The Lone Star Ranger and the Mysterious Rider

by Zane Grey

  “Son, come in here,” he called to the cowboy.

  “Pard, it looks—bad!” said Moore, brokenly.

  Wade looked at the tragic face and cursed under his breath.

  “Buck up! It’s never as bad as it looks. Anyway, we know now what to expect, an’ that’s well.”

  Moore shook his head. “Couldn’t you see how like steel Collie was?… But I’m on to you, Wade. You think by persuading Collie to put that marriage off that we’ll gain time. You’re gambling with time. You swear Buster Jack will hang himself. You won’t quit fighting this deal.”

  “Buster Jack has slung the noose over a tree, an’ he’s about ready to slip his head into it,” replied Wade.

  “Bah!… You drive me wild,” cried Moore, passionately. “How can you? Where’s all that feeling you seemed to have for me? You nursed me—you saved my leg—and my life. You must have cared about me. But now—you talk about that dolt—that spoiled old man’s pet—that damned cur, as if you believed he’d ruin himself. No such luck! no such hope!… Every day things grow worse. Yet the worse they grow the stronger you seem! It’s all out of proportion. It’s dreams. Wade, I hate to say it, but I’m sure you’re not always—just right in your mind.”

  “Wils, now ain’t that queer?” replied Wade, sadly. “I’m agreein’ with you.”

  “Aw!” Moore shook himself savagely and laid an affectionate and appealing arm on his friend’s shoulder. “Forgive me, pard!… It’s me who’s out of his head.… But my heart’s broken.”

  “That’s what you think,” rejoined Wade, stoutly. “But a man’s heart can’t break in a day. I know.… An’ the God’s truth is Buster Jack will hang himself!”

  Moore raised his head sharply, flinging himself back from his friend so as to scrutinize his face. Wade felt the piercing power of that gaze.

  “Wade, what do you mean?”

  “Collie told us some interestin’ news about Jack, didn’t she? Well, she didn’t know what I know. Jack Belllounds had laid a cunnin’ an’ devilish trap to prove you guilty of rustlin’ his father’s cattle.”

  “Absurd!” ejaculated Moore, with white lips.

  “I’d never given him credit for brains to hatch such a plot,” went on Wade. “Now listen. Not long ago Buster Jack made a remark in front of the whole outfit, includin’ his father, that the homesteaders on the range were rustlin’ cattle. It fell sort of flat, that remark. But no one could calculate on his infernal cunnin’. I quit workin’ for Belllounds that night, an’ I’ve put my time in spyin’ on the boy. In my day I’ve done a good deal of spyin’, but I’ve never run across any one slicker than Buster Jack. To cut it short—he got himself a white-speckled mustang that’s a dead ringer for Spottie. He measured the tracks of your horse’s left front foot—the bad hoof, you know, an’ he made a shoe exactly the same as Spottie wears. Also, he made some kind of a contraption that’s like the end of your crutch. These he packs with him. I saw him ride across the pasture to hide his tracks, climb up the sage for the same reason, an’ then hide in that grove of aspens over there near the trail you use. Here, you can bet, he changed shoes on the left front foot of his horse. Then he took to the trail, an’ he left tracks for a while, an’ then he was careful to hide them again. He stole his father’s stock an’ drove it up over the grassy benches where even you or I couldn’t track him next day. But up on top, when it suited him, he left some horse tracks, an’ in the mud near a spring-hole he gets off his horse, steppin’ with one foot—an’ makin’ little circles with dots like those made by the end of your crutch. Then ’way over in the woods there’s a cabin where he meets his accomplices. Here he leaves the same horse tracks an’ crutch tracks.… Simple as a b c, Wils, when you see how he did it. But I’ll tell you straight—if I hadn’t been suspicious of Buster Jack—that trick of his would have made you a rustler!”

  “Damn him!” hissed the cowboy, in utter consternation and fury.

  “Ahuh! That’s my sentiment exactly.”

  “I swore to Collie I’d never kill him!”

  “Sure you did, son. An’ you’ve got to keep that oath. I pin you down to it. You can’t break faith with Collie.… An’ you don’t want his bad blood on your hands.”

