The Drift Fence

by Zane Grey

“Then, Uncle, this tough job you’re giving me has to do with the thieves,” asserted Jim.

  “Wal, I should sort of smile it does,” drawled Traft.

  “But why not intrust it to an experienced Westerner, like Locke?”

  “Locke can’t bother with it, an’ wouldn’t if he could, at least the way I want to stop it. An’ as I told you I want a Traft to do this. Son, it’ll be a big thing for the range, if we succeed. I don’t want one of these gun-packin’ cowboys to have the credit, when I can throw it to you.”

  “You’re very kind, Uncle,” said Jim, with a dry humor not lost upon Traft. “Are you sure anyone but a fool tenderfoot would tackle the job?”

  Traft laughed. He was growing more at ease with Jim. “Some of my boys are achin’ to get the job. Jim, my Diamond outfit is the damnest bunch of cowpunchers in Arizona. An’ it’s this Diamond outfit you’re to take charge of.”

  “Damnest bunch! Doesn’t sound very good, Uncle. Just what do you mean?” returned Jim, dubiously.

  “Huh! I’ll leave that for you to find out. … Now to come out with my plan. I want a drift fence built from my ranch here clear down across the Diamond to where it jumps off. A hundred-mile fence!”

  “What’s a drift fence?”

  “It’s just a fence along which cattle will drift south as far as they can go, then drift back. It’d have several good uses, but the main one is to keep the cows an’ calves from driftin’ down into the brakes.”

  “Well, the building of a fence even a hundred miles long oughtn’t be so difficult.”

  “Shore it won’t. But keepin’ it up after it’s built is where the hell will come in.”

  Jim grasped subtly that here was the crux of the whole matter.

  “There’ll be opposition? Down on the Diamond,” he rejoined.

  “Shore will. An’ for that matter all over the range. Even Blodgett is oncertain about fencin’ the range. You see, a barbed-wire fence in this country is nothin’ short of murder. An’ these nesters an’ homesteaders an’ backwoodsmen will lose by it. An’ as for cowboys, Lord! how they hate any kind of a fence! I reckon I used to. But I’m ahead of my day. I can see what is needed an’ what is comin’. So, Jim, you can trust me so far as the benefit to ranchers is concerned.”

  “Uncle, have you an actual right to fence the range?”

  “Shore, but it’s open to question. If it ever went to law I’d have to prove my contention. An’ whoever sued me would have to show why he was bein’ hurt. No honest cattleman will ever take such action. An’ I’m shore doubtful about any of the homesteaders goin’ so far.”

  “Could you prove your contention, which of course is that you are being robbed?” queried Jim, earnestly.

  “Wal, I could, if Ring Locke an’ some of my cowboys would testify. But they hate the idea like sixty. I’ll expect you to find out what they know, an’ then add evidence of your own.”

  “I see. So far so good. How about your moral right?”

  “Jim, I’m glad you ask that. You’re no fool, if you are a tenderfoot. The question of moral right is the most puzzlin’ one—the most open to argument. My own conscience is clear on that. I know in the long run the range will benefit.”

  “How do you know? Prove it to me.”

  “Wal, you can see how us big cattlemen will profit by it.”

  “Yes, that’s easy.”

  “Wal, the little cattlemen will have to stop stealin’.”

  “If there’s no more to it, you’re absolutely right. But won’t you close the range or fence off part of it from them?”

  “In some sense, yes. But only those draws an’ canyons I told you about. There’s shore water an’ grass enough in them for ten times the stock they own. Any one of them will admit that. These honest ranchers will just stop appropriatin’ calves they’re not shore they own.”

  “The really honest fellows do that now?” queried Jim, in surprise.

  “Shore they do, an’ don’t hardly think they’re stealin’.”

  “An’ the other kind?”

  “Wal, we’ll put them up a stump. Some of them will see the handwritin’ on the wall an’ quit. An’ others will cut our fence an’ go right ahead stealin’. That’s where our trouble will come in. Mebbe we can stop it in a few years, mebbe not. Some of the ranchers here think it’ll start a long hard fight. An’ that’s why they’re leavin’ it to me.”

  “Wal, Uncle, what do you think it will lead to?”

