The Lone Star Ranger and the Mysterious Rider

by Zane Grey

  “All right, I’ll do that for you,” replied Moore. “Lem, I guess you won’t get your sleep till to-night. Come on.”

  “Aw!” sighed Lem, as he picked up his bridle.

  * * *

  Late that afternoon Columbine sat upon the porch, watching the sunset. It had been a quiet day for her, mostly indoors. Once only had she seen Jack, and then he was riding by, toward the pasture, whirling a lasso round his head. Jack could ride like one born to the range, but he was not adept in the use of a rope. Nor had Columbine seen the old rancher since breakfast. She had heard his footsteps, however, pacing slowly up and down his room.

  She was watching the last rays of the setting sun rimming with gold the ramparts of the mountain eastward, and burning a crown for Old White Slides peak. A distant bawl and bellow of cattle had died away. The branding was over for that fall. How glad she felt! The wind, beginning to grow cold as the sun declined, cooled her hot face. In the solitude of her room Columbine had cried enough that day to scald her cheeks.

  Presently, down the lane between the pastures, she saw a cowboy ride into view. Very slowly he came, leading another horse. Columbine recognized Lem a second before she saw that he was leading Pronto. That struck her as strange. Another glance showed Pronto to be limping. Apparently he could just get along, and that was all. Columbine ran out in dismay, reaching the corral gate before Lem did. At first she had eyes only for her beloved mustang.

  “Oh, Lem—Pronto’s hurt!” she cried.

  “Wal, I should smile he is,” replied Lem.

  But Lem was not smiling. And when he wore a serious face for Columbine something had indeed happened. The cowboy was the color of dust and so tired that he reeled.

  “Lem, he’s all bloody!” exclaimed Columbine, as she ran toward Pronto.

  “Hyar, you jest wait,” ordered Lem, testily. “Pronto’s all cut up, an’ you gotta hustle some linen an’ salve.”

  Columbine flew away to do his bidding, and so quick and violent was she that when she got back to the corral she was out of breath. Pronto whinnied as she fell, panting, on her knees beside Lem, who was examining bloody gashes on the legs of the mustang.

  “Wal, I reckon no great harm did,” said Lem, with relief. “But he shore hed a close shave. Now you help me doctor him up.”

  “Yes—I’ll help,” panted Columbine. “I’ve done this kind—of thing often—but never—to Pronto.… Oh, I was afraid—he’d been gored by a steer.”

  “Wal, he come damn near bein’,” replied Lem, grimly. “An’ if it hedn’t been fer ridin’ you don’t see every day, why thet ornery Texas steer’d hev got him.”

  “Who was riding? Lem, was it you? Oh, I’ll never be able to do enough for you!”

  “Wuss luck, it weren’t me,” said Lem.

  “No? Who, then?”

  “Wal, it was Wils, an’ he made me swear to tell you nuthin’—leastways about him.”

  “Wils! Did he save Pronto?… And didn’t want you to tell me? Lem, something has happened. You’re not like yourself.”

  “Miss Collie, I reckon I’m nigh all in,” replied Lem, wearily. “When I git this bandagin’ done I’ll fall right off my hoss.”

  “But you’re on the ground now, Lem,” said Columbine, with a nervous laugh. “What happened?”

  “Did you hear about the argyment this mawnin’?”

  “No. What—who—”

  “You can ask Ole Bill about thet. The way Pronto was hurt come off like this. Buster Jack rode out to where we was brandin’ an’ jumped his hoss over a fence into the pasture. He hed a rope an’ he got to chasin’ some hosses over thar. One was Pronto, an’ the son-of-a-gun somehow did git the noose over Pronto’s head. But he couldn’t hold it, or didn’t want to, fer Pronto broke loose an’ jumped the fence. This wasn’t so bad as far as it went. But one of them bad steers got after Pronto. He run an’ sure stepped on the rope, an’ fell. The big steer nearly piled on him. Pronto broke some records then. He shore was scared. Howsoever he picked out rough ground an’ run plumb into some dead brush. Reckon thar he got cut up. We was all a good ways off. The steer went bawlin’ an’ plungin’ after Pronto. Wils yelled fer a rifle, but nobody hed one. Nor a six-shooter, either.… I’m goin’ back to packin’ a gun. Wal, Wils did some ridin’ to git over thar in time to save Pronto.”

