Panguitch

by Zane Grey

  “I sure was starved,” he remarked in a deep voice with a pleasant ring. “No grub for a week, except with Indians. Reckon I could bless your womenfolk, Melberne.”

  “Shore, I’ve been hungry,” replied Melberne heartily. “You looked fagged. An’ Alonzo said your horses were ready to drop. Where you bound?”

  “Well, nowhere in particular,” replied Manerube slowly. “I was disappointed in my errand across the rivers. Fellow got ahead of me, buying horses from the Paiutes. Reckon I’ll tie up with the first wrangler outfit in need of a good rider.”

  “A-huh. Do you know this wild horse game?” asked Melberne quickly.

  Manerube uttered a short laugh. “Do I? Well, Melberne, I reckon so.”

  At this juncture Sue noted how Chess sat up, after the manner of a listening jack rabbit. Sue appreciated her own little thrill of interest. What assurance this rider had!

  “Have you ever caught wild horses in large numbers, so they could be shipped unbroken?” went on Melberne.

  “I’m the man who started that game,” replied Manerube. “Shipped three thousand for Saunders last year.”

  “Saunders? Do you mean the Mormon cattleman?” asked Loughbridge.

  “Jim Saunders of Salt Lake. He brought me over from Nevada. I was with his Kanab outfit.”

  “Mel, I’m thinkin’ Manerube is the wrangler we’re after,” added Loughbridge, turning to his partner. “Let’s give him charge of our outfit.”

  “Shore,” rejoined Melberne, quick to respond. “Manerube, if you’ll hang up heah, we’ll pay you top wages, with a percent of our profits.”

  “Glad to help you out,” Manerube said with a wave of his hand, as if success was assured. “Who’re your riders?”

  Melberne enumerated and named them, as he knew them, by their first names.

  “You’re forgettin’ Alonzo,” interposed Loughbridge.

  “Alonzo. Is he a Mexican, a half-breed vaquero, catches wild horses alone?” asked Manerube quickly.

  “Yes, we have him,” replied Melberne.

  “Know of him. Great wrangler, they say,” returned Manerube thoughtfully. “But I reckon I never saw him … Well, you’ve hardly got enough good riders to handle big bunches of horses. Perhaps the young ladies could help?”

  Manerube, while talking, had not been unaware of the presence of Sue and Ora, and now he launched this query at them as well as their fathers.

  “Oh, you’re not serious?” exclaimed Ora.

  “Never more serious in my life,” replied Manerube with a winning smile. “Can you ride? I don’t mean like a cowboy, but well enough to ride fast and hard.”

  “Shore they can,” declared Melberne, speaking for the girls. “You’re sworn in as wild horse wranglers.”

  “Dad, I’m not so sure I want to be one,” Sue said, shaking her head.

  “Why, are you afraid?” queried Manerube. “I can see Miss Loughbridge likes the idea.”

  “It’ll be gorgeous!” burst out Ora.

  Sue looked at the new rider and did not like the something in his eyes any better than his intimation of her cowardice. “No, I’m not afraid,” she said.

  “Say, Sue’s got more nerve than a man,” Chess interposed with spirit. “But she hates to see horses hurt.”

  “Wal, we won’t argue aboot it,” replied Melberne genially. “Sue can do as she likes … Manerube, you come across the valley. Did you see many wild horses?”

  “Thousands every day. All the way from Wild Horse Mesa. That’s what the Mormons call the last stand of the wild horses. I saw the finest stock in all this country. It’d pay you, Melberne, after you catch and ship all horses possible near the railroad, to go after the fine stock.”

  “But shore we can’t drive over thirty miles,” protested Melberne.

  “No. I meant to take time … catch the best wild horses and break them.”

  “Wal, shore heah’s a new idea, Jim,” declared Melberne. “I like it. What kind of range land over there?”

  “Finest grass and water in Utah,” replied Manerube.

  “I heah there are horse thieves in the cañon country,” Melberne said dubiously.

  “Reckon some outfits hold up over there. But you’re just as liable to run across them here. Fact is I run into some Mormon outlaws over across the San Juan. Stayed with them a few days. Not bad fellows to meet, though.”

  “Who were they?” asked Loughbridge.

