by Zane Grey
“Mebbe thet’s just as wal. …Spread oot, boys, an’ surround the remuda loose like. Yell if yu heah any hawses comin’.”
Silence once more settled down over the prairie. The riders vanished one by one. Brite patrolled a beat that eventually fetched him close to Texas Joe.
“What yu make of this, Joe?”
“Wal, we oughta expected it. I reckon we’re in for rough sleddin’. Too many haid of stock an’ too few drivers.”
“Thet’s how I figger it,” rejoined the boss, thoughtfully. “But I’ll tell yu, Shipman. If we get to Dodge with half our stock I’ll still make a big stake. An’ shore I won’t forget yu boys.”
“Boss, I ain’t carin’ a damn how many haid we lose. But I won’t give up one single damn old long-horn without a fight. But hawse-stealin’! Thet riles me. …Say, Brite, did it strike yu—how game thet kid Bayne was, stayin’ oot heah all alone? Dog-gone him! He rubs me the wrong way, but somehow I gotta like him.”
“So do I.—Tex, I wish yu’d treat Reddie a—a bit better.”
“Ahuh. I seen thet. Wal, I ain’t a-goin’ to have any favorites this drive. Why, the whole ootfit will hate my guts before we reach Dodge! … At thet, the whole ootfit never will make it, Brite.”
“Got a hunch, hey?” queried the boss, gloomily.
“So bad it hurts. …Wal, the east is grayin’. Wonder what this heah day will bring forth.”
Brite plodded back to his beat, and watched the stars pale and die, the east kindle, the gray steal away as if by magic, and the horses and cattle and land take shape.
Presently Texas Joe waved him campward. The herd appeared to be up and on the slow move north. And again the day promised fine. As Brite trudged into camp he espied San Sabe, Bender, Ackerman, standing, cups in hand, around Alabama Moze.
Then Texas came striding in on foot, his hawk eyes narrowed and his handsome lips tight.
“Deuce, yu point the herd an’ get goin’,” he said, tersely. “Send Pan Handle back shore with the others.”
“Air yu goin’ to rustle?”
“Yu bet. Reddie’s drivin’ in some hawses. I reckon I’ll take a look at them tracks south. …Boss, we lost upward of twenty-five haid of hawses.”
“Small loss, if it ends there.”
“Ahuh. Say, for an old Texan yu’re nice disposed toward these stampeders.”
“Tex, I’ll bet he’ll rave one of these days,” laughed Deuce.
Reddie came loping in behind half a dozen ragged mustangs. The drivers spread and waved arms and ropes to corral them in a corner. Soon, then, only Brite, Texas Joe, Reddie, and the negro were left in camp. Texas appeared taciturn, as well as hungry. He was in a hurry, too. Reddie received his pan of food and cup from Moze, and repaired to an improvised seat, where he devoted himself assiduously to his meal.
The sun peeped up red over the purple horizon, and all the range land took on a rosy sheen. Even the birds heralded that transformation. Brite paused to take in the fresh radiance of the dawn. The long gramma grass shone bright as silver, and the flowers stood up with pale beautiful faces toward the east.
All of a sudden Texas Joe got up, cursing inaudibly. His lean head stuck out like that of a hawk as he peered to the south.
“What yu heah, Tex?” queried Brite, sharply.
“Hawses.”
Brite soon had to confess that Texas was correct.
“What of thet?” went on the boss.
“Wal, nothin’. Only couplin’ it with what come off this mawnin’ it ain’t so good.”
Presently a group of riders appeared at the far corner of timber. Brite counted seven or eight, all dark figures, coming at a brisk trot. Texas gave one long look, then turned to Brite.
“Boss, thet bunch has been watchin’ us,” he said, his eyes gleaming. “Timed us nice. Our boys just left an’ the guard not in sight.”
Suddenly Reddie Bayne leaped up, letting his pan clang to the ground.
“Wallen an’ his ootfit!” cried Reddie, startled.
“Shore aboot thet, boy?” asked Texas, darkly.
“Yes, shore. I know him. … I’ll bet they stampeded my remuda. … An’ now they’re after me.”
“Wal, keep back an’ be careful what yu say. …Brite, have yore Winchester handy. Let me do the talkin’. …This heah’s a time we may need yore Pan Handle Smith.”
