by Grey, Zane
"Not much," declared Huett.
"Take me, George," begged Barbara, her face eager and daring.
"Well, I guess. Pile in here."
George drove her around the bench and down across the brook, sending up great sheets of muddy water, out on the flat, and back again, in a cloud of dust. Barbara leaped out radiant and breathless.
"Oh--grand!" she cried. "You go so fast... But I was--scared."
"Doggone these young people nowadays," complained Huett to Lucinda. "Our old way--too slow, too slow!... Reckon I'll come to it if these cars ever get safe."
George did not succeed in convincing his father that automobiles were to be trusted, but before winter came he proved they were marvellous to cover distance, to save time, to add wonderfully to the comfort and efficiency of a housewife, to bring mail and supplies quickly to the ranches. "You've been a pioneer for twenty-five years. From now on you're a rancher."
The driving of this new stock, the repairing of fences, the toil early and late in the fields, and the other manifold tasks of the growing ranch made days and seasons fly by on wings. The boys stacked a hundred tons of alfalfa and sold as many bushels of potatoes before the frosts hurried them to the game trails with their guns. Lucinda and Barbara were rushed with their labours--putting up endless jars of pears and peaches, of pickles and tomatoes, of apple-butter and mincemeat. Logan stored away in the cellar a load of the finest cabbages he had ever seen.
"Ha, Luce!" he exclaimed, heartily. "Remember when I used to say we'll not starve, anyhow?... Things are pretty good... Well, well, it's been long coming."
While the seasons sped by, Huett's bead of cattle had doubled, trebled, quadrupled. How amazingly they multiplied now! The calves came as if by magic. Widow Steadman died without any kin to whom to leave her cattle and her several thousand head gravitated to Huett.
George hit upon a plan to cut a track beyond Three Springs Wash to the canyon below and enclose that. It resembled Sycamore somewhat, but was larger and revealed more gaps to fence. George demonstrated, against his father's remonstrances, how two canyons rich in acorns and oak browse would raise a larger herd of stock more quickly than one; and Huett finally succumbed to facts and figures.
"But rustlers can steal from us down there very much easier than they have been able to in Sycamore," replied Huett, still the over-cautious and long-suffering cattleman.
"We'll risk that. Besides, we'll let what's left of our wild horses drift down there. Those broom-tails eat a lot, Dad."
Lucinda divined anew how Logan had so inspired them all with his great idea, his driving passion, that long habit of work, of sacrifice had left them unable to slow down, to begin to see the prosperity that had really come. But what were ten thousand head of stock to Huett? He limited the sale to less than a thousand a year. He kept out of debt and bought more cattle.
But Lucinda did not fail to see their happiness. They were as busy as honey-storing bees. They were sufficient unto themselves. Several times a year Lucinda and Barbara went to town, finding more pleasure in these trips for their infrequency.
Seldom did Lucinda broach the subject of marriage to Barbara, and she finally stopped altogether after Barbara said:
"Oh, Mother, I am afraid Abe will ask me some day, and if he does I--I can't beg him to wait longer--I love him so... But George loves me too--and Grant. I think Abe hates to hurt them... We're all so happy. Why can't we go on this way longer?"
Chapter THIRTEEN.
Logan Huett lived to learn that he did not yet know the West.
Like wildfire in a wide-swept prairie the dramatic killing of Tim Mooney travelled over the range. Before the shock of his neighbours and fellow-ranchers had passed, the Mooney family left the locality and Dwight Collier sold out to Holbert to ride away. He was not backward in telling that of late he had suspected Mooney of deals in which he had not part. The range did not believe this, but they were quick to accept the rumour that Mooney's son drew a large amount from the bank at Flagg.
Then little by little, as cowboys compared notes and cattlemen found time and freedom to talk, the guilt of Tim Mooney stood out indisputably. None of them patted Logan Huett on the back for his service in ridding the range of this crooked cattleman, but they exonerated him from any suspicion whatever. They called the fight an even break in which the better and the honest man came out on top. The good it did manifestly served to scare off any other lone and butchering rustler who might have followed in Mooney's footsteps. However, the harm it created was the tendency to focus attention of the predatory cattle interests--the rustlers and their queer ramifications--upon the fact that there were rich pickings in the Mogollons and from the Little Colorado to the Tonto Rim.
