by Zane Grey
“Me,” she said.
“With Ash Preston’s consent?” demanded Rock.
“Dad claims when you become one of us Ash will have to consent.”
“Thiry Preston! You ask me to do this thing? You ask me to be a thief — a killer — to save your rotten brother, your weak and crooked father?”
“I — ask — you.”
Almost with brutal force, Rock shook her, as if to awaken her out of a torpor. “No! No, you poor driven girl!” he cried. “I would die for you, but I’ll never let you ruin your soul by such dishonour. They have blinded you — preyed on your love. Your brother is mad. Your father desperate. They would sacrifice you. Ash would agree to this, meanin’ to shoot me in the back. No, Thiry!”
“You — will not? she sobbed.
“Never. Not even to have you.”
Suddenly then he had a wild weeping creature in his arms, whose beating hands and shaking body wrought havoc to the iron of his mood.
“Oh, thank God — you won’t!” she wept, lifting streaming eyes. “I prayed you’d — refuse. I told, Dad you’d never, never do it. I told Ash he lied — he’d never let you have me. But they made me — they drove me — all night they nagged me — until I gave in. Trueman darling, say you forgive. I was weak. I loved him so — and I’m almost broken. But you lift me from the depths. I love you more — a thousand times. Let come what will I can face it now.”
Hours later Rock kept vigil over a sleeping camp, where near him lay Thiry, in deep slumber, her fair sweet face, sad in repose, upturned to the watching stars. Beyond, her brothers were stretched in a row.
In the rose light of dawn, Rock and Thiry again wandered under the silver spruces, the golden aspens, the scarlet maples, back to that bit of primal forestland.
“Don’t go back to the Pass,” Thiry was pleading.
“I must. I’ll go alone.”
“But I’m afraid. If you meet him — Oh — you will! Trueman, don’t go!” She wound her arms around his neck and clung to him with all her might.
“Take me away — far away across the mountains,” she begged, her lips parting from his to implore mercy, and then seeking them again. “It’s the only way. I am yours body and soul. I ask nothing more of life but that you spare him — and take me. We can cross the mountains. Then somewhere we two will live for each other. I will forget, him and all this horror. And you — will never — kill another man.”
“Thiry girl, hush, you are breakin’ me,” he cried, spent with the might of agonized will that denied her kisses. “That would be the worst for us both. It would brand me with their guilt and drag you down. No. I shall go alone — make one last stand to save your father.”
Rock rode the zigzag descending trail down to the Pass in four hours. There did not appear to be any untoward condition at the ranch. Preston had ridden off early that morning to a general round-up out on the range, at a place called Clay Hill, Ash Preston and his three brothers were off somewhere, probably also at the round-up, on their return from Wagontongue. No, they had not driven the beef wagons to town this time.
“Reckon I’ll ride over to Clay Hill,” muttered Rock.
Rock’s keen eye snapped at the old-time scene. Dust and colour and action! Herds of cattle, fields of horses! Not until he rounded the southern corner of Clay Hill, where the trail ran, and came abruptly upon the first cabin, horses, wagons, men, did he grasp that something was amiss. What could check a general round-up in the middle of the afternoon? No cowboy’s’ on guard! No cutting or branding! No movement, except a gradual straggling of the herds! The men he saw were in groups, and their postures were not expressive of the lazy, lounging, careless leisure attendant upon meal hours or cessation of work.
Rock was off, throwing bridle, gloves, and in two swift jerks, he got out of his chaps. “What’s up?” he demanded of the six or eight cowmen who backed away.
“Fight busted the round-up,” replied a lean-jawed rider.
“Jimmy Dunne shot,” replied an older man warily.
“Who did it?”
“Ash Preston.”
“Where is Dunne?’
“Layin’ in the cabin thar.”
Rock brushed the men aside, and forcing entrance to the cabin, he surveyed the interior. A line of dusty, sweaty cowboys fell back, to disclose a man lying on the floor, with another kneeling in attendance. Rock saw a face of deathly-pallor, clammy and leaden, and eyes black with pain. He stepped in and knelt, to take up Dunne’s inert wrist and felt for his pulse.
At that the other man looked up quickly. It was Clink Peeples. “Howdy, Rock. I’m afeared Jim is — still I’m no good hand at judgin’ bullet holes.”
