The Lone Star Ranger and the Mysterious Rider

by Zane Grey

  The morning passed, with Wade slowly climbing to the edge of the black timber. Then, in a hollow where a spring gushed forth, he saw the tracks of a few cattle that had halted to drink, and on top of these the tracks of a horse with a crooked left front shoe. The rider of this horse had dismounted. There was an imprint of a cowboy’s boot, and near it little sharp circles with dots in the center.

  “Well, I’ll be damned!” ejaculated Wade. “I call that mighty cunnin’. Here they are—proofs as plain as writin’—that Wils Moore rustled Old Bill’s cattle!… Buster Jack, you’re not such a fool as I thought.… He’s made somethin’ like the end of Wils’s crutch. An’ knowin’ how Wils uses that every time he gets off his horse, why, the dirty pup carried his instrument with him an’ made these tracks!”

  Wade left the trail then, and, leading his horse to a covert of spruce, he sat down to rest and think. Was there any reason for following Belllounds farther? It did not seem needful to take the risk of being discovered. The forest above was open. No doubt Belllounds would drive the cattle somewhere and turn them over to his accomplices.

  “Buster Jack’s outbusted himself this time, sure,” soliloquized Wade. “He’s double-crossin’ his rustler friends, same as he is Moore. For he’s goin’ to blame this cattle-stealin’ onto Wils. An’ to do that he’s layin’ his tracks so he can follow them, or so any good trailer can. It doesn’t concern me so much now who’re his pards in this deal. Reckon it’s Smith an’ some of his gang.”

  Suddenly it dawned upon Wade that Jack Belllounds was stealing cattle from his father. “Whew!” he whistled softly. “Awful hard on the old man! Who’s to tell him when all this comes out? Aw, I’d hate to do it. I wouldn’t. There’s some things even I’d not tell.”

  Straightway this strange aspect of the case confronted Wade and gripped his soul. He seemed to feel himself changing inwardly, as if a gray, gloomy, sodden hand, as intangible as a ghostly dream, had taken him bodily from himself and was now leading him into shadows, into drear, lonely, dark solitude, where all was cold and bleak; and on and on over naked shingles that marked the world of tragedy. Here he must tell his tale, and as he plodded on his relentless leader forced him to tell his tale anew.

  Wade recognized this as his black mood. It was a morbid dominance of the mind. He fought it as he would have fought a devil. And mastery still was his. But his brow was clammy and his heart was leaden when he had wrested that somber, mystic control from his will.

  “Reckon I’d do well to take up this trail to-morrow an’ see where it leads,” he said, and as a gloomy man, burdened with thought, he retraced his way down the long slope, and over the benches, to the grassy slopes and aspen groves, and thus to the sage hills.

  It was dark when he reached the cabin, and Moore had supper almost ready.

  “Well, old-timer, you look fagged out,” called out the cowboy, cheerily. “Throw off your boots, wash up, and come and get it!”

  “Pard Wils, I’m not reboundin’ as natural as I’d like. I reckon I’ve lived some years before I got here, an’ a lifetime since.”

  “Wade, you have a queer look, lately,” observed Moore, shaking his head solemnly. “Why, I’ve seen a dying man look just like you—now—round the mouth—but most in the eyes!”

  “Maybe the end of the long trail is White Slides Ranch,” replied Wade, sadly and dreamily, as if to himself.

  “If Collie heard you say that!” exclaimed Moore, in anxious concern.

  “Collie an’ you will hear me say a lot before long,” returned Wade. “But, as it’s calculated to make you happy—why, all’s well. I’m tired an’ hungry.”

  Wade did not choose to sit round the fire that night, fearing to invite interrogation from his anxious friend, and for that matter from his other inquisitively morbid self.

  Next morning, though Wade felt rested, and the sky was blue and full of fleecy clouds, and the melody of birds charmed his ear, and over all the June air seemed thick and beating with the invisible spirit he loved, he sensed the oppression, the nameless something that presaged catastrophe.

  Therefore, when he looked out of the door to see Columbine swiftly riding up the trail, her fair hair flying and shining in the sunlight, he merely ejaculated, “Ahuh!”

  “What’s that?” queried Moore, sharp to catch the inflection.

