The Drift Fence

by Zane Grey

  Jim caught the tail end of a speech that drew him up, strong and sharp. He dropped his string of trout. In a few strides he was upon Jocelyn, and with hard hand jerked him round.

  “Were you speaking of Molly Dunn?” he demanded.

  “Wal, if it’s any of your—mix, yes, I was,” returned Jocelyn, deliberately, and the way he squared himself and dropped his right hand to his side was not to be overlooked. Only he had forgotten that his gun hung in his belt over the pommel of his saddle.

  “Jocelyn, you’re fired,” rang out Jim.

  “Nope. Beat you to it, Traft. I quit” replied Jocelyn.

  “When?”

  “Wal, if I recollect, it was yestiddy.”

  “All right. Get out of my camp. You can’t even eat here.”

  “Traft, thet ain’t Western—to send a man out hungry,” said Jocelyn, darkly.

  “Is it Western to speak vilely of a girl?” flashed Jim, hotly.

  “Depends on thet gurl, Mister Traft.”

  “Jocelyn, what you said may be true, though, by God! I think you’re a liar! One way or another you’re a dirty skunk!”

  Then Jim lunged out with all the fury of might and grief. His big fist covered one of Jocelyn’s malignant eyes. The cowboy fell over the bench, knocking Winters down. Jim leaped after them, and plunged upon Jocelyn, to kick him fiercely, and then fall on him like a battering-ram.

  Curly was the first to leap and grasp Jim. But he could do nothing.

  “Help, somebody!” he yelled. “Bulldog him, Bud! … There! … Why, boss, shore you’d killed the fellar. Come now. … You shore lost your temper.”

  Between them they dragged Jim off the bloody-faced Jocelyn, who sat up groggily.

  “Some of you—lead him out of—camp,” panted Jim, struggling for breath. “Then come back for his horse and pack. … And his wages, too.”

  Jim turned away unsteadily, with Bud still holding his arm. “Let go!” growled Jim, roughly. “Or I’ll biff you one.”

  “Boss, I ain’t fit to face my Maker jest yet,” drawled Bud, complying with this command.

  They crossed to where Jim had his bed and pack. “Fetch my bag, the one I keep my money in,” said Jim, as he sat down. He was visibly shaking and the sweat dropped from his face. Bud brought out the little bag and opened it.

  “Wal, I don’t see how we could hev avoided thet, boss,” he said, resignedly, shaking his head.

  “Avoid hell!—Ought to have jumped him long ago.” Jim looked at his big, dirty, red-stained hands. “Get out the money, Bud. … Let’s see. I’ll pay him the month out.”

  “Pay him nuthin’ you don’t owe,” declared Bud, carefully calculating and counting out the amount due. “I’ll give it to Cherry an’ let him hand it over.”

  Jim did not look up from the ground until he had recovered his balance. Jocelyn had evidently been led off into the woods, for Cherry appeared to be following with his horse and Hump Stevens with his pack. They disappeared. Whereupon Curly and Bud returned to Jim.

  “Best job fer the Diamond in six years.” said Bud.

  “Ahuh. But bad fer the boss, Bud,” added Curly, gravely.

  “Boys, I couldn’t stand him any longer, I couldn’t,” broke out Jim, spreading wide his hands.

  “Shore you couldn’t. But Jocelyn will never get over thet. I don’t mean the lickin’, though you near busted him. It’s what you called him an’ orderin’ him out of camp. Thet’ll go over the range. It’ll aboot make Hack Jocelyn an outlaw.”

  “I’m not sorry. I suppose he’ll kill me, but I couldn’t have done otherwise.”

  “Wal, Jim, it’s done,” rejoined Curly. “He’s shore slated fer wuss company. I’ll bet my spurs Slinger Dunn will kill him. But the thing fer you to make up your mind aboot is—if you ever meet Jocelyn ag’in, no matter where, grab your gun an’ begin to shoot. Savvy?”

  “Boss, will you promise to do thet little trick?” asked Bud, just as earnestly as Curly had spoken.

  “Yes, boys, I promise,” replied Jim.

