Sunset Pass

by Zane Grey

  “No? What is it, then?” he asked, tensely.

  “I believe the Prestons are going to get more than the ill will of the range.”

  “That’s a strong statement, Amy. On what do you base it?”

  “True, I can’t trace it down. But it must come from many little bits of gossip I’ve heard. Some of it, by the way, from Peeples. Everyone knows, of course, that you took the job to be near Thiry Preston. It’s a joke already. That’s your side of it. Trueman, you have a reputation. Oh, I don’t mean as a gun-slinger. That’s old. Nor do I mean as a great rider, roper, and all such cowboy qualities. It’s that you’re true blue, honest, a man of your word. Why even my husband thinks that. For I asked him.”

  “I’m glad, Amy. I hope I deserve it. I certainly mean to. . . . But is there unusual interest in me, just now?”

  “That’s the point. There is, True. I could tell you a lot of things, if I could remember. One is—Clink Peeples said he reckoned Gage Preston would profit by your honest name. Isn’t that a queer remark, Trueman?”

  “It is—a little,” Rock admitted.

  “And here’s another—more of a stumper,” went on Amy. “Last night John had some men out to the house, as usual. They talked and smoked. When I heard your name I listened. Some one. I think it was Mr. Hesbitt, answered whoever had used your name first. ‘I don’t know this great cowboy Rock,’ he said. ‘But if he stays on ridin’ for Preston, I’ll not share the opinion you men have of him.’”

  “Amy, that isn’t a compliment to Preston,” said Rock, ponderingly.

  “It certainly isn’t. And it means you’ll lose your reputation. Trueman, there’s something wrong about this Preston outfit. I can feel what I can’t explain. You know I’m not a fool about everything. I was born here. My dad has been a cattleman all his life. He’s away now, in Colorado. I wish he’d hurry back. I could get things out of him. John is close-mouthed, as most of these cattlemen are.”

  “They’ve all good reason to be,” said Rock, laughingly. “They were cowboys once.”

  “Trueman, you don’t need to tell me that. And don’t beat around the bush or make light of it. I’m thinking of your good name. There’s an undercurrent of feeling here and there—against the Prestons. It’ll spread, if there’s any reason for it. And then you’d be dragged in.”

  “Amy, I hope it’s nothin’ more than gossip,” returned Rock, slowly.

  “True, will you leave Preston? Please, you can get three times the money.”

  “No. I’ll stick, Amy. I should think you’d know that. If there’s anythin’ in these hints I reckon the Prestons need me all the more.”

  “I always loved you for that very trait,” she said, with passion. “But I wish here you didn’t have it. . . . Oh, Trueman, I tell you I dread this job of yours. That wild, beautiful Sunset Pass! That lovely, strange Thiry Preston! She’ll fall in love with you. How could she help it? And you’ll be dragged in with them. You’ll have to kill this Ash Preston. Oh, he’s a snake! He insulted me vilely, right on the street. There’s not room enough on this range for you and him. You’ll fight. I feel it, Trueman. A woman knows. . . . Oh, it took years for me to get over your killing Hooker! . . . Don’t hush me. I will tell you. . . . That poor cowboy, crazed by drink and jealousy! How he hounded you—and finally shot you—so you had to kill him to save your own life. . . . Trueman. I don’t want you to kill another man!”

  “Do you think I’m a bloodthirsty devil?” burst out Rock, repelled, yet sorry for her. “I don’t want to kill another man. I won’t, if I can help it.”

  She wiped her eyes. “Forgive me,” she said, more composed. “I didn’t mean to speak out like that. I know how you hate it. . . . Let us walk back now. You can drop me at my corner.”

  She did not speak again for several blocks. She held his arm closely. Rock did not have anything to say. The interview had surprised, annoyed, frightened, and softened him.

  “I don’t suppose you’d care to see John tonight?” she inquired, releasing his arm and stopping.

  “I reckon not. Tomorrow, if I cheer up.”

  “Cheer up!—Trueman, I’m sorry. I used to—Well, never mind. But you won’t drink? Remember my dance is only a day away.”

  “No, Amy, I won’t drink—before or after your dance.”

  “True, I like you better than I used to,” she said, softly.

  He bowed his thanks, not quite gallantly.

  “Fact is, I never liked you,” she retorted, quick to respond. “But let’s not fight again. Still, making up used to be such fun. . . . Trueman, what will you wear at my masquerade?”

