by Zane Grey
The negro, Johnson, and the girl were the only ones who slept the night through. Ted, Dakota, Wind River Charlie, and Lonesome, beside doing guard duty, were awake and up at intervals. Alone, and sometimes in couples, they patrolled a beat before the cabin. Lonesome was the most restless. Laramie, in the shadow of the tree, watched his friend understandingly. Often Lonesome gazed at the spot where Lenta lay asleep. Often he halted at the door of the cabin to peer in. Once he entered. What had that been for? The interior of the cabin could have received only faint starlight. It was ghastly, still, reeking.
As the long night wore on Laramie sensed a gradual fixing of his own mood. Lenta’s slight prone form, her sad wan face, her clasped hands, held this mood off less and less, and at length failed. But so powerful was his will that presently he forced himself to a sleep that lasted until gray dawn.
Lonesome was raking the ashes of the fire over fresh dry cones and chips. “Howdy pard,” he said, deep in his throat. “It’s different the mornin’ after. . . . Kick ’em in the slats. . . . We gotta rustle.”
Laramie did not exercise such roughness as that. It was noticeable that each of the remaining riders sat up quickly, instantly awake, silent as the gray dawn.
“Help me wrangle the hawses.”
By the time the riders had found and caught their own mounts, and the other horses necessary, day had broken clear and beautiful. Laramie saw it without feeling. The rosy east, the long ragged ridge-top, the alternate patches of black timber and grassy slope, the sage-gray valley, soft and misty, awakening from sleep, the antelope grazing with the cattle and the coyotes slipping away with last yelps — these were merely details of a morning which Laramie wished had never dawned.
Lonesome and Charlie had breakfast ready. The girl slept on. Laramie roused her, brought her food and drink, but was not responsive to her overtures this morning.
“Laramie, I’m buckin’ you from heah on,” said Lonesome, tossing away his empty cup.
“Ahuh. . . . Boys, pack a little grub an’ water for tonight,” replied Laramie. “Leave everythin’ else — jest as it is. An’ saddle pronto.”
Presently he addressed Johnson.
“Nig, how far to Allen’s?”
“I don’t know zactly, sah. But I sho knows de way.”
“Half a day’s ride?”
“More, sah, onless we rustles.”
“Climb yore hawse an’ lead. . . . Ted, look after the girl an’ stop us if she weakens.”
* * * * *
Early in the afternoon Johnson led out of a winding wooded gulch down upon the open range. The scene was grand. Laramie recognized it, though he had never sat his horse to see it from that point.
A mile or so down the gray-green slope of sage stood a picturesque squat cabin, half ringed by trees. This was the ranch where Allen and Arlidge held forth. It had belonged to the settler Snook and no doubt was now being exploited and offered for sale as had been the old fort Lindsay had bought. Strings and herds of cattle afforded marked contrast to the vacant range around Spanish Peaks Ranch. Ten miles to the east, down the winding line of green willows, nestled the gray cabin and corral to which Ted had tracked his horse.
Westward rolled the range, swelling, billowy, dotted by cattle, bright in the afternoon sun. It rose to the low foothills, which in turn mounted step by step to the purple-sloped, white-peaked Rockies.
Laramie studied the Allen ranch cabin with his glass. Evidences of occupation were manifest, but he did not make out a single rider. He remembered that the wide porch of this cabin fronted toward the west and he could not see it from this angle.
Laramie led the riders at a brisk canter down the slope, keeping the line of willows and cottonwoods between them and the cabin. Behind the last clump of trees he halted.
“Wal, who wants to ride up an’ tip me off about what to expect?” he queried.
They all volunteered, and Ted, particularly, wanted to go.
“I told yu to look after Lent,” rejoined Laramie. “Anyway, it wouldn’t do for yu to brace this outfit. Yu’ve been heah before with fire in yore eyes. . . . Charlie, yu go.”
“Fine, boss. What’ll I do?” replied Charlie.
“Ride up to the porch,” went on Laramie, swiftly. “Halt jest outside thet hitchin’-rail. Make some excuse for callin’. If you don’t see Arlidge, ask for him. An’ if he’s there take off yore sombrero careless like. Savvy?
