by Zane Grey
They hailed Cherry on the way out, “You’re helpin’ us split shingles.”
“Who said so?” demanded that worthy, affronted.
“We said so. Orders from the boss.”
It was well that Jim had advised this job, for no sooner had it been completed than the swift-moving clouds rolled up black and the rain poured down in a gray deluge. It rained all day. The cooped-up cowboys talked and played and joked and quarreled. Once Jim heard a thought-provoking speech from Curly, evidently made in deep argument: “Wal, I tell you gazaboos there’s only one man in Arizonie who could fill Jocelyn’s boots on the Diamond.”
Jim saw Molly at meal-times. She had grown shyer as the strain of anxiety lessened. And the cowboys, now that her cause for distress had been removed, began to pay pretty compliments and make sly little speeches and eye her with flirtatious longing. She seemed even shyer with Jim. But he was happy, and when night fell, with the rain teeming down, he could not resist a moment alone with her under the canvas. Slinger, however, was awake, evidently suffering, and cursing Dr. Shields about the limited nips of whisky. Jim could only squeeze Molly’s hand and say goodnight.
It stormed that night, a regular equinoctial gale. The old cabin groaned and threatened to fly away on the wings of the wind. Jim thought there really was risk, for the rafters were heavy. Nevertheless, like the cowboys, he took the risk. It was wonderful to lie snug and warm, however, and listen to the crash and roar of the gale through the forest, and the intermittent and varying spells of rain on the roof. Now and then a faint flash of lightning showed the lashing pines, and dull thunder reverberated across the heavens. Toward morning the fury of the storm abated and it turned cold. When daylight came the sky was fast clearing, the air had a keen cold edge, and the color of the forest had perceptibly changed. There were hints of red in the maples, brown in the oaks, and the aspens showed a splash of gold. The willow leaves were gone. Autumn had come to this low part of the Diamond, and he ventured a guess that winter had laid a white mantle on the high promontories. This caused Jim concern, for he had hoped to get the drift fence finished before the snow fell.
He went outside to wash. The morning was beautiful, with rose and gold clouds skimming the tree tops, and the sky a deep blue. The brook was a rushing torrent of amber water, full of floating aspen leaves, and it was cold enough to make his fingers ache.
He was wiping his face with his scarf when Curly and Bud appeared, each with a rifle and a fine turkey gobbler.
“Mawnin’ boss, did you hev enough sleep?” drawled Curly.
“Boss, you ain’t risin’ with the larks no more,” added Bud, with pretended solicitude. “I hope you’ve no wuss ailment than—”
Jim swore mildly at them. “You went wild-turkey-hunting without taking me! It’s a low-down trick. When I’ve been waiting and longing to go. … I’ll get even with you.”
“Boss, I’m downright sorry,” replied Curly, with profound regret. “But it was dark an’ cold an’ Bud says—”
“Aw, don’t lie it on to me,” interrupted Bud, scornfully. “You know you said, ‘It’ll jest aboot make the boss weep if we waddle in with a couple of turks’.”
“It just has done that,” said Jim.
“Wal, wait till Jeff roasts these young birds!” added Curly. “Boy, yore mouth’ll water so you’ll swear you’ve got dropsy.”
“Ahuh. Do I get to go along next time? Of course there’s a lot of odd jobs around camp—”
Vociferously and in unison Curly and Bud gave remarkable evidence of their regret and how they would make amends that very day.
It turned out that Jim would not leave Molly. Her brother was in agony most of the time, with fever threatening, and not until late did he grow easier. They were all concerned about Slinger, except Curly, who said: “Wal, the third day is the wust. From now on he’ll mend fast.”
Next morning, however, Jim routed Curly and Bud out so early that they could not see even a tree for half an hour.
“Boss, wild turkeys is wild, shore, but they ain’t owls,” complained Bud.
And Curly, loyal as always, vowed that Jim was not going to be permitted to shoot a turkey while still on the roost.
“Thet’s pot-huntin’, boss, an’ not sporty atall.”
“After eating that turkey drumstick last night, I’d perpetrate any kind of a dark deed to get another,” averred Jim.
“Didn’t I tell you? Wal, now don’t talk so much, an’ mebbe, if it ever gits daytime, we’ll see a flock,” rejoined Curly.
