by Zane Grey
“Say, you Missouri hayseed, can’t you see my feet?” he demanded.
“I could if I’d looked. They’re big enough,” retorted Catlee. “I ain’t wonderin’ you have such a care of them.”
“Ain’t you? Shore I’d like to know why?” queried Pruitt.
“I reckon what little brains you’ve got are in them.”
“You damn’ Yank!” ejaculated the little Rebel, as amazed as enraged. “I’ve shot men for less’n thet.”
“Reckon you have,” rejoined Catlee with slow cool sarcasm. “But in the back! An’ I’m lookin’ at you.”
There was not the slightest doubt of Catlee’s emergence from the character of a stolid dull teamster into something incalculably otherwise. Jett rolled out his loud harsh laughter. It amused him, this revolt of the stupid farmer. Likewise it showed his subtle change. Was there reason for him to invite antagonism among his men? Assuredly there was strong antagonism toward him. Follonsbee gazed in genuine amaze at Catlee, and slowly nodded his lean buzzard-like head, as if he had before in his life seen queer things in men. As for the fiery little Rebel, he was instantly transformed, in his attitude toward Catlee, from a man who had felt a raw irritation, to one who hated and who doubted. However Follonsbee read the erstwhile Missouri farmer, Pruitt got only so far as a cold and waking doubt. Enmity was thus established and it seemed to be Pruitt’s natural mental attitude, and to suit Catlee better than friendliness.
Molly heard and saw this by-play from the shadow beyond the campfire circle. If that were Catlee’s answer to her appeal, it was a change, sudden and bewildering. The thrill she sustained was more like a shudder. In that moment she sensed a far-reaching influence, a something which had to do with future events. Catlee stalked off into the gloom of the cottonwoods, where he had made his bed.
“Rand, are you sure thet feller is what you said he was . . . a Missouri farm hand, tired of workin’ for nothin’?” demanded Follonsbee.
“Hank, I ain’t sure of anythin’ an’ I don’t give a whoop,” replied the leader.
“Thet’s natural for you,” said the other with sarcasm. “You don’t know the West as I know it. Catlee struck me queer. . . . When he called Pruitt, so cool-like, I had come to mind men of the Cole Younger stripe. If so. . . .”
“Aw, if nothin’,” cut in Pruitt. “Jett spoke my sentiments aboot our Yankee pard. It riles me to think of him gettin’ a share of our hide money.”
Jett coughed, an unusual thing for him to do. “Who said Catlee got a share?” he queried gruffly.
Follonsbee lifted his lean head to peer at the leader. Pruitt, who was sitting back to a stump, his distorted face gleaming red in the campfire light, moved slowly forward to gaze in turn. Both men were silent; both of them questioned with their whole bodies. But Jett had no answers. He calmly lit his pipe and flipped the match into the fire.
“Shore, now I tax myself, I can’t remember that anybody said Catlee got a share,” replied Pruitt, with deliberation. “But I thought he did. An’ I know Hank thought so.”
“I’d have gambled on it,” said Follonsbee.
“Catlee gets wages, that’s all,” asserted the leader.
“Ahuh! An’ who gets his share of the hide money?” demanded Pruitt.
“I do,” rejoined Jett shortly.
“Jett, I’m tellin’ you that’s in line with our holdin’ out money for supplies at Sprague,” said Follonsbee earnestly. “You was to furnish outfit, grub, everythin’, an’ share even with all of us, includin’ your woman. You got your share, an’ her share, an’ now Catlee’s share.”
“I’m willin’ to argue it with you, but not on an equal divvy basis.”
There followed a long silence. The men smoked. The fire burned down, so that their faces were but pale gleams. Molly sought her bed, which she had made in the wagon. Jett had sacrificed tents to make room for equal weight of buffalo hides. He had unrolled his blankets under the wagon, where the sullen woman had repaired soon after dark. Molly took off her boy’s shoes, and folded the coat for a pillow, then, slipping under the blankets, she stretched out, glad for the relief.
How different, lying under the open starry sky! She liked it. The immense blue dome was alight, mysterious, beautiful, comforting. Molly said her short prayer, childish and loyal, somehow more than ever helpful on this eventful night. Often, before she had met the Hudnalls and Tom Doan, she had omitted that little prayer, but never since she had learned from them the meaning of friendship and love.
