by Zane Grey
Stevens’s tone was inviting. Evidently he would welcome Duane’s companionship, but he did not openly say so. Duane kept silence, however, and then Stevens went on.
“Stranger, in this here country two’s a crowd. It’s safer. I never was much of this lone-wolf dodgin’, though I’ve done it of necessity. It takes a damn good man to travel alone any length of time. Why, I’ve been thet sick I was jest achin’ fer some ranger to come along an’ plug me. Give me a pardner any day. Now, mebbe you’re not thet kind of a feller, an’ I’m shore not presumin’ to ask. But I jest declares myself sufficient.”
“You mean you’d like me to go with you?” asked Duane.
Stevens grinned. “Wal, I should smile. I’d be particular proud to be braced with a man of your reputation.”
“See here, my good fellow, that’s all nonsense,” declared Duane, in some haste.
“Shore I think modesty becomin’ to a youngster,” replied Stevens. “I hate a brag. An’ I’ve no use fer these four-flush cowboys thet ’re always lookin’ fer trouble an’ talkin’ gun-play. Buck, I don’t know much about you. But every man who’s lived along the Texas border remembers a lot about your dad. It was expected of you, I reckon, an’ much of your rep was established before you throwed your gun. I jest heerd that you was lightnin’ on the draw, an’ when you cut loose with a gun, why the figger on the ace of spades would cover your cluster of bullet-holes. Thet’s the word thet’s gone down the border. It’s the kind of reputation most sure to fly far an’ swift ahead of a man in this country. An’ the safest, too; I’ll gamble on thet. It’s the land of the draw. I see now you’re only a boy, though you’re shore a strappin’ husky one. Now, Buck, I’m not a spring chicken, an’ I’ve been long on the dodge. Mebbe a little of my society won’t hurt you none. You’ll need to learn the country.”
There was something sincere and likable about this outlaw.
“I dare say you’re right,” replied Duane, quietly. “And I’ll go to Mercer with you.”
Next moment he was riding down the road with Stevens. Duane had never been much of a talker, and now he found speech difficult. But his companion did not seem to mind that. He was a jocose, voluble fellow, probably glad now to hear the sound of his own voice. Duane listened, and sometimes he thought with a pang of the distinction of name and heritage of blood his father had left to him.
CHAPTER 3
Late that day, a couple of hours before sunset, Duane and Stevens, having rested their horses in the shade of some mesquites near the town of Mercer, saddled up and prepared to move.
“Buck, as we’re lookin’ fer grub, an’ not trouble, I reckon you’d better hang up out here,” Stevens was saying, as he mounted. “You see, towns an’ sheriffs an’ rangers are always lookin’ fer new fellers gone bad. They sort of forget most of the old boys, except those as are plumb bad. “Now nobody in Mercer will take notice of me. Reckon there’s been a thousand men run into the river country to become outlaws since yours truly. You jest wait here an’ be ready to ride hard. Mebbe my besettin’ sin will go operatin’ in spite of my good intentions. In which case there’ll be—”
His pause was significant. He grinned, and his brown eyes danced with a kind of wild humor.
“Stevens, have you got any money?” asked Duane.
“Money!” exclaimed Luke, blankly. “Say, I haven’t owned a two-bit piece since—wal, fer some time.”
“I’ll furnish money for grub,” returned Duane. “And for whisky, too, providing you hurry back here—without making trouble.”
“Shore you’re a downright good pard,” declared Stevens, in admiration, as he took the money. “I give my word, Buck, an’ I’m here to say I never broke it yet. Lay low, an’ look fer me back quick.”
With that he spurred his horse and rode out of the mesquites toward the town. At that distance, about a quarter of a mile, Mercer appeared to be a cluster of low adobe houses set in a grove of cottonwoods. Pastures of alfalfa were dotted by horses and cattle. Duane saw a sheep-herder driving in a meager flock.
Presently Stevens rode out of sight into the town. Duane waited, hoping the outlaw would make good his word. Probably not a quarter of an hour had elapsed when Duane heard the clear reports of a Winchester rifle, the clatter of rapid hoof-beats, and yells unmistakably the kind to mean danger for a man like Stevens. Duane mounted and rode to the edge of the mesquites.
