by Zane Grey
“Shore they can,” declared Melberne, speaking for the girls. “You’re sworn in as wild-horse wranglers.”
“Dad, I’m not so sure I want to be one,” said Sue, shaking her head.
“Why, are you afraid?” queried Manerube. “I can see Miss Loughbridge likes the idea.”
“It’ll be gorgeous,” burst out Ora.
Sue looked at the new rider and did not like the something in his eyes any better than his intimation of her cowardice.
“No, I’m not afraid,” she said.
“Say, Sue’s got more nerve than a man,” interposed Chess, with spirit. “But she hates to see horses hurt.”
“Wal, we won’t argue aboot it,” replied Melberne, genially. “Sue can do as she likes.... Manerube, you come across the valley. Did you see many wild horses?”
“Thousands every day. All the way from Wild Horse Mesa. That’s what the Mormons call the last stand of the wild horses. I saw the finest stock in all this country. It’d pay you, Melberne, after you catch and ship all horses possible near the railroad, to go after the fine stock.”
“But shore we can’t drive over thirty miles,” protested Melberne.
“No. I meant to take time — catch the best wild horses and break them.”
“Wal, shore heah’s a new idea, Jim,” declared Melberne. “I like it. What kind of range land over there?”
“Finest grass and water in Utah,” replied Manerube.
“I heah there are horse thieves in the canyon country,” said Melberne, dubiously.
“Reckon some outfits hold up over there. But you’re just as liable to run across them here. Fact is I run into some Mormon outlaws over across the San Juan. Stayed with them a few days. Not bad fellows to meet, though.”
“Who were they?” asked Loughbridge.
“Bud McPherson and two of his pards, Horn and Slack.”
“Bud McPherson’s pretty well known over St. George way,” declared Loughbridge. “You’ve heard of him, Mel?”
“Shore, I’ve heard of a lot of these horse thieves,” replied Melberne. “They’re not worrying me. I’ve had to do with that brand down in Texas.”
“Say, Manerube, how’d you come to camp with McPherson?” inquired Loughbridge, curiously.
It struck Sue that Manerube was not averse to talking about himself. She was interested, naturally, in so forceful a character, and there seemed something compelling about the man, but all at once she found she did not like him. Ora, however, appeared completely fascinated, a fact that Manerube had manifestly grasped. Chess, too, had, if anything, grown more attentive.
“I was hunting for some Piutes, and run right into Bud and his pards,” began Manerube, taking a seat on a log before the camp fire, somewhat closer to the girls. “It really wasn’t their camp, as I learned afterward. It belonged to the wrangler who beat me getting to the Piutes. You know I told you I went to buy horses for the Mormons. This wrangler got there first. Lucky for me, because McPherson was only hanging round to steal horses. It rather tickles me, for I had a little set-to with that wrangler. He gave me this black eye. But you should have seen him!”
Manerube put his hand to the discolored blotch on his face, and his last remark was addressed to the girls.
Sue became suddenly very attentive, not because of Manerube’s words, but because she saw that Chess was reacting strangely to this rider’s story. He half rose and leaned to listen. His slender body quivered. Through Sue flashed a sudden intimation.
“You had a fight?” queried Melberne, much interested, and he crossed over nearer to Manerube.
Jake likewise had caught the drift of the story, and he stood still, staring at the back of the rider’s head.
“Reckon so. He didn’t seem eager to throw his gun, and I had to beat him.”
“Wal, you don’t say!” ejaculated Melberne, now as interested as any boy at the recital of a fight. “But shore you must have had cause?”
“Yes, I reckon I’d have been justified in shooting the wrangler. But as I said, he wouldn’t draw.... It was all on account of a pretty little Piute girl named Sosie. She’d been to the government school, talked English well, and was crazy about white men. The wrangler had been a squaw man among the Navajos, so I’d heard. Well, he was after Sosie pretty hard. Toddy Nokin, the old Piute father, told him to stay away from her. But he wouldn’t. Finally I felt sorry for Sosie. She was being fooled, poor kid. So I just picked a fight with that wrangler and pounded him as he deserved.”
Manerube ended his story with a casual nonchalance and a deprecatory gesture, as if he rather disliked his personal contact in the affair.
