by Grey, Zane
Every time Hettie moved her absorbed gaze from one far point to another of the valley, the outlines, the colors, the distances, the lines of lonely cedars, the winding black threads of gullies--all seemed to change, to magnify in her sight, to draw upon her emotion, and to command her to set her eyes upon that sublime distance, that ethereal blending of hues and forms, that stunning mystery of the desert, of that magnificent arid zone which gave this country its name.
"I can only look--and learn to worship," whispered Hettie, in a rapture. "It awakens me. What little have I seen and known! . . .
Oh, lonely wild land--oh, Arizona! if you shelter HIM my prayer is answered, my cup is full!"
The Ides, imbued with Ben's spirit, set earnestly to work to wrest a beautiful home from this wilderness.
Two gangs of Mexican laborers, lent by the railroad, in the charge of capable men, were put to work clearing and grading a road, felling and hauling timber. Teamsters from Winthrop made a trip out every other day, bringing lumber, shingles, windows and doors, bricks and cement, pipe and plumbing, which were housed in a temporary shelter. Carpenters began to erect Ben's house, which was to be a long, one-story structure, with log walls, high peaked roofs, wide porches. Barns and corrals were planned, a reservoir from which the cold spring water could be piped into the houses and corrals, corn cribs and storehouses, and many other practical things Ben considered necessary.
Those were busy days. The work caused almost as much interest as a circus might have. There were many visitors, mostly sheepherders and cowmen from the surrounding range. Occasionally riders on high- gaited horses rode in, watched the work from a distance, looked long at Ben's fine horses, and especially California Red, and rode away without any pretense of friendliness. Old Raidy shook his head dubiously at sight of these men. Apparently they caused no concern to Ben. Hettie imagined that she alone divined what was going on in her brother's mind. She dared not voice it, but in her own secret thoughts she hugged it to her heart. She believed that Ben had deliberately chosen this wild spot in a wild range to develop a famous ranch, which would become a lodestone for cowboys, ranchers, cattlemen of all types, sheepmen, rustlers, outlaws, gunmen, through one of whom he might locate his lost friend Nevada.
Hettie was convinced of this. It thrilled her very soul. What a reckless, yet grand thing for a man to do in search of his friend!
Hence, Hettie decided, Ben's intense interest in all visitors did not spring wholly from his desire to be neighborly. Yet, despite the good words that at once spread abroad his generosity and kindliness, and the fact that his coming meant much for this section of Arizona, the ranchers along the three hundred miles of the Mogollon Plateau were slow to call.
Nor did Cash Burridge come to count the cattle he had sold Ben.
This omission caused Raidy and the riders from California much concern. They began to make dark hints round the camp fire, and were not particular about who heard them. Ben looked serious, but only laughed. Manifestly he was working and waiting, without worrying.
One hot midday, during the noon rest hour, when Ben and his family were having lunch in the shade of the pines, a rider appeared on the road. He came on at a walk and he was looking everywhere with great interest. Finally he took to the slope, and at length, arriving at the camp quarters, he dismounted and hailed the riders in a booming voice.
"I'm Tom Day an' I'm wantin' to meet Mr. Ide."
Raidy led him up to Ben, who rose expectantly, a smile on his sunburnt face.
"Howdy, sir!" said the visitor, extending a huge hand. "Are you Mr. Ide?"
"Yes, and I'm glad to meet you, Mr. Day," replied Ben, who evidently had heard of this man.
"I'm your nearest neighbor," said Day. "My ranch is over heah ten miles or so. Reckon I'm a little late in callin'. Shore we're pretty slow folks in Arizona."
"Better late than never," returned Ben, with his frank smile.
"Meet my family, Mr. Day. . . . This is Ina, my wife . . . and this is my mother. . . . Hettie, my sister. . . . And this is my son Blaine, who's destined to be an Arizona rancher."
"Wal now, I'm shore glad to meet you-all," drawled the visitor, with an accent so surely Texan that it made Hettie's heart leap.
He greeted them with a quaint courtliness that became him well, despite his rough soiled rider's garb. He made much of little Blaine, whom evidently he won at first sight.