“Shore. An’ how’ll I signal if there’s some of Arlidge’s riders?”
“Nig, how many in Arlidge’s outfit?”
“Four on steady job, sah, not countin’ me an’ Juan an’ Gaines.”
“Only four. Who drove those big herds?”
“Allen had riders come from other ranges.”
“Ahuh. Wal, Charlie, never mind about the outfit. Jest — —”
“Pard, what’s your idee?” interposed Lonesome.
“I won’t make up my mind until Charlie tips me off,” responded Laramie, tensely, and waved Charlie away. Both Ted and Lonesome questioned him then, but he gave no heed. It was hard to sit there watching, waiting. Charlie rode the hundred paces at a trot, and halted before the cabin, just as any lonesome and travel-worn rider would. Through the web of foliage Laramie could make out patches of figures on the porch, but he did not care to risk clearer view. Plain it was, though, that Wind River Charlie engaged somebody in conversation. Tight and cold, with the faculty of action in abeyance, Laramie bestrode his horse. Charlie did not remove his sombrero. Laramie waited a moment longer. He knew then that if the rider used the signal he would wheel his horse and gallop swiftly around to the back of the cabin. But Charlie’s head remained covered. Laramie expelled an oppressive breath. The time seemed not yet.
“Wal, come on, boys. Ted, yu hang heah a little with Lent.”
Ted consented, but not until he had vigorously protested. Laramie heard the girl cry out as he led the riders away. “Let’s go anyhow, Ted,” she said. And Ted replied: “Whoa, Calamity Jane! Laramie’s mad enough now.”
“Now, boys ride, but not too fast,” ordered Laramie, In a moment they were cantering toward the cabin. Laramie’s hawk-eyes swept the scene. Charlie sat side-wise in his saddle, rolling a cigarette. Two bareheaded riders dangled chaps down over the edge of the porch. Two men in shirt sleeves lolled at a table next the cabin wall. Quickly the horses covered the intervening distance. Looking back, Laramie saw the girl riding out of the grove and Ted trying to catch her bridle.
Next moment Laramie faced frontward and dismounted. Dakota, Lonesome, and the negro joined Charlie, opposite the two seated riders. Laramie’s long stride took him around the hitching-rail.
“Howdy, gentlemen,” he drawled, as he stepped upon the porch. Both men appeared aware that this encounter was unusual. The one standing, a tall Westerner with an eagle eye, Laramie had seen before somewhere. The man sitting at the table did not strike Laramie favorably. A pallor showed under his coarse tan. He had hard, bright blue eyes and rugged features that fitted them.
“Howdy,” replied the man standing.
“Didn’t I see you at La Junta?” queried Laramie, slowly. He stood so that he could see the slightest movement of both men at once.
“You may have.”
“What’s yore name?”
“Strickland.”
“Ahuh. Yu’re John Strickland?”
“At your service, mister — —”
“Wal, I’m sorry to meet yu heah. What yu doin’?”
“I have been tryin’ to persuade Mr. Allen here to join a cattlemen’s protective association I’m organizin’,” returned the rancher, impressively. Laramie was swift to catch an inflection of voice, a glint of eye that he did not read to Allen’s favor.
“Humph. I’ll bet two-bits Mister Allen ain’t keen about it,” drawled Laramie, with cool sarcasm.
“Strange to say he — —”
Allen interrupted by bursting out of his amaze to pound the table and bark:
“You im
pudent cow-puncher! What-d’ye mean, bracin’ in here this way?”
“I’ve a little business with yu,” replied Laramie, softly.
“Then you can get out. I want none of it. . . . The nerve of these punchers, Strickland! He must be one of that insolent Peak Dot outfit.”
“Shore. I happen to be Laramie Nelson.”
Allen leaned back, his face livid, and he eyed Nelson with dark speculation. “I don’t care who in hell you are. Get off my land!”
“Say, for a Westerner yu air sort of testy. Had yore own way a lot, I reckon. Wal, yu’re at the end of yore rope, Allen.”
“Is this deal a hold-up?” demanded the other, hoarsely.
“It shore is, an’ about time. . . . Strickland, step to one side.”
“What you want — Nelson?” yelped Allen.
