Sunset Pass

by Zane Grey

  For hours it seemed he never got anywhere, so far as decision was concerned. His mind was chaotic. The moon soared white and grand above the pines and the night wind roared. Coyotes mourned eerily. A deep-voiced hound bayed them in answer. A low soft murmur of running water came to him in the lulls of the wind.

  At last he admitted that he loved Thiry Preston. Time was nothing. He had always known her, and though the hours were but few since their actual meeting, he was now measuring their incomprehensible length and fullness. But he hated the idea that he only loved her. That was putting her with the others. His love for Amy, Polly, and Kit had merely been growing pangs toward this real and beautiful thing.

  It was great and would suffice Rock for all time. Not one second longer did he hesitate about sacrificing himself for her happiness. He could glory in that and still keep from going to hell, as he had childishly threatened.

  This resolve cleared his mind of vacillation and bewilderment and conflicting tides of emotion. The rest was easy and required only intelligence. If he could best serve Thiry Preston by passing out of her life as quickly as he had come into it he would do so. But he had a strange persistent recurrence of a doubt. He recalled her words, her looks, her actions, and relentlessly analyzed them. His love, once acknowledged, incited and stimulated his mind.

  Before the moon tipped the pines above the rim of the Pass, which was late in the early morning hours, Rock had solved at least the second of his three problems.

  Thiry Preston was honestly afraid her brother Ash would kill him or that he would kill Ash. So she wanted to send Rock away. But only so far was she wholly honest.

  She feared Rock would discover something wrong there at Sunset Pass. Ash Preston was crooked. No doubt of this! Perhaps the father was, too, and some of the brothers. But Mrs. Preston was ignorant of it; so were Alice, and the younger brothers. Thiry bore this burden alone. That was the secret of her sad eyes and lips. That was the power Ash Preston had over her—love for him and fear. It did no longer seem unnatural. That was why no cowboys ever got a fair chance to win Thiry Preston’s friendship.

  What a terrible situation for Rock to fall upon! It was at once the most maddening and thrilling and irresistible thing that had ever happened to him. It was the big event of his life. It called to all the heights of emotion of which he was capable.

  To go or stay—that was the question! If he left her, she might love him, surely would always remember him regretfully, tenderly. If he stayed she would hate him. But then he might save her.

  Rock knew the West. He had become a part of it. The Prestons were new, comparatively, to this wild range. He knew Western men, their slow evolution, their uncanny power to suspect and search out and find among them the cattleman who transgressed the unwritten laws. All cattle-raisers stole from one another. But there was a distinction with a difference.

  Gage Preston was getting rich—a little bit swiftly for a rancher on an ordinary scale. How? Rock answered the query in many ways, but only one way seemed tenable. Preston sold cattle on the hoof, the same as other ranchers. None but rustlers ever sold cattle that did not belong to them. And certainly Preston could not be a rustler. It was inconceivable that Ash Preston could be a rustler, either, at least without his father knowing. But Rock scouted the rustler idea.

  The Prestons had become butchers of cattle on a considerable scale. Did any one, outside themselves, know just how many steers they butchered? What a pertinent question here! Rock was certain that he would find out that no outsiders knew how many head of stock they killed. And here was the gist of the matter.

  Some of the Prestons, with Ash at the head, and the father either in with them or unable to prevent it, were killing cattle not their own, burning or hiding the skins, and selling the beef at near and distant points.

  “Good Lord!” muttered Rock, under his breath. “I’ve hit it plumb center.—The damn fools, thinkin’ they can hide that long! . . . Gage Preston ought to have more sense. He struck me queer, though. But it’s that rattlesnake son who’s got this outfit buffaloed. No wonder poor Thiry has sad eyes. . . . Well, by Heaven, I’ll stay at Sunset Pass!”

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  A BELL awakened Rock from late slumbers. The sun was up, and as he peeped out over his blanket covering he saw the grass shine gold under the cedars. He had overslept, which was not a remarkable fact, considering how long it had taken him to get to sleep. As he had neglected to undress, except to remove his boots, it did not take him long to get ready for the day.