  “Lem, that is not all,” said Columbine, earnestly, as the cowboy concluded. Her knowledge of the range told her that Lem had narrated nothing so far which could have been cause for his cold, grim, evasive manner; and her woman’s intuition divined a catastrophe.

  “Nope.… Wils’s hoss fell on him.”

  Lem broke that final news with all a cowboy’s bluntness.

  “Was he hurt—Lem!” cried Columbine.

  “Say, Miss Collie,” remonstrated Lem, “we’re doctorin’ up your hoss. You needn’t drop everythin’ an’ grab me like thet. An’ you’re white as a sheet, too. It ain’t nuthin’ much fer a cowboy to hev a hoss fall on him.”

  “Lem Billings, I’ll hate you if you don’t tell me quick,” flashed Columbine, fiercely.

  “Ahuh! So thet’s how the land lays,” replied Lem, shrewdly. “Wal, I’m sorry to tell you thet Wils was bad hurt. Now, not real bad!… The hoss fell on his leg an’ broke it. I cut off his boot. His foot was all smashed. But thar wasn’t any other hurt—honest! They’re takin’ him to Kremmlin’.”

  “Ah!” Columbine’s low cry sounded strangely in her ears, as if some one else had uttered it.

  “Buster Jack made two bursts this hyar day,” concluded Lem, reflectively. “Miss Collie, I ain’t shore how you’re regardin’ that individool, but I’m tellin’ you this, fer your own good. He’s bad medicine. He has his old man’s temper thet riles up at nuthin’ an’ never felt a halter. Wusser’n thet, he’s spoiled an’ he acts like a colt thet’d tasted loco. The idee of his ropin’ Pronto right thar near the round-up! Any one would think he jest come West. Old Bill is no fool. But he wears blinders when he looks at his son. I’m predictin’ bad days fer White Slides Ranch.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Only one man at Meeker appeared to be attracted by the news that Rancher Bill Belllounds was offering employment. This was a little cadaverous-looking fellow, apparently neither young nor old, who said his name was Bent Wade. He had drifted into Meeker with two poor horses and a pack.

  “Whar you from?” asked the innkeeper, observing how Wade cared for his horses before he thought of himself. The query had to be repeated.

  “Cripple Creek. I was cook for some miners an’ I panned gold between times,” was the reply.

  “Humph! Thet oughter been a better-payin’ job than any to be hed hereabouts.”

  “Yes, got big pay there,” said Wade, with a sigh.

  “What’d you leave fer?”

  “We hed a fight over the diggin’s an’ I was the only one left. I’ll tell you.…” Whereupon Wade sat down on a box, removed his old sombrero, and began to talk. An idler sauntered over, attracted by something. Then a miner happened by to halt and join the group.

  Next, old Kemp, the patriarch of the village, came and listened attentively. Wade seemed to have a strange magnetism, a magic tongue.

  He was small of stature, but wiry and muscular. His garments were old, soiled, worn. When he removed the wide-brimmed sombrero he exposed a remarkable face. It was smooth except for a drooping mustache, and pallid, with drops of sweat standing out on the high, broad forehead; gaunt and hollow-cheeked, with an enormous nose, and cavernous eyes set deep under shaggy brows. These features, however, were not so striking in themselves. Long, sloping, almost invisible lines of pain, the shadow of mystery and gloom in the deepset, dark eyes, a sad harmony between features and expression, these marked the man’s face with a record no keen eye could miss.

  Wade told a terrible tale of gold and blood and death. It seemed to relieve him. His face changed, and lost what might have been called its tragic light, its driven intensity.

  His listeners sh
ook their heads in awe. Hard tales were common in Colorado, but this one was exceptional. Two of the group left without comment. Old Kemp stared with narrow, half-recognizing eyes at the newcomer.

  “Wal! Wal!” ejaculated the innkeeper. “It do beat hell what can happen!… Stranger, will you put up your hosses an’ stay?”

  “I’m lookin’ for work,” replied Wade.

  It was then that mention was made of Belllounds sending to Meeker for hands.

  “Old Bill Belllounds thet settled Middle Park an’ made friends with the Utes,” said Wade, as if certain of his facts.

  “Yep, you have Bill to rights. Do you know him?”

  “I seen him once twenty years ago.”

  “Ever been to Middle Park? Belllounds owns ranches there,” said the innkeeper.

  “He ain’t livin’ in the Park now,” interposed Kemp. “He’s at White Slides, I reckon, these last eight or ten years. Thet’s over the Gore Range.”

  “Prospected all through that country,” said Wade.

