by Zane Grey
“Boss—I—I don’t quite savvy,” replied Rock, uncertainly. “What more can I say? . . . Unless—I suppose, Preston, when a man falls honest in love he should have honorable intentions. If I had any they sure would be honorable. But, Lord, I never dared even dream of Thiry as my wife.”
“But you’d like to marry her?” queried this astounding ranchman.
Rock stared a moment. “I’d be the happiest and luckiest fellow on earth.”
“Wal, thet’s talkin’,” returned Preston, gruffly. “I was about changin’ my mind thet you wasn’t such a sudden fellar, after all. Do you want my advice?”
“Preston, I—I’d be most grateful for anythin’,” replied Rock, bewildered.
“Thiry ought to be told.”
“Aw, no! . . . So soon? Before I’ve proved what— It’d only distress her—do my cause harm.”
“Cowboy, you don’t know women,” said Preston. “The very fact thet you came to me an’ declared yourself, straight like your name, will go far with Thiry, an’ all of us ’ceptin’ Ash. An’ even Ash couldn’t help but see thet was right. He beat a cowboy once who dallied after Thiry without talkin’ marriage.”
“Like as not he’d try to beat me—if I did tell her,” rejoined Rock, with a nervous laugh. The very idea threw him into a fever of panic.
“Wal, I’m appreciatin’ your fine feelin’s, Rock, so I’ll tell her myself,” replied the rancher, and turning to the open door he called, “Lucy.”
“Preston!” gasped Rock, rising.
At this moment Lucy poked her disheveled head and bright face in at the door. “Daddy, did you call?”
“Where’s your sister?”
“Which one? Thiry is here. But I don’t see Alice.”
“Wal, reckon Thiry will do. Send her in,” said Preston, dryly.
Rock, standing as if paralyzed, heard the child call gayly, and then light, quick footfalls. Immediately the dark doorway framed a slender form in white, with wistful, expectant face and great, doubtful eyes.
“Come in, lass, an’ shut the door,” said her father, as he knocked the ashes from his cigar. There seemed nothing momentous in voice or manner.
She complied, and came forward hesitatingly, her glance going from her father to Rock.
“Thiry, come hyar,” he went on, and when she drew close he put an arm around her. “Do you see thet big cowpuncher standin’ over there?”
“Yes, Dad—I couldn’t very well help it,” she replied, and she just escaped being demure.
“Sort of pale round the gills, ain’t he?” continued Preston, still in his dry, genial tone.
“Dad, I—I’m afraid he looks a—a little guilty,” replied Thiry, constrainedly.
“Wal, it’s not exactly guilt,” laughed Preston, as he squeezed her slim waist. “Lass, Rock has asked your hand in marriage—an’ I’ve given it.”
“Dad!” she whispered, and leaned against him as if suddenly bereft of strength. Then she rallied, while the scarlet waved up from neck to cheek. “Are you crazy—or am I? You couldn’t joke——”
Her blazing eyes flashed in doubt and fear from her father to Rock.
“Miss Thiry,” replied Rock, finding himself under those wonderful eyes, “this is the most solemn—and terrible moment of my life.”
Rock made her a gallant bow. Slowly she released herself from her father’s arm, with widening, darkening eyes, that seemed fascinated by Rock.
“Reckon it’s sudden, lass,” spoke up Preston. “But thet’s this cowboy’s way. An’ fer one I kinda like it. Rock’s some different from the others, Thiry. No ridin’ round out hyar, makin’ everlastin’ excuses to get back to the ranch, pryin’ you out at odd moments, worryin’ your mother an’ me—an’ drivin’ Ash to drink. No, ma’m, True Rock comes straight to me. I like thet. Your ma will, too, when I tell her.”
“What do you think—Ash will say?” she broke out.
“Ash?—Wal, child, he’s not your dad or your boss. You’re no kid any more. You’re a woman, free to do as you want. You shore don’t have to ask anythin’ of Ash.”
“Father!” cried Thiry, incredulously, almost with horror.
In that exclamation of protest, of unbelief, of consternation, Rock delved further into this Preston mystery. It seemed to betray Preston’s guilt along with that of his son, and Thiry’s knowledge of it.
