by Zane Grey
“He is my brother.”
“Good God! Your brother? You lovely, dainty, sweet little lady! … Why, I saw him again, drunk and dirty, hobnobbing with Mexicans and Indians. If he’s a—one of your family, he surely must be an outcast.”
“No. He was home the day I left to come here.”
He appeared suddenly staggered, not only by the truth, but by the nature of his transgression.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” he began, hurriedly. “I’ve hurt you. I never dreamed—please forgive me. … After all, it was natural enough. Another of my damned tenderfoot blunders! But who would ever think that you——”
“Ah! Now you’ve said it,” she interrupted, passionately.
“Miss Dunn, I was only going to say who would ever think a wonderful girl like you could have such a rotten brother.—Well, it makes no difference to me, I assure you of that,” he said, bravely, essaying a fine effort to keep under restraint. He was regarding her fearfully and again he had turned pale.
The bitterness of reality had steeled Molly, yet she shook inwardly as he stood there, erect and earnest, doing her honor.
“Yet it does, or you couldn’t have talked so,” she replied, shaking her head gravely.
“I say it doesn’t,” he retorted. “And I certainly shall hold you to your word.”
“Word? I didn’t give any.”
“You kissed me. Of your own sweet will! You can’t get over that.”
“No, I cain’t. … But it wasn’t a promise.”
“It certainly was. More than a promise. Unless you lied to me.”
“Lie? I wouldn’t lie to you,” she declared.
“Then I hold you to it. … Come, let’s forget the—the thing. You see, Molly, we fell in love before we got acquainted. Didn’t we? Isn’t that great?”
“I didn’t say we—I fell in love,” returned Molly, pondering over the significance of the words.
“Not in words—yet.”
Again Molly felt the imminence of a precipice. She could not resist this young man, stranger though he was, and presently she would not care to try.
“I kissed you because I wanted to be square,” she said. “With myself, same as with you. I sure wasn’t when I hit you. That’s all.”
“How can you say that? Kissing me proved your honesty. And for such a girl as I hold you to be, a kiss means a good deal. It just about means everything.”
Molly was mournfully becoming cognizant of that very fact. Desperately she cried out again that she was only Molly Dunn of the Cibeque.
At this he seized her in his arms, masterfully, yet guardedly.
“Stop harping on that,” he demanded. “What do I care who you are? You might be Sally Jones of the Missouri. I don’t care any more than you’d care if my name was Bud Applegate instead of Jim Traft.”
“Instead—of—what?” faltered Molly, slipping out of his arms.
“Why, James Traft! Jim, for short.”
“Traft? But that’s the name of—of the cattle king.”
“Sure. I’m his nephew. My Dad is his brother. I was named after Uncle Jim.”
“You’re the new foreman of the Traft outfit?”
“Yes, I am,” he replied, nettled. “That’s the very question your brother asked me. Only he was insulting and you’re—well, I don’t care to have you ridicule me. The idea of my being a foreman seems to stick in the craw of these Westerners. Why not? I’m no nincompoop.”
“You’re the fellow who’s buildin’ the drift fence?”
“Yes—I am,” he replied unsteadily.
“Did you know that fence is a slap in the face to every person down in the Cibeque?”
“No, I didn’t. Uncle Jim said it would rile a lot of no-good homesteaders.”
“I’m the daughter of one of them. An’ sister to another,” rejoined Molly, in tragic finality, and with a flash of eyes she left him there.
CHAPTER
5
UP to eighteen years of age James Traft had often seen his uncle, the Arizona pioneer and cattleman, who made frequent trips East. There had grown up a bond of affection between them. James had from knee-high listened to stories of Indian fights and road-agents, gunmen and rustlers. The Westerner had never married; he was devoted to his brother, who was James’s father.
Then had come an interval of four years during which Jim Traft did not visit Missouri. His vast interests had grown so complicated that he could not leave them. During this time James had been at loose ends, trying farming, clerking, and odd jobs without any indication that he might set the world on fire. At last a letter from the West at least changed the world for James.
