Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  At length Pine was apparently a deserted village, except for Las Vegas, who patrolled his long beat in many ways — he lounged while he watched; he stalked like a mountaineer; he stole along Indian fashion, stealthily, from tree to tree, from corner to corner; he disappeared in the saloon to reappear at the back; he slipped round behind the barns to come out again in the main road; and time after time he approached his horse as if deciding to mount.

  The last visit he made into Turner’s saloon he found no one there. Savagely he pounded on the bar with his gun. He got no response. Then the long-pent-up rage burst. With wild whoops he pulled another gun and shot at the mirror, the lamps. He shot the neck off a bottle and drank till he choked, his neck corded, bulging, and purple. His only slow and deliberate action was the reloading of his gun. Then he crashed through the doors, and with a wild yell leaped sheer into the saddle, hauling his horse up high and goading him to plunge away.

  Men running to the door and windows of the store saw a streak of dust flying down the road. And then they trooped out to see it disappear. The hour of suspense ended for them. Las Vegas had lived up to the code of the West, had dared his man out, had waited far longer than needful to prove that man a coward. Whatever the issue now, Beasley was branded forever. That moment saw the decline of whatever power he had wielded. He and his men might kill the cowboy who had ridden out alone to face him, but that would not change the brand.

  The preceding night Beasley bad been finishing a late supper at his newly acquired ranch, when Buck Weaver, one of his men, burst in upon him with news of the death of Mulvey and Pedro.

  “Who’s in the outfit? How many?” he had questioned, quickly.

  “It’s a one-man outfit, boss,” replied Weaver.

  Beasley appeared astounded. He and his men had prepared to meet the friends of the girl whose property he had taken over, and because of the superiority of his own force he had anticipated no bloody or extended feud. This amazing circumstance put the case in very much more difficult form.

  “One man!” he ejaculated.

  “Yep. Thet cowboy Las Vegas. An’, boss, he turns out to be a gun-slinger from Texas. I was in Turner’s. Hed jest happened to step in the other room when Las Vegas come bustin’ in on his hoss an’ jumped off.... Fust thing he called Jeff an’ Pedro. They both showed yaller. An’ then, damn if thet cowboy didn’t turn his back on them an’ went to the bar fer a drink. But he was lookin’ in the mirror an’ when Jeff an’ Pedro went fer their guns why he whirled quick as lightnin’ an’ bored them both.... I sneaked out an—”

  “Why didn’t you bore him?” roared Beasley.

  Buck Weaver steadily eyed his boss before he replied. “I ain’t takin’ shots at any fellar from behind doors. An’ as fer meetin’ Las Vegas — excoose me, boss! I’ve still a hankerin’ fer sunshine an’ red liquor. Besides, I ‘ain’t got nothin’ ag’in’ Las Vegas. If he’s rustled over here at the head of a crowd to put us off I’d fight, jest as we’d all fight. But you see we figgered wrong. It’s between you an’ Las Vegas!... You oughter seen him throw thet hunter Dale out of Turner’s.”

  “Dale! Did he come?” queried Beasley.

  “He got there just after the cowboy plugged Jeff. An’ thet big-eyed girl, she came runnin’ in, too. An’ she keeled over in Dale’s arms. Las Vegas shoved him out — cussed him so hard we all heerd.... So, Beasley, there ain’t no fight comin’ off as we figgered on.”

  Beasley thus heard the West speak out of the mouth of his own man. And grim, sardonic, almost scornful, indeed, were the words of Buck Weaver. This rider had once worked for Al Auchincloss and had deserted to Beasley under Mulvey’s leadership. Mulvey was dead and the situation was vastly changed.

  Beasley gave Weaver a dark, lowering glance, and waved him away. From the door Weaver sent back a doubtful, scrutinizing gaze, then slouched out. That gaze Beasley had not encountered before.

  It meant, as Weaver’s cronies meant, as Beasley’s long-faithful riders, and the people of the range, and as the spirit of the West meant, that Beasley was expected to march down into the village to face his single foe.

  But Beasley did not go. Instead he paced to and fro the length of Helen Rayner’s long sitting-room with the nervous energy of a man who could not rest. Many times he hesitated, and at others he made sudden movements toward the door, only to halt. Long after midnight he went to bed, but not to sleep. He tossed and rolled all night, and at dawn arose, gloomy and irritable.