The dark compact bunch of riders closed the gap quickly and drew up in a semicircle just opposite the fire and chuck-wagon. Brite did not need to question their character and intent—not this time! He recognized the swarthy Wallen, whose big bold eyes swept the camp, and the range beyond. Foremost of the other riders was a more striking individual even than Wallen—a man of about fifty years, with a visage like a bleak stone bluff and eyes like fiery cracks. Brite had seen this same man somewhere. The five others were a likely crew for these leaders—all young, lean, unkempt cowboys.
“Wal, heah’s our Reddie Bayne,” spoke up Wallen, gruffly, pointing a heavy hand at Reddie.
“Shore an’ proper, Wal,” replied his lieutenant, in a dry, crisp voice.
Whereupon Wallen turned his rolling eyes upon Brite. “Lied to me back on the trail a ways—hey, Brite?”
“If I did I’ll stick to it,” retorted Brite, his blood leaping.
Texas Joe strode forward and to one side, getting out of line of the chuck-wagon with a significance that no Texan could have mistaken.
“Wallen, I see some of yore outfit packin’ needle guns on their saddles,” he said, with biting sarcasm.
“What if they air? We’re huntin’ buffalo.”
“Ahuh. Thet what yu say.”
“I’ll talk to Brite, an’ not to yu, cowboy,” declared Wallen, aggressively.
“Yu talk to Texas Joe,” interposed Brite, caustically.
“Brite, we want thet youngster yu kidnapped. Reddie Bayne,” declared the leader of the visitors.
“Wallen, I ain’t used to palaverin’ with men like yu,” rejoined Texas, bitingly. It struck Brite that his foreman was playing for time to let Pan Handle Smith and the others reach camp. Brite flashed a furtive glance across the rosy grassland. No sign of a rider! This was serious, for there surely would be violence here promptly.
“Who the hell air yu?” shouted Wallen, hoarsely.
“Wal, I know this hombre,” said Wallen’s partner. “It’s Texas Shipman.”
“That means nothin’ to me.”
“Then yu do the talkin’, pard,” returned his companion, in cool hard voice that told Brite much. This lieutenant was the more dangerous man.
“I shore don’t need yu, Ross Hite, to do my talkin’,” snorted Wallen.
Ross Hite! Brite responded to that name well known to trail drivers. Hite had run the gamut of all Texas occupations known to the range.
“Wal, talk then, damn yu, an’ make it short,” shot out Texas. “What yu want?”
“We’re drivin’ our stock on ahaid,” replied Wallen, bluntly. “Yu travel too slow, an’ they’re crowdin’ us. … I want this rider, Reddie Bayne. He come to me in a deal I made with Jones at Braseda.”
“Ahuh. Does Bayne owe yu his services?”
“He shore does.”
“What yu say, Reddie?”
Reddie leaped forward. “He’s a damn liar, Texas,” shrilled Reddie, passionately. “I’ve run off from three ranches to get away from him.”
“Shet up or it’ll be the wuss for yu,” replied Wallen, stridently.
“Slow there, Wallen,” rang out Texas. “This heah is a free country. The day of slaves, white or black, is over.”
“Reddie, tell why Wallen wants yu,” spoke up Brite, cunningly. His Texan blood was not proof against this evasion. Besides, out on a far ridge top he descried a dark rider coming fast. Pan Handle!
“Oh—Tex,” burst out Reddie, poignantly, “he’s after me because—’cause I’m—a—I’m not what yu—think.”
Texas stiffened slightly, but never turned the breadth of a hair fro
m the rider he was facing. Wallen’s face turned a dirty gray.
“What air yu—Reddie?” queried Texas, low and cool.
“I—I’m a—girl, Texas. …An’ thet’s why,” replied Reddie, huskily.
“Look oot!” shouted Ross Hite, piercingly.
Wallen clapped his hand to his hip. Texas appeared to blur in Brite’s strained sight. A gun belched red, and with the loud crack Wallen jerked up with terrible sudden rigidity. His dark face changed from hideous rage to an awful ghastliness, and he pitched from the saddle to fall with sodden crash. His horse lunged away. The other horse reared and snorted.
“Haid aboot or I’ll bore yu!” yelled Texas, his gun outstretched. “Brite, back me up with yore rifle. Reddie, line oot heah!”
Brite had scarcely needed the ringing order, for his rifle was levelled before Texas had finished. Likewise Reddie leaped forward, fearless and menacing.
All the riders except Ross Hite had wheeled abruptly. Several were walking their horses away. Hite showed no fear in his lean sallow face as he peered from Texas to the prostrate Wallen, and then back across the camp. Brite heard the thud of flying hoofs, and farther back the violent cries of riding cowboys.
