission to go to Holbrook. He traveled on the stage, boarding it in front of the ranch house, not at all regretful that Miss Anne Hepford curiously watched him leave. Of late she had actually noticed Ernest, for which little attention he found himself much elated. For Anne’s sake he had made up his mind that he would not arrest Hepford, but he wanted what he considered rightfully his own.
He found a lawyer in Holbrook to whom he entrusted the case. This lawyer, Jefford Smith, was a Westerner and a cattleman. His practice of law was a side business, and had been taken up as a matter of exigency for the county. Smith whistled long and loud over Ernest’s papers. “Plain as the nose on your face,” he said succinctly. “It beats the celebrated Presston butchering case all hollow. I happen to know Hepford has more money on interest in Holbrook than has ever been paid Selby all together. Hepford’s a director in the bank here. He does considerable banking in Globe, too, and no doubt other towns. ... Young man, you’ll certainly have him in a corner if you can prove your case. It was right smart of you to come out here as an unknown cowboy to see for yourself. But go slow. Work to get proofs. Be careful. If you get the proofs Hepford will break his neck to compromise—to keep this quiet, not to say buy his escape from jail.”
Ernest felt a drumming in his ears and he required a good deep breath before he could speak. Presently he would hold the fate of Anne Hepford in his hands. At the moment he seemed to feel nothing but tenderness for the girl with the green eyes. He certainly did not wish to ruin her happiness, and more than ever he inclined to the dream of making the ranch really hers, along with himself. But he preferred to win her as Ernest Howard, cowboy from Iowa.
“You will keep this matter secret, of course,” he said to the lawyer. “I’ll remember your advice. I’ll take time. There’s no hurry.”
“Very good. That’ll be the wisest course. This is the West, an’ possession is nine-tenths of the law. We must have proof,” replied Smith.
Selby spent the night at Holbrook and caught the stage next morning. The hours did not drag. In fact such was his state of mind that he did not seem to have enough time to think. He wasted most of it in dreams. On the return trip he got off at Sam Brooks’ lane. He was not a little surprised to meet Daisy at the gate. She had come to meet the stage to get things that had been ordered from Holbrook. Her rosy color and Ernest’s confusion amused the stage driver, not to say the other passengers.
So it came about that Ernest walked up the lane with Daisy. He did not feel insensible to her charm and to the evident fact of her naive pleasure in his company. Yet there was something not quite right, and before they had reached the cottage the vivacity that seemed now in her had changed to the quiet familiar wistfulness. A vague dissatisfaction with himself troubled the visitor. He could not get his mind off the compelling fact that someday he would be master of Red Rock.
When they reached the cottage Brooks beamed upon them so approvingly that again he felt uncomfortable.
“I’ve been to Holbrook,” began the Iowan without preamble. “Afraid I—I’m in a peck of trouble. And I just wanted to ask you if you’d stand by me if I need help.”
“Somethin’ to do with Hepford?” queried Brooks, his eyes suddenly hard and light.
“Maybe. I’ve got a pretty good idea I’m going to lose mv job. Would you take me on here?”
“Shore. An’ ask no questions,” replied the rancher warmly.
“Much obliged. It is good to know that I have one friend I can count on. Good day, Sam, I’m moseying along,” concluded Ernest abruptly, and turned away.
He had not got far when he heard Daisy’s voice. She had followed him down the path to the stile. Selby halted. He was uneasy in his mind, yet interested in what the girl wanted, despite his preoccupation. Her face was red when he turned and pale by the time she reached him.
“I—I couldn’t say it before Dad—but you’ve got two friends,” she said, bravely but falteringly.
“That’s awfully good of you, Daisy. I’ll remember it,” he replied, and restrained an impulse to take her hand. Any fool could see what darkly eloquent and beautiful eyes she had.
“I’m sorry, Ernest. I—I think I know what trouble you mean,” went on Daisy. “We drove down to the ranch yesterday, and I met Nebraskie. I—he—we used to be—well, Dad told you. I reckon Nebraskie doesn’t hate you. But the other cowboys do, especially Dude Hyslip. Nebraskie said that when Anne gave it away she was going to the dance at Springer with you—why, Dude raved. ... Ernest, the least you can expect is a—a fight It’s happened before aboot her. I—I wish you could see—well, never mind aboot that.”
