by Zane Grey
At last he got up and wended a devious way toward camp, preoccupied and tranquil. He was so absent-minded that when Slinger Dunn appeared as if by magic, right out of the green wall of foliage, he sustained a violent shock that was not all thrill.
“You darned Injun!” he ejaculated, in relief, “always scaring me stiff.”
“Howdy, Boss. I reckon you spend a heap of time heah-aboots—slttin’ in the sun,” replied Dunn.
There was no help for it—Jim could not leave camp or approach it, or hide, or in any way escape the vigilance of this backwoodsman. It rather pleased Jim, who recognized in it a protective watchfulness. His cowboys were always concerned, sometimes unduly, when he was absent. And the acquisition of Slinger Dunn to the outfit had been hailed with loud acclaim.
Slinger leaned on his rifle and regarded Jim with eyes like Molly’s, only darker and piercing as the points of daggers. He was bareheaded, as he went usually, and his long hair almost lay upon his shoulders. He wore buckskin, which apparel singularly distinguished him from the cowboys. In his backwoods way Slinger was fastidious, or so it seemed. His simple woodsman’s costume partook of the protective hue of foliage and rock, according to which furnished a background.
“Jim, you look sorta worried,” he observed.
“Huh! Small wonder, Slinger.”
“How’d Jed treat you?”
“Fine. He’s a good fellow, even if he is an outlaw.”
“Shore I reckoned you’d like Jed. But I was skeered of Croak Malloy, an’ thet slippery greaser sheep-herder.”
“I didn’t get a line on the Mexican you called Sonora. But, Slinger, I formed the acquaintance of Mister Malloy, croak and gun and all. I did! … Wait till we reach camp. I don’t want to have to tell it twice. … How are the boys? I swear I’m afraid to leave them alone these days.”
“Hell to pay,” grinned Slinger, showing his white teeth, and his black eyes had a gleam of fun.
“Now what?” demanded Jim, perturbed.
“Curly busted Bud one on the nose.”
“Oh! … Is that all?”
“Wal, it shore was enough, leastways for Bud.”
“Aw, they’re pards, the best of friends. They worship each other, even if they do scrap all the time. What was it about this time?”
“Somethin’ aboot Gloriana’s laigs,” drawled Slinger.
“Wh-hat!” exclaimed Jim, astounded and furious.
“I didn’t heah Bud. But you could have heahed Curly a mile. He roared like a mad bull. An’ I near died laffin’. I’ll shore have fun tellin’ Gloriana aboot it.”
“Oh, the —— you will?” queried Jim, constrainedly. Slinger was an entirely new element in the Diamond outfit and assuredly an unknown quantity. He was naive to the point of doubt, and absolutely outspoken. “Better tell me first.”
It appeared, presently, that Bud Chalfack, as frank and innocent in his cowboy way as Slinger was in his backwoods fashion, had been talking about Gloriana’s pretty feet, ankles, and so on, much to Curly’s disgust. And when Bud nonchalantly added that Gloriana was not wholly blind to the grace and beauty of her nether extremities Curly had taken offense. He could allow no insult to his young lady friend from the East, and despite Bud’s protest he punched him on the nose.
Jim held himself in until he reached camp. He did not know whether to explode with wrath or glee. But the incident might prove to have advantages. Gloriana had upset the outfit; and Jim had found himself at a loss to combat the situation. He grasped at straws.
The camp site, assuredly the most beautiful Jim had seen, was in a break of the wall, where a little brown brook ran crystal clear over stones and between grassy banks. A few lofty silver spruces lorded it over an open glade, which the sun touched with gold. Huge blocks of cliff had fallen and rolled out. Boulders as large as houses stood half hidden by pines. Ferns and amber trailing vines colored the rock wall behind. Camp paraphernalia lay around in picturesque confusion that suited the lounging cowboys.
Jim stalked toward the boys. He must maintain tremendous dignity and make all possible use of this opportunity. Curly got up, his fine face flushing, and made a half-hearted advance, which he checked. Jim divined that this young man was not sure of his stand. Bud sat apart, disconsolate, and nursing a bloody nose.
“What’s this Slinger tells me?” Jim demanded, in a loud voice. “You insulted my sister?”
“Aw no, Boss. Honest t’Gawd I never did,” burst out Bud, in distress.
“Is Slinger a liar, then?”
“Yes he is, dog-gone-it, if he says so,” retorted Bud.
“And Curly slugged you for nothing?”
