Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  “Scared my eye!” quoth Reddie. “Do yu reckon me an’ Ann air kids to give guff to?”

  “Wal, if guff is taffy, I say shore.”

  “Yu shot some of Hite’s men,” declared Reddie, with force. “I saw some daid — —”

  “Aw, yu mean them guards thet was struck by lightnin’ last night,” went on Texas, coolly. “Talk aboot retribushun! Why, girls, the Lawd was on our side last night. It’s common enough for lightnin’ to kill a trail driver or cowhand now an’ then. But to strike three or four men in one storm an’ all close together — thet’s somethin’ supernatural.”

  In the gathering dusk the girls regarded the nonchalant cowboy with different glances — Ann’s wide-eyed and awed — Reddie’s with dark disdain.

  “Wal, there’s shore a lot supernatural aboot yu, Texas Jack,” she drawled.

  * * * * *

  Brite slept with one eye open that night. It passed at length without any disruption of the quiet camp. The trail drivers got off slowly and not until the sun burst red over the ridge top.

  Orders were for the wagons and remuda to keep close to the herd. Watchful eyes circled the horizon that day. Far over on each side of the trail black lines of buffalo showed against the gray. Their movement was imperceptible. Brite often turned his glass upon them, but more often on the distant knolls and high points, seeking for Indian signs.

  Eight or ten miles a day was all the trail drivers risked for their herds. Even this could not always be adhered to, especially with the obstacles of flooded rivers ahead, buffalo all around, and the menace of the savages, if not sight of them, ever present. Brite had begun to feel the strain of suspense, but had not noted it in any of his men.

  At length, about mid-afternoon, it was almost a relief actually to sight a band of mounted Indians on a high top back from the trail. Uncertainty ceased for Brite, at least. By trying he ascertained that he could not make out this band with his naked eye. Perhaps the blurred figures might be clearer to his keen-sighted scouts. With the glass, however, Brite could see well enough to recognize the Indians as Comanches, and in sufficient force to cause more than apprehension.

  Whereupon he rode forward to acquaint Hash Williams with his discovery. The hunter halted his team, and taking up the glasses without a word, he searched the horizon line.

  “Ahuh, I see ’em. About forty, or so,” he said, and cursed under his breath. “Looks like Comanches to me. If thet’s Nigger Hawse we’re shore flirtin’ with the undertaker. Ride on ahaid an’ tell Shipman to keep on goin’ till he finds a place where we’d have some chance if attacked.”

  Brite was to learn that Texas had already espied the Indians.

  “Up to deviltry, I reckon,” he said. “I was thinkin’ thet very thing Williams advises. Don’t tell the girls, boss.”

  When Brite dropped back behind the remuda again he was accosted by Reddie, who suspected that something was amiss. Brite told her, but advised not letting Ann know.

  “Gosh! I don’t know what good bein’ an heiress would be if I lost my hair!” she exclaimed.

  “Lass, yu wouldn’t be anythin’ but a good daid girl,” replied Brite.

  At last, at almost dusk, the herd was halted out on a flat near which a thread of water ran down a shallow gully. Camp was selected on the north bank in the shelter of rocks. Moze was ordered to make his fire in a niche where it would be unseen. The riders came and went, silent, watchful, somber. Night fell. The wolves mourned. The warm summer air seemed to settle down over the camp as if it bore no tidings of ill. But the shadows in the rock cracks and caverns harbored menace.

  Three guards kept continual watch around camp all night and six guards stayed with the herd. Two of the drivers were allowed to sleep at one time. So the night passed and the gray dawn — always the perilous hour for Indian attack — and the morning broke without incident.

  But that day was beset with trials — barren ground for the cattle, hard going on the horses, ceaseless dread on the part of the trail drivers for the two girls and the injured man in their party. Several times during the day the Comanches were sighted watching them, riding along even with their position, keeping to the slow pace of the herd. How sinister that seemed to Brite! The red devils knew the trail; they were waiting for a certain place, or for something to happen, when they would attack.

  Buffalo increased in numbers on all sides, still distant, but gradually closing up gray gaps in their line. That black line extended north as far as eye could see. The fact became evident that Brite’s outfit was driving into the vast herd, leisurely grazing along. The situation grew hourly more nerve-racking. To swerve to either side was impossible, to stop or go back meant signal failure, defeat, and loss. The drivers absolutely had to stick to the trail and keep going.