  “Nothin’ much compared to what I’ve been through. But I reckon some fence-cuttin’ an’ hard ridin’ an shootin’ will seem a whole lot to you. Ha! Ha!”

  “It’s not very funny,” said Jim, soberly.

  “Wal, son, your face was. Don’t let my Diamond outfit see you look like that.”

  “I’m to hide my feelings from them?” queried Jim.

  “Nope. You’re not to have any, except gettin’ mad, an’ when you do that you want to let them see it damn pronto.”

  “Oh! … Uncle, I can see this is going to be a lovely easy job.”

  “Wal, it’d shore please me if you’d find it that. … Jim, I’m puttin’ a lot on you. An’ I reckon in a way it’s selfish.”

  “No. Nothing of the kind,” replied Jim, hastily. “I believe implicitly in you, Uncle Jim. I’ll make your ideals and motives mine. … Otherwise, I’m scared stiff, but I believe I like the tough job you’ve given me—if I can only make a go of it!”

  “Wal, the best encouragement I can give you is that I like the way you face it,” returned Traft. “Shore it’s more than I expected, first off.”

  “Thanks, Uncle. That’ll help a lot,” declared Jim, feelingly. “I’d like some advice, too.”

  “Wal, I never was much on givin’ advice. Nobody ever follows it.”

  “I’d try. But at least you can tell me what you’d do, if you had all your knowledge of the range, yet were only my age.”

  “Haw! Haw! That’s a stumper. Jim, I reckon I’m goin’ to like you, outside of blood relationship. What’d I do? Wal, let’s see. … First off I’d go to town an’ buy the best cowboy outfit I could get, an’ that means saddle, bridle, spurs, chaps, sombrero, gun, boots, an’ so on. That would be for special occasions. Then I’d wear most the time just plain overalls. I’d pack the gun an’ begin to learn to shoot it. I’d have a little straight talk with the boys who was to work under me an’ I’d let them know I was to be boss. I’d always do my share of any an’ all kinds of work. I’d show a disposition not to give any boy a job I wouldn’t try to tackle myself. I wouldn’t be too nice to take a drink, on occasions where it might be wise, but I’d leave drink alone. Also—an’ I hardly need to tell you this—I’d leave the town slatterns alone. I’d lend my money free, but never my hoss or saddle or spurs. I’d always stand the brunt of any trouble directed against my outfit. That’ll be hard, for you’ll find each an’ every one of your cowboys keen to do that same thing. Last, an’ I reckon most particular an’ hard, I’d stand up under the hell the Westerners will make for a tenderfoot. I’d run the gauntlet. I’d make all the decent fellows like me—an’ most of them are decent—an’ I’d make the others respect me.”

  Jim had the good humor and the nerve to laugh in his uncle’s face.

  “Ha! Ha! Ha! Is that all, Uncle? I thought you were going to give me something hard.”

  “Wal,” declared Traft, gruffly, with a dubious look at his nephew, “I was a-goin’ to add somethin’ that I never could do, myself.”

  “And what is that?” asked Jim, suddenly.

  “Get married pronto.”

  Jim whistled. “Heavens! I hope you haven’t picked out a Western girl for me.”

  “Nope. But I’m hopin’ you didn’t leave no Eastern girl behind.”

  “Luckily I didn’t, Uncle.”

  “Wal, that’s somethin’. You won’t find these Western girls special sweet on a tenderfoot. But you’re not bad-lookin’. You shore have prospects, an’ if you try you might win one of them.�
��

  “Whew!—Uncle, that’s a sticker. I’m afraid I’ll have to jump the traces on that one.”

  “Jim, I’m onreasonable,” said Traft, wistfully. “But I’d shore like to hear the laughter of children round this ranch-house before I die.”

  CHAPTER

  6

  A WEEK elapsed before the Diamond outfit came in from the range.

  Jim made the most of that reprieve. He was up at dawn and did not go to bed till late. He went at Ring Locke like a youngster who could not swim in a swift current and was going to hold on or die. But Locke seemed only kind and aloof. He answered some questions; he never vouchsafed any range lore. Jim was sharp enough to find out, however, that Locke had a keen eye for him, and this gave him some grain of comfort.