“Not egzactly nuthin’, Boss,” replied Bud. “I—I did say somethin’, but I meant nuthin’.”
“Bud Chalfack, did you dare to speak of my sister’s legs—here in this camp of low-down cowboys?” demanded Jim, as he leaned over to jerk Bud to his feet.
“Aw, Jim. Fer Heaven’s sake—listen,” begged Bud. “Shore I—I said somethin’, but it was compliment an’ no insult.”
Jim placed a boot behind Bud and tripped him, spread him on the grass, and straddling him, lifted a big menacing fist.
“Aw, Jim, don’t hit me. I got enough from Curly. An’ he cain’t hit as hard as you.”
“I’ll smash your wagging jaw!”
“I’m sorry, Boss. I—I was jest excited, an’ talkin’ aboot how pretty Miss Gloriana is. An’ I reckon I was jest seein’ if I could rile Curly. It shore did. … I swear I didn’t mean nuthin’. An’ I apologize.”
“What’d you say?” demanded Jim, his fist still uplifted.
“Aw, I forget. It wasn’t nuthin’ atall.”
“Curly, come here,” called Jim, sharply, and as the red-faced cowboy advanced reluctantly Jim went on: “Since you had the gall to constitute yourself my sister’s champion you can tell me just what this blackguard did say. Don’t you dare lie!”
Curly seemed to be in a worse predicament than Bud, though for no apparent cause, unless it was Jim’s great displeasure. He did not look like the chivalrous defender of a young girl. But presently he got it out, thereby acquainting Jim with the exact words and nature of Bud’s offense. Jim could have shrieked with glee, though he acted the part of an avenging Nemesis. Curly was the deceitful one who had taken advantage of Bud’s ravings; and Bud was the innocent victim, scared terribly by Jim’s wrath and a dereliction he could not quite understand.
“Ahuh. So this is the kind of a cowboy you are,” shouted Jim, raising his fist higher. “I’ll beat you good, Bud Chalfack. … Do you crawfish? Do you take it back?”
“No—damn’ if I do!” cried Bud, righteous anger rising out of his grief. “You can beat all you want. What I said I said, an’ I’ll stick to it. … ’Cause it’s true, Jim Traft.”
Jim solemnly regarded the prostrate cowboy, while poising aloft the clenched mace of retribution. Bud’s true spirit had flashed out. In his code of honor he had not transgressed. But Jim did not like the familiarity with which the boys bandied about Gloriana’s charms. It was absolutely inevitable, it was Western, and there was not any harm in it; nevertheless, he was inconsistent enough to see the humor of it and still resent.
Suddenly an idea occurred to Jim and in an instant he accepted it as a way of escape out of the dilemma. He certainly had not intended to strike Bud, unless there was real offense. He released the cowboy and got up.
“Bud, you are hopeless,” he said, with pretense of sorrow and resignation. “No use to beat you! That’d be no adequate punishment. I’ll make you an example. … I’ll tell Glory what you said about her!”
“Aw—Boss!” gasped Bud.
“I shall, Bud Chalfack. Then we’ll see where you get off.”
“But, Jim, for Gawd’s sake, think You’d have to tell her Curly punched me for it. Then I’d be wuss’n a coyote an’ he’d be a hero. Thet’d be orful, Jim, an’ you jest cain’t be so mean.”
“Curly never talked exactly that same way
about Gloriana, did he?”
“No, I never heerd him, but I reckon he thinks it, an’ more’n thet, too, you bet.”
“Bud, if you admire a girl and must gab about her, why not confine yourself to her eyes, her hair, or mouth? Couldn’t you be satisfied to say her eyes were like wells of midnight, her hair spun gold, and her lips sweet as red cherries?”
“Hellyes, I could. But I never swallered no dictionary. An’ dog-gone-it, any bootiful girl has more’n eyes an’ hair an’ lips, hasn’t she?”
“Nevertheless, I shall tell Gloriana,” returned Jim, inexorably.
“Boss, I’ll take the beatin’,” implored Bud.
“No, you won’t, Bud. You’ll take your medicine. And pretty soon, too. We’re all going back to Flag for Christmas. Jed Stone agreed to get off Yellow Jacket and that leaves us free, for the present, anyway.”
“Whoop-ee!” yelled the outfit, in a united chorus.
Only Bud was not radiant. “I’ll get drunk an’ disgrace the outfit,” he avowed.
