by Zane Grey
“Oh! I feared that!” said Sue, in distress. “How — how did dad take it?”
“I’d rather not say what I think,” returned Chane, and led Brutus away into the grove to have a care for him.
A little later, when Chane went back to the camp fire, all the riders were in and more than ready for the bountiful supper spread by the women. Mostly they ate in silence and like famished wolves. Chane was as hungry as any of them, but he did not miss word or look that passed. He was curious to see the reaction of this day.
Loughbridge, somewhat rested and with appetite satisfied, reverted again to the manner and expression which had so disgusted Chane at the end of the drive. Naturally, after supper, the talk waged vigorously, and opinions, deductions, forecasts were as many and varied as the personalities of the riders. Loughbridge was already raking in big profits from the drive. Manerube had taken upon himself the honors of a hero, and swaggered before the listening women. Chess sat hollow-eyed and raging, his voice lifted high. Melberne presented a queer contrast. He had not spoken a word, but he no longer seemed stultified and thick. Presently Manerube detached himself from the half-circle of men on one side of the camp fire and crossed to where the women sat listening. Ora obviously gave him the cold shoulder. Sue, however, began to question him eagerly.
“You women go to bed,” spoke up Melberne, gruffly.
His wife obediently left the group, but Mrs. Loughbridge and Ora paid no attention to him, and if Sue heard she gave no sign. She stood looking up at Manerube with an interest which could very easily be misunderstood.
“Sue, I told you to go to bed,” called Melberne, sharply.
“But I’m not sleepy,” protested Sue. “I want to hear all about—”
“Go to bed!” interrupted her father, in a voice that Chane had never before heard him use, and he swore at her.
“Why — dad!” faltered Sue, shocked out of her usual independent spirit.
“You seem to take it for granted there’s only one man heah,” replied Melberne, sarcastically. “The rest of us were aboot when it happened, I reckon.”
Sue’s pale face flamed, and turning away without another word she limped into the shadow.
Chane felt sorry for her, that she should be so pointedly reprimanded by her father before them all, but the significance of the incident made his heart beat quickly. The situation grew more to his liking. Sooner or later he would find himself vindicated.
“Loughbridge, listen heah,” said Melberne, deliberately. “You remember our deal. I lent you the money for this outfit an’ you were to pay me half out of your share of the proceeds of our wild-horse huntin’.”
“Yes, I reckon thet was the deal,” replied the other, somewhat wonderingly.
“Wal, on condition I boss this outfit I’ll consider your debt paid right heah. How about it?”
“Suits me fine, Mel,” returned Loughbridge, with his greedy smile.
“Ahuh! All right, it’s settled,” went on Melberne, and then turned to Manerube. “You said we’d divide the outfit into two squads for this ropin’ an’ hawg-tyin’ stunt tomorrow. Now I’m tellin’ you to pick your men.”
“All I need is some help,” said Manerube. “I’ll do the roping and tying. My men will be Loughbridge, Miller, Alonzo, and Utah.”
“Nope, you’re wrong, Mister Manerube,” retorted Utah, coolly. “I wouldn’t be on your side.”
“Utah, you’ll take orders,” said Melberne, testily.
“Shore, but not from him. An’ if you say for me to go on his side, I quit.”
“Manerube, pick another man,” returned the leader.
“Bonny,” said Manerube, shortly.
“Wal, that leaves me, Utah, Captain Bunk, an’ the Weymers. Jake can stay in camp,” said Melberne, reflectively. After a moment he addressed Chane. “I reckon you ought to take charge of our squad?”
There seemed to be a good deal more in Melberne’s mind than he saw fit to speak.
“If you think so I’ll do it,” replied Chane, slowly.
“I’m thankin’ you,” said Melberne. “Now, men, you’d better turn in, as I’ll call you aboot three o’clock.”
Whereupon he left the fire. Chane followed him. Melberne did not walk like a man with hopeful prospects. Chane caught up with him and strode beside him into the grove until they reached a point where Chane’s way led to the left.