The night was warm; the leaves of the cottonwoods nearby rustled softly in the breeze; insects were chirping, and a night bird was uttering plaintive notes.
Jett, Follonsbee, and Pruitt remained around the campfire quarrelling in low voices, and that sound was the last Molly heard as slumber claimed her.
* * * * *
Molly’s eyes opened to the bright light of day, and pale-blue sky seemed canopied over her. Not the canvas roof of her tent! Where was she? The smell of cottonwood smoke brought her with surging shock to realization. Then Jett’s harsh voice, that had always made her shrink with fear, now brought a creeping fire along her veins.
She lay a moment longer, calling to the spirit that had awakened last night, and it augmented while she seemed to grow strangely older. She would endure; she would fight; she would think. So that when she presented herself at the campfire, she was outwardly a quiet, obedient, impassive girl, inwardly a cunning daring woman.
Not half a dozen words were spoken around that breakfast canvas. Jett rushed the tasks. Sunrise shone on the three wagons moving south at a brisk trot.
Molly had asked Catlee to fix her a comfortable place in the back of Jett’s wagon. He had done so, adding of his own accord an improvised sun shade of canvas. She had watched him from the wagon seat, hoping he would speak to her or look at her in a way that would confirm her hopes. But the teamster was silent, and kept his head lowered. Nevertheless, Molly did not regard his taciturnity as unfavorable to her. There had been about Catlee, last night when he had muttered—So that’s how a good girl feels.—a something which spoke to Molly’s intuition. She could not prove anything. But she felt. This man would befriend her. A subtle perhaps unconscious influence was working on his mind. It was her presence, her plight, her appeal.
Molly thought of a thousand plans to escape, to get word to Doan, to acquaint buffalo hunters with the fact of her being practically a prisoner, to betray that Jett was a hide thief. Nothing definitely clear and satisfactory occurred to her. But the fact of her new knowledge of Jett stood out tremendously. It was an infallible weapon to employ, if the right opportunity presented. But a futile attempt at that would result fatally for her. Jett would most surely kill her.
It seemed to Molly, as she revolved in mind plan after plan, that the wisest thing to do would be to play the submissive slave to Jett until he reached the end of the drive south, and there to persuade Catlee to take her at once to Hudnall’s camp, where she would betray Jett. If Catlee would not help her, then she must go alone, or, failing that, wait for Tom Doan to find her.
Before the morning was far advanced Jett gave wide berth to an oncoming outfit. Molly did not know of this until unusual jolting caused her to rise to her knees and look out. Jett had driven off the main road, taking a low place where other drivers had made short cuts. Four freight wagons, heavily loaded with hides, were passing quite some distance to the right. The foremost team of horses were white. Molly thought she recognized them as Hudnall’s. Her heart rushed to her lips. But she had seen many white teams and all of them had affected her that way. If she leaped out and ran to find she was mistaken, she would lose every chance she had. Besides, as she gazed, she imagined she was wrong. So with a deep sigh she dropped back to her seat.
The hours passed quickly. Molly pondered until she was weary, then fell asleep, and did not awaken until another camp was reached. And the first words she heard were Jett’s, speaking to Follonsbee, as he drove up abreast the leader: “Wasn’t
that Hudnall’s outfit we passed?”
“First two teams was,” replied Follonsbee. “That young skinner of Hudnall’s was leadin’ an’ that ugly-face cuss was drivin’ the second team. I didn’t know the other outfits.”
Molly had to bite her lips to repress a scream. Jett was clamoring down from the seat above. The woman, grumbling under her breath, threw out the canvas bags of utensils that clinked on the ground. Molly hid her face as Mrs. Jett descended from the seat. Then, for a moment, she shook like a leaf with the violence of her emotions. So near Tom! Not to see his face! It was heart-rending. She lay prostrate with her mind in a whirl. Of the many thoughts one returned—that Tom would reach Sprague’s Post next day and get her letter. That thought had strength to impart. He would lose no time following, perhaps would catch up with Jett before he got to the Pease River, and if not then, soon afterward. This sustained her in a moment when otherwise she would have gone mad.
