by Zane Grey
“Oh, you were a spy!” she burst out, in hot agonized words.
“I’m afraid I was.”
“I knew—it would come. . . . It will—kill me,” she wailed, brokenly. “Oh, to make love to me—while you were spying on my brother—my father!”
“Little girl, I told you to speak low. . . . Reckon it does look pretty bad to you. But it’s not so bad as it looks—so far as I’m concerned. But, Thiry, you’re in this secret and you would be held guilty in some degree in court, if your part in it was found out. And let me tell you Ash would hold no secret. He would drag even you into it!”
“Oh, [illegible]no! No! No!”
“He would. And there’s the danger for you.”
“Court!—Danger? . . . My God! you mean they’ll be arrested—and I will be dragged in with them?”
“Reckon that is liable to happen,” he replied, wanting, stern as the task was, to impose upon her once and for all the peril of the situation.
“You’d betray us!” Swift as a striking snake her hand darted out and snatched his gun as it rested against his thigh. Leaning back, she extended it with both hands. “I’ll kill you!”
“Thiry, if you believe I could betray you or them—shoot!” he replied, swiftly.
“You will not tell?” she flashed.
“Never. You sure got me wrong.”
She gave vent to a shuddering sound. The gun fell from her hands. She swayed. He could see her eyes were tight shut. Then she sank forward, her face on his knees, and clinging to him she broke into low sobs, every one of which was like a knife-thrust to Rock.
He let her have it out, and stroked her hair, and her tight fists, one of which clenched his scarf, the other his coat sleeve. She did not recover soon, though presently the sobs gave way to soft weeping. Then he held her closer, scarcely seeing her or the black pine-streaked gloom, or the stretching flares of yellow light along the horizon. He was seeing something blacker than the night, more sinister than the shadows. As a last resource, to save her and her father, he could kill Ash Preston. That would kill Thiry’s love, but protect her name and insure a chance for her future happiness. But for Ash, this blundering, thieving work could be halted in time to prevent discovery. The range was lenient. Preston already saw the error of his ways. He could be amenable to any plan. Ash was the stumbling-block.
At this brooding juncture of Rock’s meditations he became aware that Thiry was stirring. She rose from her knees, while still clinging to him, and she sank beside him on the bench, to lean against him, face uplifted.
“Can you forgive me?’ she whispered.
“Thiry, you talk nonsense sometimes.”
“But I might have shot you.”
“Sure I thought you were goin’ to.”
“I was out of my head. I should have known you would never betray us. . . . My wits were gone. Everything went but a hot terrible fury. Oh, Trueman, I am a Preston.”
“Well, I reckon I don’t want you anybody else.”
“Can anything be done to save us?” she queried, appealingly.
“It must be done, Thiry. Sure I don’t know what. My mind’s not workin’ any better than yours.”
“I dare not breathe a word of this. They would kill you.”
“Never give Ash a hunch that I know. He’d come pilin’ after me with a gun. Don’t tell your father anythin’. . . . There’s no great hurry. We’ve got time. I’ll find some way.”
“You promise me?”
“I swear it,” he replied, solemnly.
“Oh, Trueman, you are my one hope. To think I’ve tried to drive you away! . . . That I nearly shot you! . . . How little I know myself. But I do know this—if you stop this selling of stolen beef—if you prevent it before they’re arrested—I’ll—I’ll love you with all my heart and soul.”
“Darling, I will do it somehow,” promised Rock.
“I’ll go now,” she said, rising, and swaying unsteadily.
He lifted her in his arms and walked toward her cabin.
“Am I an empty sack, that you pack me so easily?” she whispered, with a little intimate laugh that thrilled him.
“Not so I’d notice it,” he whispered.
At the door of the cabin he set her gently upon her feet. She still held him with one clinging hand, and that unconscious act was balm to Rock’s distracted heart.
“I’m glad now you came to Sunset Pass,” she whispered. “But you’ve added to my fears. It’s now you, too, who might fall under the Preston shadow.”
“Did you read my letter—that I slipped under your door, before I left?”
“It is here,” she said, touching her breast.
“Read it again. Be brave, Thiry. Don’t give up. . . . Never lose faith in me. . . . Good night,” he concluded, and loosing her hand he kissed it, and fled silently into the darkness.
