by Zane Grey
“You mean thet cattle-drive in April, without me knowin’?”
“Not thet particular. I mean buildin’ this heah cabin, fer one thing. Shore it’s a fort. An’ only twenty miles from Yellow Jacket!”
“Ha! Ha!—Croak runs up this cabin, he said, because he liked the view down over the brakes, an’ the wall of the Mogollans standin’ away there so beautiful.”
“Wal, I ain’t gainsayin’ the view. But to take Malloy serious, except regardin’ life an’ death, is sheer nonsense. He aims to hang on heah whether you like it or not.”
“Mebbe he will hang—an’ from a rope,” muttered the outlaw.
“Not Croak Malloy! He’ll die with his boots on, sober an’ shootin’. Don’t have vain hopes, Jed. … Malloy will run the Hash Knife—an’ run it to hell. Take, for instance, these two hombres he’s lately rung in on us. Just a couple of town rowdies, drinkin’ up what they steal. No stuff for the Hash Knife!”
“I had the same hunch when I seen them,” said Stone, pacing to and fro.
“Wal, heah’s Lang an’ Madden, both scared of Croak, an’ they’d double-cross you any day. An’ Sonora, he’s Croak’s man, as you know. Right now, Jed, the Hash Knife, outside of you an’ me, is done.”
“I reckon so. It’s been keepin’ me awake nights.”
“Wal, then, shake the onery outfit an’ come away with me?”
“Where you goin’, Pecos?”
“Reckon I’ll lay low fer a spell.”
“Shore. But where? I want to know.”
“Jed, I’ll ride straight for the haid of the Little Colorado. I told you I had word last fall from an old Texas pard who’s layin’ low up there.”
“Uh-huh. Pecos, have you got any money?”
“Shore. Malloy hasn’t won all I had.”
Stone turned with a jerk of decision. “All right, Pecos, if I don’t join you up there before the snow flies, you can reckon Malloy’s done fer me, as he has fer the Hash Knife.”
“Jed, shore there’s no call fer you to risk an even break with Croak,” said the Texan, gravely. “He’s no square gunman. He’d have murdered young Traft over there at Yellow Jacket thet day.”
“Yes, I remember. An’ my kickin’ his gun up made him hate me. … Honest to Gawd, Pecos, the only reason I’d ever risk an even break with Croak—if I did—would be just to see if he could beat me to a gun.”
“I savvy. I had the same itch. It’s the one weakness of a gunman. It’s plain vanity, Jed. Don’t be a damn fool. Come away with me now.”
Stone thought for a long moment. “No, not yet. I’m broke. I want thet money from Bambridge. An’ I want to—” His pause and the checking of his thought suggested an ominous uncertainty of himself rather than meaning not to confide in the Texan. “But, Pecos, I’ll promise you, barrin’ ordinary accidents, thet I’ll meet you at the haid of the Little Colorado sometime before the summer’s over.”
“Thet shore sounds good,” replied Pecos, rising to his lofty stature. “Shake on thet.”
Stone gripped his lieutenant’s hand, and their eyes locked as well. It was one of the moments that counted with men of the open. Then Pecos strode out to his horse, and while he mounted Stone untied the halter of the pack-mule.
“Reckon you’d better work out through the woods,” he said casually. “If Croak happened to meet you on the trail he’d be curious. He took Anderson’s desertion as a slap in the face. … Good luck, Pecos.”
“Same to you, Jed. I’ll shore be countin’ the days.”
Pecos rode out from under the shadow of the great cliff, keeping to the grass, and soon headed into the fringe of timber below. Stone watched him go with mingled regret and relief. Pecos was the last of the old Hash Knife, except himself. Malloy represented a development of a later type of Arizona rustler. There was such a thing as straight rustling, about which the ranchers had never made any great hullabaloo. But these new fellows, who had corrupted some of the old, stealing cattle barefaced and wholesale, were marked for a bullet or a rope. Of course Malloy would get a bullet.
And that thought focused Stone’s plodding mind on the hint he had given Pecos. The Texan had admitted as much. That was a strange coincidence, and it shamed Stone a little. Pecos, no doubt, was as good a man with a gun as Malloy. But he rode away and now he would never be certain. The outlaw leader acknowledged to himself that he was not built that way. He hated Malloy, the same as every square shooter in the Tonto. Likewise he shared their fear of the notorious gunman.