“Wal, lass, will you answer Rock now or do you want some time to think it over?” asked Preston, coolly, unabashed or unconcerned by her agitation. He was deep. He was playing a game that Rock sensed but could not fathom. His effect upon Thiry was also beyond Rock’s ken.
“Mr. Rock, I thank you,” said Thiry, through trembling pale lips, “for the honor you do me. . . . I’m sorry I cannot accept.”
Rock bowed, with what little dignity he could assume.
“Thiry, wait a minute,” said her father, as she made for the door. He caught her and held her, unmistakable affection in his grasp. “I’m sorry to upset you. But these things will happen. Don’t think your dad wants to get rid of you. I’m powerful fond of you, Thiry. You always was my favorite. It’s only thet lately—wal, I don’t want to worry you about what might happen to me. I might not always be hyar to take care of you.”
“Dad, what do you mean?” she asked, hurriedly.
“Nothin’ much,” he replied, enigmatically. “I’d like to have your future settled before—before long. An’ Rock struck me about right. . . . Aw, there you’re cryin’. Wal, run along. I shore can’t stand a cryin’ woman, not even you. An’ it’s no great compliment to Rock.”
Thiry held her head high as she walked by Rock without giving him another word or glance, and he saw that she was weeping.
“Preston, I ought to knock the daylights out of you,” declared Rock, wrathfully, when Thiry was gone. “What’n hell did you do that for?”
“Cowboy, you shore are an appreciatin’ cuss,” returned the rancher, with sarcasm. Signs were not lacking that he had hidden deep emotion from Thiry.
“If I ever had any hope to win Thiry, it’s sure gone now,” fumed Rock.
“Much you know about women,” said Preston. “About girls, mebbe you did. But when it comes to women, love, an’ marryin’—wal, my boy, you’re a green hand. I had a hunch Thiry took a shine to you, an’ now I know it.”
“Man, you’re drunk or crazy, as Thiry said.”
“Wal, Rock, if she hasn’t before she will now,” replied Preston, imperturbably. “Thiry’s whole-hearted an’ fancy-free. I take it she just can’t help herself. She knows now you want to marry her. Thet always fetches a woman, provided she ain’t in love with some one else. Thiry is some like her mother, an’ a lot like me. Slow to care for anybody. . . . Have another cigar, cowboy. I see you’ve mashed thet one.”
Rock discovered that not only had he crushed the cigar, but he had burned his fingers.
“Preston, I can’t be mad at you, but I sure want to be,” returned Rock, resigning himself.
“Set down. I want to tell you about Ash,” said the rancher. “Thet hombre shore put up one on himself. We all reckoned he meant bad by your white hoss, an’ right off he started bein’ mean. Did you know thet hoss? . . . Wal, I’m damned if he didn’t throw Ash nine times. I only saw him get piled twice, but between me an’ the boys it figgered up nine. You never seen the like of thet pitchin’ hoss. He wouldn’t stand fer Ash an’ he wouldn’t stand under him. The second day Ash couldn’t even get a rope on him. An’ he had to change his tactics. Reckon thet hoss is smart. Anyway, he knowed when Ash changed his mind, an’ then he stopped buckin’. After thet Ash rode thet hoss as I never saw one rode before. He wanted to break his leg. An’ he put him to the rocks an’ ditches an’ logs—somethin’ awful. I cussed Ash till I was out of breath. No good. But he couldn’t hurt the hoss an’ he shore did hurt himself. So he gave up. He showed respect fer a hoss the one an’ only time in his life. So, Rock, it’s ended far better than we ever dreamed it could.”
; “Yes. But will he take Egypt again?” asked Rock, anxiously.
“Ash will do anythin’. But you keep your hoss fer yourself. If you have to put him out on the range at night. You could hobble him out.”
“I thought of that.”
“Wal, try keepin’ tabs on Egypt hyar at home. An’ if thet doesn’t work.—You’ll shore be goin’ in to town with the rest of the outfit. They’re leavin’ day after tomorrow. Thet reminds me. I run into thet pretty Mrs. Dabb, an’ she said to tell you to be shore an’ come to her dance.”
“That’s nice of her. Where’s it to be held? At Dabb’s house?”
“Nope. Not big enough. She’s havin’ the new town hall decorated.”
“Well, in that case I might go,” replied Trueman, thoughtfully.
“Say, cowboy, wasn’t this Dabb woman an old flame of yours?” inquired Preston, with inquisitive good humor.