The weakness passed, leaving her somewhat thick-witted, so that, as she climbed out of the wagon, she nearly fell, and later her clumsiness at the assigned camp tasks fetched a reprimand from Mrs. Jett. Soon the men were back from attending to the horses, and this evening they were hungry. Meeting outcoming freighters with buffalo hides had for the moment turned the minds of Jett and his two lieutenants from their differences.
“How many hides in them outfits?” queried Jett.
“It weren’t a big haul,” replied Follonsbee.
“Shore was big enough to make us turn off the road,” said Pruitt meaningly.
Jett glared at him. Then Catlee drawled: “Funny they didn’t see us. But we went down on our side some. That first driver was Hudnall’s man, Tom Doan.”
“Ahuh. Well, suppose it was?” returned Jett, nonplussed at this remark from the habitually unobserving Catlee.
“Nothin’. I just recognized him,” replied Catlee casually, as he lowered his eyes.
When he raised them, a moment later, to look across the canvas supper cloth at Molly, she saw them as never before, sharp as a dagger, with a single bright gleam. He wanted her to know that he had seen Tom Doan. Molly dropped her own gaze, and she spilled a little of her coffee. She dared not trust her flashing interpretation of this man’s glance. It seemed like gleam of lightning from what had hitherto been dead as ashes. Was this Catlee what he seemed? She doubted that, and her sensitive conclusions. It was wrong to allow emotions to sway her judgments. Yet Catlee’s reaction was only a stronger suggestion of the subtlety she had felt in him. Thereafter he paid no attention to her, nor any of the others, and, upon finishing the meal and attending to his chore of cutting firewood, he vanished.
Jett and his two disgruntled men took up their quarrel, and spent a long, noisy, angry hour around the campfire.
* * * * *
The next day came and passed as swiftly, with no difference for Molly except Catlee now avoided her, never seemed to notice her, and that she hung out her red scarf, with hopeful thrill in its significance. Then one by one the days rolled by under the wheels of the wagons.
Seven days, and then the straggling lost bands of buffalo! The hot drowsy summer air was tainted; the gently waving prairie bore heaps of bones; skulking coyotes sneaked back from the road. A thousand times Molly Fayre looked back down the endless road she had traveled. No wagon came in sight!
Noon of the ninth day brought Jett within sight of the prairie-wide herd of buffalo. He halted to point it out to his sullen unseeing men, and later he reined in again, this time to turn his ear to the hot stinking wind.
“Aha! Listen!” he called back to Follonsbee.
Molly heard the boom-boom-boom-boom of guns near and far, incessant and potent. Strangely for once she was glad to hear them!
All that hot midday she reclined on the improvised seat in her wagon, holding her scarf to her nostrils, and looking out occasionally at the sordid ugliness of abandoned campsites. The buffalo hunters had moved on up the river that now showed its wandering line of green timber.
Molly took a last backward gaze down the prairie road, just as Jett turned off to go into the woods. Far away Molly saw a dot on the horizon—a white and black dot. Maybe it was Tom Doan’s horses and wagon! He could not be far behind. It was as well now perhaps that he had not caught up with Jett. The buffalo range had been reached, and it could not be long before her situation was changed.
Jett drove off the prairie, into the timber, along a well-defined shady road where many camps had been pitched, and then down into the breaks. Brutal and fearless driver that he was, he urged his horses right through the tangled undergrowth that bent with the onslaught of the wagon, to spring back erect after it had passed. Follonsbee came crashing next. Jett drove down into the bottom lands, thick and hot and aromatic with its jungle of foliage. He must have had either wonderful judgment as to where it was possible for horses to go, or an uncanny luck. For he penetrated the heavily wooded breaks clear to a deep shining river.
Molly would not allow herself to be unduly distressed because Jett meant to hide his camp as covertly as possible, for she knew that anyone hunting wagon tracks and camps would surely not miss his. In a way Molly was glad for the shade, the murmur of the river, the song of birds, the absence of the stench. A camp on the edge of the prairie, with the rotten carcasses of buffalo close at hand, the dust and heat, the flies and bugs, would be well nigh unendurable.
