The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  “Aw, hell!” exclaimed Blinky, regretfully. “There won’t be any fight after all.”

  The approaching horsemen halted within earshot.

  “Hi, there, camp,” called the leader, whose appearance tallied with Smith’s description.

  “Hello,” replied Pan, striding out.

  “Who’s boss here?”

  “Reckon I am.”

  “My name’s Wiggate,” replied the other loudly.

  “All right, Mr. Wiggate,” returned Pan just as loud voiced. “What’s your business?”

  “Friendly. Give my word. I want to talk horses.”

  “Come on up, then.”

  Whereupon the group of horsemen advanced, and presently rode in under the trees into camp. The foremost was a large man, rather florid, with deep-set eyes and scant gray beard. His skin, sunburned red instead of brown, did not suggest the westerner.

  “Are you the younger Smith?” he asked, rather nervously eyeing Pan.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you’re in charge here?”

  Pan nodded shortly. He sensed antagonism at least, in this man’s bluff front, but it might not have been animosity.

  “Word come to me this morning that you’d trapped a large number of horses,” went on Wiggate. “I see that’s a fact. It’s a wonderful sight. Of course you expect to make a deal for them?”

  “Yes. No trading. No percentage. I want cash. They’re a shade better stock than you’ve been buying around Marco. Better grass here, and they’ve not been chased lean.”

  “How many?”

  “I don’t know. We disagree as to numbers. But I say close to fifteen hundred head.”

  “Good Lord!” boomed the big man. “It’s a haul indeed.… I’ll give you our regular price, twelve fifty, delivered in Marco.”

  “No, thanks,” replied Pan.

  “Thirteen.”

  Pan shook his head.

  “Well, young man, that’s the best offer made so far. What do you want?”

  “I’ll sell for ten dollars a head, cash, and count and deliver them here tomorrow.”

  “Sold!” snapped out Wiggate. “I can pay you tomorrow, but it’ll take another day to get my men out here.”

  “Thank you—Mr. Wiggate,” replied Pan, suddenly rather halting in speech. “That’ll suit us.”

  “May we pitch camp here?”

  “Sure. Get down and come in. Plenty of water and wood. Turn your horses loose. They can’t get out.”

  Pan had to get away then for a while from his father and the exuberant Blinky. How could they forget the dead men over there still unburied? Pan had read in Wiggate’s look and speech and in the faces of his men, that they had been told of the killing, and surely to the discredit of Pan and his followers. Pan vowed he would put Wiggate in possession of the facts. He gave himself some tasks, all the while trying to realize the truth. Fortune had smiled upon him and Blinky. Rich in one drive—at one fell swoop! It was unbelievable. The retrieving of his father’s losses, the new ranches in sunny Arizona, comfort and happiness for his mother, for Bobby and Alice—and for Lucy all that any reasonable woman could desire—these beautiful and sweet dreams had become possibilities. All the loneliness and privation of his hard life on the ranges had been made up for in a few short days. Pan’s eyes dimmed, and for a moment he was not quite sure of himself.

  Later he mingled again with the men round the campfire. Some of the restraint had disappeared, at least in regard to Wiggate and his men toward everybody except Pan. That nettled him and at an opportune moment he confronted the horse buyer.

  “How’d you learn about this drive of ours?” he asked, briefly.

  “Hardman’s men rode in to Marco this morning,” replied Wiggate, coldly.

  “Ah-uh! And they told a cock-and-bull story about what happened out here!” flashed Pan hotly.

  “It placed you in a bad light, young man.”

  “I reckon. Well, if you or any of your outfit or anybody else calls me a horse thief he wants to go for his gun. Do you understand that?”

  “It’s pretty plain English,” replied Wiggate, manifestly concerned.

  “And here’s some more. Jard Hardman was a horse thief,” went on Pan in rising passion. “He was a low-down yellow horse thief. He hired men to steal for him. And by God, he wasn’t half as white as the outlaw who killed him!”

  “Outlaw? I declare—we—I—Do you mean you’re an—” floundered Wiggate. “We understood you killed Hardman.”

  “Hell, no!” shouted Blinky, aflame with fury, bursting into the argument. “We was all there. We saw—”

  “Blink, you keep out of this till I ask you to talk,” ordered Pan.