“Wal, I reckon I want a lot. . . . First, I’ll acquaint yu with the fact thet Beady is daid — Jude is daid. . . . An’ we hanged Price.”
“What’s that to me? I don’t know these rustlers.”
“No. How about Gaines? He’s daid, too. Arlidge’s greaser got away. But we have the nigger heah.”
“No — matter,” shouted Allen, stridently, beginning to fail of nerve.
“Nig, come up heah,” ordered Laramie. In another moment Johnson stood on the porch, rolling his eyes at Allen, and evidently not perturbed.
“Nig, yu know this man?”
“Yas sah, I knows him.”
“Who is he?”
“Calls hisself Lester Allen.”
“Have yu rode for him?”
“No, sah. But I don ride for his pardner, Arlidge.”
“Do yu know what became of the cattle Allen sold Lindsay?”
“I sho do, sah. They was rustled. Tree big drives an’ some littles ones. I was in them all.”
“Did Arlidge lead one of these drives?”
“Yas, sah. The first one.”
“What’d yu do with the cattle?”
“Druv it over heah. Allen sent thet herd out an’ nebber burned a brand. But all the rest ob de stock we put de iron on, sah.”
“Can yu prove Allen took these cattle an’ sold them?”
“No sah. But we all knows dam’ wal thet he did.”
Allen leaped up with blanched face and staring eyes. He jerked at his hip for the gun that was not there, and which Laramie had noted was not there.
“You lyin’ nigger!” he yelled. “Arlidge will kill you for this.”
“No, Arlidge won’t,” retorted Laramie, deliberately. “Allen, yore bluff is no good. Anyone could see through yu. . . . How about thet, Strickland?”
“Nelson, this substantiates what I suspected before I came here to interview Allen,” replied the rancher, gravely.
“Ahuh. Thet’s interestin’. I wondered about yu. Jest happened along right. Wal, it works out thet way sometimes.”
Allen made as if to go into the cabin, but was deterred by a sharp call from Lonesome.
“Riders comin’, pard. . . . Arlidge!”
Allen dropped heavily upon the bench, his face pallid and clammy, his eyes suddenly gleaming. “Hah! — you tell all that to Arlidge. He’s been achin’ to meet you, Nelson. Old grudge, he said. But I kept him back. Now, by Heaven, you’ll get your bluff called! . . . An’ you Strickland — you’ll have to answer to him for your — suspicions!”
Laramie’s three riders peered beyond the cabin, their necks craned, then quietly slipped out of their saddles to stand behind their horses. Laramie could not see what had actuated them, but he heard a rhythmic beat of hoofs, coming fast. Strickland answered to the suspense by striding across the porch to stand back to the wall. Allen sat staring with distended eyes.
Laramie recognized the moment that would be his, as if fatefully ordered long ago. He did not need to gamble on the element of surprise which decided so many encounters, but he welcomed it. He too backed against the cabin wall. Then all the iron of muscle and steel of mind gathered as if to leap.
Ringing hoofbeats pounded closer. Gravel and dust flew ahead of a furious horse, pulled on its haunches. Arlidge leaped to land with a thudding clink of spurs. As he strode for that end of the long porch two other riders dashed into sight.
Lithe and erect, intense in action, his face darkly passionate, his eyes like daggers, Arlidge stepped upon the porch.
“Bad news, Lester, cuss my luck!” he pealed out. “Had to shoot young Lindsay — —”
Then his piercing gaze took in the strange horses, the riders stepping out, Allen plumped on the bench with extended shaking hand, and Strickland flattened against the wall.
“What the—” he hissed.
At that Laramie stepped out.
Arlidge saw him. With one foot forward he turned to stone. Then his visage underwent a marvelous transformation. Perception, surprise, hate, motive, and realization swept with kaleidoscopic swiftness across his countenance. And the last gripped him horribly. As clearly as if he had spoken he expressed wild fear and certainty of death.
With audible intake of breath he crouched slightly, desperate as a wolf at bay, his eyes like points of fire. As he lurched for his gun, Laramie’s boomed in its outward leap. Arlidge died in the act of his draw, falling backward off the porch almost under the plunging horses.