Ernest was dumbfounded over Daisy’s words. Things evidently had happened during his absence. Then elation succeeded his amazement, and it was with difficulty that he concealed it.
“It’s good of you to warn me, Daisy,” he said gratefully. “Hope I’ll see you at the dance.”
“I reckon I’ll go. Joe Springer asked me,” she replied. “He’s only a—a kid. It’s going to be a big dance.... But I—I didn’t run after you to say that.”
“Daisy, what do you want to say?” queried Ernest gently, suddenly realizing what it had meant for her to tell him what she had. He took her hand.
“I—they—oh, darn it—don’t let my cousin make a—a fool of you!” she exclaimed with sudden passion, and snatching free her hand she ran back up the lane.
“Well!” ejaculated Selby soberly. What was this that threatened his paradise? He could not unravel it. All the way down the valley trail he cudgeled his brains. Something was afoot, that seemed certain, and inimical to him. Daisy Brooks flashing out of her shy reticence was a surprise. He divined her sincerity. But what had that hint of hers meant?
Before he realized it he had arrived at the end of his walk. Sunset was gilding the red crags. He was tired out with travel and thought. As he came around the big barn he espied a pinto mustang standing before the bunkhouse porch. Suddenly Ernest halted, scarcely believing his eyes. Anne Hepford sat on the porch beside Nebraskie dangling her riding boots over the edge. She waved a gauntleted hand at him and called: “Hello, Iowa. Come heah pronto!”
5
SELBY responded to Anne’s gay summons as if it had been a trumpet call. Breathless, sombrero in hand, he reached her side, and quite forgot any sort of greeting to Nebraskie.
“Nebraskie said you’d be back on the stage. But you weren’t—and I’ve waited all this time,” she announced reproachfully.
“I got off at Brooks’—and walked—down,” replied Ernest.
“Strikes me you get off at Brooks’ a lot,” she shot at him, with a green flash of her eyes. It made the Iowan forget all about Daisy’s recent warning. It did not, however, blind him to the fact of Nebraskie’s displeasure.
“I—I’ve been there only a couple of times,” he stammered, his face turning red. “Brooks is about the—only friend I have around here—unless Nebraskie—”
“Brooks? Bah, you mean Daisy Brooks. That’s all right, only don’t lie about it. My cousin is a sweet kid. The point heah is I hope you haven’t asked her to the dance the night before the Fourth.”
“No, I haven’t,” replied Ernest, and despite an effort to be nonchalant he seemed to himself to look and speak with school boy eagerness.
“I want you to take me,” she said very sweetly, and if there had been any hope of Ernest’s reacting sanely to that situation, i
t died before the smile she gave him.
“I—I’ll be—delighted,” he stammered.
“Thanks, Iowa,” she replied with another smile. “It’s late in the day, I know. But I really didn’t expect to go to this dance. I’ve been coaxing Dad to let me go to Holbrook, for the big dance there. But he said, ‘No.’ He’s shore cross these days. . . . Please don’t wear your cowboy boots.”
“I won’t—nor spurs, either,” he said with a laugh of comprehension.
She slipped off the porch, and stood before them in all her lithe and supple beauty, and threw back her head with a taunting little laugh at Nebraskie. Then she mounted the pinto pony.
“Wednesday night, then—and oh, I nearly forgot. Come close,” she said.
Selby stepped up to the pony. Anne leaned down till her sombrero brushed his ear. She put a hand on his arm. “If you want to tickle me sing that ‘son-of-a-gun from Ioway’ song where Dude can heah you.”
“I’ll do it,” cried Ernest aloud.
She squeezed his arm, and straightened up in the saddle, with a gleam that was not all roguish in her eyes. Then she rode off.
Ernest watched her until she was out of sight. Many times had he done that same thing, but never with feelings such as possessed him now. Then he flopped on the porch floor beside the glowering Nebraskie, noting for the first time that individual’s sour expression.
“Wal, Barnum was right. There’s one born every minnit,” drawled Nebraskie.
“Born!—What?”
