by Zane Grey
“Jess, I’m sure surprised and plumb sorry to find you — your condition so — so different,” began Rock, a little uncertain. “What happened? How’d you lose out?”
“Well, Rock, I had hard luck. Two bad years for water and grass. Then Dabb shut down on me. Next I sold some cattle, put the money in a bank, an’ it busted. Then Preston moved into the country — an’ here I am.”
“How in the devil did you get here?” demanded Rock bluntly.
“Right off I made a mistake,” returned Slagle. “Preston was keen about my ranch in the Pass. He made me a good offer. I refused. He kept after me. I had some hard words with his son, Ash, an’ it all lead to a breach. They kept edgin’ my stock down out of the Pass an’ that way, then, an’ in others, I fell more in debt. I had finally to sell for about nothin’.”
“To Preston?”
“Sure, No one on the lower range would take it as a gift. It was a poor location, if any other outfit rode the Pass.”
“Ahuh! Then as it stands, Preston about ruined you?”
“No, Rock, I couldn’t claim that. Gage Preston never did me any dirt that I actually know. When I went to him an’ told him his outfit was drivin’ my stock off grass an’ water he raised the very old Ned with his sons, in particular Ash Preston, who’s sure rotten enough to taint the whole other twelve Prestons.”
“So this Ash Preston is rotten?” queried Rock deliberately, glad to find one man not afraid to voice his convictions. “Then what happened?”
“Well, the old man stalled off a shootin’ match, I reckon.”
“Have you ever met since?”
“Lots of times. But I’ve never had the nerve to draw on Ash. I know he’d kill me. He knows it, too.”
“What do you mean by rotten?”
“Mebbe it’s a poor word. But did you ever see a slick, cold, shiny rattlesnake, just after sheddin’ his skin, come slippin’ out, no more afraid of you than hell, sure of himself, an’ ready to sting you deep? Well, that’s Ash Preston.”
“Ahuh! I see,” rejoined Rock, studying the other’s face. “Glad to get your angle. I’m goin’ to ask Preston for a job.”
“I had a hunch you were. I’m wishin’ you luck.”
“Do you aim to hang on here?”
“Thank God, I don’t,” replied Slagle, with feeling. “My wife — she’s my second wife, by the way — has had a little money an’ a farm left her in Missouri. Were leavin’ before winter sets in.”
“Glad, to hear you’ve had a windfall Jess.”
Rock kid been two hours leisurely climbing the imperceptible slope up to the mouth of Sunset Pass. It was mid-afternoon. At last he entered the wide portal of the Pass, and had clear view of its magnificent reach and bold wild beauty. The winding Sunset Creek came down like a broken ribbon, bright here and dark there, to crawl at last into a gorge on Rock’s left. The sentinel pines seemed to greet him.
They stood, first, one, isolated and stately, then, another, and next two, and again one, and so on that way until at the height of the Pass they grew in numbers, yet apart, lording it over the few cedars on the level bench, and the log cabins strange to Rock, that he knew must be the home of the Prestons.
Slowly he rode up and entered the beautiful open park. The road cut through the centre and went down the outer side. Rock had a glimpse of gardens, corrals, fields, and then the purple pass threaded with winding white. Some of the cabins were weathered and grey, with moss green on the split shingles. Other cabins were new.
Just then a hound bayed, announcing the advent of a stranger in the Pass. Rock, having come abreast of the first cabin, halted his horse.
The door of this cabin opened. A tall, lithe, belted and booted man stalked out, leisurely, his eagle-like head bare, his yellow hair waving in the wind — Ash Preston.
CHAPTER 4
“HOWDY, STRANGER! OFF the trail?”
The omission of the invariable Western “Get down and come in,” was not lost on Rock.
“Howdy to you!” he returned. “Is this Gage Preston’s ranch?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m on the right track. I want to see him.”
“Who’re you, stranger?”
“I’m Trueman Rock, late of Texas.”
“Rock — are you the Rock who used to ride here before we came?”
“Reckon I am.”
Ash Preston measured Rock, a long penetrating look that was neither insolent nor curious. “You can tell me what you want with Preston. I’m his son, Ash.”
“Glad to meet you,” said Rock pleasantly. “Do you run Preston’s business?”
“I’m foreman here.”