  “No! No!” he replied, violently. “Of course I don’t. I won’t. But God! how sweet it would be to tear out his lying tongue—to—”

  “I reckon it would. Only don’t talk about that,” interrupted Wade, bluntly. “You see, now, don’t you, how he’s about hanged himself.”

  “No, pard, I don’t. We can’t squeal that on him, any more than we can squeal what Collie told us.”

  “Son, you’re young in dealin’ with crooked men. You don’t get the drift of motives. Buster Jack is not only robbin’ his father an’ hatchin’ a dirty trap for you, but he’s double-crossin’ the rustlers he’s sellin’ the cattle to. He’s riskin’ their necks. He’s goin’ to find your tracks, showin’ you dealt with them. Sure, he won’t give them away, an’ he’s figurin’ on their gettin’ out of it, maybe by leavin’ the range, or a shootin’-fray, or some way. The big thing with Jack is that he’s goin’ to accuse you of rustlin’ an’ show your tracks to his father. Well, that’s a risk he’s given the rustlers. It happens that I know this scar-face Smith. We’ve met before. Now it’s easy to see from what Collie heard that Smith is not trustin’ Buster Jack. So, all underneath this Jack Belllounds’s game, there’s forces workin’ unbeknown to him, beyond his control, an’ sure to ruin him.”

  “I see. I see. By Heaven! Wade, nothing else but ruin seems possible!… But suppose it works out his way!… What then? What of Collie?”

  “Son, I’ve not got that far along in my reckonin’,” replied Wade.

  “But for my sake—think. If Buster Jack gets away with his trick—if he doesn’t hang himself by some blunder or fit of temper or spree—what then of Collie?”

  Wade could not answer this natural and inevitable query for the reason that he had found it impossible of consideration.

  “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,” he replied.

  “Wade, you’ve said that before. It helped me. But now I need more than a few words from the Bible. My faith is low. I … oh, I tried to pray because Collie told me she had prayed! But what are prayers? We’re dealing with a stubborn, iron-willed old man who idolizes his son; we’re dealing with a crazy boy, absolutely self-centered, crafty, and vicious, who’ll stop at nothing. And, lastly, we’re dealing with a girl who’s so noble and high-souled that she’ll sacrifice her all—her life to pay her debt. If she were really Bill Belllounds’s daughter she’d never marry Jack, saying, of course, that he was not her brother.… Do you know that it will kill her, if she marries him?”

  “Ahuh! I reckon it would,” replied Wade, with his head bowed. Moore roused his gloomy forebodings. He did not care to show this feeling or the effect the cowboy’s pleading had upon him.

  “Ah! so you admit it? Well, then, what of Collie?”

  “If she marries him—she’ll have to die, I suppose,” replied Wade.

  Then Wilson Moore leaped at his friend and with ungentle hands lifted him, pushed him erect.

  “Damn you, Wade! You’re not square with me! You don’t tell me all!” he cried, hoarsely.

  “Now, Wils, you’re set up. I’ve told you all I know. I swear that.”

  “But you couldn’t stand the thought of Collie dying for that brute! You couldn’t! Oh, I know. I can feel some things that are hard to tell. So, you’re either out of your head or you’ve something up your sleeve. It’s hard to explain how you affect me. One minute I’m ready to choke you for that damned strangeness—whatever it is. The next minute I feel it—I trust it, myself.… Wade, you’re not—you can’t be infallible!”

  “I’m only a man, Wils, an’ your friend. I reckon you do find me queer. But that’s no matter. Now let’s look at this deal—each from his own side of the fence. An’ each actin’ up to his own lights! You do what your conscience dictates
, always thinkin’ of Collie—not of yourself! An’ I’ll live up to my principles. Can we do more?”

  “No, indeed, Wade, we can’t,” replied Moore, eloquently.

  “Well, then, here’s my hand. I’ve talked too much, I reckon. An’ the time for talkin’ is past.”

  In silence Moore gripped the hand held out to him, trying to read Wade’s mind, apparently once more uplifted and strengthened by that which he could not divine.

  * * *

  Wade’s observations during the following week brought forth the fact that Jack Belllounds was not letting any grass grow under his feet. He endeavored to fulfil his agreement with Smith, and drove a number of cattle by moonlight. These were part of the stock that the rancher had sold to buyers at Kremmling, and which had been collected and held in the big, fenced pasture down the valley next to the Andrews ranch. The loss was not discovered until the cattle had been counted at Kremmling. Then they were credited to loss by straying. In driving a considerable herd of half-wild steers, with an inadequate force of cowboys, it was no unusual thing to lose a number.