“Melberne,” said Chane as they both halted, “I know how you feel. This drive looks bad. It is bad. And I told you, the worst is yet to come. But I reckoned you’d put too much store on the success of catching large numbers of wild horses for the market. You’ve just followed wrong hunches. This deal will likely lose you money. It’ll do worse than that. It’ll hurt you, because you’re a man with human feelings. But it’s nothing to discourage you as to the future. You’ll do well in Utah. The country has great possibilities that men such as you will develop. So don’t worry. This barbed-wire mess will be over in a few days. You’ll soon get things straight.”
“Say, Weymer, are you giving me a good hunch?” inquired Melberne.
“Hardly. I see you’re a little down tonight, and I just wanted you to know I understood.”
“Ahuh! Wal, mebbe you do,” responded Melberne, heavily, and went his way under the cottonwoods.
IT was one thing for Melberne to say he would rout everybody out at three o’clock next morning and another to accomplish it. As the matter transpired, Chane was the early riding riser who called the men and built the fire and went out after the horses. All these except Brutus had been left in the corral at the far end of the grove. In the darkness Chane had difficulty locating Brutus. Instead of being found, he answered Chane’s whistles and made it easy for Chane, though he did not come in of his own accord. Chane led Brutus back through the grove and gave him a double handful of grain.
“Chess, wake up. You’re late,” called Chane.
“I’m — asleep,” mumbled Chess.
“Roll out and get your horse. Breakfast’s ‘most ready.”
“I’m dead. Aw, Chane, do I have to help murder those poor ponies?”
“Boy, you’ve got to help me make it as easy as possible for them. Melberne has made me boss of our squad.”
“I forgot. Sure that’s different,” returned Chess as he rolled out of his blankets, dressed except for his boots.
Chane found a bustle round the camp fire. Jake was cook, with several assistants. Melberne had a quick, serious manner.
“What’ll we need?” he asked Chane.
“Lots of soft rope. Saddlebags for grub and water bags for water. It’ll be a twenty-hour day. And don’t let any fellow forget his gloves!”
CHANE’S squad of five rode out of camp into the dark hour before dawn while Manerube’s men were getting ready. The air was cold, the ground gray with frost, the sky steely blue lighted by white stars. The silent grim men might have been bent on a deadly scouting mission. Chane led at a brisk lope, and when the first streaks of morning brightened the east he drew rein before the huge trap corrals. A whistling and trampling roar attested to the fact that the wild horses had not broken the fence.
“We’ll wait for the other gang,” said Chane. “Reckon we’d better throw off our saddles. It’ll be noon before we get ready to ride.”
The men unsaddled, haltered their horses, uncoiled and recoiled their lassoes, and lastly cut the short lengths of soft rope designated as necessary by Chane. When this was done the other squad rode up.
“You fellars get a hustle on,” said Melberne.
“No rush,” replied Manerube. “Are any of you fellows betting we don’t tie up two horses to your one?”
“Manerube, this is a gambling matter for me, but not for you,” retorted Melberne, significantly.
“Now, boys,” said Chane, “crawl under the wires. We’ll go round to the empty corral.”
Two corrals had been constructed, one a quarter of a mile in diameter, which now contained the seventeen hundred wild hor
ses, the other smaller in size, and with a fifty-foot gate of poles and wires.
“Boys, here’s our system,” said Chane, when his men gathered round him inside the empty corral. “We’ll open the gate and let in ten or a dozen or twenty horses. They won’t need to be driven in yet a while. Keep out of their road. Some wild horses are bad. I’ll do the roping. When I throw a horse you-all make a dive to hold him down. Melberne, you’re the heaviest. You sit on his head. Chess, you hold one front foot while I tie up the other. Utah, you know the game. I’m asking you to look out for Cap till he gets the hang of it.”
Manerube’s squad now appeared in the gray gloom of the morning, and all approached the wide gate. When it had been released at the fastening it was swung open wide. Horses were thick in the gray obscurity of the larger corral, but evidently the dim light did not prevent them from seeing well. Soon a wild leader shot through like an arrow from a bow, to be followed by several passing swift as flashes, and then by a string of them, whistling and plunging.