  “Look here, little lady, that’s not fair. I won’t tell you.”

  “You must. I’ll never be able to recognize you. I remember how clever you used to be. . . . The unmasking will not take place until dinner. That’ll be late, Trueman. And I’ll want to know you, so in case I need you. . . . You may have to throw Clink Peeples out.”

  “So the honor of protectin’ you falls to me,” laughed Rock. “I’ve half a mind you’re lyin’. But I’ll stifle my suspicions. . . . Amy, I’ve bought a dandy broadcloth frock suit, black. Also a fancy vest, shirt with ruffles, flowin’ black tie and black mask. The clerk in the store didn’t know me from Adam, so he can’t give me away. I’ll come as a flash gambler.”

  “You’ll look grand. Bet you make more than one heart ache,” she returned, with a glance of mischief and regret. Then she extended her hand. “Good night, Trueman.”

  “Good night.”

  Next morning about eleven o’clock, Rock strolled out of the hotel on his way to see John Dabb.

  He felt more like himself—his old self—than at any time since the cataclysm that had brought about his metamorphosis. How long, anyhow, had it been since he met Thiry Preston? Ages it seemed! Likewise his arrival at Wagontongue yesterday seemed far away. From the hour of his meeting Amy Dabb to the present moment, except for a half-night’s sleep, events had multiplied. One after another of the persons whom he had conversed with, during that interval, had added with some obscure or casual remark, to the chain of calamity which was being forged around him.

  Trouble, menace, always brought out in Rock the reckless, dauntless spirit which he shared in common with his type. Drink, in the past, had made him more reckless, but less dangerous. As there was to be no more drink for him there was no hope for the oblivion cowboys yearned for on occasions. Rock had to face the music. And by this hour he had waxed stern and calculating, sure of his vision, while outwardly he appeared the old cool cowboy of the range.

  Rock asked to see John Dabb, and was shown into that individual’s private office. He walked into a richly furnished room, where two men sat smoking. One was John Dabb, not a great deal changed from the Westerner Rock had once worked for. He was a well-preserved man of fifty, scarcely gray, with the lean face, strong chin, thin lips, and yellow-flecked hazel eyes Rock remembered.

  “Howdy, Mr. Dabb!” said Rock, easily. “Reckon you know me.”

  “Trueman Rock!” exclaimed Dabb, in great surprise. “I do. Amy told me you were here.” Embarrassment succeeded his astonishment, which was perhaps what caused him to extend his hand.

  “Hesbitt, this is True Rock, one of the real riders we used to have,” went on Dabb, recovering to introduce his comrade, who had also arisen. “Rock, shake hands with Hesbitt, one of our new ranchers.”

  Hesbitt bowed stiffly and spoke, without offering his hand. Rock looked squarely at him.

  “Glad to meet you, Mr. Hesbitt.”

  His keen faculties, on edge now, gauged this man, unfavorably. Hesbitt was younger than Dabb, probably a man who had never been a cowboy, for he did not show the physical characteristics of the range. He was lean, sallow, hard, with sharp eyes close together and deep under bushy eyebrows.

  “Well, Rock, to what am I indebted for this call?” queried Dabb, with curious coldness.

  “Remains to be seen whether you’ll be indebted to me or not. Reckon that�
��s up to you,” replied Rock.

  “Don’t want your old job back?” inquired the rancher, ironically.

  “Not now, but if I lose out with the Prestons, I’d shore like my old place back.”

  Dabb was plainly puzzled and annoyed.

  “Well, did you call to ask me that?”

  “No, my business is a little more intimate.”

  “Indeed? Ahem—er, I hope it’s brief,” rejoined Dabb, stiffening.

  “As brief as you want it,” returned Rock, and then he took a slow step nearer to Dabb’s companion. “Mr. Hesbitt, I heard this mornin’ that your foreman, Peeples, was in town, wantin’ to see me.”

  “Yes, he got in early, and I believe does want to look you up,” said Hesbitt, deliberately, his deep set eyes intent and unsatisfied upon Rock.

  “Reckon he can’t be particular eager,” drawled Rock. “I’ve been up and down street, and in and out of the hotel all mornin’—lookin’ for Mr. Peeples.”

