by Zane Grey
“Son-of-a-gun if I can tell now, lookin’ right at them,” ejaculated Rock.
“Boys, I’ve hired Rock to ride with you, an’ reckon you’ll get along,” said Preston.
“Like my horse?” asked Rock.
“By gum! he’s the only hoss I ever seen thet gave me the feelin’s of a hoss thief,” vouchsafed Albert Preston. The twins admired Egypt in silence.
The barns were stuffed full of hay and fodder, some of it freshly cut. A huge bin showed a reserve of last year’s corn. Wagons and harnesses were new; a row of saddles hung opposite a dozen stalls, where the Prestons no doubt kept their best horses. But these were empty now. A long fenced lane ran down to pastures. Horses were whistling down there, cows mooing, calves bawling. The whole environment reeked with the heady odor of stock, hay, and manure.
Both money and labor had been lavished on this ranch; and it was something to open the eyes of old-time homesteaders like Slagle. Even prosperity would would not have induced Slagle to such extremes of improvement. But then, Rock reflected, Preston must be a hard worker, and he had seven stalwart sons.
“Preston, if I owned this ranch I’d never leave it a single day,” was Rock’s eloquent encomium.
“Wal, I’d shore hate to leave it myself,” returned the other, tersely.
“How many cattle have you?” queried Rock, because he knew this was a natural question.
“Don’t have much idee. Ten thousand haid, Ash says. We run three herds, the small one down on the Flats, another hyar in the Pass, an’ the third an’ big herd up in the Foothills.”
“Naturally the third means the big job,” said Rock.
“Shore will be for you boys. Thar’s a lot of cattle over thar thet ain’t mine. Ash said eighty thousand haid all told in the Foothills. But thet’s his exaggerated figurin’.”
“Gee! So many? In my day half that number would have been a lot. But it’s a big country. Who’s in on that range beside you?”
“Wal, thar’s several heavy owners, like Dabb, Lincoln, Hesbitt, an’ then a slew of others, from homesteaders like Slagle an’ Pringle to two-bit cowpuncher rustlers. It’s sort of a bad mess over thar. An’ some of the outfits haven’t no use fer mine.”
“Ha! That’s old cowboy breed. You can’t ever change it. . . . I know Lincoln. But Hesbitt is a new one on me.”
“Yes, he came in soon after me,” replied Preston, shortly. His speech, to Rock’s calculating perceptions, had lost heartiness and spontaneity. But Rock doubted that he would have observed this subtle little difference had he not come to Sunset Pass peculiarly stimulated by curiosity.
“Sol Winter told me you’d worked a new wrinkle on the range,” went on Rock, matter-of-factly. “Wholesale butcherin’.”
“Yes. Always did go in fer thet. Hyar in this country I first set in killin’ an’ sellin’ to local butchers. Then I got to shippin’ beef to other towns not far along the railroad. An’ all told I’ve made it pay a little better than sellin’ on the hoof.”
“Reckon it’s a heap harder work.”
“We Prestons ain’t afraid of work,” said the rancher. “But it takes some managin’ as well. I made a slaughter-house out of Slagle’s place, an’ then we do some butcherin’ out on the range.”
“What stumps me, Preston, is how you get beef to town in any quantity,” responded Rock.
“Easy for Missourians on these hard roads. We got big wagons an’ four-hoss teams. In hot summer we drive at night.”
“So you’re from Missouri,” went on Rock, with geniality. “I sort of figured you were. I once worked with an outfit of Missourians. They have a lingo of their own, somethin’ like Texans. Better educated, though.”
“My girl Thiry went to school till she was seventeen,” Preston spoke with pride. “But the rest of them had little schoolin’ ’cept what Thiry has taught them out hyar. . . . Wal, you’ll want to unpack an’ wash up fer supper.”
It was just sunset when Rock came out of the cabin assigned him. Sitting down on the stone steps of the porch, he found there was an open place between the trees permitting unbroken view of the Pass.
Here, striking him like an invisible force in the air, was the wild scene famous among riders all over the Southwest. For riders wandered from range to range, and round camp fires and while on guard or in the bunkhouses they were wont to tell about the outfits with whom they had ridden and the ranges they had known. Rock had been asked about Sunset Pass more than once while he was in Texas. He recalled how he had used to rave. Small wonder!
