by Zane Grey
Chapter IX
NOT many miles out of Eagle’s Nest an unfrequented trail branched off the road toward the river. Here Sambo, who had found his horse and taken the lead, turned off into the brakes. And from that moment Pecos was lost.
No wheel had ever rolled along that trail, nor had a herd of cattle ever tramped its rocky, cactus-bordered course. At infrequent intervals cattle tracks crossed it, but no other trail for miles. Then a dim road intersected it from the west. Lambeth said this led down to Mortimer Spring.
For the most part Pecos rode down in washes and gulches, but occasionally he was up one of the snakelike, wandering ridges from which he could see afar. All the same was this wild Pecos country, bare grass spots alternating with scaly patches, greasewood and cactus contrasting with the gray of rocks, winding ridge and winding canyon all so monotonous and lonely, rolling endlessly down from the west to the river, rolling endlessly up toward the east, on and on, a vast wasteland apparently extending to infinitude. The course of the Pecos appeared only as a dark meandering line, its walls hidden, its presence sometimes mysteriously vanished.
Pecos was glad to have companions once again, though he little availed himself of the opportunity to talk. Young Lambeth rode a fast-gaited mustang and was hard to keep up with. Most of the time he and Sambo were out of sight, hidden by rock corners or a descent into a gorge. And Pecos’ pack-horse was tired.
About mid-afternoon Pecos espied the first bunch of cattle, wilder than deer—an old mossy-horn, a cow, two yearlings and a calf, for all he could tell unbranded. This encounter was in a shallow rock-bottomed gorge where clear water ran. From that point on cattle tracks increased markedly, and mixed stock showed on the ridges. At length Pecos made out a brand T L, and concluded that must belong to Lambeth. Thereafter he kept sharp lookout for cattle and brands, the latter of which, to his growing surprise, he saw but few.
No doubt Colonel Lambeth had been one of the loosest of branders. But how could any cattleman, even an old stager, with only one vaquero and a boy, expect to brand one tenth of the calves and yearlings that belonged to him? Conditions were changing and such ranching as that was of the past. With cattle demanding a price, with markets increasing, this vast range west of the Pecos would in time produce a million head. Pecos saw fortune in the future for this Lambeth lad and himself. Pecos possessed the money to buy, to replenish what had been left of Lambeth’s stock; he knew how to raise cattle; he had the will, and particularly the nerve to stop extensive rustling. Wherefore he rode this trail more nearly happy than he could recall.
At length, toward sunset, Sambo waited for Pecos in one of the shallow, rock-walled, rock-bedded draws. Evidently Lambeth had gone on. But Pecos failed to see where. There was no water, no sand or earth to mark tracks.
“Heah’s whar we turns off,” announced the negro. “Mos’ deceivin’ place.”
“Wal, Sambo, I might have passed on heah myself,” replied Pecos. “How far to the river?”
“Reckon not so fur as a crow flies. But we go round an’ round aboot an’ pilin’ down an’ down till yo sho t’ink it’s miles.”
The draw wound lazily down, turning back upon itself, keeping its narrow width, but heightening its rock walls. From an appreciable descent it fell off to jumps where the men had to dismount and lead the horses. It remained a gorge, however, never widening to the dignity of a canyon. Nevertheless, Pecos expected it to do so, for that was the nature of the brakes of the river. Down and down he went until the sky above appeared like a winding, blue stream. Water certainly poured down here in floods at certain seasons, but the bed of the gorge continued dry as a bleached bone in the sun. Gradually its dry fragrance failed, which fact came to Pecos’ attention through the actions of the horses. They scented water. And presently Pecos smelled it, too, and felt in his face a warm, drowsy breath of air, moving, laden with sweet essence of greens and blossoms.
But Pecos was not prepared to turn a last corner suddenly and be confronted by a burst of golden sunlight and a blaze of open canyon.
“Heah yo is, boss,” announced Sambo, with pride. “Dis is Massa Rill’s ranch. An’ it’s sho de only purty place on dis ole Pecos ribber.”
“Dog-gone!” ejaculated Pecos, and halted to revel.
The sun was setting behind him, far up over those rolling ranges, and it cast long rays of gold down across this canyon, to paint the gliding river and the huge, many-stepped wall of rock above. That wall appeared higher than any in view on this side of the river. It frowned forbiddingly, notwithstanding its front of glancing sunset hues.