“Brite, do yu want us to pack Wallen away?” queried Hite.
“No, thanks, we’ll ‘tend to him,” retorted Brite, sarcastically.
Just then a horse plunged by the chuck-wagon and, being pulled up short, slid to a halt, scattering dust and gravel everywhere. Pan Handle Smith leaped off in their midst, a gun magically appearing in each hand. It was then Brite’s tension relaxed.
“What’s the deal?” asked Smith, quietly.
Ross Hite stared hard at Smith and then laughed harshly.
“Wal, Brite, yu air a trail driver thet goes heeled. Texas Shipman an’ now Pan Handle Smith!”
“Rustle oot of heah!” ordered Texas.
“Men, this was Wallen’s deal, not mine,” returned Hite, and turning his horse he drove his companions ahead of him, quickly breaking into a gallop. Soon they passed round the corner of timber whence they had come.
Only then did Texas Joe move. He gave a quick glance at the dead Wallen and then wheeled with pale face and glittering eyes.
“Heah yu, Reddie Bayne,” he called, and in two long strides he confronted Reddie. “Did yu say yu was a girl?”
“Yes, Texas Joe—I—I am,” replied Reddie, and took off her sombrero to prove it. Her face was ashen and her eyes darkly dilated with receding terror. Texas fastened his left hand in her blouse and drew her up on her toes, close under his piercing gaze. His tawny hair stood up like the mane of a lion. But his cold fury was waning. Bewilderment hung close upon his passion.
“Yu—yu … all the time—yu’ve been a—a girl?” he broke out, hoarsely.
“Yes, Texas, all the time,” she whispered, sagging in his iron grasp. “I—I didn’t mean to fool yu. I told the boss. …I—I wanted to tell you, but he wouldn’t let me. …I—I’m sorry.”
Chapter Five
TEXAS JOE appeared to shrink. He released Reddie so suddenly that she sagged and almost sank down, her hand at the neck of her blouse.
“Ootrag-eous of yu!” panted Texas as his pallid face grew red. “Makin’ oot yu was a boy—before us all! … An’ lettin’ me spank yu—an’——”
“Let yu!” flashed Reddie, her face flaming worse than his. “Why, yu darn big brute, I couldn’t help myself!”
“An’ all thet camp cussin’ of ours—an’ dirty talk before a girl! … My Gawd! Yu done a turrible thing, Miss Reddie Bayne!”
“I reckon, but it was these damn hombres like him—thet drove me to it,” declared Reddie, passionately, pointing a shaking finger at the ghastly, quiet Wallen.
With that Texas Joe seemed to realize the tragic side of what had happened. Wheeling abruptly away from the girl, he sheathed his gun and bent a grim, strange look upon the dead man.
“Search him, some of yu,” he said, sharp and cold. “Drag him oot an’ throw him in thet wash. …Come a-rustlin’ now, all of yu. Let’s get oot of this.”
“Where yu goin’, Tex?” called Brite, as the driver strode away.
“Take my hawse,” cried Reddie, after him.
But Texas Joe paid no heed to either. Soon he passed out of sight in the low brush. Then the strain among those around the camp fire relaxed. Reddie sat down as if her legs had grown weak.
“I’ve seen men shot before—but never for me,” she whispered. “I feel like a—a murderer.”
“Nonsense, Reddie,” spoke up Brite, brusquely. “I’d have bored Wallen myself if Texas hadn’t. …Pan Handle, did yu see thet one of Wallen’s ootfit forked a hawse of mine?”
“No, boss, I didn’t. Fact is I had eyes only for Ross Hite.”
“Wal, it’s true. When I bought thet bunch of stock I happened to take notice of a little bay mustang with a white face. I don’t mistake hawses I’ve once looked over. Wallen’s ootfit stampeded some of our remuda this mawnin’.”
“Boss, I don’t know Wallen, but he shore was ridin’ in bad company,” said Pan Handle.
“Ahuh. Yu know this Ross Hite?” rejoined Brite.
“Wal, rather. He was a cattle-buyer at Abilene. But he got into shady deals an’ found Abilene too hot for him. Surprises me, though, to find him stampedin’ a few hawses. I reckon thet was just by the way. Or else he’s goin’ to work somethin’ big on this Chisholm Trail.”
“Humph! Mebbe Hite is at the haid of this new game,” declared the boss, seriously. “Cattle-drivers sometimes lose half their stock from stampeders. I’ve heahed of one whole herd bein’ stole.”