Jett halted his team in a shady glade of cottonwoods just back from the river, apparently the scene of one of Jett’s previous encampments. His tents and fireplace, boxes and bales, evidently had not been molested during his absence.
“Turn horses loose an’ unload the wagons,” he ordered his men. “I’ll take a look for my saddle horses.”
“No fear of hosses leavin’ grass and water,” rejoined Follonsbee. “But there might be hoss thieves on the range.”
“Haw! Haw!” laughed Pruitt, in his mean way. “Shore you know these heah buff’ hunters are all honest men.”
Jett strode off into the green breaks. The men unloaded the wagons and set the boxes and bags of supplies under a cottonwood. Mrs. Jett opened a tent near the fireplace.
“Miss,” said Catlee, “the canvas wagon cover you had before got ripped to pieces. There ain’t any tent for you, till that one’s mended.”
“Can’t I stay in the wagon?” she asked.
“Don’t see why not. We’ll hardly be movin’ or haulin’ very soon.”
It was late in the afternoon when the rays of the sun began to lose heat. Molly was sorely in need of a little freedom of limbs. She had been cramped and inactive so long. So she walked to and fro under the trees. This camp was the most secluded Jett had ever chosen—far from the prairie, down in the breaks on the edge of the river, hidden by trees from the opposite densely foliaged bank. If it had not hinted of a sinister meaning and was not indeed a prison for Molly, she could have reveled in it. If she had to spend much time there, she would be grateful for its quiet, cleanliness, and beauty. She strolled along the green bank until Mrs. Jett curtly called her to help get supper.
About the time it was ready Jett returned, with muddy boots and clothes covered with burrs and bits of brush.
“Found all the horses except the bay mare,” he announced. “An’ tomorrow we can go back to work. I’m aimin’ at hard work, men.”
“Huh! I’d like to know what you call all we’ve done,” returned Follonsbee.
“Wal, Jett, there shore won’t be any work aboot heah till you settle up,” added Pruitt crisply.
Jett’s huge frame jerked with the shock of surprise and fury he must have felt. “So that’s it?” he queried thickly. “Waited till you got way down here!”
“We shore did, boss,” returned Pruitt.
In sullen silence then Jett began and finished his supper. Plain it was he had received a hard unexpected blow, that he seemed scarcely prepared to cope with. He had no further words with his men, but he drew his wife aside, and they were in earnest conversation when
Molly fell asleep.
* * * * *
Next day brought forward a situation Molly had not calculated upon. Jett had no intercourse whatever with his men and, saddling his horse, rode off alone. The woman sulked. Follonsbee and Pruitt, manifestly satisfied with their stand, played cards interminably, now and then halting to talk in low tones over something vital to them. Catlee rigged himself a crude fishing tackle and repaired to the riverbank, where he found a shady seat within sight of the camp.
Molly was left to herself. Her first act, after the tasks of the morning were ended, was to hang up her red scarf in a conspicuous place. Then she had nothing to do but kill time. With the men in camp this was not easy. Apparently she had liberty. No orders had been given her, but perhaps this was owing to the timid meekness she had pretended. She might have wandered away into the breaks or have trailed the wagon tracks up to the prairie. But she could not decide that this was best. For the present she could only wait.
Already the boom of guns floated in on the summer air from all sides, increasing for a while, until at least along the upriver prairie there was almost continuous detonation. Every boom, perhaps, meant the heart or lungs of a noble animal torn to shreds for the sake of his hide. As Molly settled down again to the actual presence of this slaughter, she accepted the fact with melancholy resignation.
In the course of her strolling around the camp Molly gravitated toward Catlee, where he sat contentedly smoking his pipe and fishing. She watched him, trying to make up her mind to approach him on the subject nearest her heart. But she knew the men and Mrs. Jett could see her and that any such action might rouse suspicion. Therefore she desisted. Once Catlee turned, apparently casually, and his gray gaze took her in and the camp. Then he winked at her.
That droll action established anew Molly’s faith in an understanding between her and this man. She had no assurance that he would help her, but there was a secret between them. Molly felt more than she could prove. The incident made the long day supportable.