“Enough. Shut the gate!” yelled Chane. They were just in time to stop a stampede. “Now follow me round,” added Chane, and broke into a run toward the dim shapes of the wild horses. Chane swung his lasso as he ran. Its use was an old story to him. As a boy he could rope the sombrero off a cowboy’s head as dexterously as it might have been snatched by hand.
“Chase them past me,” yelled Chane. “Chess, you stick by me to lend a hand. If a horse gets the jerk on me instead of me getting it on him, I’m liable to be yanked out of my boots.”
A group of wild horses broke up and scattered, running everywhere. Chane ran forward, to one side, swinging a wide loop round his head. In the dim gray he had to guess at distance. But this roping was as much a feeling with Chane as an action. Several horses raced past. At the fourth, a lean wild bay, clearly outlined against the gray, Chane cast his lasso. He did not need to see the horse run into the loop. Bracing himself, Chane gave a sudden powerful jerk just as the noose went taut round the forelegs of this horse. It was in the middle of his leap, and he went down heavily.
“Quick!” yelled Chane to his comrades as hand over hand he closed in on his quarry. Melberne plunged down on the head of the prostrate horse. Utah was almost as quick at his flanks. Captain Bunk fell on the middle of the horse. “Good! Hold hard,” shouted Chane. “I got both his legs.”
Chane loosened the noose and slipped it off one leg, which he drew back from the other. “Grab that leg, Chess. Hang on.”
The groaning, quivering horse lay helpless. He could kick with his two free legs, but to no purpose. Chane hauled the foreleg back, then let go his rope to grasp the leg in his hands. Chess, by dint of strength and weight was holding down the other leg. Chane pulled one of the short lengths of soft rope from the bundle hanging in his belt. He had to expend considerable force to draw the leg up, bending it back. The horse squealed his fury and terror. Then Chane’s swift hard hands bound that bent leg above the knee. It gave the leg an appearance of having been cut off. The foreleg and hoof were tied fast against the inside of the upper part of the leg. Chane slipped off the noose of his lasso, and jumped up.
“Get away and let him up,” ordered Chane. All the men leaped aside with alacrity.
The wild horse got up as nimbly as if he had still the use of four legs. He snorted his wild judgment of this indignity. His first move was a quick plunge, which took him to his knees. But he bounded up and away with amazing action and balance. His speed, however, had been limited to half.
Chane heard the rival squad yelling and squabbling over a horse they had down. The gray gloom was lifting. Chane coiled his lasso, spread the loop to his satisfaction, and ran to intercept another passing horse. His aim went true, but it was good luck that he caught one foreleg instead of two. This horse was heavier. As he went down he dragged Chane, boots ploughing the ground. Chane’s helpers piled upon the straining, kicking horse and forced him flat. Thus the strenuous day began.
CHANE tied up fifty-six horses before he was compelled to ask Melberne for a little rest.
“My — Gawd!” panted Melberne, as he flopped down against a fence post. “I’m daid — on my feet.... Weymer — you’re shore — a cyclone — for work.”
The sun shone bright and hot. A fine dust sifted down through the air. All of Chane’s squad were as wet as if they had fallen into a pond. Melberne’s face ran with dirty streaks of black sweat; his heavy chest heaved with his panting breaths. Chess was the least exhausted of the squad, as his labors had been least. Captain Bunk was utterly played out for the moment.
“Blast me!” he gasped. “I could — drink — the ocean — dry.”
“Cap, don’t let the boys guy you any more,” said Chane. “You’re awkward, but you’re game, and you haven’t shirked.”
They passed the water bag from one to another, and passed it round again. Then Melberne, beginning to recover somewhat, began to take active interest in the operations of Manerube’s squad. On the moment they were dragging a mustang down.
“Weymer, that man cain’t throw a horse,” declared Melberne, testily.
“Wal, boss, how long are you goin’ to be findin’ out he cain’t throw anythin’ but a bluff?” drawled Utah.
Manerube, with the help of Bonny and Miller, downed the mustang. Loughbridge tried to hold down its head, but did not succeed until Alonzo came to his assistance. They were a considerable time tying the knee.
“How many horses have they tied?” inquired Melberne, shifting his gaze to the far side of the corral, where the bound animals stood, already pathetic and dispirited.
