by Zane Grey
First Skyhorse Publishing edition 2015 by arrangement with Golden West Literary Agency
Copyright © 1931 by Zane Grey.
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10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
ISBN: 978-1-63450-509-3
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-63450-069-2
Cover design by Eric Kang
Cover illustration by Frederic Remington
Printed in the United States of America
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER
ONE
THE dusty overland train pulled into Wagontongue about noon of a sultry June day. The dead station appeared slow in coming to life. Mexicans lounging in the shade of the platform did not move.
Trueman Rock slowly stepped down from the coach, grip in hand, with an eager and curious expression upon his lean dark face. He wore a plain check suit, rather wrinkled, and a big gray sombrero that had seen service. His step, his lithe shape, proclaimed him to be a rider. A sharp eye might have detected the bulge of a gun worn under his coat, high over his left hip and far back.
He had the look of a man who expected to see some one he knew. There was an easy, careless, yet guarded air about him. He walked down the platform, passing stationmen and others now moving about, without meeting anyone who took more than a casual glance at him. Then two young women came out of the waiting-room, and they shyly gazed after him. He returned the compliment.
At the end of the flagstone walk Rock hesitated and halted, as if surprised, even startled. Across the wide street stood a block of frame and brick buildings, with high weatherbeaten signs. It was a lazy scene. A group of cowboys occupied the corner; saddled horses were hitched to a rail; buckboards and wagons showed farther down the street; Mexicans in colorful garb sat in front of a saloon with painted windows.
“Reckon the old burg’s not changed any,” soliloquized Rock, with satisfaction. “Funny, I expected to find her all built up. . . . Let me see. It’s five—six years since I left. Well, I never ought to have come back, but I just couldn’t help it. Somethin’ roped me in, that’s sure.”
Memory stirred to the sight of the familiar corner. He had been in several bad gun fights in this town, and the scene of one of them lay before him. The warmth and intimacy of old pleasant associations suffered a chill. Rock wheeled away and hunted up the baggage-room to inquire about his saddle and bag, which he had checked at Deming. They had arrived with him. Reflecting that he did not know yet where to have them sent, Rock slipped the checks back into his pocket, and went out.
A subtle change had begun to affect his pleasure in returning to Wagontongue. He left the station, giving a wide berth to the street corner that had clouded his happy reflections. But he had not walked half a block before he came to another saloon, the familiar look of which and the barely decipherable name—Happy Days—acted like a blow in his face. He quickened his step, then reacting to his characteristic spirit, he deliberately turned back to enter the saloon. The same place, the same bar, stained mirror, and faded paintings, the same pool tables. Except for a barkeeper, the room was deserted. Rock asked for a drink.
“Stranger hereabouts, eh?” inquired the bartender, pleasantly, as he served him.
“Yes, but I used to know Wagontongue,” replied Rock. “You been here long?”
“Goin’ on two years.”
“How’s the cattle business?”
“Good, off an’ on. Of course it’s slack now, but there’s some trade in beef.”
“Beef? You mean on the hoof?”
“No. Butcherin’. Gage Preston’s outfit do a big business.”
“Well, that’s new,” replied Rock, thoughtfully. “Gage Preston? . . . Heard his name somewhere.”
“Are you a puncher or a cattleman, stranger?”
“Well, I was both,” replied Rock, with a laugh. “Reckon that means I always will be.”
Several booted men stamped in and lined up before the bar. Rock moved away and casually walked around, looking at the bold pictures on the wall. He remembered some of them. Also he found what he was unostentatiously seeking—some bullet holes in the wall. Then he went out.
“Reckon I oughtn’t have looked at that red liquor,” he decided.
There were times when it was bad for Trueman Rock to yield to the bottle. This was one of them. The sudden cold in his very marrow, the blank gray shade stealing over his mind, the presagement of a spell of morbid sinking of spirit—these usually preceded his rather rare drinking bouts. He had not succumbed in a long time now, and he hoped something would happen to prevent it in this instance. For if he fell here in Wagontongue, it would be very bad. It would be folly and the poorest kind of business. He had been industrious and fortunate for some years in a Texas cattle deal, and had sold out for ten thousand dollars, which amount of money he carried in cash upon his person.
Rock went to the Range House, a hotel on another corner. It had been redecorated, he noticed. He registered, gave the clerk his baggage checks, and went to the room assigned him, where he further resisted the mood encroaching upon him by shaving and making himself look presentable to his exacting eyes.
“Sure would like to run into Amy Wund,” he said, falling into another reminiscence. “Or Polly Ackers. Or Kit Rand. . . . All married long ago, I’ll bet.”
He went downstairs to the lobby, where he encountered a heavy-set, ruddy-faced man, no other than Clark, the proprietor, whom he well remembered.
“Howdy, Rock! Glad to see you,” greeted that worthy, cordially, if not heartily, extending a hand. “I seen your name on the book. Couldn’t be sure till I’d had a peep at you.”
“Howdy, Bill!” returned Rock, as they gripped hands.