  “Look out,” replied Wade, as he began to fill his pipe.

  “Heavens! It’s Collie! Look at her riding! Uphill, too!”

  Wade followed him outdoors. Columbine was not long in arriving at the cabin, and she threw the bridle and swung off in the same motion, landing with a light thud. Then she faced them, pale, resolute, stern, all the sweetness gone to bitter strength—another and a strange Columbine.

  “I’ve not slept a wink!” she said. “And I came as soon as I could get away.”

  Moore had no word for her, not even a greeting. The look of her had stricken him. It could have only one meaning.

  “Mornin’, lass,” said the hunter, and he took her hand. “I couldn’t tell you looked sleepy, for all you said. Let’s go into the cabin.”

  So he led Columbine in, and Moore followed. The girl manifestly was in a high state of agitation, but she was neither trembling nor frightened nor sorrowful. Nor did she betray any lack of an unflinching and indomitable spirit. Wade read the truth of what she imagined was her doom in the white glow of her, in the matured lines of womanhood that had come since yesternight, in the sustained passion of her look.

  “Ben! Wilson! The worst has come!” she announced.

  Moore could not speak. Wade held Columbine’s hand in both of his.

  “Worst! Now, Collie, that’s a terrible word. I’ve heard it many times. An’ all my life the worst’s been comin’. An’ it hasn’t come yet. You—only twenty years old—talkin’ wild—the worst has come!… Tell me your trouble now an’ I’ll tell you where you’re wrong.”

  “Jack’s a thief—a cattle-thief!” rang Columbine’s voice, high and clear.

  “Ahuh! Well, go on,” said Wade.

  “Jack has taken money from rustlers—for cattle stolen from his father!”

  Wade felt the lift of her passion, and he vibrated to it.

  “Reckon that’s no news to me,” he replied.

  Then she quivered up to a strong and passionate delivery of the thing that had transformed her.

  “I’M GOING TO MARRY JACK BELLLOUNDS!”

  Wilson Moore leaped toward her with a cry, to be held back by Wade’s hand.

  “Now, Collie,” he soothed, “tell us all about it.”

  Columbine, still upheld by the strength of her spirit, related how she had ridden out the day before, early in the afternoon, in the hope of meeting Wade. She rode over the sage hills, along the edges of the aspen benches, everywhere that she might expect to meet or see the hunter, but as he did not appear, and as she was greatly desirous of talking with him, she went on up into the woods, following the line of the Buffalo Park trail, though keeping aside from it. She rode very slowly and cautiously, remembering Wade’s instructions. In this way she ascended the aspen benches, and the spruce-bordered ridges, and then the first rise of the black forest. Finally she had gone farther than ever before and farther than was wise.

  When she was about to turn back she heard the thud of hoofs ahead of her. Pronto shot up his ears. Alarmed and anxious, Columbine swiftly gazed about her. It would not do for her to be seen. Yet, on the other hand, the chances were that the approaching horse carried Wade. It was lucky that she was on Pronto, for he could be trusted to stand still and not neigh. Columbine rode into a thick clump of spruces that had long, shelving branches, reaching down. Here she hid, holding Pronto motionless.

  Presently the sound of hoofs denoted the approach of several horses. That augmented Columbine’s anxiety. Peering out of her covert, she espied three horsemen trotting along the trail, and one of them was Jack Belllounds. They appeared to be in strong argument, judging from gestures and emphatic movements o
f their heads. As chance would have it they halted their horses not half a dozen rods from Columbine’s place of concealment. The two men with Belllounds were rough-looking, one of them, evidently a leader, having a dark face disfigured by a horrible scar.

