by Zane Grey
“Duane!” he exclaimed. Then he whispered low—something Duane could not catch.
“Why, I asked him to come,” said the chief’s wife. She spoke easily and naturally and made no change in tone. “Jen has been ailing. She gets thinner and whiter every day. Duane came here one day with Euchre, saw Jen, and went loony over her pretty face, same as all you men. So I let him come.”
Bland cursed low and deep under his breath. The other man made a violent action of some kind and apparently was quieted by a restraining hand.
“Kate, you let Duane make love to Jennie?” queried Bland, incredulously.
“Yes, I did,” replied the wife, stubbornly. “Why not? Jen’s in love with him. If he takes her away and marries her she can be a decent woman.”
Bland kept silent a moment, then his laugh pealed out loud and harsh.
“Chess, did you get that? Well, by God! what do you think of my wife?”
“She’s lyin’ or she’s crazy,” replied Alloway, and his voice carried an unpleasant ring.
Mrs. Bland promptly and indignantly told her husband’s lieutenant to keep his mouth shut.
“Ho, ho, ho!” rolled out Bland’s laugh.
Then he led the way to the porch, his spurs clinking, the weapons he was carrying rattling, and he flopped down on a bench.
“How are you, boss?” asked Euchre.
“Hello, old man. I’m well, but all in.”
Alloway slowly walked on to the porch and leaned against the rail. He answered Euchre’s greeting with a nod. Then he stood there a dark, silent figure.
Mrs. Bland’s full voice in eager questioning had a tendency to ease the situation. Bland replied briefly to her, reporting a remarkably successful trip.
Duane thought it time to show himself. He had a feeling that Bland and Alloway would let him go for the moment. They were plainly non-plussed, and Alloway seemed sullen, brooding. “Jennie,” whispered Duane, “that was clever of Mrs. Bland. We’ll keep up the deception. Any day now be ready!”
She pressed close to him, and a barely audible “Hurry!” came breathing into his ear.
“Good night, Jennie,” he said, aloud. “Hope you feel better tomorrow.”
Then he stepped out into the moonlight and spoke. Bland returned the greeting, and, though he was not amiable, he did not show resentment.
“Met Jasper as I rode in,” said Bland, presently. “He told me you made Bill Black mad, and there’s liable to be a fight. What did you go off the handle about?”
Duane explained the incident. “I’m sorry I happened to be there,” he went on. “It wasn’t my business.”
“Scurvy trick that ’d been,” muttered Bland. “You did right. All the same, Duane, I want you to stop quarreling with my men. If you were one of us—that’d be different. I can’t keep my men from fighting. But I’m not called on to let an outsider hang around my camp and plug my rustlers.”
“I guess I’ll have to be hitting the trail for somewhere,” said Duane.
“Why not join my band? You’ve got a bad start already, Duane, and if I know this border you’ll never be a respectable citizen again. You’re a born killer. I know every bad man on this frontier. More than one of them have told me that something exploded in their brain, and when sense came back there lay another dead man. It’s not so with me. I’ve done a little shooting, too, but I never wanted to kill another man just to rid myself of the last one. My dead men don’t sit on my chest at night. That’s the gun-fighter’s trouble. He’s crazy. He has to kill a new man—he’s driven to it to forget the last one.”
“But I’m no gun-fighter,” protested Duane. “Circumstances made me—”
“No doubt,” interrupted Bland, with a laugh. “Circumstances made me a rustler. You don’t know yourself. You’re young; you’ve got a temper; your father was one of the most dangerous men Texas ever had. I don’t see any other career for you. Instead of going it alone—a lone wolf, as the Texans say—why not make friends with other outlaws? You’ll live longer.”
Euchre squirmed in his seat.
“Boss, I’ve been givin’ the boy egzactly thet same line of talk. Thet’s why I took him in to bunk with me. If he makes pards among us there won’t be any more trouble. An’ he’d be a grand feller fer the gang. I’ve seen Wild Bill Hickok throw a gun, an’ Billy the Kid, an’ Hardin, an’ Chess here—all the fastest men on the border. An’ with apologies to present company, I’m here to say Duane has them all skinned. His draw is different. You can’t see how he does it.”
Euchre’s admiring praise served to create an effective little silence. Alloway shifted uneasily on his feet, his spurs jangling faintly, and did not lift his head. Bland seemed thoughtful.