  “Bud McPherson and two of his pards, Horn and Slack.”

  “Bud McPherson’s pretty well known over Saint George way,” declared Loughbridge. “You’ve heard of him, Mel?”

  “Shore, I’ve heard of a lot of these horse thieves,” replied Melberne. “They’re not worrying me. I’ve had to do with that brand down in Texas.”

  “Say, Manerube, how’d you come to camp with McPherson?” inquired Loughbridge curiously.

  It struck Sue that Manerube was not averse to talking about himself. She was interested, naturally, in so forceful a character, and there seemed something compelling about the man, but all at once she found she did not like him. Ora, however, appeared completely fascinated, a fact that Manerube had manifestly grasped. Chess, too, had, if anything, grown more attentive.

  “I was hunting for some Paiutes, and run right into Bud and his pards,” began Manerube, taking a seat on a log before the campfire, somewhat closer to the girls. “It really wasn’t their camp, as I learned afterward. It belonged to the wrangler who beat me getting to the Paiutes. You know I told you I went to buy horses for the Mormons. This wrangler got there first. Lucky for me, because McPherson was only hanging around to steal horses. It rather tickles me, for I had a little set-to with that wrangler. He gave me this black eye. But you should have seen him!”

  Manerube put his hand to the discolored blotch on his face, and his last remark was addressed to the girls.

  Sue seemed suddenly to be shaken by a thrill, but it was not for Manerube. She saw that Chess was reacting strangely to this rider’s story. He half rose and leaned to listen. His slender body quivered. Through Sue flashed a sudden intimation.

  “You had a fight?” Melberne queried, much interested, and he crossed over nearer to Manerube.

  Jake likewise had caught the drift of the story, and he stood still, staring at the back of the rider’s head.

  “Reckon so. He didn’t seem eager to throw his gun, and I had to beat him.”

  “Wall, you don’t say!” ejaculated Melberne, now as interested as any boy at the recital of a fight. “But shore you must have had cause?”

  “Yes, I reckon I’d have been justified in shooting the wrangler. But as I said, he wouldn’t draw … It was all on account of a pretty little Paiute girl named Sosie. She’d been to the government school, talked English well, and was crazy about white men. The wrangler had been a squaw man among the Navajos, so I’d heard. Well, he was after Sosie pretty hard. Toddy Nokin, the old Paiute father, told him to stay away from her. But he wouldn’t. Finally I felt sorry for Sosie. She was being fooled, poor kid. So I just picked a fight with that wrangler and pounded him as he deserved.”

  Manerube ended his story with a casual nonchalance and a deprecatory gesture, as if he rather disliked his personal contact in the affair.

  Sue was more than thrilled to see Chess rise with the guarded movement of a cat, sustaining and banding strength, as if for a leap.

  “A-huh!” Loughbridge ejaculated with gravity. “Did you catch that wrangler’s name?”

  “Why, yes, come to think of that,” replied Manerube blandly. “It was Weymer … Chane Weymer.”

  Loughbridge uttered an exclamation, either of surprise or dismay. And Chess leaped wildly to confront Manerube.

  “You damned liar!” he burst out in ringing passionate fury.

  Manerube was certainly astounded. “What?” he ejac
ulated blankly, and stared.

  Chess’ face was white, his big eyes burned, his jaw quivered. He seemed strung like a whipcord.

  “Chane Weymer’s my brother!” he cried, and his quivering hand reached to his hip for a gun that was not there. Then, quick as a flash, he struck Manerube violently in the face, a sodden blow that almost toppled the man over. Righting himself, he sprang up with a curse. Rushing at Chess, he lunged out and beat the boy down. Chess fell into Jake’s arms, and Loughbridge sprang before Manerube.

  “That’s enough. He’s only a boy,” ordered Loughbridge hurriedly, and he pushed the other back.

  “Boy or not, I’ll … I’ll …” panted Manerube hoarsely, with his hand on his face.

  “No, you won’t do anythin’,” Loughbridge said forcibly, and he pushed Manerube to a seat on the log. “Reckon you was provoked, but cool down now.”

  Jake was having trouble holding Chess, who wrenched and lunged to get free.