  “Wal, it’s a fine part of Colorado. Hay an’ stock country—too high fer grain. Did you mean you’d been through the Park?”

  “Once—long ago,” replied Wade, staring with his great, cavernous eyes into space. Some memory of Middle Park haunted him.

  “Wal, then, I won’t be steerin’ you wrong,” said the innkeeper. “I like thet country. Some people don’t. An’ I say if you can cook or pack or punch cows or ’most anythin’ you’ll find a bunk with Old Bill. I understand he was needin’ a hunter most of all. Lions an’ wolves bad! Can you hunt?”

  “Hey?” queried Wade, absently, as he inclined his ear. “I’m deaf on one side.”

  “Are you a good man with dogs an’ guns?” shouted his questioner.

  “Tolerable,” replied Wade.

  “Then you’re sure of a job.”

  “I’ll go. Much obliged to you.”

  “Not a-tall. I’m doin’ Belllounds a favor. Reckon you’ll put up here to-night?”

  “I always sleep out. But I’ll buy feed an’ supplies,” replied Wade, as he turned to his horses.

  Old Kemp trudged down the road, wagging his gray head as if he was contending with a memory sadly failing him. An hour later when Bent Wade rode out of town he passed Kemp, and hailed him. The old-timer suddenly slapped his leg: “By Golly! I knowed I’d met him before!”

  Later, he said with a show of gossipy excitement to his friend the innkeeper, “Thet fellar was Bent Wade!”

  “So he told me,” returned the other.

  “But didn’t you never hear of him? Bent Wade?”

  “Now you tax me, thet name do ’pear familiar. But dash take it, I can’t remember. I knowed he was somebody, though. Hope I didn’t wish a gun-fighter or outlaw on Old Bill. Who was he, anyhow?”

  “They call him Hell-Bent Wade. I seen him in Wyomin’, whar he were a stage-driver. But I never heerd who he was an’ what he was till years after. Thet was onct I dropped down into Boulder. Wade was thar, all shot up, bein’ nussed by Sam Coles. Sam’s dead now. He was a friend of Wade’s an’ knowed him fer long. Wal, I heerd all thet anybody ever heerd about him, I reckon. Accordin’ to Coles this hyar Hell-Bent Wade was a strange, wonderful sort of fellar. He had the most amazin’ ways. He could do anythin’ under the sun better ’n any one else. Bad with guns! He never stayed in one place fer long. He never hunted trouble, but trouble follered him. As I remember Coles, thet was Wade’s queer idee—he couldn’t shake trouble. No matter whar he went, always thar was hell. Thet’s what gave him the name Hell-Bent.… An’ Coles swore thet Wade was the whitest man he ever knew. Heart of gold, he said. Always savin’ somebody, helpin’ somebody, givin’ his money or time—never thinkin’ of himself a-tall.… When he began to tell thet story about Cripple Creek then my ole head begun to ache with rememberin’. Fer I’d heerd Bent Wade talk before. Jest the same kind of story he told hyar, only wuss. Lordy! but thet fellar has seen times. An’ queerest of all is thet idee he has how hell’s on his trail an’ everywhere he roams it ketches up with him, an’ thar he meets the man who’s got to hear his tale!”

  * * *

  Sunset found Bent Wade far up the valley of White River under the shadow of the Flat Top Mountains.

  It was beautiful country. Grassy hills, with colored aspen groves, swelled up on his left, and across the brawling stream rose a league-long slope of black spruce, above which the bare red-and-gray walls of the range towered, glorious with the blaze of sinking sun. White patches of snow showed in the sheltered nooks. Wade’s gaze rested longest on the colored heights.

  By and by the narrow valley opened into a park, at the upper end of which stood a log cabin. A few cattle and horses grazed in an inclosed pasture. The trail led by the cabin. As Wade rode up a bushy-haired man came out of the door, rifle in hand. He might have been going out to hunt, but his scrutiny of Wade was that of a lone settler in a wild land.

  “Howdy, stranger!” he said.

  “Good evenin’,” replied Wade. “Reckon you’re Blair an’ I’m nigh the headwaters of this river?”

  “Yep, a matter of three miles to Trapper’s Lake.”

  “My name’s Wade. I’m packin’ over to take a job with Bill Belllounds.”

  “Git down an’ come in,” returned Blair. “Bill’s man stopped with me some time ago.”

  “Obliged, I’m sure, but I’ll be goin’ on,” responded Wade. “Do you happen to have a hunk of deer meat? Game powerful scarce comin’ up this valley.”

