by Zane Grey
“Air you defendin’ maverick-brandin’?” demanded Sawtell, sarcastically.
“Boss, would you mind leavin’ this deal to me?” interposed Pecos.
“All right, Sawtell. You’re makin’ your own bed. I’ve no more to say,” concluded Heald, and he backed away.
Pecos made two strides which brought him within ten feet of the irate cattleman. Everyone present except Sawtell must have sensed the singular, cold menace of the vaquero. Only the false stimulus of whisky could have blinded a matured Texan to imminent peril. And at that Sawtell seemed confronted with an obstructing thought.
“Sawtell, you gave me a cold shoulder up at Marber’s Crossin’.”
“You bet I did.”
“If it hadn’t been fer my boss, I’d have called you then, in yore own back yard. I took thet as an insult.”
“Wal, you took it proper. An’ if it hadn’t been fer the Healds hyar I’d run you off my ranch.”
That was definite and it settled all but the conclusion of this meeting, which the cattleman was evidently too obtuse or bull-headed to sense. One of his men made a movement as if to intercede, but was restrained by a second. They edged nervously to one side, as if wary to get out of line with Pecos’ piercing eyes. But they would have had to dissolve in thin air to accomplish that.
Pecos’ silence, his strained intensity, the suspense of the moment penetrated Sawtell’s befogged brain. But it was too late.
“Mr. Pecos Smith,” Sawtell blustered, “you know them X Bar cowhands, Curt Williams an’ Wess Adams?”
“Reckon I do.”
“They rode fer thet greaser Felipe, down on the Big Bend.”
“So did I.”
“Wal, thet ain’t any recommend fer them or you.”
“Beggars cain’t be choosers. I had to ride to live. … Yore beatin’ aboot the bush. Come on!”
“I had Williams an’ Adams fired off the X Bar.”
“No news to me.”
“They was seen brandin’ mavericks on my range.”
“Sawtell, it’s not beyond the bounds of reason thet them mavericks wasn’t yore’n,” replied Pecos, coldly.
“No, it ain’t. But I’m choosin’ to claim them.”
“Thet’s yore affair. Tolerable unhealthy, I’d say—on the Pecos.”
Sawtell’s hurried speech apparently augmented his anger, but did not relieve the cramping effect of Pecos’ front.
“I’m down hyar to have you fired off the H H,” shouted the cattleman.
“Cain’t be done. I quit.”
“Ahuh. When?”
“Aboot two minutes ago.”
“You’re a slick hombre, Mr. Smith,” retorted Sawtell, exasperated to derision. “Wal, then, I’ll drive you off the Pecos range.”
Pecos made a singular movement, too swift to discern, though it left him as if in the act of leaping. From his whole being suddenly emanated terrible suspense.
“You —— idiot! Drive me off the Pecos? … What’s all yore gab aboot?”
Sawtell had again gone too far. There was no retreat. The red of his face receded in a marked line, leaving it a leaden gray.
“You was thick with them maverick-branders.”
“Who accuses me?” cried Pecos, piercingly.
Sawtell let out an incoherent roar—rage at himself as well as at Pecos—at the realization that he had misjudged his man. His arm moved stiffly. His hand jerked at his gun.
The single, whipping throw of Pecos’ gun discharged it. Sawtell’s body lost its vibrant tension. It slumped. His head dropped forward. Then he swayed.
Pecos leaped like a tiger past the falling man to face the cowhands, his gun high, quivering to flash down with the force that would fire it.
“Any of you back him up?” he yelled, stridently.
“Smith, it weren’t our mistake,” hoarsely replied the one who would have importuned Sawtell. “Honest to Gawd—we wanted him—to go slow.”
Pecos waved them off, and watched them go hurriedly toward their horses. When he turned, Bill Heald was kneeling beside Sawtell. Sandy was running over and John Heald was trying to drag the white-faced girl away.
“Daid! … Shot through the heart! … Pecos, this is shore bad bizness,” ejaculated Bill.
“You heah him!” Pecos’ voice cracked like steel on ice.
“Shore. But my Gawd, man, I didn’t expect you to kill him,” returned Heald, suddenly rising.
