by Zane Grey
“No. I’ve only somethin’ on my mind.”
“What?”
“I reckon I’m not goin’ to tell you now.”
“You’ve got hell on your mind!” flashed the cowboy, in grim inspiration.
Wade ignored the insinuation and turned the conversation to another subject.
“Wils, you’re buyin’ stock right along?”
“Sure am. I saved some money, you know. And what’s the use to hoard it? I’ll buy cheap. In five years I’ll have five hundred, maybe a thousand head. Wade, my old dad will be pleased to find out I’ve made the start I have.”
“Well, it’s a fine start, I’ll allow. Have you picked up any unbranded stock?”
“Sure I have. Say, pard, are you worrying about this two-bit rustler work that’s been going on?”
“Wils, it ain’t two bits any more. I reckon it’s gettin’ into the four-bit class.”
“I’ve been careful to have my business transactions all in writing,” said Moore. “It makes these fellows sore, because some of them can’t write. And they’re not used to it. But I’m starting this game in my own way.”
“Have you sold any stock?”
“Not yet. But the Andrews boys are driving some thirty-odd head to Kremmling for me to be sold.”
“Ahuh! Well, I’ll be goin’,” Wade replied, and it was significant of his state of mind that he left his young friend sorely puzzled. Not that Wade did not see Moore’s anxiety! But the drift of events at White Slides had passed beyond the stage where sympathetic and inspiring hope might serve Wade’s purpose. Besides, his mood was gradually changing as these events, like many fibers of a web, gradually closed in toward a culminating knot.
That night Wade lounged with the cowboys and new hands in front of the little storehouse where Belllounds kept supplies for all. He had lounged there before in the expectation of seeing the rancher’s son. And this time anticipation was verified. Jack Belllounds swaggered over from the ranch-house. He met civility and obedience now where formerly he had earned but ridicule and opposition. So long as he worked hard himself the cowboys endured. The subtle change in him seemed of sterner stuff. The talk, as usual, centered round the stock subjects and the banter and gossip of ranch-hands. Wade selected an interval when there was a lull in the conversation, and with eyes that burned under the shadow of his broad-brimmed sombrero he watched the son of Belllounds.
“Say, boys, Wils Moore has begun sellin’ cattle,” remarked Wade, casually. “The Andrews brothers are drivin’ for him.”
“Wal, so Wils’s spread-eaglin’ into a real rancher!” ejaculated Lem Billings. “Mighty glad to hear it. Thet boy shore will git rich.”
Wade’s remark incited no further expressions of interest. But it was Jack Belllounds’s secret mind that Wade wished to pierce. He saw the leaping of a thought that was neither interest nor indifference nor contempt, but a creative thing which lent a fleeting flash to the face, a slight shock to the body. Then Jack Belllounds bent his head, lounged there for a little while longer, lost in absorption, and presently he strolled away.
Whatever that mounting thought of Jack Belllounds’s was it brought instant decision to Wade. He went to the ranch-house and knocked upon the living-room door. There was a light within, sending rays out through the windows into the semi-darkness. Columbine opened the door and admitted Wade. A bright fire crackled in the hearth. Wade flashed a reassuring look at Columbine.
“Evenin’, Miss Collie. Is your dad in?”
“Oh, it’s you, Ben!” she replied, after her start. “Yes, dad’s here.”
The old rancher looked up from his reading. “Howdy, Wade! What can I do fer you?”
“Belllounds, I’ve cleaned out the cats an’ most of the varmints on your range. An’ my work, lately, has been all sorts, not leavin’ me any time for little jobs of my own. An’ I want to quit.”
“Wade, you’ve clashed with Jack!” exclaimed the rancher, jerking erect.
“Nothin’ of the kind. Jack an’ me haven’t had words for a good while. I’m not denyin’ we might, an’ probably would clash sooner or later. But that’s not my reason for quittin’.”
Manifestly this put an entirely different complexion upon the matter. Belllounds appeared immensely relieved.
“Wal, all right. I’ll pay you at the end of the month. Let’s see, thet’s not long now. You can lay off tomorrow.”
Wade thanked him and waited for further remarks. Columbine had fixed big, questioning eyes upon Wade, which he found hard to endure. Again he tried to flash her a message of reassurance. But Columbine did not lose her look of blank wonder and gravity.