“Listen, men, and tell me what you make of this deal,” said Jim, and seating himself on a pack while the cowboys gathered around, he began a detailed account of his visit to the Hash Knife outfit. He took longer than usual in the telling of an incident, because he wanted to be specific and not omit a single impression. When he had finished there was a blank silence, rather perturbing. At length Slinger Dunn broke it:
“My Gawd! Boss, you’re as good as daid!” he ejaculated, with the only expression of concern Jim had ever seen on his dark impassive face.
Curly Prentiss broke out: “Jim! You’ve slugged the dangerousest gunman in Arizona!”
One by one the others vented similar opinions, until only Bud was left to express himself.
“Boss, you’re a tenderfoot, same as when you come West,” declared that worthy. “You cain’t be trusted with a job like thet. Didn’t I ast to go? Didn’t I tell you to take Curly? You dod-blasted jackass! Now you’ve played hell!”
“So it appears,” returned Jim, sober-faced.
“If you’d only shot Malloy when you had the chanct,” said Slinger, moodily.
“But I didn’t pack a gun,” expostulated Jim. “I went unarmed so that I couldn’t shoot anybody.”
“Wal, Boss, you shore made another mistake,” spoke up Curly. “Jed Stone is square. He’ll keep his word. But he’s only the brains of the Hash Knife. Croak Malloy haids the gun end of thet outfit. An’ if he doesn’t shoot up Arizona now, I’ll miss my guess.”
“Well, it’s too late. I’m sorry. I sure was mad. And I’d have slammed that dirty little rat around if it was the last thing on earth. … But let’s get our heads together. What’ll we do? Slinger, you talk first.”
“Better lay low an’ wait while I watch the trails. Jed will go, but he might go alone. An’ I’m shore tellin’ you if he goes alone the Hash Knife will be ten times wuss’n ever.”
“I reckon he’ll get off Yellow Jacket an’ persuade the outfit to follow,” said Curly. “Stone is a persuasive cuss, I’ve heahed men say. An’ Yellow Jacket is cleaned out of cattle. They’ve made way with your Diamond stock, Jim, an’ once more you’re a poor cowboy. Haw! Haw!”
“They’re welcome to my stock, if they only vamoose,” returned Jim, fervently.
“Boss, they shore ain’t welcome to the half of thet stock you gave me,” declared Dunn, darkly. “I was pore, an’ all of a sudden I felt rich. An’ now——”
“Slinger, you still have your half interest in what cattle are left and what I’ll drive in,” replied Jim. “My uncle won’t see us left stripped.”
“Wal, thet’s different,” said Slinger, brightening.
“You stay off the war-path, you darned redskin,” interposed Curly. “We’re shore goin’ to need you. … Now, Boss, heah’s the deal in a nutshell, as I see it. An’ I know these rustlin’ outfits. Jed Stone will change his base. But he won’t get out of the brakes. There’s rich pickin’ on the range below. The Hash Knife will hide down heah, an’ then go to operatin’ big an’ bold. Stone will throw thet outfit down or I don’t read the signs correct. An’ as Slinger says, then the Hash Knife will be worse. Somebody will have to kill Malloy or we cain’t do any ranchin’ in these parts. Shore everythin’ will be quiet till spring.”
Jim maintained a long, thoughtful silence. He respected Curly Prentiss’ judgment, and could not recall an instance when it had been wrong. Curly was young, but old in range wisdom. Then his intelligence and education were far above that of the average cowboy.
“Very well,” finally said Jim. “We’ll stick close to camp, with two guards out day and night. Slinger will watch the Hash Knife gang and report. So until then—I guess we’ll have to play mumbly-peg.”
“Say, Boss, I ain’t a-goin’ to stop fishin’ fer all the dog-gone rustlers in Arizonie,” declared Bud, rebelliously.
“Fishing? You’re crazy, Bud. Something has affected your mind. I declare I don’t wonder at Curly’s effort to make you think. Fishing in December!”
“Boss, I ain’t the only one whose gray matter is off,” replied Bud, and from the way he got up and hitched his overalls Jim knew something was coming. Bud’s glance had distinctly charged Jim with an affection of the brain. Bud stalked to a spruce tree, reached in the foliage, and drew forth a string of trout that made Jim’s eyes bulge and the cowboys yell.
“Jim, you know a heap aboot the West—aboot wild turkeys an’ deer an’ trout—an’ cowboys an’ cowthieves—an’ Western gurls—now, don’t you?”
“Bud, I—I don’t know much,” admitted Jim, weakly. “Trout in December! … Gosh! that’s one on me. I thought it was winter. Boy, I’ll give you a new gun if you’ll show me where you caught them.”