Stone sat down on the rude seat which had been fashioned by Malloy, and where he sat so often, to smoke and watch the sunset over the Mazatzals. What a grand wild view it was out and down over the black brakes to the purple ranges! But did the crooked-faced little murderer really care anything about the beauty and grandeur of that scene? Stone, inquiring into the intricacies of his own habits, was constrained to admit that most probably Croak Malloy loved Arizona and particularly this wild and lonely and colorful corner of the Tonto. It was an amazing conviction to dawn upon Stone.
Malloy had certainly selected this site for a cabin with more than its superb view in mind. It stood high up, above a long fan-shaped bare slope of grass, and had been built in a notch of the great wall of rock. It could only be approached from the front, facing downhill. The spruce logs, of which it had been constructed, had been cut right on the spot. They were heavy, too green to burn for a long time, and significant indeed were the narrow chinks left open between the logs, some close to the floor, others breast high, and not a few in the loft. A spring of clear cold water ran from under the cliff, and the cabin had been erected right over it. The wall above bulged far out, so far that neither avalanche nor bullets from any point above could reach the cabin. With store of meat and provisions a few vigilant and hardened outlaws could hold that cabinfort indefinitely. No Arizona posse of sheriff’s sworn-in deputies, or any reasonable outfit of cowboys, were going to rush that retreat, if it sheltered the Hash Knife. Stone conceded Malloy’s sagacity. But it was a futile move, simply because he and his new accomplices would spend very little time there. They had made three cattle-drives already this spring, one of which was as bold and as preposterous as the raiding of the last of the Diamond stock on Yellow Jacket. Bambridge, with his new man, Darnell, was back of these. Stone had not needed to meet Darnell more than once to get his status. Darnell would hardly bother the Hash Knife long. He was too sharp a gambler. Presently, if he won too much from Croak Malloy, very suddenly he would turn up his toes.
But it was Malloy who stuck in Jed Stone’s craw. Jed had never before admitted even to himself that he meant to kill the gun-thrower. When, however, he had intimated so much to Pecos, he realized the grim thing that gripped him. He did mean to kill Malloy. It had been in his dreams, in that part of his mind which worked when he was asleep, and now it possessed him. How and when to do the deed were matters of conjecture; the important thing was the decision, and Stone imagined he had arrived at it. Nevertheless, conscience awakened a still small voice. Bad as Malloy was, he trusted Stone, had fought for him, would do so again at the drop of a card, and that meant, of course, he stood ready to die for him. Stone faced the issue uneasily.
“An’ the little cuss likes to set here fer the view,” soliloquized the outlaw.
Stone did not blame him. Where in Arizona was there a more wonderful scene for a fugitive from justice? The black expanse of tangled rock and timber sloped many miles down, and on each side the high unscalable walls stood up with bold protection. Four days’ hard riding from Winslow or Flagerstown, and more from points south, Malloy’s cabin retreat seemed safe from intrusion. Moreover, it would have to be found, which task would be no slight one. Slinger Dunn probably knew of it already, and perhaps more of the backwoodsmen and hunters of the Cibeque. Stone took satisfaction in convincing himself that the Hash Knife had no more need of concern about the Diamond. Still, an afterthought was that he no longer controlled the Hash Knife. Suppose that doughty old cattle
man, Jim Traft, did throw a few thousand head of steers down into Yellow Jacket! He was fool enough, and bull-headed enough, to do it. And if he did, nothing but death could ever prevent Croak Malloy from stealing them. Wherefore the ghastly idea of death for Malloy again held sway over Jed Stone.
It was a beautiful morning in May, and the brakes were abloom with fresh foliage and spring flowers. All the way down the slope bright blossoms stood up out of the grass. And the voices of birds were rich and sweet on the morning air. Pecos had ridden away, and Stone was left alone to fare for himself, as had so often been the case of late. Somebody had to stay there, and it might better be he. Any day now Malloy would return with his new men; and Madden, who had taken a message to Winslow for Stone, ought to be back. Sonora rode to and fro over the trails of the brakes, in accordance with Malloy’s orders, which for once coincided with Stone’s judgment.