He saw a cloud of dust down the road and a bay horse running fast. Stevens apparently had not been wounded by any of the shots, for he had a steady seat in his saddle and his riding, even at that moment, struck Duane as admirable. He carried a large pack over the pommel, and he kept looking back. The shots had ceased, but the yells increased. Duane saw several men running and waving their arms. Then he spurred his horse and got into a swift stride, so Stevens would not pass him. Presently the outlaw caught up with him. Stevens was grinning, but there was now no fun in the dancing eyes. It was a devil that danced in them. His face seemed a shade paler.
“Was jest comin’ out of the store,” yelled Stevens. “Run plumb into a rancher—who knowed me. He opened up with a rifle. Think they’ll chase us.”
They covered several miles before there were any signs of pursuit, and when horsemen did move into sight out of the cottonwoods Duane and his companion steadily drew farther away.
“No hosses in thet bunch to worry us,” called out Stevens.
Duane had the same conviction, and he did not look back again. He rode somewhat to the fore, and was constantly aware of the rapid thudding of hoofs behind, as Stevens kept close to him. At sunset they reached the willow brakes and the river. Duane’s horse was winded and lashed with sweat and lather. It was not until the crossing had been accomplished that Duane halted to rest his animal. Stevens was riding up the low, sandy bank. He reeled in the saddle. With an exclamation of surprise Duane leaped off and ran to the outlaw’s side.
Stevens was pale, and his face bore beads of sweat. The whole front of his shirt was soaked with blood.
“You’re shot!” cried Duane.
“Wal, who ’n hell said I wasn’t? Would you mind givin’ me a lift—on this here pack?”
Duane lifted the heavy pack down and then helped Stevens to dismount. The outlaw had a bloody foam on his lips, and he was spitting blood.
“Oh, why didn’t you say so!” cried Duane. “I never thought. You seemed all right.”
“Wal, Luke Stevens may be as gabby as an old woman, but sometimes he doesn’t say anythin’. It wouldn’t have done no good.”
Duane bade him sit down, removed his shirt, and washed the blood from his breast and back. Stevens had been shot in the breast, fairly low down, and the bullet had gone clear through him. His ride, holding himself and that heavy pack in the saddle, had been a feat little short of marvelous. Duane did not see how it had been possible, and he felt no hope for the outlaw. But he plugged the wounds and bound them tightly.
“Feller’s name was Brown,” Stevens said. “Me an’ him fell out over a hoss I stole from him over in Huntsville. We had a shootin’-scrape then. Wal, as I was saddlin’ my hoss back there in Mercer I seen this Brown, an’ seen him before he seen me. Could have killed him, too. But I wasn’t breakin’ my word to you. I kind of hoped he wouldn’t spot me. But he did—an’ fust shot he got me here. What do you think of this hole?”
“It’s pretty bad,” replied Duane; and he could not look the cheerful outlaw in the eyes.
“I reckon it is. Wal, I’ve had some bad wounds I lived over. Guess mebbe I can stand this one. Now, Buck, get me some place in the brakes, leave me some grub an’ water at my hand, an’ then you clear out.”
“Leave you here alone?” asked Duane, sharply.
“Shore. You see, I can’t keep up with you. Brown an’ his friends will foller us acrost the river a ways. You’ve got to think of number one in this game.”
“What would you do in my case?” asked Duane, curiously.
“Wal, I reckon I’d clear out an
’ save my hide,” replied Stevens.
Duane felt inclined to doubt the outlaw’s assertion. For his own part he decided his conduct without further speech. First he watered the horses, filled canteens and water-bag, and then tied the pack upon his own horse. That done, he lifted Stevens upon his horse, and, holding him in the saddle, turned into the brakes, being careful to pick out hard or grassy ground that left little signs of tracks. Just about dark he ran across a trail that Stevens said was a good one to take into the wild country.
“Reckon we’d better keep right on in the dark—till I drop,” concluded Stevens, with a laugh.
All that night Duane, gloomy and thoughtful, attentive to the wounded outlaw, walked the trail and never halted till daybreak. He was tired then and very hungry. Stevens seemed in bad shape, although he was still spirited and cheerful. Duane made camp. The outlaw refused food, but asked for both whisky and water. Then he stretched out.