  “Smith, I’d like to hear what he has to say.”

  “Wiggate, you listen to me first,” rejoined Pan, with no lessening his intensity. “There are three dead men across the field, not yet buried. Hardman, his man Purcell, and the outlaw Mac New. He called himself Hurd. He was one of Hardman’s jailers there in Marco. But I knew Hurd as Mac New, back in Montana. I saved him from being hanged.”

  Pan moistened lips too dry and too hot for his swift utterance, and then he told in stern brevity the true details of that triple killing. After concluding, with white face and sharp gesture, he indicated to his men that they were to corroborate his statement.

  “Mr. Wiggate, it’s God’s truth,” spoke up Pan’s father, earnestly. “It was just retribution. Hardman robbed me years ago.”

  “Wal, Mr. Wiggate, my say is thet it’ll be damned onhealthy fer anybody who doesn’t believe my pard,” added Blinky, in slow dark menace.

  Gus stepped forward without any show of the excitement that characterized the others.

  “If you need evidence other than our word, it’s easy to find,” he said. “Mac New’s gun was not the same caliber as Pan’s. An’ as the bullet thet killed Hardman is still in his body it can be found.”

  “Gentlemen, that isn’t necessary,” replied Wiggate, hastily, with a shudder. “Not for me. But my men can substantiate it. That might sound well in Marco. For I believe that your young leader—Panhandle Smith, they call him—is not so black as he has been painted.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The following morning, while Pan was away for a few hours deer hunting, Wiggate’s men, accompanied by Blinky, attended to the gruesome detail of burying the dead men.

  Upon Pan’s return he learned of this and experienced relief that Wiggate had taken the responsibility. Wiggate had addressed him several times, civilly enough, but there was a restraint that Pan sensed often in his encounter with men. They were usually men who did not understand westerners like himself.

  Wiggate had all his men, except the one he had sent back to Marco, with several of Pan’s engaged in counting the captured wild horses. It was a difficult task and could hardly be accurate in short time.

  “Anxious to get back to Marco?” queried Wiggate, not unkindly as he saw Pan’s restlessness.

  “Yes, I am, now the job’s done,” replied Pan heartily.

  “Well, I wouldn’t be in any hurry, if I were you,” said the horse dealer, bluntly.

  “What do you mean?” queried Pan.

  “Young Hardman is to be reckoned with.”

  “Bah!” burst out Pan in a scorn that was rude, though he meant it for Hardman. “That pop-eyed skunk! What do I care for him?”

  “Excuse me, I would not presume to advise you,” returned Wiggate stiffly.

  “Aw, I beg your pardon, Mr. Wiggate,” apologized Pan. “I know you mean well. And I sure thank you.”

  Wiggate did not answer, but he took something from his vest pocket, It was a lead bullet, slightly flattened.

  “Let me see your gun?” he asked.

  Pan handed the weapon to him, butt first. Wiggate took it gingerly, and tried to fit the bullet in a chamber of the cylinder, and then in the barrel. It was too large to go in.

  “This is the bullet that killed Hardman,” said Wiggate gravely.
“It was never fired from your gun. I shall take pains to make this evident in Marco.”

  “I don’t know that it matters but I’m sure much obliged,” returned Pan with warmth.

  “Well, I’ll do it anyhow. I’ve been fooled by Hardman and, if you want to know it, cheated too. That’s why I broke with him.”

  “Hope you didn’t have any other association with him—besides horse buying.”

  “No, but I’m lucky I didn’t.”

  “Hardman had his finger in a lot of things in Marco. I wonder who’ll take them up. Say, for instance some of the gold claims he jumped.”

  “Well! I knew Hardman had mining interests, but I thought they were legitimate. It’s such a queer mixed-up business, this locating, working, and selling claims. I want none of it.”

  “Hardman’s men, either at his instigation or Dick’s, deliberately ran two of my men out of their claims. They’ll tell you so.”

  “I’m astonished. I certainly am astonished,” replied Wiggate, and he looked it.

  “Marco is the hardest town I ever rode into,” declared Pan. “And I thought some of the prairie towns were bad. But I see now that a few wild cowboys, going on a spree, and shooting up a saloon, or shooting each other occasionally, was tame beside Marco.”