“I should smile not,” returned Bud. “An’ there ain’t another fellar in this locoed outfit who could show you, either.”
“Shore is a fact, Boss,” said Curly. “Bud’s a rotten hunter, but as a fisherman he’s got us trimmed to a frazzle. Fish just walk out on the bank an’ die at his feet.”
Jim was studying the disfigured face of the disgruntled Bud. He could read that worthy’s mind. Bud would move heaven and earth to keep him from telling Gloriana about the disrespectful gossip.
“Stay in camp. You hear me?” said Jim, sternly.
“I heah you, Boss. I ain’t deaf.”
Two lazy idle yet watchful days passed. Slinger did not return until long after dark of the second day, so long that it took persuasion by Curly to allay Jim’s anxiety. Slinger came in with Uphill Frost, who had been on guard down the trail and who had missed the supper hour.
“The Hash Knife gang is gone,” announced Frost, loudly. “I seen the whole caboodle ride by, an’ I damn near took a peg at thet Croak Malloy.”
“What!—You sure, Up?” shouted Jim, leaping excitedly to his feet.
“Yep. I wisht I was as sure of heaven. It was aboot two o’clock this afternoon. I’d come back sooner, but Slinger slipped up on me an’ told me to wait till he got back. There was eight of ’em an’ they had a string of pack-horses.”
“Slinger, where’d they go?” asked Jim, breathlessly.
“I followed them ten miles, an’ when I turned back they was travelin’,” returned Dunn. “Tomorrer I’ll take a hoss. I reckon they’re makin’ fer the Black Brakes.”
“How far is that?”
“Aboot twenty miles as the crow flies.”
“Too close for comfort.”
“Boss, I sneaked up almost within earshot of the cabin,” went on Dunn. “Fust off this mawnin’ I seen the greaser Sonora wranglin’ their hosses. An’ as he’s the only one of thet outfit I’m skeered of I went up the crick an’ crawled up in the brush. I got close enough to heah voices, but not what they said. Shore was a hell of a argyment, though. They’d pack awhile, then fight awhile. Reckon I didn’t need to heah. All as plain as tracks to me. Malloy kicked on quittin’ Yellow Jacket an’ most of the outfit was with him. But Stone was too strong.
An’ along aboot noon they rode off.”
“Yippy-yip!” yelled Jim, in wild elation. “Gone without a scrap. Gosh! but I’m glad.”
“Boss, you shore air previous,” spoke up Bud, with sarcasm. “Thet Hash Knife gang hev only rid off aways to hide till you throw up a fine big cabin. Then they’ll come back an’ take it away from you.”
“They will like—h-hob,” stammered Jim.
“Thet’ll be like Malloy,” admitted Slinger. “I’m afeered they went off too willin’.”
“Shore is aboot the deal to expect,” chimed in Curly, cheerfully. “But life is short in Arizona an’ who knows?—Malloy may croak before spring.”
“Curly Prentiss, you’ve somethin’ on your mind,” declared Jim, darkly.
“Humph! It’s only curly hair an’ sometimes a sombrero,” said Bud.
“Shore. I’m a thoughtful cuss. Always reckonin’ fer my friends an’ my boss.”
“An’ your next sweetheart.”
“Bud, old pard, for me there’ll never be no next one.”
“Boys, we’ll build the house,” interposed Jim, with decision that presupposed heretofore he had been only dreaming. “Jeff, we’ll break camp at daylight. Better pack some tonight. We’ll hit the trail for Yellow Jacket. Gosh! I’m glad! … We’ll keep Slinger on watch, and the rest of us will cut, peel, an’ make pine poles out of the woods.”
“Swell job fer genuine cowpunchers,” observed Bud, satirically.
“I’ve ridden all over Yellow Jacket, Jim,” spoke up Curly. “Some years ago. But shore there’s timber to build a town. Grandest place for a ranch! It’d be tough to spend a lot of coin on it, an’ work a good outfit to death, an’ haul in stuff to make a nice home, an’ fetch your little Western bride down fer your honeymoon—an’ then stop one of Croak Malloy’s bullets. … Shore would be tough!”
“Curly, you’re a blamed pessimist,” burst out Jim. “Don’t you ever have any dreams?”
“Me?—Never once in my life,” drawled Curly.
“Boss, he’s dreamin’ now—an’ if you knowed what it’s aboot you’d punch him on his handsome nose,” said Bud, revengefully.