From Preston’s ranch the Pass spread into a wider stretch of grassy knolls tipped by cedars, and grassy flats dotted by cedars, and grassy ridges sloping like hog-backs down from the walls of gray and green. Ten miles and more of the most beautiful meadow and pasture land in the West! Dots and strings and bunches of cattle gave life to the scene. The mellow murmur of a stream came on the summer wind. Water was falling somewhere, and Rock had to search to find it, close under the right wall, fringed by green that was turning to gold.
Beyond the grassy levels and mounds the Pass changed to a verdant floor, only here and there showing a glint of open parks, like lakes of gold set in a forest. The walls leaned away, less rugged and rocky. From the league-wide forested floor, then, the Pass restricted to one third that width and began its magnificent step by step, up and up, to open into the golden foothill country. The white stream fell and paused and fell and paused again, as if loath to plunge into the purple gorges. Magic lights of gold and lilac and rose, transparent as the rainbow, gathered strength, and spread from rays and streaks to a mantle that slowly dimmed the outlines of the lower reaches.
Beyond and above the foothills yawned the western end of the Pass—the grand gap that split the mountain range and gave the felicitous name to this beautiful rent in the crust of the earth.
The sun was setting in the notch, with broken clouds above, pearl and mauve and opal, with hearts of rose and edges of saffron. How intense the blue far above! How like yellow lightning low down near the sinking orb, that now slipped its blazing under side below the clouds! A colossal reflector of nature—the great stone slopes of the mountain, magnified the brilliance, the color, the glory. And what had been beautiful before now seemed transformed to enchanted realms beyond the earth. What pure gold burned on the winding high walls of rock! The royal purple hue of Pharaoh’s raiment slanted down from the peaks, its source invisible, to vanish in the white fire-streaked gorges. Over the western wall, between its end and the foothills, now mystic and dim, poured a medium like transparent lilac water. It moved. It flashed and glinted, as if falling stars shot through it down to the depths of amethyst. And every second there was change, until the blazing sun slid below the notch, and as swiftly the color and beauty and glory faded, to show Sunset Pass only a wild, broken defile, shading to gray and black.
A bell called Rock to supper. When he reached the cabin, to find the Preston boys straddling the benches, it was to be accosted by the rancher.
“Say, cowboy, when you hyar the supper bell you come a-r’arin’. Never wait for a second bell.”
“Did you have to ring a second bell for me?” queried Trueman, in surprise.
“I did—or you’d have missed your supper,” returned Thiry. She was standing near where Preston, sat at the head of the table. Her face seemed to catch the afterglow of sunset, and her eyes, too.
“Thanks. . . . I’m sorry to be late. I didn’t hear. Guess I was lost in the sunset.”
“Wal, it wasn’t it’s best tonight. Too much sun. You want more cloud, so you can see. . . . Rock, you set hyar on my right. Thet’ll put you across from Thiry. Hope it doesn’t spoil your appetite!”
“Dad, instead of cracking jokes you should introduce Mr. Rock to the other boys,” reproved Thiry, calmly.
“Scuse me. Let’s see. Are we all hyar? . . . . Whar’s Ash?”
“He rode off somewheres,” replied one of the boys.
“Wal, Rock, meet Range Preston,
an’ thet’s his real name . . . an’ Scoot, which is short for some handle Ma gave him once . . . an’ Boots, whose proper name is Frank. . . . Boys, this is Trueman Rock.”
Preston’s humorous introduction, and Rock’s friendly response, elicited only a “howdy” from each of these older sons.
“Reckon we can eat now,” added Preston. “Set down, Rock, an’ pitch in.”