“Buck, will you take off my boots?” he asked, with a faint smile on his pallid face.
Duane removed them, wondering if the outlaw had the thought that he did not want to die with his boots on. Stevens seemed to read his mind.
“Buck, my old daddy used to say thet I was born to be hanged. But I wasn’t—an’ dyin’ with your boots on is the next wust way to croak.”
“You’ve a chance to—to get over this,” said Duane.
“Shore. But I want to be correct about the boots—an’ say, pard, if I do go over, jest you remember thet I was appreciatin’ of your kindness.”
Then he closed his eyes and seemed to sleep.
Duane could not find water for the horses, but there was an abundance of dew–wet grass upon which he hobbled them. After that was done he prepared himself a much-needed meal. The sun was getting warm when he lay down to sleep, and when he awoke it was sinking in the west. Stevens was still alive, for he breathed heavily. The horses were in sight. All was quiet except the hum of insects in the brush. Duane listened awhile, then rose and went for the horses.
When he returned with them he found Stevens awake, bright-eyed, cheerful as usual, and apparently stronger.
“Wal, Buck, I’m still with you an’ good fer another night’s ride,” he said. “Guess about all I need now is a big pull on thet bottle. Help me, will you? There! thet was bully. I ain’t swallowin’ my blood this evenin’. Mebbe I’ve bled all there was in me.”
While Duane got a hurried meal for himself, packed up the little outfit, and saddled the horses Stevens kept on talking. He seemed to be in a hurry to tell Duane all about the country. Another night ride would put them beyond fear of pursuit, within striking distance of the Rio Grande and the hiding-places of the outlaws.
When it came time for mounting the horses Stevens said, “Reckon you can pull on my boots once more.” In spite of the laugh accompanying the words Duane detected a subtle change in the outlaw’s spirit.
On this night travel was facilitated by the fact that the trail was broad enough for two horses abreast, enabling Duane to ride while upholding Stevens in the saddle.
The difficulty most persistent was in keeping the horses in a walk. They were used to a trot, and that kind of gait would not do for Stevens. The red died out of the west; a pale afterglow prevailed for a while; darkness set in; then the broad expanse of blue darkened and the stars brightened. After a while Stevens ceased talking and drooped in his saddle. Duane kept the horses going, however, and the slow hours wore away. Duane thought the quiet night would never break to dawn, that there was no end to the melancholy, brooding plain. But at length a grayness blotted out the stars and mantled the level of mesquite and cactus.
Dawn caught the fugitives at a green camping-site on the bank of a rocky little stream. Stevens fell a dead weight into Duane’s arms, and one look at the haggard face showed Duane that the outlaw had taken his last ride. He knew it, too. Yet that cheerfulness prevailed.
“Buck, my feet are orful tired packin’ them heavy boots,” he said, and seemed immensely relieved when Duane had removed them.
This matter of the outlaw’s boots was strange, Duane thought. He made Stevens as comfortable as possible, then attended to his own needs. And the outlaw took up the thread of his conversation where he had left off the night before.
“This trail splits up a ways from here, an’ every branch of it leads to a hole where you’ll find men—a few, mebbe, like yourself—some like me—an’ gangs of no-good hoss-thieves, rustlers, an’ such. It’s easy livin’, Buck. I reckon, though, that you’ll not find it easy. You’ll never mix in. You’ll be a lone wolf. I seen that right off. Wal, if a man can stand the loneliness, an’ if he’s quick on the draw, mebbe lone-wolfin’ it is the best. Shore I don’t know. But these fellas in here will be suspicious of a man who goes it alone. If they get a chance they’ll kill you.”
Stevens asked for water several times. He had forgotten or he did not want the whisky. His voice grew perceptibly weaker.
“Be quiet,” said Duane. “Talking uses up your strength.”