  Naturally they did not talk loud, and Columbine had to strain her ears to catch anything. But a word distinguished here and there, and accompanying actions, made transparent the meaning of their presence and argument. The big man refused to ride any farther. Evidently he had come so far without realizing it. His importunities were for “more head of stock.” His scorn was for a “measly little bunch not worth the risk.” His anger was for Belllounds’s foolhardiness in “leavin’ a trail.” Belllounds had little to say, and most of that was spoken in a tone too low to be heard. His manner seemed indifferent, even reckless. But he wanted “money.” The scar-faced man’s name was “Smith.” Then Columbine gathered from Smith’s dogged and forceful gestures, and his words, “no money” and “bigger bunch,” that he was unwilling to pay what had been agreed upon unless Belllounds promised to bring a larger number of cattle. Here Belllounds roundly cursed the rustler, and apparently argued that course “next to impossible.” Smith made a sweeping movement with his arm, pointing south, indicating some place afar, and part of his speech was “Gore Peak.” The little man, companion of Smith, got into the argument, and, dismounting from his horse, he made marks upon the smooth earth of the trail. He was drawing a rude map showing direction and locality. At length, when Belllounds nodded as if convinced or now informed, this third member of the party remounted, and seemed to have no more to say. Belllounds pondered sullenly. He snatched a switch from off a bough overhead and flicked his boot and stirrup with it, an action that made his horse restive. Smith leered and spoke derisively, of which speech Columbine heard, “Aw hell!” and “yellow streak,” and “no one’d ever,” and “son of Bill Belllounds,” and “rustlin’ stock.” Then this scar-faced man drew out a buckskin bag. Either the contempt or the gold, or both, overbalanced vacillation in the weak mind of Jack Belllounds, for he lifted his head, showing his face pale and malignant, and without trace of shame or compunction he snatched the bag of gold, shouted a hoarse, “All right, damn you!” and, wheeling the white mustang, he spurred away, quickly disappearing.

  The rustlers sat their horses, gazing down the trail, and Smith wagged his dark head doubtfully. Then he spoke quite distinctly, “I ain’t a-trustin’ thet Belllounds pup!” and his comrade replied, “Boss, we ain’t stealin’ the stock, so what th’ hell!” Then they turned their horses and trotted out of sight and hearing up the timbered slope.

  Columbine was so stunned, and so frightened and horrified, that she remained hidden there for a long time before she ventured forth. Then, heading homeward, she skirted the trail and kept to the edge of the forest, making a wide detour over the hills, finally reaching the ranch at sunset. Jack did not appear at the evening meal. His father had one of his spells of depression and seemed not to have noticed her absence. She lay awake all night thinking and praying.

  Columbine concluded her narrative there, and, panting from her agitation and hurry, she gazed at the bowed figure of Moore, and then at Wade.

  “I had to tell you this shameful secret,” she began again. “I’m forced. If you do not help me, if something is not done, there’ll be a horrible—end to all!”

  “We’ll help you, but how?” asked Moore, raising a white face.

  “I don’t know yet. I only feel—I only feel what may happen, if I don’t prevent it.… Wilson, you must go home—at least for a while.”

  “It’ll not look right for Wils to leave White Slides now,” interposed Wade, positively.

  “But why? Oh, I fear—”

  “Never mind now, lass. It’s a good reason. An’ you mustn’t fear anythin’. I agree with you—we’ve got to prevent this—this that’s goin’ to happen.”

  “Oh, Ben, my dear friend, we must prevent it—you must!”

  “Ahuh!… So I was figurin’.”

  “Ben, you must go to Jack an’ tell him—show him the peril—frighten him terribly—so that he will not do—do this shameful thing again.”

  “Lass, I reckon I could scare Jack out of his skin. But what good would that do?”

  “It’ll stop this—this madness.… Then I’ll marry him—and keep him safe—after that!”

  “Collie, do you think marryin’ Buster Jack will stop his bustin’ out?”

  “Oh, I know it will. He had conquered over the evil in him. I saw that. I felt it. He conquered over his baser nature for love of me. Then—when he heard—from my own lips—that I loved Wilson—why, then he fell. He didn’t care. He drank again. He let go. He sank. And now he’ll ruin us all. Oh, it looks as if he meant it that way!… But I can change him. I will marry him. I will love him—or I will live a lie! I will make him think I love him!”

  Wilson Moore, deadly pale, faced her with flaming eyes.

  “Collie, why? For God’s sake, explain why you will shame your womanhood and ruin me—all for that coward—that thief?”

  Columbine broke from Wade and ran to Wilson, as if to clasp him, but something halted her and she stood before him.

  “Because dad will kill him!” she cried.

  “My God! what are you saying?” exclaimed Moore, incredulously. “Old Bill would roar and rage, but hurt that boy of his—never!”

