Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  Not long after this amazing recital, when Laramie stood at his open door, gazing out into the moon-blanched patio, he heard quick steps on the flagstones. Hallie appeared, the moonlight shining on her hair.

  “Laramie, come walk with me or sit under the cottonwoods. I want to talk to you.”

  He joined her hesitatingly and thrilled anew as she slid a soft hand inside his arm.

  “What did you think of Lonesome’s story?” she inquired.

  “Wal, I reckoned it’d do.”

  “Such an atrocious falsehood! . . . Laramie, my sister told me every detail of that terrible experience.”

  “Dog-gone the kid!”

  “Why did you sanction Lonesome’s lie?”

  “Wal, we reckoned the truth would horrify yu.”

  “It did. But the truth is always best. I know now. And I can adjust myself to the — the violence and bloodshed Mr. Strickland explained to me must prevail on the frontier for a while. I have been mawkish, chicken-hearted. But I will overcome it, because I love the West.”

  “I’m shore glad to heah yu say thet last, Hallie,” Laramie said, feelingly.

  She had led him down the courtyard, across the entrance, up the other side, and now they were mounting the stone steps under the cottonwoods. Laramie experienced a sinking of his heart. How impossible to understand this composed young woman!

  “You know what Mr. Strickland proposes organizing, do you not?” she went on.

  “Yes, an’ it’s a splendid idee. Yore father can retrieve his losses now. There won’t be any more wholesale rustlin’ on this range.”

  “Still, he claims there will be need of such protective measures. . . . Are you aware that you have been chosen to lead this cattlemen’s association?”

  “Me! — No. Strickland never hinted thet to me,” ejaculated Laramie, in vague alarm.

  “Well. I’m glad to be the one to tell you.”

  “Wal, of all things! I reckon I’m shore proud, Hallie. . . . But it’s out of the question. I cain’t accept.”

  “Why not? It seems to me to be an exceptionally fine opportunity. You have been a rolling stone, so to speak. Surely some day you will settle down to — to one place. I asked Mr. Strickland if your life had been such that you could not ever be happy to accept something tame and colorless. He laughed and said it’d never be tame here for many years.”

  “Wal, yu told me the truth was best — an’ the truth is I reckon I cain’t stand it heah no longer.”

  “I divined that. But why?”

  He did not have an answer ready. Meanwhile they had reached the oval surrounded by the boulders. Gleams of silver played in the murmuring pool below the spring. A soft rustle of leaves mingled with music of running water. She came quite close to him and looked up, her face clear in the moonlight, her eyes dark, inscrutable, strange. He saw her throat swell. He seemed forced to gaze at her, to impress her lovely face upon his memory forever.

  She threw her scarf on the stone seat and stepped a little nearer to him. It was then Laramie caught his breath with a realization that he knew little of a woman, and that there was catastrophe in the presence of this one.

  “You are going away from Spanish Peaks Ranch?” she asked.

  “I told yu.”

  “From me?”

  “Wal, as yu’re heah — of course from yu.”

  “Laramie, you have not apologized for your conduct the other day, down at the barn. Will you do so now?”

  “No!”

  “But, be reasonable. We can’t get anywhere — until you do.”

  “I’m shore sorry, but I cain’t.”

  “Where is all that Southern chivalry with which Lonesome and Ted always credited you? . . . You treated me rudely — brutally. Aren’t you sorry?”

  “Shore, in a way, but not the way yu mean.”

  “Not sorry you treated me as Mr. Arlidge once tried to — and failed? Not sorry you dragged me into that stall as if I were an Indian squaw — and crushed me in your arms — and kissed me blind — and deaf — and dumb? . . . Laramie Nelson, not sorry for that outrage?”

  “So — help me Heaven — I’m not,” he choked out, driven mad by the sweet, strange, soft voice, the challenging, accusing eyes, the hand that went to his shoulder. “But I swear to yu it was no outrage.”

  “Then explain why?”

  “God help me, I was out of my haid. . . . I meant to kiss yu good-by. . . . But yu struck me. . . . An’ then I had to — to satisfy somethin’ queer an’ savage in me. But, Hallie, it was no insult — not in my heart. No matter what I said.”

  “Still, Laramie, you have not explained your motive.”

  “Wal, it was jest such love as no man ever before had for a woman,” he replied, simply, strength coming with his betrayal.

  “Oh, so that was it? . . . Love? For me!” How wonderful she appeared then! He backed away from her until the stone seat stopped him. That pressing hand stole higher on his shoulder. Were his senses leaving him? Her face shone white as marble — her lips were parted — her eyelids fell heavily to lift again over gulfs of wondrous depths. “Larry — do you — did you ever know what I did?”

  “When?” he whispered, his voice low.

  “Why, that time. . . . You must indeed — have been blind, at least. . . . Suppose you — do the same — all over again . . . right here — now. . . . Then I will show you!”

