by Zane Grey
“Humph!” ejaculated Mrs. Clement.
“Where is May?” queried Clint, nervously. “I just want to tell her I’m sorry an’ say—good-by.”
“Son, I’d wait a little while,” returned Clement, easy and cool, after the manner of Texans. “Sit down and let’s talk.”
“No, I’ve got to get it over.”
“Clint, she has been parading up and down here with Murdock for an hour or more,” said Clement. “And I had a hunch she was expecting you. But you came down this way. It’s just aboot a bad time for you to run into her, for any reason. She has been on the rampage today. I never knew her to be this way. I don’t like Lee Murdock. And I told her, as her engagement to you was known, she should not spend any more time with Murdock. She nearly took my head off. Whew!”
“Reckon that makes it easier,” replied Clint. “I’m thankin’ you both for your good feelin’ toward me. . . . Good-by. I won’t be seein’ you again.”
He left them standing dismayed and aghast, and hurried away toward a gleam of white and gold that shone through a break in the willows. When he cleared the edge of thicket he saw that the white was May’s dress, and the gold the last glow of the setting sun.
She sat on the wagon tongue of the big freighter, and beside her stood Murdock, leaning attentively over her. Clint instantly divined that May had seen him all the time. The very lines of her graceful form seemed instinct with combat. The spot was well screened from the other camps by a circle of trees and thickets.
Some emotion deep and hot mocked the black, sickening despair with which Clint strode toward May. What a hideous falsehood somewhere! Was it in him? How unreal the picture of her sitting there! She had done precisely what she had threatened. Perhaps she had rather liked being driven to teach him a lesson.
Clint halted before her, bareheaded, without confusion or embarrassment. Before he spoke she read that in his bearing and face which she had not expected. It afforded Clint a melancholy gratification.
He looked straight down into her dark eyes, that mirrored the gold glamour of the glade, that changed, widened, dilated under his.
“Beg pardon, Miss Bell,” he began, as cool and drawling as any Texan she had ever met. “I’ve no wish to interrupt your flirtin’, but I’m leavin’ on the overland trail at dawn, an’ want to say good-by.”
She arose, suddenly, her face white as her dress.
“OH, CLINT! . . . NO! NO!”
How the divining love and repentance of her appeal might have softened Clint never transpired, for Murdock gave him a stinging slap in the face.
Clint did not flinch. That second blow from this source was welcome.
“You shore are a wild buffalo-hunter, callin’ a lady a flirt,” Murdock boomed, with sudden robust voice that indicated his pleasure in this opportunity. He expressed as much satisfaction as disgust. Nevertheless, Texan though he was, he underrated Clint.
“Murdock, do you happen to have a gun on you?” queried Clint, fiercely.
“No,” replied Murdock, sharply surprised, and as May screamed he drew himself up.
Swiftly Clint swung a sledge-hammer fist. The sodden blow was accompanied by the rattling of Murdock’s teeth. He did not fall. He was propelled down as if by a mace, and he must have been senseless before he thudded to the ground. He never moved. The freighter who had claimed Clint did not know his own strength could hardly vouchsafe so much now.
Clint held the big tight fist before May’s distended eyes.
“Maxwell gave me a hunch you thought I was a softy. An’ I reckon your friend here thought so too.”
She made mute denial. She stood shaking, deathly white, shocked at the effect of her willful guilt, too frightened at the astounding suddenness of catastrophe to speak what was clear—her grief, her love, her panic. It was clear even to Clint, with the first rage of manhood upon him.
“Did—you—kill—him?” she faltered, faintly, her quivering hand indicating the fallen man, though her wide eyes seemed transfixed on Clint.
He had no answer for her. To bid good-by to this dainty white creature seemed insupportable. Her white arms and neck were bare. Their loveliness shocked and tortured him. Never had he seen a gown like that. And she had worn it for Murdock! “You can never tell what a woman will do!” How the words seared Clint! He hated Maxwell then, because of what he now believed a bitter mocking truth. Yet to look at May Bell then was to court doubt of his own soul.
Suddenly he snatched her in his arms, unmindful of her little cry, ignorant of his brutal strength, infinitely removed from the intention Maxwell had inspired in him. May Bell was not for him, but he would possess her for one wild, terrible, fleeting moment. Was he mad to imagine he felt a quivering response when he kissed her? Ruthlessly he pressed his lips to her mouth, to cheek, to eyes, and then to mouth again, aware of the torturing sweetness that he tried in vain to take and keep, conscious that this was farewell to beauty, to love, to woman, to the dream of wild hopeful youth.
