West of the Pecos

by Zane Grey

  Much as Pecos loved lonesome places, he could not abide this haunted ford. He would not even camp there, but pushed on into the wilderness of twisted, swelling, greasewood-spotted ridges and the shallow ravines that ran between. Canyons were few along this somber reach of the Pecos, there being only at long intervals a break in the lofty walls. At times Pecos could see the opposite side of the canyon, with its high rim wall, and part of the shaggy-brushed and rock-ribbed slope; at other times the road curved far west of the river.

  “Tough country on hosses an’ cattle, Cinco,” said Pecos. “But the grass is heah, an’ the water is there. Nothin’ on earth to keep a rancher from gettin’ rich, ’cept hard work, greasers, an’ redskins.”

  These were handicaps which Pecos discovered, two days later, had not deterred a rancher or ranchers from throwing cattle onto that rocky range. He did not see many cows or steers at one given point, but in the aggregate, after a day’s ride, they amounted to a surprisingly large number. Not so surprising, but certainly more significant to Pecos was the fact that he saw few calves.

  Of ranchers, however, there was no sign. Cowhands probably had to ride fifty miles or more to round up these cattle. Pecos did not envy them the job on that desolate range. But the farther he rode south, finding, if anything, an increase in cattle tracks, the more it was driven home to him that somewhere along these reaches of the Pecos, there was an ideal location for his own cherished plan to materialize. Still, he was not far enough south, though he calculated he had come somewhere near a hundred miles. The trails and roads, however, had been devious. Pecos pushed on. He must not forget another thing, that he should lie low for months before starting in the ranching game. And in the ensuing days he was to recognize that the road on which he traveled south was not the trail on which he had come north.

  Therefore when he rode out of a great depression to higher ground to espy the red adobe and gray stone shacks of Eagle’s Nest, half hidden by green trees, and the gigantic bluff of the Rio Grande beyond, he was neither surprised nor sorry. Perhaps it was just as well, or better: something unforeseen always guided his solitary steps.

  There did not appear, at a moment’s glance, any appreciable change in Eagle’s Nest; still, as he drew near he made out a number of adobe houses that he did not remember, and lastly a new gray structure, apparently a frame one, alongside the low flat stone and adobe post run by Dale Shevlin.

  It was not an hour for the inhabitants, especially the Mexicans, to be stirring. Pecos espied a wagon far down the wide street, and there were half a dozen sleepy horses distributed from the corner of Shevlin’s place past the new gray house.

  Pecos got off in the shade of some trees, and tying his horses looked around for some one to question. Shevlin would scarcely remember him, and he was not likely to encounter Felipe there. Nevertheless, Pecos did not want to be recognized. There were difficulties, however, that stood in the way of his desires. He had about run out of food supplies and he was hungry; moreover, he could not avoid towns and people forever. It was here that his temper had to be encountered.

  Finally he sat down in the shade. To all outward appearance Eagle’s Nest was having a siesta. Presently Pecos espied a Mexican far down the street toward the Rio Grande, which flowed under the big bluff just back of the town. Then he became aware of voices in Shevlin’s place. There were two doors, one opening into the post, the other into the saloon but Pecos could not tell from which the voices came. Several men were talking, evidently all at once. Pecos was amused. Men were a queer lot, always squabbling, particularly in the neighborhood of red liquor.

  A moment later several persons emerged from the post, the foremost of whom was a barefooted boy who ran out into the street, gazing back over his shoulder. He did not appear exactly scared, but he certainly was excited.

  Pecos accosted him. “Say, sonny, what’s goin’ on aboot heah?”

  This did scare the youngster, as he had not observed the vaquero. He was about to bolt when Pecos’ friendly smile disarmed him.

  “Aw, I—never seen you.”

  “No wonder, son. You shore was lookin’ hard back there. What’s goin’ on in Dale Shevlin’ place?”

  “He ain’t there no more.”

  “Wal, you don’t say? What’s become of Dale?”

  “Somebody knifed him in the back.”

  “Too bad. Dale was a white man. Did he have any family?”

  “Yes, but Don Felipe drove them off. He runs both store an’ saloon now.”

  “Aho. He does? Wal, thet’s news. … Is Don Felipe heah now?”

  “No, sir. He stays a good deal in Rockfort, where they say he sells cattle to Chisholm trail drivers.”

  “Who runs these places?”