“Up dar’s whar de Comanches ride oot an’ yell an’ shoot at us,” exclaimed Sambo, in his deep voice, pointing to the low center of the great cliff opposite. “But dey cain’t reach us an’ dey cain’t git down.”
“Dog-gone!” repeated Pecos, as he mopped his wet face.
From where Pecos stood the walls spread and curved on each side, lofty and perpendicular, craggy and impassable along the rims, rock-splintered and densely-thicketed at the bases, perhaps half a mile apart at the extreme width of the curve, and thereafter gradually closing to the mouth, which, however, was large enough to permit a lengthy view of the Pecos and the rugged wall opposite.
It was an oval canyon twice its breadth in length, remarkable in many ways, and strikingly so for a luxuriance of green. This charmed Pecos’ eye, for he had never seen anything like it along this lonely, gray walled river.
The center was an oval pasture inside an oval fringe of trees and cliffs. Horses dotted the green, and many cattle. The sunset had changed its gold for red, so that the eastern walls took on a rosy flush, while those nearer Pecos deepened their purple. In between, shafts of light slanted down across the canyon, rendering it ethereally lovely—a garden of fertile beauty lost in all that wilderness of gloomy, dismal, barren land.
“Dar’s one big spring dat nebber goes dry,” concluded Sambo, with importance. “It’s so big it’s a little ribber all by itself. So when de Pecos is low an’ so full ob alkali dat de cattle cain’t drink, why, dis water is pure as de good Lawd makes.”
Sambo mounted again and rode down through the sections of broken cliff toward the canyon floor. And Pecos followed him, presently to emerge from the groves of willow and mesquite and blossoming brush to a trail that led on through the grass. A murmuring of many bees, buzzing and humming in the foliage mingled with a soft sound of an unseen, falling stream.
Here indeed Pecos rode by mossy-horns that were not wild. There were hundreds of cattle toward the lower end of the oval. This canyon alone, without the boundless ranges above, would support a rancher who was not ambitious to grow rich.
Meanwhile the sun set and with the fire and color changed to darkening gray, this isolated retreat returned to its true aspect as part of the hard Pecos country.
At length, just as twilight began to creep out of the larger canyon, gleaming cold on the steely Pecos, a cabin appeared on the edge of the fringe of trees that faced the river. It was fairly high on the bank and commanded a view across the river and down. A smaller cabin sat back and to one side.
“Heah we air an’ I’se sho glad,” sang out Sambo. “Mauree, yo unwelcomin’, no-good woman, whar yo is?”
A negress, large of frame, comely of face, with a red bandana tied round her head, appeared in the doorway.
“So yo’s back, yo lazy niggah,” she ejaculated, rolling her eyes till the whites showed. “Yo sabed yo’ life, man, fetchin’ our Terrill home.”
“Yas, I’se home, honey, thanks to dis gennelman,” replied Sambo, happily. “Mauree, meet a real Texan, Mistah Pecos Smith.”
“Wal, Mistah Smith, I’se sho happy to welcome yo,” replied the negress. “Git down an’ come in. Der’s ham an’ eggs an’ milk—aplenty fo hungry men.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Sambo,” rejoined Pecos as he slid off his saddle. With swift, sure hands he untied his bulky coat from the cantle and slipped his rifle, to lay them upon the stone steps of the porch. Then he unsa
ddled Cinco while Sambo performed a like office for the pack-animal.
The cabin was long, with three doors opening out on the porch, and it had been crudely though strongly constructed of logs and poles, with sun-baked mud filling the chinks between. The several windows served equally for portholes. In the center it had a low-peaked roof, which shelved down to cover the porch. It did not, however, touch the side wall, thus leaving a considerable air space for the attic. When Pecos had deposited his saddle and pack on the porch he espied a bench upon which stood a wooden pail and an iron dipper, also a basin and soap, and above, hanging on pegs, clean, white towels. He laughed. When had he seen anything like this? The bucket was full of crystal water which proved to be as cold as ice and singularly free of taste. Pecos drank twice, verifying Sambo’s claim for the water. Then he washed his hands and face, to feel a refreshment that equaled his enthusiasm. When he turned, Terrill stood bareheaded in the doorway.
