The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  “How ’n hell air you goin’ to shet her up? Mebbe if you get out of her sight she’ll be quiet.… How about thet, girl?”

  Anson gnawed his drooping mustache as he eyed Bo.

  “Have I made any kick to you or your men yet?” she queried.

  “It strikes me you ain’t,” replied Anson.

  “You won’t hear me make any so long as I’m treated decent,” said Bo. “I don’t know what you’ve got to do with Riggs. He ran me down—roped me—dragged me to your camp. Now I’ve a hunch you’re waiting for Beasley.”

  “Girl, your hunch’s correct,” said Anson.

  “Well, do you know I’m the wrong girl?”

  “What’s thet? I reckon you’re Nell Rayner, who got left all old Auchincloss’s property.”

  “No. I’m Bo Rayner. Nell is my sister. She owns the ranch. Beasley wanted her.”

  Anson cursed deep and low. Under his sharp, bristling eyebrows he bent cunning green eyes upon Riggs.

  “Say, you! Is what this kid says so?”

  “Yes. She’s Nell Rayner’s sister,” replied Riggs, doggedly.

  “A-huh! Wal, why in the hell did you drag her into my camp an’ off up here to signal Beasley? He ain’t wantin’ her. He wants the girl who owns the ranch. Did you take one fer the other—same as thet day we was with you?”

  “Guess I must have,” replied Riggs, sullenly.

  “But you knowed her from her sister afore you come to my camp?”

  Riggs shook his head. He was paler now and sweating more freely. The dank hair hung wet over his forehead. His manner was that of a man suddenly realizing he had gotten into a tight place.

  “Oh, he’s a liar!” exclaimed Bo, with contemptuous ring in her voice. “He comes from my country. He has known Nell and me for years.”

  Snake Anson turned to look at Wilson.

  “Jim, now hyar’s a queer deal this feller has rung in on us. I thought thet kid was pretty young. Don’t you remember Beasley told us Nell Rayner was a handsome woman?”

  “Wal, pard Anson, if this heah gurl ain’t handsome my eyes have gone pore,” drawled Wilson.

  “A-huh! So your Texas chilvaree over the ladies is some operatin’,” retorted Anson, with fine sarcasm. “But thet ain’t tellin’ me what you think?”

  “Wal, I ain’t tellin’ you what I think yet. But I know thet kid ain’t Nell Rayner. For I’ve seen her.”

  Anson studied his right-hand man for a moment, then, taking out his tobacco-pouch, he sat himself down upon a stone and proceeded leisurely to roll a cigarette. He put it between his thin lips and apparently forgot to light it. For a few moments he gazed at the yellow ground and some scant sage-brush. Riggs took to pacing up and down. Wilson leaned as before against the cedar. The girl slowly recovered from her excess of anger.

  “Kid, see hyar,” said Anson, addressing the girl; “if Riggs knowed you wasn’t Nell an’ fetched you along anyhow—what ’d he do thet fur?”

  “He chased me—caught me. Then he saw someone after us and he hurried to your camp. He was afraid—the cur!”

  Riggs heard her reply, for he turned a malignant glance upon her.

  “Anson, I fetched her because I know Nell Rayner will give up anythin’ on earth for her,” he said, in loud voice.

  Anson pondered this statement with an air of considering its apparent sincerity.

  “Don’t you believe him,” declared Bo Rayner, bluntly. “He’s a liar. He’s double-crossing Beasley and all of you.”

  Riggs raised a shaking hand to clench it at her. “Keep still or it’ll be the worse for you.”

  “Riggs, shut up yourself,” put in Anson, as he leisurely rose. “Mebbe it ain’t occurred to you thet she might have some talk interestin’ to me. An’ I’m runnin’ this hyar camp.… Now, kid, talk up an’ say what you like.”

  “I said he was double-crossing you all,” replied the girl, instantly. “Why, I’m surprised you’d be caught in his company! My uncle Al and my sweetheart Carmichael and my friend Dale—they’ve all told me what Western men are, even down to outlaws, robbers, cutthroat rascals like you. And I know the West well enough now to be sure that four-flush doesn’t belong here and can’t last here. He went to Dodge City once and when he came back he made a bluff at being a bad man. He was a swaggering, bragging, drinking gun-fighter. He talked of the men he’d shot, of the fights he’d had. He dressed like some of those gun-throwing gamblers.… He was in love with my sister Nell. She hated him. He followed us out West and he has hung on our actions like a sneaking Indian. Why, Nell and I couldn’t even walk to the store in the village. He rode after me out on the range—chased me.… For that Carmichael called Riggs’s bluff down in Turner’s saloon. Dared him to draw! Cussed him every name on the range! Slapped and beat and kicked him! Drove him out of Pine!… And now, whatever he has said to Beasley or you, it’s a dead sure bet he’s playing his own game. That’s to get hold of Nell, and if not her—then me!… Oh, I’m out of breath—and I’m out of names to call him. If I talked forever—I’d never be—able to—do him justice. But lend me—a gun—a minute!”

