by Zane Grey
After breakfast Terrill went out on the porch to see how their wounded guest had fared during the night. He was sitting up, drinking a cup of coffee.
“Mawnin’, Mister Watson. How are you?”
“Hullo, lad!” replied the cattleman. “I’m pretty good, considerin’. Little dizzy, but that’s passin’.”
“I’m glad you got off so easy.”
“Wal, luck shore was with me. But I was on a fast hoss. Reckon he could run away from anythin’ on four laigs.”
“Ump-umm! I saw your horse. He’s fine. But he could never run away from Cinco.”
“Cinco. Is he your hoss?”
“Oh no. Wish he were. Cinco belongs to Pecos.”
“Who’s Pecos?” queried Watson, with more interest.
“Why, Pecos Smith, my partner.”
“Smith! Oh, I see. He never mentioned his front handle. Wal, wal!”
“Had you ever heard of Pecos?”
“Reckon I have. I’m tryin’ to recollect. But my haid’s sort of buzzy this mawnin’. … So you’re young Lambeth, eh? I knew your father. We had some dealin’ together. He was a fine man—too upright an’ trustin’ for this country. Is it true that he was killed by Indians?”
“No, Mister Watson,” replied Terrill, sadly. “It was a Comanche arrow that killed Dad, but it was never shot by a Comanche.”
“Indeed! That’s news. Some more of this Pecos deviltry. Wal, we’ve a lot to go through before we can have peaceful ranchin’. It’s got to get worse before it can get better.”
“We ought to band together.”
“Lambeth, that’s not a bad idee. But we’re not ready for it here yet. Country too sparsely settled. Only a few cattlemen an’ riders. Range too big. Distances too long. An’ we’re all too poor to hire enough help. It ’pears to me we got all we can do to keep from bein’ shot, for a while yet.”
Terrill sighed. Perhaps this rancher was right. “Until you came yesterday we hadn’t seen a single rider for months, and not an Indian all summer. I’d almost forgotten we lived on the wild Pecos.”
“Wal, it never rains but it pours, lad,” laughed Watson. “I hope I’m not a bird of ill omen, but I’m shore afraid. … Hullo, what’s the matter with your nigger?”
Sambo appeared, running up from the direction of the corral. The instant Terrill saw him she knew something was amiss. Her first thought was of Pecos. But he would be returning at noonday, or later. Sambo lumbered up to the porch.
“Mars Rill—dar’s riders—comin’,” he panted, and pointed up the canyon toward the gorge trail.
Terrill stepped to the edge of the porch. She saw horses, riders. She counted four—five riders and several pack-horses. They had turned the curve of the canyon and were coming down the trail half a mile distant. It was a sight Terrill’s father had always greeted with dread, a dread which had been transmitted to her. This time, however, after the first start of dismay, Terrill reacted differently. It would not help Pecos for her to be panic-stricken. She belonged to Texas, too, and she was his partner. As she watched the riders leisurely approach, speculating upon their character and purpose, she determined they should not get the best of her. To the outside world she was still young Terrill Lambeth, son of Colonel Lambeth, and she could act the part.
“Dey’s no vaqueros,” said Sambo, finally.
“I reckon there’s nothin’ to do but receive them,” suggested Watson.
“I dunno, suh, I dunno. Sho it hed to happen jest when dat Pecos Smith rid off.”
“They’re shore not backward aboot ridin’ up here,” replied Terrill, thoughtfully. “Maybe they are some of the new cattlemen you told Pecos aboot.”
“Wal, either they’re honest or plumb nervy.”
When the trees and the barn hid the approaching horsemen from sight Terrill ran to her room. She threw off the light blouse, and donning her loose coat she buttoned it up. Then she stuck her gun in her hip pocket. The long barrel protruded from a hole and showed below the edge of her coat. But that was just as well, perhaps. Then before going back she paused to consider. Sambo and Pecos, and she, too, had always been expecting unwelcome visitors. Well, let them come. Whatever their errand, Terrill’s first care was to conceal her sex, and after that meet the exigencies of the case as Pecos’ partner.
“Where are they?” she asked when she got outside.
“Must be havin’ a parley or leavin’ their hosses,” returned Watson.