The long table was bountifully spread, steaming, savory. Mrs. Preston sat at the foot, with Lucy on one side and Burr on the other. Alice’s place was next to Rock, and she most solicitously served him. The twins and Albert, with their silver hair wet and plastered back, sat next to Thiry, faces over their plates. The elder brothers occupied seats on the bench beyond Alice. There was hardly any unnecessary conversation. The male contingent, Rock observed, devoted themselves to the supper, like any other hungry cowboys. Presently Rock stole a glance at Thiry, to catch her eyes on him. That made him so happy he did not dare risk another. But he could see her plate, and that the food on it diminished slowly. She was not hungry. His coming to Sunset Pass had unaccountably troubled her. It puzzled and annoyed Rock. It was far from flattering. He was not such a cad that he would impose himself upon a girl who disliked him on first sight. But Rock could not believe that could be wholly true. What had he done to deserve that? If he had been rude or bold that day of the meeting in Winter’s store, he could understand. But he had only been full of fun—he could not remember saying anything to which Thiry could take exception, unless it was that silly remark about the spilled rice being an omen. So his mind ran, and the remainder of the supper was not a satisfaction to him.
When it ended, dusk had just fallen. It was not going to be very dark, at least early in the evening, for a half-moon soared out from under the white fleecy clouds.
Rock sat on the edge of the porch, attended again by the children. The older sons stalked away while the younger lingered, evidently accepting the newcomer. The womenfolk, except Thiry, who had gone into the other cabin with her father, were in the kitchen.
“Can you tell Tom from Harry?” Burr asked, mischievously, of Rock.
“No. Can you?”
“Sure can,” he replied, then whispered, “I’ll tell you how if you get stuck.”
Presently the rancher came out alone. There was a lighted lamp inside.
“Boys, hyar’s some work fer you to break Rock in on tomorrow,” he said. “Grease the wheels of the green wagon. Then hitch up an’ go down to the slaughter-house. Fold tight an’ pack all the hides thet are dry. Haul them up to the barn. An’ Tom, next mornin’ soon as it’s light you hitch up again an’ drive down an’ meet us at the Flats. Then you come back home.”
“Walk, I reckon?” asked Tom, laconically.
“Wal, you can run if you like. An’ thet day an’ till I come back you-all work on the new pasture fence.”
“All right, Pa,” drawled Tom.
“Rock, thet doesn’t sound much like work to you. But your job is to keep these three harum scarums from ridin’ off into the woods. You’ll have your hands full, fer they’re shore Indians.”
“Boss, if I can’t hold them in I’ll do the work myself,” replied Rock.
Before the hour passed, Mrs. Preston and Alice came out, and Thiry, too, and they all sat around on the porch and grass enjoying the cool breeze coming up the Pass. The moon shone brighter as the clouds grew more open. There were moments of pale gloom, then a long interval of silver light. The shadow of the pines on the white grass fascinated Rock. And presently he found that being there, except for the silent Thiry so disturbing to him, was no different from being in the company of most any hospitable Western family. The discordant note—Ash Preston—was absent. Rock made himself as agreeable as he knew how, to the youngsters especially, and then to the mother, who responded readily. She was of pioneer extraction, simple, virile, and sincere. She had a hearty laugh; she liked news of the outside world.
Preston retired within his cabin, and soon after the boys slouched away, their spurs jingling, their dark lank forms silhouetted against the moon-blanched grass.
Trueman rose to say good night.
Thiry had been standing some moments, in the shadow of the cabin, apparently listening.
“Mr. Rock, would you like to walk with me to my cabin?” she asked.
“Why—pleased, I’m sure,” replied Rock, haltingly, scarce able to conceal his amaze and joy. What old-fashioned courtesy! Good nights were exchanged, and Rock found himself walking away under the great dark pines, in the shadowed moonlight, with Thiry beside him.
CHAPTER
FIVE
THIRY walked beside him, slender, light-stepping, with her profile showing clear-cut and cold in the moonlight. As she did not speak, Trueman dismissed the idea that her invitation was simply an old fashioned courtesy. Therefore he made no attempt at conversation. When they had covered most of the distance to her cabin, without exchanging a single word, he felt anew and provokingly the growing excitement of this situation.
At last she slowed her step, hesitated, and halted under the magnificent pine tree that made dark shade around her cabin. Outside the circle there were spaces of silver moonlight, and then streaks and bars of black shadow across the light. The night wind breathed in the huge spreading mass of foliage overhead. How supernaturally beautiful the place and moment!
The girl confronted Trueman, and her face had the sheen of the moonlight, her eyes the darkness and mystery of the shade.
“Mr. Rock, I want to talk to you,” she said, very quietly.