Some passages in this blunt letter to his father were hard for James to swallow.—In the natural course of events all of Jim Traft’s property would go to his nephew James. But that was something aside from James ever making good use of it. If he were a strong, resourceful boy with guts he might become a rancher. The cattle industry was growing. The days of the great rustler barons were gone, though cattle-stealing still represented altogether a big loss to the range. And so on.
The implication seemed to be that James would get all his uncle’s money without having worked for it, and that there was a question whether or not he was big enough for the West. At first James had been humiliated and furious, and would hear nothing of going to Arizona. Nevertheless, his father prevailed in the end. Old Jim was caustic and crude; he had grown up in the stern school of the ranges, but he was the very salt of the earth and had genuine affection for James. He would be terribly hurt if James refused and he would never understand.
“It scares me a little, Jimmy,” his father had said. “You’ve got to have the real stuff in you out there. I believe you have and I want you to go. Show Jim you’re a Traft!”
Persuaded and made to realize his opportunity, for which he should sacrifice anything and strive with all his heart, James started West. His first acquaintance with the Great Plains had come from the window of a train, and long before he saw the vast gray slopes of Colorado and the white-peaked Rockies, the latent spirit of adventure stirred thrillingly in him. Then the wild timbered uplands of New Mexico and the red-walled canyons of Arizona won him to the West, long before he stepped off the train at Flagerstown.
He had telegraphed his uncle as to his arrival, but there was no one to meet him. What a funny, slow, sleepy, wide-streeted town! Every other building, all high-boarded and weathered, appeared to house a saloon. He knew his uncle lived out of town, though not far. James finally found a livery-stable, where he engaged a loquacious Negro to drive him, bag and baggage, out into the country. What he learned from this citizen of Flagerstown, in that short drive, was certainly not reassuring.
But James liked the pine forest and the gray levels along the road, and the black mountains rising in the distance. And he had a fine view of Jim Traft’s ranch home. It was nothing at all like he had pictured. Uncle Jim had been long on cattle deals and short on description, so far as talk was concerned. Across one of the wide grassy flats the long, low white house stood on a pine-timbered knoll, and below it clustered a bewildering array of corrals, barns, and sheds. Cattle dotted the wide valley, and on the fenced meadows horses and colts grazed, too numerous to count.
The road wound along the edge of the timber, from which James had ample opportunity to see the ranch at different angles, and by the time he reached the house he was wild with enthusiasm about his future home.
A low-roofed comfortable porch fronted the house. Here James deposited his baggage, and paying the driver, he knocked. Nobody answered, however, so he went around to the back. A wide courtyard led out to the corrals. He espied men out there and directed his footsteps in that direction.
Soon he came upon three cowboys around a horse, and then his uncle, who stood with another man, watching them.
“Hello, Uncle Jim!” he yelled, and his rapid strides soon fetched him up.
“Howdy, Jim!” replied the rancher, as if he had seen his neph
ew only yesterday, and extended his hand. “Got your telegram, but forgot to meet you. … By gum! you’ve sprung up like a weed.”
Traft had not changed. His garb, however, was new to Jim, and consisted of high boots, corduroys tucked in them, an old leather belt with an empty gunsheath on it, gray soft shirt, and a vest that had been new years ago. He was a stalwart figure of a man, nearing seventy, but still erect and rugged, with a lined hard face expressive of his life on the frontier.
“Shake hands with Ring Locke,” said Traft, indicating his companion, a tall, lean, sandy-complexioned Westerner whose narrow eyes were almost hidden under an old black sombrero.
Jim was cordial and prompt in his greeting.
“How do!” drawled Locke, whose accent proclaimed him a Texan. “I shore am glad to meet you, sah.”
“This is the nephew I told you about, Ring,” went on Traft. “He has come West to run the Diamond outfit.”
Jim tried to bear well the scrutiny given him by this range boss of his uncle’s, a right-hand man who had been with him twenty years.
“Uncle should have said I’ll try to run that outfit, Mr. Locke,” said Jim, frankly. “I’m not afraid. But I’m an awful tenderfoot.”
