by Grey, Zane
"Cain't a man take a drink an' still have some character?" asked Curly, stoutly.
"Some men can," replied Gloriana, with emphasis that excluded Curly from her generalisation.
"Wal, I reckon I'll go get drunk. Goodnight, Miss Traft."
"Good-bye!... Mister Prentiss."
Curly departed hastily. His heavy steps sounded faster and faster, until they died away.
"Jim, this Curly cowboy irritates me," remarked Gloriana, coming to the fire.
"What?--Oh, I'm sorry, Glory.' I thought you liked him," replied Jim innocently.
"I do. He's a fine upstanding chap, so kind, easygoing, and big-hearted. He worships you, Jim. And, of course, that goes a long way with me. But it's the other side of him I can't--savvy, isn't it? It's that plagued cowboy side... For instance, just a moment ago he saw you holding Molly's hand. So he possessed himself of mine. And I give you my word I could hardly get it away from him."
How sweet to hear Molly's laugh trill out! And the perplexity of Glory's expressive face, with its suggestion of colour, likewise pleased Jim.
"Glory, the way to get along with Curly--and amuse yourself--is to let him hold your hand," said Jim.
"Don't be silly. I--I did that very thing, at the dance, until I got scared. In fact, I scarcely knew I was letting him."
"Glory, I told you Curly was the finest fellow I ever knew, for a man's friend, or a pard, as they call it out West. If you could stop his drinking he'd be that for a woman, too."
"I want to stop his drinking," admitted Gloriana, now gravely, "but I--I am not prepared to--to--"
"Sure you're not," interposed Jim, apologetically. "Don't misunderstand me, Glory. On the other hand, don't be cold to Curly just because you wasted some admiration--and sentiment--perhaps some kisses and caresses that would have raised poor Curly to the seventh heaven--on that Ed Darnell..."
Next morning the bunk-house was incredibly quiet when Jim knocked and stamped in. Jeff was cooking a lonely breakfast. "Outfit's stampeded, Boss. I seen it comin'."
"Dog-gone their hides!" complained Jim. "Now I'm afraid to go downtown."
Before he started, however, he consulted his uncle and advised a postponement of Molly's party until New Year's Eve.
"Fine idee," agreed the rancher. "But don't be hard on the boys, Jim. Remember that Diamond was the toughest outfit in Arizona. Lovable punchers, if I ever knew any, but sure blue hell on holidays. Better go downtown an' drag them out. Reckon thet four-flush Sheriff Bray had his chance at us last night. Don't tell the girls."
Jim had no intention of that, though so far as Molly was concerned she would know. He had a talk with Ring Locke and told him about the affair at Snell's. The foreman seemed both vastly concerned and pleased. "Son-of-a-gun, thet Prentiss boy... Jim, thet'll settle Bambridge. He'll have to shoot or git out. An' he ain't the shootin' kind. All the same, I wish the Diamond was out of town."
Some of the cowboys might as well have been out of town, for all Jim could find of them. Jackson Way, of course, had gone to Winslow with his girl. Hump, Cherry, and Uphill had disappeared, after a bloodless and funny fight with some rival cowboys over a pool game. Lonestar Holliday was discovered lurching out of a cheap Mexican lodging-house, almost speechless, and certainly lost to a sense of direction. Jim bundled him into the buckboard. "Sit on him, Charley," ordered Jim, "and take him home. Then hurry back."
Bud was in jail, and all Jim could find out, in the nature of offence, was a charge of disorderly conduct, including unusual profanity. Bray, the sheriff, was not to be found on the moment, and probably that was a good thing for all concerned. Bud was locked up with a tramp, two Mexicans, and a Navajo, and a madder cowboy Jim never had seen. "Boss, I'm gonna shoot thet--coyote of a sheriff!" he asserted. Jim paid his fine and got him out, greatly relieved that it had been no worse.
"Where's Curly?" demanded Jim.
"Shore haven't the slightest idee. I reckoned he'd stay home on Christmas--considerin'."
"When'd you see him last?"
"Yestiddy sometime, I think it was, but I ain't shore. The last time I seen him was when he was helpin' Miss Glory in the sleigh, after the dance. My Gawd! you'd took him fer the Prince of Wales."
"Then you went an' got drunk?"
"Must have, Boss, or suthin' like. My haid feels sorta queer."
