The Drift Fence

by Zane Grey

  “There!” he exclaimed in satisfaction.

  “Whoopee!” yelled Hack Jocelyn, in stentorian voice. “Boys, heah’s the grave of the Diamond!”

  His fellow cowboys whooped so wildly in reply that Jim felt constrained to believe Jocelyn’s pessimistic augury. Then, under Jim’s orders, they set to work, and they yelled and swore, and kept up a constant harangue with one another. Jim had three of them dragging in long poles, which were cut into seven-foot lengths, five feet of which were to stand above ground. Jim had thought out his plan and it bade fair to work. Bud Chalfack, Lonestar Holliday, and Hump Stevens had volunteered to handle the wire, which, next to post-hole digging, seemed to be the most obnoxious to these aristocrats of the range.

  Fortunately for Jim, it was not necessary to build the drift fence in a straight line. A general direction to the south, keeping to levels and the easiest way, was the rule. Jim marked the line and the holes for a certain distance, then went back to help in all details of the labor. It had happened that not so many months ago he had built a barbed-wire fence round his father’s farm in Missouri. He had not forgotten that. His father had not only been an exacting employer, but he knew how to go about fence-building. So Jim had a distinct advantage over his cowboys, who certainly had never had any share in such work. All the same, they found fault with every single detail of Jim’s plan and execution, sometimes so guilelessly and with such apparent sincerity that he knew they had begun their mischief. He took especial care, however, every instance to explain and prove to them the fallacy of their criticisms. Here was too good a chance to miss.

  The first day ended, and a dirty, sweaty, hungry string of cowboys walked back to camp.

  “Who’d a thunk it? Hoofin’ it to camp! As if barbed-wire-fence buildin’ wasn’t enough. Boys, we’d be better off in the pen at Yuma,” declared Cherry Winters, throwing his sombrero.

  “It’s a helluva good thing none of us has to cook on this job,” said Uphill Frost. “You’ve all got to thank the boss fer thet.”

  “Wal, Up,” replied some one, “we’d liefer you was the cook, ’cause then we’d soon be daid.”

  “Look aheah, Jackson Way,” retorted Frost. “You hungry-lookin’ jack rabbit! I kin beat you makin’ sourdough biscuits any day.”

  “Shore you can. I ain’t no cook.”

  And so the badinage went on. Jim shut his ears when he was a little way off, to avoid hearing their facetious remarks about him, but on occasions he caught some of it.

  The amazing day ended with Jim’s adding a lame back and blistered hands to his other ills. They had camped in the open field, where a few straggling pines had escaped the lumbermen, and the site was far from pretty. Jim unrolled his tarpaulin under one of them. He had never slept out in the open in his life. The cowboys would have laughed if they had seen him in his room at the ranchhouse, struggling over the rolling and roping of that bed.

  The cook had been highly recommended to Jim, by no less a person than himself, and that, too, in writing. He claimed to hear fairly well, but he was dumb. Shot in the throat once, by a vicious cowboy!

  “Say, when is thet cadiverous galoot a-goin’ to yell, ‘Come an’ get it’?” demanded Hack.

  “Anybody know what his handle is?” asked another.

  “Boys, our cook’s name is Jeff Davis,” announced Jim, importantly. “He hails from Alabama. He can’t talk, but he wrote he could hear fairly well.”

  “Why cain’t he talk?” asked Hack.

  “A dumb cook! Holy Jupiter! We’re Jonahed fer keeps!”

  “Fine. He cain’t cuss the daylights out of us.”

  “Wal, if he can cook—O-Kay!”

  “Thar’s enough rebels in this heah outfit now without havin’ a rebel cook,” growled another.

  “Boys,” added Jim, by way of answer to all these remarks, “Jeff claims to have been shot in the throat by a vicious cowboy. Made dumb forever. Think of it!”

  “Wal, he might have been one of these fellars who talk too much,” declared Hack, significantly.

  The sudden and violent beating of a tin pan appeared to be Jeff’s call to supper.

  Uphill Frost, who had fallen into a doze, leaped up with a yell, “Injuns!”