“Ben! Oh, you’re not going to leave White Slides?” she asked.
“Reckon I’ll hang around yet awhile,” he replied.
Belllounds was wagging his head regretfully and ponderingly.
“Wal, I remember the day when no man quit me. Wal, wal!—times change. I’m an old man now. Mebbe, mebbe I’m testy. An’ then thar’s thet boy!”
With a shrug of his broad shoulders he dismissed what seemed an encroachment of pessimistic thought.
“Wade, you’re packin’ off, then, on the trail? Always on the go, eh?”
“No, I’m not hurryin’ off,” replied Wade.
“Wal, might I ask what you’re figgerin’ on?”
“Sure. I’m considerin’ a cattle deal with Moore. He’s a pretty keen boy an’ his father has big ranchin’ interests. I’ve saved a little money an’ I’m no spring chicken any more. Wils has begun to buy an’ sell stock, so I reckon I’ll go in with him.”
“Ahuh!” Belllounds gave a grunt of comprehension. He frowned, and his big eyes set seriously upon the blazing fire. He grasped complications in this information.
“Wal, it’s a free country,” he said at length, and evidently his personal anxieties were subjected to his sense of justice. “Owin’ to the peculiar circumstances hyar at my range, I’d prefer thet Moore an’ you began somewhar else. Thet’s natural. But you’ve my good will to start on an’ I hope I’ve yours.”
“Belllounds, you’ve every man’s good will,” replied Wade. “I hope you won’t take offense at my leavin’. You see I’m on Wils Moore’s side in—in what you called these peculiar circumstances. He’s got nobody else. An’ I reckon you can look back an’ remember how you’ve taken sides with some poor devil an’ stuck to him. Can’t you?”
“Wal, I reckon I can. An’ I’m not thinkin’ less of you fer speakin’ out like thet.”
“All right. Now about the dogs. I turn the pack over to you, an’ it’s a good one. I’d like to buy Fox.”
“Buy nothin’, man. You can have Fox, an’ welcome.”
“Much obliged,” returned the hunter, as he turned to go. “Fox will sure be help for me. Belllounds, I’m goin’ to round up this outfit that’s rustlin’ your cattle. They’re gettin’ sort of bold.”
“Wade, you’ll do thet on your own hook?” asked the rancher, in surprise.
“Sure. I like huntin’ men more than other varmints. Then I’ve a personal interest. You know the hint about homesteaders hereabouts reflects some on Wils Moore.”
“Stuff!” exploded the rancher, heartily. “Do you think any cattleman in these hills would believe Wils Moore a rustler?”
“The hunch has been whispered,” said Wade. “An’ you know how all ranchers say they rustled a little on the start.”
“Aw, hell! Thet’s different. Every new rancher drives in a few unbranded calves an’ keeps them. But stealin’ stock—thet’s different. An’ I’d as soon suspect my own son of rustlin’ as Wils Moore.”
Belllounds spoke with a sincere and frank ardor of defense for a young man once employed by him and known to be honest. The significance of the comparison he used had not struck him. His was the epitome of a successful rancher, sure in his opinions, speaking proudly and unreflectingly of his own son, and being just to another man.
Wade bowed and backed out of the door. “Sure tha
t’s what I’d reckon you’d say, Belllounds.… I’ll drop in on you if I find any sign in the woods. Good night.”
Columbine went with him to the end of the porch, as she had used to go before the shadow had settled over the lives of the Belllounds.
“Ben, you’re up to something,” she whispered, seizing him with hands that shook.
“Sure. But don’t you worry,” he whispered back.
“Do they hint that Wilson is a rustler?” she asked, intensely.
“Somebody did, Collie.”
“How vile! Who? Who?” she demanded, and her face gleamed white.
“Hush, lass! You’re all a-tremble,” he returned, warily, and he held her hands.
“Ben, they’re pressing me hard to set another wedding-day. Dad is angry with me now. Jack has begun again to demand. Oh, I’m afraid of him! He has no respect for me. He catches at me with hands like claws. I have to jerk away.… Oh, Ben, Ben! dear friend, what on earth shall I do?”
“Don’t give in. Fight Jack! Tell the old man you must have time. Watch your chance when Jack is away an’ ride up the Buffalo Park trail an’ look for me.”