His madness was as brief as violent. Spent and shaking, he released her, saw her sink to her knees, great wide eyes fixed on his. She swayed back with an inarticulate cry and stretched her white length on the grass.
Clint rushed away through the willows, under the cottonwoods, across the valley, beyond the wagon-train to solitude and night.
In the melancholy dawn, Clint Belmet, armed like all the grim freighters, drove down the winding overland trail toward the Great Plains.
Chapter Fourteen
IT WAS June on the prairie, high on the Colorado slope, with the purple bulk of mountains dimming behind, and the vast open to the fore. Spring flowers bloomed in the waving grass. The caravan was safely out of the passes and gullies, on the down grade. Even the horses seemed to know. And the lethargic oxen at least made better time.
Couch’s caravan encountered many soldiers moving in that part of the country. The war was responsible for this unprecedented condition. The governor of Colorado sent a whole regiment to New Mexico to fight against the Confederacy. At Fort Larned the caravan pulled out quickly, owing to congestion there and lack of feed for the stock. Several days out, two companies of soldiers from Nebraska, bound for Fort Union, camped with the caravan. They were unfamiliar with the country, but had several scouts, one of them a famous character on the plains, known only by the cognomen “Old Bill.” He was a story-teller, under favorable circumstances, which meant leisure from scouting duty and the acquisition of a drink or two.
Clint Belmet seldom absented himself from the camp-fire circles these evenings. He was grave and silent, but he listened to the stories and songs, to the talk of soldiers and freighters. The long, lonely tenhour drive each day always left him in need of the sound of human voices and laughter.
“Wal, onct way back in ’fifty-four—or was it ’fifty-two?—I was killin’ meat for an outfit: an’ I had a pardner named Frenshy,” began Old Bill, when they had gotten him primed. “It was on the Cimmaron, an’ game was plumb scarce. We rode near all day without seein’ any buffs. An’ long about midafternoon we headed back for camp, an’ Frenshy fell into his old habit of wastin’ ammunition. He sure liked to shoot. An’ he was pretty good, too, but I always beat him. In them days I could hit a runnin’ jack rabbit. Wal, we got to jokin’ an’ then bettin’, an’ used up all our ammunition but three loads. We was close to camp then. An’ darned if an old bull buffalo didn’t raise up out of a holler. We shot them three loads quicker’n you could say Jack Robinson.
“‘By gosh! you missed him,’ said Frenshy, an’ I swore I didn’t. Anyway, the bull stood there, an’ when we rode up close we seen he was bleedin’ bad. But the son-of-a-gun wouldn’t drop. Frenshy got off his hoss an’ pulled his knife.
“‘I’ll hamstring the critter,’ says Frenshy.
“Wal, the bull laid down accommodatin’ like, an’ then Frenshy stooped over to cut its throat. But when he just pricked him thar was hell to pay. Thet old bull got up surprisin’ quick. Now I’m tellin’ you a bul
l buffalo as big as a hill can move like a streak when he wants to. This one sure wanted to an’ he made fer Frenshy. An’ in three jumps he was almost on top of Frenshy.
“‘Shoot! Shoot!’ bawls Frenshy, an’ I yells back I couldn’t shoot ’cause my gun was empty. Frenshy dodged, an’ to save hisself he grabbed the bull’s tail an’ held on fer dear life, yellin’ like hell.
“‘Kill him!’ roars Frenshy, mad an’ scared. But I couldn’t do nothin’ but laff. The bull got goin’ round an’ round, faster an’ faster, till Frenshy was ’most flyin’ through the air. Presently he slung Frenshy about forty foot. Lucky then fer my pard, the old bull had shot his bolt. He slowed up an’ keeled over. Frenshy went over powerful cautious an’ finally cut the bull’s throat. Then wavin’ the bloody knife at me yelled: ‘You — — — — — — —! You’d laugh over my daid body.’
“‘Frenshy, I couldn’t do nothin’. You was so scairt an’ funny.’
“‘Scairt?’ he yells. ‘Say, I was scairt only of his tail pullin’ out.’”
When the laugh had subsided one of the freighters gave Old Bill another nip from a bottle, and started the narrator off on another tangent.