Jim went back to the ranch considerably concerned over Curly's disappearance. Lonestar and Bud were back, and late that night Uphill came, so Ring Locke informed Jim. The next day and the next passed. On the third Hump and Cherry rolled in, more or less dilapidated. But no Curly! Jim discovered that he was not the only one who missed the drawling-voiced cowboy. Gloriana passed from coldness to disdain and then to pique, and from that to a curiosity which involved her own state of mind as well as interest in Curly's whereabouts.
"Curly is a proud fellow," observed Jim, for Gloriana's benefit, though he directed the remark to his uncle. "Belongs to a fine old Southern family. Rich before the war. He has taken offence at something or other. Or else he's just gone to the bad. I don't know what the Diamond will do without him."
Later, Gloriana, with one of those rare flashes of her eyes, said to Jim: "Brother mine, your remarks were directed at me. Very well. The point is, not what the Diamond will do without Curly, but what Twill."
"Glory!--What are you saying?" expostulated Jim, both thrilled and shocked. "It's just pique. You don't care a rap for Curly. But because he bucked against your imperious will your vanity is hurt."
"Some of your deductions are amazingly correct," retorted Gloriana, satirically. "But you're off on this one. And I'm afraid your prediction about my bucking up the Diamond must be reversed. If you were not blind you'd see that."
"Glory, hang on to this strange new, sweet, loving character you've developed, won't you?"
"I'll hang on for dear life," laughed Gloriana, finally won over.
The last day of the old year dawned--the day of Molly's party. The cowboys, excepting Bud, had given up ever expecting to see Curly Prentiss again, who, they claimed, had eloped. Bud, however, was mysterious. "You cain't ever tell aboot thet son-of-a-gun. He'll bob up, mebbe."
Jim was not sanguine, and felt deeply regretful. Had he unduly lectured Curly? But he could not see that he had, and he resigned himself to one of those inexplicable circumstances regarding cowboys, which he had come to regard as inevitable.
Jim's small family were all in the living-room early that morning, planning games for the party, when there came a familiar slow step outside, and a knock on the door, Jim opened it.
There stood Curly, rosy-cheeked as any girl, smiling and cool as ever.
"Mawnin', Boss," he drawled.
"How do, Curly... Come in," replied Jim, soberly. It was too sudden for him to be delighted.
Curly sauntered in. He wore a new coloured blouse, new blue jeans, and new high top-boots, adorned with new spurs. He did not have on a coat or vest, the absence of which brought his worn gun-belt and gun into startling prominence.
"Mawnin', folks. I dropped in to wish you-all a happy New Year," he drawled.
Uncle Jim, Molly, and Gloriana all replied in unison. The old rancher's face wreathed itself into smiles; Molly looked delighted; and Gloriana tranquil, aloof, with darkening eyes.
"Where you been--old-timer?" queried Jim, coolly. Curly's presence always steadied him, whether in amaze, anger, or indecision.
"Wal, I took a little holiday trip to Albuquerque--to see a sweetheart of mine," replied Curly. "Shore had fun. I wanted particular to brush up on dancin'. An' my girl Nancy shore is a high stepper. I got some new steps now that'll make Bud green."
"Albuquerque!" exclaimed Jim, beginning to realise this was Curly Prentiss.
"Curly, I never heahed of no Albuquerque girl before," said Molly, bluntly.
"Molly, this was one I forgot to tell you aboot."
"Did you fetch her down for my party?"
"No. I couldn't very well. Nancy's married an' her husba
nd's a jealous old geezer. But I shore would have loved to fetch her."
It was the expression in Molly's big dark eyes that gave Jim his clue. The cowboy did not live who could deceive Molly Dunn. Curly's story was a monstrous fabrication to conceal his drunken spree. Yet how impossible to believe this clear-faced, clear-eyed cowboy had ever been drunk! Not the slightest trace of dissipation showed in Curly's handsome fair face. He looked so innocent that it was an insult to suspect such a degrading thing. Suddenly Molly shrieked with mirth, which had the effect of almost startling the others.
"Say, anythin' funny aboot me?" queried Curly, mildly.
"Oh, Curly Prentiss! You're so funny I--I could kiss you."
"Wal, come on. I've shore been in a particular kissable spell lately."
Gloriana was the quiet, wondering one of the group. She had been gullible enough to believe Curly's story, and had no inkling from Molly's mirth. Moreover, the growing light in her beautiful eyes gave the lie to cool indifference to Curly's presence. She was too cool. Gloriana could never wholly hide her true feelings. That was part of the price she had to pay for those magnificent orbs of violet.
