by Zane Grey
“Ahuh. I see. Glory, those same girls snubbed me, too, at first. Then when they found out I was old Jim Traft’s nephew they changed their tune. But nix—I wasn’t interested. They were jealous of Molly—the cats. … Well, I shall move mountains to make them worse.”
Gloriana laid her cheek against Jim’s rough and grimy face, oblivious of that or indifferent to it, and she gave vent to a long sigh.
“I’m glad you’re back,” she said. “I’ve been lonely, only I didn’t guess it. You’re a comfort. … Jim, when spring comes you must take me to your camp. I’ll get well there—and be safer, if you want to know.”
CHAPTER
10
NEXT morning Jim awakened very early, and lay in bed pondering his problem and mapping out a deliberate course of what he intended to do. He fortified himself against mortification, embarrassment, against all possible contingencies liable to inflame him, and set the limit short of heartbreak. He simply would not and could not face the thought of losing Molly.
It was the 23rd of December, less than two days before the Christmas Eve dance. His leave of absence from work on Yellow Jacket would expire on New Year’s day, following which he and the Diamond outfit must ride back to the range for a long and surely trying stay. Wherefore he had no time to lose. But first he must consult his uncle and Locke, report every detail pertaining to what had happened down at Yellow Jacket, and, consistent with their advice, plan future work.
After breakfast, at which Gloriana was not present, Jim asked for a conference with his uncle and Locke. They repaired at once to the living-room. Jim began with his discovery of Diamond-branded cattle going aboard the train with Bambridge’s shipment from Winslow, and slighted nothing in his narrative of what had followed, nor any of his conjectures and convictions, and lastly, the opinions of his men. After he had concluded, his superiors smoked furiously, which appeared their only indication of mental disturbance. Locke was the first to break silence: “I advise givin’ up Yellow Jacket.”
“Naw,” replied Traft, laconically.
“I don’t want to,” added Jim. “It’s a wild, lonely, wonderful wilderness. I want to own it—improve it—and live there part of the year, at least.”
“Wal, aside from Jim’s leanin’ to Yellow Jacket, I wouldn’t let it go now,” went on Traft. “It’d be givin’ in to Bambridge, an’ I’ll see him in hell first.”
“Short an’ sweet,” said Locke, with a dry cackle. He knew his employer of old. “Then I suggest we arrange some plan of transportin’ Mr. Bambridge to the place you name.”
“Aw, Ring, don’t get funny. This is business. … How many head of unbranded stock can you round up this spring?”
“Matter of ten thousand, more or less, countin’ new calves.”
“Wal, slap the Diamond brand on half of them, this comin’ round-up,” ordered the rancher, brusquely.
Locke wrote in his notebook, then said: “I’d advise no cattle drive to Yellow Jacket till spring. Let the rustlers have a chance at the lower range.”
“Reckon thet’s a good idea. Put it down. Now. Jim, tell Locke what you want for the house. He’ll order it. Meanwhile the sleddin’ will be good an’ we’ll haul all supplies such as hardware, cement, tools, powder, down to Cottonwood Ranch, an’ store it there. Lumber, framework, bricks, and all such to follow fast as it gets here. When the ground dries in the spring you can haul in over your new road. … As for the present, wal, stick to our original plan. Take the Diamond back to Yellow Jacket an’ clean it up—of varmints, rubbish, an’ such, includin’ any rustlers who might come burnin’ your good firewood. … Savvy?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Jim, quickly.
“Got thet down, Locke?” queried the old rancher, as he rose and knocked the ash off his cigar.
“I’ll put it down,” replied the superintendent.
“Wal, don’t pester me with this two-bit stuff any more,” replied Traft, testily. “Help Jim all you can. It’s up to him.” And he stalked out sturdily, his shaggy head erect, leaving Jim alone with the superintendent.
“Shorter an’ sweeter,” said Locke, tapping his book with his pencil.
“Gosh!—I never heard Uncle talk like that. What ails him?”