Forty-eight hours later Rock rode into Wagontongue.
Gage Preston had been more than glad to give him leave of absence, sensing no doubt in Rock something not inimical to his precarious fortunes. In a note to Thiry, Rock explained the reason for his going, importuning her to wait patiently, and not to be victim to imagined evils—that somehow he would find a solution.
He rode into Wagon tongue the old True Rock of earlier and wilder range days. Yet though that was a fact, in defiance, in cool exterior, no day of his life had ever seen the passion, the will to invent and achieve, that one single moment now embodied.
Though plan after plan had formulated on the long ride in, only one seemed a solution—to call Ash Preston out and kill him. Against this idea he fought, knowing that it had for him a drawing power not solely based on consideration for Thiry and the Prestons. This spirit dominated him in times past. He wanted to surrender to it now, and argued with himself that the most this trip might accomplish was to relieve the tension at Sunset Pass. However, that was no inconsiderable accomplishment, for his presence acted upon Ash Preston like a red flag flipped in the face of a bull. With him gone, perhaps Thiry and Gage could restrain Ash for some weeks. And even days of grace now were precious.
When Rock dropped in to see Winter it was not with any definite purpose; but that night he and his old friend locked themselves in a room at the hotel. There were range channels open to Winter to which Rock had no access. The Preston situation was graver—actual accusations had been made, it seemed. But by whom was not manifest. Winter talked while Rock listened. It did not take long to impart information that was endless in its possibilities.
“Sol, old-timer, I’m in deep,” said Rock, at the conclusion of Winter’s confidence, and he opened his palms expressively. “Thiry loves me!”
“Shore,” replied Winter, sagely wagging his head. “But you wouldn’t take her an’ leave the country?”
“Reckon I couldn’t think of that yet.”
“Do you know anythin’ thet makes Preston’s guilt shore?”
“Yes, but I promised Thiry not to tell it.”
“But you can go to Preston an’ tell him you know. Scare him to sense.”
“Yes, I can. More—I know I can stop him.”
“Good. That seems a solution. It’s not too late. Go back pronto.”
“Sol, Gage Preston can’t call his soul his own. I reckon Ash led him into this and now has got him buffaloed. Nothin’ on earth or in heaven can stop Ash Preston.”
“Nothin’?” echoed Winter, but the incredulity of the West rang in his sarcasm.
“Nothin’ but lead!”
“Ahuh! . . . Wal, I never yet seen thet kind of a hombre miss meetin’ it. . . . Leave him out. Now, Rock, I’ve an idee. If Dabb an’ Lincoln know what I know—an’ it’s a good bet they know more—they will tell you. Thet obviates any broken promise on your part. Dabb is human. Lincoln is the whitest man in these parts. They’re both rich, an’ they rule the Cattle Association. Hesbitt is only president. What Dabb an’ Lincoln say is law. . . . Now you go to them.”
“But, Sol, good Heavens! What for?” quer
ied Rock, impatiently.
“Son, you are so deep in love thet you ain’t practical. If you can get Dabb an’ Lincoln to sympathize with you an’ Thiry, thet’ll be sympathizin’ with Preston. Ten years ago there was a case somethin’ like this, only instead of a rancher bein’ a butcher he was a rustler. Rich, too an’ in respectable standin’, till some slick cowpuncher tracked his outfit down. Wal, his friends got him to make good what he’d stole, an’ saved him from jail, if no worse. Preston’s case ain’t so bad, thet is, yet. . . . Trueman, I’ve grown gray here. I’ve been raised with these ranchers. I know them. . . . If you’ve got the nerve an’ the wit you can keep Preston from ruin an’ Thiry from a broken heart.”
Rock leaped up, inspired, suddenly on fire with the vision Winter’s sagacity had conjured up. He pushed aside table and chair, and hugged his startled friend.
“Old-timer, I’ve sure got the nerve and you’ve supplied the wit.”
Rock did not have a restful night, and loss of sleep added somewhat to his haggard looks. Next morning Clark, the hotel proprietor, jocosely twitted Rock, saying he had heard that Rock had sworn off drinking.
“Sure I have,” replied Rock.