“Heah dey come on foot. An’ dey’s walkin’ arsenals,” said Sambo, who stood out from the porch. He returned to sit down on the step. “Mars Rill, dis is no friendly call.”
Presently the men came into Terrill’s range of vision. “I shore know that tall one,” she flashed. “Breen Sawtell.”
“So do I,” rejoined Watson, not without excitement. “Met him at Eagle’s Nest last summer. Talks big cattle deals. … Can’t say I liked him, Lambeth.”
Terrill uttered a little laugh, which got rid of the last of her nervousness. “I can’t say I’m in love with him, myself.”
“Has he been here before?”
“Twice. Last time I took to the brush till he left. He’s a new partner of Don Felipe’s.”
Watson whistled significantly, and no more was said. Terrill watched her visitors approach. Well she remembered the tall Sawtell, even to his shirt sleeves, his black vest and sombrero, his long mustache and deep-set black eyes. On his right stalked a short thick individual, ruddy of face and pompous of bearing. The other three men were cowhands, young, unshaven, hard-faced, not markedly different from any other cowhands of West Texas. They were all heavily armed, except Sawtell, who showed only a gun strapped to his hip. He halted some dozen or so steps from the porch and swept its occupants with his deep-set basilisk eyes.
“Howdy, folks.”
Watson replied, but neither Terrill nor Sambo offered any greeting. Sawtell, after a moment, appeared most interested in Watson. He took a few more steps forward, while the stout man followed rather hesitatingly. Terrill had eyes for everything. She noted that only Sawtell looked over-eager.
“Don’t I know you?” queried Sawtell, fixing Watson with his greedy eyes.
“Met you at Eagle’s Nest last summer. My name’s Watson,” replied Watson, shortly.
“Sure. I remember. Talked cattle sale with you, but you wanted cash. … Say, sort of pale an’ sickish, aren’t you?”
“I ought to be. Got shot yesterday. Lookin’ my stock over an’ run plumb into some brand-blotters. They darn near did for me.”
Sawtell’s change of expression was not marked, but it was perceptible to Terrill.
“Shot! Brand-blotters! … Where aboot, Watson?”
“Downriver aboot ten miles. I outrode them an’ got here, pretty much all in.”
“So I see. All alone, eh?”
“No. I had two cowhands. A Mex an’ fellow named Stine. I didn’t see them after the first shots.”
Sawtell seemed to proceed gropingly in thought. Terrill divined his next query.
“Downriver outfit?”
“I reckon not. There were several white cowhands mixed in with vaqueros. New outfit from across the Pecos.”
“Like as not. They’re driftin’ in from all over.” Then Sawtell turned abruptly to Terrill. “Howdy, Lambeth. I hear you lately went in partnership with one Hod Smith.”
“Not Hod Smith. My partner’s name is Pecos,” rejoined Terrill.
“Where is he?”
“Out,” replied Terrill, laconically.
“When’ll he be back?”
“No telling. In aboot a week, maybe.”
“Bill,” said Sawtell to the stout man, “I reckon Smith is the hombre we want. Them cowhands at Heald’s called him Pecos. But we never heard of it.”
“Pears to me there’s a Hod Smith an’ a Pecos Smith,” replied the other, ponderingly. “We don’t want to get our brands mixed. The man we’re after is the Smith who shot your brother an’ went to burnin’ brands with Wil
liams an’ Adams.”
“Shore. An’ we’re on the right track,” replied Sawtell, confidently.
“Excuse me, gentlemen, but if you ask me I say you’re shore on the wrong track,” spoke up Watson.
“How so?” retorted Sawtell.
“Wal, that’s aboot all from me.”
“It’s enough. Are you a friend of Hod Smith’s?”
“I don’t know any Hod Smith.”
“Fellers, we might have known we’d get up against a stall like this,” said Sawtell, spreading his hands to his men. “So just drape yourselves around an’ be comfortable. … Get up, nigger,” he went on, addressing Sambo, and giving him a kick. “You can feed us after a bit.”
“Thet’s up to Mars Lambeth,” replied Sambo, sullenly.
“Boy, order your niggers to cook up a feed for us.”
“You go to hell,” drawled Terrill, from where she leaned in the doorway.
“No Southern hospitality here, huh?”
“Not to you.”
“Wal, we’ll help ourselves.”
