by Zane Grey
“Rock, when occasion comes I can be as high-falutin’ as you or any other man,” responded Peeples, even more heartily. “Much obliged for your confidence. I’ll ask Amy’s pardon—tell her plumb straight she overdid it a little, an’ advise her to cut thet game with cowboys in future.”
“Fine. We can shake on that, anyway.”
“Let’s drink on it, too,” responded the other, as they gripped hands.
“Peeples, I’m off liquor for good.”
“You don’t say. What’s the matter? Is it religion or the girl?”
“Maybe both,” laughed Rock. “Now, Peeples, tell me why you were lookin’ for me?”
“Easier’n your other cracks,” replied Peeples, laconically. “I kept hearin’ aboot you out on the range. Then lately you come back an’ went to ride for Preston. Thet made me curious, an’ I reckon I jest wanted to meet up with you an’ see for myself.”
“See what?”
“Wal, you know how one cowboy sizes up another.”
“Ahuh. Very often wrong, Peeples,” returned Rock, with gravity.
“Shore. But we’re old hands at this range game. You might be a deep an’ clever cuss, an’ so might I. But I reckon it’d be a poor idee to gamble on.”
“It’d be a losin’ bet.”
“Rock, do you know one of them queer range shadows is creepin’ over the Prestons?”
“I’ve heard so,” replied Rock, gloomily.
“How many of them shadows did you ever heah aboot that didn’t grow wuss?”
“Not many,” admitted Rock. “But I’m hopin’ this one will blow over.”
“Natural. But if it doesn’t—if it clouds up black—you’re shore goin’ to get rained on, cowboy,” said Peeples, with dark significance.
“Peeples, I like Gage Preston,” went on Rock. “Do you know him?”
“Shore. Like him fine, too.”
“I didn’t take to Hesbitt,” mused Rock, as if making comparisons.
“Shore I never did, either,” admitted Peeples. “None of the outfit never did. But—wal, I’m responsible for his stock. An’ you can bet your bottom dollar I’d never be responsible for Preston’s.”
“Neither would I. My job is bossin’ the younger boys, the twins and Al. Do you know them?”
“By sight. . . . See heah, Rock, does Preston split his outfit?”
“Yes. And I’m sort of handlin’ the small end of it. These boys are pretty young. We don’t have nothin’ to do with Preston’s butcherin’. Of course I’ve only been with them a little while. But I know for a fact that it’s two years and more since Preston made his younger sons do any of the bloody work.”
“The hell you say!” ejaculated Peeples, with a dancing of the brown flecks in his tawny eyes. “Hesbitt doesn’t know thet. It’s shore news. Mebbe it explains why all the cowpunchers who ever rode for Preston left quick an’ spoke well of all but Ash.”
“Peeples, I don’t see that,” complained Rock.
“You don’t? Wal, these punchers went heah an’ there, all over the range, speakin’ good of Gage. If they had knowed any bad they shore would have told it. But if—I say if, mind you—there was anythin’ off color, they had no chance to see it, an’ didn’t stay long enough to suspect. All the same, Preston had the benefit of honest cowboys in his outfit. D——deep an’ slick, if thet’s the secret.”
“Aren’t you imaginin’ a lot, Peeples?” queried Rock, made testy by the rider’s keen deductions.
“Shore. But how’d you figger if you was me—on the outside?” demanded Peeples.
Rock found that an embarrassing and confounding query.
Peeples spread his hands. “You know d——well you’d figger same as me,” he said, succinctly. “An’ now aboot your connection with Preston. Speaks high for him to have you in his outfit. True Rock, clean an’ square range-rider! Old hand at the game! Rode for the best ranchers in the Territory! . . . Sounds awful good when some new cattleman like Hesbitt or some wonderin’ puncher gets to talkin’. . . . Rock, if Preston keeps you out there it’s a safe bet he is rustlin’ an’ will ring you in with him, by hook or crook.”
“So that’s your angle?” muttered Rock, in deep thought. “Suppose I were to tell it to Ash Preston?”
“Wal, you’d drive me into a gun deal. An’ you’d be breakin’ confidence. I took it you aboot asked my opinion. After all, Rock, I cain’t prove nothin’.”
“I’ll keep my mouth shut,” rejoined Rock, and indeed his lips were tight as he spoke.