  “Fine an’ dandy,” declared Curly. “You’re no slouch with a gun an’ Hack ain’t so much. It’d been plumb murder fer me to draw on him. But the chances are slim you’ll ever meet up with Jocelyn alone. If he gets in the Cibeque an’ Slinger Dunn stands fer it—which I’ll gamble he won’t—he’ll be jumpin’ out of the fryin’-pan into the fire. Jocelyn is only another cowpuncher thet’s gone to the bad. I’ve seen a lot of them. The Cibeque will be the wuss off with Jocelyn. They’ll cut our fence an’ rustle our stock. An’, boss, if you don’t hold the Diamond back, every damn one of thet two-bit outfit will be daid or in jail before the snow flies.”

  “Boss,” added Bud, impressively, “Curly an’ I know right now thet the Haverlys are cuttin’ our fence an’ rustlin’ our cattle. We didn’t ride down to West Fork fer nothin’.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Wal, you had trouble enough. An’ we reckoned we’d keep it as long as we could.”

  “If you give me proofs I—I’ll not hold the Diamond back,” declared Jim, and probably that decision marked the West claiming him for its own.

  “Wal, we cain’t lay a hand on proof jest this minnit, but it’ll shore come,” replied Bud.

  The Diamond operated out of that camp until wagon loads of fresh supplies and more wire arrived from Flagerstown. Then they pushed on to Tobe’s Well, which was the end of the road. Thereafter all transports had to be packed on horseback.

  Each succeeding camp site had added something to Jim’s appreciation of Arizona; and Tobe’s Well outdid them all.

  Tobe, an obscure bear-hunter, had long ago built a log shack there, after which the canyon and the bubbling well of crystal spring water had taken his name. The situation was wholly different from the other camp settings. The canyon headed on the west slope of the Diamond, in a deep bottlenecked, gray-cliffed gorge. The floor consisted of several acres of cleared land and as much more in pine and spruce. The well was a huge spring at the upper end of the clearing and the wonderful flow of water boiled and bubbled up in the center. Under a magnificent spruce, the dead top of which tipped the rimwall above, stood the old log shack in ruins. There were several outlets to this miniature lake, little rivulets that wound away under grass and fern-bordered banks to merge into one stream in the center of the gorge. Soon it gathered velocity and plunged with low roar through the canyon neck, thereafter to fall precipitously down to the Cibeque. Giant pines and spruces stood far apart around the well, too lordly and self-contained to mingle branches or shade. White and purple asters gold daisies and blue flags waved in the summer wind. Birds and squirrels appeared tame and friendly. A herd of deer, does and fawns, stood with ears erect to watch the wagons roll clatteringly in at the rocky gateway.

  “Boss, this heah is one waterhole you cain’t fence off the Diamond,” declared Curly, with a chuckle.

  And indeed it seemed imperative to run the drift fence considerably below the gateway. Tobe’s Canyon was one of the brakes of the Cibeque, not so large and open as the Sycamore, or Deer or Long Horn Canyons. It was however, a big country in itself, extremely wild and rugged up on the slope of the Diamond, and a noted place for bear and lion. The cattle that drifted down Tobe’s Canyon had never been recovered by their owners.

  “I’m going to have my fall hunt right here,” declared Jim.

  “Wal, heah’s a gent who’d like to chop wood an’ pack water fer you.” said Curly.

  “An’, boss, if I do say it myself, I can cook rings around Jeff,” added Bud, eagerly.

  “You’re both on,” replied Jim, gladly.

  “But, Lord! we’re forgettin’,” went on Curly. “We won’t hev the fence up by October, an’ if we do get it up it’ll only go down ag’in. … An’ then we’ll be huntin’ wire-cutters an’ cattle thieves.”

  On the second day at Tobe’s Well the drift fence was run below and around this famous waterhole and back up on the Diamond.

  Jim had a ra
ther uneasy conscience. Tobe’s Well lay below the rim, and there was no other water close either to the north or south. Of course all the water from the well ran on down the mountain and cattle west of the fence could find it. But somehow the thing did look as if he was fencing off a waterhole. And he ventured to ask Curly what he thought the West Forkers would say about it.

  “Aw, hell, let ’em drink whisky,” declared Curly. “Boss, you’re too turrible conscientious. Our side will say we’re savin’ the drift of cattle. Their side will say we’re fencin’ off grass an’ water. It’s nip an’ tuck. But wait till you heah some bullets hissin’ past your ear!”

  The sixth day from that fell to Jim as his turn for the scout duty he had initiated. He had saddled and mounted while yet the others were at breakfast.

