Code of the West

by Zane Grey

  There was a white line of snow up on the Rim, and patches of white down the timber-protected slopes. But snow seldom lay long on the south slopes. Wild turkey and deer wintered down on the warm sunny benches.

  According to the men, Cal Thurman had chosen the finest site in the Tonto for his homestead. It appeared high above the rolling black-timbered land of the Basin, yet it lay far below the lofty level Rim. In reality it was not a mesa, for it had only three sides. The fourth was a level extension meeting the cedared slope. Promontory would have been a more felicitous name. It was a wide flat-topped bench, covered with cedar, juniper, and some pine, that extended out over the Basin farther and higher than other benches which ran down from the Rim. A yellow rocky bluff stood out blunt and ragged at the end of the level, where mesa met the slope, and here under the cliff bubbled the famed spring that gave the place its name. For years the Thurmans had felt they owned this perennial water, but in reality they never had until the day Cal arrived there to build his homestead.

  During November they had cleared fifty acres of it, fine red soil mostly free of rock. This square piece comprised the front end of the mesa, except for a fringe of timber left on the west and south.

  “Shore the wind’s going to blow logs right out of yore cabin,” said Gard Thurman.

  “I reckon it’s got to be darn strong an’ heavy,” was old Henry’s reply to this.

  “Wal,” drawled Wess, in the tone he always adopted when he meant to be funny, “we can snake big logs down heah an’ we can heave them into a cabin no north wind’ll bother, but Cal himself has shore got to find an’ keep what goes along with homesteadin’.”

  “Ahuh! You mean Cal’s got to find himself a woman,” replied Henry, thoughtfully. “Wal, I never seen before thet gettin’ a woman was powerful hard for a Thurman.”

  “Time enough for that,” broke in Cal, gruffly. “But if you men eat an’ gab all day long we’ll never get the cabin run up.”

  “My son, learn to be patient,” replied old Henry, kindly. “Shore there’s no hurry. You’ve got the land, an’ now you’ve all the time there is.”

  Cal strode away from the camp, out along the edge of the cleared land, through the odorous green-and-brown belt of timber to the edge of the mesa. Here had been a favorite outlook of his as long as he could remember. When he was ten years old he had played there and pretended to build his cabin.

  The outlook was superb. It was so high that he could see Gard Thurman’s ranch, a bare gray patch in the black, and his father’s place, Green Valley, far down over the rolling dark foothills, and Bear Flat Ranch, and Boyd’s sorghum field, all of which appeared cleared specks of ground in all that wildness of tumbled ridges leading down into the purple Basin. Beyond towered the mountain ranges. Behind and far above loomed the beautiful Rim, a zigzagged belt of golden cliff fringed by pine, and stretching to west and east as far as eye could see. The great black notched canyon between Promontory Point and the Rim lay open and clear to Cal’s right, a jungle of timber and jumble of cliff where wild creatures always found safe refuge. It was only two hours’ ride over a trail trodden by the Thurmans for years, and now in the clear winter light it looked close. For a place to ride and hunt and spend long lonely hours, Cal loved this black thicket best of all.

  “I’d like to be there now—hid from everybody,” he muttered, darkly.

  For Rock Spring Mesa and the homestead had strangely lost their glamour. It was a secret that he had rigidly kept. No one, not even Enoch, guessed that his heart was no longer in this long-planned home.

  Cal had not been down to Green Valley for a month. He longed to see Georgiana, but pride kept him from going. Not since the October dance, from which he had taken her home, disgraced in her own sight, had he been with her. That night he had risen above his resentment. But he had waited for Georgiana to make amends for the wrong done him. All the way home on that memorable ride through the forest she had scarcely spoken a word. Upon arriving at Green Valley she had left the car at the gate, saying: “You need not go in. . . . I thank you, Cal Thurman. I’ll say I’ve misjudged you. But for you I’d never have come back here at all. . . . I’m not worth your respect—nor anything else. Good night.”

  “Aw, Georgie, don’t talk like that. Wait!” he had implored. But she had fled. And he had not set eyes upon her for a week afterward. Then she seemed changed. When he did make opportunity for her to speak, to right the wrong she had done him, she talked only of casual things, and soon found excuse to leave him. Cal’s lips had been locked. She must make the overture or there never could be any return to what might have been happy relation. And in the succeeding weeks they had drifted farther apart.