  “Man from New Orleans. Frenchy, we call him. His name is Conrad Brasee. He has two Mexicans workin’ for him, an’ a white bartender. Don’t know his name. He just got to Eagle’s Nest.”

  “Come heah, Johnny,” said Pecos, persuasively. “I’m a rider, a Texan, an’ shore yore friend. Fact is I’ve got a dollar thet’s burnin’ a hole in my vest pocket. You want it?”

  “Betcha,” retorted the lad, with wide-open eyes, approaching with diminishing reluctance.

  “There. Now tell me some more. I’m restin’ an’ darned lonesome. It’s good to listen to some news,” went on Pecos. “So Don Felipe’s doin’ things around Eagle’s Nest? He must be a greaser, or a Mexican shore.”

  “He’s more white than Mex. But he’s a greaser, all right,” replied the boy, his shrewd gray eyes, belonging unmistakably to the breed of Texans who hated anything Mexican, seeking Pecos’ with subtle meaning.

  “How’s the Don stand in Eagle’s Nest?”

  “Mister, he ’most runs it. But nobody likes him. Why, he’s killed seven men, three of them white.”

  “Holy smoke! He’s a bad hombre,” declared Pecos, in assumed wonder. As a matter of fact he was surprised, because Felipe, when Pecos left him, had a record of only four killings, just one of whom had been reputed to be a white man, and that a foreigner. “So Don Felipe is sellin’ cattle to Chisholm trail drivers. What’s become of McKeever? He used to drive up heah.”

  “He made his last trip ’most a year ago. My dad says McKeever is drivin’ up the Chisholm trail now.”

  “Ah, I see. Cattle driftin’ south from heah. … Don Felipe’s ranch is down the Pecos, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir. Devil’s River. But his vaqueros are rakin’ the brakes farther up than Eagle’s Nest.”

  “Does yore dad say whether Felipe’s vaqueros are brandin’ mavericks—or burnin’ brands?” inquired Pecos, casually.

  The lad hesitated at that, which was significant enough for Pecos.

  “I—I— He never said,” at length the lad faltered. “For goodness’ sake, Mister, don’t get the idee ——”

  “Son, I was just thinkin’ out loud. Forget thet. … Any other cattleman workin’ the river near heah?”

  “Yes, sir. Hails from New Mexico. Calls himself Sawtell. Funny name.”

  A slight vibration, like a shooting spark, ran along Pecos’ nerves. Sawtell! He had once had a presentiment that he was not through with that name. Certainly his questioning of the lad had not been idle, but it had scarcely been more than curiosity. He desired to avoid Don Felipe rather than be thrown across his path again. His queries, however, had led somewhere. Pecos grew soundly interested, and delved in his mind.

  “Who’s the big darky over there?” he asked, to keep the lad talking. “Is he drunk?”

  “Oh no, sir! Thet’s Sambo, a good nigger if there ever was one. He came hyar as vaquero to Kurnel Lambeth, who was killed a year or so ago.”

  “Lambeth. Wal! … I’ve heahed of him. … Wal, what’s the nigger look so down aboot, if he isn’t drunk?”

  “It’s because Brasee shet Terrill up—’cause he didn’t have no money to pay what was owin’. That was yestiddy. Sambo got hyar this mawnin’. He cain’t do nothin’. He wasn’t packin’ no gun. Th
ey throwed him oot fer makin’ such a fuss aboot Terrill.”

  “Who’s Terrill?”

  “This Terrill is the finest young feller who ever come to Eagle’s Nest. But he ain’t hyar often. Once a month, mebbe. He’s the son of thet Kurnel Lambeth, an’ now boss of the nigger. They have a ranch somewhere up the Pecos; Dad says Lambeth was rich in cattle a couple of years ago. But he wouldn’t sell at six dollars a haid. An’ now most of his cattle are gone. An’ they’re so poor they cain’t pay fer grub.”

  “Cattle gone. Seems like I’ve heahed such words before. Gone where, son?”

  The boy laughed. “You’re west of the Pecos, Señor.”

  “So I am! I shore ’most forgot,” drawled Pecos. “Wal, heah’s another peso.”

  “Oh sir, thank you. I—I never had so much money. You must be orful rich. … Oh, if you are—pay Terrill’s bill an’ get him oot!”

  “Out of where? There’s no jail heah.”

  “Yes there is—or what Brasee calls his jail. It’s a red ’dobe back of the post. The bartender throws drunken greasers in there, too. Terrill is shet in with one now.”

