Shadow on the Trail

by Zane Grey

  “What’s that?” queried Wade curiously.

  “Billy the Kid is all thet’s bad on the frontier rolled into one boy of eighteen years.”

  “Gunman?”

  “Wal, I guess. Deadlier even than Wild Bill Hickok. . . . Blanco, this range will be bad for you because you air a gunman.”

  “I’ll take a shot at it,” declared Wade, recklessly.

  “Will you let me pay you wages for the month you rode with us?”

  “I’d rather not take anything, Aulsbrook. The experience—my first as a cowboy—and the friendliness of you and your riders—that seems pay enough.”

  “As you like. I’ll remember you, Blanco. An’ listen, boy. Whoever you air an’ whatever you’ve done thet made you—wal, stick to the man you air now. Adios.”

  Wade watched Aulsbrook and the cowboy ride away with regret. Later he sought Chisum.

  The cattle king appeared to be in the prime of a wonderful physical life, though rumor said he had some incurable disease. He was a short, square, extremely powerful man, with the cold blue eye of the Texan, a broad strong face, thin of lip and prominent of jaw.

  “Mr. Chisum, could you give me a job?” asked Wade.

  “What can you do?” The curt query was accompanied by a swift stock-taking survey which told Wade one of the reasons why this cattleman wielded such power.

  “Not much. I can ride and shoot.”

  “You’re the rider Aulsbrook fetched in. Blanco, he called you, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes sir. But that’s not my name.”

  “Names don’t count out heah. . . . Aulsbrook told me you broke Up Catlin’s plan to steal his herd.”

  “I had a hand in that.”

  “Humph. What would you call a full house? . . . Those riders said you were a gunman. Any truth in thet?”

  “I was never known as one.”

  “You’re on. Forty dollars. Go to the store an’ get a new outfit. You’re pretty ragged. Then see Hicks, my foreman.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Chisum—”

  “Hell! Call me Jesse.”

  “Yes, sir. . . . I think I’d like hard work—”

  “Let me see yore hands,” interrupted the cattleman, and when Wade spread them out, palms up, he grunted. “Ha! A lot of bronco breakin’, hawse shoein’ an’ wood-choppin’ you’ve done, Blanco, I don’t think. But I like your looks an’ I like what Aulsbrook said about you. Why didn’t you go with him?”

  “I’d rather be with men I—who don’t know me.”

  “Ahuh. How about one of my outfits up in the foothills? They stay out for months an’ never see a white man.”

  “That’d suit me fine.”

  “All right. We’ll try you out. Mebbe later I’ll need you to throw against thet Lincoln crowd. It’s gettin’ hot—thet mess. Tell Hicks. An’ see me in the mawnin’. I’ll be sendin’ a message to Jesse Evans.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  IT WAS midsummer.

  The camp of Chisum’s foothill riders stood in the edge of the pine belt and looked out and down over a hundred miles of silver and green New Mexico range.

  Wade thought it the wildest and loveliest spot in the world. The pines were scattered as if they had been planted to adorn a park and the cool wind at that high altitude moaned or made music incessantly. Brown mats of pine needles, tufts of nodding grama grass, purple asters and golden daisies carpeted the ground. From back on the slope a stream tumbled with white cascade here and green pool there, to brawl right through the camp site.

  A belt of luxuriant grass sloped for a few miles down to the bleached range of sage and yucca; and this belt held ten thousand head of steers, cows, yearlings, calves, all jingle-bobbed and as fat as butter. The herd required little guarding because they would not leave that zone of pure water and rich grass.

  Whenever Wade looked down this slope his gaze encountered the grazing cattle, and the scene filled his heart with delight. He had found his place. A cowboy of the range until he could own a herd! Beyond the red-dotted slope the land fell away so gradually that it looked level, so deceitfully illusive as to distance. It was a bleached-grass and yucca-tufted plateau of New Mexico, vast in three directions, reaching to the dim bluffs and hazy mountains two hundred miles north, fading into the purple plain of the Panhandle to the east, and westward walled by a curving spur of the black foothills. Seven Rivers hid down in there, a hundred miles to the southeast. Winding ribbons marked the rivers. Far beyond them the Cimarron wound like a waving thread. Dots and patches might have been ranches or rocks. It was a magnificent scene totally unlike Texas, a high country; walled in, irresistible to the lover of freedom and the wild. It was the mountain west—that marvelous region above the Great Plains.