“Reckon my call’s nothin’ important,” returned Rock easily. “But when I do call on a cattle man I want to see him.”
“Are you shore it’s my father you want to see most?” asked Ash.
“Well, I’m callin’ one Miss Thiry, too, for that matter,” rejoined Rock. “But I’d like to see your father first.”
“Miss Thiry ain’t seein’ every rider who comes along,” said Preston. “An’ dad ain’t home.”
“You mean you say he isn’t home to me?” queried Rock deliberately.
“Wal, I didn’t expect you to take it that way, but since you do we’ll let it go at that.”
“Excuse me, Preston, if I can’t let it go at that,” he returned coolly. “Would you mind tellin’ me if any of the other ten Prestons are home?”
There the gauntlet went in the face of Ash Preston. Still he did not show surprise. Whatever he might be when drunk, when sober as now, he was slow, cold, complex, cunning. He was flint, singularly charged with fire.
“Wal, Rock, all the Prestons home, if you’re so set on knowin’,” returned Ash. “But there’s one of the thirteen who’s advisin’ you to dust down the road.”
“Reckon that must be you, Mister Ash?”
“An’ that’s shore me.”
“Well, I’m sorry. But I’m not takin’ your hunch, Ash Preston. I’ll stay long enough, anyhow, to see if the rest of your family is as rude to a stranger as you are.”
In one sliding step Rock reached the ground. And at that instant heavy boots crunched the gravel.
“Hey, Ash, who’re you palaverin’ with?” called a deep, hearty voice.
Ash wheeled on his heel, and without answer strode back into the cabin, to slam the door. Then Rock turned to see a man of massive build, in the plain garb of an everyday cattleman. Rock perceived at once that he was father to Thiry and Range Preston, but there seemed no resemblance to Ash. He might have been 50 years old. Handsome in a bold way, he had a smooth hard face, bulging chin, well-formed large lips, and great deep grey eyes.
“Stranger, I reckon Ash wasn’t welcomin’ you with open arms,” he said.
“Not exactly. You’re Gage Preston?”
“Shore am, young man. Did you want to see me?”
“Yes. He said you weren’t home.”
“Doggone Ash, anyhow,” replied the rancher, with impatient good humour. “Whenever a cowpuncher rides in hyar, Ash tells him we’ve got smallpox or such like. He’s not sociable. But you mustn’t judge us other Prestons by him.”
“I was tryin’ to argue with him on that very chance,” said Rock, smilingly.
“Hyar, Tom,” Preston called, turning toward a lanky youth in the background, “take these hosses. Throw saddle an’ pack on the porch of the empty cabin. Wal, stranger, you’re down, so come in.”
Rock had not noticed that the next cabin, some distance away under the pines, was a double one of the picturesque kind, long, with wide eaves, a porch all around, and ample space between the two log structures. Evidently the second cabin was a kitchen.
“Reckon it’ll he pleasanter sittin’ outside,” said Preston, and invited Rock to a rustic seat. “What’d you say your name was?”
“I didn’t say — yet,” laughed Rock. He liked Preston.
“Thiry didn’t tell me either,” went on the ranch
er. “But I know you’re the young fellar who was polite to her an’ made Ash huffy.”
“Yes, I am. It wasn’t much, certainly nothin’ to offend Miss Thiry’s brother.”
“Aw, Ash was drunk. An’ he shore ain’t no credit to us then. Young man, say you didn’t lose any time trailin’ Thiry up,” went on Preston quizzically, with a twinkle in his big grey eyes.
“Mr. Preston, you — I — I—” began Rock, somewhat disconcerted.
“You needn’t lie about it. Lord knows this hyar has happened a hundred times. An’ don’t call me mister. Make it plain Preston, an’ Gage when you feel acquainted enough. You’re not trying to tell me you didn’t foller Thiry out hyar.”
“No — not exactly. I came to ask you for a job.”
“Good. What’ll you work fer?”
“Reckon the same as you pay any other rider. I’m an old hand with ropes, horses, cattle — anything about the range.”
“Wal, you’re hired. I’m shore in need of a man who can handle the boys. I run two outfits. Ash bosses the older riders. If you fit in with the youngsters it’ll shore be a load off my mind. But I gotta tell you thet no young man I ever hired struck Ash right. An’ none of them ever lasted.”