“You believe ——”
“No, Pecos! Not fer a second,” protested Heald, hastily, lifting a hand. “An’ thet’s straight. John an’ I think you’re as clean an’ fine as they come. McKeever swore by you. This damn fool Sawtell must have been drunk. I told him. … Pecos, don’t hold any of it against the H H.”
Pecos lowered the gun, but he kept up his pacing to and fro, his strange eyes pivoting like the oscillations of a compass needle. All his cold poise was gone. He had the lunge, the standing hair, the savageness of a wild animal. Sandy approached him, to halt in hesitation.
“Pecos, you had to bore him,” he ejaculated. “You jest had to. We’ll all stick up fer you. Sawtell brought it on himself.”
One of the retreating cowhands, now mounted on their horses, called to Heald: “We’ll send a wagon back fer him.”
“All right. Make it pronto,” Heald replied.
Pecos sheathed his gun, and with that motion appeared to sag. He ceased his cat-like stride. Freckles no one had ever seen stood out on his clammy face. His hair was wet. He stooped to pick up his sombrero, which had fallen when he leaped to confront Sawtell’s men.
“Bill, didn’t I tell you not to give me thet outside job?” he queried.
“You shore did, Pecos. I’m sorry. But I don’t see what difference thet could have made.”
“I seen too much, Bill. An’ I tried to—wal, never mind aboot thet. … I’m shore thankin’ you an’ John fer keepin’ me heah so long an’ fer defendin’ me to thet white-livered liar.”
His implication must have been clear to Heald. At least he looked as if he had grasped at the truth—Pecos had come upon these roistering cowhands at some shady deal. He had tried to show them the error of their ways and had kept his mouth shut about it.
“Pecos, listen hyar. Sawtell must have had a showdown on Williams an’ Adams. He was aimin’ to bluff you into squealin’—shore he didn’t know you.”
“You heah somethin’ aboot Curt an’ Wess?”
“Yes. More’n once, an’ I have my doubts, Pecos.”
The vaquero threw up his hands. “—— the fools!”
At this juncture Mary Heald broke away from her brother and ran out to confront Pecos. She was still white, sick, trembling, but she was brave.
“Pecos, I know you’re not a thief,” she burst out.
His somber face lightened beautifully.
“Wal, Miss Mary, thet’s shore good fer me to heah. … I’ve no home, no family, no friends, an’ when I go out on the long trail again, it’ll be good to remember you an’ yore brothers believed in me.”
“We do, Pecos. Oh, we do,” she replied, brokenly. “Don’t say you’ve no friends—no home. … Do not leave us, Pecos.”
“I cain’t stay. It might do yore brothers harm. Those cowhands will tell how Bill stuck up fer me. An’ they’ll add to it. If I stayed on ——”
“Mary, he’s right,” interposed Bill. “Much as I regret it, Pecos will have to leave the H H.”
“Shore. An’ I may as wal have the game as the blame,” added Pecos, bitterly.
“Don’t say thet, boy,” entreated Heald who heard in this resignation the spirit and the hopelessness that had sent so many fine Texas boys down the wrong trail. It was cruel, because in that great state, depleted by wars and overrun with ruined boys and men, there seemed so slight a line of demarcation between the right trail and the wrong.
“Oh, you wild vaquero!” burst out Mary, passionately. “That is wrong—to yourself—to us. … to me! … Pecos, you’re such a�
��a wonderful boy. Don’t let the horror of—of killin’ another man drive you to—to … He deserved it. He was mean. I—I could have shot him myself. … Bill—John—say somethin’ ——”
The girl failed of utterance there. She had much excuse for agitation, but neither her youth nor the shock of seeing a man killed could wholly account for all she betrayed.
“Pecos, I reckon you’d better stay on,” said Bill, huskily. “I’ll ride up to Marber’s an’ prove your innocence—explain how Sawtell was drunk an’ forced this shootin’.”
“No. Bill, you cain’t do thet,” returned Pecos. “I’ve riled up bad blood before an’ I shore don’t want to do it heah.”
“Pecos!” whispered the girl.
The vaquero turned to her in a realizing amazement that almost hid his gratitude. “Miss Mary, I shore thank you. … An’ I promise you—thet if anythin’ can make me go straight from now on—it’ll be you—yore faith—yore goodness. Adios.”