Huett's sons did not suffer any blight of spirit because their father had joined the ranks of Arizona killers. George and Grant grew a little harder, and Abe a little more silent. But Lucinda and Barbara did not leave the canyon, even to visit their nearest neighbour, for over a year.
When they did return to Flagg, they found that the incident had been swallowed up in the past, during which plenty of dark and considerably sterner deeds had transpired. No bar sinister or ban of ignominy had extended to their names during this period of seclusion. Their friends, the real born pioneers, amazed them with a warmer welcome and absolute reticence; as a result Lucinda and Barbara were not long in recovering from the shock.
Logan alone knew what havoc Mooney's killing had wrought in him. The great fear that he had given his sons a name they would never live down, that the success of his enterprise had been disrupted, if not set back for many years, and the genuine horror and remorse he had endured--all these futile apprehensions had been a senseless waste of mental strength, of nights of sleep and days of labour. He lived to discover this fact too late. Of the numberless vicissitudes of life by which he had been burdened, the killing of Mooney cost him the most anguish and left the hardest mark. To survive and to grow in that country required more than a great ambition, with commensurate strength, endurance, honesty,--and indomitable pluck: a cattleman needed all these qualities and more to gain foothold and means; even when he had finally raised herds of cattle and many horses, it took vastly more courage to keep them. A prosperous cattle-country had always developed or drawn the rustler, and as long as cattle were raised it would continue to do so. Wide, unfenced ranges, the wilderness of forest and canyon, would never see the day that cattle were not easy to steal and men of that ilk present who would not profit by it.
The ensuing period multiplied Huett's cattle and the labours incident to their care. He was keen enough to see that the habits ingrained by the long years of toil and poverty could not change on short notice, if they ever could at all. He was glad of this. He had brought his family up modestly, to know the value of money, to be happy working towards a definite end, to be little influenced by the outside world. Cars and magazines found their way down into Sycamore Canyon, to open the eyes of the wilderness-loving Huetts, to force upon them the progress of the modern world, but they did not change Huett's idea of cattle-raising, nor the eighteen-hour day of the cowboy Huetts, nor the economy and industry of the women. The future had come almost to mean nothing: the present was full, all-satisfying.
The time came when the spider-shaped Sycamore Canyon, with its ten miles in length and its vast acreage in grass and browse, supported fifteen thousand head. It was a well-fenced range, protected from storms and cold and heat and drought, and impractical for the operations of rustlers.
Only wandering riders butchered a beef occasionally as they passed through. But Turkey Canyon, with twice the acreage, with its numberless rich grassy offshoots, became the bane of Huett's life. Sycamore should have been enough to look after for one man and his three sons, but they had undertaken the task and they would not falter. Despite the continuous stealing of stock by rustlers, horse-thieves, riders with no known homes or occupations, the Turkey Canyon herd increased. A few straggling steers driven off in the woods, a bunch of
young stock cut out--and stolen at night through one of the outlets impossible to close, or a daylight raid by a band of determined rustlers who operated when the Huetts were miles away--these kept the Turkey herd from climbing by leaps and bounds to equal that of Sycamore. And it wore on Huett year by year, until he grew implacable towards the thieves who kept him from his cherished goal.
"Dad, you're cussed short-sighted and bull-headed," averred George repeatedly. "Let's sell the Turkey herd."
"Not yet," declared Huett doggedly, for the hundredth time.
"Well, then, let's pay no more attention to these two-bit thieves, let's lay for the real rustlers, who raid Turkey once or so a year. They're about due now. Last time they got three hundred head... They grab a bigger bunch every time."
"Sense in that," agreed Huett, gruffly. "What's your plan?"
"Abe says we'll camp down there, hide out and watch."
"And leave Lucinda and Barbara alone? Nope to that."
"One of us will go home every night."
"I reckon that'll do. But what of the other work?"