“A sucker. An’ if you ain’t the biggest thet ever hit Red Rock I’ll swaller my spurs. Gosh, but I’m disappointed in you, Ioway.”
“I—I’m darned sorry, Nebraskie,” replied Ernest, frankly puzzled. His bunkmate looked actually grieved. “I didn’t know you liked me well enough to care a damn about me.”
“Wal, I did. An’ only this heah day I stuck up fer you, an’ riled the outfit something scandalous.”
“You did! Nebraskie! Honest now!”
“I swear I did. You can ask Hawk. An’ he put in a word fer you, too. Sort of stumped Hyslip. Wal, we had it out. You’ll have to lick Hyslip or you’ll never last heah.”
“Nebraskie, I’m going to last,” said Selby slowly and emphatically, and he thrust out a hand. “You’re the best hombre in the outfit and if you’re my friend they can all go hang.”
“Wal, I cottoned to you, Ioway,” rejoined Nebraskie, as if confessing a terrible weakness, and he reluctantly shook hands. “You’ve shore been a real feller. But, aw! if you jest hadn’t let this heah green-eyed hussy—”
“Nebraskie! Be careful—if you’re a friend of mine,” interrupted Ernest.
“Hell! It’s because I am your friend thet I’m seein’ red. I mean what I say aboot her. Do you savvy thet? She’s made a sucker out of you. An’ I shore did hope an’ believe you’d be the one feller she couldn’t work. But she does it to all of ’em.... Listen, Ioway, Anne Hepford hasn’t any use fer us cowboys, except to play with. She’s let Dude in for more than any one else. An’ serves the conceited fool jest right. She was goin’ to the dance in Holbrook with a feller from St. Louis. But the old man blocked thet. Then she had a fight with Dude. An’ as all the rest of us fellers has a gurl for the dance—why, she picked on you. An’ say, you was too easy! . . . Thet’s what the argument was aboot heah in the bunk-house last night. It seems Anne told Dude she was goin’ to ask you, an’ Dude was fit to be tied aboot it. Wal, I ups an’ says, sarcastic-like, that Anne Hepford couldn’t make no sucker out of you. We had it hot an’ heavy. Thet’s where Hawk Siebert put a word in for you. Hyslip laughed us down. ‘What?’ he bellered. Thet Ioway hick turn Anne down? Boys, you’re loco. He’ll break his neck eatin’ out of her hand!’”
“So that’s it,” groaned Selby, chagrined. “I can’t believe you, Nebraskie.”
“Wal, Hawk an’ me reckoned you would have the spunk to turn her down,” returned Nebraskie. “An’ I’m shore plumb disappointed in you.”
Ernest got up. “I’m darn sorry,” he said. “But don’t be too disappointed in me. I may fool you yet—if there’s any truth in what you say.”
“Call me a liar now. Me, who stuck up fer you. If thet ain’t like a tenderfoot!” railed Nebraskie.
Sight of Dude Hyslip, with Bones Magill and Lunky Pollard, coming along the short-cut path from the barns, filled Selby with a most extraordinary satisfaction.
“Better sneak indoors,” advised Nebraskie.
Ernest was in no state of mind to accept advice. He waited till the three boon companions had arrived at the porch, when he called out in a loud cheerful voice with a pseudo-western accent.
“Howdy, boys. I’m back, and shore ararin’ to go.”
“We heah you,” replied Bones sarcastically. “Whar’ you rarin’ to go?”
“Why, golly—to the dance, of course.”
Dude Hyslip looked sullen and dark, and the heat of his face was not from the sun. He never even glanced at Ernest, but sneered to his friends: “Wal, he may be ararin’ to dance, but he’s liable to trip himself up before he’s through.”
At that Nebraskie sauntered to the door of his room, and looked back over his shoulder.
“Pretty strong talk, Dude, when the other feller’s only out of his haid an’ funny.”
“Nebraskie, you shot your chin off last night,” snapped Hyslip. “You’ve declared yourself for Howard. An’ thet queered you with the outfit. After the Fourth, when this bunch of cattle is gone, you both get fired.”
“The hell you say!” retorted the usually mild Nebraskie. “Wal, I reckon I couldn’t be no wuss off then hangin’ on heah.”