“Bill, meet young Terrill Lambeth. This is Bill Haines, sheriff from up New Mexico way.”
Terrill eyed the stout man. He would not have been unprepossessing if he had been minus the odious prefix. Terrill was playing a boy’s part, but she was looking out with a woman’s intuitive gaze, with the penetration of love. Haines had a smug, bold front; he had a bluff laugh; but his shifty gray eyes did not meet Terrill’s glazing ones for more than a fleeting instant.
“Glad to meet you, young feller,” he said, in a hearty voice.
“Are you a Ranger?” queried Terrill.
“Used to be, sonny,” was the reply. “I’m now an officer for private interests.”
“Have you come heah to arrest Pecos Smith?”
“Wal, yes, if this Pecos Smith is Hod Smith.”
“Then you might as well leave before you get into trouble, because Pecos Smith is shore Pecos Smith.”
“Breen, this young jackanapes has got plenty of chin,” growled Haines.
“Wal, you can arrest him, too,” declared Sawtell, with a guffaw. “He’s in with Smith.”
“Arrest me!—You just try it,” flashed Terrill.
“Listen to the kid!”
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” spoke up Watson, evidently prompted by Terrill’s spirit. “Is this a legal proceedin’? I never heard of a sheriff west of the Pecos. It’s none of my business. I’m as much a stranger to Lambeth an’ Smith as I am to you. But I’ve a hunch you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree.”
“Wal, for your edification, Mister Watson,” sneered Breen Sawtell, “an’ as you’re a Pecos River cattleman, I’ll tell you. … This cowhand Smith rode for the Healds. He was implicated in shady deals with two riders named Williams an’ Adams. My brother rode down to the H H an’ asked the Healds to fire Smith. An’ he got shot for his pains. Shot when he wasn’t lookin’, so it runs up on the Pecos. Wal, then Smith lit out for the brakes. His pards drove small herds of stock to a certain New Mexico market. They were fetchin’ out herds of a hundred haid or so, part mavericks just branded, and the rest yearlin’s an’ steers thet had burned brands. Beckman, a cattleman I was foreman for a little while back, was the biggest loser. An’ after six months or more of this thievin’ he took three good riders an’ trailed Williams an’ Adams down in the thickets of the Pecos. This was in the Alkali Lake country across from Tayah Creek. … Wal, they never came back an’ nothin’ was ever heard of them. Then Haines an’ I, with our men, took up the trail. We found the decomposed bodies of six men. One had a lariat round his neck. That one we figgered was Williams. Adams we identified by his front teeth. He had been shot. Beckman we recognized from his clothes. He had an arrow stickin’ through his ribs. But, hell! no Comanche killed him. There was a dried-up hoss carcass with some arrows stickin’ in it. … Now here’s how we figger it. This man Smith was campin’ alone. He never went anywhere with his pards. An’ expectin’ them back from a drive, he come in time to see Williams hangin’ to a tree, an’ no doubt Adams aboot ready for his. There was a fight, an’ Smith was the only one left. He shot a lot of Comanche arrows around to make it look like the work of Indians. Then he searched all the dead men for money, took it, an’ rode away. We kept on down the river trail to Eagle’s Nest. There we learned a rider answerin’ the description of Smith rode into town early last spring, broke open Brasee’s jail, where this young Lambeth was locked up for somethin’, an’ left with him an’ the nigger for this ranch. In this case it’s shore easy to put two an’ two together.”
“Sawtell, take this from me,” ejaculated Watson, feelingly. “This Pecos Smith is not your man.”
“An’ why not?”
“There’s some mistake.”
“Hell! didn’t we find out thet he’d paid a big bill for young Lambeth? Two hundred dollars. Lambeth had been locked up for debt. The greaser said Smith had a roll of bills as big as his laig.”
“That may very well be. But this Pecos Smith is some one else. He’s not the kind of a Texan who’d burn brands an’ murder for it.”
“Say, how’n hell do you know this Pecos Smith ain’t our Hod Smith?” demanded Sawtell, angrily.
“Wal, I can’t prove it. But I’d gamble on it. An’ what’s more, I wouldn’t be one of the outfit to accuse him of all this—not for a million dollars.”