  “You’re right. Marco is a hard place, and getting worse. There’s considerable gold. The new Eldorado idea, you know. It draws lawless men and women from places that are beginning to wake up. And they prey upon honest men.”

  “Did the Yellow Mine belong to Hardman?” asked Pan curiously.

  “Him and Matthews. Young Hardman claims it. He’s already clashed with Matthews, so I heard.”

  “He’ll do more than clash with Matthews, if he isn’t careful. He’ll cash!” declared Pan grimly. “Matthews is a four-flush sheriff. He wouldn’t face a dangerous man. But he’d make short work of Dick Hardman.”

  “If I’m not inquisitive in asking—would you mind telling me, do you mean to meet Matthews and young Hardman?” inquired Wiggate, hesitatingly.

  “I’ll avoid them if possible,” rejoined Pan. “Dad and I will get out of Marco pretty pronto. We’re going to Arizona and homestead.”

  “That’s sensible. You’ll have money enough to start ranching. I wish you luck. I shall make this my last horse deal out here. It’s profitable, but Marco is a little too—too raw for my blood.”

  According to figures that the counters agreed upon there were fourteen hundred and eighty-six wild horses in the trap.

  Wiggate paid cash upon the spot. He had some bills of large denomination, but most of the money was in rather small bills. Pan made haste to get rid of all except his share. He doubled the wages of those who had been hired. Then he divided what was left with Blinky.

  “My—Gawd!” gasped that worthy, gazing with distended eyes at the enormous roll of bills. “My Gawd!… How much heah?”

  “Count it, you wild-eyed cowpuncher,” replied Pan happily. “It’s your half.”

  “But, pard, it’s too much,” appealed Blinky. “Shore I’m robbin’ you. This was your drive.”

  “Yes, and it was your outfit,” returned Pan. “You furnished the packs, horses, location, and I furnished the execution. Looks like a square deal, share and share alike.”

  “All right, pard,” replied Blinky, swallowing hard. “If you reckon thet way.… But will you keep this heah roll fer me?”

  “Keep it yourself, you Indian.”

  “But, pard, I’ll get drunk an’ go on a tear. An’ you know how bad I am when I get lickered up.”

  “Blink, you’re not going to drink, unless in that one deal I hinted about,” said Pan meaningly. “Hope we can avoid it.”

  “Aw, we’re turnin’ over a new leaf, huh?” queried the cowboy in strangest voice.

  “You are, Blink,” replied Pan with a frank, serious smile. “I’ve been a respectable sober cowboy for some time. You’ve been terrible bad.’

  “Who said so?” retorted Blinky, aggressively.

  “I heard it at the Yellow Mine.”

  That name, and the implication conveyed by Pan made Blinky drop his head. But his somber shame quickly fled.

  “Wal, pard, I’ll stay sober as long as you. Shake on it.”

  Pan made his plans to leave next morning as early as the wild horses they had hobbled could be gotten into shape to travel. Wiggate expected the riders he had sent for to arrive before noon the next day; and it was his opinion that he would have all the horses he had purchased out of there in a week. Pan and Blinky did not share this opinion.

  Wiggate and his men were invited to try one of Lying Juan’s suppers, which was so good that Juan had the offer of a new job. Upon being urged by Pan to accept it, he did so.

  “I can recommend Lying Juan as the best cook and most truthful man I ever knew,” remarked Pan.

  Blinky rolled on the ground.

  “Haw! Haw! Wait till Lyin’ Juan tells you one of his whoppers.”

  “Lying Juan! I see. I was wondering about such a queer name for a most honest man,” replied Wiggate. “I know he’s a capital cook. And I guess I can risk the rest.”

  After supper Pan and Blinky took great pains cutting and fixing the ropes which they intended to use on the wild horses that were to be taken along with them.

  “Wal, now thet’s done, an’ I reckon I’d write to my sweetheart, only I don’t know nothin’ to write aboot,” said Blinky.

  “Go to bed,” ordered Pan. “We’ve got to be up and at those horses by daylight. You ought to know that tieing the feet of wild horses is sure enough work.”

  Next morning it was not yet daylight when Blinky drawled: “Wal, cowboys, we’ve rolled out, wrangled the hosses, swallered some chuck, an’ now fer the hell!”