Selby joined Nebraskie in the doorway. “You’re right, Hyslip,” he said cheerfully. “There’s going to be some no-good punchers hitting the road out of Red Rock soon. I happen to know.”
Then he went inside and began to sing in a fair tenor voice:
The son-of-a-gun from Ioway
He stole my gurl away.
Then he repeated the lines in higher, more piercing tones:
The son-of-a-gun from Ioway
He stole my gurl away.
Nebraskie had been petrified at the first stanza, but at the second he motioned to Ernest to stop. The third time the soloist departed from all musical rhythm to bawl at the top of his lungs.
SON-OF-A-GUN FROM IOWAY
HE STOLE MY GURL-L AWA-A-AY!
The Iowan doubled up with mirth. But the crack of a gun and crash of glass made that mirth short-lived. Nebraskie dove under the lower bunk. Ernest stood stock-still a moment, then as another shot came and a bullet tore through the door he squeezed in behind the built-in chimney. Bang! A third bullet spat through the window and passed through the flimsy wooden wall. At this point, Hyslip’s comrades tried to stop the fusillade, but the enraged cowboy proceeded to empty his gun.
“Say, Howard, you’d better let that do for a while,” he bellowed.
Nebraskie rolled out from under the bunk, scared and resentful, “An’ now I’m dodgin’ bullets fer you!”
“Nebraskie, before too long we’ll have this shack to ourselves, and we won’t have to be dodging bullets,” said Selby.
“By gum, you are loco. Wal, fer Gawd’s sake jest don’t sing thet song no more.”
“I am going to,” declared Ernest. “And what’s more, pard, when I catch that swelled-up pup without a gun I’ll beat his handsome mug flat.”
Whereupon Ernest again proceeded to sing the objectionable lines, this time not melodiously nor yet vociferously, but with bold emphasis. Blank silence followed this defiance. Apparently Hyslip had either been restrained by his friends or had passed out of hearing range.
Two days of brutal work followed, during which Ernest acted as though he were in a trance. Then the day of the dance arrived, sunny and hot. By this time the Iowan had persuaded himself that the doubts engendered by Daisy and Nebraskie were baseless. He had almost succeeded in silencing a still, small, unsatisfied voice. He must have
been a sore trial to the patient Nebraskie on that warm summer day. About four o’clock, while he was lolling on his bunk, waiting for the tedious hours to pass, Nebraskie came in for about the tenth time that afternoon.
“Ioway, the fire’s out,” he announced.
“What fire?” queried Ernest, with a premonition of evil.
“Wal, I shore hate to tell you an’ say I told you so. But your flame has gone up the flue. Anne’s St. Louis gazaboo came an’ they jest drove off to Springer. She was shore dressed fit to kill—or I reckon I should say undressed. Never saw so much of Anne. She had a shawl on when she came out, but you bet she let it slip off so we could see her.”
“St. Louis?—gazaboo!—shawl!” gasped Selby uncomprehendingly.
“Crawl under the bunk. Cain’t you savvy when you’re licked? Anne Hepford has dished you as everybody knowed she would—if she could git some other feller to take her to the dance.”
Something within Ernest snapped. Nebraskie had imparted this news in a bitter tone, without looking at his friend.
The Iowan got up without a word and stalked out, and through the pines to the ranch house. His thoughts and emotions were in a whirl. He stamped up the high front steps of the porch, and knocked. The door was open and the hired girl bade him come in. He saw Mr. Hepford in the living room in earnest conversation with another man.
“Hello, it’s Iowa. What do you want, cowboy?” said Hepford.
“I’ve called to ask Miss Anne about the dance tonight,” replied Ernest.
“Anne’s gone. She left a little while ago with young Sinclair from St. Louis.”
“Will she be back?”
“No. She was dressed for the dance. They’re having dinner in town.”
“Mr. Hepford, I expected to take Miss Anne to that dance. She asked me to go with her.”
“Is that so? Sorry you’re put out about it, Howard,” replied Hepford somewhat testily. “Anne was just having herself a little fun. She’s full of tricks, as all you cowboys should know. Certainly she never intended you to take her seriously.”