“Aw, I’ll talk till—I’m done,” he replied, doggedly. “See here, pard, you can gamble on what I’m tellin’ you. An’ it ’ll be useful. From this camp we’ll—you’ll meet men right along. An’ none of them will be honest men. All the same, some are better ’n others. I’ve lived along the river fer twelve years. There’s three big gangs of outlaws. King Fisher—you know him, I reckon, fer he’s half the time livin’ among respectable folks. King is a pretty good feller. It ’ll do to tie up with him an’ his gang. Now, there’s Cheseldine, who hangs out in the Rim Rock way up the river. He’s an outlaw chief. I never seen him, though I stayed once right in his camp. Late years he’s got rich an’ keeps back pretty well hid. But Bland—I knowed Bland fer years. An’ I haven’t any use fer him. Bland has the biggest gang. You ain’t likely to miss strikin’ his place sometime or other. He’s got a regular town, I might say. Shore there’s some gamblin’ an’ gun-fightin’ goin’ on at Bland’s camp all the time. Bland has killed some twenty men, an’ thet’s not countin’ Mexicans.”
Here Stevens took another drink and then rested for a while.
“You ain’t likely to get on with Bland,” he resumed, presently. “You’re too strappin’ big an’ good-lookin’ to please the chief. Fer he’s got women in his camp. Then he’d be jealous of your possibilities with a gun. Shore I reckon he’d be careful, though. Bland’s no fool, an’ he loves his hide. I reckon any of the other gangs would be better fer you when you ain’t goin’ it alone.”
Apparently that exhausted the fund of information and advice Stevens had been eager to impart. He lapsed into silence and lay with closed eyes. Meanwhile the sun rose warm; the breeze waved the mesquites; the birds came down to splash in the shallow stream; Duane dozed in a comfortable seat. By and by something roused him. Stevens was once more talking, but with a changed tone.
“Feller’s name—was Brown,” he rambled. “We fell out—over a hoss I stole from him—in Huntsville. He stole it fust. Brown’s one of them sneaks—afraid of the open—he steals an’ pretends to be honest. Say, Buck, mebbe you’ll meet Brown some day— You an’ me are pards now.”
“I’ll remember, if I ever meet him,” said Duane.
That seemed to satisfy the outlaw. Presently he tried to lift his head, but had not the strength. A strange shade was creeping across the bronzed rough face.
“My feet are pretty heavy. Shore you got my boots off?”
Duane held them up, but was not certain that Stevens could see them. The outlaw closed his eyes again and muttered incoherently. Then he fell asleep. Duane believed that sleep was final. The day passed, with Duane watching and waiting. Toward sundown Stevens awoke, and his eyes seemed clearer. Duane went to get some fresh water, thinking his comrade would surely want some. When he returned Stevens made no sign that he wanted anything. There was something bright about him, and suddenly Duane realized what it meant.
“Pard, you—stuck—to me!” the outlaw whispered.
>
Duane caught a hint of gladness in the voice; he traced a faint surprise in the haggard face. Stevens seemed like a little child.
To Duane the moment was sad, elemental, big, with a burden of mystery he could not understand.
Duane buried him in a shallow arroyo and heaped up a pile of stones to mark the grave. That done, he saddled his comrade’s horse, hung the weapons over the pommel; and, mounting his own steed, he rode down the trail in the gathering twilight.
CHAPTER 4
Two days later, about the middle of the forenoon, Duane dragged the two horses up the last ascent of an exceedingly rough trail and found himself on top of the Rim Rock, with a beautiful green valley at his feet, the yellow, sluggish Rio Grande shining in the sun, and the great, wild, mountainous barren of Mexico stretching to the south.
Duane had not fallen in with any travelers. He had taken the likeliest-looking trail he had come across. Where it had led him he had not the slightest idea, except that here was the river, and probably the in-closed valley was the retreat of some famous outlaw.
No wonder outlaws were safe in that wild refuge! Duane had spent the last two days climbing the roughest and most difficult trail he had ever seen. From the looks of the descent he imagined the worst part of his travel was yet to come. Not improbably it was two thousand feet down to the river. The wedge-shaped valley, green with alfalfa and cottonwood, and nestling down amid the bare walls of yellow rock, was a delight and a relief to his tired eyes. Eager to get down to a level and to find a place to rest, Duane began the descent.
The trail proved to be the kind that could not be descended slowly. He kept dodging rocks which his horses loosed behind him. And in a short time he reached the valley, entering at the apex of the wedge. A stream of clear water tumbled out of the rocks here, and most of it ran into irrigation-ditches. His horses drank thirstily. And he drank with that fullness and gratefulness common to the desert traveler finding sweet water. Then he mounted and rode down the valley wondering what would be his reception.