Wade had to release his hands from her clasp and urge her gently back. How pale and tragic her face gleamed!
* * *
Wade took his horses, his outfit, and the dog Fox, and made his abode with Wilson Moore. The cowboy hailed Wade’s coming with joy and pestered him with endless questions.
From that day Wade haunted the hills above White Slides, early and late, alone with his thoughts, his plans, more and more feeling the suspense of happenings to come. It was on a June day when Jack Belllounds rode to Kremmling that Wade met Columbine on the Buffalo Park trail. She needed to see him, to find comfort and strength. Wade far exceeded his own confidence in his effort to uphold her. Columbine was in a strange state, not of vacillation between two courses, but of a standstill, as if her will had become obstructed and waited for some force to upset the hindrance. She did not inquire as to the welfare of Wilson Moore, and Wade vouchsafed no word of him. But she importuned the hunter to see her every day or no more at all. And Wade answered her appeal and her need by assuring her that he would see her, come what might. So she was to risk more frequent rides.
During the second week of June Wade rode up to visit the prospector, Lewis, and learned that which complicated the matter of the rustlers. Lewis had been suspicious, and active on his own account. According to the best of his evidence and judgment there had been a gang of rough men come of late to Gore Peak, where they presumably were prospecting. This gang was composed of strangers to Lewis. They had ridden to his cabin, bought and borrowed of him, and, during his absence, had stolen from him. He believed they were in hiding, probably being guilty of some depredation in another locality. They gave both Kremmling and Elgeria a wide berth. On the other hand, the Smith gang from Elgeria rode to and fro, like ranchers searching for lost horses. There were only three in this gang, including Smith. Lewis had seen these men driving unbranded stock. And lastly, Lewis casually imparted the information, highly interesting to Wade, that he had seen Jack Belllounds riding through the forest. The prospector did not in the least, however, connect the appearance of the son of Belllounds with the other facts so peculiarly interesting to Wade. Cowboys and hunters rode trails across the range, and though they did so rather infrequently, there was nothing unusual about encountering them.
Wade remained all night with Lewis, and next morning rode six miles along the divide, and then down into a valley, where at length he found a cabin described by the prospector. It was well hidden in the edge of the forest, where a spring gushed from under a low cliff. But for water and horse tracks Wade would not have found it easily. Rifle in hand, and on foot, he slipped around in the woods, as a hunter might have, to stalk drinking deer. There were no smoke, no noise, no horses anywhere round the cabin, and after watching awhile Wade went forward to look at it. It was an old ramshackle hunter’s or prospector’s cabin, with dirt floor, a crumbling fireplace and chimney, and a bed platform made of boughs. Including the door, it had three apertures, and the two smaller ones, serving as windows, looked as if they had been intended for port-holes as well. The inside of the cabin was large and unusually well lighted, owing to the windows and to the open chinks between the logs. Wade saw a deck of cards lying bent and scattered in one corner, as if a violent hand had flung them against the wall. Strange that Wade’s memory returned a vivid picture of Jack Belllounds in just that act of violence! The only other thing around the place which earned scrutiny from Wade was a number of horseshoe tracks outside, with the left front shoe track familiar to him. He examined the clearest imprints very carefully. If they had not been put there by Wilson Moore’s white mustang, Spottie, then they had been made by a horse with a strangely similar hoof and shoe. Spottie had a hoof malformed, somewhat in the shape of a triangle, and the iron shoe to fit it always had to be bent, so that the curve was sharp and the ends closer together than those of his other shoes.
Wade rode down to White Slides that day, and at the evening meal he casually asked Moore if he had been riding Spottie of late.
“Sure. What other horse could I ride? Do you think I’m up to trying one of those broncs?” asked Moore, in derision.
“Reckon you haven’t been leavin’ any tracks up Buffalo Park way?”
The cowboy slammed down his knife. “Say, Wade, are you growing dotty? Good Lord! if I’d ridden that far—if I was able to do it—wouldn’t you hear me yell?”
“Reckon so, come to think of it. I just saw a track like Spottie’s, made two days ago.”
“Well, it wasn’t his, you can gamble on that,” returned the cowboy.
* * *
Wade spent four days hiding in an aspen grove, on top of one of the highest foothills above White Slides Ranch. There he lay at ease, like an Indian, calm and somber, watching the trails below, waiting for what he knew was to come.