  He cursed the Mexican serving-women who showed their displeasure at his authority. And to his amaze and rage not one of his men came to the house. He waited and waited. Then he stalked off to the corrals and stables carrying a rifle with him. The men were there, in a group that dispersed somewhat at his advent. Not a Mexican was in sight.

  Beasley ordered the horses to be saddled and all hands to go down into the village with him. That order was disobeyed. Beasley stormed and raged. His riders sat or lounged, with lowered faces. An unspoken hostility seemed present. Those who had been longest with him were least distant and strange, but still they did not obey. At length Beasley roared for his Mexicans.

  “Boss, we gotta tell you thet every greaser on the ranch hes sloped — gone these two hours — on the way to Magdalena,” said Buck Weaver.

  Of all these sudden-uprising perplexities this latest was the most astounding. Beasley cursed with his questioning wonder.

  “Boss, they was sure scared of thet gun-slingin’ cowboy from Texas,” replied Weaver, imperturbably.

  Beasley’s dark, swarthy face changed its hue. What of the subtle reflection in Weaver’s slow speech! One of the men came out of a corral leading Beasley’s saddled and bridled horse. This fellow dropped the bridle and sat down among his comrades without a word. No one spoke. The presence of the horse was significant. With a snarling, muttered curse, Beasley took up his rifle and strode back to the ranch-house.

  In his rage and passion he did not realize what his men had known for hours — that if he had stood any chance at all for their respect as well as for his life the hour was long past.

  Beasley avoided the open paths to the house, and when he got there he nervously poured out a drink. Evidently something in the fiery liquor frightened him, for he threw the bottle aside. It was as if that bottle contained a courage which was false.

  Again he paced the long sitting-room, growing more and more wrought-up as evidently he grew familiar with the singular state of affairs. Twice the pale serving-woman called him to dinner.

  The dining-room was light and pleasant, and the meal, fragrant and steaming, was ready for him. But the women had disappeared. Beasley seated himself — spread out his big hands on the table.

  Then a slight rustle — a clink of spur — startled him. He twisted his head.

  “Howdy, Beasley!” said Las Vegas, who had appeared as if by magic.

  Beasley’s frame seemed to swell as if a flood had been loosed in his veins. Sweat-drops stood out on his pallid face.

  “What — you — want?” he asked, huskily.

  “Wal now, my boss, Miss Helen, says, seein’ I am foreman heah, thet it’d be nice an’ proper fer me to drop in an’ eat with you — THE LAST TIME!” replied the cowboy. His drawl was slow and cool, his tone was friendly and pleasant. But his look was that of a falcon ready to drive deep its beak.

  Beasley’s reply was loud, incoherent, hoarse.

  Las Vegas seated himself across from Beasley.

  “Eat or not, it’s shore all the same to me,” said Las Vegas, and he began to load his plate with his left hand. His right hand rested very lightly, with just the tips of his vibrating fingers on the edge of the table; and he never for the slightest fraction of a second took his piercing eyes off Beasley.

  “Wal, my half-breed greaser guest, it shore roils up my blood to see you sittin’ there — thinkin’ you’ve put my boss, Miss Helen, off this ranch,” began Las Vegas, softly. And then he helped himself leisurely to food and drink. “In my day I’v
e shore stacked up against a lot of outlaws, thieves, rustlers, an’ sich like, but fer an out an’ out dirty low-down skunk, you shore take the dough!... I’m goin, to kill you in a minit or so, jest as soon as you move one of them dirty paws of yourn. But I hope you’ll be polite an’ let me say a few words. I’ll never be happy again if you don’t.... Of all the — yaller greaser dogs I ever seen, you’re the worst!... I was thinkin’ last night mebbe you’d come down an’ meet me like a man, so ‘s I could wash my hands ever afterward without gettin’ sick to my stummick. But you didn’t come.... Beasley, I’m so ashamed of myself thet I gotta call you — when I ought to bore you, thet — I ain’t even second cousin to my old self when I rode fer Chisholm. It don’t mean nuthin’ to you to call you liar! robber! blackleg! a sneakin’ coyote! an’ a cheat thet hires others to do his dirty work!... By Gawd!—”

  “Carmichael, gimme a word in,” hoarsely broke out Beasley. “You’re right, it won’t do no good to call me.... But let’s talk.... I’ll buy you off. Ten thousand dollars—”

  “Haw! Haw! Haw!” roared Las Vegas. He was as tense as a strung cord and his face possessed a singular pale radiance. His right hand began to quiver more and more.