Hettie, too, trusted him at first sight. This huge rancher was surely a Texan. He had a shock of fair hair, beginning to turn gray. His broad face was wrinkled like a brown parchment, recording the endurance, toil, and strife of a wonderful life. He had shrewd, penetrating, kindly eyes, light blue in color, and set under bushy brows.
"Reckon I'd like you to show me aboot," said Day to Ben, waving his hand toward the benches.
"I'll be glad to, and I'd like your opinion on some of my new- fangled ideas," replied Ben. Then he turned to Hettie. "Sis, have Hank fix us up something to eat and drink presently."
They strolled away in earnest conversation and did not return for an hour. Whereupon Hettie set lunch for them on the table under the fly; after which she repaired to her wagon-tent close by.
"Ide, the good looks of thet sister of yours has spread over the range," said Day. "Shore, she's a lovely lass."
"Hettie? Thanks. Yes indeed, and she's more than pretty," replied Ben, evidently much pleased.
"Girls are scarce in Arizona. Is she married?"
"No. Why, Hettie's only twenty!"
"Engaged to any lucky fellar?"
"No, I'm sure not."
"Wal, she'll shore have these long-legged punchers comin' around moon-eyed."
"If they don't they're not like my California riders," laughed Ben.
"Wal, I'll say if them riders of yours are as good at makin' love as they are at gossipin', our Arizona lads won't have much chance."
"I'm afraid my men do talk too much," observed Ben, seriously.
"They brag, and I don't believe bragging will get very far in Arizona."
"Wal, only so far as makin' brag good," drawled Day. "Ide, I reckon I've taken a shine to you. It ain't Arizona ways, but somebody ought to give you some hunches. Reckon I never had such an idee when I rode over heah. I was downright curious, but reckon I expected to find you-all different."
"Mr. Day, I take that as a compliment and an offer of friendship," returned Ben heartily. "I was told in Winthrop to try to make friends with you. Lord knows I'm going to need a friend out here."
"Wal, heah's my hand," said Day, "an' I'm shore seein' you're not such a dam' fool as is bein' gossiped over the range."
"Maybe I AM a damn fool, Day," returned Ben, grimly. "But at least I know what I'm going to do in the long run."
"Shore then you figger you're up ag'in a hell of a deal heah?" queried Day.
"You bet I know it. I expected it and I'm not going to be disappointed."
"All right. Thet's good talk to me. Fust off, are you goin' in for big cattle-raisin'?"
"Yes. And horses, too."
"Ahuh. You shore have some fine stock. Thet red hoss! Say, he's grand! Reckon you'll have to keep him close or he'll be stolen. . . . Are you goin' to keep your family heah all the year round?"
"No. I'll take or send them back to California for the winter."
"Thet's good," replied Day. "The winters are bad some seasons.
Not so cold, but it snows deep an' pens people up. Winter don't come, though, till late December. Why, I've seen Christmas heah the finest kind of weather!"
"That's splendid news. Now, Day, you encourage me to ask questions. Can you put me on to some crack Arizona cowboys? I'll keep Raidy and perhaps another of my riders, and send the others home."
"Shore I was goin' to advise thet. You'll have no trouble hirin' the best men out heah, because you can pay better wages. Our riders only get forty dollars, an' often not thet."
"But how am I to know riders who are honest, not to mention other qualifications?"
"Son, you're shore askin' me a question thet even Franklidge, the boss rancher of this country, cain't answer. I'm sorry to have to confess thet. But the honest Gawd's truth is this--nobody heah knows who's a rustler an' who's not."
"Good Heavens! Day, you don't mean that!" cried Ben, shocked.
"Wal, I shore do. I know for a fact I'm a square cattleman. I've branded calves in my day thet wasn't mine an' I knowed they wasn't.
Every rancher has done thet, an' few there are in this neck of the woods who don't do it now. But I don't. Thet you can rely on, Ide, I swear. There are ranchers heah who suspect me, same as I suspect them. For this reason: Rustlin' cattle is a mighty big business along the three hundred miles of Mogollon range. The country grazes hundreds of thousands of cattle. They reckon Franklidge alone has a hundred thousand haid. Wal, it's great pickin' fer the rustlers. There's the Hash Knife gang, heah for many years. There's the Pine Tree outfit, which is newer an' wuss.