“All right, thet’s what I’d expect. An’ I’ll say a little more. It always struck me thet this bizness of Ash Preston’s chasin’ the punchers away from Sunset Pass, on account of his sister, was aboot half fraud. I’ll bet thet’s a put-up job between Ash an’ his father.”
“I don’t know. Sure he tried to chase me away,” acknowledged Rock.
“An’ played hell doin’ it! Ash would have a sweet time chasin’ me, too, you can lay to thet,” retorted Peeples, as he spat emphatically. “An’ last, Rock, take my hunch for what it’s worth. As I’d take yours. . . . Grab the girl an’ raise the dust away from Sunset Pass. For if anythin’ ever comes of this deal—as I suspect—an’ you’re still with Preston in any capacity, I swear I cain’t see how you’d ever square yourself on the range.”
The new town hall was the finest structure in Wagontongue, and the civic authorities, who happened to be mostly members of the Cattle Association, were proud of it and its expression of a progressive and prosperous community.
It was of Spanish design, low, rambling, many arched and aisled, painted white, with red tiled roof. Whoever designed it must have had in mind a place for public functions as well as business. The outside had been draped with flags and bunting in celebration of the national holiday. Two aisles with arched walls formed the outside of a large patio. Here and everywhere gay many-colored Chinese lanterns hung, singly from the tops of the arches, and in strings across from wall to wall. Flowers and desert shrubbery lined the walks and circled the fountain, where water tinkled musically. Many chairs had that day been added to the few benches up and down the aisles, in the vine-bowered corners, and along the walls. The large hall, which was to answer many purposes for the townspeople, had been cleared and cleaned, its floor polished, and its ceiling rendered bewilderingly colored with endless streams of bunting. It was empty except for straight chairs set against the wall, on all sides, except at one end, where the platform had obviously been arranged for an orchestra. Flags and sage and evergreen furnished the interior decoration, very simply and attractively.
Trueman Rock strolled from the town hall, which he had inspected along with a multitude of visitors, back to his hotel. The street was full of people. Lobby and saloon were noisy, smoky. He went to his room to avoid the crowd. Events had multiplied already this day. What would the dance and the Fourth bring about? Rock was inclined to the idea that it might be just as well for him to spend the rest of the day in his room. When he left it next he would be in masquerade.
Rock made himself comfortable in a big chair before his open window, and prepared to rest, smoke, and think the tedious hours away.
He ran over in mind a few of the many singular events of the last two days. Thiry Preston’s astounding, bewildering, unbelievable attitude! That had not come first, but it always stood first in reflection. His talk with Sol Winter about the beeves, with Amy Dabb about her affairs and the masquerade, with John Dabb about his wife, with Clink Peeples about Amy and the Prestons. That morning Rock had met Hesbitt face to face, to be coldly snubbed. This from the new president of the Cattlemen’s Association was not reassuring. Ash Preston was in town, hiding. Al had confided this bit of dismaying news. He had discovered it quite by accident, through a Mexican, and believed that Ash had ridden in under cover of night. The Mexican had said Ash was not drinking. This was even more disturbing than the fact of his presence. Rock had cautioned Al not to tell Thiry. It was possible Ash would not recognize Thir
y in her masquerade, and she would have some hours of pleasure, at least till she unmasked. But what was Ash up to? Last night the Cattlemen’s Association had met, and though the conference was not supposedly secret, they had most certainly locked the doors on many ranchers and cowboys. This news went the rounds of the hotels and saloons.
After Rock had ruminated over these matters he relegated them to oblivion and returned to the puzzle about Thiry. He could not attend to it soberly; he could not reason it out calmly. Nor could he trust his ecstatic convictions. Gage Preston was a calculating, lying father, trying, for some occult reason, to urge Rock on. Sol Winter was a loving, dreaming old fool. And Rock called himself something similar, minus the old.
Yet how incontestable Thiry’s strange looks and words! They were facts. He knew he was now madly in love, but he could still hear and see. What in the world had gone on in her mind? Preston had incited something. She had committed herself to something before she left Sunset Pass. It did not matter in what degree she had committed herself—for he was involved. How that thrilled through Rock! Then Amy Dabb had shown the cloven hoof. That stirred heat in Rock’s veins. He could fancy her pouring confidences into Thiry’s innocent ears. False confidences that Rock thought would have hurt and poisoned and destroyed—killed what little interest he might have won from Thiry.