On the fifth morning he was at his post at sunrise. A casual remark of one of the new cowboys the night before accounted for the early hour of Wade’s reconnoiter. The dawn was fresh and cool, with sweet odor of sage on the air; the jays were squalling their annoyance at this early disturber of their grove; the east was rosy above the black range and soon glowed with gold and then changed to fire. The sun had risen. All the mountain world of black range and gray hill and green valley, with its shining stream, was transformed as if by magic color. Wade sat down with his back to an aspen-tree, his gaze down upon the ranch-house and the corrals. A lazy column of blue smoke curled up toward the sky, to be lost there. The burros were braying, the calves were bawling, the colts were whistling. One of the hounds bayed full and clear.
The scene was pastoral and beautiful. Wade saw it clearly and whole. Peace and plenty, a happy rancher’s home, the joy of the dawn and the birth of summer, the rewards of toil—all seemed significant there. But Wade pondered on how pregnant with life that scene was—nature in its simplicity and freedom and hidden cruelty, and the existence of people, blindly hating, loving, sacrificing, mostly serving some noble aim, and yet with baseness among them, the lees with the wine, evil intermixed with good.
By and by the cowboys appeared on their spring mustangs, and in twos and threes they rode off in different directions. But none rode Wade’s way. The sun rose higher, and there was warmth in the air. Bees began to hum by Wade, and fluttering moths winged uncertain sight over him.
At the end of another hour Jack Belllounds came out of the house, gazed around him, and then stalked to the barn where he kept his horses. For a little while he was not in sight; then he reappeared, mounted on a white horse, and he rode into the pasture, and across that to the hay-field, and along the edge of this to the slope of the hill. Here he climbed to a small clump of aspens. This grove was not so far from Wilson Moore’s cabin; in fact, it marked the boundary-line between the rancher’s range and the acres that Moore had acquired. Jack vanished from sight here, but not before Wade had made sure he wa
s dismounting.
“Reckon he kept to that grassy ground for a reason of his own—and plainer to me than any tracks,” soliloquized Wade, as he strained his eyes. At length Belllounds came out of the grove, and led his horse round to where Wade knew there was a trail leading to and from Moore’s cabin. At this point Jack mounted and rode west. Contrary to his usual custom, which was to ride hard and fast, he trotted the white horse as a cowboy might have done when going out on a day’s work. Wade had to change his position to watch Belllounds, and his somber gaze followed him across the hill, down the slope, along the willow-bordered brook, and so on to the opposite side of the great valley, where Jack began to climb in the direction of Buffalo Park.
After Belllounds had disappeared and had been gone for an hour, Wade went down on the other side of the hill, found his horse where he had left him, in a thicket, and, mounting, he rode around to strike the trail upon which Belllounds had ridden. The imprint of fresh horse tracks showed clear in the soft dust. And the left front track had been made by a shoe crudely triangular in shape, identical with that peculiar to Wilson Moore’s horse.
“Ahuh!” muttered Wade, in greeting to what he had expected to see. “Well, Buster Jack, it’s a plain trail now—damn your crooked soul!”
The hunter took up that trail, and he followed it into the woods. There he hesitated. Men who left crooked trails frequently ambushed them, and Belllounds had made no effort to conceal his tracks. Indeed, he had chosen the soft, open ground, even after he had left the trail to take to the grassy, wooded benches. There were cattle here, but not as many as on the more open aspen slopes across the valley. After deliberating a moment, Wade decided that he must risk being caught trailing Belllounds. But he would go slowly, trusting to eye and ear, to outwit this strangely acting foreman of White Slides Ranch.
To that end he dismounted and took the trail. Wade had not followed it far before he became convinced that Belllounds had been looking in the thickets for cattle; and he had not climbed another mile through the aspens and spruce before he discovered that Belllounds was driving cattle. Thereafter Wade proceeded more cautiously. If the long grass had not been wet he would have encountered great difficulty in trailing Belllounds. Evidence was clear now that he was hiding the tracks of the cattle by keeping to the grassy levels and slopes which, after the sun had dried them, would not leave a trace. There were stretches where even the keen-eyed hunter had to work to find the direction taken by Belllounds. But here and there, in other localities, there showed faint signs of cattle and horse tracks.