  The Chisholm Trail had again taken a decided slant to the northwest. And probably somewhere ahead, perhaps across the Red River, it would bisect the vast herd of buffalo. The alarming discovery was made that the following herd of long-horns had come up in plain sight, and ten miles behind it another wavered a long, dark line on the gray. Brite asked his men why these pursuing trail drivers were pressing him so hard. And the answer was Indians, buffalo, and the two hundred thousand head of cattle that had started and must keep on. To turn or slow down meant to fall by the wayside.

  Texas Joe drove late that day and made dry camp. All night the guards sang and rode to keep the herd bedded down. Morning disclosed the endless stream of buffalo closer. But Indians were not in sight. Smoke signals, however, arose from two distant hills, one on each side of the trail.

  Loss of sleep and ceaseless vigilance by night, and the slow march by day, wore upon the drivers. Brite had ceased to count the camps. Every hour was fraught with dread expectation. Yet at last they reached the Red River. The buffalo were crossing some miles above the trail, but a spur of the prodigious herd kept swinging in behind. Texas Joe pointed the cattle across and took the lead himself, magnificent in his dauntlessness.

  The Red was midway between high and low water stages — its most treacherous condition. Four hours were consumed in the drive across and more than a hundred long-horns were lost. All the drivers were needed to get the wagons over, a desperate task which only such heedless young men would have undertaken.

  Night found them in camp, some of them spent, all of them wearied, yet cheered by the fact that Doan’s Post was within striking distance on the morrow.

  Texas Joe drove the remaining ten miles to Doan’s before noon of the next day. All the drivers wanted to get a few hours’ release from the herd, to drink, to talk, to get rid of one danger by hearing of another. But when Brite called for volunteers to stand guard with the herd for a few hours they all voiced their willingness to stay.

  “Wal, I’ll have to settle it,” said Brite. “Ackerman, yu drive the Hardys in. Tex, yu an’ Pan Handle come with me.... Boys, we’ll be back pronto to give yu a chance to ride in.”

  * * * * *

  Doan’s Post gave evidence of having more than its usual number of inhabitants and visitors. Horses were numerous on the grass plain around the post. Half a dozen wagons were drawn up before the gray, squat, weather-beaten houses. A sign, Doan’s Store, in large black letters, showed on the south side of the largest house. This place, run by Tom Doan, was a trading-post for Indians and cattlemen, and was in the heyday of its useful and hazardous existence.

  Mounted men, riders with unsaddled horses, Indians lounging and squatting before the doors, watched the newcomers with interest. Arriving travelers were the life of Doan’s Post. But the way Pan Handle and Texas Joe dismounted a goodly distance from these bearded watchers, and proceeded forward on foot, surely had as much significance for them as it had for Brite. The crowd of a dozen or more spread to let the two slow visitors approach the door. Then Brite came on beside the Hardy wagon. Reddie, disobedient as usual, had joined them.

  “Howdy, Tom,” called Brite, to the stalwart man in the door.

  “Howdy yoreself,” c
ame the hearty response. “Wal, damme if it ain’t Adam Brite. Git right down an’ come in.”

  “Tom, yu ought to remember my foreman, Texas Joe. An’ this is Pan Handle Smith. We’ve got a sick man in the wagon heah. Hardy, by name. Thet’s his daughter on the seat. They’re all thet’s left of a wagon-train bound for California. Can yu take care of them for a while, till Hardy is able to join another train?”

  “Yu bet I can,” replied the genial Doan. Willing hands lifted Hardy out of the wagon and carried him into the Post. Ann sat on the wagon seat, her pretty face worn and thin, her eyes full of tears, perhaps of deliverance, perhaps of something else, as she gazed down upon the bareheaded cowboy.

  “We’ve come to the partin’ of the trail, Miss Ann,” Deuce was saying, in strong and vibrant voice. “Yu’re safe heah, thank God. An’ yore dad will come around. I’m shore hopin’ we’ll make it through to Dodge. An’ — I’m askin’ yu — will it be all right for me to wait there till yu come?”

  “Oh yes — I — I’d be so glad,” she murmured, shyly.

  “An’ go on to California with yu?” he concluded, boldly.

  “If yu will,” she replied; and for a moment time and place were naught to these two.