  “Lots of deer an’ elk higher up. I chased a bunch of more ’n thirty, I reckon, right out of my pasture this mornin’.”

  Blair crossed to an open shed near by and returned with half a deer haunch, which he tied upon Wade’s pack-horse.

  “My ole woman’s ailin’. Do you happen to hev some terbaccer?”

  “I sure do—both smokin’ an’ chewin’, an’ I can spare more chewin’. A little goes a long ways with me.”

  “Wal, gimme some of both, most chewin’,” replied Blair, with evident satisfaction.

  “You acquainted with Belllounds?” asked Wade, as he handed over the tobacco.

  “Wal, yes, everybody knows Bill. You’d never find a whiter boss in these hills.”

  “Has he any family?”

  “Now, I can’t say as to thet,” replied Blair. “I heerd he lost a wife years ago. Mebbe he married ag’in. But Bill’s gittin’ along.”

  “Good day to you, Blair,” said Wade, and took up his bridle.

  “Good day an’ good luck. Take the right-hand trail. Better trot up a bit, if you want to make camp before dark.”

  Wade soon entered the spruce forest. Then he came to a shallow, roaring river. The horses drank the water, foaming white and amber around their knees, and then with splash and thump they forded it over the slippery rocks. As they cracked out upon the trail a covey of grouse whirred up into the low branches of spruce-trees. They were tame.

  “That’s somethin’ like,” said Wade. “First birds I’ve seen this fall. Reckon I can have stew any day.”

  He halted his horse and made a move to dismount, but with his eyes on the grouse he hesitated. “Tame as chickens, an’ they sure are pretty.”

  Then he rode on, leading his pack-horse. The trail was not steep, although in places it had washed out, thus hindering a steady trot. As he progressed the forest grew thick and darker, and the fragrance of pine and spruce filled the air. A dreamy roar of water rushing over rocks rang in the traveler’s ears. It receded at times, then grew louder. Presently the forest shade ahead lightened and he rode out into a wide space where green moss and flags and flowers surrounded a wonderful spring-hole. Sunset gleams shone through the trees to color the wide, round pool. It was shallow all along the margin, with a deep, large green hole in the middle, where the water boiled up. Trout were feeding on gnats and playing on the surface, and some big ones left wakes behind them as they sped to deeper water. Wade had an appreciative eye for all this beauty, his gaze lingering
longest upon the flowers.

  “Wild woods is the place for me,” he soliloquized, as the cool wind fanned his cheeks and the sweet tang of evergreen tingled his nostrils. “But sure I’m most haunted in these lonely, silent places.”

  Bent Wade had the look of a haunted man. Perhaps the consciousness he confessed was part of his secret.

  Twilight had come when again he rode out into the open. Trapper’s Lake lay before him, a beautiful sheet of water, mirroring the black slopes and the fringed spruces and the flat peaks. Over all its gray, twilight-softened surface showed little swirls and boils and splashes where the myriads of trout were rising. The trail led out over open grassy shores, with a few pines straggling down to the lake, and clumps of spruces raising dark blurs against the background of gleaming lake. Wade heard a sharp crack of hoofs on rock, and he knew he had disturbed deer at their drinking; also he heard a ring of horns on the branch of a tree, and was sure an elk was slipping off through the woods. Across the lake he saw a camp-fire and a pale, sharp-pointed object that was a trapper’s tent or an Indian’s tepee.

  Selecting a camp-site for himself, he unsaddled his horse, threw the pack off the other, and, hobbling both animals, he turned them loose. His roll of bedding, roped in canvas tarpaulin, he threw under a spruce-tree. Then he opened his oxhide-covered packs and laid out utensils and bags, little and big. All his movements were methodical, yet swift, accurate, habitual. He was not thinking about what he was doing. It took him some little time to find a suitable log to split for firewood, and when he had started a blaze night had fallen, and the light as it grew and brightened played fantastically upon the isolating shadows.

  Lid and pot of the little Dutch oven he threw separately upon the sputtering fire, and while they heated he washed his hands, mixed the biscuits, cut slices of meat off the deer haunch, and put water on to boil. He broiled his meat on the hot, red coals, and laid it near on clean pine chips, while he waited for bread to bake and coffee to boil. The smell of wood-smoke and odorous steam from pots and the fragrance of spruce mingled together, keen, sweet, appetizing. Then he ate his simple meal hungrily, with the content of the man who had fared worse.