Sue was more than thrilled to see Chess rise with the guarded movement of a cat, sustaining and banding strength, as if for a leap.
“Ahuh!” ejaculated Loughbridge, with gravity. “Did you catch that wrangler’s name?”
“Why, yes, come to think of that,” replied Manerube, blandly. “It was Weymer — Chane Weymer.”
Loughbridge uttered an exclamation, either of surprise or dismay. And Chess leaped wildly to confront Manerube.
“You damned liar!” he burst out, in ringing passionate fury.
Manerube was certainly astounded. “What?” he ejaculated, blankly, and stared.
Chess’s face was white, his big eyes burned, his jaw quivered. He seemed strung like a whipcord.
“Chane Weymer’s my brother!” he cried, and his quivering hand reached to his hip for a gun that was not there. Then, quick as a flash, he struck Manerube violently in the face, a sodden blow that almost toppled the man over. Righting himself, he sprang up with a curse. Rushing at Chess, he lunged out and beat the boy down. Chess fell into Jake’s arms, and Loughbridge sprang before Manerube.
“That’s enough. He’s only a boy,” ordered Loughbridge, hurriedly, and he pushed the other back.
“Boy or not, I’ll — I’ll—” panted Manerube, hoarsely, with his hand on his face.
“No, you won’t do anythin’,” said Loughbridge, forcibly, and he pushed Manerube to a seat on the log. “Reckon you was provoked, but cool down now.”
Jake was having trouble holding Chess, who wrenched and lunged to get free.
“Easy now, Chess,” said Jake, persuasively. “I’m not going to let you go. Why, boy, you’re just mad. You want to look out for that temper. I had one once. I know. Now you just hold on.”
Melberne came to Jake’s assistance, and then the two men, one on each side of Chess, held him firmly until he stopped wrestling. There was blood on his ashen face, and a piercing passion in his eyes. Sue read in them a terrible intent that horrified while it shook her heart. Chess fixed his gaze on Manerube.
“If I’d had my gun I’d have — shot you,” he panted, thickly. “You dirty liar!... I’ll bet you’re what — you made out my brother to be.”
Then Chess turned to Melberne. “Let me go. I’ll — I’ll behave. But I want you to know my brother’s — the soul of honor. If you’d known my mother you couldn’t believe this skunk. Chane wouldn’t lie — he couldn’t hurt a girl, white or red. If he went out of his way for an Indian girl — it was to befriend her.... He’s big enough. He could marry a squaw, but it’d be out of the kindness of his heart.”
Sue was aware that Ora was clutching at her with nervous hands. Chess, just then, seemed magnificent in defense of his brother. Without another word he wheeled away, his white face flashed in the firelight, and then he was gone.
“Manerube, shore you might have kept Weymer’s name to yourself,” said Melberne, with asperity.
“How’d I know he had a brother here?” demanded the other, wrathfully. “He hit me — right where his brother hit me.... And he’d better keep out of my road.”
“Reckon I’ll see that he does,” returned Melberne. “And you’ll oblige me by not making trouble, if you want to stay with us.”
Ora began to cry and ran off in the darkness. Sue sought her own tent, considerably upset by the incident. Sitting down upon her
bed in the dark, she went over the whole situation. After all, as far as Chess was concerned, it had only been another fight. It was not the first. This one, however, was serious. Chess had looked dangerous. He had been like a lion. Sue thrilled anew as she recalled the blaze of his eyes, the ring of his voice. Manerube did not show admirably. Sue had not been favorably impressed by his narrative; besides, he was too big a man to beat a boy that way. True, Chess had given great provocation. Sue was thinking back to the real cause of the trouble when she was interrupted by her father outside.
“Sue, are you in bed?” he asked.
“No, dad.”
He opened the flaps of the tent, letting in a ray of firelight. Then he entered, to take a seat on the bed beside Sue.
“Lass, reckon I’d like your angle on the little fracas between Chess and this Manerube,” said her father as he took her hand in his.
Sue told him briefly and candidly what she thought about it.
“Wal, wal, I reckon I think aboot as you,” he replied, ponderingly. “It looks like this heah to me. Manerube wanted to cut a dash before you girls.... Chesty sort of rider. But I’ve met lots like him. Only not so well spoken. Either he’s not what he pretends or he’s been something different from what he is now.”