Jim, therefore, kept his exuberant spirits under restraint. He noticed, however, that Bud and Curly talked right on as usual, and after a few moments he dryly mentioned the fact.
“Wal, you see, these heah turkeys air used to us cowboys ridin’ around in the woods,” explained Curly. “They know our voices.”
Daylight came, with rosy color and nipping air, with frost like diamonds on the gramma grass, and so quiet that a falling aspen leaf rustled loudly. Evidently they had come up to the head of the park, for they crossed a brook and passed a tumble-down log cabin, where Hack Jocelyn had elected to hide with Molly and wait for the ransom. Curly remarked about how the plans of crooked men went wrong more often than right.
“Flick ought to ride in today,” he added. “He might be cute enough to savvy the way the deal has turned out an’ skedaddle with the money.”
“I don’t believe—” began Jim, when he got a prod from Bud.
“Hist!” he whispered. “Shet up, you elocuteners! Turkey!”
Jim heard the well-known gobble of a turkey, and it certainly resembled that of a tame turkey at home. Bud led the way over a rise of ground, under green and gold aspens into an open glade, wildly closed at its upper end by a confusion of maples, oak, and pines. There were logs on the ground, and one huge pine across them. Something crashed ahead through the brush, snapping twigs. Then came a rap of bone on wood.
“Elk. Never mind him,” whispered Bud. “There! A big gobbler—lookin’ at us.” He forced his rifle into Jim’s eager hands.
“Where? … That thing? It’s a stump.”
“Take a chanct, boss,” said Curly, with a chuckle. “If it’s a stump it ain’t a-goin’ to run. An’ if it’s a turkey, keep on shootin’.”
“Aim low an’ be quick,” added Bud.
“But I tell you that thing is a black stump,” remonstrated Jim, always and forever looking for tricks from these boys.
“Honest to Gawd, boss, it’s a turk,” appealed Bud.
“Well, to please you. But I know it’s a stump. I can see,” replied Jim, and he leveled the rifle and fired. To his utter consternation the motionless stump turned into the most magnificent bird he had ever seen. It ran swift as a deer. It thumped the ground. It was black and bronze, with a wonderful speckled tail, like an immense fan.
“Stump, huh? Why didn’t you peg him while he was runnin’?” queried Bud.
“Gosh! I forgot I had a gun. What a sight! Say, that wasn’t a turkey, but an ostrich!”
“Wal, it was shore a rotten shot,” said Curly. “But he didn’t scare the flock. … See them scratchin’ over heah—under the jackpines?”
Jim did see them and grew wildly excited. It was an enormous flock, some of which exhibited signs of nervousness.
“Duck now, an’ crawl after me,” whispered Bud, getting down on his knees. “They’ve seen or heerd us, but we’ll get a shot if we’re smart. … Now boss, don’t crawl like a elephant with a broken laig.”
Jim did not see anything but grass and leaves, the ground, logs, and tree trunks for several strenuous moments. But he heard turkeys gobble, and then, close at hand: put-put, put-put-put.
“Damn!” swore Bud. “It’s always the hens thet bust up everythin’. … 0 Lord! hyar they come. … Now stand up an’ shoot.”
Jim got to his feet and certain was it that he shook. The great black and bronze gobblers, the sleek, smaller, less conspicuous hens, were coming under the scrub pines, out
into the open. They no longer resembled tame turkeys. The huge-breasted gobblers, with their long beards, their stately nodding walk, suddenly halted. Jim picked out one that looked as high as a church and pulled the trigger.
Then ensued a terrible crashing, buffeting, roaring mêlée. The turkeys burst into united action. A dozen or more launched themselves marvelously into the air, and flew as swiftly as quail, only with tremendous flapping of wings, right at Jim. But most of the flock ran. Jim shot at this one and that one. He could not get the bead on them. How they ran! Curly was yelling and shooting. Bud was shooting and yelling. Turkeys darted right between them, here, there, everywhere. Jim kept working the lever of the rifle, aiming and firing. Then the uproar ceased. Jim stood holding a hot rifle, looking bewildered, while his two companions held their sides.
“Dog-gone!” gasped Curly, as soon as he could speak.
“They shore stampeded us. Boss, about how many did you knock?”
“Gosh! I never touched a feather, that I could see. Oh, it was wonderful! … But why in the dickens didn’t you prepare me for such a charge?”