“That’s about the only qualification I have to make me eligible for your band,” said Duane, easily.
“It’s good enough,” replied Bland, shortly. “Will you consider the idea?”
“I’ll think it over. Good night.”
He left the group, followed by Euchre. When they reached the end of the lane, and before they had exchanged a word, Bland called Euchre back. Duane proceeded slowly along the moonlit road to the cabin and sat down under the cottonwoods to wait for Euchre. The night was intense and quiet, a low hum of insects giving the effect of a congestion of life. The beauty of the soaring moon, the ebony canyons of shadow under the mountain, the melancholy serenity of the perfect night, made Duane shudder in the realization of how far aloof he now was from enjoyment of these things. Never again so long as he lived could he be natural. His mind was clouded. His eye and ear henceforth must register impressions of nature, but the joy of them had fled.
Still, as he sat there with a foreboding of more and darker work ahead of him there was yet a strange sweetness left to him, and it lay in thought of Jennie. The pressure of her cold little hands lingered in his. He did not think of her as a woman, and he did not analyze his feelings. He just had vague, dreamy thoughts and imaginations that were interspersed in the constant and stern revolving of plans to save her.
A shuffling step roused him. Euchre’s dark figure came crossing the moonlit grass under the cottonwoods. The moment the outlaw reached him Duane saw that he was laboring under great excitement. It scarcely affected Duane. He seemed to be acquiring patience, calmness, strength.
“Bland kept you pretty long,” he said.
“Wait till I git my breath,” replied Euchre. He sat silent a little while, fanning himself with a sombrero, though the night was cool, and then he went into the cabin to return presently with a lighted pipe.
“Fine night,” he said; and his tone further acquainted Duane with Euchre’s quaint humor. “Fine night for love-affairs, by gum!”
“I’d noticed that,” rejoined Duane, dryly.
“Wal, I’m a son of a gun if I didn’t stand an’ watch Bland choke his wife till her tongue stuck out an’ she got black in the face.”
“No!” ejaculated Duane.
“Hope to die if I didn’t. Buck, listen to this here yarn. When I got back to the porch I seen Bland was wakin’ up. He’d been too fagged out to figger much. Alloway an’ Kate had gone in the house, where they lit up the lamps. I heard Kate’s high voice, but Alloway never chirped. He’s not the talkin’ kind, an’ he’s damn dangerous when he’s thet way. Bland asked me some questions right from the shoulder. I was ready for them, an’ I swore the moon was green cheese. He was satisfied. Bland always trusted me, an’ liked me, too, I reckon. I hated to lie black thet way. But he’s a hard man with bad intentions toward Jennie, an’ I’d double-cross him any day.
“Then we went into the house. Jennie had gone to her little room, an’ Bland called her to come out. She said she was undressin’. An’ he ordered her to put her clothes back on. Then, Buck, his next move was some surprisin’. He deliberately thronged a gun on Kate. Yes sir, he pointed his big blue Colt right at her, an’ he says:
“‘I’ve a mind to blow out your brains.’
“‘Go ahead,’ says Ka
te, cool as could be.
“‘You lied to me,’ he roars.
“Kate laughed in his face. Bland slammed the gun down an’ made a grab fer her. She fought him, but wasn’t a match fer him, an’ he got her by the throat. He choked her till I thought she was strangled. Alloway made him stop. She flopped down on the bed an’ gasped fer a while. When she come to them hardshelled cusses went after her, trying to make her give herself away. I think Bland was jealous. He suspected she’d got thick with you an’ was foolin’ him. I reckon thet’s a sore feelin’ fer a man to have—to guess pretty nice, but not to be sure. Bland gave it up after a while. An’ then he cussed an’ raved at her. One sayin’ of his is worth pinnin’ in your sombrero: ‘It ain’t nuthin’ to kill a man. I don’t need much fer thet. But I want to know, you hussy!’
“Then he went in an’ dragged poor Jen out. She’d had time to dress. He was so mad he hurt her sore leg. You know Jen got thet injury fightin’ off one of them devils in the dark. An’ when I seen Bland twist her—hurt her—I had a queer hot feelin’ deep down in me, an’ fer the only time in my life I wished I was a gun-fighter.
“Wal, Jen amazed me. She was whiter’n a sheet, an’ her eyes were big and stary, but she had nerve. Fust time I ever seen her show any.