“Yes?” rejoined Trueman, encouragingly, but he was not in the least encouraged.
“Have you been—wholly honest in coming out here to Sunset Pass?” she asked, gravely.
“Honest!—What do you mean?” flashed Rock, his pride cut and his blissful anticipations fading.
“What did you tell father?”
“I asked for a job,” returned Rock, curtly.
“Did you let him believe the job was your sole reason for coming?”
“No. He said I hadn’t been long in trailin’ you up. He was good-natured and nice. So I didn’t deny it. I laughed and agreed with him.”
“Oh—you did!” she exclaimed, somehow shaken out of her reserve. “That’s different. I apologize.”
“Miss Preston, you don’t owe me any apology,” rejoined Rock, stiffly.
“Yes, I do. I thought you’d deceived Dad—the same as so many riders have done.”
Rock had averted his face. He was astounded and hurt, suddenly, coldly checked in his romantic imaginings. What manner of girl was this Thiry Preston? It might be that she was a worthy sister to unsociable Ash Preston. But that resentful thought could not abide with his loyalty.
“Mr. Rock, do you remember the last moment, when you were with me at the corral in Wagontongue?” she asked.
“I’m not likely to forget it,” he returned.
“You looked something at me. You didn’t say so, but you meant you’d see me again. Now didn’t you? Honest?”
“Miss Preston, I—I certainly did,” answered Rock, hastily. “But, indeed, I didn’t mean to be rude or—or bold.”
“I don’t think you were either,” she said, earnestly. “I— But wait a moment. My sister is coming.”
Rock glanced up to see the slim figure of Alice pass by toward the cabin.
“Good night, Mr. Cowboy,” she said, naïvely.
“Good night, Miss Preston,” replied Rock, trying to be gay.
She went into the cabin and closed the door. Soon a light gleamed pale through a curtained window.
“We might sit down,” suggested Thiry, indicating a rustic bench under the pine. “I am tired.”
The bench appeared to catch a gleam of shadowed moonlight. Thiry could here be seen more clearly than while she stood in the shade. Rock preferred to stand, and he wished he could not see her so well.
“Mr. Rock, please don’t misunderstand,” she began, looking up. “I was far fr
om being insulted or even offended that day in the store and at the corral. . . . At the last, there, you meant you’d see me again. And you’ve done it. Now we’re concerned with that.”
“Reckon I might have waited a decent little while,” responded Rock, as she paused. “But I never met a girl like you. I wanted to see you again—soon. Where’s the harm?”
“Indeed there isn’t any harm in it, Mr. Rock, but harm can come from it.”
“How?”
“Through my brother Ash.”
“Well, that’s not hard to believe,” rejoined Rock, with sharpness. “The other day he was a drunken, vulgar lout. He ought to have been kicked out of that corral, and I’d have done it but for you. Today, when he was sober, he was a different proposition to meet. He was cold, mean, vicious. He had no hospitality of the West—no idea what was due a tired and hungry stranger. But at that I’d prefer him drunk. In my day on the range I’ve met some——”
Trueman bit his tongue. The girl had suddenly covered her face with her hands. He could see her strain and almost writhe.
“Aw, Miss Preston, forgive me,” he burst out. “I didn’t mean to distress you. I just spoke out quick, without thinkin’——”
She drew her hands away and lifted her head. “You’re quite right—Mr. Rock,” she said, unsteadily. “Ash is—all that you say. To my shame I confess it. All my life I’ve made excuses for him. It’s no use. I—I cannot do it—any more. . . . But that’s not the point.”
Rock sat down beside her, his anger flown, but there was another kind of heat running along his veins. How this girl must love her brother!
“I know. The point was the harm that might come through Ash. Please be frank with me. If I’ve brought this distress upon you, I’m entitled to know why.”
“I’ve always been very—very fond of Ash,” she said, tremulously, struggling for a composure that would not return. “Partly because he was always so bad—and I seemed the only one who could influence him for good. Ash cares for nothing but me. Not for father, mother, brothers, or his other sisters. He hates men—he hates horses—he hates cattle. . . . And through these things I—I’ve stuck to him until now I—I——Mr. Rock, I can’t tell you.”