  He was the last to reach the chuck-wagon, perhaps by the fraction of a second. The things they said to the grave-faced cook, as he filled their plates and cups, were enough, Jim thought, to make a dumb man swear. Probably he alone caught a curious little gleam in Jeff’s deep set eyes. That gave Jim food for thought. Then the members of the Diamond stood around, or sat cross-legged like Indians on the ground. The ensuing silence fell like a mantle. It seemed so beneficent and wonderful that Jim imagined he had been suddenly transported to another world.

  After supper they had a camp fire around which they sat and smoked. Jim enjoyed that hour. The infinite and various moods of the cowboys seemed to have flagged. Then one by one they, some without removing their boots, rolled in their tarpaulins. Jim took off some of his clothes, and when he stretched out in his bed with a groan he felt that he would never move again. How delicious that bed! He burned and ached all over, and tired as he was could not soon go to sleep. The canopy of white stars seemed so wonderful and strange. The air, which had turned cold with the night wind down off the mountain, blew over his face. Jim had heard his first coyote chorus at the ranch, so he was in a way prepared for another at close range. Evidently this visiting bunch sat round in a half-circle, just behind his bed, and barked, yelped, whined their wild concatenations. He enjoyed the music for a while, but he conceived that he might have a murderous instinct develop.

  He endeavored to enumerate the especial happenings and remarks of the day. Impossible! It had been his intention to keep a diary. He did not think he could do the opportunity justice, though he would try. Besides, it would never do to record many of the speeches of these range-riders.

  Suddenly he felt something tugging at the back of his bed, at the blankets under him. It made him start violently and instinctively frightened him. A coyote! Did the scavengering beggars steal that close? He yelled with much meaning but poor articulation.

  “GIOUT!”

  Then he popped up. He could see a few feet back of his bed. Nothing there! Perhaps it might have been a gopher or a rattlesnake about which the boys had remarked after supper. With a boot he beat around back of his coat which he had folded up for a pillow. Then with a still shaking hand he felt back there. And it came in contact with a rope. It had been tied to an end of the blanket over him, and this had been drawn half off. “Well, by gosh!” he muttered.

  From all around strange sounds arose. He sat there amazed until he grasped the situation. The cowboys had played their first trick on him and were now trying to hold in a fiendish and bursting glee. Presently from way over near the chuck-wagon broke out a raucous: “Haw! Haw! Haw!”

  Jim untied the rope and flung the end as far away as he could. Sons-of-guns, he called them to himself! But nevertheless, he was tickled. They would make life miserable for him. Nevertheless, he took this as an augury of good luck. His uncle had assured him that if they played tricks on him there was hope. If they suffered him in silence and let him severely alone the case was hopeless. Jim lay back happy, despite his chagrin at being scared half out of his wits, and went to sleep.

  Next morning he hobbled around cheerfully without mentioning the incident and went to work. That turned out to be a trying day, particularly in keeping at it. Upon returning to camp he washed his blistered hands, and then thinking to rest a little before supper, he sought his bed.

  But it was gone. At first he imagined he had mistaken the place, but he soon reassured himself that he was right about the location. After a few moments he discovered his bed-roll high up in the pine tree, swinging by the rope. Jim swore under his breath. If he had to climb that tree, crippled as he was, it would afford these devilish cowboys a treat. He just would not attempt it. They stood and sat around, waiting for call to supper, and obviously they w
ere aware of his predicament.

  “Oh, were I a little bir-r-rd,” sang one of them.

  Jim decided he would make one gigantic bluff. He had been pretty lucky so far. Why not play that to the limit? Whereupon he went to his pack, and taking up his Colt, he aimed steadily at the rope above his head and shot. He cut the rope. As he gasped, the bed-roll fell with a heavy thump. Jim flipped the gun in a way he had learned through a week’s practice, and carelessly tossed it over to his pack. Then approaching the cowboys he said, seriously, “I sure hope none of you hombres make me throw a gun on you.”

  They seemed to be a wide-eyed and stricken group.

  “Boss, I shore ain’t goin’ to do thet little thing,” spoke up Curly.

  So they had to score another for the tenderfoot. That night around the camp fire they were thoughtful, and whispered behind Jim’s back. He went to bed knowing the war was on, and that he was in for utter rout. Ring Locke had said cowboys when pressed would do anything under the sun. Jim had thought it all out, and he could only regulate his conduct according to theirs. The main issue for him was to earn their respect.