“I felt sorry for Chess,” murmured Sue.
“Poor boy! But shore I can’t see as he needed sympathy. He said what he thought, like a man, an’ he banged Manerube hard.... Sue, if Chess had been packing a gun — there’d have been blood spilled.”
“Oh, dad!”
“Wal, I reckon I can control the youngster.... Sue, he shore must love that brother Chane.”
“Dad, I happen to know he worships him.”
“More’s the pity. I’m afraid Manerube was telling the truth.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Sue. “How — why — ?”
“Wal, Loughbridge told me he had heard a lot aboot this Chane Weymer. Wonderful man with horses! He’s been in some shooting scrapes. Lonely sort of chap. But, shore, that’s all to his credit. It was the rumor aboot Indian squaws.... Loughbridge heard talk in Bluff. Shore, it was Mormon talk. I don’t know. I’d like to believe Chess — he was so damn fine. Somehow he just made me jump. But I reckon the boy’s wrong an’ Manerube’s right. Loughbridge thinks so. Wal, wal, I’m sorry. Good night, lass.”
Sue went to bed without lighting her candle. She felt a little shaken, and slipped under the blankets more quickly than usual. Then she lay wide awake in the darkness. She heard the low voices of men talking by the camp fire. The wind mourned through the cottonwoods. The night seemed sad. Poor devoted Boy Blue, with his wonderful love for the wonderful brother! It was well that the boy’s mother was far away in Colorado, far from the gossip that would wound a loving heart. Chane Weymer! The vague, strange shadow of an ideal faded. Sue experienced a slight sinking sensation, almost a sickness, and following that a little heat at her vagrant and unfounded fancies. She whispered to herself: “Poor boy! He said, ‘You couldn’t help but love my brother Chane!’”
CHAPTER V
TO CHANE WEYMER’S surprise, Toddy Nokin did not drive the mustangs toward the left on the Beaver Canyon trail, but in the direction of the great green bowl of shelving land that led down into the rock country. The long string of bobbing mustangs stretched out, with Toddy’s sons riding in the rear. At the junction of the two trails the old Piute waited for Chane, and motioned for him to dismount. Toddy’s demeanor was in no wise different from usual, yet Chane felt a quickening of his pulse.
Toddy Nokin made one of his slow gestures toward Chane’s camp.
“No want white men,” he said, significantly.
Chane regarded his Indian friend with surprise and dawning comprehension. Toddy had reasons for signifying that Chane should dispense with Bud McPherson and his cronies.
“All right, Toddy. If you say so. I sure don’t want them,” he declared, with finality, and waited for the Piute to speak further. Manifestly Toddy was pondering deeply. At last he said, speaking in his own tongue, that Chane would be wise to leave his camp and supplies, without telling McPherson of his intention to drive the mustangs across the rivers. He could say he was going to ride across country to see a relative of Toddy Nokin’s about purchasing more horses, and would give Chane opportunity to drive his mustangs across the San Juan before McPherson became aware of the ruse. Toddy did not give any reason for this. But the mere suggestion was enough. Bud McPherson was undoubtedly a horse thief. Chane had vague recollection of the name, somehow connected with shady horse deals.
“But, Toddy, what’ll I do for grub and blankets?” queried Chane, reluctant to surrender his outfit. “And there’re my pack horses.”
The Piute said he would get the horses, and without further comment he mounted his mustang and rode down the trail after his sons.
Chane did not have any choice, it seemed, yet he deliberated before getting on his horse. It galled him to sacrifice his outfit to three outlaws. Still, there was nothing of any value, except the food. Perhaps this was the wisest course to get rid of the men, but he could not satisfy himself wholly with it. Would Bud McPherson be so easily fooled? Chane’s hostility had roused with the certainty that these men had imposed upon him and were not what they claimed to be. Why not ride into camp with a drawn gun, fight it out with them, or, better, take possession of their weapons, so they could not ambush his trail?
“Reckon Toddy knows best,” he soliloquized, finally. “There’s less risk in his plan — maybe. I don’t know.... But I’d like to have it out with Bud McPherson.”