“Let me see.”
The angry wound was situated high up on the left side, and it was bleeding freely, though not dangerously. Rock saw that Preston had missed the heart by several inches. The bullet had no doubt nicked the lung. But there was no sign of internal hemorrhage.
“Did the bullet come out?”
“It went clean through, clean as a whistle.”
“Good!” exclaimed Rock. “Dunne, can you hear me?”
“Why, sure,” replied Dunne, faintly. A bloody froth showed on his lips. “Rock, reckon Preston — beat you — to this job.”
“Reckon I’d never have done it. Listen Dunne. This is a bad gun-shot, but not necessarily fatal. If you do what you’re told you’ll live.”
“You — think so, Rock? I’ve got — a wife — an’ kid.
“I know it,” returned Rock forcefully. “Understand? I know.”
“Rock, thet’s shore — good news,” panted Peeples, wiping his face. “Tell us what to do.”
“Make a bed for him here,” replied Rock, rising. “But don’t move him till he’s bandaged tight. Heat water boilin’ hot. Put salt in it. Wash your hands clean. Get clean bandages, clean shirt if there’s nothin’ else. Fold a pad and wet it. Bind it tight. Then to town for a doctor.”
“Thet’s tellin’ us,” returned Peeples gratefully. “Frank, you heard. Rustle some boys now.”
“Peeples, was it an even break?” inquired Rock coolly.
“Wal, I’m bound to admit it was. So we’ve nothin’ on Preston thet way.”
Dunne spoke up for himself in stronger voice: “Rock, I had the — proofs on him — much as I didn’t — have on you.”
“Ahuh! Don’t talk any more, Dunne,” replied Rock, and turned to Peeples. “Did he accuse Ash?”
“He shore did. Beaded him soon as he got here. I didn’t see the fight. But thar’s a dozen fellers who did. You talk to them.”
“Where are the Prestons?” asked Rock, stalking out.
“Over at the third cabin,” replied someone. “Ash is stalkin’ to an’ fro over thar like a hyena behind bars.”
Rock elbowed his way out of the crowd. Soon his glance fell upon those he sought, and in him surged the instinct of the lion that hated the hyena.
Ash, espying Rock, halted in his tracks. The two brothers rose in single action, as if actuated by the same spring. Range stepped outside to join his brothers. Gage Preston did not see, nor look up, until Rock, hailed them. Then, with a spasmodic start he staggered erect.
“Rock, I’m done,” rasped Gage Preston. “So double-crossin’ you like I did means nothin’ to me.’
“Preston, have you been in any of these last butcherin’ deals?” queried Rock.
“No. An’ so help me heaven, I couldn’t stop Ash.”
“Why did you send Thiry — perauadin’ me to come in with you?”
“Thet was why. I wasn’t beat then. I figgered I could fight it out an’ I wanted you. So I drove Thiry to it. But now! You had it figgered, Rock. I’m sorry — sorry most fer Thiry, an’ Ma, an’ the girls. If I had it to do over again, I’d—”
“Do it now,” interrupted Rook ringingly. “Come with me to Wagontongue. Come, Preston, be quick. There’ll be hell poppin’ here in a minute. Will you give up — go with me?”
“Rock
by heaven! I will — if you—”
“Yell that to Ash!” hissed Rock.
Preston, with face purpling, shouted to his son, “Hey Ash! I’m goin’ to town with Rock.”
“What fer?” yelled Ash.
“Wal, just off, I’m gettin’ a marriage licence for Thiry! Haw! Haw! Haw!”
“I say what fer?” yelled Ash.
“To pay your thievin’ debts, you—”
“Preston, get to one side. Quick!” warned Rock, risking one long stride forward, when he froze in his tracks, his right side toward Ash, his quivering hand low.
Ash Preston spat one curse at his father — then saw him no more. Again he began a strange sidelong stalk, only now he sheered a little, out toward Rock, forward a few strides, then backward the same, never turning that slim left side away from Rock.
Rock learned something then he never had known — Ash Preston was left-handed. He approached no closer than 30 paces. Then he did not or could not keep still. “Howdy spy!” he called.
“Glad to meet you, beef rustler,” returned Rock.