  Jim Wilson’s quiet form vibrated with a start. Anson with his admiring smile pulled his gun and, taking a couple of steps forward, held it out butt first. She stretched eagerly for it and he jerked it away.

  “Hold on there!” yelled Riggs, in alarm.

  “Damme, Jim, if she didn’t mean bizness!” exclaimed the outlaw.

  “Wal, now—see heah, Miss. Would you bore him—if you hed a gun?” inquired Wilson, with curious interest. There was more of respect in his demeanor than admiration.

  “No. I don’t want his cowardly blood on my hands,” replied the girl. “But I’d make him dance—I’d make him run.”

  “Shore you can handle a gun?”

  She nodded her answer while her eyes flashed hate and her resolute lips twitched.

  Then Wilson made a singularly swift motion and his gun was pitched butt first to within a foot of her hand. She snatched it up, cocked it, aimed it, all before Anson could move. But he yelled:

  “Drop thet gun, you little devil!”

  Riggs turned ghastly as the big blue gun lined on him. He also yelled, but that yell was different from Anson’s.

  “Run or dance!” cried the girl.

  The big gun boomed and leaped almost out of her hand. She took both hands, and called derisively as she fired again. The second bullet hit at Riggs’s feet, scattering the dust and fragments of stone all over him. He bounded here—there—then darted for the rocks. A third time the heavy gun spoke and this bullet must have ticked Riggs, for he let out a hoarse bawl and leaped sheer for the protection of a rock.

  “Plug him! Shoot off a leg!” yelled Snake Anson, whooping and stamping, as Riggs got out of sight.

  Jim Wilson watched the whole performance with the same quietness that had characterized his manner toward the girl. Then, as Riggs disappeared, Wilson stepped forward and took the gun from the girl’s trembling hands. She was whiter than ever, but still resolute and defiant. Wilson took a glance over in the direction Riggs had hidden and then proceeded to reload the gun. Snake Anson’s roar of laughter ceased rather suddenly.

  “Hyar, Jim, she might have held up the whole gang with thet gun,” he protested.

  “I reckon she ain’t nothin’ ag’in’ us,” replied Wilson.

  “A-huh! You know a lot about wimmen now, don’t you? But thet did my heart good. Jim, what ’n earth would you have did if thet ’d been you instead of Riggs?”

  The query seemed important and amazing. Wilson pondered.

  “Shore I’d stood there—stock-still—an’ never moved an eye-winker.”

  “An’ let her shoot!” ejaculated Anson, nodding his long head. “Me, too!”

  So these rough outlaws, inured to all the violence and baseness of their dishonest calling, rose to the challenging courage of a slip of a girl. She had the one thing they respected—nerve.

  Just then a halloo, from the promo
ntory brought Anson up with a start. Muttering to himself, he strode out toward the jagged rocks that hid the outlook. Moze shuffled his burly form after Anson.

  “Miss, it shore was grand—thet performance of Mister Gunman Riggs,” remarked Jim Wilson, attentively studying the girl.

  “Much obliged to you for lending me your gun,” she replied. “I—I hope I hit him—a little.”

  “Wal, if you didn’t sting him, then Jim Wilson knows nothin’ about lead.”

  “Jim Wilson? Are you the man—the outlaw my uncle Al knew?”

  “Reckon I am, miss. Fer I knowed Al shore enough. What ’d he say aboot me?”

  “I remember once he was telling me about Snake Anson’s gang. He mentioned you. Said you were a real gun-fighter. And what a shame it was you had to be an outlaw.”

  “Wal! An’ so old Al spoke thet nice of me.… It’s tolerable likely I’ll remember. An’ now, miss, can I do anythin’ for you?”

  Swift as a flash she looked at him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Wal, shore I don’t mean much, I’m sorry to say. Nothin’ to make you look like thet.… I hev to be an outlaw, shore as you’re born. But—mebbe there’s a difference in outlaws.”

