Raiders of Spanish Peaks

by Zane Grey

  Then she reined him in and slid off in one step as she had seen the riders do. That was easy. She felt elated. Presently she meant to boss this ranch from the back of a horse instead of an office chair.

  Harriet’s next attempt was at the mount. There were two ways to get upon a horse—any old way and the right way. She scorned any but the latter. Moze was about medium height and so was she. By stretching she could just get her left foot in the stirrup, while she gripped the pommel. First she tried with both hands. It was a failure. She fell flat and hard enough to hurt. Reasoning that she had not sprung quick or hard enough from her right foot, she essayed again, and this time got astride. Whereupon she performed that action until out of breath. After resting, she attempted what she desired to emulate in Laramie and Lonesome. If she ever learned that, how she would astound the rest of the Lindsays!

  The idea was to grasp the reins in the left hand, pull the horse around a little so he could see what she was doing, slip her left toe in the stirrup, and then seize the pommel with her right hand and spring up. On her first attempt her toe slipped all right, but out of the stirrup, with the result that she bumped her nose on the saddle and then fell ignominiously. This roused Harriet to battle. She tried again. She kept on trying. She succeeded. Then patiently for hours she stuck at the job until she had mastered it.

  “Dog-gone-them!” she panted. “I’ll show—them…. Him! The girls rave—about my shape…. But if anyone asks me—I’m too darned fat…. I ought to be skinny—and I’ll get skinny.”

  Nevertheless, her earnestness did not extend to the limits of meeting Lenta and Stuart face to face, when on the return to the stables she espied them lolling in their saddles, horses close together, in the shade of the cottonwoods. Very lover-like for such short acquaintance, thought Harriet! She rode back and around the other way to avoid them. This time she ran right into Wind River Charlie and Dakota, who appeared as if by magic directly in her path. They doffed their sombreros. Dakota was bold and Charlie shy.

  “You-all been workin’ Moze out,” declared Dakota, much pleased. “An’ I reckon he piled you, miss?”

  “No, I was learning to leap astride, as you boys do, and I fell in the dirt about nine hundred times,” replied Harriet, with a laugh. “Please don’t give me away.”

  Their astonishment and delight with the formerly dignified Miss Lindsay shone in their honest faces.

  “Wal, I’ll shore keep mum, lady. An’ if Windy Charlie heah blows on you I’ll half kill him,” sang out Dakota.

  “Never fear, Miss Lindsay,” spoke up Charlie for himself. “I’ll keep yore secret till h—h—er—always.”

  “Thanks, boys,” she rejoined, and dismounted brazenly, she imagined. But it was not so bad. “Turn Moze over to Pedro.”

  “Shore you ain’t a-gonna walk all the way up?” queried Dakota, aghast.

  “I need the exercise.”

  “Wal, if you knowed what we know I’ll bet you’ll ride and run,” grinned the rider, with a side glance at Charlie for corroboration.

  “Yes? What do you know?” inquired Harriet, coolly. She had restrained a start. And she was proud of this dearly bought new demeanor. In time she would rival Laramie himself.

  “Wal, Tracks Williams is back,” announced Dakota, importantly. “He an’ your sister drove right by us an’ never seen us atall. They looked plumb scrumptious, but shore scared.”

  “Is that all you know?” accomplished Harriet, easily, as she brushed the sand off her suit.

  “Nope. Lonesome rode in, too, drunker’n a lord.”

  “What else? I thought you had some news.”

  Dakota tore at his tawny hair. “You win, lady. There ain’t nothin’ else, ’cept something about Laramie. It shore was funny to us. But I reckon you’d not be interested.”

  “Now, Dakota, yes, I would,” flashed Harriet, for getting her rôle.

  “Ump-umm,” rejoined the rider, his keen hazel eyes intent on her.

  “Very well, then. As your boss I demand,” she continued, with a smile. She saw that the smile, not the threat, gained her point.

  “Aw, course I was foolin’…. You see Larry must have had orders, didn’t he?”

  “Not from me.”

  “Wal, from yore dad, then, fer he chased Lin Stuart an’ yore other sister all over the valley. They dodged Larry, we reckon, till he run bang into them heah. He was red in the face. Shore thet was new work fer him. ‘Stuart,’ he says, ‘yu get off the ranch.’—An’ Stuart laughed. ‘All right, Laramie, but I ain’t hurryin’ none.’ Then Laramie yelled: ‘Lenta, yu go home an’ I’ll deal with this gazabo.’ Thet little gurl came back at Laramie: ‘Don’t you insult my friend.’ … Haw! Haw! It was shore good as a circus.”