He reached as if to take her hand, drew back, and wheeled away. Sandy McClain ran to stride beside him.
“Adios, Pecos!” called the girl. “Go straight—an’ come—back—some—day.”
Chapter VI
BUT it developed quickly that neither the sweet memory of Mary Heald, nor the scorn Pecos Smith had for rustlers, nor the promise he had given could keep him straight.
Branding mavericks was not a crime in Texas at that early stage of cattle-raising. All ranchers did it more or less, without being absolutely sure that the calves belonged to them. There could be no positive identification, unless the calf accompanied a branded cow. And if a calf or a yearling or a two-year-old did not get the mark of one outfit, it would eventually find that of another.
But in his heart Pecos Smith knew that he had slipped, for the first time in his range life. Bitterly he regarded it as being shoved, rather than having slipped. Nevertheless, what could he do? The X Bar made the excuse that they did not require an extra hand; so did another outfit below the New Mexico line. Pecos’ good sense urged him to work south and take up with McKeever again, or some other cattleman west of the Pecos, or even Don Felipe. But his pride and his bitter conviction that there was a step on his trail set his face the other way. He made up his mind to throw in with Curt Williams and Wess Adams, who were indeed trafficking in unbranded mavericks. There was no law against it. There was no obstacle, except that of a gun; and bold maneuvers like Sawtell’s were the exception rather than the rule. Pecos argued that if he stuck to the branding of mavericks, and collected a herd of his own, or saved his share of the money he would not long need to do questionable work that was offensive to him.
Williams and Adams had not vouchsafed any information as to their market, except that it was unfailing. Pecos did not care to know. There were ranchers in New Mexico buying stock and asking no questions. There were Government buyers dealing directly with rustlers. The stage was almost set for a great cattle business in the Southwest. Pecos sensed it so well that he thought it a pity he had not already a sizable herd of his own to start with.
Wherefore he trailed the two X Bar cowhands down into the Pecos brakes and joined them.
This couple had a string of horses and a pack outfit. Strengthened by Pecos, they made a formidable band. Pecos knew where to locate more unbranded stock than any cowhand in Texas. The thicketed canyons were full of cattle, many of them that had never felt an iron. The operations of Williams and Adams were too loose to satisfy Pecos. He tightened them. These two riders were on their way to becoming rustlers very shortly. Pecos did not think he could afford to train with them very long. Still, he had to take risks.
“Listen, you footloose hombres,” he said. “I can round up thousands of unbranded stock south of hyar. Hard work an’ lots of time, but shore an’ we cain’t get in trouble.”
“We’ll take ’em as they come,” replied Wess Adams, a craggy faced young rider, dissolute and forceful.
“Pecos has some good idees, Wess,” interposed Williams, who was more amenable and less reckless. “So we gotta compromise.”
“If you must work out these brakes—which is shore pore judgment—it’d be best to throw together a bunch of say a hundred haid or less, an’ drive them to yore buyers once a month.”
“A hundred haid an’ once a month? Bah!” blurted Adams.
“I’m sidin’ with Pecos,” said Williams, thoughtfully. “An’ then it ain’t so damn safe.”
“Wal, when it gits hot for us we’ll change tactics,” rejoined Pecos. “We’ll clap on another brand thet nobody ever saw, an’ throw the stock out on the range. None of the ranchers will know thet brand is ours. Later when the brands are old we can round up an’ drive a big herd without much risk.”
“Wess, it’s a good idee,” ventured Williams. Adams at length gave in with bad grace.
The trio set to work. They did their roping and branding alone; at least Pecos did, and he accounted for as many as both his comrades. In a few days they had a mixed herd of over five score. Williams and Adams started north with this bunch, expecting to drive twenty-five miles a day, which would get them to their market in less than a week. Pecos remained in camp and went on with his riding, roping and branding. He regretted that he had not been able to go into this game alone. However, that required horses and outfit and especially a market, unless he could afford to wait and watch his herd grow. He liked the lonely life and came to love the Rio Pecos. It was now a refuge.