“Well, she wasn’t exactly mine, but that wasn’t my fault.”
“Ho! Ho! I know the lady. Thet is to say I’ve seen her with the cowpunchers. An’ she’s shore a high-steppin’ little filly. Reckon John Dabb was a damned old fool, marryin’ thet young lady. . . . Wal, Rock, if she happened to be a little sweet on you yet it’d shore be lucky fer you.”
“Preston, I fail to see how,” exclaimed Rock, aghast. This rancher was certainly manifesting a complex and many-sided character.
“Wal, just you fool around Mrs. Dabb some an’ make Thiry jealous,” replied Preston, with a chuckle.
“By thunder!” exploded Rock, yet partly with a laugh. “Preston, you’re a regular old devil, or else I don’t savvy you. Even if I could make Thiry jealous—which’s preposterous, I’d never do it.”
“Then you’re a darn sight of a fool,” returned Preston, complacently. “It won’t hurt your cause none to let my lass see other women like you.”
“Boss, you must have been a devil among the women, in your day,” said Rock, slyly.
“Reckon I was, but my career ended sweet an’ sudden.”
“Well, how would you handle this particular case of mine, regardin’ the dance?” inquired Rock, prompted by a spirit of mischief. He was getting a most unexpected, surprising, and pleasurable jolt out of this new contact with Preston.
“Are you a good dancer?”
“I used to be. Reckon I haven’t forgot.”
“Wal, then, as you’re a handsome cuss, too, you want to make the most of your chance. It’s to be a masquerade, you know.”
“Masquerade? I sure didn’t know.”
“You get yourself up in some dandy outfit. Don’t be a cowboy, or a greaser, or Indian. You might be a flash gambler, or a parson, fer their clothes look good on a fellar. Then first off be cold to Thiry an’ sweeter’n pie to your old girl. But you want to be slick, cowboy. Don’t carry it too far. Don’t overdo it.”
Rock laughed rather wildly. The absurdity of the thing so blandly suggested by Preston did not quite submerge a certain enticement. The nerve of it, the very audacity, the reckless assumption that he might make this wonderful girl jealous, took on him a hold hard to shake.
“Old-timer, I’m afraid I couldn’t do it,” replied Rock, with a grimace, as he flung his second cigar into the fireplace. “It’d be funny; it’d be great, if I dared. But it would be very unkind to Mrs. Dabb and—”
“Reckon it would be,” interposed Preston. “But if you don’t make up to her, some one else will. An’, cowboy, smoke this in your pipe—thet feller might not be as clean-minded as you are.”
“Thanks. I think I’ll rustle now, before you get me locoed. Good night,” replied Rock.
As he opened the door, abruptly, he almost bumped into Ash Preston. Rock could not help wondering if Ash had been eavesdropping.
“Say, Rock, strikes me you’ve been in there pretty long,” said Ash, with blue-flashing glance as direct as his speech.
“Hello, Ash!” retorted Rock, with instant laugh. “I shore was. It takes long to extract advance money from your dad.”
“Haw! Haw! Mebbe I don’t know that,” returned Ash. “It’s shore some job to get money due. An’ dammit, you hit him first.”
“Wal, Ash, I have some left. Come in,” said Preston. “Good night, Rock.”
Trueman strolled in the black shadows of the pines near his cabin. The night was pleasant, the wind at its old task in the tree-tops, the frogs along the creek were croaking drowsily of midsummer. The dark Pass, obscure and dreaming, seemed pregnant with life.
It took him an hour to throw off the spell incited by the rancher. To think he had been a party to a proposal of marriage to Thiry Preston! What if he had not been the genius of it?
The plot had thickened, and Rock saw no way of extricating himself, even had he so desired. He had shocked Thiry beyond measure. How impossible to confess that he had not made any offer of marriage! All things considered, now he was glad. He hoped all the Prestons would know it before they retired. In some unaccountable way he had won Gage Preston’s regard and friendship. Nevertheless, he concluded that Preston had some deep motive besides a longing to see Thiry safely settled for life. What could that motive be? No matter how Rock looked at the problem, one fact stood out—whatever furthered his courting of Thiry Preston could only render Ash Preston more dangerous. Did Gage Preston’s motive hide in that?