  “Well, what more?” queried Harriet, keeping her face straight.

  “‘Lenta, you go home!’ busted out Laramie.

  “‘Larry, you go to hell!’ replied Lenta, cool as a cucumber.

  “‘By thunder! thet’s jest what I’ll do!’ roared Laramie, an’ he rode off like mad up toward the ranch-house.”

  “Indeed! Had Laramie been drinking, too?” inquired Harriet, innocently.

  “No. He ain’t took to drink yet, but we reckon it won’t be long now.”

  Harriet had to turn away to keep from betraying herself to these boys. She could not blame Lenta for liking to be with them, for a fiendish glee in tormenting them, in giving them back as good as they sent. Harriet suddenly felt a weakness to do that herself. Thoughtfully she walked up the road, but once out of sight she sat down on a rock to rest and ponder. So Florence had returned. Harriet was glad and sorry at once. Flo and Ted would not exactly meet with a parental blessing. Father Lindsay would rage. He was capable of turning them out. Harriet thought that she would let the guilty couple receive a sound scare before she intervened in their behalf. And Lonesome Mulhall, too, had returned, drunk again, or still drunk. That was serious. Harriet found that she had a tender spot in her heart for this wild, harum-scarum, thieving, lovable range-rider. But what could be done? Lenta had goaded the sentimental boy to madness. Worse would surely come of this. Laramie’s ridiculous attempt to compel Lenta to anything and his equally ridiculous threat to go to hell proved how impotent and enraged he was. Harriet wondered if this last affair of Lenta’s, or any order given by her father regarding the willful youngster, could so completely warp that cool, strong, quiet man out of his orbit. Harriet just wondered and pondered. Laramie, however, might well be upset on behalf of his beloved Lonesome.

  Harriet slowly resumed her homeward walk. She lingered in likely spots. There would be pandemonium up at the house when she arrived, and she was in no hurry to run into it. Nevertheless, in the course of another hour or more she reached the ranch-house and the gate. There she halted to fortify herself against the inevitable.

  Before Harriet had steeled herself in the least, however, she heard angry voices, not loud, yet certainly trenchant. She recognized Laramie’s. To her amaze she espied that the door of her office, which was on the side of the entrance nearest her, stood open. She recalled having given her father the key last night. Had he forgotten to lock it or was he in there with Laramie? She took a step, another, and presently stood on the stone porch behind the door. This thick door swung outward and hid Harriet. She had no conscious intent to play eavesdropper. But there she was and Laramie’s next speech froze her in her tracks:

  “Sneaked in heah reckonin’ Hallie would save yore hide, didn’t yu—yu gol-durned exasperatin’ liar!”

  “Aw cheese it, can’t yu, Laramie?” That growl and appeal in one were certainly couched in Lonesome’s plaintive voice.

  “Cheese nothin’. Yu run in heah, hopin’ Hallie would save yu.”

  “Wal, wot if I did?”

  “It shore wouldn’t save yu if she was right heah.”

  “Bah!”

  “Lonesome, I found this red scarf in yore chaps pocket,” went on Laramie, relentlessly. “Yu stole it from Lenta thet first day of
the races. The kid was ravin’ about it. She swore some bull-haided puncher stole it. An’ she was right.”

  “Naw. I didn’t stole it,” rasped Lonesome.

  “Yu’re a durned liar, boy.”

  “All right, then, I am. What you gonna do about it?”

  “Wal, the last time I ketched yu, which wasn’t so long ago, I swore I’d beat the stuffin’s out of yu.”

  “Aw, you ain’t man enough,” blustered Lonesome, shuffling his feet.

  “Lonesome, I could rope one hand behind my back an’ lick yu all hollow,” declared Laramie, in a slow voice.

  “You jest try it, Laramie Nelson, an’ see what happens. I’ll give you away to Hallie.”

  “How give me away?”

  “Thet you’re loco about her. Thet you’re wuss off than I am about the kid. Thet you cain’t eat or sleep—or fight, either, by Gawd, ’cause of her!”