“Wal, in ’fifty-eight I was in a queer deal. A band of Comanches went on a raid. You all know Cow Creek. Wal, along the rich bottomland of thet creek some settlers had taken up farms. Sure is strange what chances these fool settlers take. The Comanches murdered every last one of them settlers, wimmen an’ kids, too—I don’t remember how many, though I did see their scalps. One was from a kid girl’s head—long purty gold hair, a pity to see. . . . Wal, somebody reported thet job to Captain Howard at Fort Zarah. An’ he ordered Lieutenant Stevens an’ sixty troopers to take up the trail of the Comanches. I was ordered along, fer I knowed every foot of thet country. Wal, I figgered I could make a short cut on them redskins. An’ I hit their trail about twenty miles on, crossed the big bend of the Arkansas, followed up Cove Creek about twenty miles, an’ finally from a ridge top we seen thirty lodges. Stevens sent me alone to find a way to slip up on thet camp. Thar was heavy timber between, an’ I had to crawl on my hands an’ knees. I went back an’ reported I could lead the soldiers right up near the Comanches’ lodges. Wal, we tied our hosses, leavin’ ten men to guard them, an’ slipped easy an’ quiet up to thet camp. It was then I seen a string of scalps hangin’ on a lodge, an’ one of them was thet with the long shiny gold hair. So we knowed fer sure these Comanches had murdered the settlers.
“As the Injuns was all in their lodges we crawled closer an’ whooped. Then as fast as a Comanche come runnin’ out we plugged him. They all had guns an’ shot a lot of times, but hurt only two of us, an’ thet not bad. We killed twenty-two before they surrendered. An’ we got fourteen prisoners, whose hands we tied. Lieutenant let them say good-by to their families, then he ordered us to drag them out of camp, line them up, an’ when he gave the word we all fired. Thet was the last of them Comanche braves. It seemed tough to us, but we had to think of them poor settlers. Thet was the only law. We got back all the settlers’ stock—eighty-nine hosses, over three hundred head of cattle.”
“Wholesale murder on both sides,” commented Couch, shaking his head doubtfully.
“Bill, reckon you never did no good in all your years on the frontier,” added another of the pessimistic freighters.
Old Bill was highly indignant and more than one nip from the black bottle was necessary to start him off again, and this time he was manifestly inspired to a Homeric recital.
“In ’fifty-four I trapped some on the Medicine Bow, up north. Thar was eight of us, an’ I reckon we was ’most as good as a regiment of soldiers. Wal, thet winter we got a big trap of otter, beaver, an’ mink hides, an’ we knowed they was wuth a lot of money. So we lit out fer the south an’ the Arkansas River, packin’ our pelts on our hosses an’ footin’ it ourselves. By July we had hoofed it over seven hundred miles. An’, fellars, I ain’t lyin’ when I say we seen ten million buffalo thet trip. We seen herds fifty miles long, an’ I don’t know how wide. We calkilated by the time it took them to pass us. Wal, by an’ bye we come into the land of the Pawnees, who to my mind was in them days the meanest redskins on the plains. One day early we camped at Point of Rocks. We had early supper an’ was sittin’ round smokin’ when we heard a shot. You bet we grabbed our guns an’ skedaddled out pronto.
“We soon seen a small caravan tryin’ to corral their wagons with about sixty howlin’ Pawnees circlin’ round. They kept shootin’ arrows into the oxen to stampede them so they could get at the men easier. We run up fast an’ got eight of them Pawnees fust crack. Then we ducked in behind the wagons to load up again. Had only muzzle-loadin’ guns them days, but most of us had two revolvers, an’ in about ten minnits or so we had twenty-nine savages down. The rest gave up an’ rode away.
“Wal, it was a caravan of Mexicans haulin’ supplies to Mora, the ranch of Kurnel St. Vrain. We’d saved them from bein’ massacred. We went among them fallen Pawnees an’ scalped them, findin’ three still alive. We knocked two on the head, an’ then we seen the Pawnees racin’ back. I yelled to run fer the wagons. But I picked up thet third live Injun an’ packed him back to the wagon. I never knowed jest why I did thet. Funny! Wal, the Pawnees fooled around us some, seen we’d taken all the scalps, an’ they rode away for good.
“The Injun I had picked up was a fine-lookin’ young buck, about eighteen years old. He held out his hand with palm up, which means friend.