  Jesse Evans’ riders of Chisum’s Number Ten outfit were sprawled in the shade under the pines. Their job had many drawbacks, but hard work was not among them. They had little actual labor to perform except to brand a new calf when they rode across one. They had to keep watch for Indians and rustlers. Fighting the lions, wolves and coyotes that lived off the herd was fun for them. Besides these routine tasks, all they had to do was to live off the fat of the land, chop wood and do camp chores, which for nine husky cowboys who had graduated to this ideal job was not work at all.

  Jesse Evans was foreman of this outfit. He was twenty years old, a towheaded cowboy with steel-blue eyes, lithe and bowlegged. He was famous for many things on that New Mexican frontier, but most notorious for his past friendship with Billy the Kid.

  “Doggone it, Jesse!” Wade was complaining ruefully: “What have you got against me?”

  “My Gawd! listen to thet, you fellars!” piped Jesse, lying back under a puff of cigarette smoke. “What have I not got agin you? Fust off you won’t fight.”

  “Now Jesse, wouldn’t I be a bright boy to provoke you to draw? If I have to get bored some day, as I’m liable to, I want half a chance for my life, which I wouldn’t get with you.”

  “Huh. You’re a slick talker, Blanco. I’ve thet agin you, too. How’n hell do I know I can beat you to a gun?”

  “I know you can, Jesse.”

  “They always swore I could beat Billy the Kid to a gun,” he went on, more seriously. “An’ I reckon I could. Billy didn’t think so. I hope to Gawd we never meet now he’s on the outs with Chisum.”

  “From all I hear of Billy I’d like to see you meet.”

  “Don’t say nothin’ agin my old pard. I had to split with him ’cause he turned crooked. But I won’t hear nothin’ agin him.”

  One of the other riders, a tanned, sleepy-eyed boy, long as a fence rail, interposed with a laugh: “Jesse, you don’t get enough work. You’re spoiled. Stop raggin’ pore Blanco. You know damn wal he’s the best hombre Chisum has hired since we been with him.”

  “Wal, spose he is,” drawled Jesse, trying to be nettled when he could not be. “He come here with all kinds of a rep as a gunman, didn’t he? Shoots the haids off all the jack rabbits, doesn’t he? An’ you cain’t find a tin can without a hole in it. He’s been the kind of tenderfoot I never seen before. You cain’t make him mad. He’ll lend you anythin’ but his guns. Give you his last smoke. Stand your watch an’ do your chores. He’ll play two-bit poker but nothin’ higher, an’ did he ever win a dollar? Hell no! . . . Never says a word about hisself. Gets up an’ leaves the campfire when somebody tells a dirty story or talks about his girl. . . . I ask you, fellars, what’re you gonna do with a hombre like Blanco?”

  The laugh that ensued attested to the foreman’s encomium.

  “Jesse, I’ll tell you what,” spoke up Wade. “I reckon we both have reasons not to bung up our good right hands. Let’s have the boys tie our right arms fast to our sides and fight each other left-handed.”

  “With guns?”

  “No. Just fists.”

  The proposal was hailed all around with loud acclaim. Apparently it intrigued the foreman.

  “Thet’s shore an idee. . . . Naw, I’ll be damned if I’ll risk it. No us
e, Blanco. I jest gotta give up an’ like you powerful. If you wasn’t so mysterious you’d make a real pard.”

  “I wish you were all my pards,” said Wade, thoughtfully. “It’s not my fault if you’re not.”

  “Blanco, to stop teasin’ an’ honest to Gawd, you’re a man after my heart,” returned Evans, all at once different, showing a depth and intelligence his levity had hidden. “Now don’t you take offense. ’Cause we all like you plumb much. But you don’t savvy us cowboys like we savvy you. They say you hail from Texas. But you’re no Texan. You came from somewhere north, which is nothin’ agin you. But you never loosen up. You always have somethin’ on your mind. You’re always lookin’ for somebody. You packed most a wagonload of shells out heah. An’ you’re always shootin’. You got the eye, the hand, the draw of a gunman. You’ve killed men, an’ you bet, more than them two hombres thet Aulsbrook told us about last spring. . . . All to the good, Blanco. We don’t like you less for thet. But ’cept in my case the boys air leery of you. Thet’d pass in time, if you stayed with us. But you won’t stay, Blanco. Mark my hunch. You’ll be gone before the snow flies.”