  “Lonesome, if yu double-cross me thet far, I’m through with yu forever,” drawled Laramie, solemnly.

  “Wal, mebbe I won’t do that. But I ain’t agonna play off this drunk gag of yours any more. It makes me madder’n hell. I’ve queered myself with Lent an’ the old lady, an’ I’m afraid with Hallie, too. All for nothin’.”

  “I don’t agree, an’ neither does Ted or Jud. It shore worked an’ I could square yu with Hallie an’ her ma in a jiffy. But whether yu keep on pretendin’ to drink or not, yu’re shore goin’ to get licked aplenty.”

  “Hold on, Laramie! or I’ll start in real drinkin’ an’ you know what a hell’s rattler I am,” threatened Lonesome, fearfully. His steps gave evidence that he was backing to the wall.

  “Yu won’t do nothin’. An’ shore yu won’t steal no more. Why, yu’ve disgraced Ted an’ me. Scared us sick! Yu’ll ruin us yet. Shore as God made little apples yu’ll ruin us heah with this nice old couple an’ their lovely daughters!”

  “Hell! Ain’t we ruined already?” A dull thump answered this violent exclamation. A gasp of pain followed, then sundry thuds, rasping of boots, a wrestling of bodies in violent strain, and at length a sodden crash on the floor.

  “La—re! Quit or I’ll—draw on you,” choked Lonesome, in a fury.

  “Shet up, yu bow-legged bluffer…. I’m gonna straddle yu an’ beat the damn thievin’ stuffin’s out of yu!” There followed sliddery sounds, and then a bam that attested to Laramie’s sincerity.

  “Aw!—Larry, don’t—don’t…. that’s my weak spot…. Aw! … for Gawd’s sake! … Aw! … kill me—an’ be done! Somebody’ll ketch us heah. Dear old Larry, let me up. I’ll be good. I’ll promise…. Aw! You —— —— —— —— —— ——!”

  “Shet yore profane mouth, son,” rejoined Laramie, grimly. Bang! … “Take thet on yore kisser!” Wham! Bam! “There’s a couple on yore nose!” Biff! “How yu like thet, Lonesome? I see yu’ve got some real red blood, after all.” Smash! “There’s another for yore gizzard. Aha! Thet’s the place. Thet’s where yu live!” Bummm!…. “Now, ketch yore breath, an’ tell me if yu’ll stop this low-down stealin’?”

  All sounds except a gasping intake and expulsion of heavy breaths ceased to fill Harriet’s distraught ears.

  “Who’d athunk—vou’d treat me—this way!” panted Lonesome.

  “Say, I’m only warmin’ up. But I’ll give yu a chance. Will yu stop this heah stealin’ forever?” returned Laramie.

  “Hellno!” burst out Lonesome, still consumed by rage, but significantly weak of voice. “I’ll steal every —— —— —— I see! I’ll steal the cussed kid’s clothes—so she’ll have to go naked. I’ll steal jewlry—money … an’ cattle an’ hawses!— Thet’ll make you sick. I’ll be a hawse-thief an’ get strung up by the neck.”

  “Very wal. Now I am good an’ mad. Shore I was only foolin’ before,” declared Laramie, sternly. “Heah’s for yore breadbasket.” Wham! … “Heah’s for yore yellow gizzard.” Bam! … “Heah’s for yore white liver.” Bum! “Now I’ll treat yu to the raspatas with both fists.” A succession of rapid terrific blows ensued. Then a pause. “Dog-gone,” panted Laramie. “I just wonder where this disease of yores is located. It cain’t be in yore haid. So it must be in yore belly.” Bum dum—bum BUM BUM!

  Harriet could not endure this situation any longer. She had to fight to keep from screaming in mingled mirth and fear. What manner of human beings were these range-riders? Or were they human at all? She checked her impulse long enough to decide upon a course of procedure.

  “What’s this? Who’s in my office?” she cried, in pretended amaze. Then she mounted the steps and rushed into the room.

  Laramie straddled Lonesome’s hips, and on the moment he had a red fist aloft. It remained aloft while his head jerked up and his piercing eyes appeared to pop. Laramie’s visage expressed a righteous anger. It slowly changed. His fist fell.

  Harriet’s gaze traveled to the prostrate Lonesome. He lay limp as a sack and almost as flat. His face was a bloody mess.