“‘Hey, Reddy,’ I says, ‘so you’re a friend. Wal, you have a hell of a nice way showin’ it.’
“He motioned me to come close. An’ I did, as he had no weapon. He said: ‘Me want go home—mother, father,’ an’ he spoke tolerable good English. Then he fainted. He was shot clear through the neck, but the bullet hadn’t hit an artery. My men come up watchin’ me, an’ Hawkins said: ‘You ain’t in no hurry to knock thet reddy on the head.’ An’ I said I wasn’t an’ I’d like to have him as my private property. They all laughed, an’ agreed. I washed his wound, had a Mexican get me some balsam weed, an’ I put a bandage on. Next mornin’ my patient was better, an’ I loaded him on one of the wagons goin’ to Fort Bent. We got there in seven days. My patient was doin’ pretty good. He was thankful fer what I did fer him. He didn’t have thet starin’, sneakin’ look common to mean redskins. I was curious about him, an’ when we got to the fort I asked him some questions.
“‘What’s your name?’
“‘Jim Whitefish,’ he said.
“‘Whar you live?’
“‘Big Walnut.’
“‘Are you a Pawnee?’
“He shook his head, but didn’t tell me what tribe he belonged to. Then I asked him if he had been on the warpath with them Pawnees. He told me he had been to see his gurl near an’ run into them Pawnees. They made him come along. They kicked him an’ beat him. He had no gun. He wouldn’t fight the Mexicans. An’ they called him squaw.—Wal, I believed the lad, an’ I paid a doctor at the fort to look after him. When I said good-by an’ good luck he grabbed my hand.
“‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
“I said, ‘Old Bill.’ He pressed my hand against his breast an’ told me he’d know Old Bill. Wal, we sold our pelts an’ went back fer more. Along about thet time I did a lot of trappin’. Four years after thet, in the spring of ’fifty-nine, I was with three other trappers workin’ down out of the mountains to Raton Pass. We camped at Timpas Creek; had four mules, loaded heavy. Thet night we was attacked by a bunch of redskins. We had to run fer it. I was shot in the leg, but managed to go on till I got another arrow in the back of my neck. Thet tumbled me, an’ when I come to I was in a dark place hard to see. I was as weak as a cat. Couldn’t life my hand. Somebody shoved back a blanket an’ thet let light in. I seen two Injuns, one a squaw. They held up their hands palms out, an’ then I knowed I was with friends. The squaw gave me a drink of somethin’ orful. I dropped off again. When I woke up I felt better. An’ I recognized the man as the
young Injun I’d saved.
“‘You know me? Jim Whitefish.’
“I let him see I did. His mother came with somethin’ to eat an’ drink. They took care of me fer five weeks. I picked up orful slow. Thet old squaw sure saved my life. Jim told me he was camped on Little Coon Creek, about twenty miles from Fort Larned.
“‘Jim,’ I says, ‘go to the fort an’ tell them to come after me.’
“‘No,’ he says, serious like. ‘My people no trust me. You wait. When you strong I take you.’
“Wal, I was three weeks longer in thet teepee before I could walk. An’ I had Jim’s word fer it thet not another Injun beside his mother knew I was there. One night he led me out, an’ next day we got to Fort Larned. Jim most carried me the last few miles. He said: ‘Me remember—Old Bill’. . . . I never saw him again.”
“Bill, I’m wonderin’ if you’re not the biggest liar on these hyar plains,” said a freighter.
“Boys, thet’s the honest God’s truth,” protested Old Bill. “An’ believe me or not, I haven’t shot straight at an Injun since.”
At the Cimmaron Crossing one of Couch’s scouts espied mules back in a canyon, and suspected an ambush by savages who had stolen the stock. A reconnoiter proved that the mules were in charge of twenty-one troopers, who had pitched camp for the night. Naturally, Couch’s men took them for Union soldiers. But when investigation proceeded as far as a visit, these troopers turned out to be rebels.
Couch argued with some of his men, who favored merely surrounding the rebels and killing them.
“No, that’d be too much redskin to suit me,” concluded the train boss. “Everyone of you pack a gun hid in your pocket, an’ we’ll drift over there an’ hold them up.”
His men visited the other camp in groups, and at an opportune moment, with most of the rebels round the camp fire, Couch gave the order, and the surprised rebels were soon prisoners.