  She understood him and paid him the compliment not to voice her sudden upflashing hope that he might be one to betray his leader.

  “Please take this rope off my feet. Let me walk a little. Let me have a—a little privacy. That fool watched every move I made. I promise not to run away. And, oh! I’m thirsty.”

  “Shore you’ve got sense.” He freed her feet and helped her get up. “There’ll be some fresh water any minit now, if you’ll wait.”

  Then he turned his back and walked over to where Riggs sat nursing a bullet-burn on his leg.

  “Say, Riggs, I’m takin’ the responsibility of loosin’ the girl for a little spell. She can’t get away. An’ there ain’t any sense in bein’ mean.”

  Riggs made no reply, and went on rolling down his trousers leg, lapped a fold over at the bottom and pulled on his boot. Then he strode out toward the promontory. Half-way there he encountered Anson tramping back.

  “Beasley’s comin’ one way an’ Shady’s comin’ another. We’ll be off this hot point of rock by noon,” said the outlaw leader.

  Riggs went on to the promontory to look for himself.

  “Where’s the girl?” demanded Anson, in surprise, when he got back to the camp.

  “Wal, she’s walkin’ ’round between heah an’ Pine,” drawled Wilson.

  “Jim, you let her loose?”

  “Shore I did. She’s been hawg-tied all the time. An’ she said she’d not run off. I’d take thet girl’s word even to a sheep-thief.”

  “A-huh. So would I, for all of thet. But, Jim, somethin’s workin’ in you. Ain’t you sort of rememberin’ a time when you was young—an’ mebbe knowed pretty kids like this one?”

  “Wal, if I am it’ll shore turn out bad fer somebody.”

  Anson gave him a surprised stare and suddenly lost the bantering tone.

  “A-huh! So thet’s how it’s workin’,” he replied, and flung himself down in the shade.

  Young Burt made his appearance then, wiping his sallow face. His deep-set, hungry eyes, upon which his comrades set such store, roved around the camp.

  “Whar’s the gurl?” he queried.

  “Jim let her go out fer a stroll,” replied Anson.

  “I seen Jim was gittin’ softy over her. Haw! Haw! Haw!”

  But Snake Anson did not crack a smile. The atmosphere appeared not to be congenial for jokes, a fact Burt rather suddenly divined. Riggs and Moze returned from the promontory, the latter reporting that Shady Jones was riding up close. Then the girl walked slowly into sight and approached to find a seat within ten yards of the group. They waited in silence until the expected horseman rode up with water-bottles slung on both sides of his saddle. His advent was welcome. All the men were thirsty. Wilson took water to the girl before drinking himself.

  “Thet’s an all-fired hot ride fer water,” declared the outlaw Shady, who somehow fitted his name in color and impression. “An’, boss, if it’s the same to you I won’t take it ag’in.”

  “Cheer up, Shady. We’ll be rustlin’ back in the mountains before sundown,” said Anson.

  “Hang me if that ain’t the cheerfulest news I’ve hed in some days. Hey, Moze?”

  The black-faced Moze nodded his shaggy head.

  “I’m sick an’ sore of this deal,” broke out Burt, evidently encouraged by his elders. “Ever since last fall we’ve been hangin’ ’round—till jest lately freezin’ in camps—no money—no drink—no grub wuth havin’. All on promises!”

  Not improbably this young and reckless member of the gang had struck the note of discord. Wilson seemed most detached from any sentiment prevailing there. Some strong thoughts were revolving in his brain.

  “Burt, you ain’t insinuatin’ thet I made promises?” inquired Anson, ominously.

  “No, boss, I ain’t. You allus said we might hit it rich. But them promises was made to you. An’ it ’d be jest like thet greaser to go back on his word now we got the gurl.”

  “Son, it happens we got the wrong one. Our long-haired pard hyar—Mister Riggs—him with the big gun—he waltzes up with this sassy kid instead of the woman Beasley wanted.”

  Burt snorted his disgust while Shady Jones, roundly swearing, pelted the smoldering camp-fire with stones. Then they all lapsed into surly silence. The object of their growing scorn, Riggs, sat a little way apart, facing none of them, but maintaining as bold a front as apparently he could muster.