This section of Arizona, so long a refuge, would be hard to leave. Stone did not know the headwaters of the Little Colorado, except that it was a very thickly forested country, inhabited only by Apaches and a few straggling outlaws and trappers.
But Jed Stone loved the rock walls, the colored cliffs, the canyons, the byways of the rims of the Mogollans. There was no other country like that—none so full of hiding-places—none with the labyrinth of gorge and thicket and cavern, where the wild game was tame, and where men of his kind could sleep of nights. That was the shibboleth Stone hugged to his breast. But was it all?
He confessed, as he gazed away down the sea of treetops, so green and tufted and bright, at the gray crags standing up as if on sentinel duty, at the wandering lines of the insulating walls, that there might be more to his obsession than just a sense of security.
“Never will be no different,” he muttered. “They can’t fence these brakes, or cut the timber or live down here. It belongs to us—and the Indians. Fire could never run wild down here. Too green and rocky! Too many streams! … All they can do is throw cattle in, and even then a thousand head would be lost. Nope, this corner of the Tonto never will be no different. … Reckon thet’s another reason why I hate to leave.”
Jed Stone had been twenty years a fugitive—a criminal in sight of the law. But he knew in his heart that the crime which had outlawed him had not been his. He held no bitterness, no resentment. Never in all those hard years would he have changed that sacrifice. Nevertheless, it was natural for him to resent the encroachment of civilization, as if he had an actual right. He had arrived at a time in his life when he balked at things as they were, at things he must do.
Stone’s quick eye, ever roving from habit, detected movement of gray down in the foliage. He thought it was a deer until he saw brown and heard a distant thud of hoofs. Horses! Probably Malloy was returning. But Stone took no chances with suppositions, and his hand went to the rifle leaning against the bench.
When three horses emerged from the green below he recognized the first of the riders to be Madden, but they were halfway up the hill before he made out that the second was Bambridge. The outlaw’s thought changed, and conjecture that was not friendly to this visit took the place of hard vigilance. Bambridge riding down into the Black Brakes must certainly have something to do with Malloy. It was unwise, especially for this pseudo rancher. Stone arose and walked to the high step.
The dusty horses limped wearily up the hill, to be halted before the cabin. The men were travel-stained and tired. Bambridge’s big face appeared haggard, and it did not express any pleasure.
“Hullo, Boss! I fetched a visitor,” called out Madden, busy with saddle packs.
“So I see. … Howdy, Mr. Bambridge!” replied Stone, coolly.
“Mornin’, Stone. I expect you’re surprised to see me,” said Bambridge, bluntly.
“Shore am. Glad, though, for more’n one reason,” answered the rustler.
Bambridge unstrapped a coat from his saddle, and mounted to the porch, heavy of step and dark of eye. He flopped down on the bench, dropping his coat and sombrero. Evidently he had not slept much, and it was plain his sweaty and begrimed apparel had not been changed for days. He packed a gun, which Stone had taken note of first.
“Malloy failed to show up,” he said, sourly.
“Ahuh. It’s a way Croak has. But he’ll show up when you least expect him an’ don’t want him. Where’d you go to meet him?”
“Tanner’s out of Winslow,” returned Bambridge, shortly, his dull gray eyes studying the outlaw, as if he was weighing that remark about Malloy.
“Tanner’s. So Malloy meets you there, eh?—Wal. I reckon he might as well go into Winslow or Flag,” said Stone, dryly.
Bambridge seemed uncertain of his ground here, but was indifferent to it. Stone grasped the fact that the cattle dealer did not take him for the dominant factor in the Hash Knife.
“You can bet I’d rather he had. Eighty miles ride, without a bed, an’ practically nothin’ to eat, is enough to make a man bite nails.”
“What’s the reason you undertook it?”
“It concerns me an’ Malloy,” said the other.
Whatever sense of fair play Jed Stone felt toward this man—and he confessed to himself that it was little—departed here.
“Any deals you make with Malloy concern me. I’m boss of this Hash Knife outfit.”
“Not so any one would notice it,” rejoined Bambridge, with scant civility.