“He’s sore at Bambridge. Small wonder. He’s had forty years buckin’ the crooked side of cattle-raisin’, an’ he hates it. … Jim, he’s given you a man-size job. But you’ve got a hard crew in the Diamond. They’re good fer it. Jed Stone’s movin’ off your range strikes me deep. It means a lot, besides his bein’ decent. I’ve a hunch he’s about through, some way or another. But Malloy will have to be reckoned with. If you ever meet him, anyhow, under any circumstances, shoot quick an’ think afterwards. Don’t ever fail to pack a gun, an’ keep Slinger or Curly close to you.”
“Ring—you mean here—at home—in town?” queried Jim, aghast.
“I should smile.”
“Whew!—When will I ever learn?”
“You’ve been shot once, an’ shot at a number of times. Don’t you savvy what it means? Come down on the hard ground, Jim.”
After that conference, which left Jim with a keen poignant sense of responsibility, he stayed in his room until after dinner and then started for town on foot. Any sharp observer, at least a Westerner, could have detected the bulge of a gun back of his hip, and the tip of a leather sheath projecting an inch or two below his coat. How he longed for the cool imperturbability of Curly Prentiss or the aloof unapproachableness of Slinger Dunn! But these he could never attain, for he had not been born to the West. Jim had to make determination do for confidence. And when, in accordance with his plan, he walked into Babbitt’s store, no one would have guessed the sinking sensation he had in his vitals. He was terribly afraid of Molly Dunn, not to mention the gunman Croak Malloy. Jim knew he was something of a lion when under the sway of righteous anger, but most assuredly he could not muster that at will.
Molly stood behind the counter, and from her wide startled eyes he gathered that she had seen him first. It was early and he appeared to be the only customer present, and at once the object of much interest, both of which facts did not confuse him one whit.
“Good day, Molly,” he said, doffing his sombrero. “Yesterday I forgot what I wanted to buy.”
“Howdy—Jim,” she faltered, huskily, the scarlet coming up from neck to face. How the sight made Jim’s blood leap! She could not be indifferent to his presence.
“I want that red silk scarf and a pair of buckskin gloves,” he said.
Molly produced the scarf, and then, with the other clerks snickering openly, she had to try glove after glove on Jim’s hand, until he was satisfied with the fit. Her little brown fingers trembled so that she was scarcely able to perform the task; and Jim gloated over this manifestation of weakness, instead of feeling sorry for her.
“Thanks. I reckon these will do,” he said, at length. “Please charge to the Traft account. … I shall tell Mr. Babbitt you are a very beautiful clerk, but a poor saleswoman.”
Molly was staring at the gun-sheath under his coat. Her eye had been quick to see it.
“Jim!—You’re packin’ a gun!” she exclaimed, breathlessly and low.
“I should snigger I am, as Bud would say,” he replied, facetiously.
“Who for?” she whispered, and it was significant that she did not say what for.
“Well, if you care to know, that Hash Knife gunman, Croak Malloy, is looking for me—and I am looking for a fellow named Ed Darnell,” concluded Jim, and heartless though he knew himself, it was impossible to look into her eyes then. He took his parcels and went out, most acutely conscious of bursting veins and thrilling nerves.
Jim walked down the street, dropping in at all the business places where his uncle had dealings. Then he visited the saloons, which were more numerous and to him vastly more interesting. He acted, too, like a man who was looking for some one. Next he called at the post-office and the hotel, after which he returned to Babbitt’s store.
“You again?” she queried, blushing furiously.
“I forgot something, Molly,” he drawled.
“Somethin’ you wanted to buy?” she went on, a little sarcastically.
“Yes, but I forget. Whenever I see your sweet face I forget everything. … Oh yes, buckskin gauntlets for the cowboys—the fringed ones with a horseshoe design on the back. Christmas gifts, you know. My size will do.”
“How many pairs?” she asked.
“Have you forgotten how many cowboys in my outfit?”
She did not reply and presently sorted out the gloves, wrapped them into a parcel and handed it to him. This time he fixed upon her reproachful piercing eyes.
“Molly, you are to understand that I do not accept my dismissal,” he said, deliberately. “I’m sorry you feel so. I—I forgive you, I guess. … And I’ll not give you up.”
“But, Jim, everybody heah knows,” she said, shrinkingly.
“What?”
