by Zane Grey
“Wal, Traft, I reckon if you’d happened to miss me here—you’d run into trouble all right.”
“I took the chance. … But, Stone, before I make you the—the proposition I have, I want to talk some more. Making the best of my opportunity.” He had to laugh at that, and once more glanced over Stone’s men, particularly at Malloy, who appeared to fascinate him. “I went down to Winslow to look over a cattle shipment. Prentiss and I. We saw a big herd of stock being loaded on a freight train. Wildest bunch of steers Prentiss ever saw. … Well, we only watched the loading for about two minutes. A good many unbranded cattle—and some wearing the Diamond brand. … That’s my mark, Stone. They were my cattle, and that was all I wanted to know. … I met Bambridge at the station and told him he was shipping some of my steers. He laughed it off as a mistake. I needed only one look at him to see he was as crooked as a rail fence. And that any man who dealt with him would get the worst of it. So you can bet my talk was pretty sharp. He got nasty and said old Jim Traft had made many such mistakes—or words to that effect, and—but, Stone, what do you think of him accusing my uncle of stealing cattle?”
“Kinda funny,” replied Stone. “But the fact of ranchin’ is, every cattleman appropriates cattle thet ain’t his. It can’t be helped. The dishonest cattleman takes advantage of this. All owin’ to the custom of the range. No rancher has ever thought of anythin’ better than the individual brand. An’ thet shore has its defects.”
“Bambridge didn’t mean in that way,” resumed Traft. “Anyway, I got mad and swung on him—but, Stone, maybe you’re a friend of Bambridge’s?”
The sly quick query was that of a boy and fetched a hollow croak from Malloy, and a smile to the hard face of the outlaw leader.
“Nope. He’s shore no friend of mine., an’ I’d have liked to see you slug him.”
“I was sorry for it afterward. My outfit regretted it. Said it’d lead to worse. But I got hot under the collar, and saw red——”
“Traft, if I don’t miss my guess some one will make you spill red before you’re much older,” returned the outlaw, significantly.
“Lord! I hope not,” said Traft. “But I don’t know what’s come over me. Prentiss told me that after I hit Bambridge I pulled my gun and waited. … Well, the other thing I wanted particularly to tell you is that we can’t find any of my three thousand head of stock. We’re camped down among the rocks, and of course we haven’t ridden over Yellow Jacket. But Ring Locke told me we’d find my cattle down there in the brakes. But he was wrong. There are a few bulls and steers, wilder than the deer or bear. … I’d like to ask—not insinuating anything—if you know where that three thousand head have gone?”
“Wal, Traft, I shore don’t,” replied Stone, and he was telling the truth.
“Bambridge could tell me, I’ll bet a hundred. He hired some one to rustle my stock. I don’t accuse you, Stone. I know there is more than one gang in the Tonto Basin. Take the Cibeque outfit, for instance. So if you tell me straight out that the Hash Knife didn’t rustle my Diamond cattle—why, I’ll believe you.”
Then ensued a queer little silence. Stone’s men seemed as much concerned with him as the audacity of this young visitor.
“Wal, thet would be kind of you, Traft, an’ I reckon foolish. But I’m not tellin’ my business, one way or another,” replied the Hash Knife leader.
“Which is answer enough for me,” returned Traft, with a shrewd, almost merry twinkle in his clear eyes. “Well—my job here is to clean up Yellow Jacket.”
“Uhuh. —Clean it up of what?”
“Wild cattle, rattlesnakes, cow-eating grizzlies and cougars, brush and cactus—and anything else not good for the making of a fine ranch.”
“Your Uncle Jim hasn’t give you no job atall,” said Stone, with a grin. “Where’s the common sense comin’ in?”
“This visit to you is my first move, except ride around below to look for stock,” rejoined the young man, seriously. “I’ve made up my mind—that if I live through this job I’ll build me a fine big roomy log house here and make this place my home.”
“Home! … Marry some Western gal, I reckon?” went on the outlaw, with interest.
“I’ve already found her, Stone. … No one else than Molly Dunn.”
“Molly Dunn! —You don’t say? Thet little brown beauty of the Cibeque! —Wal, Traft, I’ll say you’re a good picker an’ a fast mover. I happen to know Molly. Used to run into her at Enoch Summer’s store in West Fork. Last time scarce a year ago. … Me an’ Slinger, her brother, was friends once. She’s the prettiest lass an’ the best little woman south of Flag.”