  “Wal, this is gettin’ warm, boy. Is this Brasee a sheriff, too?”

  “Naw, sheriff nothin’. He plays at it. There ain’t no law west of the Pecos, Señor. You jest bet Brasee never fools with a Texan.”

  “Ahuh. I savvy. Wal, I’ll go over an’ get your friend Terrill out,” drawled Pecos, as he arose.

  The lad gave him a wondering, grateful look, and bounded away, proving in his flight that whatever the issue might have been before, it was not something to lend wings to his feet.

  Pecos sauntered across toward the downcast negro. Things happened to Pecos in every conceivable way. He never learned a lesson. At every turn he encountered selfishness, crookedness, greed, brutality, bloodshed, and murder. Wherever one of these attributes flourished there was some boy or man or woman suffering loss or pain or bereavement.

  Pecos Smith had known negro slaves as worthy as any white man, though he had the Southerner’s contempt for most of the black trash. This man, Sambo, had the build of a vaquero, and Pecos remembered him. His boots and spurs gave further proof to Pecos. Negro vaqueros were so rare that they were remarkable. If Pecos needed anything more than recognition to heighten his ever-ready sympathy, here it was.

  “Howdy, Sambo! What’s it all aboot?” he queried, kindly.

  The negro started violently out of his dull misery and rolled his dark eyes at Pecos from head to foot, lingering a moment at the gun sheath so prominent and low on Pecos’s left thigh.

  “Yas, suh. I’se Sambo, suh. What yo say, suh?”

  “A lad told me you were in trouble.”

  “Gawd, suh, I is, I is. Turrible trubble. … But ’scuse me, Mister, who yo’ is? Don’ I know yo’?”

  “Wal, Sambo, I might be a friend in need,” replied Pecos, putting a hand on the negro’s shoulder. As he did so the Mexican and white man whom he had observed emerging from the post went back in rather precipitately.

  “Man, yo’ lend me dat gun an’ I’ll believe yose a friend,” declared the negro, suddenly flaring.

  “What’ll you do, Sambo?”

  “I’ll kill dat cussed Brasee, sho as yore borned.”

  “But thet’ll get you into more trouble, Sambo. … Come over away from thet door. … Now don’t be afraid to talk. Tell me your story, quick an’ straight.”

  Thus admonished, the negro seemed to collect his wits. “You ought to remember me, suh. I’se Sambo, vaquero fo’ Kuhnel Lambeth, dat yo’ found lost up on the Crossin’. We’re frum east Texas an’ we come out heah ’mos’ five years ago. We druv in a herd of cattle an’ two years ago we had ’mos’ ten thousand haid. … Marse Lambeth no sell when he ought. De rustlers done found us, suh, an’ dey—or sumbody killed him. Now we’s pore. … Marse Lambeth’s b-boy, Massa Terrill, rid ovah heah yes’day alone. We never knowed till dis mawnin’. I rid my hawse ’mos’ to deff. But Brasee hit me over de haid wid something. He got Massa Rill shet up in thet ’dobe shack wid a greaser. … Lemme dat gun, man, an’ I show yo’.”

  “Hold yore hosses, Sambo. … What’d Brasee shet up young Terrill for?”

  “He swears fo’ money det Kuhnel Lambeth owes. But dat’s only a ’scuse, stranger. Det —— —— Don Felipe an’ his pardner, Breen Sawtell, air behin’ it. Dey was upriver—dey was gonna drive Marse Lambeth out. But dey couldn’, an’ Ah sho suspec’s dat outfit made way wif de Kuhnel. My woman Mauree knows, suh. It come to her in a dream. … Dey stole mos’ of our stock, suh, an’ now it’s Massa Rill they’se after.”

  “Wal, Sambo, come with me,” replied Pecos, quietly, as he wheeled back toward the door of the post. In any case he had meant to buy young Lambeth’s freedom, and he had asked for the negro’s story just for verification. All at once the thing had assumed proportions, and that complex spirit of his had extracted stern purpose out of what had seemed trivial.

  Pecos entered the store. It had been enlarged since his last visit to Eagle’s Nest. A more complete stock of merchandise filled shelves and cluttered up the place so that there was scarcely room to move about. A Mexican made pretense of work, but the side slant of his beady black eyes told Pecos what he was interested in. Behind a counter stood a man in his shirt sleeves. He was fat and pale, and his dark thin hair fell over his brow, almost to his large, ghoulish eyes. For the rest he had a long, sharp nose, a small mouth, and a peaked chin with a dimple in the middle.