  Sunset Pass

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  The first edition

  CHAPTER 1

  THE DUSTY OVERLAND train pulled into Wagontongue about noon of a sultry June day.

  Trueman Rock slowly stepped down from the coach, grip in hand, with an eager and curious expression upon his lean dark face. He wore a plain check suit, rather wrinkled, and a big grey sombrero that had seen service. His step, his lithe shape, proclaimed him to be a rider. A sharp eye might have detected the bulge of a gun worn under his coat, high over his left hip and far back.

  He had the look of a man who expected to see someone he knew. There was an easy, careless, yet guarded air about him. He walked down the platform without meeting anyone who took more than a casual glance at him.

  At the end of the flagstone walk Rock hesitated and halted, as if surprised, even startled. Across the wide street stood a block of frame and brick buildings, with high weatherbeaten signs. It was a lazy scene. A group of cowboys occupied the corner; saddled horses were hitched to a rail; buckboards and wagons showed farther down the street; Mexicans in colourful garb sat in front of a saloon.

  Memory stirred to the sight of the familiar corner. He had been in several bad gun fights in this town. The scene of one of them lay before him and a subtle change began to affect his pleasure in returning to Wagontongue. He left the station.

  But he had not walked half a block before he came to another saloon, the familiar look of which and the barely decipherable name — Happy Days — acted like a blow in his face. He quickened his step, then, reacting to his characteristic spirit, he deliberately turned back to enter the saloon. The same place, the same bar, and the faded paintings; the same pool tables. Except for a barkeeper, the room was deserted. Rock asked for a drink.

  “Stranger hereabouts, eh?” inquired the bartender.

  “Yes, but I used to know Wagon-tongue,” replied Rock. “You been here long?”

  “Goin’ on two years.”

  “How’s the cattle business?”

  “Good, off an’ on. It’s slack now, but there’s some trade in beef.”

  “Beef? You mean on the hoof?”

  “No. Butcherin’. Gage Preston’s outfit do a big business.”

>   “Well, that’s new,” replied Rock, thoughtfully. “Gage Preston? Heard his name somewhere.”

  He went to the Range House, a hotel on another corner. He registered, gave the clerk his baggage checks, and went to the room assigned him, where he further resisted the mood encroaching upon him by shaving and making himself look presentable to his exacting eyes.

  “Sure would like to run into Amy Wund,” he said, falling into reminiscence. “Or Polly Ackers. Or Kit Rand. All married long ago, I’ll bet.”

  He went downstairs to the lobby, where he encountered a ruddy-faced man, Clark, the proprietor, whom he well remembered.

  “Howdy, Rock! Glad to see you,” greeted that worthy, cordially if not heartily, extending a hand.

  “Howdy, Bill!” returned Rock, as they gripped hands.

  “Wal, you haven’t changed any, if I remember. Fact is you look fit, an’ prosperous, I may say. How long since you left Wagontongue?”

  “Six years.”

  “Wal, so long as that? Time shore flies. We’ve growed some, Rock. A good many cattlemen, have come in. All the range pretty well stocked now. We have two lumber mills, some big stores, a school, an’ a town hall.”

  “Well, you sure are comin’ on. I’m right glad, Bill. Always liked Wagontongue.”

  “Did yon jest drop in to say hello to old friends, or do you aim to stay?” inquired Clark, his speculative eyes lighting.

  Rock mused over that query, while Clark studied him. After a moment he flipped aside Rock’s coat. “Ahuh! Excuse me, Rock, for bein’ familiar. I see you’re packin’ hardware, as usual. But I hope you ain’t lookin’ for someone.”

  “Reckon not, Bill. But there might be someone lookin’ for me. How’s my old friend, Cass Seward?”

  “Ha! Wal, you needn’t be curious aboot Cass lookin’ for you. He’s been daid these two years. He was a real sheriff, Rock, an’ a good friend of yours.”

  “Well, I’m not so sure of that last, but Cass was a good fellow all right. Dead! I’m sure sorry. What ailed him, Bill?”

  “Nothin’. He cashed with his boots on.”

  “Who killed him?”

  “Wal, that was never cleared up for shore. It happened out here at Sandro. Cass got in a row an’ was shot. The talk has always been that Ash Preston killed Seward. But nobody, least of all our new sheriff, ever tried to prove it.”

  “Who’s Ash Preston?”

  “He’s the oldest son of Gage Preston, a new cattleman to these parts since you rode here. An’ Ash is as bad a hombre as ever forked a horse. I ain’t sayin’ any an’ please regard that as confidence.”

  “Certainly, Bill,” replied, Rock, hastily. After some casual conversation about the range, they parted in the hotel lobby.

  Sitting there, he recalled friends and enemies of the old days. One of his best friends had been Sol Winter. Whenever Rock got into a scrape, provided it was not a shooting one, Sol was the one who helped him out of it. And as for money, Sol had always been his bank. Rock, remembering many things — one of which was that he had left Wagontongue hastily and penniless — thought he recalled a debt still unpaid. With that he sallied out to find Winter’s store.