"It'll have to go till we drive this outfit away for good, or kill them!"
"Ha! We've got to catch them first."
"Abe swears they keep a lookout on one of the high points or along the rim. They watch us. Then when we're gone they pull the raid."
"What's the use to camp near Turkey, then? A better plan will be for you boys to pretend to drive to town, but come back after dark, and next day before sun-up we'll sneak down to Turkey."
Even this plan failed to trap the keen rustlers, as did also the hiding-out down in Turkey Canyon. No sooner had the Huetts returned to the necessary harvesting than the rustlers made off with the largest steal Huett had ever sustained. Abe reported the loss, which he estimated two days later from a broad cattle-track heading down towards the Tonto.
"Sell that Turkey herd or see it fade before your very eyes," warned George Huett to the raging rancher.
"Dad, I've a hunch that outfit will come back," said Abe, ponderingly.
"They must have a safe sale for stock."
"Safe! If we trailed them and recognized every stolen steer, what could we do?" retorted George. "We have no brand. We're an easy mark for those buzzards."
"Boys, time was when our losses were less than what it'd have cost to hire a dozen riders. But that day has passed. My method never stood the test of years--I'm bound to admit that. All the same, I won't change."
"It'd be wiser to weaken. Sell out or hire cowboys," advised George.
"Weaken? Hell no!... Grant, do you side with George?"
"I sure do, Dad. I hate to go against you. None of us ever did before.
But this is getting too tough to stand. Maybe it never occurred to you to think how we boys need money. You never give us any money. And we've sure earned wages, if no more... Well, you could sell that Turkey bunch for twenty dollars a head. Nigh on to ten thousand head. Almost two hundred thousand dollars!... We'd all be rich, and you'd still have the Sycamore herd."
The amazing stand from the youngest son, heretofore the least asserting one of the Huetts, hurt Logan deeply and precipitated one of the few quarrels he had ever had with them. The argument did not end there.
George and Grant took it to their mother and Barbara. When, to Logan's consternation, his women-folk promptly and vigorously took issue against him, for the first time in any serious stand, he discovered grievous doubts of himself, of his unchangeable passion and will. He argued, stormed, raged, all to no avail. He was wrong. Then, as a last straw, Barbara appealed to the silent Abe and won him over. The Huetts' house was divided against itself.
The truth overcame his rage with himself and vexation with them. He sat down in his big chair and leaned his head on his hands. Lucinda came to touch his shoulder with sympathy.
"Folks," he said, laboriously, "allowing you're right, you don't see it from my side of the fence. I've spent my life--the best of it--fighting odds in this canyon... Lack of money and help first--then the meat-eaters, and cold, wet, heat, drought, ignorance of farming--I had to learn--and a thousand other troubles, the last and worst of which is the cattle-thief.
For nearly thirty years I've fought these odds--and now I'm rich in stock--with my life's ambition in sight... You ask me--and I acknowledge its justice--to quit now, to weaken in the face of a few lousy rustlers.
I won't do it! Dammit, I'd lose every head of stock in Turkey Canyon rather than show yellow... But this is what I will do. As soon as I can count thirty thousand head, I'll sell, divide the money equally among you, and go back to civilization to live... That's all. I'm boss here. And what I say goes."
Huett did not sell a single head that year, and thus avoided leaving the Turkey Canyon herd unprotected. He sent Grant, with Lucinda and Barbara, to town for supplies. They took their time about this trip. Upon their return Huett marvelled anew at what a little visit outside would 48 for women. He did not need civilization, and in fact was better in mind without contacts with men. The times had changed, but he did not change.
Lucinda looked rested and averred that it had been good to go, but better to come home. Barbara returned rosy and fresh, handsomer than ever, raving about airplanes and motion-pictures. Logan had never seen either, and was amazed. He asked Grant one question: "What's the price of cattle?"
"By golly, Dad. I--I forgot. I sure forgot to ask," replied Grant, mortified at his laxness.
"For the land's sake! What did you do all the while?"
"I bought all on your list," replied Grant, stoutly.
"Well, I'll see. The wagon looks loaded all right."