“Thet I gave—you up—’cause I wasn’t good enough—for you.”
Jim could scarcely refrain from leaning over the counter and snatching her to his breast.
“I know, Molly. But you’re terribly mistaken. Uncle Jim knows you’re good enough for me. I know you’re too good for me or anyone else. And Glory, she’s heart and soul for you.”
“Jim, I reckon you’re somethin’ of a liar,” she returned, a red spot forming on each cheek.
“Ordinarily, yes, but not in this,” he said, cheerfully. “Anyway, it doesn’t make the slightest difference who and what you are. You’re going to be Mrs. James Traft.”
“I—I am—not.”
“You bet you are. … Oh yes, that reminds me. I forgot something else. Look here.” He slipped the little ring-box out of his pocket, and bending over the counter opened the lid. The big blue-white diamond seemed to leap up. Jim glanced quickly at Molly’s face. And that was enough, almost even for him.
“I thought you’d like it,” he said, remorsefully, but not now meeting her tragic eyes. “We’ll try it on first chance. … So long, till tomorrow.”
Taking up his purchases, Jim hurried out, his pulse tingling, his heart singing. Molly loved him still. And all the way out the bleak cold road he could have danced. Upon arriving home he went in to see Gloriana, who was gorgeously arrayed in a dressing-gown and demonstratively glad to see him. Jim recounted his adventure to Glory.
“Men are brutes, devils, fiends,” responded his sister. “But since the female of the species is what she is and self-preservation the first law of life, I don’t see what else you can do. Hurry and get Molly back here.”
“Give me a little time, Glory,” declared Jim, somewhat daunted.
“Get her here before she goes to the dance with that darn Darnell,” advised Gloriana, with a wonderful purple flash of eyes.
“Reckon I don’t want to, till afterwards. I sure am curious to see how she acts—and, Darnell too—and what the cowboys do.”
“Will you tell them?”
“I will, you bet, and between you and me, Glory, I wouldn’t be in Darnell’s boots for a million.”
“You are beginning to make me feel the same way. … Jim, you showed the ring to Molly?”
“Yes—and you should have seen her eyes. Oh!—I felt like a coyote, but, gosh! I was happy.”
“It’s a lovely ring, Jim. Let me have it a little—just to look at. I won’t put it on.”
“Sure. But wait till I come back from the bunk-house. I want to show it to the boys.”
“Jim, if you’re going to tell them about Darnell, put it strong.”
“Huh! Trust me. I’ve already told them something. … Glory, I don’t feel so sick this afternoon.”
“You loving goose!—Heigho! I wish somebody loved me that way.”
“That’s funny. As if you hadn’t had and didn’t have more love than any girl ever had.”
“But, Jim, only to be loved because you’re pretty!” she exclaimed. “Would even these sentimental cowboys love me—if they knew I couldn’t cook, sew, bake, darn a sock—that I’m a useless ornament—that the thought of babies scares me stiff?”
“Sure they would. Men are loving geese, Glory. Don’t worry. Only begin to deserve it.”
He made his way to the bunk-house, finding all the boys in, as he had expected, and recovered from any indulgence they might have treated themselves to the night before.
“Fellars, hyar’s the boss, lookin’ like a thundercloud,” announced Bud.
“Packin’ a gun, too, the Mizzouri hayseed,” added Curly.
Their separate greetings were all in the nature of comment upon his appearance. The moment seemed propitious and Jim chose to act upon it.
“Boys, friends, pards,” he began, dramatically, “if it weren’t for my sister and you I’d blow my brains out.”
Silence! Staring eyes and awed lean faces attested to the felicity of his acting.
“Why, Jim, what the hell?” uttered Curly, without his drawl.
“Listen. Let me tell it quick,” he announced, hurriedly. “We go back to Yellow Jacket after New Year’s. No more town till spring, if then. The old man is sore at Bambridge—at this two-bit rustling. We’ve got the job of clearing the range of varmints, rubbish, rustlers, and so forth. He’ll throw five thousand head of cattle on to Yellow Jacket in less than a year. That’s that, and it isn’t a marker to what I’m going to tell you.”