An' no HONEST rancher can name the leader of thet outfit. He's shore some one of us ranchers, shore as hell. Then there's a host of lesser rustlers clear down to the cowboy who's startin' a herd of his own. . . . Thet, Ide, is the country you've come to ranch in."
"Well, I'm a son-of-a-gun!" ejaculated Ben.
"Shore you are. I wish I could have met you before you laid out so much money heah. How many cattle did Burridge sell you?"
"Ten thousand head," replied Ben. "I took his word. But at the same time I figured if he was a thousand head or so shy I'd be satisfied."
"Wal, you figgered good, but not good enough," said Day, gruffly.
"Never take no man's word for a count of cattle. You want to see them brands. Burridge, now, had a half a dozen brands, but he never had no ten thousand, nor eight thousand, nor . . . Nobody could ever tell how many haid he ran. He was always sellin' cattle."
"What do you think of Burridge failing to make a count for me? He promised to do so at once."
"Wal, I don't like to say what I think. But if Burridge shows up soon an' makes a count, it'll be a good deal more than I have any idee he'll do."
"He'll not come," said Ben, decidedly. "Day, there's no doubt in my mind. Burridge has cheated me."
"Wal, don't you say thet to anyone else around heah," warned Day.
"Be careful WHAT you say, Ide. An' make your men keep their mouths shut. I'll let you have two of my boys, an' I can get you another.
For all I know they're square, an' they're shore hard-ridin' an' hard-shootin' punchers."
"That's good of you, Day," responded Ben, with gratitude. "I sure appreciate it. I may be able to do you a favor now and then, since we're neighbors."
"I'm wonderin' about somethin', yet there ain't any sense in me doin' it."
"What?" asked Ben.
"Shore, Burridge didn't tell you thet I had a four-thousand-dollar lien on his cattle?"
"No, he sure didn't," returned Ben, shortly.
"Wal, I have. Soon after he come heah--let's see, about four years ago, I lent him the money. He paid interest for a while, then he quit, an' I was after him pretty hard when he sold out to you."
"That's bad news, Day," said Ben, soberly.
"Wal, I reckon, but don't let it worry you none, so far as I'm concerned. But there's wuss. The Hatts also have a lien on Burridge's stock."
"Well, well! this is getting thick. Who are the Hatts?"
"Father an' three sons. There's a girl, too, pretty young lass, the only decent one of a bad lot."
"Where do these Hatts live?"
"They're backwoodsmen an' live back in the brakes. Fact is all the rustlers an' outlaws hole up in these brakes, which are rough canyons runnin' down from the Mogollons. Rough they are, the hardest goin' in Arizona. It used to be Apache country."
"So Burridge palmed his debts off on me? Damn him! . . . What's the law in such a case as this?"
"Wal, I've knowed it come up in court more'n once. An' the buyer had to settle. You see, Burridge's property wasn't really his to sell."
"I appreciate that. I should have taken time to inquire. But he struck me right."
"Shore. He did the same to me, an' I'm an old timer."
"What the devil shall I do, Day? I don't mean about the liens.
I'll have to settle them, soon as they are proven. But this deal shows up more complicated every day. How many cattle do I actually own? Where are they? How will I go about safe-guarding what I do own?"
"Son, the Lord himself couldn't answer them questions," replied the rancher, with his booming laugh. "But I reckon the case ain't so bad thet we'll have to take to drink about it. I'll ride over with these boys I'm gettin' you, say week today. Meanwhile I'll do a lot of thinkin'. Probably by thet time Elam Hatt will have seen you. I heerd he was comin', so look out fer him. We'll get your men an' we'll all put our haids together."
"Thank you very much, Day," rejoined Ben, most gratefully. "It's sure lucky for me that you came over."
"Wal, mebbe it's lucky fer me, too," said Day. "One more hunch before I go, an' I shore must be rustlin' home. There'll be other ranchers callin' on you, an' some of them will talk deals. Go slow. Don't offend, but don't go in anythin' without consultin' me."