  “Laramie!— For heaven’s sake! What are you doing?” screamed Harriet, dropping quirt, gloves and sombrero. “Are you drunk, too?”

  “No—I’m not—drunk,” mumbled Laramie.

  “You’ve murdered this poor boy!” went on Harriet, wildly, thrilling to her part. “Get up, you monster!”

  “I was only—lickin’ him,” replied Laramie, rising to his feet and backing away from Harriet’s flaming eyes.

  “You great big stiff!” went on Harriet, trying to recall some choice rider’s slang. She might go to the extent of a little profanity. “To pick on this boy!”

  “Pick on Lonesome? It couldn’t be did. Look heah. See thet?”

  Harriet had noted the swelling on Laramie’s chin and another over his eye, but she gave no heed to Laramie’s appeal. She had her cue.

  “You brute!” she replied.

  “He hit me terrible hard—in a place I cain’t show you. He may be little, but he’s a bull.”

  Harriet dropped upon her knees beside Lonesome. “Oh, you poor dear!” she cried, tenderly wiping his bloody face with her handkerchief. “Lonesome, are you dead? Has he killed you?”

  “I was most dead, Hallie, till you come,” murmured Lonesome. Verily he would have had to be almost wholly in that state not to take advantage of this golden opportunity.

  “What’d he beat you for?” she queried, trying to keep her voice steady.

  “It’s his vicious nature. You’d never think Laramie could be so onhuman,” said Lonesome, earnestly.

  “Did you quarrel?” asked Harriet.

  “Not eggszackly.”

  “How did you come to be here?”

  “Wal, I run in heah for protection. I seen the door open an’ I thought you’d save me from him.”

  “Poor boy! I surely will,” replied Harriet, with all the tender solicitude she could muster.

  Suddenly Laramie started as if he had been struck with a whip.

  “Lonesome, how can yu lie to her?” he rang out.

  Lonesome lay still a moment with one eye open and the other half closed gazing from Harriet to Laramie. Then he moved to take the stained handkerchief from her and struggled to a sitting posture.

  “Help me up. I’m licked, all right,” he said, and appeared to be a different Lonesome.

  Harriet rose to assist him and it was her conviction that he needed more than her arm. Laramie stood like a statue. Lonesome flopped into a chair, where he pulled out his scarf and with trembling grimy hand wiped the blood out of his eyes. With his other hand he put Harriet’s handkerchief in his pocket.

  “Keep yore mouth shet,” ordered Laramie. “Yu’re out of yore haid. I’ll tell Miss Lindsay about it.”

  “Too late, pard. You beat all the deceit out of me,” returned Lonesome.

  “What are you saying—both of you?” asked Harriet.

  “Hallie, I’m a thief,” replied Lonesome, looking up at her. There was a light in his eyes that rendered even that homely battered face beautiful.

  “Why—why, Lonesome! Ho
w you talk! You must be flighty,” cried Harriet, in great concern.

  “Listen, Hallie,” went on Lonesome, while Laramie threw up his hands and strode to the window. “I’m a low-down thief. Not to make myself any richer, but jest because I couldn’t help appropriatin’ things I liked. I’ve stole for years. An’ since I come heah it’s got wuss. I’ve stole from you. Thet little gold pencil on your desk! Don’t you remember? Wal, I stole thet. An’ all the things Lenta lost I stole…. An’ I stole Miss Florence’s nightgown!”

  “Lonesome Mulhall!” ejaculated Harriet.

  “Laramie has stood fer my stealin’ fer years,” continued Lonesome, frankly. “An’ so has Ted. But lately they both got sore on me. I let on it was a disease. But it was jest plain low-down cussed stealin’. I had a hankerin’ fer pretty things—’specially what wimmen wore or owned. Laramie kept swearin’ he’d beat me half to death if I didn’t quit. An’ today when he found Lent’s red scarf in my chaps he went after me. He chased me in heah—an’ I reckon he did a good job of it.”

  “Lonesome! Of all things! … I am simply stunned,” murmured Harriet. “You—whom we all thought so fine a boy!”

  “Don’t rub it in,” he begged, hoarsely, a little bitter. “I’ve come clean. An’ I’m cured. Course you’ll fire me now. But thet’s not what matters. I won’t have you layin’ this on to my pard, Laramie. He done jest right. I deserved all I got.”

  “You say you’re cured?” queried Harriet.