  Cal had not suffered grievously under this estrangement. It hurt him more that Georgiana could never forget the insult dealt her at the dance, could never understand, could never believe that she had really not disgraced her sister. But when the weeks passed and gradually Georgiana had come back to friendly acceptance of attention from the boys, though colder, it seemed to him, then Cal could no longer endure the situation. He won his father to instant execution of the homestead plan, and now he had been away a month. Enoch and his riders had returned from the Winslow cattle drive, and were now helping hew the logs for his cabin. In another day the logs would be notched and flattened, ready to be raised into the finest cabin ever built under the Rim.

  Nevertheless, Cal was bitterly unhappy. He could not stand it much longer. Almost desperate, he sat there on the rocky edge, under the juniper tree that seemed an old friend, and at last he cried out, inarticulately, “Oh, what shall I do?”

  What a relief to voice his agony, his longing, his impotence. It was as if he had denied it and had proudly refused to ask for help or light. Pride was about to fall. He was alone, with no eye but that of all-seeing Nature and God upon him in his abasement. Sound of his voice was the final step in his surrender. From that moment began a subtle change and uplift in him. He gazed out over the rugged range-encompassed Basin, so wild and lonely and free, a mountain fastness once the home of the fierce Apache, and now sparsely settled by the Thurmans and pioneer families like them. Here was the place and now was the time. All that he lacked was Georgiana Stockwell. In a kind of dream or trance then, as he closed his eyes, it came to him—what must be done to save himself. He must have her. That was all. It did not matter what she had done or what she was or what she wanted. That was his only chance. She had liked him once, enough for him to feel like a man in pressing his suit. Could she have changed all in a day? No! If anything, she must think more of him than ever. Only, she would die before she would confess it!

  Cal found himself, found understanding and decision, there in the favorite place of his boyhood. The cold, fragrant December wind bore something down from the Rim; the checkered juniper tree, sturdy and gnarled, old and gray, bent over him with the lesson of its struggle; the loneliness spoke to him; the black depths of the canyon jungle called him in the name of primitive men; the noble brow of Promontory seemed to shine with a golden light; the dim purple Matzazals gave of their mystery and strength—and all about him breathed the insidious whisper—go claim his mate.

  “But how—but how?” burst out Cal, aghast, yet almost happy in his revelation. There was no answer to that. The elements did not conspire with him. They merely spoke passionlessly, bidding him listen to the nature that was in him.

  Sixteen men, all of them Thurmans, heaved the notched logs for Cal’s cabin. It was a distinction seldom given a log-raising. Cal heaved with them, with all his might. He wanted his strength, too, in the upbuilding of this homestead. Gard Thurman was the most skillful notcher of logs in that country, and here he exercised unusual care. The logs fit to a nicety, leaving only a narrow crack between. “One—two—three—all together—heave!” called out old Henry, and the straight fine logs of pine went into place as if by magic.

  It was to be a cabin like Gard Thurman’s, in fact, two cabins with one roof. The rooms were fifteen feet in
width, twenty feet in length, and the space between them was to serve as a covered porch. No wheel of wagon or car had ever gotten within five miles of Gard Thurman’s home, and this of Cal’s was farther up the rugged slopes. Burros had for days been packing lumber from Henry’s sawmill—boards for floors and doors and casements and closets. The four windows had come from Globe, and had been entrusted to old Jinny, the safest packer of the burros. Slender poles of pine had been cut to point the gable roof, that was to extend clear across both rooms and the intervening space. A fine-grained pine tree had yielded the shingles—“shakes,” they were called—and these were piled neatly near by, ready for the shinglers. Cheerily, lustily the men labored. This was pioneer work, and they were blazing the path for civilization.

  One Saturday noon, close to Christmas, old Henry wiped the sweat from his wrinkled brow and called to the few Thurmans he had kept to finish the job. “Done, you sons-of-guns, an’ shore she’s a daisy!”

  Such a double cabin had no counterpart in all the Tonto. The wide shelving eaves sheltered a porch all along the front. There was a ladder leading to the loft above the space between the cabins—ample room for storage or for sleeping quarters. An open fireplace of stone on the west side was Henry’s especial pride. It would hold as large a fire log as a man would care to lift. Homemade furniture, rude but serviceable, such as tables, chairs, bedsteads, had been made.