Nevertheless, Thiry had seemed to have admitted him, most probably with all unconsciousness, into a strange intimacy that was not compatible with her desire to have him leave Sunset Pass. This softening, whatever it portended, created a tumult in Rock. No matter if she did not know! Some day, when it was too late he could tell her. What an exalting prospect!
Thiry had been upset by Amy Dabb, had been rendered angry, doubtful, full of scorn—and, yes, jealous! That was the most amazing thing of all. Thiry was a girl—like other girls—except, of course, lovelier by far, sweeter by far. If she were jealous—if it were actually true—then he owed Amy Dabb a great debt. Amy was certainly the kind to make a high-spirited, complex girl like Thiry very uncomfortable indeed—strike fire from her, put her on her mettle! If Thiry had secretly or even unconsciously been tenderly stirred by her father’s avowal of Rock’s love, that would account for her reaction to Amy and to him. And Rock sat out the afternoon, thinking, dreaming, with music in his heart.
Darkness had long set in when he left the hotel. He had waited till late, and then the task of donning his masquerade had not been inconsiderable. His appearance, at least of late years, had not occasioned him any bother. But now he was hard to please. Half the time he believed he had never looked so well, and the other half he imagined he looked huge, awkward, silly. At least, however, he managed to satisfy himself sufficiently to venture forth, amused at himself, keen as any cowboy for his first dance. It was well, he thought, that he had purchased a black hat. Its shape troubled him, but would be all the better for his disguise.
In the lobby of the hotel there had been a number of people, several in masquerade, and most ridiculously garbed. Rock tried his disguise, voice as well as suit and mask, upon the clerk, Clark the proprietor, and the porter. They had not recognized him; wherefore he headed toward the town hall, treading on air.
The public square, in the center of which stood the hall, appeared crowded with noisy youngsters, scattered groups of men and women, many Mexicans of both sexes, lounging Indians, whose colored raiment vied with the others, and a host of cowboys in their range clothes.
Rock ran the gauntlet of merry jests, admiring glances from dusky eyes, laughter and query, to the entrance at the main corridor of the hall. Inside the door was a gate, guarded by men, one of whom was the town sheriff, very important and pompous, with his silver badge conspicuous. Two placards struck Rock’s eye. One read: No ADMITTANCE TO ANYONE NOT IN MASQUERADE. And the other sign, larger, read: CHECK YOUR HARDWARE AND BOTTLE.
“Howdy, gambler!” greeted the sheriff. “Scuse me while I search you. Mrs. Dabb’s orders.”
His second slap at Rock located the gun under the long frock coat.
“Ha! Not on the hip! Hangin’ low, eh? Wal, cowboy, unbuckle an’ pass.”
The heavy gun belt went into the hands of an attendant, who deposited it on a shelf where already a row of weapons glittered. Rock received a ticket.
Rock passed on down the corridor to where it opened into the patio. There was music somewhere and sound of voices and laughter. Then he saw masqueraders in goodly numbers, and he strolled down the right aisle, where under every arch gay young people, safe in their disguises, ogled the strollers and made remarks. The lights from the lanterns were just strong enough to lend glamour and softness to the Spanish aisles, the beautiful patio and the brightly clad maskers.
Cowboys were present in numbers, all masked, some of them with ludicrous false faces, and some in chaps and boots and spurs, in gaudy vests and blazing scarves. Among the girls, three out of five were dressed in Mexican garb, no doubt owing to its color and charm. Rock noticed one girl, striking in Indian costume of exceeding richness, who he stared at as she passed by alone. He strolled around the patio, peeped in at the dance-hall, the floor of which shone like a shield. A few masqueraders in a group were just inside, gayly guessing at one another’s identity. The musicians had not arrived.
Arriving at the main corridor again, Rock halted against the wall to watch the fast arriving guests come in. It would indeed be a gala night for Wagontongue. From outside came the faint reports of firecrackers. Merry laughter everywhere! All seemed most curious, friendly, yet aloof in their own safe disguises. So far there did not appear to be any comic costumes, although there were many huge-nosed false faces.