As he paused, Curly interposed, coolly: “Wal, Boss, maybe it isn’t a marker, whatever thet is, but it’s sure rattlesnake poison, gunpowder, and bad whisky, all mixed up.”
“Let me get it off my chest,” went on Jim. “Maybe you remember I hinted of a fellow named Darnell, who made trouble for my sister back in Missouri. Anyway, he’s here in Flag. Has taken a job with Bambridge. He has been hounding poor Glory until she has stopped going to town. She is deathly afraid of him. Afraid he will disgrace me by talking about her. Mind you—Glory is straight and fine and good. So don’t get the wrong hunch. She was only a crazy girl and this Darnell is a man, handsome, slick as the devil, a gambler and cheat at cards, and crooked otherwise. He beat Glory out of money, and my father, too. She thinks he’ll beat Uncle Jim the same way. But you all know Darnell can’t fool the old man. … Now does that sink in?”
“Wal, it shore doesn’t sink very deep in me, Boss,” drawled Curly. “Mister Darnell has shore picked an awful unhealthy climate.”
“You saw Darnell with Bambridge that day at the station.”
“Shore. An’ thet was enough fer me an’ Bud an’ all of the outfit.”
“All right … here’s the worst—Lord! how am I to get—it out?” continued Jim, and now he did not need to simulate trouble. He was genuine. He felt clammy and nauseated. He paced a step here and there, flung himself upon the chair before the fire, and all but tore his hair in his distress and shame.
“Molly Dunn has—jilted me. Broken her engagement—left my uncle’s house. … Says she’s not good enough to marry me. And it’s just the other way around. Poor kid! Just let that sink in, will you? … She’s a clerk in Babbitt’s store in the afternoons. Mornings she goes to school. All that’s tough, boys. But listen to this. She’s going around with that—— —— —— Darnell! … I can’t realize it, let alone understand it. But Glory says Molly is only distracted—out of her head—that it’s really because she loves me she’s done it. Wants everybody in Flag to see she’s not good enough for us! That’s why she’s carrying on with this Darnell. I’m so sorry for her I—I could cry. And so mad I could bite nails. And so scared I can’t think.”
Jim paused for breath. What relief to get t
his confession made! When he looked up he gathered a singular conception of the regard in which he was held by the Diamond. It was rather a big moment for him.
Slinger Dunn, without a word, put on his cap and glided noiselessly toward the door.
“Hold on, Slinger. Where you going?”
Dunn turned. At any moment his sloe-black eyes were remarkable; just now they made Jim shiver.
“I was shore wonderin’ why my sister hadn’t sent fer me to come up to the house,” he said. “An’ I reckon it’s aboot time I hunted her up. Then I’ll take a look round fer this Darnell fellar.”
“Slinger, by all means go see Molly, but let Darnell alone for the present,” rejoined Jim, earnestly.
“Jim, air you electin’ to boss me aboot Molly?” asked Slinger.
“No indeed, Slinger. Only asking you to wait.”
“What fer?”
There did not appear to be much to wait for, Jim admitted to himself, and he felt he had been hasty in stating the case to these firebrands.
“Listen, Slinger, and all of you,” said Jim. “Tomorrow night is this Christmas Eve dance. We’ll all go. We’ll look this Darnell over. I won’t do anything and I ask you not to—until after that. But understand me. I—I couldn’t stick it out here in the West without Molly. You all know how I care for her. It’s far more serious for me than the Hash Knife deal. … I’ve confided my intimate feelings because I believe you all my pards. I reckon I’ll be laughed at and ridiculed by the Flagerstown young people, as I was at first. But I don’t care. All I care for is to get Molly back, to make a home for Glory, and to have the Diamond stick to me.”
Curly might have been spokesman for the outfit. Usually in critical cases he assumed that position. Now he laid a lean brown pressing hand upon Jim’s shoulder.
“Jim, all this heah Diamond cares for is thet you grow a little more Western overnight,” he drawled, in his careless, cool, inflexible tone, that seemed to carry such moment. Curly’s ultimatum intimated so much. It embodied all of Jim’s longings. He divined in that cowboy’s droll words an unutterable and unquenchable loyalty, and more, the limitless spirit and the strength of all that the wild range engendered.