Perhaps his earnestness favorably impressed Locke, for he smiled and replied, dryly, “Wal, it ain’t bad to start when you’re a tenderfoot, just so long as you know it.”
“You bet I know it,” continued Jim, hastening to follow that up. “When Uncle’s letter came I was sure up a tree. It sounded wonderful. But I had listened to Uncle Jim’s stories about gunmen and bad cowboys, wild steers and bucking bronchos, stampedes and rustling. It wasn’t easy to decide. … But here I am. And I can take a licking.”
“Wal, reckon you’re likely to get it,” rejoined Locke. “But in this heah country a lickin’ ain’t nothin’, so long’s it’s not for keeps.”
Jim took almost instantly to the lean Texan. But the three cowboys standing by, apparently like hitching-posts, yet with still eyes and faces, gave him an uncomfortable sensation. To be sure, they heard every word. What clean-cut, lithe-limbed young men! The one holding the horse had a gun hanging low from his belt. Jim faced this triangle of judges, for so they seemed, expecting to be introduced. But his uncle apparently neglected or avoided it.
“We’ll go back to the house,” he said, and led Jim away. “Have a good trip out?”
“You bet. I’ve got a stiff neck from looking out of the car window,” replied Jim, enthusiastically. “No matter what you’ve read or heard, you can’t get any true idea till you see it. I mean the plains, hills, valleys, ranges, and mountains. … Uncle, I liked all the whole long ride out. But Arizona best.”
“An’ how’s that?”
“I don’t know yet. Maybe the great red walls—the canyons.”
“Ahuh. … Sorry I didn’t meet you at the train. I reckoned I would. How’s your mother?”
“Fine and well. Uncle, she was crazy to have me come, but scared stiff.”
“Good! An’ how’s that storekeeper brother of mine, your dad?”
“He hasn’t been so well lately, but I guess it’s nothing much. He sent a letter and some things which I have for you.”
“Did he kick about your comin’ out?”
“No. All he kicked about was my making good. He gave me a stiff talk, you bet.”
They reached the house, where Jim was conducted to a large light room, with walls and floor of clean yellow pine. A few deerskin rugs, a wood-burning stove, a table with lamp, an old bureau and mirror, and spare blanketed bed, constituted the contents, the simplicity of which pleased Jim.
“Come out on the porch and we’ll talk,” his uncle had said. And Jim, after securing the letter and parcels he had mentioned, hurried out to deliver them.
“Thanks. I’ll look at them later. … Wal, Jim, you’ve growed. You’re a pretty husky chap. Too heavy, mebbe, but ridin’ the range will soon change that. By the way, have you been ridin’ much since I saw you last? You used to take to hosses.”
“Had two years of riding every day. You know I tried farming.”
“Yes, your dad mentioned it. How’d you make out?”
“I fell down, Uncle,” replied Jim, regretfully. “I just couldn’t do it.”
“An’ why not?” asked Traft, as if he already knew.
“I don’t know, unless it was too tame. Every day the same! I thought I’d die. But I stuck two years. Then dad sold the farm, which was lucky for me.”
“What else you been doin’ these four years since I seen you?”
“I was still in school for a year after you last visited us. Then the two years on dad’s farm. And the last year I tried several jobs, only one of which I was any good at.”
“An’ what was that?” asked Traft, kindly. “Reckon it wasn’t clerkin’ in the store?”
“No. I’m almost ashamed to tell you, Uncle. It was on my own hook, though. I got an idea some shade trees would look fine round our place. So I drove out to the river and dug up cottonwoods and planted them. Dad laughed at me. Then our neighbor hired me to do the same for his place. Through that I got other jobs, and I was making good money when your letter came.”
“Wal, I’ll be dog-goned!” ejaculated the rancher. “Plantin’ trees, an’ cottonwoods at that. Son, it was a darn good idee.”
Jim thanked his lucky stars he had confided something he had been afraid his uncle would think trivial.
“Wal, so much for Missouri,” went on Traft. “You’re here in Arizona now. Reckon I might have wrote you all about what I want and hope. But it wouldn’t have been fair to you or me. Fact is I couldn’t have said all I need to in a letter. Your dad would have throwed a fit. I reckoned it’d be better to get face to face an’ have it out. Don’t you figger that way, too?”