  Wade dropped his head a little and said nothing. He was both amazed and touched to be read so truthfully by this keen cowboy. He could not deny a word of that kindly estimate, though he had never until that moment thought of riding away. But now he knew that he would, sooner or later, and the realization filled him with regret.

  “Hope I didn’t hurt yore feelin’s, Blanco,” said Evans, presently.

  “Hardly that, Jesse. You made me think about myself, which J hate to do. I reckon you called the turn on me.”

  “Wal, I like you the better for admittin’ it. . . . Blanco, we all got a deep side, a bad side. Lord knows I’ve one. An’ thet’s what makes me so cantankerous. This job up heah is close to cowboy heaven. But, do you know I want to get back to the drinkin’ an’ gamblin’ hells. I want a whirl at the painted girls. Thet’s somethin’ I’ll bet you don’t want. So cheer up, Blanco. . . . An’ now you lazy hombres, what can we do in the way of earnin’ our wages?”

  “I’m workin’ right now,” replied a lean cowboy, with falcon eyes on the slope.

  “Aw, Jesse, what’d you git serious fer, all of a sudden?” asked another.

  “Come now, boss. Let’s have a little game of draw. I got five bucks of yore’s yet.”

  “By golly, I forgot,” replied the agreeable Evans. “I’m gonna get thet back. Blanco, will you set in?”

  “Not this game, Jesse. I see some dust clouds down the slope,” returned Wade, gazing down.

  “Boss, somethin’ movin’ down there,” spoke up the sharp-eyed cowboy.

  “Wal, Jack, for heavens sake you an’ Blanco fork yore hosses an’ see what it is. You’re both always lookin’.”

  That little observation of vigilant eyes resulted in Jack and Wade discovering a band of Indians running off a score or more of cattle. The redmen were too far away to be classed as Utes, Kiowas or Commanches. They rode naked on wild ragged mustangs.

  “They’re making to go round the foothills,” said Wade. “We might get a long shot, if we rustle.”

  “An’ hev Jesse raise hell with us? Not much.”

  Half an hour later they broke in upon the quiet game of the cowboys in the shade. Jack did the talking. Evans began to swear like a pirate.

  “Jesse, they didn’t get more than twenty haid,” explained Jack.

  “Hell! What do I care about the cattle? These heah robbers trimmed me out of five bucks more,” yelled the foreman. “An’ now we gotta ride! Dogdone it, a cowboy’s life is a ha—ard. . . . Saddle up!”

  Wade had his first ride with Chisum’s cowboys on the trail of raiders. He had often ridden for his very life. But that was nothing compared to what Evans put the posse through before they forced the Indians to abandon the stolen stock.

  “Kiowas! Thet’s the—second raid—this summer,” panted Evans as his riders halted around him. “The boss—will be wild. Reckon we haven’t been watchin’ good. . . . No sense in—trailin’ them slippery redskins! They’re gone like quail in the sage. We’ll let the cattle rest till dark, then drive them back.”

  It was far in the night when the cowboys reached their range with the weary cattle.

  That raid appeared to inaugurate a busy period for Evans’ riders. The Kiowas came back to be caught in the act. They escaped in a running fight with one of their number crippled, an example of Wade’s long-range shooting with a rifle.

  Not long after that incident they had a brush with rustlers, when Wade smelled powder again. Evans’ riders turned back from a long chase.

  “Cowboy rustlers, an’ don’t you forget thet,” avowed Jesse, with fire in his eye. “We’re gonna be dragged in thet Lincoln County War.”

  “Could them hombres hev been Billy the Kid’s outfit?” asked Jack.

  “They could hev, but they wasn’t,” declared Jesse, loyally. “Billy wouldn’t steal from me—not in a million years.”

  “Wonder how thet cattle war is goin’?”

  “Damn tough fer McSween’s side. They’ll get killed, the whole caboodle of them, even if they have Billy’s outfit fightin’ fer them. Thet war is gonna take in the range.”