  “I’ll — double — it!” panted Beasley. “I’ll — make over — half the ranch — all the stock—”

  “Swaller thet!” yelled Las Vegas, with terrible strident ferocity.

  “Listen — man!... I take — it back!... I’ll give up — Auchincloss’s ranch!” Beasley was now a shaking, whispering, frenzied man, ghastly white, with rolling eyes.

  Las Vegas’s left fist pounded hard on the table.

  “GREASER, COME ON!” he thundered.

  Then Beasley, with desperate, frantic action, jerked for his gun.

  CHAPTER XXVI

  FOR HELEN RAYNER that brief, dark period of expulsion from her home had become a thing of the past, almost forgotten.

  Two months had flown by on the wings of love and work and the joy of finding her place there in the West. All her old men had been only too glad of the opportunity to come back to her, and under Dale and Roy Beeman a different and prosperous order marked the life of the ranch.

  Helen had made changes in the house by altering the arrangement of rooms and adding a new section. Only once had she ventured into the old dining-room where Las Vegas Carmichael had sat down to that fatal dinner for Beasley. She made a store-room of it, and a place she would never again enter.

  Helen was happy, almost too happy, she thought, and therefore made more than needful of the several bitter drops in her sweet cup of life. Carmichael had ridden out of Pine, ostensibly on the trail of the Mexicans who had executed Beasley’s commands. The last seen of him had been reported from Show Down, where he had appeared red-eyed and dangerous, like a hound on a scent. Then two months had flown by without a word.

  Dale had shaken his head doubtfully when interrogated about the cowboy’s absence. It would be just like Las Vegas never to be heard of again. Also it would be more like him to remain away until all trace of his drunken, savage spell had departed from him and had been forgotten by his friends. Bo took his disappearance apparently less to heart than Helen. But Bo grew more restless, wilder, and more wilful than ever. Helen thought she guessed Bo’s secret; and once she ventured a hint concerning Carmichael’s return.

  “If Tom doesn’t come back pretty soon I’ll marry Milt Dale,” retorted Bo, tauntingly.

  This fired Helen’s cheeks with red.

  “But, child,” she protested, half angry, half grave. “Milt and I are engaged.”

  “Sure. Only you’re so slow. There’s many a slip — you know.”

  “Bo, I tell you Tom will come back,” replied Helen, earnestly. “I feel it. There was something fine in that cowboy. He understood me better than you or Milt, either.... And he was perfectly wild in love with you.”

  “Oh! WAS he?”

  “Very much more than you deserved, Bo Rayner.”

  Then occurred one of Bo’s sweet, bewildering, unexpected transformations. Her defiance, resentment, rebelliousness, vanished from a softly agitated face.

  “Oh, Nell, I know that.... You just watch me if I ever get another chance at him!... Then — maybe he’d never drink again!”

  “Bo, be happy — and be good. Don’t ride off any more — don’t tease the boys. It’ll all come right in the end.”

  Bo recovered her equanimity quickly enough.

  “Humph! You can afford to be cheerful. You’ve got a man who can’t live when you’re out of his sight. He’s like a fish on dry land.... And you — why, once you were an old pessimist!”

  Bo was not to be consoled or changed. Helen could only sigh and pray that her convictions would be verified.

  The first day of July brought an early thunder-storm, just at sunrise. It roared and flared and rolled away, leaving a gorgeous golden cloud pageant in the sky and a fresh, sweetly smelling, glistening green range that delighted Helen’s eye.

  Birds were twittering in the arbors and bees were humming in the flowers. From the fields down along the brook came a blended song of swamp-blackbird and meadow-lark. A clarion-voiced burro split the air with his coarse and homely bray. The sheep were bleating, and a soft baa of little lambs came sweetly to Helen’s ears. She went her usual rounds with more than usual zest and thrill. Everywhere was color, activity, life. The wind swept warm and pine-scented down from the mountain heights, now black and bold, and the great green slopes seemed to call to her.