“Pecos Smith,” he said, shyly, “welcome to Lambeth Ranch.”
“Terrill—our fortune’s made!” he flashed, to express his appreciation of this welcome, and the opportunity a chance meeting had thrown to him.
“You think so? You like my lonely canyon?”
“Paradise! No man could have made me believe such a place could be found along the Pecos.”
“Come in. Supper is ready. You wouldn’t expect me to be hungry, after that lunch Bobby gave us. But I am.”
“Wal, I wasn’t particular hungry till Mrs. Sambo mentioned ham an’ eggs. I shore fergot there were such things.”
The interior was dark, like all log cabins, except in the neighborhood of the open fire. Evidently this large apartment was living-room and kitchen combined. A door at the end led into another room. Pecos sat down to a home-made table, upon which were a spotless white tablecloth, old silverware, and a supper the savory fragrance of which attested that it was good enough for a king.
Terrill had breeding, though he had not been used to company. If the situation was novel for Pecos, what must it have been for the lad? Here, more than at any other time since Terrill had been freed, that strange, rather aloof awkwardness, if not actual shyness, seemed noticeable to Pecos. It would not have been difficult for Pecos to burst into a hearty laugh and to slap the lad on the shoulder and ridicule him for such diffidence out on the west bank of the wildest river in Texas. But something inhibited Pecos. Lambeth must have had a sheltered childhood, a sad boyhood, and now he certainly was an orphaned youth. It would take time to get acquainted with him, and Pecos decided it would be worth some pains to keep much to himself and give familiarity time to grow. Vaqueros of his type were not usually rough and ready fellows, and Pecos was nothing if not quiet.
They did not exchange half a dozen words throughout the meal, to which Pecos did justice that assuredly flattered the cook.
“Wal, a few more suppers like thet an’ I’ll be spoiled,” was Pecos’ encomium.
“We have plenty to eat, even if we are poor,” replied Terrill. “Raise ’most everything, I reckon. …”
“Wal, this has shore been an excitin’ day, an’ I’m sleepy. If yo don’t mind I’d like to bunk up in thet hole under the roof. I’ll get plenty of air there, and it’s a good place for a lookout.”
“That will be all right,” the lad replied, quickly. “Sambo has been sleeping there since Dad was killed, so I wouldn’t be afraid at night. Now he can go back to his cabin.”
“Yeah. I shore hope my comin’ will make things better all around.”
“Oh, I know it will, Pecos,” returned Lambeth. “I shore had some luck today, if never before.”
“Thet reminds me. Yu ’pear far from starvin’ hyar, yet yu had to take chances ridin’ into Eagle’s Nest for supplies. How aboot it?”
“Pecos, it wasn’t food supplies that I went after, or I would have taken a pack-horse.”
“I see. Wal, I’ll turn in. Good-night.”
“Wait. You said our fortune was made. … I cain’t go to sleep if you don’t explain.”
Pecos laughed. “Yore a funny kid. Let me figure for yu. … This range is the best on the Pecos. What yu an’ yore dad needed was a man who could ride this range. Sambo is a good nigger. But yu want a handy man with guns. He happens to have dropped in. Now takin’ a ridiculous estimate, say yu have a thousand cows left. Thet number with the brandin’ of mavericks will more than double this year. Thet means, say, twenty-five hundred haid. Followin’ year five thousand haid. Third year ten thousand haid. Mind yu, we’re allowin’ for the brandin’ of mavericks along this river as far up an’ down as we can ride. Fourth year easy twenty thousand. An’ so on. Wal, two-year-olds are sellin’ now for six dollars a haid. Any Texan can see thet cattle-raisin’ is goin’ to save Texas. Prices will go up an’ up. But suppose, for sake of bein’ conservative, say prices go no higher. In four years we’ll be worth way over a hundred thousand dollars. But I’d gamble it’ll be double thet.”
“Pecos!” cried Lambeth, his voice ringing high.
“Wal, don’t Pecos me. Yu know thet Pecos means’ most anythin’. I’m tellin’ yu straight, Terrill. For ten years I’ve been layin’ for this chance.”
“Oh, thank God you—came in time!” exclaimed the lad, poignantly.