“Or north, either,” said Traft, happily. “Thanks for your compliment. I’ll tell her. … And see here, Stone, don’t you agree with me that it’d be pretty tough for me to get killed now or shot up bad—with marriage with Molly coming next spring?”
“Shore would be for Molly. She never had nothin’ but tough luck. … If you feel thet way about her, why go lookin’ up chances?”
“I’m not. I’m trying to avoid them. But this Yellow Jacket is a fine ranch. It belongs to me. It’s my job. —What can I do?”
Stone shook his head as if the problem was a knotty one.
“Now here’s another reason I want to—well, keep my health. Ha! Ha! … My sister, nineteen years old, arrived in Flag a few weeks ago. Came to make her home in the West. With me. She’s not so well. The doctors think Arizona will make her strong again. So do I. Already she has begun to improve. … She wasn’t very happy when she first got here. But that’s passing. Stone, she’s a lovely girl. Full of the devil—and, I’m afraid, stuck up a little—Eastern, you know, but the West will cure her of that, you bet. … Now, she’s in my charge, not to say more, and even if there wasn’t a Molly Dunn to make life so sweet, I’d hate like sixty to fail my sister. … So there you are, Jed Stone.”
“Thanks. You’re shore kind spoken, confidin’ in me. … It’s a hell of a situation for a young man.”
“I wanted you to know exactly how I stand,” went on Traft, earnestly. “I’m not afraid of a fight. I’m afraid when I get into one I almost like it. But common sense is best. I’m down here to tell you and your outfit to get out of Yellow Jacket. I want to tell you in a decent way, and that I appreciate this range has been like your own. But business is business. You’d do the same. … If you don’t move off I’ll have to try to put you off. And that’s no fair deal. The Diamond, even with Slinger Dunn, is no match for the Hash Knife. I may still be a tenderfoot, but I’m no damn fool. A clash will mean a lot of blood spilled. I’d like to avoid it. Not only for my own sake, but for my men, and for that matter for you, too. … So I’m putting it up square to you. I can raise ten thousand dollars. That’s my limit. Uncle Jim won’t help me buy anybody out. I’ll give you that to move off, fair and square, like the good fellow I believe you are.”
“Traft, I couldn’t accept your offer, nohow,” returned Stone, pacing the floor with grave face and intent eyes. He made his last move look casual, but he did not like the gleam in Croak Malloy’s pale eyes, and wanted to be within reach of the little rattlesnake. Croak did not have to be stepped upon to show his fangs. “Much obliged to you, but shore I couldn’t take the money. I’ll say, though, thet Jed Stone ain’t the man to stand in the way of a young fellar like you. … I’ll get out of Yellow Jacket for nothin’.”
“You will!” cried Traft, in amaze and gladness. “Well, that’s darn fine of you, Stone. … Uncle Jim was right. I—I just can’t thank you enough.”
“Shore you needn’t thank me atall.”
“Gosh! —” The young man arose in relief and with shining face stepped forward to offer a hand to Stone. “Shake. I’ll always remember you as one of the big lessons the West has taught me, and already they’ve been more than a few.”
Stone gripped hands with him, with no other reply. Then Traft moved back into the sunlight, and halting at the door proceeded to roll a cigarette, in Western fashion and
with deft fingers.
“It’ll be great to tell the boys. Good day and good luck to you, Stone. … And same to your men.”
If he had glanced at these men he might not have expressed such good will. As he struck the match and held it to the cigarette there came a ringing crack of a gun. The match vanished. A bullet thudded into the dark logs. Traft suddenly changed into a statue, his empty fingers stiff, his face blanched in a fixed consternation. Then followed another shot. The cigarette whipped out of his mouth and another bullet thudded into the wood.
“Them’s my compliments, Mister Jim Traft, junior,” croaked Malloy, in a stinging, sarcastic speech full of menace.
Slowly Traft lost his rigidity and turned his head, as if on a pivot, to fix staring eyes upon the little gunman.
“Good God! —Did you shoot that match—and cigarette—” he exclaimed, hoarsely.