“Sixteen or seventeen at most,” replied Chane. “I counted them twice.”
Melberne cursed his amaze and disgust.
“Weymer, let’s go over an’ watch them,” he said.
“Not me. You’re boss of the outfit. You go,” replied Chane.
Whereupon Melberne got up and strode toward the other squad. Perhaps his approach caused them to speed up in action, but it did not add to their efficiency. Chane had needed only one glance to see that Manerube was only ordinary in the use of a lasso. Alonzo could have done better blindfolded. Manerube cast his noose to circle the neck, and this hold, when accomplished, was not a good one for the throwing of a horse. It took three men to haul the horse over on his side, and then he was half choked to death. Melberne lent a hand in holding down this particular horse. Manerube did quicker work this time, but as the horse staggered up Chane saw that the job of tying had not been cleverly done, and certainly not as humanely as it was possible to do. Manifestly Melberne saw this, for he pointed at the flopping shortened leg as the horse hobbled away.
The only unbound horse left in the corral now was a chestnut sorrel, a stallion that had several times taken Chane’s eyes. He was a beauty, big, smooth, graceful, and wild as a hawk. Alonzo and Miller, both clever at herding horses, finally drove him within reach of Manerube’s rope. But Manerube missed, and the lasso, crackling on the head of the stallion, scared him so that he seemed to have wings. In half a dozen magnificent bounds he got stretched out. Then headed for the fence he gave such exhibition of speed that some of the riders voiced their feelings.
“Oh — look at him!” yelled Chess.
“Boys — he’s going to jump the fence,” declared Chane, excitedly.
“He’s got a bone in his teeth,” called out the sailor, admiringly.
“Shure now — he’s gr-rrand!” said the Irishman.
The sorrel meant freedom or death. His action showed more than mere brute wildness of terror. He had less fear of that terrible barbed fence than of the man enemies with their ropes. Like a greyhound he rose to the leap, having the foresight to leave the ground far enough from the fence to allow for the height. Up he shot, a beautiful wild sight, his head level and pointed, his mane streaming back. His forehoofs cleared the top wire, but his hind ones caught it. With a ringing twang the wire snapped. The stallion fell on head and shoulder, rolled over, and regaining his feet, he
raced away, evidently none the worse for the accident.
Chane let out a short exultant shout. Melberne, who had come back, gave sharp orders for the men to let in more horses from the big corral. As they ran to do his bidding Chane took a bundle of short ropes from the fence and tucked one end of them under his belt.
“Manerube hasn’t the knack,” declared Melberne, fuming.
“Who said he had?” retorted Chane.
“He did.”
“Well, if you were damn fool enough to believe him, take your medicine,” rejoined Chane, grimly.
Then, as another band of snorting, shrieking wild horses thundered from the big corral both Chane and Melberne had to take to the fence to save their lives. The frightened beasts trooped by: the men closed the gate and hurried up.
“Come on, you wranglers,” shouted Chane. “See if you can stay with me.”
It was a boast, but not made in the cheerful rival spirit characteristic of riders of the open. Chane’s heart was sore, his blood was hot, his temper fierce; and his expression was a taunt, a grim banter. He meant to lay Melberne and the others of his squad flat on their backs, as if he had knocked them there. But they, likewise inflamed, answered violently to his challenge. Chane ran out into the corral, swinging his lasso.
THE glaring sun stood straight overhead and dusty heat veils rose from the trodden floor of the corral.
“Sixty-eight,” said Chane, huskily, as with cramped and stinging hands he slipped his noose from the leg of the last horse tied. “Let — him — up.”
Utah rolled off the head of the horse and lay where he rolled. The struggling beast rose and plunged away.
“Shall we — make it — sixty-nine?” asked Chane, gazing down upon the spent and begrimed rider.
“I — pass,” whispered Utah.
Chane and Utah had been working alone for some time. Chess had given out, then Melberne had succumbed, and finally Captain Bunk, after a wonderful exhibition of endurance, had fallen in his tracks. He had to be carried to the fence. Manerube’s squad had quit an hour ago.