“See heah, lad, yore still upset. Let’s talk no more tonight,” replied Pecos, surprised into keen solicitude. Terrill stood against the stone chimney just out of the light of the freshly blazing sticks Sambo had put on. The shadow somehow heightened the effect of large dark eyes.
“I’m not upset. It’s—it’s just—I cain’t tell you. … But I can tell you—that if Brasee had kept me shut up much longer—I’d have hanged myself.”
“Aw, son, yore exaggeratin’,” ejaculated Pecos. “Why, he wouldn’t have dared. He was tryin’ to scare you into borrowin’ money.”
“That’s all you know,” retorted the lad, with passion. “Brasee is only one of Don Felipe’s hands. But he does terrible things. Not so long ago he held a girl prisoner in that ’dobe shack.”
“A girl! … What the hell is wrong with the white men in Eagle’s Nest?”
“She was—a—Mexican,” replied Terrill, haltingly, and ended as if biting his tongue.
“Makes no difference,” growled Pecos. “Reckon I’ll have to inquire into thet.”
Pecos went out and called: “Hey, Sambo, you big molasses. Come heah an’ help me.”
Sambo appeared, so promptly as to give rise to a suspicion that he had been listening. It certainly seemed natural under the circumstances.
“Yo climb up de ladder an’ I’ll fro up yore bed,” suggested Sambo.
“Hand up my coat an’ rifle first,” replied Pecos as he ascended to the roof and knelt on the uneven pole floor. It was so dark Pecos could not see back into the loft.
“Yo fro my quilts down, Pecos.”
Pecos felt around until he found a bed, which consisted of no more than several heavy quilts. He gave these a pitch into space. Sambo let out a smothered ejaculation and was evidently thrown off his balance. Pecos, peering down, found that this was the case. Sambo floundered around to extricate himself. His language and the commotion that he had created brought Mauree to the scene.
“Fo’ de land’s sake! Yo crazy black man, what yo doin’?”
“Go long wid yo, woman.”
“Ex-cuse me, Sambo,” called Pecos. “I reckoned yu was lookin’.”
“Sho I wuz lookin’, but it done no good. Yo is a real vaquero, Mars Pecos, yo sho is.”
Presently Pecos had his bed spread in that dark loft and his preciously laden coat folded for a pillow. Before stretching his frame at length he gazed out in the direction of the river. He could not see well, though the pale, wide, winding bar under the black wall must be it. Above the bold rim blinked white stars, cold and austere in their message to him. By listening intently he caught a faint murmur of water chafing by reedy shore. An owl hooted on the canyon side of the river, to be answered from a distance. Cattle an
d horses were silent.
Pecos felt of the bundles of money in his coat. His conscience discovered a still small voice. Had he been wholly honest with young Lambeth? Angrily he cast the query aside. He had fought that out. He could look any man in the eye, with a hand on his gun, and swear that he was not a thief. Nevertheless, if he had so long lived the free, wild lawless life of a vaquero that his sense of right and wrong had suffered, now was the time to correct it. Whereupon he lay down and slept, an indication that his conscience was not too burdened.
Pecos did not awaken until rather late for him, which perhaps was owing to a sense of security. The sun was crossing the gap far down the river and the Rio Pecos appeared a path of glory.
Sambo came into sight below, his arms full of split fagots.
“Fine mawnin’,” called out Pecos, pulling on his boots.
“Sho is. An’ once more I’se glad to be alibe.”
“Me too. … Where’s our boss, Sambo?”
“Sho he’s in de land ob Nod. Mauree she call him twice. But mos’ always he’s up early.”
Pecos lay flat on the floor, with his head over the edge. The open door of the cabin was a little to his right. “Hey, Terrill!” he yelled.
“Yes—yes,” came a quick, bewildered cry from the distant room.
“Pile out. The mawnin’s broke. We gotta hang today on a peg an’ all the days thet come after. … Ridin’ the brakes, boy! Who could ask a happier lot?”
Pecos descended the ladder to begin the day himself, surprised at something that made him want to sing. He washed his face and hands, and brushed his tangled hair, and felt of his stubby beard. Some day he might shave, if only for the comfort of a clean, smooth chin. There were gold and red ripples on the river, under a gentle wind. Ducks were winging flight upstream. Cattle spotted the green banks. Terrill’s pinto mustang had come almost to the porch. Chickens were numerously manifest.