  “Aw, thet’s good of yu,” he burst out at last. “It’s just been wonderful — knowin’ yu.... Good-by. ... I must go back to the boys.”

  “Good-by,” she faltered, and gave him her hand. Deuce kissed it right gallantly, and then fled out across the prairie toward the herd.

  CHAPTER XIV

  REDDIE JUMPED OFF her horse beside the Hardy wagon, on the seat of which Ann sat still as a stone, watching the cowboy. Ackerman turned once to hold his sombrero high. Then she waved her handkerchief. He wheeled and did not look back again.

  “Ann, it’s pretty tough — this sayin’ good-by,” spoke up Reddie. “Let’s go in the Post, away from these men. I’m shore gonna bawl.”

  “Oh, Reddie, I — I’m bawling now,” cried Ann, as she clambered down, not sure of her sight. “He was so — so good — so fine.... Oh, will we ever meet — again?”

  Arm in arm the girls went toward the door of the Post, where Brite observed Ann shrink visibly from two sloe-eyed, gaunt, and somber Indians.

  “Let’s get this over pronto, Tex,” said Brite. “I’ll buy what supplies Doan can furnish.”

  “All right, boss. Pan an’ I will come in presently,” replied Texas. “We want to ask some questions thet mebbe Doan wouldn’t answer.”

  Brite hurried into the Post. It was a picturesque, crowded, odorous place with its colorful Indian trappings, its formidable arsenal, its full shelves and burdened counters. When Doan returned from the after quarters, where evidently he had seen to Hardy’s comfort, Brite wrote with a stub of a lead pencil the supplies he needed.

  “What you think? This ain’t Santone or Abiline,” he said gruffly. “But I can let you have flour, beans, coffee, tobacco, an’ mebbe — —”

  “Do yore best, Tom,” interrupted Brite, hastily. “I’m no robber. Can yu haul the stuff oot to camp?”

  “Shore, inside an hour.”

  “Thet’s all, then, an’ much obliged.... Any trail drivers ahaid of me?”

  “Not lately. You’ve got the trail all to yourself. An’ thet’s damn bad.”

  Brite was perfectly well aware of this.

  “Comanches an’ Kiowas particular bad lately,” went on Doan. “Both Nigger Horse an’ Santana are on the rampage. Let me give you a hunch. If thet old Comanche devil rides into camp, you parley with him, argue with him, but in the end you give him what he wants. An’ for thet reason take grub to spare an’ particular coffee an’ tobacco. But if thet Kiowa chief stops you don’t give him a thing ‘cept a piece of your mind. Santana is dangerous to weak outfits. But he’s a coward an’ he can be bluffed. Don’t stand any monkey business from the Kiowas. Show them you are heavily armed an’ will shoot at the drop of a hat.”

  “Much obliged, Doan. I’ll remember your advice.”

  “You’re goin’ to be blocked by buffalo, unless you can break through. I’ll bet ten million buffalo have passed heah this month.”

  “What month an’ day is it, anyhow?”

  “Wal, you have been trail-drivin’.... Let’s see. It’s the sixteenth of July.”

  “Yu don’t say? Time shore flies on the trail.... I’d like to know if Ross Hite an’ three of his ootfit have passed this way lately?”

  “Been several little outfits by this week,” replied the trader, evasively. “Travelin’ light an’ fast.... I don’t know Hite personally. Heerd of him, shore. I don’t ask questions of my customers, Brite.”

  “Yu know yore business, Doan,” returned Brite, shortly. “For yore benefit, though, I’ll tell yu Hite’s ootfit raided us twice. He had all of my herd at one time.”

  “Hell you say!” ejaculated Doan, sharply, pulling his beard. “What come of it?”

  “Wal, we got the stock back an’ left some of Hite’s ootfit along the trail.”

  Reddie Bayne came stumbling along, wiping her eyes.

  “Wait, Reddie. I’ll go with yu,” called Brite. “Where can I say good-by to the Hardys?”

  She pointed to the open door through which she had emerged. Brite went in quickly and got that painful interview over.