“Aw, you wouldn’t? Watson, your talk ain’t so convincin’. How do we know you ain’t in cahoots with Smith?”
“Sawtell, you’re a damned fool, among other things,” declared Watson, in amazed heat. “I’m a respectable rancher, as everybody on this river knows.”
“Ahuh. So you say. But we don’t know——”
“Breen, you’re goin’ a little too fast,” interrupted Haines, sourly. “I told you we might be on a wild-goose chase. An’ if we are we want to know it before makin’ any moves.”
Sawtell fell into a rage at this and stamped up and down, cursing. He was a passionate and headstrong man, evidently determined upon a certain line of conduct, and he meant to stick to it.
Terrill had suffered a horrifying conviction. Pecos really was the man they were after. He really was a rustler. All that money, surely thousands of dollars, part of which Terrill had in her possession—had been the combined profits of the three brand-burners. Pecos’ story had omitted a few little details, but it dovetailed with that told by Sawtell. Terrill could easily supply the discrepancies. She had a rending, sickening agony in her heart. Was it possible that the man she loved was a cow thief? Terrill’s impulse was to run and hide to conceal her hurt, but she dared not act upon it, because any moment Pecos might ride in sight, and she had to see him meet these men. She shook at the very thought, and was hard put to it to stand there.
“Haines, are you afraid to go through with this job?” demanded Sawtell, after his tirade.
“No. But I’m not arrestin’ any unknown vaqueros. You can lay coin on that,” replied the sheriff, testily.
Sawtell plainly was handicapped by the presence of others. He fumed, and chewed his long mustache, and glared at his ally as if he suspected hitherto unconsidered possibilities.
“After all, the money is the main thing we’re after,” he burst out, as if unmasking. “Agree to thet?”
“Yes. There’s some sense in makin’ the money our issue. Why didn’t you come to that long ago?”
“No matter. … Wal, I’ve a hunch this money is hid right in this cabin,” went on Sawtell, with passion. “An’ if we find it you can bet your life I’ll have the truth of Hod Smith’s identity.”
“Yes? You’re a positive man, Sawtell, but that ain’t enough for me. How will you have it?”
“I was the market for Williams an’ Adams. I paid them for all their stock. I know every greenback of thet money. Haw! Haw!—Now what do you say?”
Haines appeared not only thunderstruck, but slowly growing enraged.
“I’ll say a hell of a lot if thet’s a fact.”
“Wal, it is, an’ you can just swaller it, hook, line, an’ sinker. I bought thet stolen stock cheap, you bet, knowin’ I could realize on it. An’ of course I meant to trail Williams an’ Adams an’ get all my money back. I kept advisin’ them to stay out of towns, to rustle all the stock possible, to save all their money, an’ they cottoned to thet. My plans would have worked out fine. But while I was away, one of Beckman’s cowhands rid plumb on to Williams an’ Adams with another bunch of cattle. They shot him. Thet put Beckman on their trail, with the result I told you.”
“Sawtell, that deal doesn’t hold water,” protested Haines, red in the face.
“Wasn’t I dealin’ with rustlers?”
“Shore. An’ buyin’ in stolen stock once for evidence was all right. But keepin’ it up! What’ll the cattlemen whose stock you bought say to this?”
“Wal, to hell with them! If it came to a showdown I’d let them pick out their burned brands. … You got any more kicks to make?”
“Little good it’d do me if I had.”
“We come down here to find that money an’ hang thet Hod Smith, an’, by Gawd, we’re goin’ to do it!” declared Sawtell, black in the face.
“Sawtell, I’d say there was little chance of either, with you holdin’ the reins,” returned Haines, with sarcastic finality.
Suddenly Sawtell whipped out his gun and presented it at Sambo. “Nigger, do you want to be shot?”
“No, suh. I’se not hankerin’ fer dat,” replied Sambo, rolling his eyes.
“Turn round an’ stick your black snout against thet post,” ordered Sawtell. … “Hey, Sam, fetch a rope. Rustle. … There’s one on thet saddle. Take it. … Now a couple of you hawg-tie this nigger to thet post. Make a good job of it.”
In a few moments Sambo was securely bound, after which Sawtell confronted Watson, as he sat pale and composed on the porch bed. He flinched as the gun was carelessly waved in his direction.