  “Easy now, Chess,” said Jake persuasively. “I’m not going to let you go. Why, boy, you’re just mad. You want to look out for that temper. I had one once. I know. Now you just hold on.”

  Melberne came to Jake’s assistance, and then the two men, one on each side of Chess, held him firmly until he stopped wrestling. There was blood on his ashen face, and a piercing passion in his eyes. Sue read in them a terrible intent that horrified while it shook her heart.

  Chess fixed his gaze on Manerube. “If I’d had my gun I’d have … shot you,” he panted thickly. “You dirty liar! I’ll bet you’re what … you made out my brother to be.” Then Chess turned to Melberne. “Let me go. I’ll … I’ll behave. But I want you to know my brother’s … the soul of honor. If you’d known my mother, you couldn’t believe this skunk. Chane wouldn’t lie … he couldn’t hurt a girl, white or red. If he went out of his way for an Indian girl … it was to befriend her … He’s big enough. He could marry a squaw, but it’d be out of the kindness of his heart.”

  Sue was aware that Ora was clutching at her with nervous hands. Chess, just then, seemed magnificent in defense of his brother. Without another word he wheeled away, his white face flashed in the firelight, and then he was gone.

  “Manerube, shore you might have kept Weymer’s name to yourself,” Melberne said with asperity.

  “How’d I know he had a brother here?” demanded the other wrathfully. “He hit me … right where his brother hit me … And he’d better keep out of my road.”

  “Reckon I’ll see that he does,” returned Melberne. “And you’ll oblige me by not making trouble, if you want to stay with us.”

  Ora began to cry and ran off in the darkness. Sue sought her own tent, considerably upset by the incident. Sitting down upon her bed in the dark, she went over the whole situation. After all, as far as Chess was concerned, it had only been another fight. It was not the first. This one, however, was serious. Chess had looked dangerous. He had been like a lion. Sue thrilled anew as she recalled the blaze of his eyes, the ring of his voice. Manerube did not show admirably. Sue had not been favorably impressed by his narrative. Besides, he was too big a man to beat a boy that way. True, Chess had given great provocation. Sue was thinking back to the real cause of the trouble when she was interrupted by her father outside.

  “Sue, are you in bed?” he asked.

  “No, Dad.”

  He opened the flaps of the tent, letting in a ray of firelight. Then he entered, to take a seat on the bed beside Sue.

  “Lass, reckon I’d like your angle on the little fracas between Chess and this Manerube,” her father said as he took her hand in his.

  Sue told him briefly and candidly what she thought about it.

  “Wal, wal, I reckon I think about as you,” he replied ponderingly. “It looks like this heah to me. Manerube wanted to cut a dash before you girls … Chesty sort of rider. But I’ve met lots like him. Only not so well spoken. Either he’s not what he pretends or he’s been something different from what he is now.”

  “I felt sorry for Chess,” murmured Sue.

  “Poor boy. But shore I can’t see as he needed sympathy. He said what he thought, like a man, an’ he banged Manerube hard … Sue, if Chess had been packing a gun … there’d have been blood spilled.”

  “Oh, Dad!”

  “Wal, I reckon I can control the youngster … Sue, he shore must love that brother Chane.”

  “Dad, I happen to know he worships him.”

  “More’s the pity. I’m afraid Manerube was telling the truth.”

  “Ah!” exclaimed Sue. “How … why …?”

  “Wal, Loughbridge told me he had heard a lot about this Chane Weymer. Wonderful man with horses. He’s been in some shooting scrapes. Lonely sort of chap. But, shore, that’s all to his credit. It was the rumor about Indian squaws … Loughbridge heard talk in Bluff. Shore, it was Mormon talk. I don’t know. I’d like to believe Chess … he was so damn fine. Somehow he just made me jump. But I reckon the boy’s wrong an’ Manerube’s right. Loughbridge thinks so. Wal, wal, I’m sorry. Good night, lass.”