  Nothing happened that night nor the next day, but on the following night he was awakened by a terrible crash and jar. He lay there shaking. The stars above showed more numerously. The pine tree must have been struck by lightning, for its branches no longer sheltered him. It had fallen. But there could not have been a stroke of lightning, because the sky gave no sign at all of storm. The cowboys had provided the lightning. Probably they had sawed the tree nearly through during the day, when he was absent, and at night they had pulled it down. The tips of one of the branches lay across Jim’s feet, which he moved after some effort. Nice gentle cowboys! Not for a long while did Jim go to sleep, after that.

  By the end of the week they had finished the drift fence townward to where it joined Traft’s ranch. They had also about finished Jim. Saturday night he spent alone in camp, except for the cook, who plainly showed a solicitude for Jim. Sunday he was to have gone in to see Uncle Jim, but he never left the camp. Late afternoon the cowboys began to straggle back in twos and threes, some of them still pretty drunk. Jim resented that. He watched them come, careful to see who were the sober ones. Bud returned, holding Hack Jocelyn in his saddle; and Curly performed a like office for Cherry Winters. Drink manifestly was Hack’s besetting sin, for he presented a somber and ugly figure. On the other hand, Cherry was funny. Curly handled him roughly, even to tripping him up twice; still in spite of it Cherry succeeded in getting to Jim.

  “Bosh, ish all ri’,” he said, waving a deprecatory hand. “Be’n lookin’ at red eyes, but I’m sober’s jedge. An’ I wanna tell you. Lash night—”

  Curly dragged him away. At sunset Jim took a long walk, which in a way mitigated his mood. The supper gong recalled him. As he neared camp his keen ears caught Curly saying: “Wal, it’s shore eatin’ into my gizzard. I reckon he’s pretty decent, considerin’.”

  “Curly, somethin’ shore is eatin’ you,” returned Hack Jocelyn, sarcastically. “He’s got no kick comin’. Ain’t we buildin’ this drift fence? What the hell!”

  Jim wondered if this talk referred to him or his uncle, and after a moment’s consideration decided it was about himself. Curly, then, as Jim had grasped before, was leaning a little toward championing him. It was the one bright spot in a gloomy weekend.

  On Monday at dawn they broke camp and drove south to the edge of the timber, perhaps another five miles. Here the camp site delighted Jim. It was on a grassy bench just where the pines began, and near a beautiful spring. The bare despoiled land they had traversed was no longer visible. This drive, of course, included the dropping of bales of wire along the way; and that, with the unpacking and making camp, constituted the day’s work.

  At this camp matters came to a pass where Jim grew beside himself with rage. And the incident that capped the climax was where Curly Prentiss, after gradually and perceptibly leaning toward friendship for Jim, suddenly became alienated. Jim laid this to influence of a clique of four in the Diamond outfit, the ringleader being Hack Jocelyn. And it happened that Jim had begun to need some little evidence of reward for his unswerving patience and endurance.

  “Curly,” he said, “you’ve got a saffron streak as wide as the road.”

  “Boss, is thet thar relatin’ to my work on this heah drift fence?” queried Prentiss, with keen glance on two of the cowboys who certainly heard Jim.

  “No. I’m bound to admit you do more than your share,” rejoined Jim.

  “Wal, then, I’m takin’ your remark as personal, an’ if you ain’t just as yellow you’ll step out with me.”

  “Good Heavens, Curly!” ejaculated Jim, wearily. “You wouldn’t make it a matter of guns?”

  “Wal, in this heah country a man has to protect himself.”

  “Ahuh. And how in the hell am I to protect myself from most of this devilish bunch without a friend?” queried Jim, bitterly. “I’ve been banking on you right along. You have helped me a good deal, though you may not know it. I like you. And I swear you were beginning to like me. Then all of a sudden you turn cold and mean.”

  “So that’s why you called me saffron?” asked Prentiss, with curious little flecks of light in his eyes.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Wal, the outfit put it up to me this heah way. They accused me of bein’ friends with you. An’ they made me cut the deck. You or the Diamond.”