"Molly," put in Jim, "if you have an urge to kiss anybody, you can come to me. I won't have you wasting kisses on this handsome, heartless cowboy... Well, let's get back to our plans for the party... Curly, we'd be glad to have you sit in with us on this discussion--that is, of course, if you're coming to the party."
"Wal, you shore flattered me, postponin' Molly's party once on my account," he drawled, with a blue flash of eyes upon Gloriana. "An' I wouldn't want you to do thet again. I gave up the society of a wonderful damsel to come to this heah party."
"You dog-gone lovable fraud!" burst out Molly, unable longer to conceal her feelings.
Chapter FOURTEEN
The day after the New Year gaieties they rode forty miles ahead of the chuck-wagon, down out of the snow and cold, to the sunny cedared and pirioned forest. Back to saddle and chaps, sourdough biscuits and flapjacks, to chopping wood and smoky campfires--in a word--back to the range! And as if by magic they were all in a day the same old Diamond. Jim felt that he could burst with pride and affection. Where was there to be found another group like this? Yet that was only his personal opinion, for Uncle Jim and Locke had laughed at his conceit and told him of other noted Arizona outfits. "You get an outfit that sticks together for a spell--anywhere in Arizona--an' you have the makin's of another Diamond," declared Locke.
The fourth day they rode along their blazed trail, down into wild and beautiful Yellow Jacket. All the long way down that zigzag trail Jim whistled or stopped his horse at the turns to gaze down. Once he heard Bud remark, laconically: "My Gawd! it must be great to be in love like the boss. Jest soarin'. He'll come down with a hell of a thump pronto."
Jim laughed at Bud, but a couple of hours later, when he gazed at a huge blackened, charred mass, all that remained of the wonderful peeled pine logs which had been cut to build his ranch-house, he did come down with a sickening thump.
"Haw haw!--Reckon the Hash-Knife has had a party, too," yelled Bud, shrilly.
"Croak Malloy's compliments, Boss. See the latest cut in the aspen there," added Curly, grimly, pointing to the largest of the beautiful white-barked quaking-asps near at hand.
Curly had sharp eyes. Jim dismounted and walked over to the tree. The crude, yet well-fashioned outline of a hash-knife had been cut in the bark, and inside the blade was the letter M. Jim had seen enough of these hash-knife symbols to be familiar with it, but not before had he noticed the single letter. That was significant. It seemed to eliminate Jed Stone. In a sudden violent burst of temper Jim wheeled to his men and cursed as never before in his life.
According to Slinger the tracks around the cabin site and pile of charred logs were old, and probably had been made the day after the Diamond rode home to Flagerstown before Christmas.
"Which means the Hash-Knife had a scout watching us," asserted Jim, quickly.
"Boss, you shore hit it on the haid," remarked Curly, admiringly.
"Dog-gone if he ain't gettin' bright," agreed Bud.
"Speaks kinda bad fer me, but I shore do think jest thet," went on Slinger.
"Slinger, all you could hope to do heah is watch the trails down in the canyon," said Curly. "Thet greaser of Jed Stone's, the sheep-herder Sonora, has been keepin' tab on us from the rim."
Jim drew a deep hard breath that actually hurt his lungs. "God, it is hell--to wake up to this!... Boys, my softy days are past. We'll start this long job slow, and watch as much as we work. Slinger, your job is the same as before, only it's more. Bud, you hunt meat for camp, and I don't need to tell you what else."
Slinger spied upon the Hash-Knife camp, reporting several of their number absent. They were inactive, waiting for spring. "I couldn't get no closer than top of a rock wall," said Slinger. "But I seen Stone, walkin' to an' fro, his haid bent, as if he had a load on his back. Couldn't make out Malloy, an' reckon he's away. Same aboot the greaser."
"Take my field-glasses next time," said Jim, tersely. "We want to know who's there and what they're doing."
When more days, that lengthened into weeks, passed without any sign on the part of Stone's gang that they were even aware of the return of the Diamond to Yellow Jacket, Jim felt the easing of a strain.
"Wal, we'll heah from them when Malloy comes back," said Curly, meditatively. "He'll come. I cain't conceive of thet hombre bein' daid or quittin' this range. Can you Slinger?"