“You don’t look like it. . . . Wal, no doubt you’ve got your worries—hangin’ with that Preston outfit.”
Other acquaintances of Rock’s remarked about his visit to Wagontongue, and did not hide their curiosity.
When Rock presented himself at Dabb’s office he encountered more that was significant.
“Hello, Rock! You sure look rocky,” replied Dabb, in answer to his greeting. “Hope you haven’t been drunk.”
“No. Only worried.”
“Too bad. Have a chair and a cigar. I’ve been hopin’ you’d run into town.”
Dabb appeared cordial. He had a cleaner, brighter look, and had evidently paid attention to his appearance.
“How’s Amy?” queried Rock.
“She was fit as a filly when I saw her last. She went to Denver to visit. Expect her home next week. Reckon she’s goin’ to give another dance this fall.”
“Gosh! Wasn’t that Fourth of July dance enough?” ejaculated Rock.
“It was a great success. Biggest affair we ever had out here. . . . Too bad you couldn’t stay for the unmaskin’. You sure made up fine as Señor del Toro.”
“Humph! Then Amy told you.”
“Yes. But not till next day. I saw you lick that Ash Preston. Can’t say I didn’t enjoy it,” rejoined Dabb, with a laugh.
“Well, I can say I didn’t,” said Rock.
“Accordin’ to Amy you had your hands full before that fight. She was inclined to be sore, Rock. Told me you paid no attention to her. I was there, masked as a padre. Had heaps of fun.”
“I’m sorry if I hurt Amy’s feelin’s,” replied Rock, dejectedly. “God knows I can’t afford to lose my few friends.”
“What’s the trouble, Rock? Things goin’ bad out there?”
“They’ve gone from bad to worse. . . . John, I told you I was in love with Thiry. Well, that wasn’t so bad. But now she’s in love with me. And the situation is hell.”
“Man, you’ve only yourself to blame. You were advised not to go. I myself told you not to stay.”
“I loved the girl,” replied Rock, simply.
“Humph!” said Dabb, chewing at his cigar. “You fell in love with Thiry before you went out there?”
“Of course. Otherwise do you suppose I’d have gone?”
“Probably not. . . . Well, that puts another light on it. . . . Why don’t you run off with her?”
“Run off? John, you know I’ve many faults, but runnin’ off was never one of them.”
“You run off from me, you son-of-a-gun,” retorted Dabb, good-naturedly. “But after you told me, I respected your motive. . . . Rock, gettin’ serious, are you goin’ to stick out there?”
“What else can I do?”
“And go under with Preston?”
“Reckon I must—if he goes under.”
“Naturally you have your hopes. . . . Rock, some of us cattlemen know you haven’t looked for anythin’ shady about Preston.”
“How do you know?” asked Rock, curiously.
“Well, that question came up the other night at our Association meeting. Hesbitt gave you a hard rub. Over this Preston scandal. Tom Lincoln an’ I an’ one or two others took exception to Hesbitt. We claimed you not only weren’t in with Preston on anythin’ crooked, but you hadn’t trailed around lookin’ for it. The reason, of course, was you were sweet on Thiry Preston.”
“John, that was most damned good of you,” returned Rock, warmly. “If I could be cheered up that might do it. But I’m sure down. . . . You an’ Lincoln figured that if I had looked for shady work I’d have found it?”
“Sure. We knew that. No outfit could fool you.”
“Well, what then?”
“Not so easy. But personally I believe you’d have come to me for advice an’ help.”
“I don’t know that I’d have presumed so far,” went on Rock. “But I’ll tell you what I came to town for. I was goin’ to see Amy and persuade her to help me out of this terrible mess. More for Thiry’s sake than mine.”
“Good gracious, Rock! You pay Amy a high compliment, if you think she’d help you.”
“I’ll gamble she would. Amy has a heart of gold. Sure, she has to be persuaded. But the good side of Amy is the stronger.”
“You’re right, Rock. Amy takes a lot of handlin’, an’ I’m findin’ out—I don’t mind tellin’ you, to my happiness. . . . Of course, the only way Amy could help you would be through me.”
“I have to admit that. But much as I’m buffaloed, I didn’t have the nerve to come direct to you.”
“I see. What’s worryin’ you now, Rock?”