“Wal, you haven’t changed any, if I remember. Fact is you look fit, an’ prosperous, I may say. Let’s have a drink for old times’ sake.”
They went from the lobby into a saloon that was new and garish to Rock’s eye.
“Fine place, Bill. Reckon you’ve been some prosperous yourself. Do you still run the little game upstairs that used to keep us punchers broke?”
“It’s a big game now, Rock,” replied the hotel man as they tipped their glasses. “How long since you left Wagontongue?”
“Six years.”
“Wal, so long as that? Time shore flies. We’ve growed some, Rock. A good many cattlemen have come in. All the range pretty well stocked now. Then the sheep business is growin’, in spite of opposition. We have two lumber mills, some big stores, a school, an’ a
town hall.”
“Well, you sure are comin’ on. I’m right glad, Bill. Always liked Wagontongue.”
“Did you jest drop in to say hello to old friends, or do you aim to stay?” inquired Clark, his speculative eye lighting.
Rock mused over that query, while Clark studied him. After a moment he flipped aside Rock’s coat.
“Ahuh! Excuse me, Rock, for bein’ familiar,” he went on, with slight change of manner. “I see you’re packin’ hardware, as usual. But I hope you ain’t lookin’ for some one.”
“Reckon not, Bill. But there might be some one lookin’ for me. . . . How’s my old friend, Cass Seward?”
“Ha!—Wal, you needn’t be curious aboot Cass lookin’ for you. He’s been daid these two years. He was a real sheriff, Rock, an’ a good friend of yours.”
“Well, I’m not so sure of that last, but Cass was a good fellow all right. Dead! I’m sure sorry. What ailed him, Bill?”
“Nothin’. He cashed with his boots on.”
“Who killed him?”
“Wal, that was never cleared up for shore. It happened out here at Sandro. Tough place then. But for that matter it still is. Cass got in a row an’ was shot. There was a greaser an’ a cowpuncher shot up the same night, but they didn’t croak. The talk has always been that Ash Preston killed Seward. But nobody, least of all our new sheriff, ever tried to prove it.”
“Who’s Ash Preston?”
“He’s the oldest son of Gage Preston, a new cattleman to these parts since you rode here. An’ Ash is as bad a hombre as ever forked a hoss.”
“Bad? What you mean, Bill?”
“Wal, I leave it to you. I ain’t sayin’ any more, an’ please regard that as confidence.”
“Certainly, Bill,” replied Rock, hastily. After another drink and some casual conversation about the range they parted in the hotel lobby. Rock took an instinctive step back toward the saloon door, hesitated, and turned away. He was still stubborn about giving in to the desire for liquor. He declared to himself that he did not really need or want whisky. It was just a need to drive away a mood. He had not calculated that it would hurt to come back to Wagontongue. He told himself that there was no reason why it should. Suppose he had been in love with Amy Wund, and later with Polly and Kit? That had never hurt him, or even prevented him from falling in love with Texas girls. He had never been proof against a pretty girl. He sensed a moral lapse that would land him good and drunk if something did not counteract it. He had always been rather disgusted with this weakness, though he believed it was less pronounced in him than in most cowboys. Sitting there in a chair, he recalled friends and enemies of the old Wagontongue days. It developed that there were many friends and but few enemies. One of his best friends had been Sol Winter, a kindly storekeeper who always overrated a service Rock had once rendered. Whenever Rock got into a scrape, provided it was not a shooting one, Sol was the one who helped him out of it. And as for money, Sol had always been his bank. Rock, remembering many things now clear, one of which was that he had left Wagontongue hastily and penniless, thought he recalled a debt still unpaid. With that he sallied out to find Winter’s store.
It should have been a couple of blocks down the street. Some of the buildings were new, however, and Rock could not be sure. Finally he located the corner where Sol’s place of business had been. A large and pretentious store now occupied this site. Rock experienced keen pleasure at the evidence of his old friend’s prosperity, and he stalked gayly in, sure of a warm welcome. But he was only to learn that Sol Winter did not occupy this store.
“Ah!—Is Winter still in business?” inquired Rock, conscious of disappointment.
“After a fashion. He has been sort of run out of the best part of town.”
“Run out? How?” sharply returned Rock.
“Better store and stock took his trade. If you want anything you’d—”
“Thanks. I don’t want anythin’,” interrupted Rock, and departed.
Through inquiry, he located Sol Winter’s store at the end of the street. It was by no means a small or cheap place, but it was not what it had once been. Rock entered. Sol was waiting upon a woman. He looked older, thinner, grayer, and there were deep lines in his face that seemed strange to Rock. Six years was a long time. Rock gazed round him. It was a large store room crowded with merchandise—hardware, groceries, saddles and harness and farm implements.
“Well, sir, what can I do for you?” inquired a voice at Rock’s elbow. He turned to find Winter beside him.
“Howdy, Sol, old-timer!” said Rock, with a warm leap of his pulse. “Don’t you know me?”
Winter leaned and crouched a little, his eyes piercing. Suddenly the tightness of his face loosened into a convulsive smile.