“Preston, if I turn out to be of value to you, will you want me to last?” queried Rock, and this was the straight language of one Westerner to another.
“Wal, I like your talk an’ I like your looks. An’ if you can handle my boys an’ stick it out in the face of Ash, I’ll be some in your debt.”
“I don’t know Ash, but I can take a hunch, if you’ll give it.”
“Wal, Ash sees red whenever any puncher looks at Thiry. He cares fer nothin’ on earth but thet girl. An’ she’s awful fond of him, She’s never had a beau. An’ Thiry’s near twenty-two.”
“Good heavens! Is her brother so jealous he won’t let any man look at her?”
“Wal, he wouldn’t if he could prevent it — thet’s daid shore. An’ far as the ranch hyar is concerned he does prevent. But when Thiry goes to town accidents happen, like you meetin’ up with her. Thet riles Ash.”
“In that case, Preston, I’m afraid Ash will get riled out here. For I reckon the same kind of accident may happen.”
“Hum! Hum! You’re a cool hand to draw to. What’d you say your name was?”
“I haven’t told you yet. It’s Trueman Rock, late of Texas. But I used to ride here.”
“Truman Rock! — Are you thet there True Rock who figgered in gun-play hyar years ago?”
“Sorry I can’t deny it, Preston.”
“You rode fer Slagle — when he had his ranch down hyar below in the Pass? It was you who run down thet Hartwell rustlin’ outfit?”
“I can’t take all the credit. But I was there when it happened.”
“Say, man, I’ve heerd aboot you all these years. Damn funny I didn’t savvy who you were.”
“It’s been six years since I left here — and perhaps you heard some things not quite fair to me.”
“Never heerd a word thet I’d hold against you. Come now, an’ meet these hyar eleven other Prestons.”
Mrs. Preston appeared a worthy mate for this virile cattleman. She was buxom and comely, fair like all of them.
“Ma, this is Trueman Rock, who’s come to ride fer me,” announced Preston. Then be presented Rock to Alice, a girl of 16, not by any means lacking the good looks that appeared to run in the family. Rock took instantly to the ragged, bare-footed, big-eyed children, Lucy and Burr; and signs were not wholly wanting that they were going to like him.
“Where’s Thiry?” asked the rancher.
“She’s ironin’,” replied Alice.
“Wal, didn’t she hyar me call?”
“Reckon she did, Pa, for you’d almost woke the daid,” replied his wife, and going to the door of the second cabin she called, “Thiry, we’ve company, an Pa wants you.”
Whereupon Thiry appeared in the door in a long blue apron that scarcely hid her graceful symmetry. Her sleeves were rolled up to the elbow of shapely arms. She came out reluctantly, with troubled eyes and a little frown. She had seen him through the window.
“Good afternoon, Miss Preston,” greeted Trueman.
“Oh, it’s Mr. Rock, our new grocery clerk,” she responded. “How do you do! And aren’t you lost way out here?”
“Hey Rock, what’s thet about you bein’ a grocery clerk? I reckoned I was hirin’ a cowboy.”
Whereupon Rock had to explain that he had been keening store for Sol Winter when Thiry happened in. Thiry did not share in the laughter.
“Thiry, he’s goin’ to handle the boys.” said Preston.
“You are a — a cowboy, then,” she said to Rock, struggling to hide confusion or concern. “You don’t know the job you’ve undertaken. What did my brother Ash say? I saw you talking with him.”
“He was telling me your dad would sure give me a job — and that you’d be glad,” replied Trueman, with disarming assurance.
“Yes, he was,” retorted Thiry, blushing at the general laugh.
“You’re right, Miss Preston,” returned Rock ruefully. “Your brother was not — well, quite taken with my visit. He told me you didn’t see every rider who came along. And that your father was not home. And that—”
“We apologize for Ash’s rudeness,” interposed Thiry hurriedly. She had not been able to meet Rock’s gaze.
“Never mind, Rock. It’s nothin’ to be hurt about,” added Preston. “Ash is a queer, unsociable fellar. But you’re shore welcome to the rest of us. Thiry, if you never heard of True Rock, I want to tell you he’s been one of the greatest riders of this range. An’ I need him bad, in more ways than one.”