  “Boy, yore homestead is ready,” said Henry to his son. “Come down to Green Valley for Christmas. Then we’ll pack up yore outfit, an’ a stove for the kitchen, an’ a lot of grub. I’ll give you some hosses an’ cattle—an’, wal, I reckon thet’s aboot all I can do for you.”

  “Cal, when you fetch yourself a woman we’ll shore storm this heah cabin,” remarked Edd. Somehow the idea of cabin and homestead was not complete without a woman.

  Serge got an elaborate dinner that day, to celebrate the occasion and to use all the food he had left, so there would be none to pack away. Naturally the hour was somewhat hilarious, and Cal was indeed thankful for the advent of Tuck Merry. He rode a rather small horse, and his long legs, dangling down, excited the humor of the boys. They left off teasing Cal. Tuck had about become a fixture. Everybody liked him, even Enoch, who had never yet solved a mystery that still bothered him.

  “Some mansion, I’ll say,” declared Tuck, gazing at the new cabin. “Buddy, don’t you forget that I sawed a lot of wood for you.”

  “Tuck, pile off an’ come an’ get it,” called Serge. “There’s plenty left.”

  “Aw, tell him to put his feet on the ground an’ let that cayuse walk from under,” added Enoch.

  They ate and talked, and bantered Tuck, and lay around until there did not seem any possible excuse to do so longer. Besides, all the food had disappeared. Enoch had made innumerable pointed remarks to Tuck, all of which had apparently fallen upon deaf ears. The leader of the Thurman clan could not rouse the ire of Tuck Merry. Finally he put on his chaps and his fleece-lined coat, and yelled for one of the Thurman youngsters to fetch his horse.

  “Reckon I’ll ride home an’ call it a day,” he drawled. “Cal, will you be rustlin’ along?”

  “Sure, tonight. I—I want to hang around an’ talk to Tuck for a while,” replied Cal.

  “Ahuh! Shore I spose your long-legged pard has a lot to talk aboot,” returned Enoch, dryly. He had always been a little jealous of anyone Cal liked.

  “Right-o,” declared Tuck, heartily. “And say, Enoch, stop kidding me about my long legs. I’m fed up on that. It’s a cinch you’ve no call to kid me. You’re not so short armed or legged or necked. And you’ve the longest nose—the most fascinating nose—I ever saw.”

  Everybody sat up to take notice. This was quite a sally, coming from the meek Tuck Merry. Old Henry haw-hawed his amusement. Enoch looked sort of surprised.

  “Longest—an’ most fascinatin’,” he echoed, dubiously. “What you mean by fascinatin’?”

  At that juncture Cal shot a look at Tuck. They understood each other. The time had come at last. Cal felt himself thrilling all over, and he had to hide his face for a moment. Tuck became apparently meeker, milder, more illusive.

  “Why Enoch, your nose is fascinating for two reasons,” replied Tuck, slowly. “First, it’s so darned big and ugly.”

  Now it happened that Enoch’s nose was a very sensitive point with him, both as regards vanity and as an organ exceedingly easy to hurt. He had been known to be cross all day because a branch of brush had stung it.

  “Ugly! Say. you shore have a lot of beauty to brag aboot,” retorted Enoch.

  “Enoch, I’m a handsome man compared to you,” rejoined Tuck, tranquilly. “But I’ll say if it wasn’t for your nose you might stand a chance with me.”

  “My Gawd!” ejaculated Enoch, beginning to expand. He had not been quite ready for this. “Listen to him, fellars! . . . I’ll—But say, what’s that other reason why my nose is so fascinatin’?”

  “Because it’d be such a peach of a nose to jab,” replied Tuck, with a broad smile.

  Cal would have rolled over in glee if he had not been so keen to see everything. The others were gaping in amaze, and old Henry’s face was a study.

  “Jab?” echoed Enoch, incredulously. “You mean punch?”

  “Exactly, only that is not so fitting a word,” responded Tuck.

  Suddenly Enoch shook all over, as if the humor of the thing had just struck him. But that passed. The old doubt assailed him, and he began to bristle a little.

  “Ahuh! Wal, I noticed you never busted off any buttons acceptin’ invitations to punch my nose.”