“True Rock!” he shouted, incredulously.
“Sure as you’re born. How are you, Sol?”
Winter seized him with glad hard hands. “If it ain’t really you! . . . Why, you ole ridin’, drinkin’, shootin’, love-makin’ son of a gun!”
“Glad to see me, Sol?” returned Rock, tingling under Winter’s grip.
“Glad?—Lordy, there ain’t words to tell you. Why, True, you were always like my own boy. An’ since I lost him—”
“Lost him!—Who? You never had any boy but Nick. What you mean?”
“Didn’t you ever hear aboot Nick?” queried Winter, with jaw quivering.
“No. I’ve never heard any news from Wagontongue since I left,” returned Rock, bracing himself.
“Nick was shot off his hoss out near Sunset Pass.”
“Aw—no! Sol?—Nick shot! Aw, say he wasn’t killed?”
“Yes, he was, True,” replied Winter, sadly.
“That fine sweet lad! . . . My God! I’m sorry,” exclaimed Rock, huskily, as he wrung Winter’s hands. “But it was an accident?”
“So they say, but I never believed it. There’s still bad blood on the range, True. You must remember. In fact there’s some new bad blood come in since you left.”
Here a customer entered, and Rock was left to himself for the moment. He seated himself on the counter and put aside his sombrero, to find his brow clammy and cold. Nick Winter dead! Shot by rustlers, probably, or some enemy of Winter’s, or perhaps by this new bad element hinted at by Clark and Winter. The last thing Rock would have expected was that anyone could do violence to gentle, kindly, crippled Nick Winter. Here was something to keep Rock around Wagontongue, if nothing else offered. Rock pictured in mind the wild range south of Wagontongue and particularly the broken Sunset Pass country with its sage flats and cedar ridges and piñoned gorges and the purple timber uplands. There had never been a more beautiful wilderness known to Rock or one harder on riders, horses, and cattle.
“True, it’s good to see you sittin’ there,” said Winter, returning to place a hand on Rock’s shoulder. “I never saw you look so well, so clean an’ fine. I don’t need to be told you’ve worked hard.”
“Yes, Sol. I’ve been five years on a cattle job in Texas. Cleaned up ten thousand, all honest and square. I’ve got a roll that would choke a cow.”
“No! Ten thousand? Why, True, that’s a small fortune! It’ll make you. If only you don’t get drunk an’ begin to gamble.”
“Well, Sol, maybe I won’t. But I’ve gone straight so long I’m worried. . . . How much do I owe you?”
“Owe me? Nothin’,” replied Sol, smiling.
“Look over your books before I hand you one,” ordered Rock, fiercely. Whereupon he helped Winter find the old account, which was not small, and forced him to accept payment with interest.
“Say, Rock, to be honest, this little windfall will help a lot,” declared Winter, brightly. “I got in a cattle deal some time past an’ lost out pretty much in debt. Then the new store—Dabb’s—ate into my trade. I had to move. Lately, though, my business has picked up. Old customers have come back. I think I can pull out.”
“That’s good. Who’d you go in cattle deals with?” rejoined Rock, gruffly.
“Dabb.”
“Dabb? Not John Dabb who ran things here years ago?”
“Yes, John Dabb.”
“Well, Sol, you ought to have known better.”
“Sure. But it seemed such a promisin’ deal, an’ it was for Nick’s sake. . . . But I’m out of cattle deals for good.”
“Go on. Tell me some more bad news,” said Rock, gloomily.
“I guess that’s aboot all, True.”
“What’s become of my old girl, Kit Rand?” inquired Rock.
“Kit. Let me see. I know she married Chess Watkins—”
“What! That drunken loafer?” interrupted Rock, indignantly.
“Yes, an’ she couldn’t change him, either. Kitty had to go to work in a restaurant here, an’ finally they left Wagontongue. Never heard of them since.”
“Kitty Rand? That dainty, clever little girl a waitress! Good Lord! . . . How about Polly Ackers? There was a girl who was sure to be a success.”
“Polly went to the bad,” returned Sol, gravely. “Some flash gambler got around her. She’s been gone for years.”
Rock groaned. “I’m sorry I ever came back to this darned Wagontongue. . . . I’ll risk one more question. How about my best girl, Amy Wund?”
“Worse an’ more of it, True,” rejoined Winter. “After you left, Amy played fast an’ loose with many a puncher. There are some who say yet she never got over your runnin’ away.”
“Thunder! They’re crazy!” burst out Rock. “She played fast an’ loose with me. She never cared two snaps for me.”
“Yes, she did, if there’s anythin’ in gossip. Mebbe she never found it out till you were gone. Amy was a highstrung lass. An’ you know, Rock, you were sweet on Polly at the same time.”
“Lord forgive me, I was,” replied Rock, miserably.
“Boys will be boys. I reckon you didn’t know your mind any better’n Amy knew hers. An’ now brace yourself for a shock, True.”
“Fire away, you old Calamity Jane.”
“Amy broke the hearts of all the cowboys on the range—an’ then up an’ married John Dabb.”