“Am givin’ you my card pronto,” called Ash, louder.
“Gave you mine at the dance. But I got six left! Caramba!”
That stopped the restless crouching steps, but not the singular activity of body. Ash’s muscles seemed to ripple. He crouched yet a little more. Rock could catch gleams of blue fire under the wide black brim of Ash’s hat. “Senor del Toro!”
“Yes. And here’s thiry’s mask — where she put it herself,” flashed Rock, striking his breast. “See if you can hit it!”
At the last he had the wit to throw Ash off a cool and deadly balance — so precious to men who live by the gun. When Ash jerked to his fatal move Rock was the quicker. His shot cracked a fraction of a second before his adversary’s. Both took effect. Ash almost turned a somersault.
Rock felt a shock, but no pain. He did not know where he was hit until his right leg gave way under him. He fell, but caught himself with his left hand, and went no farther than his knees, the right of which buckled under him.
Ash bounded up as he had gone down, with convulsive tremendous power, the left side of his head shot away. Blood poured down. As he swept up his gun Rock shot him through the middle. The bullet struck up dust beyond and whined away. But Ash, sustaining the shock, fired again, and knocked Rock flat. The bullet struck high on his left shoulder. He heard two more heavy booms of Ash’s gun, felt the sting of gravel on his face. Half rising, braced on his left hand, Rock fired again. He heard the bullet strike. Ash’s fifth shot spanged off Rock’s extended gun, knocked it flying, beyond reach.
Preston was sagging. Bloody, mortally stricken, he had no will except to kill. He saw his enemy prostrate, weaponless. He got his gun up, but could not align it, and his last bullet struck far behind Rock, to whine away. He swayed, all instinctive action ceasing, and with his ruthless eyes on his fallen foe, changing, glazing over, setting blank, he fell.
CHAPTER 15
ROCK WAS LYING in the pleasant sitting-room, of the Winters’ home where a couch had been improvised for him.
The little doctor was cheerful that day. “You’re like an Indian,” he said, rubbing his hands in satisfaction. “Another week will see you up. Then pretty soon you can fork a hoss.”
“How is your other patient’?” asked Rock.
“Dunne is out of danger, I’m glad to say.”
Sol Winter came bustling in, with an armful of firewood. “Mornin’, son! You shore look fitter to me. How about him, Doc? Can we throw off the restrictions on grub an’ talk?”
“I reckon,” replied the physician, taking up his hat and satchel. “Now, Rock, brighten up. You’ve been so gloomy. Good day.”
“Trueman, there’s news,” said Winter. “Might as well, get it over, huh?”
“I reckon so,” rejoined Rock.
“Gage Preston paid me the money you gave Slagle. Yesterday, before he left.”
“Left?” echoed` Rock.
“Yep, he left on Number Ten for Colorado,” replied Winter, evidently gratified over the news he had to impart. “Rock, it ail turned out better ‘n’ we dared hope. They tell me Hesbitt was stubborn as a mule, but Dabb an Lincoln together flattened him out soft. Wal with the steer market jumpin’ to seventy-five, even Hesbitt couldn’t stay sore long. They fixed it up out of court. Dabb an’ Lincoln made it easy for Preston. They bought him out, ranch, stock, an’ all. Cost Preston somethin’ big to square up, but at thet he went away heeled. I seen him at the station.”
“Did he go — alone? asked Rock.
“No. His three grown sons were with him. The rest of the Prestons are in town, but I haven’t seen them. Funny Thiry doesn’t run in to see me. I met Sam Whipple’s wife. She saw Thiry an’ Alice, who are stayin’ at Farrell’s. She said she couldn’t see much sign of Thiry’s takin’ Ash’s death very hard. Thet shore stumped me. But Thiry is game.”
He went out, leaving Rock prey to rediscovered emotions. He had sacrificed his love to save Thiry’s father and therefore her, from ignominy. The thing could not have been helped. It had from the very first, that day in the corral here at Wagontongue, been fixed, and as fateful as the beautiful passion Thiry had roused in him. He had no regret.