Abe looked with affectionate regard from Barbara's radiant face to Grant's. "Wal, Dad," he drawled, "reckon I'd better go next time--or lose my girl."
Barbara joined in the laugh, but she blushed becomingly. Huett made the mental reservation that she should be marrying one of his sons soon; and he could not see, as Lucinda averred, that Abe had the inside track. Pity there were not three Barbaras!
October was in its last golden decline. With November came the first snows, and the movement of cattle ceased. Huett and Abe took to the woods and the game trails. Of late years game had gradually grown harder to find. There were plenty of deer and turkey far back in the forest, when once Sycamore Canyon and its adjacent ridges had been overrun with them.
Hunters from the railroad towns had grown in number from year to year.
Huett and Abe encountered some of these that season, roaming around, shooting at every rustle in the brush.
"Son," he said to Abe, as they rested on a log, "I reckon I'm unreasonable. But I don't like the new order of things. All these tenderfoot hunters banging around. Elk protected by law. Open season for deer and turkey one month. Forest under Government supervision."
"Dad, you think only of your one object in life," replied Abe. "The President of the United States was thinking of our children's children when he made this a forest reserve. It's a good thing. We don't obey the laws any more than the Stillmans or the other backwoods people. We kill meat when we want it. But these laws were not made for natives who, live in the woods."
"Humph! Why didn't he make laws against rustlers?"
"There are plenty of laws to govern cattle-thieves, but who can enforce them way out here in this canyon country? It's up to us, Dad."
"Reckon I've owned these woods too long," said Logan, as he gazed lovingly down the timbered swale, where the noon-day sun shone on patches of snow coloured with russet oak leaves and scarlet maple. The great silver spruces vied with the yellow pines for supremacy over the forest glade. The aspens, almost wholly denuded of their golden, fluttering leaves, stood out white-trunked against the dark-green background.
Windfalls massed on the ridge, and there was down timber everywhere. The air was cold, though the sun felt warm upon Logan's bare head; the old forest tang of pine was thick in his nostrils. The truth came to Logan that he hated to share this wilderness with anyone but his own.
"I reckon it'll last during my day," replied Abe, thoughtfully.
"Abe, you know we're going to live in town eventually. I wonder now."
"That'll be fine for the women, and for Barbara, when she has youngsters.
But I'll spend half my time in these woods. When you sell our stock, Dad, keep Sycamore for me."
"For you and me, son."
They picked up their turkeys and venison, and went on down the ridge towards home. Huett had a strange thought that troubled him. More than twenty-five years ago he had taken Abe on his first hunt up that ridge.
They had never missed a year since; but there would come a hunt together, perhaps this present one, that must be the last. Huett threw off the vague, sad presage.
The Turkey Canyon herd had got beyond handling by so few riders. It had multiplied exceedingly. Every spring rustlers tore down the fences to let the cattle stray into ravines and work out on top. That fall it would have taken an army of cowboys to prevent the theft of straggling steers and yearlings, but such loss' was so insignificant that Huett could only guess at it; his sons never told him.
One night Abe did not come home from his scouting. It was not unusual for him to stay away overnight during the hunting season, but this was early October. Logan was concerned, not for Abe's safety, because he knew that Abe had no equal in the Arizona woods, but for fear of the long-expected cattle raid.
"Where'd you see Abe last?" asked Huett.
"He waved to me from the rim above Turkey Wash. The sound point," replied Grant. "He made signs. The most I could make of them was that he'd got track of something down Turkey. His last signal I took to mean he'd come home."
"But suppose he doesn't return?" queried Logan.
George and Grant pondered for a while, and at length were in accord about the wisdom of waiting until the next day, and if Abe did not return then, of taking up his trail froth the point where Grant had last seen him.
Lucinda and Barbara grew worried and would not go to bed. Finally, late in the evening Huett went outside with his sons and listened. The autumn night was solemnly quiet; them George, keen-eared, voiced a warning whisper. The group froze stone-like. Presently soft, padded footsteps caught Huett's ear--he knew that quick tread. In another moment Abe loomed up on the porch...