His comrades returned in due course, and Pecos found himself the richer for something in excess of two hundred dollars, more money than he had ever possessed at one time in his life. His exuberance was short-lived; this money had been earned, but not by honest toil and sweat.
In far less than a month Wess Adams had prevailed upon Williams to make another drive north, with all the stock they and Pecos had burned brands on. Pecos entered strong objection, but in vain. He deliberated just which of two courses to pursue—the first, to pick a quarrel with Adams and shoot him, the second, to let his partners go on their perilous way without further resistance. Pecos found the latter more to his liking. He needed to resist this strange tendency to resort to his gun, and if he could keep strict watch in their absence, prepared for anything, so that if they were trailed back, as seemed most likely, he need not be caught. On the other hand, he reasoned that if they never returned, well and good; he would take the outfit and move to a wilder country farther south on the Pecos.
But Adams and Williams came back. They were hard riders, cunning and resourceful, driving mostly at night, and they must have had allies somewhere along the trail. Thus for Pecos the situation remained the same, except that he had another and a larger roll of greenbacks.
From late summer, through autumn and winter, those two indefatigable riders made ten drives to their market in New Mexico. Towards spring they grew bolder, as was inevitable for such characters and as a result of such success. Moreover, Adams returned smelling of strong drink. Therefore, when sometime in April, the two did not return from their drive on time, Pecos was not surprised. Nor was he worried or grieved. He had decided this drive was to be the last for him, under any circumstances.
Pecos had so much money that he did not dare count it; assuredly enough to start him with a ranch of his own somewhere. The Pecos near its junction with the Rio Grande took his fancy, but that had long been the seat of Mexican depredations, and he had had enough to do with Mexicans. He indulged in long cogitations about this future venture. He had been clever to allow Williams and Adams to make the cattle drives to their market—which, after all, was their own wish; nevertheless Pecos felt that he might be implicated, too, when these two riders had gone to the end of their tether. In that case he had only to lie low in hiding for a year or so to be forgotten. Texas was too enormous, too wild, too swiftly changing on its course to empire, for a few unbranded mavericks to be remembered. There were a thousand real rustlers to be contended with before considering that. Sometimes Pecos had his doubts as to the la
test status of his comrades. What a slight step it was from branding mavericks to burning brands! Yet therein lay the actual dishonesty. When mavericks grew scarce, as they certainly were decreasing in number down the river as far as Pecos had ridden, Williams and Adams might be expected to resort to burning out of brands.
A week or more beyond the date Pecos had set as the latest for the return of his two partners, he became certain some untoward circumstance had befallen them. They might have been caught; they might have sold this last bunch of stock and departed for other fields, without the formality of returning to give Pecos his share of the proceeds. Adams would have done it, but Williams seemed hardly that kind of a man.
Anyway Pecos moved his camp, choosing a wild and almost inaccessible retreat some miles below. He packed most of the fast diminishing supplies, and he left the pack-horses there with Cinco. A dense thicket choked the mouth of the little side canyon, where it opened on the Pecos, and back of it there were water and grass in abundance. It could not be entered from the mouth, owing to the matted underbrush, and as there were no cattle or horse tracks leading into it there was little danger of pursuers bothering with the place. Pecos had no concern about its being discovered from above.
From here he went forth every day, carrying his rifle and a pocket full of ammunition, to make a slow, cautious way back to the old camp. When his comrades returned it would be time enough to explain his action to them.
On the fourth morning after Pecos had left the old camp, and the eleventh since his partners had been overdue, he sighted a bunch of Indians on the east bank of the river. He had only a glimpse of lean wild forms and ragged mustangs crossing a brake back from the high bank, but that was enough for Pecos Smith. His persistent and unerring watchfulness had at last earned its reward. With the arrival of spring Kiowas or Comanches might be expected to ride down off the Staked Plains to make a raid anywhere in West Texas.
Pecos deliberated awhile. These savages might be on their way upriver, returning from a raid. There was an Indian trail across on that side. The camp that the three maverick hunters had chosen was in a low-walled canyon, well hidden from the west side of the Pecos, but exposed to the other. If Williams and Adams had returned it would almost surely have been the night before, in which case their horses and camp-fire smoke would betray them to the Indians.