  At that very moment she came suddenly upon Dale, in his shirt-sleeves, dusty and hot, standing motionless, gazing at the distant mountains. Helen’s greeting startled him.

  “I — I was just looking away yonder,” he said, smiling. She thrilled at the clear, wonderful light of his eyes.

  “So was I — a moment ago,” she replied, wistfully. “Do you miss the forest — very much?”

  “Nell, I miss nothing. But I’d like to ride with you under the pines once more.”

  “We’ll go,” she cried.

  “When?” he asked, eagerly.

  “Oh — soon!” And then with flushed face and downcast eyes she passed on. For long Helen had cherished a fond hope that she might be married in Paradise Park, where she had fallen in love with Dale and had realized herself. But she had kept that hope secret. Dale’s eager tone, his flashing eyes, had made her feel that her secret was there in her telltale face.

  As she entered the lane leading to the house she encountered one of the new stable-boys driving a pack-mule.

  “Jim, whose pack is that?” she asked.

  “Ma’am, I dunno, but I heard him tell Roy he reckoned his name was mud,” replied the boy, smiling.

  Helen’s heart gave a quick throb. That sounded like Las Vegas. She hurried on, and upon entering the courtyard she espied Roy Beeman holding the halter of a beautiful, wild-looking mustang. There was another horse with another man, who was in the act of dismounting on the far side. When he stepped into better view Helen recognized Las Vegas. And he saw her at the same instant.

  Helen did not look up again until she was near the porch. She had dreaded this meeting, yet she was so glad that she could have cried aloud.

  “Miss Helen, I shore am glad to see you,” he said, standing bareheaded before her, the same young, frank-faced cowboy she had seen first from the train.

  “Tom!” she exclaimed, and offered her hands.

  He wrung them hard while he looked at her. The swift woman’s glance Helen gave in return seemed to drive something dark and doubtful out of her heart. This was the same boy she had known — whom she had liked so well — who had won her sister’s love. Helen imagined facing him thus was like awakening from a vague nightmare of doubt. Carmichael’s face was clean, fresh, young, with its healthy tan; it wore the old glad smile, cool, easy, and natural; his eyes were like Dale’s — penetrating, clear as crystal, without a shadow. What had evil, drink, blood, to do with the real inherent nobility of this splendid specimen of West
ern hardihood? Wherever he had been, whatever he had done during that long absence, he had returned long separated from that wild and savage character she could now forget. Perhaps there would never again be call for it.

  “How’s my girl?” he asked, just as naturally as if he had been gone a few days on some errand of his employer’s.

  “Bo? Oh, she’s well — fine. I — I rather think she’ll be glad to see you,” replied Helen, warmly.

  “An’ how’s thet big Indian, Dale?” he drawled.

  “Well, too — I’m sure.”

  “Reckon I got back heah in time to see you-all married?”

  “I — I assure you I — no one around here has been married yet,” replied Helen, with a blush.

  “Thet shore is fine. Was some worried,” he said, lazily. “I’ve been chasin’ wild hosses over in New Mexico, an’ I got after this heah blue roan. He kept me chasin’ him fer a spell. I’ve fetched him back for Bo.”

  Helen looked at the mustang Roy was holding, to be instantly delighted. He was a roan almost blue in color, neither large nor heavy, but powerfully built, clean-limbed, and racy, with a long mane and tail, black as coal, and a beautiful head that made Helen love him at once.

  “Well, I’m jealous,” declared Helen, archly. “I never did see such a pony.”

  “I reckoned you’d never ride any hoss but Ranger,” said Las Vegas.

  “No, I never will. But I can be jealous, anyhow, can’t I?”

  “Shore. An I reckon if you say you’re goin’ to have him — wal, Bo ‘d be funny,” he drawled.

  “I reckon she would be funny,” retorted Helen. She was so happy that she imitated his speech. She wanted to hug him. It was too good to be true — the return of this cowboy. He understood her. He had come back with nothing that could alienate her. He had apparently forgotten the terrible role he had accepted and the doom he had meted out to her enemies. That moment was wonderful for Helen in its revelation of the strange significance of the West as embodied in this cowboy. He was great. But he did not know that.