A girl, slight of stature, passed Rock to peer at him with challenging eyes, disguised if not hidden by a red mask. Her costume was Spanish, gold and black, very graceful and pretty. It could not be Amy, for surely she would wear something magnificent. A masker in cowboy attire accosted her, to be gayly repulsed. She passed on, and Rock forgot her in his growing, searching gaze for some one he would know the instant she appeared. What would Thiry wear? Guests were arriving more thickly now. Rock heard the tuning of orchestra instruments. There were bustle and excitement, confusion owing to the evident fact that all were strangers. A clever masquerader, impersonating a negro preacher, passed; Rock noted a woman, typical of the pioneer West; then came an Irish laborer, covered with dust, red-headed, with a stubby pipe stuck in his false face; next a Spanish matador, admirably gotten up in what must have been a real bullfighter’s costume. A shepherd boy came arm in arm with a dairy maid. These two knew each other, surely. A cowboy—Rock knew he was one from his bowed legs—presented a capital counterfeit of a cavalry officer, though his costume had seen better days. Then entered a bandit, an outlaw, a miner, and a clown. Rock decided that the masculine contingent was to afford the humor of the occasion; the feminine departed rarely from the eternal vanity. But that pleased Rock. Let the men play ugly, funny parts; let the woman typify beauty.
Some one took his arm lightly.
“Buenas tardes, señor,” said a low voice at his elbow.
Rock bowed gallantly to the slim creature on his arm. He did not recognize her, but saw that she was the Spanish girl in gold and black.
“Buenas tardes, señorita,” replied Rock, peering into the black holes in the red mask.
She averted her face and walked with him, surely aware of the attention they roused. Rock grudgingly accorded her the admiration she deserved. He had wanted to save all for Thiry. Surely this could not be Thiry, although a Spanish costume like this was deceiving. Her little head, half hidden by the mantilla, did not come up quite to his shoulder. Thiry was taller, and not so slim.
Rock grasped suddenly that there appeared to be a little pressure on his arm, a gradual but sure guidance of his steps. Being intent upon this unknown lady who had taken possession of him, Rock had not observed where they were heading. He was to find that they were entering the dance-hall, where many masqueraders had assembled, plainly awaiting
the mysterious first partner that chance might bestow upon them. This Spanish girl was enterprising, not to say bold. Rock felt himself further drawn into the subtle charm of the atmosphere. Then the orchestra burst into music, a languorous Spanish waltz, once Rock’s great favorite. The girl who had led him there swayed to the rhythm, toward him, slowly lifting her hand to his shoulder.
“You handsome gambler! You don’t know me!” she cried, in arch reproach.
“Amy!” exclaimed Rock, incredulously.
“Sure. Do you like me in this costume?”
“Great! You sure are a Spanish girl. Fooled me plumb good.”
“Not a soul recognized me,” she said, in delight. “I’ll tell no one but you. . . . Come, this is your old favorite waltz.”
Before Rock knew what was happening she was in his arms, light as thistle-down, and they were whirling, gliding to dreamy strains that found the old chord deep in his memory.
“Trueman, hold me tighter,” she whispered, and leaned back against his arm, to look up at him. The dark eyes seemed inscrutable wells under the red mask.
“Behave yourself, Mrs. Dabb,” he returned, warningly, with a laugh. “Reckon I don’t know quite all due my hostess, but sure not that.”
“Hold me tighter, True. This may be the last wicked, happy time of my life.”
“Hope you don’t expect to die?” queried Rock, in mock alarm.
“Well, if you won’t, I’ll have to hug you,” she went on, and she did, to Rock’s confusion. “Oh, I could hug you and kiss you before everybody! . . . Trueman, what did you do to my husband?”
“Did I do anythin’?” asked Rock, helpless in the unexpectedness of this attack. His old knowledge of Amy’s resourcefulness tried in vain to fortify him.
“Did you? . . . Trueman, he came home the other day, at noon—something unheard of,” she went on, swiftly. “He told me you’d been in to see him. That you had raked him over the coals. That you had cleared up something about you and me! . . . Then he told me he had been sore and jealous for a long time. He admitted being mean, selfish, suspicious. He’d neglected me shamefully. He would turn over a new leaf. He would try to be young again. . . . Oh, he knocked me cold! . . . Since then he has been like he was when he courted me. . . . And most amazing of all, he’s to drop in here tonight—in masquerade. He wouldn’t even tell what he’d wear.”