  “Boss, how fur do you aim to ride back along the line?” asked Bud.

  “I’ll make for Sycamore, strike the fence, and work this way,” replied Jim.

  “Wal, keep your eye peeled,” said Curly, gruffly.

  Jim rode out of the canyon and up to the rim above, from which he gazed down with a stinging sensation of pleasure at the wild camp site, the does and fawns grazing with the horses, the blue column of smoke curling upward, and at the circle of cowboys round the fire.

  Lonestar’s mellow voice floated up: “Oh, I am a Texas cowboy, jest off the Texas plains. My trade is cinchin’ saddles—”

  Jim wheeled his horse off into the pines, conscious that his full heart could not quite attain the joy of realization. He loved the West; he was proving his mettle to his uncle and his father; he had begun to fit in with these elemental, dare-devil cowboys; he liked life in the open and the wild. But he could not rid himself of the pang and oppression in his breast, of the persistence of a bitter sickening doubt and regret. Long weeks, even months, had not killed his love for Molly Dunn. Time and thought, long hours in the lonely nights and bitter reflection, had proved to Jim that the one constant, ever-growing thing had been love. Some day before long he would ride down to West Fork and see Molly Dunn. See for himself what she was and if there was not reason for his blind faith!

  So his thoughts came and went, repeated themselves and augmented, while he rode through the forest. There was no trail, but he had his direction and knew he could not miss Sycamore. Cattle were numerous and many of them wild. He saw not only unbranded calves and heifers, but two-year-old steers. And he remarked this as something against the large cattleman. It could do no less than tempt the little stockmen and the homesteaders of something morally dishonest, if not so according to range law. And once a man had stolen unbranded cattle, he was on the down grade. This was Jim’s personal conviction. Curly Prentiss would argue, “Wal, how do I know this heah unbranded calf ain’t mine?” Jim had to concede the point, but he thought it could become far-fetched. The free range and mixed cattle were mistakes. Jim, however, admitted he could not see any remedy at present. The drift fence was a start.

  Arriving at Sycamore, he rode west a short distance until he came to the fence, when he turned south to follow it. He walked his horse, keeping back a few rods, and he peered ahead with keen eyes. He covered several miles in this cautious manner and came out on the bank of a swampy swale, from which water drained down into Rocky Canyon. Aspen thickets, clumps of new spruce and pine, filled the head of this canyon. Cattle were drifting down.

  Jim found the fence down in a section clear across this gateway to the brakes. He really had not expected to find a cut, and hard on his surprise and dismay roused his slumbering wrath.

  He proceeded, though less cautiously, with his rifle across the pommel. And along toward noon he rode down the wooded slope under Tobe’s Well. Cattle were working down here, too. Not drifting! Jim prepared himself for another surprise. The bottle-neck width of Tobe’s Canyon had been sheared of its wire fence. A clean-cut job it was, every wire strand having been cut on each side of trees and posts.

  Jim descried fresh hoof tracks in the dim, seldom-used trail. Such was his wrath now that he followed them, keeping on the grass and under the pines where his horse walked quietly. Once the animal neighed, much to Jim’s annoyance. That worried Jim, but did not deter him. And as he worked down, keeping intense vigilance on all sides, he could scarcely fail of impressions as to the wildness of Tobe’s Canyon.

  His intent was to trail this fence-cutter clear to his hole, wherever that was; and Jim’s excitement kept him from realizing the miles he descended, until he got down on comparative level, in the midst of a most beautiful forest of spruce and pine. Few indeed were the open glades and aisles. He heard cattle or elk breaking sticks back of the trail; the black squirrels and blue jays noisily resented his presence; he saw a squirrel-hawk flash down through an opening and crash into a tree, to flop violently and fly off, clutching a furry victim in his claws. That was a near bit of cruel nature to Jim.

  Suddenly his horse elevated his ears and stopped. The trail ran straight for twenty paces, and turned at a huge brown pine. A man stepped out, silent as a shadow. Jim recognized the lithe buckskin-clad form, the dark face, the eyes like holes that exposed fire behind. He leveled a gun, took deliberate aim, while Jim froze in his saddle.

  He saw red belch from the gun. A sharp impact as from a violent gust of wind struck him. Then a terrific shock, a tearing rent of flesh, a thundering crash! Jim’s horse plunged to throw him.

