Shadow on the Trail

by Zane Grey

  “If it was loaded Pm surprised at Hal,” said Wade, gravely.

  “No. It was empty. Hal showed me. He told me you’d given him his first lessons. He said Hogue wasn’t so awful swift as you but he was shore swift.”

  “Hogue?” inquired Jacqueline, a little severely.

  “Yes, Hogue,” retorted Rona, with a flaming blush. “I cain’t go around calling all these cowboys mister. Don’t I call Mr. Brandon by his first name, Tex?”

  “That is quite different, Rona.”

  “Sure it’s different. So much that you never call him Tex,” flashed Rona, and ran off in a huff.

  A moment’s awkward silence followed.

  “Rona is growing up,” said Jacqueline, thoughtfully. “I’m afraid I cain’t manager her any longer.”

  “She’s all right, Jacqueline—a good, lovable, spirited girl.”

  “Lovable! That’s the trouble. Rona is perfectly adorable. I don’t mind that. But she’s awakening. I’ve caught her actually making eyes at Hogue Kinsey.”

  Wade laughed at Jacqueline’s tragic intonation.

  “What could you expect? What could Pencarrow expect, bringing you pretty—and adorable girls out here to this wild Arizona. Where cowboys are wild, won—der—ful as Rona says, and hungry for love. If I were a girl like Rona I’d fall in love with Hogue.”

  “Oh! . . . Dad would rage. And Mother—she’d have a fit. And I—”

  “Jacqueline, they should have left pride of blood back in southern Texas. . . . I see your point. These wild cowboys are all right to drive your cattle, risk their lives—and lose them sometimes— fighting rustlers. But they are not fit to make friends of—or sweethearts, or husbands.”

  “Brandon! How bitter you are!” she exclaimed in amaze, and a ruddy color swept up under the golden tan of her skin. “You never spoke that way before.”

  “Indeed, I forgot myself. But I do think Hogue is a wonderful fellow. His wildness won’t make him any less attractive to a young girl like Rona. I advise you to Keep her where she can’t see him.”

  “I’ll try,” she returned, not composedly. “I’m sorry if I offended. It’s fine the way you speak up for Hogue. If Rona were my age I—I wouldn’t feel such dread. But she’s not yet sixteen. . . . To fall in love at that age—with one of these wild-eyed devils —why it’d be terrible. You must help me to prevent it.”

  “I! What on earth can I do?”

  “Oh dear! What can anyone do?” wailed Jacqueline. “That cowboy looked at me one day—Oh! I—I could almost love him myself. And Rona! She’s got Spanish blood in her, too, and not a very strong haid.”

  “I can discharge Hogue if you say,” rejoined Wade, coldly.

  “Certainly not. Brandon, I don’t understand you today,” she said, in perplexity, and not far from being nettled. “But indeed you have been strange and aloof lately. I forget your injury. I’m not reasonable or kind. Let that annoying subject go for the present.”

  It was almost beyond Wade’s powers to resist her sweet amends —her earnest eloquence—and he never would have succeeded had he looked at her. Doubt ceased right there. She liked him, respected him, wanted him to be her friend, and she had no idea of her devastating charm.

  “What I really ran down here to see you for was to ask you to come to dinner tonight.”

  “That’s—very kind of you,” he returned haltingly.

  “I baked an apple pie. I’m very proud of my southern cooking. Do you like apple pie?”

  “Do I. . . . My mother used to make it,” he replied.

  “Then you will come? Indeed you must, for I’ve told them all I’m having you.”

  “Thank you. I’m sorry. . . . I must refuse.”

  “What!” She appeared utterly astonished.

  “I can’t come. It’s kind of you. . . . I’m only one of your cowboys.”

  “Absurd!—That can’t be your reason. . . . You won’t come?”

  “No.”

  “I shall never ask you again.”

  “That will be well.”

  “Brandon!” She was bitterly hurt. Her eyes blazed dear dark fire. “That range gossip about me! . . . Could you. . . . Oh, you’d insult me.”

  “Not meaningly. I never heard that gossip until you told me. Then I despised it. . . . But all the same, there’s one range rider who is not going to add to your list of miserable victims.”

  “And that’s you?” she flashed, with incredulous scorn and passion.

  “That’s me,” he said, cold and weary with deceit and shame. But he met her eyes, strong in his abnegation, upheld by his secret.