  Sue went to bed without lighting her candle. She felt a little shaken, and slipped under the blankets more quickly than usual. Then she lay wide awake in the darkness. She heard the low voices of men talking by the campfire. The wind mourned through the cottonwoods. The night seemed sad. Poor devoted Boy Blue, with his wonderful love for the wonderful brother. It was well that the boy’s mother was far away in Colorado, far from the gossip that would wound a loving heart. Chane Weymer! The vague, strange shadow of an ideal faded. Sue experienced a slight sinking sensation, almost a sickness, and following that a little heat at her vagrant and unfounded fancies. She whispered to herself, “Poor boy. He said … ‘You couldn’t help but love my brother Chane.’”

  Chapter Five

  To Chane Weymer’s surprise, Toddy Nokin did not drive the mustangs toward the left on the Beaver Cañon trail, but in the direction of the great green bowl of shelving land that led down into the rock country. The long string of bobbing mustangs stretched out, with Toddy’s sons riding in the rear. At the junction of the two trails the old Paiute waited for Chane, and motioned for him to dismount. Toddy’s demeanor was in no wise different from usual, yet Chane felt a quickening of his pulse.

  Toddy Nokin made one of his slow gestures toward Chane’s camp. “No want white men,” he said significantly.

  Chane regarded his Indian friend with surprise and dawning comprehension. Toddy had reasons for signifying that Chane should dispense with Bud McPherson and his cronies.

  “All right, Toddy. If you say so. I sure don’t want them,” he declared with finality, and waited for the Paiute to speak further. Manifestly Toddy was pondering deeply. At last he said, speaking in his own tongue, that Chane would be wise to leave his camp and supplies, without telling McPherson of his intention to drive the mustangs across the river. He could say he was going to ride across country to see a relative of Toddy Nokin’s about purchasing more horses, and that would give Chane opportunity to drive his mustangs across the San Juan before McPherson became aware of the ruse. Toddy did not give any reason for this. But the mere suggestion was enough. Bud McPherson was undoubtedly a horse thief. Chane had vague recollection of the name, somehow connected with shady horse deals.

  “But, Toddy, what’ll I do for grub and blankets?” queried Chane, reluctant to surrender his outfit. “And there’re my pack horses.”

  The Paiute said he would get the horses, and without further comment he mounted his mustang and rode down the trail after his sons.

  Chane did not have any choice, it seemed, yet he deliberated before getting on his horse. It galled him to sacrifice his outfit to three outlaws. Still, there was nothing of any value, except the food. Perhaps this was the wisest course to get rid of the men, but he could not satisfy himself wholly with it. Would Bud McPherson be so easily fooled? Chane’s hostility h
ad roused with the certainty that these men had imposed upon him and were not what they claimed to be. Why not ride into camp with a drawn gun, fight it out with them, or, better, take possession of their weapons, so they could not ambush his trail?

  “Reckon Toddy knows best,” he soliloquized finally. “There’s less risk in his plan … maybe. I don’t know … But I’d like to have it out with Bud McPherson.”

  Chane did not find it easy to abandon that last idea. He had fought the same thing before more than once, and every time it had been harder. He did not like violent issues, but as he had grown older among the rough men of this desert he had not seen any advantage in turning his other cheek to those who struck him. That stone country taught stern measures.

  Mounting Brutus, he headed west on the Beaver Cañon trail, reached the great corner of yellow cliff, and rode around under its looming wall, down the rock ledges to the stream, and up the other slope to camp. The cedars were thick, and through them he thought he saw an object move. Then a jack rabbit loped off through the sage. It might have been what he had seen. Chane rode to the cedar where he kept his bed and one of his packs, and here he dismounted. It was some distance from the main camp. There did not appear to be any of the men in sight. This relieved Chane. He strode over to the camp. A fire of cedar boughs was still smoldering, and a pot of beans was smoking. The campfire duffle appeared as usual. McPherson and his men had ridden off somewhere. Chane returned to his pack, and rummaged around until he found his little notebook and lead pencil. On a leaf of this he wrote that he was going off toward the Navajo country to buy more mustangs. This he tore out of the book, and, going back to the campfire, he placed it in a conspicuous place, with a little stone to weigh it down. It also occurred to him that as the camp was deserted he might take what he wanted. But he must exercise care not to pick up anything McPherson might miss.

  When he reached the cedar, he found Brutus stamping, either excited about something or impatient to be off. Chane had not known the horse long enough to understand him.

  “What’s the matter, old boy?” queried Chane.