  It should have been a couple if blocks down the street. Some of the buildings were new, however, and Rock could not be sure. Finally he located the corner where Sol’s place of business had been. A large and pretentious store now occupied this site. Rock experienced keen pleasure at the evidence of his old friend’s prosperity, and he stalked gayly in, only to learn that Sol Winter did not occupy this store.

  Through inquiry, he located Winter’s store at the end of the street. It was by no means a small or cheap place, but it was not what it had once been. Rock entered. Sol was waiting upon a woman, looked, older, thinner, greyer, and there were deep lines in his face. Six years was a long time. Rock gazed round him. It was a large store room crowded with merchandise — hardware, groceries, saddles and harness and farm implements.

  “Well, sir, what can I do for you?” inquired Winter.

  “Howdy, Sol, old-timer!” said Rock with a warm leap of his pulse. “Don’t you know me?”

  Winter leaned and crouched a little, his eyes piercing. Suddenly the tightness of his face loosened into a convulsive smile.

  “True Rock!” he shouted incredulously. “If it ain’t really you! Why, you old ridin’, drinkin’, shootin’, love-makin’ son of a gun!”

  “Glad to see me, Sol?” returned Rock, tingling under Winter’s grip.

  “Glad? Lordy, there ain’t words to tell you. Why, True, you were always like my own boy. An’ since I lost him—”

  “Lost him! Who? You never had any boy but Nick.”

  “Didn’t you ever hear aboot Nick? Nick was shot off his hoss out near Sunset Pass.”

  “Aw — no! Sol! That fine sweet lad! My God! I’m sorry,” exclaimed Rock, huskily. “But it was an accident?”

  “So they say, but I never believed it. There’s still bad blood on the range, True. You must remember. In fact there’s some new bad blood come in since you left.”

  Here a customer entered, and Rock seated himself on the counter and put aside his sombrero, to find his brow clammy and cold. Nick Winter dead! Shot by rustlers, probably, or perhaps by this new bad element hinted at by Clark and Winter. The last thing Rock would have expected was that anyone could do violence to gentle, kindly, crippled Nick Winter. Here was something to keep Rock around Wagontongue, if nothing else offered.

  “True, it’s good to see you sittin’ there,” said Winter, returning to place a hand on Rock’s shoulder. “I never saw you look so well, so clean an’ fine. I don’t need to be told you’ve worked hard.”

  “Yes, Sol. I’ve been five years on a cattle job in Texas. Cleaned up ten thousand, all honest and square. I’ve got a roll that would choke a cow.”

  “No! Ten thousand? Why, True, that’s a small fortune! It’ll make you. If only you don’t get drunk an’ begin to gamble.”

  “Well, Sol, maybe I won’t. But I’ve gone straight so long I’m worried. How much do I owe you?”

  “Owe me? Nothin’.”

  “Look over your books before I hand you one,” ordered Rock fiercely. Whereupon he helped Winter find the old account, and forced him to accept payment with interest.

  “Say, Rock, to be honest, this little windfall will help a lot,” declared Winter. “I got in a cattle deal some time past an’ lost out pretty much in debt. Then the new store — Dabb’s — ate into my trade. I had to move. Lately, though, my business has picked up. I think I can pull out.”

  “That’s good. Who’d you go in cattle deals with?” rejoined Rock.

  “Dabb.”

  “Dabb? Not John Dabb who ran things here years ago? Sol, you ought to have known better.”

  “Sure. But it seemed such a promisin’ deal; an’ it was for Nick’s sake — but I’m out of cattle deals for good.”

  “Go on. Tell me some more bad news,” said Rock gloomily. “What’s become of my old girl, Kit Rand?”

  “Kit. Let me see. I know she married Chess Watkins—”

  “What! That drunken loafer?”

  “Yes, an’ she couldn’t change him either. Kitty had to go to work in a restaurant here, an’ finally they left Wagontongue.”

  “Kitty-Rand? That dainty, clever little girl a waitress! Good Lord! How about Polly Ackers?”

  “Polly went to the bad,” returned Sol, gravely. “Some flash gambler got around her. She’s been gone for years.”

  Rock groaned. “I’m Sorry I ever came back to this darned Wagontongue. One more question. How about my best girl, Amy Wund?”

  “Worse an’ more of it, True,” rejoined Winter. “After you left, Amy played fast an’ loose with many a puncher, There are some who say she never got over your runnin’ away.”

  “Thunder! They’re crazy!” burst out Rock. “She played fast an’ loose with me. She never cared two snaps for me.”

  “Yes, she did, if there’s anythin�
� in gossip. Mebbe she never found it out till you were gone. Amy was a highstrung lass. An’ yon know, Rock, you were sweet on Polly at the same time.”

  “Lord forgive me, I was.”

  Trueman dropped his head.

  “Son, it’s the way of life,” went on Winter.