  “Right-o,” replied Tuck, coolly. “But, Enoch, old scout, it wasn’t because I didn’t want to. Honest, I’ve near died of temptation. I sure wanted to tap that beautiful bugle of yours.”

  “What kept you from tryin’?” queried Enoch, laboring between good humor and wrath.

  “Can I speak right out before everybody?”

  “Shore you can,” blurted Enoch, more mystified than ever.

  “Good! It will take a load off my mind,” returned Tuck, seriously. “Your fiancée, Miss Mary, begged me not to cross you or annoy you or even answer you back. She was afraid I might make you angry. Said you were so big and strong that you would hurt me terribly. Said you would lick me very bad and she didn’t want to see me all crippled up. So I had to promise her I’d not offend you. It’s been pretty hard, Enoch.”

  Cal’s restraint went into eclipse, and he burst out into long-suppressed mirth. The other boys yelled. Old Henry had not quite grasped the situation, but he had begun to beam. Enoch was the only one who did not see the joke. He was absolutely silenced for a moment, unable to grasp whether Tuck was making fun of him or telling the truth or both. Finally he growled:

  “Wal, I reckon Mary had it sized up correct. If you’d ever give me a chance I’d shore have licked you very bad.”

  Tuck took a long stride toward Enoch. He had the grave concern of a deacon.

  “Enoch, you’re a good old scout, and I hate to do this,” he said.

  “You dinged fool!” shouted Enoch, beginning to grow red in the face. The mirth of the spectators, especially Cal’s, began to get on his nerves.

  Suddenly Tuck Merry bounded straight up, to come down light as a feather. It was a remarkable action for a so singularly and awkwardly built man.

  “You big stiff!” he thundered. “You’ve been bullyragging me ever since I got here. . . . Climb out of your chaps! Throw off your coat!”

  Enoch’s face changed miraculously. His expression became one of joyous certainty.

  “Wal, Tuck, shore I reckon I won’t need to take off anythin’,” he drawled, all his old good-nature again in the ascendency. He stepped toward Tuck with his slow, sturdy, belligerent manner.

  Cal had eyes dimmed by tears of glee, but he saw something flash, quick as light. It was Tuck’s long arm. That mallet-like fist landed somewhere on Enoch, too swiftly to see. Enoch staggered and had to throw up his arms
to try to regain his balance. He never regained it. Sharp thumped Tuck’s left fist where the right had landed. Enoch let out a bellow which resembled that of a steer in pain and fury. Then again Tuck’s left followed hard. Enoch began to lean exactly like a huge tree cut at the roots. His arms flopped down. His expression was awful. At the same time Tuck was swinging with his right—a longer and more powerful action than Cal had ever seen him use. It thrilled Cal, and frightened him, too. That blow sent Enoch down like a heavy sack.

  Up to that moment, for all except Enoch the encounter had been one to revel in. But when Enoch failed to move, the mirth gave way to concern.

  “He’s out,” said Tuck, breathing hard. “I had to make it a knock-out or he’d pestered me to fight every day.”

  “Say, who’n hell air you, anyway?” burst out Serge.

  “Do you want any of me?” demanded Tuck. “I’m in the humor now.”

  “Wal, I cain’t say I do—now you tax me aboot it,” replied Serge, scratching his head.

  They all knelt beside Enoch, and someone threw water on his face. His nose was swelling rapidly, but did not bleed very much. Presently he began to revive. He opened his eyes, blinked, stared, and then slowly stirred, and reaching for support he sat up. Cal backed away from him, and Tuck rose to stand aside. Enoch seemed a little dazed. He looked at each and every one present. He shook his head and felt of his jaw. Then when his hand come in contact with his nose he appeared to grasp realities.

  “Ahuh! . . . He licked me!” he said, in the strangest tone.

  “Wal, I reckon he did,” drawled Henry.

  “Terrible bad!” went on Enoch.

  “Say, if you could see yore beak, you’d think so,” declared Serge.

  “Awful quick!” added Enoch.

  “Biff—biff—biff—wham!—Just as quick as thet,” replied old Henry, with a grin. “Prettiest work I ever seen.”

  Enoch slowly got to his feet and stood rather unsteadily. But he was again in possession of all his faculties. Cal picked up his sombrero and gave it to him. Someone else began to brush his coat.