“Oh, Dad, I — I didn’t mean — I — of course I’m glad if you are,” she returned hurriedly. “Please excuse me now. I’ve so much work.”
Somehow Trueman divined that she was not glad; or if she were, it was owing to her father’s need, and then it was not whole-hearted. But the youngsters saved him. They sidled over to him and began to ply him with questions about the white horse.
“What do you call him?” asked Burr.
“Well, the fact is I haven’t named him yet,” replied Rock.
“Can you think of a good one? What do you say, Lucy?”
“I like what Thiry calls him,” she said, shyly. “Egypt. Isn’t that just grand?”
“Egypt? — Oh, I see. Because he’s like one of the white stallions of the Arabians. I think it’s pretty good. Well call him Egypt.”
“That’ll tickle Thiry,” cried the child joyously.
“Come; Rock, let me show you the ranch,” called Preston, drawing Rock away. “When we first come hyar, aboot five years ago, Slagle, as you know, lived down below. He wouldn’t sell, an’ he swore this divide was on his land. But it wasn’t, because he’d homesteaded a hundred an’ sixty acres, an’ his land didn’t come half-way up. Wal, we throwed up a big cabin, an’ we all lived in it for a while. ‘Next I tore thet cabin down an’ built the double one, an’ this one hyar, which Ash has to himself. He won’t sleep with nobody. Lately we throwed up four more, an’ now we’re shore comfortable.”
The little cabin over by the creek under the largest of the pines was occupied by Alice and Thiry.
The grassy divide sloped gradually to the west, and down below the level were the corrals and barns and open sheds, substantial and well built. Rock found his white horse in one of the corrals, surrounded by three lanky youths from 16 to 20 years old. Preston introduced them as the inseparable three, Tom, Albert, and Harry. They had the Preston fairness, and Torn and Harry were twins.
“Rock, if you can tell which is Tom an’ which is Harry, you’ll do more’n anyone outside the family.”
“Son-of-a-gun if I can tell now, lookin’ right at them,” ejaculated Rock.
The barns were stuffed full of hay and fodder. A huge bin showed a reserve of last year’s corn. Wagons and harnesses were new; a row of saddles hung opposite a doze
n stalls, where the Prestons no doubt kept their best horses. But these were empty now.
“Preston, if I owned this ranch I’d never leave it a single day,” was Rock’s eloquent encomium.
“Wal, I’d shore hate to leave it myself,” returned the other tersely.
“How many cattle have you?”
“Don’t have much idee. Ten thousand haid, Ash says. We run three herds, the small one down on the Flats, another hyar in the Pass, an’ the third an’ big herd up in the Foothills.”
“Naturally the third means the big job,” said Rock.
“Shore will be Tor you boys. Thar’s a lot of cattle over there thet ain’t mine. Ash said eighty thousand haid all told in the Foothills. But thet’s his exaggerated figurin’.”
“Gee! So many? Who’s in on that range beside you?”
“Wal, thar’s several heavy owners, like Dabb, Lincoln, Hesbitt, an’ then a slew of others, from homesteaders like Slagle an’ Pringle to two-bit cowpuncher rustlers. It’s sort of a bad mess over thar. An’ some of the outfits haven’t no use fer mine.”
“Ha! That’s old cowboy breed. You can’t ever change it. I know Lincoln. But Hesbitt is a new one on me.”
“Yes, he came in soon after me,” replied Preston shortly.
“Sol Winter told me you’d worked a new wrinkle on the range,” went on Rock matter-of-factly. “Wholesale butcherin’.”
“Yes. Hyar in this country I first set in killin’ an’ sellin’ to local butchers. Then I got to shippin’ beef to other towns not far along the railroad. An’ all told I’ve made it pay a little better than sellin’ on the hoof.”
“Reckon it’s a heap harder work.”
“We Prestons ain’t afraid of work,” said the rancher. “But it takes some managin’ as well. I made a slaughter-house out of Slagle’s place, an’ then we do some butcherin’ out on the range.”
“What stumps me, Preston, is how you get beef to town in any quantity,” responded Rock.
“Easy for Missourians on these hard roads. We got big wagons an’ four-hoss teams. In hot summer we drive at night. Wal, you’ll want to unpack an’ wash up fer supper.”