  For years one of Pecos Smith’s essential habits had been to look at men, to gauge them in one lightning-swift glance. The fact that he had been able to do so in some instances accounted for the fact that he was still alive.

  “Howdy. Air you Brasee?” drawled Pecos.

  Chapter VIII

  THIS new keeper of Eagle’s Nest’s only store looked to Pecos more like a New Orleans creole gambler than anything else.

  “Yes, I’m Brasee. What you want?” he returned, in a voice with a slight accent, which, however, did not hint of negro taint.

  “Wal, I’m sort of close to the Lambeth family,” announced Pecos, coldly. “Not exactly a blood relation. Just come from east Texas. An’ I’m some concerned to hear the Colonel is daid an’ young Terrill is shet up in a shed of yourn. How aboot thet last, Brasee?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Shore it is, Mister Brasee,” went on Pecos, softly. This man no more knew Texans of Pecos’ stripe than he would have been able to contend with them. Pecos’ careless, easy manner misled him. “I come a long way to see young Terrill. He must be growed to quite a boy by now. An’ I want to see him.”

  “You can’t see him.”

  “What right had you to shet him up in a shed with a drunken greaser?”

  Brasee gazed hard at Pecos, unable to meet him on common ground. There was something about Pecos that obstructed his will, but he did not know it. He had not long been west of the Pecos.

  “Matter of owin’ yu money, Sambo heah says,” went on Pecos, indicating the glaring negro.

  “Yes, Lambeth owes for the winter’s supplies.”

  “How much?”

  “No matter, Señor.”

  “It matters a hell of a lot,” retorted Pecos, subtly changing. “If yore a sheriff or a Texas Ranger, show yore badge.”

  This Brasee did not attempt to do, as Pecos had known very well he would not.

  “Ahuh. Playin’ the law, eh? I’ve seen thet done before in Texas. But it shore doesn’t make for long life. … How much does this boy owe?”

  “Two hundred—ten dollars,” replied Brasee, swallowing hard.

  Pecos counted out that amount from a generous roll of bills and pitched it to Brasee. He had not failed to catch the greedy glitter in this man’s hungry eyes; nor had Pecos missed other significant things. Dale Shevlin’s place had degenerated into a questionable den. There was another man listening, perhaps watching, just inside the half-closed door that opened into the saloon.
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  “Write out a receipt,” said Pecos as he reached behind to grasp the first thing available to throw. It happened to be a sack of salt, at least ten pounds in weight. Quick as a flash Pecos flung it at the door. Then followed three distinct sounds—the bang of the bag striking the door, then a solid thump of the violently moved door colliding with something soft, and lastly a sodden slump of that something on the floor. The door, having swung wide, disclosed a man struggling to a sitting posture, one hand fumbling at his bloody, flattened nose.

  “Say, yu,” demanded Pecos. “How’n hell do I know what yu was listenin’ for behind thet door? … What kind of a den air yu runnin’, Brasse?”

  Brasee rolled up the scattered bills with hands not perfectly steady. Then, using a pencil, he scribbled something on a piece of paper.

  “There’s your receipt, Señor. But I’m holding young Lambeth till Felipe comes.”

  “Yu jest think yu air. Say, how do yu know I’m not a Texas Ranger?”

  “Rangers don’t come west of the Pecos,” snapped Brasee, but he was wholly uncomfortable and uncertain.

  “Wal, anythin’ can happen west of the Pecos. An’ thet’s a hunch,” flashed the vaquero. “Sambo, grab thet ax an’ come with me.”

  Pecos backed out of the store. Contempt for such men as Felipe gathered around him did not make Pecos careless. Sambo had preceded him.

  “I knowed it, boss, I sho knowed it,” declared the negro, rolling his eyes.

  “What’d you know, Sambo?”

  “Dat Brasee wus yaller clean to his gizzard. But I sho kept my eye on de greaser. I’d ’a’ busted him.”

  “Wal, I was watchin’ him, too. Thet’s a low-down outfit, Sambo. They cain’t last hyar. … Show me this calaboose where they stuck yore young Lambeth.”

  Some little distance back of the store stood a new adobe hut, small and square, with a wooden door fastened by a chain and padlock. Pecos walked around the structure, wondering where any air could get in. Sambo banged on the door.

  “Massa Rill, is yo’ dar?” he called, his voice thick and rich.