But with the accepted catastrophe faced now, there came pangs that dwarfed those of gunshot wounds. His heart would not break, because he had wonderful assurance of her love, of the sacrifice she had tried to make for him. She would go away with her family, and in some other State recover from this disaster, forget, and touch happiness, perhaps with some fortunate man who might win her regard. But she owed that to him. And he realized that he would find melancholy, cconsolation in the memory of the service he had rendered her.
“Son, lady to see you,” announced Winter.
“Who?” asked Rock, with a start.
“No one but Amy.”
“Tell her I’m sleepin’ or — or somethin’,” implored Rock.
“Like hob he will,” replied a gay voice from behind the door. And Amy entered, pretty and stylish, just a little fearful and pale, despite her nerve.
“Trueman, are you all right?” she asked timidly. “Oh, Trueman, I’ve been in a horrible state ever since I came home.”
“Well! I’m sorry, Amy. How so?”
“I hate to tell you, but I’ve got to,” ‘she replied. “For it was my last miserable, horrible trick! Trueman, the day I got back I met Ash Preston on the street. I told him you — you were Senor del Toro. You cannot imagine what I felt when they fetched you here — all shot up. Trueman, I don’t want to abase myself utterly in your sight, but — well I am a chastened woman. It opened my eyes. I told my husband, and since then we’ve grown closer than we ever were.”
“Then Amy, I forgive you.” Quick as a bird she pecked at his cheek, to lift a flushing, radiant face. “There! The first sisterly one I ever gave you. Trueman, I am the bearer of good news. You are a big man now: Yes, sir, in spite of — or perhaps because of — that awful gun of yours. But your honesty has gone farther with John and Tom Lincoln. I have the pleasure of telling you that you’ve been chosen to run the Sunset Pass Ranch for them. On shares.”
“Never, Amy, never!” cried Rock, shivering. “I shall leave Wagontongue again — soon as I can walk.”
“Not if we know it,” she retorted as she rose. “You’ve got more friends than you think. Now I’ll go. I’ve excited you enough to day. But I’ll come again soon. Goodbye.”
Amy had hardly gone when a squeak of the door and a deep expulsion of breath from someone entering aroused Rock.
“Thiry! — how good — of you!”
Haltingly she approached. “Trueman, are you — all right?” she asked, apparently awed at the helpless length of him there on the bed. She sat down beside him.
“Reckon I’m ‘most all right — now,” he replied.
“Mr. Winter told me everything,” she went on, “but seeing you is so strange. Can you move?”
“Sure. All but my left leg.”
“Was that broken?”
“No, I’m glad to tell you.”
“And the other hurt — was that here?” she asked, pale, almost reverent, as she laid a soft hand high upon his left shoulder.
“Lower down — Thiry.”
Fascinated, she gently slipped her hand down. Then she felt the throbbing of his heart. “But, Trueman — it couldn’t be there.”
“You bet it is.”
“What?”
“The hurt you asked about.”
“I was speaking of your latest wounds,” she replied. Then she looked him squarely in the face. “I had to fight myself to come,” she said. “There was a cold, dead, horrible something inside me — but it’s leaving! Trueman, you’re so white and thin. So helpless lying there! I — I want to nurse you. I should have come. Have you suffered?”
“A little — I reckon,” he replied unsteadily. “But it’s — gone now.”
“Has Amy Dabb been here?”
“Yes. Today. She was very nice.”
“Nice! Because she wheedled John Dabb to offer you the running of Sunset Pass Ranch?”
“Oh no — I mean, just kind,” returned Rock uncertainly.
“Trueman, you will accept that offer?” she queried earnestly. “I don’t care what Amy says. I know it was my father’s advice to Dabb.”
“Me ever go to — Sunset Pass — again? Never in this world.”
“Trueman, you would not leave this country?” she asked in alarm.
“Soon as I can walk.”
“But I do not want to leave Sunset Pass,” she returned with spirit.
“I’m glad you don’t, Thiry. Perhaps, somehow, it can be arranged for you. Someone of course will take the place. Is your mother leavin’ soon?”
“She is terribly angry with Dad,” replied Thiry seriously. “But I think some day she’ll get over it and go back to him.”
She edged a little closer, grave and sweet, and suddenly bent over to kiss his knee where the bandage made a lump, and then she moved up to lay her cheek over his heart, with a long low sigh. “Trueman, did you think I’d — hate you for killing Ash?” she whispered.