  “Oh!—to—to think I—” she cried, brokenly, in distress. Then she drew herself up fighting to regain her pride. “Because you did not hound me like Band Drake or those other—miserable victims— I wanted you to be my very dear friend—my only friend in this dark wild land. . . . I am indebted to you for showing me my mistake.”

  She turned and with head erect and rapid pace she left Vade standing there, sick in his soul, a miserable victim indeed, yet sustained by the consciousness that only then, in that moment when he Attained mastery over himself and love and temptation, had he become worthy of the regard she had felt and that he had destroyed.

  Like a violent storm that ordeal passed over Wade, leaving him free of the glamour, the weakness, the shame of his position at Cedar Ranch. All the strength engendered in him, the bitter laurel of victory over temptation, the great love that had come, found a sustaining anchor in a single ruthless purpose which went even beyond the saving of Pencarrow and his family.

  Before he had recovered sufficiently he went back to riding with his cowboys, to suffer and reel in his saddle, to pant wet and hot in the shade of cedars, to refuse their entreaties of their assistance. Early they rode out and late they returned. Wade had given Hal the job of scout, watching every day with a field glass from the highest knoll on the range. Before sunrise each morning the riders would leave Hal to climb alone to his post, and after dark they would pick him up.

  Wade changed the plan of splitting up his riders into couples. Now they all rode together, no longer drivers of cattle but hunters of men. Day by day, here and there on the range, rustlers made swift raids of a few cattle, always driving into the woods or down into the canyons. Hal reported most of these movements and distinguished one group of rustlers from another by their horses. Blue and Harrobin had not yet graduated to the dark-garbed riders and the dark horses adopted by the king rustlers of the eastern ranges. Stealing had been too easy for them in Arizona. No doubt there were several outfits of cattle thieves who were operating in a small way in their own interest.

  Before that month was out Wade and his riders, guided by the half-breed’s watchless tracking, surprised one of these outfits in the very act. One of them lived long enough to confess his gang had no connection with Drake or Harrobin.

  Before midsummer was over, Wade’s riders had chased other outfits off the open grazing land. In these instances Wade satisfied himself with seeing a few crippled riders escape, and a riderless horse now and then go galloping off with bridle and mane flying.

  But still the herd diminished perceptibly in number.

  Late in August the homesteader brought news that made Pencarrow whoop and Wade nod his head as if he had been looking for it. Driscoll had been cleaned out of cattle and Aulsbrook had been reduced to a few thousand head of cows, yearlings and calves.

  “I shore knew Rand Blue would rob Aulsbrook some day,” roared Pencarrow.

  “Thet was the new combine operatin’,” said Lightfoot.

  “Boss, it means Harrobin’s new outfit are stockin’ up for the winter,” added Hogue Kinsey. “No rustlin’ after the snow flies. An’ thet’ll be pronto. They’ll hole up down in the brakes, an’ loaf an’ gamble an’ eat and drink the winter away. I spent one winter with his old outfit. They like hot fires an’ plenty of beef.”

  “Where can they sell?” queried Wade, with exasperation. “Thousands of brande
d steers!”

  “Easy as pie,” snorted Lightfoot. “Those hombres have more buyers than they need. Like as not they won’t ship a hoof.”

  “Suppose Aulsbrook and Driscoll were to throw their outfits with mine and we’d trail those stolen cattle?”

  “Wal, if they would, it’d be most damn interestin’. An’ it might lead to ranchers who never ask questions an’ government beef buyers who don’t care where they get cattle so long as the price is low.”

  “What a business!” ejaculated Wade. “What easy living for cattle thieves! And easy profit for crooked ranchers! . . . But it won’t last forever on this range.”

  “Brandon, we’ll need to send to town for winter supplies,” said Pencarrow. “We’ll not be snowed in till November. But there’s no tellin’!”

  “Make it as late as you can risk,” replied Wade.

  “Winter will come early an’ be a hard one,” interposed Light-foot.

  “Bitter up on the divides,” added Pencarrow. “But we’re low down heah. Snow doesn’t lay long. It’s an ideal winter range. Only hard on the womenfolk. So lonely.”

  “Then presently we can count on being shut off from rustlers for a while?” queried Wade.

  “Pretty soon now. An’ for six months. I reckon Blue an’ Harrobin are through right now for this season.”