  CHAPTER

  15

  VIOLENT collision with ground or tree ended Jim’s acute consciousness. His first sensations afterward were the chill of water on his face and a burning pain in his breast. Then he felt hands on his forehead.

  He forced his weighted eyelids open, to see bright sunshine and spread of foliage over him. He lay half sitting up against a log. Beside him knelt a girl. She uttered a broken cry.

  “Oh—Mister Traft—you’ve come to!” she exclaimed, huskily.

  “Molly Dunn!” Jim’s voice was not very strong. She straightened up a little so the light struck her face. It appeared pale and convulsed, with big dark eyes dilated in horror. Both her little hands were red with blood. This fully clarified Jim’s stunned faculties. “Am I bad hurt?”

  “Oh—I don’t know! I—I’m afraid!” she cried.

  “Show me where I’m shot.”

  “Your breast … heah!”

  Jim’s shirt was open. Even with the girl’s help it took nerve to feel for the wound. His whole breast burned. A wet scarf lay pressed tight over his heart. Warm slippery blood! It had saturated his clothes. It was flowing freely. Then his fingers located a hole in his flesh that seemed on fire. Despite the shock to his wits Jim knew he had not been shot through or near the heart. The bullet hole ranged upwards. Had it missed his lungs? The moment was fraught with terror. And as he felt of it he was gazing up into the strained eyes of the girl. He localized the sharpest pain higher up. The bullet had come out on top of his left shoulder. From here the blood poured. Something cold and ghastly released its clutch upon Jim.

  “Bullet—glanced,” he muttered. Then he asked if there was any other wound.

  “Molly, I’ll not die,” he said.

  “You hit on your haid,” replied the girl.

  “Thank God!—I was so terribly frightened. What can I do?

  “You had water here?”

  “I filled your hat in the brook.”

  “Tear this scarf in strips,” directed Jim. “You’ll find a clean one in my pocket. … Inside. … Now tear that—and fold into pads. You’ve only to wash off the blood—and bind the pads on tight.”

  She complied with his instructions, without hesitation, though her hands shook.

  “But this top hole! You’re bleedin’ so! Fast as I wipe the blood off—”

  “Put one of the pads over it. Press tight. Now I’ll hold it there. … Knot the strips. … Slip under my arm—over my shoulder. Now the other pad … and tie tight.”

  The difficult task was at length accomplished. Molly sat back on her heels, plainly weak. Tiny drops like dew
stood out upon her forehead. Her hair was wet. She made a move to brush it back from her face, then, aware of her bloody hands, she essayed to do it with her elbow, holding them out so as to avoid contact.

  “Molly Dunn, you’ve got my blood on your hands —all right,” said Jim, with significance.

  But it escaped her. “I shore have—and it sickens me,” she whispered. Then pouring water from his sombrero she washed them, and wiped them upon the grass.

  Jim felt faint, and he was suffering severe pain, both of which in the thrilling agitation of the moment seemed nothing to be concerned about.

  “I must get you back off the trail heah,” she spoke up, suddenly.

  “Yes. If you help me I can manage,” he replied. With her assistance he labored to his feet and walked, leaning on her. For a little girl she certainly was strong. They seemed to go far. Jim grew dizzy. He heard running water, but could not see it. Blurred spruce trees stood up all around. His head swam, and when the girl stopped to let him down it was none too soon for Jim. He spoke, but apparently she did not hear. Then his sight cleared. She was coming with water in his sombrero.

  “You aboot fainted that time, Mister Jim,” she said, lifting his head so he could drink.

  “I—should—smile,” whispered Jim, as he lay back. Presently he had recovered again, not only to the mounting pains, but to a thrilling sense of this extraordinary situation.

  “What—happened?” he asked.

  “Shore a lot,” she replied, mournfully.

  “Do you know who shot me?” he went on.

  She hung her head.

  You needn’t tell me. I know it was your brother, Slinger Dunn. … He stepped out from behind a tree … didn’t seem in any hurry. But I was paralyzed. I forgot I had a gun.”

  “It’s beyond me—that you’re alive. Oh, I’m thankful.”

  “But what’ll we do?”

  Jim felt the lump over his breast where the lower pad had been bound. It was right under his shirt pocket over his heart. His finger located the bullet hole in his shirt and at the same instant his watch.