  “Ah! I see. . . . I dare say he’s very busy buyin’ supplies,” replied Hesbitt, nervously. “May I inquire—er—what you want of my foreman?”

  “Nothin’ so important—that is, to me,” said Rock, with emphasis on the pronoun. “I just wanted to give Peeples opportunity to meet me. And to tell him somethin’.”

  “What?” asked Hesbitt, whose sallow face slightly paled.

  “Reckon I’d sure like you to know as well. I just want to give you a hunch. Not till two days ago did I ever hear of the Half Moon brand. And not till yesterday did I learn what outfit run it.”

  Manifestly Rock’s cold biting speech impressed Hesbitt, but scarcely to the acceptance of its content. He knocked the ashes off his cigar, and picked up his hat from the desk, without deigning another glance at Rock.

  “Dabb, your former cowboy’s talk is queer, if true,” he said, curtly. “I’ll leave you to renew old acquaintance. Good day.”

  “Hesbitt, you’re new to this range.” rejoined Dabb, a little caustic. “I’ve told you before. And your Wyoming cowboy foreman needs to be told—or he’ll get into trouble. This is not Wyoming. . . . I’m bound to tell you that Rock’s talk is not queer. I’ll gamble it’s true. I never knew him to lie. And no old rider or cattleman on this range would say it, even if he thought it.”

  “Much obliged, Dabb,” replied Hesbitt, heatedly. “I’ve told you something before—and it is that what this range needs is some new blood.”

  “Humph! Some of it is most d—— liable to get spilled,” said Dabb, harshly.

  Hesbitt bowed and went out, jarring the door. Dabb bit viciously at his cigar.

  “Some of these new cowmen make me sick. . . . Rock, help yourself to a smoke and sit down.”

  “Dabb, I sure appreciate what you said to him about me,” replied Rock, losing his coolness. “Fact is I’m surprised, too. I’d been told you had no use for me.”

  “Rock, that’s not the point,” returned Dabb, quickly. “When I knew you were honest, I was bound to say so. Your connection with Preston has started rumors. Hesbitt has been losing more stock than any of us. His outfit is a hard-nut bunch from Wyoming. They think you’re—well, I don’t want to repeat gossip. There’s too much of it. . . . But whether or not I have any use for you I’d sure need to see proof of your dishonesty.”

  “That’s straight talk. I like it and thank you. It makes what I wanted to say easier.”

  “Ah, I’d forgot. You had some intimate business. . . . Make it short, Rock.”

  “Dabb, did I ever do you any dirt?” queried Rock, by way of a start.

  “You quit me, left me in the lurch,” replied Dabb, testily. “I never overlook that in a foreman.”

  “But be fair, at least,” responded Rock, earnestly. “I had to leave quick—or kill another man, and one very generally liked here, Cass Seward.”

  “You may have thought so. Cass was a friend of mine. He told me once you didn’t need to run off. He could have fixed it up. Arrested you—and let you off. It was an even break, you knew. What was that fellow’s name? Anyway, I know everybody was glad you bumped him off.”

  “Ahuh!—I’m sorry I didn’t know that,” said Rock, broodingly. Then he shook off dark thoughts. “Dabb, did you have anythin’ else against me?”

  The rancher thrummed on his desk, and puffed on his cigar, while revolving this query.

  “Look me straight in the eye,” went on Rock. “Man to man, Dabb. If you have cards on me lay them down. I’m comin’ clean honest. . . . And a lot might depend on you doin’ the same.”

  “What’re you driving at?”

  “Dabb, I’m askin’ very little, at least for two Westerners like us. I’ve absolutely no ax to grind. I might want a job some day of you, but only on my merits. Now I’m askin’ only a show-down. I want to know where I stand with you. I want you to believe in my sincerity.”

  “Rock, that’s d——strong talk—coming from you. It’s hard for me to think you might have some underhand motive.”

  “Don’t think it. For there’s none.”

  “All right, Rock, I’ll meet you,” replied Dabb, flushing darkly, evidently stirred. “Straight out then, I’ve sort of held against you—that old affair of yours and Amy’s.”

  “Good!” exclaimed Rock, cracking a fist in his palm. “That’s just what I wanted you to admit. Dabb, it never amounted to shucks. You know what gossip is in this town.”