“I certainly do, Uncle, especially if it’s as big and hard a job as I imagine. And if it’s really true that you have made me your heir.”
“Wal, naturally, all I have would go to your dad an’ you. But that’s not the question.”
“It’s a serious part of it for me,” declared Jim, bravely. “I appreciate your kindness, Uncle Jim, but if I can’t make good as a rancher—well, I don’t want the property.”
“Ahuh, I see. Wal, reckon your dad never guessed that.” Jim felt the piercing intensity of eyes like a pale blue gleam, yet not lacking understanding. “However, what becomes of my property ain’t the main issue with me. Blood is thicker than water. An’ under any circumstances I’d want my only kin to have what I left.”
“Then, Uncle, what is the main issue?” queried Jim, anxiously.
“Wal, I reckon it’s I want you to be as near a son to me as possible.”
“That’s easy, Uncle, if it depends on sincerity and affection and obedience.”
“They’ll help, but it depends most on what I said in my letter. Guts!”
“I remember, and that worried me. But I hope I have some.”
“Jim, the job I want you to take is the hardest in the West.”
“I don’t care. The harder the better,” declared Jim, answering the stimulation of doubt. “I always told dad that I needed responsibility. He never gave me any. The fact that you will put responsibility on my shoulders is half of the battle right now.”
“Son, that’s straight talk,” returned his uncle, nodding his head thoughtfully. “An’ I liked the way you spoke up to Ring Locke. If he took a shine to you it’d help a lot. … But, Jim, the hell of it is no rancher who knows the West ought ever to give a tenderfoot from the East such a job.”
“Why not?”
“Wal, I reckon because of natural human feelin’s. But I’m just bull-headed enough to want a Traft an’ nobody else to take my place.”
“If you were a young man, Uncle, could you take care of this job?” asked Jim, curiously.
“Yes. An’ I reckon I could do it yet.
“All right, then,” returned Jim, feeling his face blanch. “I’ll commit myself here. I’l
l do it.”
“Fine! I like your spirit, son,” exclaimed Traft, warmly, and a smile transformed his hard lined face. “Now listen. I’m runnin’ about eight thousand head of cattle, mebbe more. But we can never get a count. That’s a lot of stock, Jim. Figger out the value at forty dollars a head, which is a low estimate. Wal, I lose from a thousand head up every year. Most of this loss can be laid to cattle thieves. It has gradually growed worse an’ has begun to rile me. I used to laugh at this two-bit rustlin’. But it’s no good deceivin’ myself any longer. The thing is serious. I’ve reason to believe Ring Locke knows it’s worse than he’ll tell me. Anyway, he’s the best-posted cowman on the range.—Blodgett runs a big lot of cattle. So does Hep Babbit. They’re all losin’ stock, too.”
“Uncle Jim, this is bad,” declared Jim, in surprise. “It’s almost like the rustler stories you told me when I was a kid.”
“Son, if I don’t miss my guess you’ll shore live one of them stories,” responded Traft, with a grim laugh.
“You’re being robbed, but you don’t know where the cattle go?” queried Jim, ignoring the start his uncle’s statement gave him.
“Humph! We know darn well where they’re goin’.”
“Where?”
“South of here, in the brakes under the Diamond. An’ the Diamond, I should explain, is high country south of here. On three sides it sheers straight down an’ cattle can’t get off. But on the west, for forty miles or so, it slopes off into the roughest canyon country in Arizona. Thicker than the Tonto. These canyons head up high in the timber an’ run down deep an’ rough. All of them have fine grass an’ water. Lots of deer, bear an’ turkey, too, if you like to hunt. Wal, a good deal of stock, especially cows with unbranded calves, drift into these draws an’ work down into the brakes. There the cows are killed an’ the calves stolen. It used to be these thieves would take the meat an’ bury or burn head an’ hide. But lately they kill too many. They just down the cows in a thicket or drag them into one, an’ leave them there for the varmints. Locke’s last report shore riled me.”