“‘Jennie,’ he said, ‘my wife said Duane came here to see you. I believe she’s lyin’. I think she’s been carryin’ on with him, an’ I want to know. If she’s been an’ you tell me the truth I’ll let you go. I’ll send you out to Huntsville, where you can communicate with your friends. I’ll give you money.’
“Thet must hev been a hell of a minnit fer Kate Bland. If evet I seen death in a man’s eye I seen it in Bland’s. He loves her. Thet’s the strange part of it.
“‘Has Duane been comin’ here to see my wife?’ Bland asked, fierce-like.
“‘No,’ said Jennie.
“‘He’s been after you?’
“‘Yes.’
“‘He has fallen in love with you? Kate said thet.’
“‘I—I’m not—I don’t know—he hasn’t told me.’
“‘But you’re in love with him?’
“‘Yes,’ she said; an’, Buck, if you only could have seen her! She thronged up her head, an’ her eyes were full of fire. Bland seemed dazed at sight of her. An’ Alloway, why, thet little skunk of an outlaw cried right out. He was hit plumb center. He’s in love with Jen. An’ the look of her then was enough to make any feller quit. He jest slunk out of the room. I told you, mebbe, thet he’d been tryin’ to git Bland to marry Jen to him. So even a tough like Alloway can love a woman!
“Bland stamped up an’ down the room. He sure was dyin’ hard.
“‘Jennie,’ he said, once more turnin’ to her. ‘You swear in fear of your life thet you’re tellin’ truth. Kate’s not in love with Duane? She’s let him come to see you? There’s been nuthin’ between them?’
“‘No. I swear,’ answered Jennie; an’ Bland sat down like a man licked.
“‘Go to bed, you white-faced—’ Bland choked on some word or other—a bad one, I reckon—an’ he positively shook in his chair.
“Jennie went then, an’ Kate began to have hysterics. An’ your Uncle Euchre ducked his nut out of the door an’ come home.”
Duane did not have a word to say at the end of Euchre’s long harangue. He experienced relief. As a matter of fact, he had expected a good deal worse. He thrilled at the thought of Jennie perjuring herself to save that abandoned woman. What mysteries these feminine creatures were!
“Wal, there’s where our little deal stands now,” resumed Euchre, meditatively. “You know, Buck, as well as me thet if you’d been some feller who hadn’t shown he was a wonder with a gun you’d now be full of lead. If you’d happen to kill Bland an’ Alloway, I reckon you’d be as safe on this here border as you would in Santone. Such is gun fame in this land of the draw.”
CHAPTER IX
Both men were awake early, silent with the premonition of trouble ahead, thoughtful of the fact that the time for the long-planned action was at hand. It was remarkable that a man as loquacious as Euchre could hold his tongue so long; and this was significant of the deadly nature of the intended deed. During breakfast he said a few words customary in the service of food. At the conclusion of the meal he seemed to come to an end of deliberation.
“Buck, the sooner the better now,” he declared, with a glint in his eye. “The more time we use up now the less surprised Bland’ll be.”
“I’m ready when you are,” replied Duane, quietly, and he rose from the table.
“Wal, saddle up, then,” went on Euchre, gruffly. “Tie on them two packs I made, one fer each saddle. You can’t tell—mebbe either hoss will be carryin’ double. It’s good they’re both big, strong hosses. Guess thet wasn’t a wise move of your Uncle Euchre’s—bringin’ in your hosses an’ havin’ them ready?”
“Euchre, I hope you’re not going to get in bad here. I’m afraid you are. Let me do the rest now,” said Duane.
The old outlaw eyed him sarcastically.
“Thet ’d be turrible now, wouldn’t it? If you want to know, why, I’m in bad already. I didn’t tell you thet Alloway called me last night. He’s gettin’ wise pretty quick.”
“Euchre, you’re going with me?” queried Duane, suddenly divining the truth.
“Wal, I reckon. Either to hell or safe over the mountain! I wisht I was a gun-fighter. I hate to leave here without takin’ a peg at Jackrabbit Benson. Now, Buck, you do some hard figgerin’ while I go nosin’ round. It’s pretty early, which’s all the better.”
Euchre put on his sombrero, and as he went out Duane saw that he wore a gun-and-cartridge belt. It was the first time Duane had ever seen the outlaw armed.