  “I can’t gamble on that,” returned Wade. “Besides there are other outfits of rustlers.”

  “Have we lost much stock lately?” asked the rancher, gruffly.

  “Not that would count, if we had a big herd,” said Wade evasively.

  “An’ what have you an’ yore riders been doin’?”

  “Riding early and late. Hiding out. Trailing tracks. Chasing rustlers.”

  “Wal?” rasped the Texan, sitting up to glare at his foreman.

  “I’ve withheld reports because they are insignificant. But—” rejoined Wade, and briefly told facts.

  “Ha!—By gad, an’ you call thet insignificant!”

  “Whew!” whistled Elwood Lightfoot. “Brandon, you’re more than makin’ good my brag. Thet’ll spread over the range an’ through Arizona.”

  “Pencarrow, we can take care of a big herd as easily as a little one,” said Wade, spreading his hands. “I’ve a bunch of Indians in these cowboys.”

  “We’ll buy in the spring. To hell with Blue and Harrobin!”

  “They’ll lay off Cedar Range till you do get thet big herd,” said Lightfoot, warningly.

  “If they raid us clean they’ll have to travel slow. Through miles of timber in any direction! We’ll trail them, hang at their heels, pick them out of their saddles, shoot them in their sleep. If they turn on us we can outrun them. Thanks to your thoroughbreds, Pencarrow.”

  “For heaven’s sake don’t tell the girls you’re ridin’ their hosses.”

  “Brandon, it’s new tactics in these parts,” said Lightfoot. “If you can dodge a pitched battle where you’re greatly outnumbered you’ll go a long way.”

  September passed. The sage grew more purple in contrast with the sun bleached grass. Frost colored the aspens on the mountains, the oaks on the ridges, the cottonwoods and maples in the lowlands. Cedar Range was approaching a time of unparalleled beauty. Indian summer hovered in the air, with its haze, its melancholy notes of birds, its drowsy dreamy silence in the woods, its golden-rod and purple asters along the trails.

  One Sunday the cowboys took one of their few days off.

  That morning Hogue Kinsey visited Wade early, stamping into the cabin while Wade was shaving.

  “Boss, have you seen who’n the hell is here?” he demanded, in supreme disgust.

  “No, Hogue. Who is here?”

  “Visitors from Holbrook. Two spruced-up dandies come sparkin’ Rona an’ Jacqueline.”

  Wade cut himself with the razor. His chin stung and began to bleed. A strange, hitherto unexperienced sensation stirred in his breast.

  “Who are they?”

  “John McComb an’ a cocky youngster, son of the banker at Holbrook. Hal didn’t remember his name.”

  “Well, what of it, Hogue?” asked Wade, slowly. His hand quivered as he applied the blade again. “It’s none of your business—or mine.”

  “Hell no!” agreed Hogue.

  Wade turned in surprise. The cowboy sat on the bed, his lean handsome face fiercely sad, his eyes like green fire.

  “Boss, I told you. I begged you to let me go.”

  “I remember, Hogue. But I couldn’t do without you. And I knew you’d put selfish interest—or let us say, cowboy romance— aside for this tremendous job.”

  “Aw, I know, an’ I did. But I gotta tell you—get this off my chest or bust.”

  “Hogue, I’m your pard or your brother—anyone you need. Go ahead. Spill it.”

  “Tex, I’ve made a tumble fool of myself. But I couldn’t help it. . . . Thet day Rona looked at me—you remember— an’ told her Dad I was won—der—ful. . . . Wal, I fell awful in love with her an’ it’s grown wuss ever since.”

  “Is that all, Hogue?”

  “All! . . . It was bad enough, but it’ll kill me now. . . . I seen Rona with him. She was laughin’ an’ cuttin’ up—the little flirt!”

  “Hogue, she’s an innocent kid.”

  “Shore. Innocent of anythin’ bad, thank Gawd!—But not of makin’ fellows fall in love with her.”

  “Yes, of that too. Rona is gay, bright, full of fun. She’d get a lot out of some nice boy calling on her. It’ll do her good. Poor lonely child! You ought to be glad.”