“Texas Joe ought to have done for Hite same as Wallen. Hite will give us trouble on the way up,” said Smith, darkly.
Meanwhile Ackerman, with Whittaker and San Sabe, had dragged the dead Wallen out of camp. They returned presently packing gun and belt, spurs, a huge silver watch, and a heavy, fat wallet.
“Boss, I opened this,” said Ackerman, handing over the wallet. “He shore was heeled.”
Brite found the greasy wallet stuffed full of greenbacks.
“Say, he must have robbed a bank,” declared the boss, in amaze. “Boys, hundreds of dollars heah. What’ll we do with it?”
“What yu think?” queried Deuce Ackerman, sarcastically. “Yu want me to ride after Wallen’s ootfit an’ give thet money to his pards?”
“No. I was only figgerin’. …I’ll keep this an’ divide it among yu boys at the end of the drive. It’ll be a big bonus.”
The drivers gave vent to great appreciation of this decision. Brite stowed the money away in his saddlebag, and put the other articles of Wallen’s in the chuck-wagon.
“Boys, did yu look where Texas Joe hit thet Wallen?” asked Pan Handle Smith, curiously.
“Shore. Right in the middle of Wallen’s left vest pocket. Bullet went through his tobacco-pouch.”
“Pretty daid-center shot for such a quick throw,” went on Smith, ponderingly. “Thet Texas Joe must be there on the draw.”
Brite was familiar with this peculiar interest of the gunman in regard to the proficiency of others. He replied that the cattleman who had recommended Shipman had made significant mention of the fact.
“Hurry an’ eat, boys,” went on Brite. “We want to be on the prod.”
All but Reddie Bayne answered to that suggestion with alacrity. Reddie sat with her face in her hands, her red-gold curls exposed. She made a pretty and a pathetic little figure, which Brite observed was not lost upon the shy cowboys. Deuce Ackerman looked at her several times, and finally conquered his evident embarrassment.
“Come on, Reddie. Don’t take it so hard,” he said, gallantly. “Shore if we can stand it, yu can. We know yu’re a girl now an’ if yu can only overlook our—our——”
Deuce broke off there, manifestly unable to find words to express his shame for their talk and behavior before a girl. Reddie answered to that instantly, arising to come to the wagon, a blush dyeing her pale cheek.<
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“Thank yu, Deuce,” she replied, bravely conquering her confusion. “But none of yu boys need feel bad aboot it. …Texas was the only one who hurt my feelin’s. …I’m shore glad not to be ridin’ under false colors no more.”
Whittaker gave her a smile. “I doan mind tellin’ yu thet I knowed aboot yu all the time,” he drawled.
“Wha-at?” faltered Reddie, in alarm.
“Reddie, he’s a durned liar,” spoke up Deuce, forcibly. “Whit, yu cain’t come none of thet on her. Can he, Sabe?”
But San Sabe was not vouchsafing for anyone, or else he was tongue-tied. Moze rolled his great ox eyes at Reddie.
“Yo done fool us all, Miss Reddie, an’ dat’s no mistake,” he said, wagging his head. “An’ so youse a gal! Wal, Ise doag-goned glad to have a lady in de ootfit.”
“Air we all supposed to go on callin’ yu Reddie?” queried Pan Handle, dryly, as he fixed his keen eyes upon her.
“Why—of course.”
Soon they had finished their hasty breakfast, and saddling up were off for the day’s drive. As Brite rode down to head the wash, he saw where the boys had tumbled Wallen. They had not taken the trouble even to crumble some of the soft bank of earth over upon him. Perhaps they thought that Wallen’s gang would return, and Brite himself concluded that was likely. This was the first tragic happening on any drive Brite had made. It augured ill for this one. But he could not expect always to have phenomenal luck. Many a story of trail drivers had been harrowing. Brite fortified himself anew. And this morning there was a subtle change to the thrill and zest of trail driving. He looked out over the vast rose-and-purple expanse with hard eyes, quickening to more than the beauty of nature.
The herd was well pointed and moving perceptibly some miles ahead. Reddie and Pan Handle were off to the eastward with the remuda, catching up. Brite rode to the highest knoll available and then took his morning survey. The air was clear. Far to the south, perhaps twenty miles, a low black line pencilled the gray expanse. Buffalo or cattle, Brite could not decide which. He hoped they were buffalo. Forward the purple range billowed, and to the west skeleton shadows of hills pierced the haze. Deer and rabbits and coyotes appeared to be numerous this morning.