Chane did not find it easy to abandon that last idea. He had fought the same thing before more than once, and every time it had been harder. He did not like violent issues, but as he had grown older among the rough men of this desert he had not seen any advantage in turning his other cheek to those who struck him. That stone country taught stern measures.
Mounting Brutus, he headed west on the Beaver Creek trail, reached the great corner of yellow cliff, and rode round under its looming wall, down the rock ledges to the stream, and up the other slope to camp. The cedars were thick, and through them he thought he saw an object move. Then a jack rabbit loped off through the sage. It might have been what he had seen. Chane rode to the cedar where he kept his bed and one of his packs, and here he dismounted. It was some distance from the main camp. There did not appear to be any of the men in sight. This relieved Chane. He strode over to the camp. A fire of cedar boughs was still smoldering, and a pot of beans was smoking. The camp fire duffle appeared as usual. McPherson and his men had ridden off somewhere. Chane returned to his pack, and rummaged round until he found his little notebook and lead pencil. On a leaf of this he wrote that he was going off toward the Navajo country to buy more mustangs. This he tore out of the book, and going back to the camp fire he placed it in a conspicuous place, with a little stone to weigh it down. Upon the return it occurred to him that as the camp was deserted he might take what he wanted. But he must exercise care not to pick up anything McPherson might miss.
When he reached the cedar he found Brutus stamping, either excited about something or impatient to be off. Chane had not known the horse long enough to understand him.
“What’s the matter, old boy?” queried Chane.
Brutus snorted and tossed his head. His ears were up and he had fire in his eyes. Whatever the cause, Brutus’s actions made Chane wary, and he peered around uneasily. No man or Indian or beast appeared in sight. Chane procured a box of rifle shells from his pack, a small leather case, and a bag of parched and salted corn, which he kept for emergency travel. These he folded in his coat and tied on the back of the saddle. As he finished this his quick eye, accustomed to running over horse and saddle, suddenly fell upon his rifle sheath. It was empty.
Annoyance succeeded to dismay. Chane swore, and then thought swiftly to ascertain when last he had surely seen the rifle. It must have joggled out of the sheath, and by retracing his steps he would find it. That often happ
ened to a rider.
“No. It was there — when I got off Brutus,” he said, suddenly. He remembered. He never made mistakes about things like that. Chane peered all around, then down upon the ground. In a bare dusty spot he espied a moccasin track. Fresh! It gave him a start. He recognized it as belonging to a crippled Piute who had often been in camp. Chane had not trusted him. Toddy Nokin said he was a bad Indian. There was no mistaking that malformed moccasin imprint.
“Now, the thing to decide is, is he just a sneak Indian thief, or did McPherson put him up to stealing my rifle?” pondered Chane. It might be either, but Chane leaned to the opinion that McPherson had had a hand in it. If this surmise was correct, then the present locality might not be healthy for Chane. The Piute was somewhere close, in possession of the rifle, and possibly with the hidden outlaws. Chane leaped upon Brutus and for the first time spurred him. The result was grimly thrilling to Chane. Brutus left that spot like an arrow shot from a bow. Chane fully expected to hear the report of his rifle. It would take an unerring marksman to hit Brutus at that speed; and as far as pursuit was concerned, that would be useless.
Chane headed west, directly opposite from what McPherson would have calculated upon, if he were waiting in ambush. The open cedar ridge slanted away for a couple of miles, and Brutus covered it at a pace that positively amazed Chane.
“By golly! I begin to believe what they said about this horse,” he muttered.
The wind whipped his face, blurring his eyes. But dim as his sight was, he made certain there were no riders in pursuit. Therefore checking Brutus, he rode down round the brow of the cedar ridge to the rim of Beaver Canyon. Here it had begun to box into walls, but he was sure he could find a place to cross before it grew deep. Half a mile farther on he encountered a trail used by horses going down for water, and here he reached the canyon floor. It was a shallow canyon, but showed signs of growing ruggedness. Chane had never been down it, and could not risk the easy travel over sand. He took the first possible ascent, a small side ravine sloping out, and soon found himself on the green level above. Here he headed east, putting Brutus to his long easy lope. The horse had as smooth action as one of the light Indian mustangs.