  “Tex, you don’t know what love is,” complained Hogue, in a passion of misery. “I oughtn’t hold thet against you. But I do— tomehow. An’ I oughtn’t talk to you this way. But I can’t help it. . . You’re a gunman. You don’t care a damn—really—for these Pencarrows. You’re just het up over the tough job they give up. You’re gonna die fightin’ for them—an’ I’m gamblin’ my life with you thet you’ll do for Blue an’ Harrobin, an’ their rowdies. I like you for thet. It’s made a man of me. . . . But for you to expect me to be glad—glad some cocky rich youngster has come to make up to Rona—why Boss, you ain’t human!”

  “Hogue, can I trust you?” asked Wade.

  “Trust me! . . . Why, shore you can,” replied Hogue, warped out of his despair to gaze wonderingly at Wade.

  “You’ve got me wrong, when you say I’m not human—that I don’t know what love is,” returned Wade, in a low voice. “I’m in love with Jacqueline. Terribly, hopelessly. I never dreamed of her as attainable. Not for me! But I’ve been a sick, desperate wretch ever since. This gunman passion to kill you’ve accused me of—it’s true. But I never had it until I came here and saw what Jacqueline Pencarrow was up against. . . . I know all your woes, all your longings. Just now when you told me McComb had come to spark Jacqueline I nearly cut my throat. I wish I had. . . . That was my first stab of jealousy. I dare say I’ll learn that hideous and hateful thing. I sympathize with you. We are brothers in misery. . . . But I’ll go on, Hogue, just the same—with never a hope to have Jacqueline, though I’d sell my soul to do it—and I’ll die trying to save her father, and therefore her.”

  Kinsey sprang up like a bent sapling released. His fine young face went from red to white.

  “My Gawd! . . . Tex, forgive me,” he cried, hoarsely, and stalked out of the cabin.

  Wade was indeed doomed to intimacy with the green-eyed monster jealousy. Wherever he went that Sunday, and Pencarrow called him to the house, walked with him here and there, he had the misfortune to encounter Jacqueline with her admirer. She wore a becoming gown and she was radiant. He might have been a servant for the little notice she took of him. Yet that did not keep him from seeing her in all her perfection of beauty and overpowering appeal. She might have been as innocent of coquetry as ho had sworn to Hogue that Rona was, but he could not absolve her of a woman’s wile—that strange inconsistent ghastly need of feeding her vanity by parading her conquest of one man before the eyes of anothe
r.

  It turned out that Wade, after suffering almost beyond endurance, had yet the worst to face. Returning from the corrals Wade encountered all the Pencarrows and their guests, who were evidently about to make an early start on the long drive to town. Wade assuredly had eyes for the spirited team of blacks hitched to the light buckboard.

  Hogue Kinsey stood holding the team, a job that he cordially detested judging from his cold set face and flashing eyes. He shot Wade a warning glance, which quite altered Wade’s judgment, and prepared him for anything.

  Jacqueline accosted Wade peremptorily: “Brandon, do you instruct your cowboys to keep their mouths shut when questioned?”

  “That depends upon who questions them,” replied Wade, curtly, feeling the blood go to his face.

  “Somebody has been riding my horses. They are thin, scratched and ragged. Pen has a cut on his shoulder and he’s lame.”

  The girl was undoubtedly angry and grieved. Wade made allowance for her sharp tongue. He knew her love for her thoroughbreds and he would not have minded but for her interested and curious admirer. His chief feeling seemed to be dismay at being confronted again at close range by her accusing eyes.

  “Kinsey heah is evidently deaf and dumb,” she went on. “Will you oblige me by telling me who rode Pen?”

  “I did.”

  “With whose permission?”

  “No one’s. I just took him.”

  “How dare you? I don’t allow anyone to ride my hawses, especially Pen.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Pencarrow,” returned Wade, coldly. “I really did not think to ask you. We had ridden out all the other fast horses. They needed a rest. And your fat bunch needed work. They certainly got it. . . . Pen is not lame. He picked up a stone and limps a little.”

  “Dad, Pm perfectly furious,” cried Jacqueline. But to Wade she did not appear as furious as excited. “If I were boss heah Pd— I’d—”

  “Wal, Pm glad you’re not boss,” interrupted Pencarrow, bluntly. “But since you tax Brandon so unkindly, to say the least, why not heah just how Pen came to be lame.”

  Suddenly Jacqueline descended from her lofty unreasoning anger, proving that she seldom if ever was addressed by her father in that way.