  “You bet I know,” said Dabb, grimly. “But even allowing for that—”

  “Listen,” interrupted Rock, leaning over to Dabb. “The old women here gave Amy the worst of that affair. She was pretty and vain—and had a way with the boys. But she was good, and if they ever said otherwise they lied. I was in love with Amy, perhaps a little more so than I was with two other girls. Amy knew this. She never let herself go. I’m sure she was fond of me, but there were other boys. And so we had it hot and heavy. But what I want to make clear to you, Dabb, is that Amy was never serious about me. I mean never in love as it was in her to be. And I’m satisfied that she never has been yet. Even with you—her husband! You’ll excuse me, Dabb, but this is blunt straight talk.”

  “It is, by God!” Dabb said, strainedly. “And to what end, Rock?”

  “Amy’s happiness,” flashed Rock. “I don’t need to swear that, if you really know me, as you told Hesbitt. . . . I met Amy the day I arrived in Wagontongue and again yesterday. Dabb, she’d scalp me alive if she ever found out I told you this. . . . She’s lonesome and unhappy. I don’t believe Amy ever would have married you if she hadn’t cared somethin’ for you. But you’ve failed to win the best in her. Dabb, I don’t suppose anyone ever dared to hit you this way. I don’t care a d—— how angry you get, if I can only make you see.”

  “You’re making me see red, cowboy,” replied Dabb, hoarsely, and the blood that he confessed colored his sight certainly showed in his face. “But go ahead. I’ve not the nerve to pull a gun on you.”

  “Dabb, I always had a hunch you weren’t a bad fellow, under your skin. The range claimed you drove hard bargains, and the cowboys didn’t exactly like you. Maybe that was justified. All the same, as ranchers go, you sure were white. . . . You’re rich now. You don’t have to eat, sleep, drink, whistle, and smoke business. Pay some attention to your young and pretty wife! Like you did before you married her!—Sol Winter told me you were as gay as any young buckaroo in town. Well, back-trail yourself. Take the girl away occasionally, to Kansas City or Denver. California in winter. . . . And before long, old-timer, you’ll be glad. If you don’t do this, sure as I’m sittin’ here, Amy is goin’ to the bad. . . . That’s what I came to say and that’s all.”

  Rock ended abruptly, forced by the older man’s torture. Dabb writhed in his chair. Fury and shame contested with the sense of fairness that seemed dragged out of his depths. Suddenly he burst out into the wildest of range profanity.

  “Fine, Dabb,” returned Rock, with a laugh. “But do you mean it for me or yourself?”

  The rancher
wheeled in his chair, clawed at things on his desk, bent his head, and jerked it aloft, then with action growing slower and slower he lighted another cigar. When again he turned, his face was half enveloped in smoke.

  “You are a—queer one—Rock,” he stammered, with incoherence gradually clearing. “I don’t know whether to order you out of my office—or to believe I’m the d——d old fool you make me out. . . . Anyway, it’s too sudden. You’ve hit me where I live. And it hurts like sixty. . . . But you talk like a man. And I’m not yet so set in my mind that I can’t learn from any man.”

  “It took nerve to brave John Dabb in his den, but I’m sure glad,” replied Rock, frankly smiling, with all tension eased.

  “I’m not convinced,” returned Dabb, doggedly, “but I’m some staggered. If the truth turns out as straight as your talk—well, young man, you’re on parole till I find out. . . . Now since you’ve presumed to advise me on a delicate matter, I’ll retaliate.”

  “Throw your gun, John. I’m ready to duck.”

  “Quit Preston!” cut out Dabb.

  “Why?” snapped Rock, just as sharply.

  “I can’t say.”

  “But why can’t you say? If you feel a thing keen enough to show, why can’t you give me a reason?”

  “You know the range, Rock. Some things just can’t be said.”

  “And why? Because they can’t be proved.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, I’ll stick to Preston until these damned underhand rumors are proved—or until somebody suffers for startin’ them.”

  “That may work out too late for you.”

  “I’ve got to risk it.”

  “If you do any gun-throwing in defense of Preston, it’ll ruin you.”

  “That depends. But it’s far-fetched, Dabb. It’s way out of probability.”

  “Not at all—if you’re sweet on Thiry Preston,” rejoined Dabb.

  “Between you and me—I am.”

  “So!—That accounts. I’ll respect your confidence, Rock. She’s a charming girl. It’s too bad that she. . . . There I go again. I’m as gabby as the old women. Suppose you run along and let me collect my wits.”