  While performing his ablutions his thoughts whirled, and then steadied to the stern consideration of the task before him. In the sober light of day it seemed tremendous. He had to prove his suspicions, which had lost no strength during sleep, and if they were well founded, then he must somehow stop the illicit proceedings before the Prestons were overwhelmed by catastrophe.

  No new thing for Rock was it to appear a light-hearted, careless cowboy when underneath this guise he was hard and cautious, keen as a blade. The Prestons, excepting possibly Ash, would be easy to deceive.

  Briskly he strode toward the double cabin, conscious of heart-beating anticipation, and when he thumped upon the porch Alice Preston came out of the kitchen, carrying plates and cup, which she set upon the table. She smiled at him. How pretty she was!

  “I’m ashamed, Miss Alice,” he said as he stepped over the bench. “Think of a cowboy late on his first mornin’ of a new job!”

  “It took three rings this morning to fetch you.”

  “Did it? I must have been dead to the world. Who rung them?”

  “I did.”

  “You’re very good to persevere. But I promise it’ll not happen again.”

  Mrs. Preston looked out of the kitchen and greeted Rock with pleasant smile and words.

  “Are the boys up, too?” he asked as he fell upon the ham and eggs and hot biscuits.

  “Land’s sake! they’re up an’ gone long ago,” she replied. “They were sure funny. Tom said: ‘Let him sleep, Ma. The longer the better.’ . . . An’ Al said: ‘Don’t wake the new boss, Ma. He won’t never get no sleep when Ash is here, so let him get some now.’ . . . An’ Harry said: ‘Ain’t Thiry up yet, either? Reckon settin’ up in the moonlight is bad for some folks.’”

  “It sure is, Mrs. Preston,” laughed Rock. “I’m sorry, though, if I’m to blame.”

  “Oh, Thiry was up hours ago,” Alice informed them. “Saw Pa and the boys ride away. I know she had a run-in with Ash, because she had been cryin’.”

  “That’s too bad,” said Rock, bending over his plate and eating fast. He had seen the mother’s face change very slightly, almost imperceptibly. Ash Preston was a thorn in the flesh of this wholesome family.

  Rock made short work of his breakfast, and glad somehow that he had not encountered Thiry, he hurried away down toward the corrals. Pre-occupied as he was, he yet saw and felt and smelled afresh the incomparable beauty and spirit and fragrance of this Sunset Pass. Already the wind had begun its roar in the pines.

  At the barnyard Rock found Al Preston leading in some horses; and one of his brothers was jacking up a hind wheel of the green wagon.

  “Mornin’, boss. Hope you’re not sick,” drawled Al.

  “Boys, I was plumb dead. I’ll sure let you punish me for bein’ lazy.”

  The other boy nodded at Rock.

  “Are you Tom or Harry?” asked Rock, suddenly reminded of the twins.

  “Wanta bet on it?” queried the other.

  “I’ll be darned if I do.”

  “I’m Harry.”

  “All right, Harry, I’ll know you tomorrow or bust. Where’s Tom?”

  “He left us to grease the wagon and went off after a horse for you.”

  “For my white horse, Egypt?” asked Rock.

  “No—I’m—sorry to say,” returned Harry, haltingly, as if he had bad news.

  “Did Egypt jump the pasture fence?”

  “No. Ash saddled him and rode
off on him.”

  Rock sat down suddenly, stifling the yell that leaped to his lips.

  “It was just daylight when I got down here,” went on Harry. “Range and Scoot were just ridin’ off. Ash had your horse and saddle. Pa was cussin’ Ash awful. Reckon they’d been arguin’, ’cause Pa never cusses till he’s wore out. Well, when he got done Ash says, ‘Pa, how’d you like to go to hell?’ Then he forks your horse and rides after the boys. Pa ’peared to be chokin’ mad. All of a sudden he busted out laughin’. He climbed up on the wagon with Boots, and they left.”

  Rock for the moment succumbed to a silent fury. But seeing the gray-eyed brothers watching him curiously, keen to catch how he would take this first move of Ash’s, he thought he had better explode naturally and wholesomely, as might any cowboy.