  “Just a minute, Brite,” called Doan, as the cattleman hurried out. “I’m not so particular aboot Indians as I am aboot men of my own color. But I have to preserve friendly relations with all the tribes. They trade with me. I am goin’ to tell you, though, that the two bucks standin’ outside are scouts for some Comanche outfit, an’ they’ve been waitin’ for the first trail herd to come along. You know all you trail drivers do. Pack the bucks back to the next herd, if you can. It’s a mistaken policy. But the hunch I want to give you is to stop those two Comanches.”

  “Stop them?”

  “Shore. Don’t let them come out an’ look over your outfit — then ride to report to their chief. Like as not it’s Nigger Horse, himself.”

  “That is a hunch. I’ll tell Texas,” replied Brite, pondering, and went out with Reddie.

  “Gee!” she whispered, with round eyes. “He’s givin’ us a hunch to shoot some more Comanches.”

  “‘Pears thet way. Yet he shore didn’t give us any hunch aboot Ross Hite.”

  Texas Joe and Pan Handle appeared to be in a colloquy with two men, and Williams and Smiling Pete were engaged with the remainder of the white men present.

  “Williams, yu’ll ride over to say good-by?” queried Brite.

  “Shore we will. For two bits I’d go on all the way with yu,” he replied.

  “Wal, I’ll give yu a lot more than thet.... Yu’ve been mighty helpful. I couldn’t begin to thank yu.”

  “Pete wants to hunt buffalo,” rejoined Williams. “An’ thet sticks us heah.”

  Brite got on his horse. “Tex, we’re goin’. Come heah.”

  Texas strode over, and giving Reddie a gentle shove as she mounted, he came close to Brite.

  “Texas,” whispered Brite, bending over. “Those two Comanches there are scouts for a raidin’ bunch, so says Doan. Dam’ if he didn’t hint we ought to do somethin’ aboot it. He cain’t, ‘cause he has to keep on friendly terms with all the reddies.”

  “Wal, boss, we got thet hunch, too, an’ heahed somethin’ aboot Hite. I’ll tell yu when we come back to camp.”

  Reddie had put her black to a canter, and had covered half the distance back to camp before Brite caught up with her.

  “Save yore hawse, girl. What’s yore hurry?”

  “Dad, I just get sick inside when I see thet look come to Texas Jack’s eyes,” she replied.

  “What look?”

  “I don’t know what to call it. I saw it first thet day just before he drawed on Wallen. Like thet queer lightnin’ flash we saw durin’ the storm the other night.”

  “Reddie, yu ought to be used to hard looks of trail drivers by now. It’s a hard life.”

  “B
ut I want Texas Jack to quit throwin’ guns!” she cried, with surprisingly poignant passion.

  “Wal! Wal!” exclaimed Brite. “An’ why, lass?”

  “Pretty soon he’ll be another gunman like Pan Handle. An’ then, sooner or later, he’ll get killed!”

  “I reckon thet’s true enough,” replied Brite. “Come to think aboot thet, I feel the same way. What air we goin’ to do to stop him?”

  “Stop Tex? It cain’t be done, Dad.”

  “Wal, mebbe not oot heah on the trail. But if we ever end this drive — then it could be done. Yu could stop Tex, lass.”

  She spurred the black and drew away swift as the wind. Brite gathered that she had realized how she could put an end to the wildness of Joe Shipman.

  * * * * *

  The cattle were grazing and in good order. Westward along the river, clouds of dust rolled aloft, and at intervals a low roar of hoofs came on the still hot air. The buffalo were crossing the Red River. Brite and Reddie took the places of San Sabe and Rolly Little at guard, and the two cowboys were like youngsters just released from school. They raced for town. Several slow dragging hours passed by. The herd did not move half a mile; the remuda covered less ground. Brite did not relish sight of a mounted Indian who rode out from the Post and from a distance watched the camp.

  A little later Brite was startled out of his rest by gunshots. He leaped up in time to see the Indian spy riding like a streak across the plain. Texas and Pan Handle, two hundred yards to the left, were shooting at the Comanche as fast as they could pull triggers. Probably their idea was to frighten him, thought Brite, in which case they succeeded amply. No Indian could ride so well as a Comanche and this one broke all records for a short race. It chanced that he took down the plain in a direction which evidently brought him close to the far end of the herd, where one of the cowboys was on guard. This fellow, either Holden or Bender, saw the Indian and opened up on him with a buffalo gun. From that instant until the Comanche was out of sight he rode hidden on the far side of his mustang.