  “So that is it,” replied Jim. “I never thought of that. Naturally you’d stick to them.”

  “Shore. An’ I’m demandin’ an apology before the outfit,” said Curly, with the air of one who held a whip hand.

  It was on Jim’s lips, of course, to beg Curly’s pardon, when something perverse prompted him.

  “Suppose I won’t?”

  “Wal, then, as you cain’t stand fer a little gunplay, I’ll have to lick you,” drawled Curly.

  “You’ll have to?”

  “Shore will.”

  “Curly, you couldn’t do that if you tried it every day we are building this fence.”

  This retort, as amazing to Jim as to Curly, came out of the past days of Jim’s turmoil.

  “Mister Traft, I’m shore differin’ with you. An’ I’ll show you pronto.”

  “Well, let’s get the apology over first,” replied Jim, dryly.

  It happened to be just before supper-time and all the boys were there. Jim did not require to be told that they had heard about what he had called Curly.

  “Fellows, I’ve a word to say,” he began, and the slow sly glances he drew made him want to swear at them. “I want to apologize to Curly before you all. I told him he had a streak of saffron. Well, I take it back. And instead of Curly I’ll apply it to those of you who made Curly turn me down. I don’t know who they are, but you know. It is pretty low down. This rotten job I’ve tackled for my uncle has got on my nerves. There’s so much I don’t know. Curly or any one of you could help me. I think he was leaning that way. But you made him quit.”

  Then Jim turned to Curly.

  “There, Mister Prentiss. You politely invited me to a gun party, and then threatened to lick me. But neither of these made me apologize to you. It was because I had done you an injustice. Now I’ll tell you some more before your grinning-ape pards. You can’t lick me. And unless you make a blamed good stab at it right here and now I will say you’re yellow.”

  Curly’s face was more of a study than that of his allies, which certainly presented a good deal in puzzles. But presently at the prospect of a fight long deferred they began to beam.

  “Boss, I reckon your uncle will—” began Bud, conscience-stricken.

  “Shet-up, you durn little crow!” bawled somebody, presumably Hack.

  Lonestar Holliday burst into the circle. “Fellars, heah comes thet Slinger Dunn,” he whispered, warningly.

  CHAPTER

  8

  TWO riders had come out of the woods. They were not cowboys, yet Jim could not in a g
lance determine why he made that distinction. Had it not been for Lonestar Holliday’s announcement and its instant and singular effect upon his comrades, Jim would not have made anything unusual about a visit from strange riders. That had already happened. Nevertheless, as the former horseman halted, Jim modified this opinion.

  The rider looked like an Indian, yet his skin was dark bronze instead of red. His features were shadowed by the brim of an old black sombrero, yet piercing eyes shone out of that obscurity. He wore a buckskin shirt, much the worse for long usage. The rest of his apparel corresponded with any cowboy’s.

  The second stranger was a lean-faced, hard-lipped young man, with eyes that appeared to oscillate like a compass needle.

  Both were mounted on long-haired, ragged, wild-looking horses. The saddles were superb, with long tapa dores. Rifles were slung in saddle sheaths.

  The foremost of these two riders did not greet the Diamond, individually or collectively. And Jim, quick to note this and that none of his men spoke, waived any sort of greeting himself. But he stepped out in front with an air of authority. This placed him somewhat closer to the rider, in a better light, and he looked up into a handsome, still, strange face.

  “You the new boss of this heah Diamond outfit, hey?” inquired the rider, in cool hostility.

  “Yes. I’m supposed to be,” replied Jim, just as coolly.

  “Young Traft, from Mizzourie?”

  “James Traft,” corrected Jim.

  “Howdy, Mister Traft! I shore am glad to meet you,” drawled the rider, without any intimation that he intended to reveal his own name.

  Presently Jim replied. “I can’t return the compliment if you don’t say who you are.”

  Holliday took a couple of slow steps, which placed him beside Jim, an action that somehow thrilled Jim though he might have misunderstood its significance.

  “Boss, it’s Slinger Dunn an’ his pard, Seth Haverly, from the Cibeque,” said Holliday, crisply.

  “Howdy, Lonestar,” returned Dunn.