  Apparently his uncle never saw him unless he bumped right into him. Jim refused to take all or any of the wonderful horses that were his to own and ride. He rode or tired to ride all the mustangs and bronchos about the ranch. At first he kept account of the times he got thrown, but he gave this up. He certainly did know, however, that he had many bruises and sprains and bumps. Moreover, he grew so saddle-sore that it was agony for him to struggle up on a horse.

  During this wait he learned every nook and cranny of the ranch, and there were a thousand acres and more, including the timber. He could not avoid coming into occasional contact with other of his uncle’s cowboy outfits. And these instances were painful to Jim.

  He found also, on numerous trips into town, where it was impossible to keep from meeting people, that he was an object of very great interest to everybody, especially the girls and young women. Jim, remembering his uncle’s wishes, and being far from a hater of the opposite sex, at the outset made himself most agreeable. Presently he confined himself merely to politeness. The interest he had observed did not extend as far as personal propinquity.

  One morning he had returned from a disastrous determination to stick on the back of a mustang, and had again taken up a dirty job at the bar, when a farmhand approached him with a message: “Boss says the Diamond outfit is in waitin’ fer you.”

  Jim let them wait awhile, until he got himself thoroughly dirty and tired and cross. Then he limped round to the bunkhouses. His uncle did not appear to be among the bunch of cowboys at the last house. No doubt he had beat a hasty retreat.

  “I’ll bet the old devil is snickering,” muttered Jim.

  He approached the young men, and before he got even close he saw they constituted a remarkable group. They had a singular similarity, and yet upon near scrutiny they were not at all alike.

  “How do, boys!” he said, bluntly, as he halted before them. “So you’re the Diamond outfit I’m to boss?… Well, I’m not a damn bit gladder to meet you than you are to meet me.”

  Most of them greeted him with a word or nod. Jim found that he had not exactly spoken the truth, for he certainly sustained thrills when he looked these cowboys over. There did not appear to be one as old as he was, nor, for that matter, as big, though several were as tall. Lithe-bodied, long of limb and bow-legged, with small round hips and wide shoulders, lean and sharp of face, bronzed and sunburnt, with expressionless eyes like gimlets, they certainly belonged to a striking and unique class.

  “Who was your last foreman?” asked Jim.

  After quite a long silence one of them replied, “Jud Blue.”

  “Is he here with you now?”

  “Reckon no one has noticed him.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Wal, if he’s where he ought to be he’s in hell,” came the laconic reply.

  “How so?” flashed Jim.

  “Jud was shot last month down on the Diamond.”

  “Shot! … Was it an accident?”

  “Shore was, for him. But whoever did it was lookin’ pretty straight.”

  Jim did not betray the shock this intelligence gave him, but he certainly made note of another circumstance his uncle had not imparted.

  “Which one of you has been longest with my uncle?” he questioned.

  “Hump Stevens, heah, was in the first Diamond outfit. Six years ago, wasn’t it, Hump?”

  “Round aboot thet,” drawled a tall tawny cowboy who was stoop-shouldered.

  “Stevens, then, ought to be foreman of this outfit,” returned Jim. “And after him every one of you according to your service. Well, let’s understand each other right here. I certainly am not stuck on the job and think I’m the last fellow on earth to tackle it. But my uncle has put it on me. He wants to leave his property to me. And I won’t have it unless I can deserve it. And that means make good at ranching from the ground up.”

  Blank, still faces baffled Jim. It was impossible to tell whether or not these cowboys were in the least impressed. They certainly thought he was a liar.

  “You can lay off till Monday morning,” added Jim, curtly. And before he started to limp away he gathered that his first order to them had been received with a pleasant surprise.

  Perhaps the ensuing hour was the most profoundly thoughtful of any since he had decided to embark upon this adventure. What an unknown quantity the Diamond outfit! He had needed only one look at these devil-may-care boys to realize it. Cowboys were not wholly strangers to him. These, however, were the dyed-in-the-wool range product. They were potential chain lightning and firebrand. He was conscious of admiration, dread, and an acute desire to make friends with them. After meeting them he realized he could not expect any material help from Ring Locke or his uncle. The matter was personal.