Duane packed his few belongings into his saddlebags, and then carried the saddles out to the corral. An abundance of alfalfa in the corral showed that the horses had fared well. They had gotten almost fat during his stay in the valley. He watered them, put on the saddles loosely cinched, and then the bridles. His next move was to fill the two canvas water-bottles. That done, he returned to the cabin to wait.
At the moment he felt no excitement or agitation of any kind. There was no more thinking and planning to do. The hour had arrived, and he was ready. He understood perfectly the desperate chances he must take. His thoughts became confined to Euchre and the surprising loyalty and goodness in the hardened old outlaw. Time passed slowly. Duane kept glancing at his watch. He hoped to start the thing and get away before the outlaws were out of their beds. Finally he heard the shuffle of Euchre’s boots on the hard path. The sound was quicker than usual.
When Euchre came around the corner of the cabin Duane was not so astounded as he was concerned to see the outlaw white and shaking. Sweat dripped from him. He had a wild look.
“Luck ours—so-fur, Buck!” he panted.
“You don’t look it,” replied Duane.
“I’m turrible sick. Jest killed a man. Fust one I ever killed!”
“Who?” asked Duane, startled.
“Jackrabbit Benson. An’ sick as I am, I’m gloryin’ in it. I went nosin’ round up the road. Saw Alloway goin’ into Deger’s. He’s thick with the Degers. Reckon he’s askin’ questions. Anyway, I was sure glad to see him away from Bland’s. An’ he didn’t see me. When I dropped into Benson’s there wasn’t nobody there but Jackrabbit an’ some greasers he was startin’ to work. Benson never had no use fer me. An’ he up an’ said he wouldn’t give a two-bit piece fer my life. I asked him why.
“‘You’re double-crossin’ the boss an’ Chess,’ he said.
“‘Jack, what ’d you give fer your own life?’ I asked him.
“He straightened up surprised an’ mean-lookin’. An’ I let him have it, plumb center! He wilted, an’ the greasers run. I reckon I’ll never sleep again. But I had to do it.”
Duane asked if the shot had attracted any attention outside.
“I didn’t see anybody but the greasers, an’ I sure
looked sharp. Comin’ back I cut across through the cottonwoods past Bland’s cabin. I meant to keep out of sight, but somehow I had an idee I might find out if Bland was awake yet. Sure enough I run plumb into Beppo, the boy who tends Bland’s hosses. Beppo likes me. An’ when I inquired of his boss he said Bland had been up all night fightin’ with the Señora. An’, Buck, here’s how I figger. Bland couldn’t let up last night. He was sore, an’ he went after Kate again, tryin’ to wear her down. Jest as likely he might have went after Jennie, with wuss intentions. Anyway, he an’ Kate must have had it hot an’ heavy. We’re pretty lucky.”
“It seems so. Well, I’m going,” said Duane, tersely.
“Lucky! I should smiler Bland’s been up all night after a most draggin’ ride home. He’ll be fagged out this mornin’, sleepy, sore, an’ he won’t be expectin’ hell before breakfast. Now, you walk over to his house. Meet him how you like. Thet’s your game. But I’m suggestin’, if he comes out an’ you want to parley, you can jest say you’d thought over his proposition an’ was ready to join his band, or you ain’t. You’ll have to kill him, an’ it ’d save time to go fer your gun on sight. Might be wise, too, fer it’s likely he’ll do thet same.”
“How about the horses?”
“I’ll fetch them an’ come along about two minnits behind you. ’Pears to me you ought to have the job done an’ Jennie outside by the time I git there. Once on them hosses, we can ride out of camp before Alloway or anybody else gits into action. Jennie ain’t much heavier than a rabbit. Thet big black will carry you both.”
“All right. But once more let me persuade you to stay—not to mix any more in this,” said Duane, earnestly.
“Nope. I’m goin’. You heard what Benson told me. Alloway wouldn’t give me the benefit of any doubts. Buck, a last word—look out fer thet Bland woman!”
Duane merely nodded, and then, saying that the horses were ready, he strode away through the grove. Accounting for the short cut across grove and field, it was about five minutes’ walk up to Bland’s house. To Duane it seemed long in time and distance, and he had difficulty in restraining his pace. As he walked there came a gradual and subtle change in his feelings. Again he was going out to meet a man in conflict. He could have avoided this meeting. But despite the fact of his courting the encounter he had not as yet felt that hot, inexplicable rush of blood. The motive of this deadly action was not personal, and somehow that made a difference.