  In the gray of dawn when the kindling east had begun to dwarf the glory of the morning star, the cowboys drove all the hobbled horses into the smaller corral. There they roped off a corner and hung a white tarpaulin over the rope. This was an improvised second corral where they would put the horses, one by one, as they tied up their feet.

  Blinky and Gus made one unit to work together, and Pan, his father, and Brown constituted another.

  Blinky, as usual, got in the first throw, and the hungry loop of his lasso circled the front feet of the plunging roan. He stood on his head, fell on his side, and struggled vainly to get up. But he was in the iron hands of masters of horses. Every time the roan half rose, Blinky would jerk him down. Presently Gus flopped down on his head and, while the horse gave up for a moment, Blinky slipped the noose off one foot and tied the other foot up with it. They let the roan rise. On three feet he gave a wonderful exhibition of bucking. When he slowed down they drove him behind the rope corral.

  “The night’s gone, the day’s come, the work’s begun,” sang out Blinky. “Eat dust, you buckaroos.”

  Pan chose the little bay to tie up first. But after he had roped her and got up to her there did not appear to be any urgent reason for such stringent measure. Little Bay was spirited, frightened, but not wild.

  “I’ll risk it,” said Pan, and led her to the rope corral.

  The sun rose hot and, likewise, the dust. The cowboys did not slacken their pace! It took two hours of exceedingly strenuous labor to tie up all the wild horses. Each horse had presented a new fight. Then came the quick job of packing their outfits, which Juan had gotten together. Everyone of the men had been kicked, pulled, knocked down, and so coated with sweat and dust that they now resembled Negroes. Their hands were fairly cooked from the hot ropes’ sizzling when the horses plunged. And at nine o’clock they were ready for the momentous twenty-five mile drive to Marco.

  “All ready for the parade!” yelled Blinky. “Go ahaid, you fellars. Open the gate, an’ leave it fer me to close.”

  Pan and the others were to ride in front, while Blinky drove the horses. The need for men was in front, not behind. As they started down the wing of the trap to open the gate the roped wild horses began a terrific plungin
g, kicking, bucking and falling down. Some of them bit the rope on their feet. But little by little Blinky drove them out into the open. Pan and his father dropped back to each side, keeping the horses in a close bunch. That left Gus and Brown in front to run down those that tried to escape. The white-footed stallion was the first to make a break. He ran almost as well on three feet as on four, and it took hard riding to catch him, turn him and get him back in the bunch. The next was Pan’s roan. He gave a great deal of trouble.

  “Haw! Haw! Thet’s Pan’s hoss. Kill him! I guess mebbe Pan cain’t pick out the runners.”

  When the wild horses got out of the narrow gateway between bluff and slope they tried to scatter. The riders had their hands full. Riding, shooting, yelling, swinging their ropes, they moved the horses forward and kept them together. They were learning to run on three feet and tried hard to escape. Just when the melee grew worst they reached the cedar fence, only half of which had been burned by the resentful Hardman outfit, and this obstruction was of signal help to the riders. Once more in a compact bunch, the wild horses grew less difficult to handle.

  As Pan rode up the ridge leading out of the valley he turned to have a last look at this memorable place. To his amaze and delight he saw almost as many wild horses as before the drive.

  “Gee, I’m greedy,” he muttered. “Lucky as I’ve been, I want to stay and make another drive.”

  “Wal, pard, I’m readin’ your mind,” drawled Blinky. “But don’t feel bad. If we tried thet drive again we might ketch a few. But you cain’t fool them broomies twice the same way.”

  Another difficulty soon presented itself. Several of the wild horses could not learn to travel well on three feet.

  “Reckon they’ve had long enough trial. We gotta cut them loose,” said Blinky.

  “We’ll lose them sure,” complained Pan.

  “Mebbe so. But we cain’t do nothin’ else. It’s mighty strange, the difference in hosses. Same as people, come to think aboot it. Some hosses learn quick, an’ now an’ then there’s one like thet stallion. He can run like hell. Most wild hosses fight an’ worry themselves, an’ quick as they learn to get along on three feet they make the best of it. Some have to be cut loose. Fact is, pard, we’ve got a mighty fine bunch, an’ we’re comin’ along better’n I expected.… Loose your lasso now, cowboy, for you’ll shore need it.”