“Yep. I didn’t want to see you leave without somethin’ from the rest of the Hash Knife,” replied Croak, significantly.
“But you—you might have shot me—at least, my hand off!” expostulated Traft, the white beginning to leave his face for red.
“Me? Haw! Haw! Haw! … I hit what I shoot at, an’ you can go back an’ tell your Slinger Dunn an’ Curly Prentiss thet.”
“You——crooked-faced little runt!” burst out Traft, furiously.
At this juncture Stone took a noiseless and unobtrusive step closer to the sitting Malloy.
It had chanced that of all opprobrium, of all epithets which could have been directed at Croak Malloy, the young rancher had chosen to utter the worst to inflame the gunman. His lean body vibrated as if a sudden powerful current had contracted every muscle, and his face flashed with a hideous deadly light.
As he raised his gun Stone kicked his arm up. The gun went off as it flew into the air. Malloy let out a bellow of rage and pain, and leaped erect, holding his numbed arm.
“Croak, I reckoned you’d done shootin’ enough fer one day,” said Stone, coolly.
The little outlaw had no time to reply. Traft sprang at him and in three bounds reached him. He was like a whirlwind. One swift hand fastened in Malloy’s shirt and swung him off his feet. The other, doubled into a big fist, swung viciously the other way round. But it missed Malloy’s head by an inch. He flung the outlaw, who went staggering over the floor to crash into the door. Traft, light and quick as a cat, was again upon him, even before he could fall, which he surely was going to do. Traft gave him a terrific slap alongside the face, which banged his head against the door. Then he held him there.
“You dirty—little snake!” panted Traft. “You may be a good shot—but you’re a damned yellow—coward.”
A hard blow from Traft’s right sent Malloy’s head with sodden thump against the door post. The outlaw swayed forward, only to meet Traft’s left swing, which hurtled him through the doorway, out on the ground, where he rolled clear over and lay still.
Traft stood on the threshold, glaring out. Then he stepped back, produced another cigarette and match. His fingers shook so he could hardly light the cigarette. His ruffled hair stood up like a mane. Presently he turned, to give Stone another thrill. It was something for the outlaw to look again into furious blazing honest eyes.
“Reckon I was a little previous,” he said, in a voice that rang. “All the same, Stone, I’m wishing you good luck.”
As he swept out the door Malloy appeared to be attempting to get up, emitting a strange kind of grunt. He was on his hands and knees, back to the cabin. Traft stuck out a heavy boot and gave him a tremendous shove. The little outlaw plunged face forward and slid into the brush.
Stone stood in the doorway and watched Traft’s lithe, erect, forceful figure disappear in the trees. Then he laid a humorous and most satisfying gaze upon Malloy. And he muttered, “Somebody will croak for this, an’ I hope it’s Malloy.”
CHAPTER
8
JIM Traft did not pause in his rapid stride until he had passed through the walled gateway which permitted egress from Yellow Jacket to the rough brakes of the basin below. Then he slowed up along the brawling brook, waiting to compose himself before he arrived at camp. The fire and tumult within him did not soon die down. “Gosh!” he ejaculated. “I get worse all the time. … I’m going to kill somebody, some day—sure as the Lord made little apples.” And thoughtful review of the experience he had just passed through in the old Yellow Jacket cabin made him correct his exclamation by adding, “if I don’t get killed myself.”
The trail followed the brook. No one could have guessed from the environment that the season approached mid-winter. White cottonwood trees, with gold and russet leaves, and even some tinged with green, lined the amber stream, sending out gnarled and smooth-barked branches across from one bank to the other. Wild turkeys and deer scarcely made an effort to move into the green brush. Jays were squalling, woodpeckers hammering on dead trees, black squirrels barking shrilly. And there was a dreamy hum of murmuring water mingled with a low sough of wind in the great silver spruces and pines. The wildness and ruggedness of this country increased the farther Traft got down the stream. Grass grew luxuriantly in every open patch of ground, mostly bleached, yet some of it still green.
Jim soon left trail and stream to plunge into the forest toward a mighty wall of red and gray rock which towered above the highest pines. A wild steer, ugly as a buffalo bull, crashed into the brush ahead of him. It afforded Jim amusement to have proof that the remnant of his cattle were wilder than the bears and lions. He had met several bears, one a cinnamon and another a grizzly, without making any attempt to run. But sight of a wild Diamond steer always engendered in him a desire to climb a tree.