  Wade, however, was in possession of the facts not later than the day after this midnight steal in the moonlight. He was forced to acknowledge that no one would have believed it possible for Jack Belllounds to perform a feat which might well have been difficult for the best of cowboys. But Jack accomplished it and got back home before daylight. And Wade was bound to admit that circumstantial evidence against Wilson Moore, which, of course, Jack Belllounds would soon present, would be damning and apparently irrefutable.

  Waiting for further developments, Wade closely watched the ranch-house, which duty interfered with his attention to the outlying trails. What he did not want to miss was being present when Jack Belllounds accused Wilson Moore of rustling cattle.

  So it chanced that Wade was chatting with the cowboys one Sunday afternoon when Jack, accompanied by three strangers, all mounted on dusty, tired horses, rode up to the porch and dismounted.

  Lem Billings manifested unusual excitement.

  “Montana, ain’t thet Sheriff Burley from Kremmlin’?” he queried.

  “Shore looks like him.… Yep, thet’s him. Now, what’s doin’?”

  The cowboys exchanged curious glances, and then turned to Wade.

  “Bent, what do you make of thet?” asked Lem, as he waved his hand toward the house. “Buster Jack ridin’ up with Sheriff Burley.”

  The rancher, Belllounds, who was on the porch, greeted the visitors, and then they all went into the house.

  “Boys, it’s what I’ve been lookin’ for,” replied Wade.

  “Shore. Reckon we all have idees. An’ if my idee is correct I’m agoin’ to git pretty damn sore pronto,” declared Lem.

  They were all silent for a few moments, meditating over this singular occurrence, and watching the house. Presently Old Bill Belllounds strode out upon the porch, and, walking out into the court, he peered around as if looking for some one. Then he espied the little group of cowboys.

  “Hey!” he yelled. “One of you boys ride up an’ fetch Wils Moore down hyar!”

  “All right, boss,” called Lem, in reply, as he got up and gave a hitch to his belt.

  The rancher hurried back, head down, as if burdened.

  “Wade, I reckon you want to go fetch Wils?” queried Lem.

  “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not,” replied Wade.

  “By Golly! I don’t blame you. Boys, shore ’n hell, Burley’s after Wils.”

  “Wal, suppos’n’ he is,” said Montana. “You can gamble Wils ain’t agoin’ to run. I’d jest like to see him face thet outfit. Burley’s a pretty square fellar. An’ he’s no fool.”

  “It’s as plain as your nose, Montana, an’ thet’s shore big enough,” returned Lem, with a hard light in his eyes. “Buster Jack’s busted out, an’ he’s figgered Wils in some deal thet’s rung in the sheriff. Wal, I’ll fetch Wils.” And, growling to himself, the cowboy slouched off after his horse.

  Wade got up, deliberate and thoughtful, and started away.

  “Say, Bent, you’re shore goin’ to see what’s up?” asked Montana, in surprise.

  “I’ll be around, Jim,” replied Wade, and he strolled off to be alone. He wanted to think over this startling procedure of Jack Belllounds’s. Wade was astonished. He had expected that an accusation would be made against Moore by Jack, and an exploitation of such proofs as had been craftily prepared, but he had never imagined Jack would be bold enough to carry matters so far. Sheriff Burley was a man of wide experience, keen, practical, shrewd. He was also one of the countless men Wade had rubbed elbows with in the eventful past. It had been Wade’s idea that Jack would be satisfied to face his father with the accusation of Moore, and thus cover his tracks. Whatever Old Belllounds might have felt over the loss of a few cattle, he would never have hounded and arrested a cowboy who had done well by him. Burley, however, was a sheriff, and a conscientious one, and he happened to be particularly set against rustlers.

  Here was a complication of circumstances. What would Jack Belllounds insist upon? How would Columbine take this plot against the honor and liberty of Wilson Moore? How would Moore himself react to it? Wade confessed that he was helpless to solve these queries, and there seemed to be a further one, insistent and gathering—what was to be his own attitude here? That could not be answered, either, because only a future moment, over which he had no control, and which must decide events, held that secret. Worry beset Wade, but he still found himself proof against the insidious gloom ever hovering near, like his shadow.