  Presently a horse shot up his ears, the first indication of scent or sound imperceptible to the men. But with this cue they all, except Wilson, sat up attentively. Soon the crack of iron-shod hoofs on stone broke the silence. Riggs nervously rose to his feet. And the others, still excepting Wilson, one by one followed suit. In another moment a rangy bay horse trotted out of the cedars, up to the camp, and his rider jumped off nimbly for so heavy a man.

  “Howdy, Beasley?” was Anson’s greeting.

  “Hello, Snake, old man!” replied Beasley, as his bold, snapping black eyes swept the group. He was dusty and hot, and wet with sweat, yet evidently too excited to feel discomfort. “I seen your smoke signal first off an’ jumped my hoss quick. But I rode north of Pine before I headed ’round this way. Did you corral the girl or did Riggs? Say!—you look queer!… What’s wrong here? You haven’t signaled me for nothin’?”

  Snake Anson beckoned to Bo.

  “Come out of the shade. Let him look you over.”

  The girl walked out from under the spreading cedar that had hidden her from sight.

  Beasley stared aghast—his jaw dropped.

  “Thet’s the kid sister of the woman I wanted!” he ejaculated.

  “So we’ve jest been told.”

  Astonishment still held Beasley.

  “Told?” he echoed. Suddenly his big body leaped with a start. “Who got her? Who fetched her?”

  “Why, Mister Gunman Riggs hyar,” replied Anson, with a subtle scorn.

  “Riggs, you got the wrong girl,” shouted Beasley. “You made thet mistake once before. What’re you up to?”

  “I chased her an’ when I got her, seein’ it wasn’t Nell Rayner—why—I kept her, anyhow,” replied Riggs. “An’ I’ve got a word for your ear alone.”

  “Man, you’re crazy—queerin’ my deal thet way!” roared Beasley. “You heard my plans.… Riggs, this girl-stealin’ can’t be done twice. Was you drinkin’ or locoed or what?”

  “Beasley, he was giving you the double-cross,” cut in Bo Rayner’s cool voice.

  The rancher stared speechlessly at her, then at Anson, then at Wilson, and last at Riggs, when his brown visage shaded dark with rush of purple blood. With one lunge he knocked Riggs flat, then stood over him with a convulsive hand at his gun.

  “You white-livered card-sharp! I’ve a notion to bore you.… They
told me you had a deal of your own, an’ now I believe it.”

  “Yes—I had,” replied Riggs, cautiously getting up. He was ghastly. “But I wasn’t double-crossin’ you. Your deal was to get the girl away from home so you could take possession of her property. An’ I wanted her.”

  “What for did you fetch the sister, then?” demanded Beasley, his big jaw bulging.

  “Because I’ve a plan to—”

  “Plan hell! You’ve spoiled my plan an’ I’ve seen about enough of you.” Beasley breathed hard; his lowering gaze boded an uncertain will toward the man who had crossed him; his hand still hung low and clutching.

  “Beasley, tell them to get my horse. I want to go home,” said Bo Rayner.

  Slowly Beasley turned. Her words enjoined a silence. What to do with her now appeared a problem.

  “I had nothin’ to do with fetchin’ you here an’ I’ll have nothin’ to do with sendin’ you back or whatever’s done with you,” declared Beasley.

  Then the girl’s face flashed white again and her eyes changed to fire.

  “You’re as big a liar as Riggs,” she cried, passionately. “And you’re a thief, a bully who picks on defenseless girls. Oh, we know your game! Milt Dale heard your plot with this outlaw Anson to steal my sister. You ought to be hanged—you half-breed greaser!”

  “I’ll cut out your tongue!” hissed Beasley.

  “Yes, I’ll bet you would if you had me alone. But these outlaws—these sheep-thieves—these tools you hire are better than you and Riggs.… What do you suppose Carmichael will do to you? Carmichael! He’s my sweetheart—that cowboy. You know what he did to Riggs. Have you brains enough to know what he’ll do to you?”

  “He’ll not do much,” growled Beasley. But the thick purplish blood was receding from his face. “Your cowpuncher—”

  “Bah!” she interrupted, and she snapped her fingers in his face. “He’s from Texas! He’s from Texas!”

  “Supposin’ he is from Texas?” demanded Beasley, in angry irritation. “What’s thet? Texans are all over. There’s Jim Wilson, Snake Anson’s right-hand man. He’s from Texas. But thet ain’t scarin’ anyone.”

  He pointed toward Wilson, who shifted uneasily from foot to foot. The girl’s flaming glance followed his hand.