The man was on dangerous ground and had no intimation of it. Steeped in his absorption of his greedy sordid plans, if he had the wit to understand Jed Stone he did not exercise it. Stone paced the narrow porch, gazing out over the brakes. For the moment he would waive any expression of resentment. Bambridge was in possession of facts and plans that Stone desired to know.
“Wal, mebbe you’re right aboot Croak bossin’ the outfit pretty generally,” he said, at length. “But only in late deals that I had little to do with. What I don’t advise I shore don’t do. Thet deal of Diamond cattle last winter—thet was an exception. I’ve kicked myself often enough. … By the way, you can fork over thet ten thousand you’ve owed me on thet deal. I sent Madden in to get it.”
“Man alive! I gave the money to Darnell, with instructions to hand it to Malloy for you,” ejaculated Bambridge, in genuine surprise.
“You did? When?”
“Weeks ago. Let’s see. It was the ninth of April that I drew that ten thousand. Next day Darnell was to ride out to Tanner’s. He met Malloy there and delivered your money.”
“Not to me,” declared Stone.
“Why!—the man is reliable,” replied Bambridge, in exasperation. “Are you quite—honest, about it? … Have you seen Malloy since?”
“Wal, Bambridge, I’ve seen Malloy several times since then. He never mentioned no money—for me. Appeared to be pretty flush himself, though. … An’ much obliged for the hint about my honesty.”
Bambridge let the caustic rejoinder go by without apology.
“Honesty is not your trade, Stone. I’ll say, though, you’ve kept your word to me, which is more than Malloy has. … You suspect this new man of mine, Darnell?”
“No, I don’t suspect him. I know him to be a Mississippi River gambler, run out of St. Louis—accordin’ to his own statement. I’ve seen a few of his kind hit the raw West. They didn’t savvy us Westerners an’ they didn’t last. Darnell has double-crossed you. He’ll try it on Croak Malloy, which will be bad for his health.”
“No wonder Darnell can’t savvy you Westerners. Who the hell can, I’d like to know?”
“Wal, not you, thet’s shore.”
“Give me proof Darnell has done me dirt,” demanded the other, impatiently.
“Wal, I saw him right here after the tenth of April—along aboot the twentieth, I reckon, for it was after Malloy made a raid on Blodgett’s range. … Darnell did not give me any money. He had a big roll, for I saw him flash it when he was gamblin’ with the men. … Thet was the day Croak shot young Reed.”
“Aw, I’d want more proof than that,” re
turned Bambridge. “You might have been drunk when Darnell gave it to you.”
“Shore. I might have been anythin’. Us outlaws are pretty low-down, I reckon. But I, for one, am not as low-down as some who call themselves cattlemen. … Bambridge, am I to hold you or Darnell responsible fer thet ten thousand?”
“Not me, you can bet. Or Darnell, either. Malloy is your man. He seems to be runnin’ your outfit now, an’ no doubt appropriated your money.”
“Nope. Croak is square aboot money,” said the outlaw, meditatively.
“Bah!—What you givin’ me?” retorted Bambridge, harshly. “Stone, you talk queer for a rustler. Here you are, hidden down in this God-forsaken wilderness—afraid to go near any town—with a price on your life, yet you talk of honesty in yourself an’ men. Thet’s a joke about honor among thieves.”
“Wal we needn’t argue aboot it,” replied Stone. A Westerner would have gauged something from the cool quality of his voice and the averting of his eyes. “I’ve served your turn. An’ now thet Malloy is doin’ it, why, you’ve no call to get nasty. What I’d like to know is—how’d you come to ride out here? Shore is a long hard ride fer anyone.”
“I want action. That’s why I came,” almost yelled Bambridge, red in the face. “Malloy has failed me twice, both times because I didn’t pay first. Here I have a chance to sell ten thousand head of cattle—to the government buyer in Kansas City—an’ I haven’t the cattle.”
“Chance to sell quick an’ get out of Arizona, huh?”
“You’ve hit it, Stone. An’ that’s why I’m here. I want cattle. Old Traft lately drove a big herd down into Yellow Jacket. I’m after it. Malloy agreed to drive it. I’ve built a corral along the railroad, halfway between Winslow an’ Holbrook. Short-cut idea, see? An’ I can load there. He also agreed to make away with this damned young smart Alec, Jim Traft. Took the money quick enough, by damn.”