  “——————!” he yelled, lustily. “He took my new white horse! And my saddle that I wouldn’t lend to the King of England! . . . Never had that happen to me. Doggone!—Boys, was it supposed to be a joke?”

  “Joke nothin’. Ash was just mean, like he always is when we get a new rider. But reckon you’ll have to take it as a joke.”

  “Huh! I will—like the old lady who keeps tavern out West!” replied Rock, with a short laugh.

  “How’s that, boss?” inquired Al, hugely delighted.

  “Like h—,” answered Rock. “Boys, I reckon I’m the maddest cowpuncher that ever was. I think I’ll get a horse and saddle from you, and go after my own.”

  “If you take my advice you’ll swallow it—leastways till Ash comes back. Chances are he won’t do Egypt no harm. If you follow Ash now, mad as you are, there’ll only be another fight.”

  “Take it as a joke. Or better be nice about it,” added Harry. “That always stumps Ash. If he can’t make you mad he let’s up—for a while, anyway.”

  “Thanks, boys. I’ll think it over,” rejoined Rock, grateful for their solicitude. “But I reckon the good Lord himself couldn’t keep my mouth shut—after that.”

  “Let’s get to work,” suggested Harry. “We’re late. And Ash ain’t the only one Pa can cuss.”

  While Rock and Al greased the wagon wheels, Harry hitched up, and by the time this task was done Tom rode in, leading a horse. It was a bay that instantly took Rock’s eye, and which would have made up for the loss of ’most any horse, except one like Egypt.

  “Where’s Ash’s saddle?” he asked.

  “It’s hangin’ there,” replied Al. “But, gee! you won’t ride his, will you?”

  “I’ll be darned if I won’t,” returned Rock, with grim humor. “You boys rustle along. I’ll catch up.”

  “Come down the road by the pasture, boss,” said Al. “Then take the right-hand road. You can’t miss the slaughter-house, for the stink will knock you down.”

  After the boys left, Rock proceeded to put Ash’s saddle and bridle on the bay horse, but he was not in any hurry. This first trick of Ash Preston’s rankled in Rock. “Wonder what Thiry will say,” he soliloquized. “She must have seen Ash on my horse. That’s what upset her. . . . Damn him!—He must be one of those people who make the angels weep. And here I am with my hands tied!”

  When Rock rode around the barn he espied the wagon far ahead down the gentle slope. He moved on at a trot, his mind busy, his active eye on the gardens and fields where he saw Mexicans at work. He came to the forks of the road, and taking the left one he entered the cedars, climbed the ridge, and descended to a grassy open meadow, only to mount another cedared ridge. He remembered this part of the Pass, though not so well as the general view of it from the divide. Willows and cottonwoods lined the brown brook; jack-rabbits were numerous; hawks sailed over the open country and blue jays screeched from the slope. It was not long until the sweet sage-wind suffered a change and became tainted. Rock rode up a sparsely cedared slope to a level bench, and soon came upon the site that had once been Slagle’s ranch. The boys were halting before the several cabins. As Rock rode up, the stench unmistakably heralded a slaughter-house. Cabins, corral fences, barns and sheds, and even the trees bore ghastly evidence of the nature of what this old Slagle ranch had sunk to. Skins of cattle hung everywhere.

  The horses were turned loose to graze, and Rock, with the three boys, set to work. It was no easy task for one man, or even two men, to fold a stiff hide and compress it into small space. But that was what they had to do. The Preston boys might have been skillful and diligent at other kinds of ranch work, but at this particular job they were lazy. They made no bones of saying they hated it and particularly the inescapable smell. As the day grew warmer the odor increased. Rock did not drive the boys, but he drove himself. He heard Al say to his brothers in an aside, “Sure he’s a hawg for work.” Rock felt it good to sweat and toil again, despite the unpleasantness of the task.

  Nevertheless, during this labor, and while joking with the brothers, without any ostensible interest in the place or the hides, Rock was bending all his keen faculties toward the end that he had determined upon. Nothing escaped his sharp eye, yet during the half day that it took to complete this job he did not observe anything that struck him significantly. Toward late afternoon, however, he happened to kick a piece of white substance, not stone, and of a color markedly contrasting with the red earth. When he picked it up he thought it was clay. He smelled it—tasted it. Quicklime! Rock put it in his pocket.