“Boss, I know turkeys orful well, but I didn’t hev this bunch figgered,” said Bud. “Didn’t you plug one?”
Jim shook his head sorrowfully. “I’m as bum a hunter—as—as everything else.”
“How many times did you shoot?”
“I don’t know. … The gun’s empty.”
“Gee whiz! So ’tis. It had ten shells in the magazine, one in the barrel. Countin’ thet stump thet wus a turkey, you’ve shot eleven times.”
“Good Lord! I must have. But didn’t you boys shoot a lot, too?”
“I picked out a buster an’ lambasted him,” replied Bud, laconically.
“Boss, I shore hated to break in on you,” added Curly. “But I seen you was shootin’ over their haids an’ between their laigs, so I jest had to pulverize one fer supper. You ought to hev heahed him hit the ground. Sounded like a bull.”
Bud walked across logs and grass and picked up a beautiful hen turkey. Curly went somewhat farther in the opposite direction and picked up a gobbler that dragged head and wings on the ground. Both cowboys returned with much pride and sang-froid, to lay their quarry at Jim’s feet.
“Plumb center, mine,” said Bud.
“Boss, I always hit turkeys in the neck,” said Curly. “You see thet shot doesn’t spoil any meat. I always pick out a turkey either runnin’ toward me or away from me, straight. You cain’t hit one of them runnin’ crossways or even quarterin’.”
“It was a great shot, Curly,” replied Jim, admiringly. The big gobbler was a rare specimen of the finest game bird, glistening, purple and black, bronze-flecked and white, with plenty of red-brown. And heavy—Jim could hardly lift him.
“Boss, your shootin’ can be improved on a little,” said Curly, seriously. “If we’d get holed up by the Cibeque bunch, as might have happened, or by thet Hash Knife outfit, which is shore goin’ to come off an’ be wuss, wal, I’d hate to have my life dependin’ on you.”
“So would I, Curly,” replied Jim, very sober and self-accusing.
“Wal, let’s mozey back to camp. You practice all day, shootin’, an’ we’ll try again tomorrow.”
Upon returning to camp the excitement of the hunt was dispelled by an astonishing fact. Boyd Flick had ridden into camp with the ransom money, which he was glad indeed to get rid of, and he and the other three members of the Cibeque were packing to leave.
“Traft, it wasn’t no deal of mine,” said Flick, frankly. “But I don’t need to tell you thet. Jocelyn had us all buffaloed. I’m glad Slinger croaked him an’ thet the Cibeque is done fer.”
They had breakfast with Jim’s party, bade them and Slinger good-by, and rode away into the forest, manifestly glad to get off so easily with whole skins.
Some time after they had gone and camp life had resumed normality, Molly called Jim, “You come heah.” She led him around the cabin, out of sight of the others. Jim’s instant perturbation subsided when he saw that she was smiling, though her gold-black eyes were full of fire.
“The sons-of-guns! Devils!” she exclaimed.
“Who?”
“Curly an’ Bud. All of the bunch. Listen heah. I happened to be near when Bud an’ Curly got Lonestar an’ Cherry behind the corner of the cabin there. I could tell they were up to some mischief, so I listened. Heah’s what Bud said: ‘Fellars, it’s so darn good I near bust waitin’ a chance to tell you. Me an’ Curly took Jim huntin” (they always call you Jim behind your back, an’ I shore like thet), ’an’ soon’s it got daylight we seen a gobbler as big as a hill. Jim swore it was a stump. But we made him shoot. Laws! he was funny when thet stump ran off like a wild steer. We located the flock an’ sneaked up on them. Say, it couldn’t hev worked out any better if we’d had a deal with them gobblers. They got skeered an’ come at us. I said to Jim, stand up an’ shoot. He did an’ then hell busted loose. Me an’ Curly turned loose our artillery an’ let go all we had. I even took a peg with my six-gun. Neither of us so much as winged one of them turks. But Jim killed two—them we fetched in. Thet gobbler will weigh thirty-five pounds. Only we seen pronto thet Jim reckoned he’d missed. Never touched a feather, he said, an’ was shore down in the mouth. Curly gives me the wink an’ so we hands Jim a deal. Curly an’ me only shot one each, an’ as a matter of course downed a turk. Curly enlarged on how he always picked one out comin’ or goin’ straight, an’ shot him in the neck. Kin you beat thet, boys? My Gawd! … Wal, Jim swallered the whole deal. He was shore nice aboot it, an’ grateful to me an’ Curly, an’ as humble as pie. … My land! nuthin’ we ever did tickled us so much!’”