“Hesbitt’s outfits are after Preston,” replied Rock, and he gave Dabb a detailed account of Dunne’s manœuver at the Notch camp, and what had come of it.
“You dared that foreman Dunne to throw his gun?” exclaimed Dabb, gravely, removing his cigar.
“I sure did.”
“Rock, that was a bold move an’ a wise one. Reckon it was the only way any honest range-rider could meet such a raw deal. But suppose you meet this Dunne again, in more favorable circumstances for him, an’ he shows fight?”
“I’d hate it, but I’ll sure go through with my call. No cowman can insult me like that. He’ll either crawl again, as he did then, or shoot.”
“Rock, I’m darn glad you told me this. Reckon it didn’t seem important to you—that I knew—for you’d have told it quick. But it is important.”
“How so?” asked Rock, curiously.
“Well, in the first place it vindicates Lincoln an’ me, in our stand for you. An’ it will stump Hesbitt.”
“Ahuh!—Then this new rancher is dead set against Preston?”
“Is he? Well, I guess. An’ he has his outfits r’arin’. . . . Now, Rock, the strange thing is, Hesbitt has been losin’ a good deal of stock—most Half Moon brand—an’ his men can’t locate them. Hide nor hair! . . . But other men have!”
“Dabb, what’re you tellin’ me?” shouted Rock, fiercely. He did not need to dissimulate.
“Don’t yell, cowboy. Walls have ears,” admonished Dabb. “Rock, now listen. You once rode for Jem Slagle. You know him. Preston ruined Slagle. An’ Slagle has hung around out there to get even. Reckon he’s in a fair way to do it. For he has tracked the Prestons down. But he wants to get his money back, or some of it. Sure he knows if he threatens Preston with exposure he’ll only get shot for his pains. So he came first to me.”
“Aw, this’s awful!” groaned Rock. “Jem Slagle. . . . An’ he has tracked Preston down?—What to, John?”
“Fresh Half Moon hides hidden close to where Preston last butchered. He can show these any time. I called Tom Lincoln in to talk it over. We advised Slagle to keep mum an’ wait.”
“What was the idea in that?” demanded Rock.
“Well, we’re all ranchers, you know,” replied Dabb, meditatively, as if the query had before presented itself to him. “In a little way, more or less, we’ve all appropriated cattle not our own. Reckon we hate to make a move. The stolen cattle were not ours, you see. It’ll mean a fight. An’ we’ve passed the buck to Hesbitt.”
“No, John, by Heaven! you’ve passed it to me,” returned Rock, with passion.
“Now, Rock, you don’t want to take this deal on your shoulders,” protested Dabb.
“Would you? I put it up to you straight,” demanded Rock, eloquently. “Suppose you loved Thiry. Suppose she loved you, and you’d found out what a sweet girl she is. . . . That if her father went to jail it’d break her heart—or kill her. . . . Now what would you do?”
“Rock, I’m damned if I know,” replied Dabb, red in the face, and he slammed his unsmoked cigar to the floor. “It’s a cropper. An’ I hate to be beaten by anythin’ in the cattle line.”
“Dabb, here’s what I’ll do, and I’m sure thankin’ you for the hunch,” returned Rock, passionately. “I’ll buy Slagle’s silence. I’ve five thousand dollars in the bank. I’ll stop Gage Preston’s stealin’ before it’s too late. . . . And if I have to, I’ll call Ash Preston out!”
“No! No!” exclaimed Dabb, violently. “Not that last, anyway. . . . Rock, will you never settle down to peaceful ranchin’? You might be a credit to this range. And you’d lose the girl and ruin her happiness, sure.”
“Well, it might be the only way out,” returned Rock.
“Suppose you come to my house for dinner tonight. I’ll have Tom Lincoln. We’ll talk it over.”
It was an interminably long day for Rock. His reasoning told him if there was an escape out of this range tangle Dabb and Lincoln would help him to find it. Nevertheless, the suspense, on the heels of all the other emotion, was almost insupportable.
The days were growing shorter and it was dusk when he walked out to the mansion that was John Dabb’s home. What a place for little Amy Wund to preside over! His remembrance of her then was kindly and grateful. Surely she must have had much to do with John Dabb’s transformation.