One of the riders fired off a rearing horse. Laramie heard the bullet sping off the gravel beyond him. Lonesome shot — then Charlie. The rearing horse plunged away with rider sliding off to be dragged by a heel.
“Up with ’em, Hennesy,” called Charlie.
“Up they air,” returned the other rider, sweeping his hands aloft. His horse pivoted to a trembling stand.
“Whoa, Sandy — whoa, boy,” called Dakota. The other horses stood restlessly. Still there came a pounding of hoofs. Laramie wheeled. Ted and Lenta sat prancing horses, out beyond the others.
“Lonesome, grab yore rope,” ordered Laramie, turning to the stricken Allen.
Mulhall sheathed his gun and leaped in a single action. Tearing the lasso off his saddle he thumped around his horse, ducked under the hitching-rail, and came up with a sinister snarl of lips.
“Toss a loop about Allen’s neck,” went on Laramie.
Like a snake the noose glided out to circle Allen’s neck. Lonesome gave the rope a whip. Then Allen leaped up, fumbling at the noose. “God Almighty! Would you — hang me?”
“I should smile we would,” replied Lonesome.
“Hold — hold! Nelson,” ejaculated Strickland, in agitation. “I don’t want to interfere . . . but will you give me a word?”
“Go ahaid,” replied Laramie.
“Nelson — you riders — I question the wisdom an’ justice of such a proceedin’. You are hot now — blood-set on this. But wait a moment. Think! Let me — —”
“Wal, do you need any more’n to look at him?” queried Lonesome.
“Any man about to hang would look like that.”
“Ump-umm!” declared Lonesome. “I didn’t. This heah gazaboo is a big thief. The wust kind, ‘cause he hires pore riders to steal for him.”
“Strickland, we know Allen’s crooked,” put in Laramie.
“But can you prove it?”
“Wal, I reckon we cain’t,” replied Laramie. “All the same. . . . See heah, Allen. Take yore choice. Hang or leave Colorado.”
“I’ll — leave,” panted Allen, tearing off the noose.
“All right. Jest as yu air. Fork Arlidge’s hawse an’ rustle. If we ever see yu again on this range neither Strickland nor anyone else can save yore neck.”
In another moment Allen was on his way, heading west.
Laramie voiced a query that had hammered at him. “Heah, rider, what about Arlidge shootin’ young Lindsay?”
“Thet’s right. He did.”
“Kill him?”
“No. Only winged him.”
“Where’d this happen?”
“Over at the Meadows. Snook was roundin’ up stock with two of his punchers. I seen Linds
ay throw a gun on Arlidge. Don’t know what for. An’ I seen Arlidge shoot him in the arm. Lindsay is layin’ over there bleedin’ like a stuck pig. Snook sed, ‘Let him bleed.’”
“Lonesome, yu an’ Charlie an’ Dakota pile over there,” ordered Laramie. “Strickland, where yu headin’ now?”
“I’ve a buckboard behind the cabin,” replied the rancher. “I’ll drive with you an’ take young Lindsay over. . . . Hello, who’s the girl?”
“That’s Lindsay’s lass — the one we went after. Take her with yu, Strickland. . . . Ted, beat the dust after Lonesome.”
Scarcely had Laramie given this order when Ted, with a word to Lenta, spurred away.
“Get yore hawse from Snook,” yelled Laramie, after him. Then Laramie spoke to the two riders who had slid off the porch to the ground. “Get up an’ move. Thet goes for yu, too, Hennesy. Remember yu’re marked riders on this range from now on. Better go honest.’
“Nelson, we ain’t liable to fergit,” returned Hennesy, turning his horse down the lane, with the two riders hurrying after him. Strickland appeared in the buckboard he had mentioned, driving a spirited team.
“Get off an’ climb in, Miss Lindsay,” called Strickland. The girl complied, showing in her actions that her strength was almost spent. Strickland drove away, calling for Laramie to follow.
“Be right along,” replied Laramie. Then he turned to Johnson, who sat on the bench.
“Nig, yu squared yoreself with me. What yu want to do?”
“I doan know, boss. Dere’s no sense in rustlin’. I’s long hed cold feet, sah. Ebberybody’s daid. . . . I doan know where to go.”
“Get on an’ lead the girl’s hawse. We’ll follow the buckboard.”