"Not till he raises some more hell," returned the backwoodsman. "Malloy an' thet Texan an' the greaser must be down-country, hatchin' up somethin', or huntin' up cattle to rustle in the spring."
"Wal, spring will be heah some fine mawnin'," replied Curly. "An', dog-goneit, Jim, your uncle will be shovin' all thet stock down in heah. He's in too darn big a hurry."
"Anyway, Uncle can't be stopped," rejoined Jim. "This rustler nest has long been a sore spot with him. And really, he doesn't see any more than a scrap or two for us, like we had with the Cibeque. The Hash-Knife outfit simply doesn't phase Uncle Jim."
"He's shore a tough old cattleman an' he's been through the mill. But I cain't agree with him aboot only a little scrap or two. Shore there may be aboot only one."
Beside Spring, March also brought the vanguard of Mexican labourers to blast out and grade the road down into Yellow Jacket. Already the road was cut and levelled through the forest to the rim. And at the nearest ranch lumber and framework, cement and pipe, bricks and hardware, had begun to arrive.
Coincident with this arrived also more food supplies, and mail and news, all of which were avidly devoured by the cowboys. Curly had received a letter which rendered him oblivious to his surroundings, even to Bud's sly intrusions into his dream. Jim's uncle had taken Gloriana to California, while Molly went to stay with Mrs. Locke and diligently pursued her studies.
"Jim, lemme see thet letter from Miss Glory," asked Bud, casually, "I jest want to admire thet lovely handwritin'."
And the innocent Jim handed over the letter.
"I knowed it," declared Bud, after a quick glance, but on the moment he did not explain what it was he knew. Jim guessed readily enough that Bud had seen the handwriting on Curly's letter, and now he was in possession of the secret of Curly's trancelike abstraction.
News from Uncle Jim and Ring Locke, from friends of the cowboys, from the weekly newspaper recently started in Flagerstown, furnished debate, not to mention endless conversation, for many a camp-fire.
Bambridge had sent his family away from Flagerstown, no one knew where, and had moved to Winslow to conduct his cattle business. Darnell had not been seen in town since Christmas, when he boarded a late east-bound train, after buying a ticket for Denver. But a cowboy friend of Uphill's had seen Darnell in Holbrook right after the New Year, and hinted that he kept pretty well hidden there. Croak Malloy had shot a man in Mariposa, according to range rumour. Blodgett, who operated a ranch south of the brakes, complained of spring
rustling.
"Uncle Jim says to expect our five thousand head of cows and calves, with a sprinkling of steers, just as soon as the road dries up... Darn his stubborn hide!"
The road came on down into Yellow Jacket, and all too soon the horde of bawling cattle followed, to spread over the great wild canyon and to go on down into the brakes below, and on their heels rolled the wagons with materials for Jim's ranch-house. It took days to transport the lot. And meanwhile the two builders Jim's uncle had sent down drove the cowboys to desperation with log-lifting. Jim laboured mightily with them, and had the joy of the primitive pioneer, in seeing his habitation go up in the wilderness. Bud ran a pipe-line from Yellow Jacket spring, and had water on the place before the house was up. The canyon had never resounded to such unfamiliar noise. Its tranquillity had been disrupted. And this kept on while the log-house grew, one log above the other, and the high-peaked, split pine-shingle roof went on, with its wide eaves sloping out over wide porches. Then while the carpenters were busy with the floors and windows and inside finish, the big barn was started, and long slim poles cut and hauled for corrals.
It was well on in May when the expert workmen left to go back to Flagerstown, leaving Jim possessed of a spacious new pine-house that flashed yellow in the sunlight. But much labour there was still, and Jim realised it would take months before that habitation coincided with the picture in his mind.
"Jim, heah you have a log-cabin palace aboot ready," drawled Curly, and did not add whether he meant ready for furniture or a bride or for another bonfire for the rustlers.
"Wal, the longer thet Hash-Knife waits the wuss they'll ride over us," summed up the pessimistic Bud.
"Boss, it's shore the range twenty miles an' more down in the brakes that'll take our cattle," added Curly. "You can pen up a few hundred haid heah in the canyon. But your range is below. An' thet damned country is big, an' lookin' for a lost cow will be huntin' fer a needle in a haystack. It's yours, though, an' worth fightin' fer. You can double your stock in two years. Grass an' water mean a fortune to a rancher. To find 'em an' hang on to 'em--thet's the ticket."