  By September the need of constant vigil relaxed. A pack train with supplies brought Evans a message to stay out through the middle of October, then drive his herd down to the winter range near Seven Rivers. These riders also brought the late gossip of the cattle war.

  October ushered in the wonderful autumn season for the foothills. Early frosts colored the oaks and maples. Higher up the aspens turned gold and the vines on the rocks showed red. For the first time in his life Wade had his fill of hunting. Deer and elk abounded, coming down from the heights. The lions followed the deer. Many a ringing chase Wade enjoyed behind the hounds. But all too soon that glamorous period passed; and Wade found himself trail-driving the enormous herd down to the lower ground.

  It took the squad ten days to reach the Sycamore River Range, where this particular herd of jingle-bobs were to be quartered for the winter. That was within easy riding distance of Chisum’s ranch. It was also on the edge of the disputed rangeland, the million acres of which Chisum declared verged upon his domain. There were other cattlemen, running far less stock, who aspired to that fertile range. And these were contending against one another, in dire risk of stepping on the toes of the cattle king.

  The cowboys threw their bedrolls and packs under the cotton-woods on the riverbank. Stoke, the cook, drove his chuck wagon to a convenient shady spot. Evans sent out three riders with the herd.

  “Wal, we’ve had a lazy time,” he said. “An’ now we’re gonna get back to the cowboys’ hell. . . . I’m kinda tired of meat an’ beans an’ sour-dough biscuits.”

  The foreman strove manfully against an obvious temptation. “Jack, you an’ Sleepy ride in for fresh supplies. Make some excuse to hang around so you can heah all the news. Tell Chisum we’re about eleven hundred haid stronger than last spring. Thet’ll please the old devil, if anythin’ can.”

  Wade tramped around in search of the kind of sleeping nook that he desired. This place could not compare with the wonderful camp up in the pines, but it was pleasant. The Old Trail of the caravans crossed the river close by, and that was something to stimulate thought. The Spanish padres had blazed that trail three hundred years before. Then followed the Spanish adventurers, later the French fur traders, then the American traders, down to the caravan freighters, the gold seekers, the pioneers, and the trail-drivers with their herds. What a trail of years and blood and dust!

  He found a sandy spot enclosed by a thicket of sunflowers and marked by a fallen cottonwood. Here he fetched his few belongings. Never for a moment did Wade forget that he had a fortune hidden inside his leather vest, and thousands more in the lining of his heavy coat. He had never counted the money given him by his father that last dreadful day. Money was the least of his requirements. But the day would come when he wou
ld need it. He always kept a small pack of belongings ready to be tied on his saddle at a moment’s notice.

  Upon emerging from his covert, Wade espied a bunch of dark clad riders on dark horses grouped on the river bank apart from the camp. His pulse took a quick impetus. Jesse Evans’ outfit was hard-looking enough, but beside these ragged wild horsemen they looked tame. Wade always had a keen eye for horses and these appeared to fit their riders.

  Sauntering forward watchfully, Wade next saw Jesse talking to a youth of slight stature who had dismounted and stood holding the bridle of his horse. There was something impressive about that youth, but it had nothing to do with his battered slouch hat, his worn garments and boots. It was the way he stood, the way he packed his gun. He wore it on the left side, in a reversed position to that almost universally adopted by westerners. Wade was quick to grasp that this young man had a different draw.

  “Come heah, cowboy,” called Jesse Evans.

  As Wade approached them he saw that Evans was pale and somehow visibly agitated.

  “Shake hands with an old pard of mine—Billy the Kid.”

  Wade held himself under control despite the excitement that name aroused in him.

  “Howdy,” said the youth in a level cool voice, extending his hand.

  “Howdy—Billy the Kid,” replied Wade, warmly. “I’m sure glad to meet you. Jesse has talked about you a lot.”

  “Bet it wasn’t good,” returned Bill with a laugh.

  Wade met and felt the clearest coldest eyes that it had ever been his fortune to gaze into. They seemed to search his very soul. Billy the Kid was not unprepossessing. But for a prominent tooth which he exposed when he laughed, he would have been almost handsome. It was a smooth, reckless, youthful face, singularly cold, as if carved out of stone. Wade’s divination here recognized the spirit of the wildness of the West at its height. Billy the Kid was what the West had made him. He looked a boy, he had the freshness of a boy, but he was a man, and one in whom fear had never been born.