  He waited near the trail to intercept Billings and Moore on their way to the ranch-house; and to his surprise they appeared sooner than it would have been reasonable to expect them. Wade stepped out of the willows and held up his hand. He did not see anything unusual in Moore’s appearance.

  “Wils, I reckon we’d do well to talk this over,” said Wade.

  “Talk what over?” queried the cowboy, sharply.

  “Why, Old Bill’s sendin’ for you, an’ the fact of Sheriff Burley bein’ here.”

  “Talk nothing. Let’s see what they want, and then talk. Pard, you remember the agreement we made not long ago?”

  “Sure. But I’m sort of worried, an’ maybe—”

  “You needn’t worry about me. Come on,” interrupted Moore. “I’d like you to be there. And, Lem, fetch the boys.”

  “I shore will, an’ if you need any backin’ you’ll git it.”

  When they reached the open Lem turned off toward the corrals, and Wade walked beside Moore’s horse up to the house.

  Belllounds appeared at the door, evidently having heard the sound of hoofs.

  “Hello, Moore! Get down an’ come in,” he said, gruffly.

  “Belllounds, if it’s all the same to you I’ll take mine in the open,” replied the cowboy, coolly.

  The rancher looked troubled. He did not have the ease and force habitual to him in big moments.

  “Come out hyar, you men,” he called in the door.

  Voices, heavy footsteps, the clinking of spurs, preceded the appearance of the three strangers, followed by Jack Belllounds. The foremost was a tall man in black, sandy-haired and freckled, with clear gray eyes, and a drooping mustache that did not hide stern lips and rugged chin. He wore a silver star on his vest, packed a gun in a greasy holster worn low down on his right side, and under his left arm he carried a package.

  It suited Wade, then, to step forward; and if he expected surprise and pleasure to break across the sheriff’s stern face he certainly had not reckoned in vain.

  “Wal, I’m a son-of-a-gun!” ejaculated Burley, bending low, with quick movement, to peer at Wade.

  “Howdy, Jim. How’s tricks?” said Wade, extending his hand, and the smile that came so seldom illumined his sallow face.

  “Hell-Bent Wade, as I’m a born sinner!” shouted the sheriff, and his hand leaped out to grasp Wade’s and grip it and wring it. His face worked. “My Gawd! I’m glad
to see you, old-timer! Wal, you haven’t changed at all!… Ten years! How time flies! An’ it’s shore you?”

  “Same, Jim, an’ powerful glad to meet you,” replied Wade.

  “Shake hands with Bridges an’ Lindsay,” said Burley, indicating his two comrades. “Stockmen from Grand Lake.… Boys, you’ve heerd me talk about him. Wade an’ I was both in the old fight at Blair’s ranch on the Gunnison. An’ I’ve shore reason to recollect him!… Wade, what’re you doin’ up in these diggin’s?”

  “Drifted over last fall, Jim, an’ have been huntin’ varmints for Belllounds,” replied Wade. “Cleaned the range up fair to middlin’. An’ since I quit Belllounds I’ve been hangin’ round with my young pard here, Wils Moore, an’ interestin’ myself in lookin’ up cattle tracks.”

  Burley’s back was toward Belllounds and his son, so it was impossible for them to see the sudden little curious light that gleamed in his eyes as he looked hard at Wade, and then at Moore.

  “Wils Moore. How d’ye do? I reckon I remember you, though I don’t ride up this way much of late years.”

  The cowboy returned the greeting civilly enough, but with brevity.

  Belllounds cleared his throat and stepped forward. His manner showed he had a distasteful business at hand.

  “Moore, I sent for you on a serious matter, I’m sorry to say.”

  “Well, here I am. What is it?” returned the cowboy, with clear, hazel eyes, full of fire, steady on the old rancher’s.

  “Jack, you know, is foreman of White Slides now. An’ he’s made a charge against you.”

  “Then let him face me with it,” snapped Moore.

  Jack Belllounds came forward, hands in his pockets, self-possessed, even a little swaggering, and his pale face and bold eyes showed the gravity of the situation and his mastery over it.