Molly paused a moment breathlessly, her eyes alight. “An’ Jim, the devils doubled up like poisoned coyotes, an’ howled an’ yowled, an’ rolled over on the ground.”
Jim surely wanted to howl and yowl himself, but he limited himself to jumping up and down in mingled rage and mirth. Then he vented it in all the language he dared use before Molly.
“Aren’t they maddenin’?” she asked. “But, Jim, they’re strong for you, an’ I cain’t help lovin’ them.”
“Neither can I, only, Molly, I’ve got to have revenge for that—or die,” he declared.
“You bet. An’ I’ll help you. Heah’s an idea, Jim. These two boys cain’t hunt wild turkeys. They don’t know the least bit aboot it. Now I do. Slinger taught me. I could call turkeys before I was ten.”
“Call? What do you mean by that?”
“I can call them right up to you, so you can knock them over with a stick, almost. I’ve done it a thousand times.”
“But how do you call them?”
“With a turkey-caller. We make that out of a wing bone. But I can call with a hollow weed, too. I’ll show you an’ teach you. Heah’s my plan. You tell Curly an’ Bud you think they’re not so good, after all, an’ you’re goin’ with me to kill a few turkeys. Then we’ll go, several mawnin’s an’ evenin’s, too. I like sundown best. We’ll fetch turkeys in. An’ after we get a dozen or so you can say to Curly an’ Bud: ‘Boys, I quit huntin’ with you, ’cause when I killed turkeys you lied an’ swore you did it. That mawnin’ when you claimed the big gobbler an’ hen—all the time I knew. All the time I was shore of your low-down trick!’”
“Great! Wonderful!” exclaimed Jim, beside himself with the joy of such a double prospect. “Molly, darling, run or I’ll hug you right here.”
She ran, laughing over her shoulder.
CHAPTER
23
WHEN Jim dryly remarked to the cowboys that he guessed he would not hunt with them any more, they looked nonplused and then blank. And he realized that if Molly could live up to her part of the program, he would crush the tricksters forever.
That morning, too, Dunn showed a decided turn for the better, and Jim, losing all his misgivings, was happy for Molly. She loved this backwoods brother and had faith in him. Jim generously waived the ambush on the trail and the rooster trick t
o which Slinger had treated him, and vowed he would share Molly’s faith. Long before that he had decided to reward Slinger for saving his life.
The atmosphere of the camp grew merry, with only one drawback now, and that was the failure of Hump Stevens and Uphill Frost to arrive. Jim grasped that the cowboys were concealing anxiety from him, if not more. To his queries, Curly made evasive answers. But there was a cloud in the cowboy’s flashing blue eyes, and Jim read its portent. He decided to send Jackson Way and Cherry Winters to Tobe’s Well to ascertain if the missing cowboys were there. If they would only come in, or if news arrived that they were safe, Jim felt that he would be happy, and could even face that grim old Westerner who had entrusted him with such responsibility.
There were only two rifles in camp and they belonged to Curly and Bud.
“You boys don’t need to go hunting, anyway,” said Jim, as he appropriated the rifles and all the shells in sight. “Considering how many thousand turkeys you’ve killed, Bud, and how many you, Curly, have shot through the neck, running at you, there certainly shouldn’t be any excitement left in it for you. So just think of me, going out with Molly, after wild turkeys!”
That last thrust was almost revenge enough, Jim thought. Still, after a moment’s recall of past suffering, he steeled his heart. Supper was had at four o’clock, after which he started off with Molly, scarcely able to contain himself. And after he got out of sight of camp he no longer did.
“Jim, are we goin’ huntin’ or makin’ love?” queried Molly.
“Can’t we do both?”
“No. If you keep on huggin’ me an’ kissin’ my ear—how am I to heah turkeys, let alone call them? … If you must make love, let’s set right down under this spruce an’ do it.”
“Oh, Molly Dunn!” cried Jim, in the throes of temptation he knew he must resist. How bewildering she was! Her simplicity sometimes stunned him. He divined that his reward would be infinitely greater if he let her take her own time to respond to him.