  Wherefore he carefully kept out of their way for a day and a half. On Saturday afternoon he went to town, and he had not been there long before he heard that the Diamond outfit was painting some very vivid red. Jim laughed. After a while, however, it grew monotonous. And when he happened to encounter Miss Blodgett in one of the stores and have her subtly refer to his cowboys he became irritated. Must the whole town take up the situation which his uncle had precipitated? A second look into Miss Blodgett’s hazel eyes confirmed the suspicion. She was the nicest of the girls he had met so far, a tall, rangy girl who looked like she could ride a horse. She had freckles and brown curls and was rather pretty.

  “I met Curly Prentiss in the post-office.” she announced, after he had greeted her.

  “Who’s he?” asked Jim, though he had an inkling.

  “Don’t you know Curly yet?” she rejoined, merrily. “Well, he’s one of your Diamonds.”

  “Oh, I see! Fact is I don’t know any of them. Was there anything particular about your meeting him today?”

  “Not so very—for Curly. He used to ride for us. Finest cowboy in the world. But when he drinks—well, his tongue wags.”

  “Reckon it wagged about me on this occasion?”

  “It sure did. … Mr. Jim, have you anyone to write home to your mother and sister?”

  Jim eyed her with misgivings. These Western girls were as deep as the cowboys. Jim conceived an idea, however, that Miss Blodgett was friendly, or she would never have made that remark.

  “You mean about the disposition of my remains?” rejoined Jim, dryly. “Thanks, but I’m going to see that will not be necessary. I’ve fallen in love with my new job. In fact, I like the West—and everybody out here. Good afternoon, Miss Blodgett.”

  And Jim went on, muttering to himself: “Dog-gone it! They’re all after my scalp, even the girls. I hope I’m not going to get sore.”

  Presently he went into a pool-room to buy a smoke. The place was fairly crowded, and at the very first table he saw a cowboy he recognized as one of his Diamond outfit. He was in the act of making a shot. But he straightened up. His fine tanned young face was flushed and there were other indications that he had been drinking.

  “Boss, I ain’t doin’ nothin’,” he said, slowly.

  “Who said you were?” returned Jim, realizing that he must have looked sharply at the boy.

  “You’re lookin’ for Curly?”

  “Yes,” answered Jim, suddenly inspired.


  “Sheriff Bray just collared Curly. Honest, boss, Curly was behavin’ himself strick proper. But Bray has got it in for us Diamond fellars. An’ Curly”—here the cowboy came round the table to be closer to Jim—“Curly was pretty drunk an’ noisy. It was a chance for Bray, who’d never had nerve enough any other time. This sheriff is a four-flusher, boss. He’s never had one of us in jail yet.”

  “Which way did they go?” asked Jim.

  “Down the street. The jail’s across the tracks.”

  Jim hurried out and in the direction advised, not certain of his position in the matter. Still, he did not take kindly to the idea of one of his cowboys going to jail. Moreover, he had met Sheriff Bray and had not been greatly impressed in that individual’s favor. Jim, while crossing the tracks, espied Bray dragging a reluctant and protesting cowboy along the station platform, followed by a small crowd. Running ahead, Jim intercepted them. This cowboy he also recognized, a tall handsome fellow with curly yellow hair, just now very red in the face, but not so drunk as Jim had been led to suppose.

  “Hold on, Sheriff!” called Jim, as he confronted them. “You’ve got one of my boys. What’s the charge?”

  “Hullo!” gruffly returned Bray.

  He was a burly man, thick-featured, with a bluish cast of countenance, and he wore his sheriff’s badge and gun rather prominently. “Oh, it’s young Mr. Traft. I didn’t know you. … Wal, this boy was gettin’ a little too obstreperous to suit me. So I’m runnin’ him in.”

  “Obstreperous! What do you mean by that?” demanded Jim, arriving at his decision.

  “Wal, thet’s what I call it.”

  “Curly, what’d you do?” inquired Jim, of the red-faced, blue-eyed boy.

  “Boss, I was singin’,” asserted Curly. “This heah one-hoss occifeer sings in—choir an’ he thinks he’s—only singer.”

  “Wal, you can sing in jail,” declared the sheriff, with a gleam in his eye.

  “Bray, I reckon you’d better not run Curly in,” said Jim, coolly. “Let’s walk along across and get away from this crowd. I’ll take Curly around the block.”

  “Say, for a tenderfoot you’re startin’ right in to play a high hand,” sneered Bray. All the same he had his doubts, which Jim was quick to observe.