"By George! you needn't caution me about that," returned Ben. "I'm too scared. Why, my wife and sister will have a fit when they find out how Burridge fooled me!"
"Wal, my advice is don't tell your wimmin-folks. What they don't know shore won't hurt them."
"But I should tell you my sister Hettie is in on this deal with me.
She wanted a half interest, but I let her have only one third.
Thank goodness!"
"Thet big-eyed lass! She must have a lot of money."
"Hettie is well off, yes. She's clever, too. I wish I had listened to her."
"Wal, wal! Thet lass--handsome an' rich! Golly! Some cow-puncher is shore goin' to fall into heaven. I wish I was a youngster.
Reckon as it is I'll have to pick out the best fellar heahaboots fer her."
"I'm advising YOU now," laughed Ben. "Don't try that with Hettie, if you want her to like you."
"Thanks fer the hunch, Ide. . . . Wal, I said before I must be goin', an' heah I am yet."
"There's one thing--I--nearly forgot," said Ben, with hesitation and change of tone. "You must know everybody in Arizona?"
"Lord, no, son! Why, Arizona is most as big as the rest of the United States! But I'm pretty well acquainted all through heah."
"Did you ever know or hear of a--a fellow who--who went by the name of Nevada?" Ben's voice shook a little, and that tremor was communicated poignantly to Hettie, who sat listening in her tent.
"Nevada?" queried Day, thoughtfully.
"Yes, Nevada. It was a nickname, of course. I never knew his-- this fellow's other name."
"Humph! Somebody who did you a bad turn?"
"No indeed. I--reckon it was the other way."
"Wal, I'm sorry. Nevada? No, I never heerd thet handle on a fellar in my life. I've a good memory fer names. I've knowed a heap of Arizonie's in my time, an' Texas Jacks, an' Colorado somethin's or other. But no Nevada."
Chapter ten.
Some eighteen or twenty miles from Tom Day's ranch, Judge Franklidge maintained the last outpost of his extensive cattle range south of the railroad toward the Mogollons.
This property, called the Chevelon Ranch, as had many another, had come into his possession by the failure of a homesteader. At some time or other Franklidge had lent money or staked cattle to every poor settler in that part of Arizona. His kindness and generosity had for many years made him a mark. But though he had never been known to drive a hard bargain or force a payment, he had prospered through most all of his transactions. Chevelon Ranch, however, was a losing proposition so far as actual cattle-raising was concerned.
The hundred and sixty acres which comprised the ranch lay in a strip along the rim of Chevelon Canyon, one of the deep wild gorges that constituted part of the brakes of the Mogollons. Here the cedar pi+-on for
est was at its thickest, and a little higher and farther south it merged into the belt of pines. Water was abundant, but it was down in the canyon and had to be pumped up.
When the pump did not operate the water had to be packed up.
Cabins and corrals, built of logs, showed the weathering of years of storm and heat. The main cabin stood on the rim, and the wide porch ran to the edge of the gray rock wall. On this mid-August afternoon the porch was a shady and cool place to lounge and rest.
The deep canyon was densely green with oak and cedar; a low roar of running water floated dreamily from the depths; the drowsy summer air was redolent with a sweet dry fragrance.
Judge Franklidge had just arrived on one of his rare visits to this margin of his vast cattle interests. The long hot dusty ride out from Winthrop had tired him, and with a great sigh of content he sank into one of the comfortable seats on the porch.
"Jack," he said to the cowboy who had driven him out, "I'm to meet Day here. Put the horses up. I'll stay all night. Then find Day if he's arrived, and come back yourself."
"Yes, sir. An' how aboot Stewart?" replied the cowboy.
"Stewart? Tell him I'll send word when I want him," returned the judge, somewhat impatiently.
"All right, sir," said Jack, and slapping the reins he drove away toward the barn.
"Humph! I'd forgotten about that foreman," muttered Judge Franklidge. "Damn the cattle business, anyway. . . . I'd like to forget it and enjoy the peace of this place."
This ranch was a favorite with Franklidge, owing to its wild beauty and solitude and the abundance of deer and turkey that ranged the forests. Every fall he came there for a few days of hunting.