Rock tried to give it up and went to bed, where he listened to the sing-song of pines overhead and thrilled to the ridiculous yet enchanting suggestion of Preston’s. To make Thiry jealous! The idea was just as tantalizingly sweet as it was dishearteningly silly. No girl could be made jealous unless she cared. And absolutely and insupportably he was sure she did not care for him.
One by one Rock’s thoughts, ecstatic and dismaying by turns, brought him back to the conviction that Preston was deeply involved in crooked work and that Thiry knew it. If so, why did not the father aid and abet the daughter in getting rid of a new rider who was not exactly a dunce, at least in ways of the range? So the mystery augmented along with Rock’s perplexity. Eventually his speculations wore him to slumber.
He awakened at dawn with an idea which must have generated in his subconscious mind while asleep. And it was that he should start toward Wagontongue ahead of the Prestons instead of waiting until they had gone. He wanted to stop long enough with Slagle to dig through the husk of that rancher’s provocative reticence. Likewise, he wanted to ride over that part of the range which had been the scene of Preston’s latest labors. With Preston at home, busy with manifold tasks left him, and his family on the road, there would be opportunity for Rock to confirm or disprove his suspicions.
At breakfast Rock asked permission to leave that day, instead of on the morrow, and it was readily given. He hurried down to the barns without having had a glimpse of either Ash or Thiry. The white horse had been watered and fed, doubtless by Al, whom Rock saw doing his early-morning chores.
Saddling Egypt, and leading the rested and mettlesome horse up to the cabin, Rock tied a couple of blankets behind the cantle, and rode away under the pines, without being noticed, so far as he could tell, by any of the family.
What he devoutly hoped was that Preston had not worked close to the Pass. The Flats, Rock had ascertained, were the wide gray cedar-dotted levels some miles this side of Slagle’s ranch. Tom Preston had been given orders to drive the green wagon as far as the Flats. Trotting briskly along, his eyes ever and anon keen on the broad wheel tracks, Rock soon arrived at the bottom of the slope, where the ground spread wide and flat for miles.
He found where the wagon had left the road to halt in the first clump of cedars, and then it had gone on again, back to the road. Horse tracks and wheel tracks were old stories to Rock. He could almost read through them the minds of riders and drivers.
A mile or more this side of Slagle’s ranch, which was hidden in the rough hilly country west of the Flats, the wagon tracks and hoof tracks of saddle-horses turned off the road. Rock did not care to follow them until the Prestons had passed, an
d even then he would be extremely careful how he did follow. Ash Preston might have eyes as good as his own.
Rock, surveying the country ahead, concluded that unless Preston had made a cut-off to avoid passing Slagle’s ranch, soon to meet the road again, he had surely been stopped shortly by rough going.
To Rock’s disappointment, he found that Slagle was not at home. The rancher had probably taken his family to town, for there was ample evidence that he was absent only temporarily. Rock had nothing else to do but ride on, thinking that he might stop at Pringle’s.
A couple of miles down the road Rock met the wagon tracks again, coming from across the Flats.
“By golly! looks like a short-cut, doesn’t it? I guess not!” exclaimed Rock derisively. Then he discovered that these tracks were fresh, and made on the return home. The wagons had been empty. This was longer and harder going than round the road. Rock passed on a few hundred yards, to find where the Prestons had driven into the road on their outward trip. And still farther on he came to more tracks, older by some weeks.
Off to the west, on the gray rolling range, Rock espied straggling herds of cattle. Somewhere along here the Prestons had done their latest job of butchering beeves; and Rock was intensely eager to find the spot.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
AFTER pondering awhile, Rock decided he might safely risk some careful scouting around, provided he left no traces and kept keen survey of the several miles of road.
With this in mind he tied Egypt on hard ground, and taking to the thickest part of the cedars he mounted the hill. Emerging on top, to the right of the summit, he searched the rolling rangeland with the telescopic eyes of a range-rider. Rolling sea of bleached grass and gray sage, cedared ridges, green washes, clumps of cattle colorfully dotting levels and slopes, and endless monotony that waved away to the black rough horizon—these familiar objects were precisely what he had expected to see.
He concluded he would have to follow the wagon tracks, to find where the Prestons had last butchered, but the present was not the time to undertake that. Keeping within the cedars, he went on to the summit of the ridge.