  “Wils, I reckon Collie is right. You haven’t got Old Bill figured. I know,” interposed Wade, with one of his forceful gestures.

  “Wilson, listen, and don’t set your heart against me. For I must do this thing,” pleaded Columbine. “I heard dad swear he’d kill Jack. Oh, I’ll never forget! He was terrible! If he ever finds out that Jack stole from his own father—stole cattle like a common rustler, and sold them for gold to gamble and drink with—he will kill him!… That’s as true as fate.… Think how horrible that would be for me! Because I’m to blame here, mostly. I fell in love with you, Wilson Moore, otherwise I could have saved Jack already.

  “But it’s not that I think of myself. Dad has loved me. He has been as a father to me. You know he’s not my real father. Oh, if I only had a real one!… And I owe him so much. But then it’s not because I owe him or because I love him. It’s because of his own soul!… That splendid, noble old man, who has been so good to every one—who had only one fault, and that love of his son—must he be let go in blinded and insane rage at the failure of his life, the ruin of his son—must he be allowed to kill his own flesh and blood?… It would be murder! It would damn dad’s soul to everlasting torment. No! No! I’ll not let that be!”

  “Collie—how about—your own soul?” whispered Moore, lifting himself as if about to expend a tremendous breath.

  “That doesn’t matter,” she replied.

  “Collie—Collie—” he stammered, but could not go on.

  Then it seemed to Wade that they both turned to him unconscious of the inevitableness of his relation to this catastrophe, yet looking to him for the spirit, the guidance that became habitual to them. It brought the warm blood back to Wade’s cold heart. It was his great reward. How intensely and implacably did his soul mount to that crisis!

  “Collie, I’ll never fail you,” he said, and his gentle voice was deep and full. “If Jack can be scared into haltin’ in his mad ride to hell—then I’ll do it. I’m not promisin’ so much for him. But I’ll swear to you that Old Belllounds’s hands will never be stained with his son’s blood!”

  “Oh, Ben! Ben!” she cried, in passionate gratitude. “I’ll love you—bless you all my life!”

  “Hush, lass! I’m not one to bless.… An’ now you must do as I say. Go home an’ tell them you’ll marry Jack in August. Say August thirteenth.”

  “So long! Oh, why put it off? Wouldn’t it be better—safer, to settle it all—once and forever?”

  “No man can tell everythin’. But that’s my judgment.”

  “Why August thirteenth?” she queried, with strange c
uriosity. “An unlucky date!”

  “Well, it just happened to come to my mind—that date,” replied Wade, in his slow, soft voice of reminiscence. “I was married on August thirteenth—twenty-one years ago.… An’, Collie, my wife looked somethin’ like you. Isn’t that strange, now? It’s a little world.… An’ she’s been gone eighteen years!”

  “Ben, I never dreamed you ever had a wife,” said Columbine, softly, with her hands going to his shoulder. “You must tell me of her some day.… But now—if you want time—if you think it best—I’ll not marry Jack till August thirteenth.”

  “That’ll give me time,” replied Wade. “I’m thinkin’ Jack ought to be—reformed, let’s call it—before you marry him. If all you say is true—why we can turn him round. Your promise will do most.… So, then, it’s settled?”

  “Yes—dear—friends,” faltered the girl, tremulously, on the verge of a breakdown, now that the ordeal was past.

  Wilson Moore stood gazing out of the door, his eyes far away on the gray slopes.

  “Queer how things turn out,” he said, dreamily. “August thirteenth!… That’s about the time the columbines blow on the hills.… And I always meant columbine-time—”

  Here he sharply interrupted himself, and the dreamy musing gave way to passion. “But I mean it yet! I’ll—I’ll die before I give up hope of you!”

  CHAPTER 16

  Wade, watching Columbine ride down the slope on her homeward way, did some of the hardest thinking he had yet been called upon to do. It was not necessary to acquaint Wilson Moore with the deeper and more subtle motives that had begun to actuate him. It would not utterly break the cowboy’s spirit to live in suspense. Columbine was safe for the present. He had insured her against fatality. Time was all he needed. Possibility of an actual consummation of her marriage to Jack Belllounds did not lodge for an instant in Wade’s consciousness. In Moore’s case, however, the present moment seemed critical. What should he tell Moore—what should he conceal from him?