He reached the wall and flung himself down in a sunny spot surrounded by green on three sides and dominated by the cracked and caverned cliff. If he was compelled to leave Arizona he would always remember it and cherish it by pictures in mind of this marvelous Yellow Jacket country. If the Tonto Basin, the Cibeque Valley, and especially the Diamond Mesa, across which he had built the now famous drift fence, had fascinated him, what had this wilderness of canyon and forest done? It brought into expression some deep, long-latent force of joy. Hours he had spent alone like this, not worrying over some problem, nor dreaming of Molly—which happened often enough—but not thinking of anything at all. It was a condition of mind Jim had not inquired into, because he realized it was pure happiness, and he feared an analysis would dispel it. And the enchantment fastened down strong upon him, so that it alternated with a serious consideration of what he had just passed through at the outlaw camp.
“I’ve made another blunder,” he soliloquized, regretfully. “Stone proved to be a decent fellow, as Uncle Jim vowed he was. … But Stone is not all of the Hash Knife. Whew! … That little hatchet-faced ruffian!—Sure he scared me, and I reckon I wasn’t in any danger from his playful bullets. But, my God! when I cursed him—if Stone hadn’t kicked his arm up—I’d be dead now! … That was Croak Malloy, sure as hops. Reckon I’ll remember his face. And any of them. Sure a hard crowd! … They’ll probably buck against Stone about leaving Yellow Jacket. But he struck me as a man who’d be dangerous to cross. … Anyway, I made a good impression on him. … I’ll put the matter up to the boys and see what they say.”
If Jed Stone did really keep his word and abandon Yellow Jacket, how that would simplify the big task there! Jim would put the boys to cutting, peeling, and dragging pine logs down to the site where he wanted to erect a wonderful house. He had meant to clean up that ragged brushy end of Yellow Jacket, but after seeing it he had changed his mind. He would not even tear down the old log cabin where the Hash Knife outfit had held forth so long. In time this cabin would become a relic of Arizona’s range days. It would take all winter to cut the logs, rip-saw the boards, split the shingles, and pack in the accessories for the ranch-house Jim had planned.
If Stone moved off peacefully and took his men—about whom Jim was most dubious—then it would be possible for Jim to go back
to Flag for Christmas. What a thrilling idea! It warmed him into a genial glow. But another thought followed swiftly—the cowboys of his outfit would go back to Flag also. And that would be terrible. He groaned when he recalled the Thanksgiving dinner and dance which his Uncle Jim had given in honor of Gloriana May Traft. It had been a marvelous occasion, attended by everybody in or around Flagerstown, and something about which the cowboys raved more and more as time passed. Or it was Gloriana about whom they raved! What havoc that purple-eyed, white-faced girl had wrought! She had looked like a princess—and had flirted like a—a—Jim did not know what. She had even enticed Slinger Dunn to dance—a feat Molly avowed was without parallel. And she had showed open preference for handsome Curly Prentiss, which fact had gone to the head of this erstwhile gay and simple cowboy. He had made life for Bud and Cherry, not to mention the others, almost insupportable. Yet it all—the whole situation following that unforgettable dance—was so deliciously funny. All except the stunned look of Molly’s eyes—as Jim recalled it! Molly had not been jealous. She, too, had been carried away by Gloriana’s lovely face and charming personality. But there was something wrong with Molly. And Jim had been compelled to leave Flag almost before he realized that the advent of his sister had brought about some strange change in Molly’s happiness.
It required submission to the dream of love and of the future to dispel Jim’s dread, and his regret. His faith in Molly’s tenderness was infinitely stronger than all doubt. He knew he had won her and that always he could prevail. This imperious sister, Gloriana, with her charm, and the distinction of family and class which seemed to hang upon her words and every action, might cause the sincere and simple Arizona lass the mortification and realization of what she considered her own humble station, but they were really chimeras, and would pass in time.
Jim had only to recall the last moments he had spent with Molly, her betrayal of self, her utter devotion, and her passionate love, to which she was gradually surrendering. These sufficed here, as they had before in moments of gloom, to lift him buoyantly to the skies again.