  In due time Tom mounted the loaded wagon to drive home, while the other brothers rode off toward the woods, each now with a rifle over his pommel.

  “I’ll poke along, Tom,” said Rock.

  “You been callin’ me Tom all day an’ I’m Harry,” retorted the other.

  “I’ll be darned if I believe you,” replied Rock. “You fellows are havin’ fun with me.”

  Presently Rock was left alone. He was satisfied that he had gotten along well with the boys and that they liked him. They were so guileless that he knew he could pursue his suspicions almost before their backs were turned. They surely were as honest boys as any one could find.

  He took out the piece of quicklime. It did not appear to be very old. He looked around where he had found it to see if there was more. After diligent search he found a smaller piece. Quicklime in any quantity there, might be used to deaden the stench of decaying offal, blood, and bones. Rock searched all the cabins, sheds, bins, without finding any more. None had ever been used upon the horrible pile that had accumulated in the hollow below the slaughter-house. This heap had been left to the hogs, the coyotes and the weathering process of nature.

  “Reckon no little piece of quicklime could get down here of its own accord,” muttered Rock, deliberating. “It sure never flew. It must have been fetched here with more of the same. What for?”

  He had no other answer than the first he had conjectured. Manifestly the Prestons left the entrails and skeletons of their cattle there on the ground to rot. No need to waste valuable time destroying what the elements, the dogs, coyotes, and hogs would soon do away with. But they might have left something here that they wanted to destroy quickly. Hides! Cow hides they could not sell because these did not bear their brands!

  All of a sudden, into Rock’s searching mind there flashed memory of a deep well he had once helped to dig on these premises. It had been a job, he recalled, that every one of the half dozen cowboys had rebelled at, and had scornfully told Slagle was labor wasted. The digging had not been without considerable hazard. They had to go so deep that it was necessary to enlarge the hole. Slagle wanted to get water close at hand, to obviate the necessity of packing it uphill from the brook. But they never struck water, and at eighty feet abandoned the effort.

  Since that time brush had grown heavily all around the ranch houses, but after some search Rock located the well. The edges had weathered, widening the mouth. He could not get right to the brink at this point. On the opposite side, however, opened a break in the brush. He was about to crash his way through the bushes, around to this opening, when his caution urged him not to leave a trail. Caref
ully he retraced his steps, worked around into a narrow path, in which he saw boot tracks.

  Reaching the well, Rock peered down. He saw only the gravel sides and the black hole. He dropped a stone into it. No sound! He thought that strange. Selecting a larger one he leaned over and let it fall. The hole certainly was deep. A low soft thud, barely distinguishable, came to his taut ears.

  “By gum!” he ejaculated. “That well had a rock bottom. . . . We had to quit diggin’ because of rock. Son-of-a-gun if this isn’t gettin’ hot.”

  Rock cautiously stretched himself on the ground, and putting his head over the brink of the well he sniffed like a tracking hound. He caught a faint scent of something that was not earth or brush and certainly not rotting hides. And it was rotting cattle hides which he expected to smell.

  Resting a moment, he tried again. This time he caught the scent strongly enough to recognize it. Quicklime!

  Rock sat up, suddenly sweating, though he felt a cold chill. He felt no doubt that down this well, hundreds, perhaps thousands, of cattle hides had been dropped—not one of which bore the Preston brand.

  The knowledge staggered him. Suspicion, after all, was not fact. And logic told him that until he had actually seen hidden hides, with other brands than Preston’s, he had no actual proof. Yet he would have staked his life that his suspicions were correct. He would bide his time, and at favorable opportunity he would come down Here with a hook of some kind, and plenty of rope, and he would fish one of those hides up out of the well.

  Rock crawled on hand and knees back along the edge of the path, making certain not to leave the slightest mark. He found another piece of quicklime, and several smaller pieces. No doubt they had spilled out of a sack. When he got to the boot tracks he scrutinized them with the photographing eyes of a trailer of long experience. He cut twigs from the under side of a bush, and with minute care measured the length and breadth of the most clearly defined print. These twigs he stored in his pocket.