by Zane Grey
“Ames killed Lee Tate last evenin’ an’ Jeff Stringer. Shot Slink Tate up bad, too, but he’ll recover.”
“Tate — an’ Stringer — eh?” queried Tanner, with a hoarse little catch of breath between the words. “Wal, thet’s awful bad news. . . . How’d it happen?”
“Nobody knows jest how, but they seen it,” replied the rider, wiping his sweaty face.
“Did you?”
“I should smile I did.”
“Even break?”
“Shore. Couldn’t hev been no evener.”
“Wal, thet’s good, anyhow. . . . How’d the town take it?”
“Most folks kept their mouths shet, as is a wise habit in the Tonto. But it was easy to get the general opinion. Shelby needed a new sheriff, anyhow. Lee Tate wasn’t worth killin’, so he was no great loss. There’s not many, though, prayin’ fer Slink Tate to get well.”
“Ahuh. But you said he would?”
“Shore. He won’t be no good for a while, mebbe never, but he’ll come out of thet shootin’ scrape.”
“How about — young Ames?” asked Tanner, finding the query most difficult to enunciate.
“Never touched him. He fooled them aplenty an’ throwed the slickest gun I’ve seen these many moons.”
“Wal, suppose you tell me all about it, an’ then we’ll go up to my cabin an’ have a drink.”
“Aw, don’t care if I do. An’ let’s stroll along right now. . . . I happened to run into Ames last evenin’ before dark. He was sober as a judge. After the shootin’ there was some figgerin’. No one seen Ames take a drink. Shore he might hev had a bottle on him. But most of us old heads doubt thet. He had dinner at the tavern an’ loafed around. Unsociable, though. Jed Lane seen him not five minutes before the fight an’ he was sober then, too. . . . Wal, I was in Turner’s an’ the hall was jammed. But I didn’t happen to be gamblin’. I was talkin’ to old Scotty about my prospect when Ames blew in. Funny thing. I noticed fust off thet though he looked staggerin’ drunk his face was white. An’ I’d swear no man full of liquor ever had eyes like his. He spotted the two Tates an’ Stringer playin’ cairds with two men from Globe. It was a stiff game an’ there was a crowd watchin’ the play. It struck me after thet Ames knowed these men were in there. He swaggered around, lurched ag’in’ their table, an’ made them sorer’n hell. But nothin’ come of thet. Then he wanted to set in the game. They didn’t want him an’ thet riled him. Plain to me Ames wasn’t drunk, though he fooled them fellars, an’ he aimed to start a fight.
“‘Git out of hyar or I’ll run you in!’ yelled Stringer, who was a loser in the game, an’ pretty testy.
“‘Run me in, you —— four-flush sheriff. Jes’ try it,’ said Ames. But Stringer kept his seat, fumin’. He didn’t want no mix with Ames.
“Wal, he stood around watchin’, an’ damn me if he didn’t ketch Lee Tate tryin’ to cheat. Quick as lightnin’ he nailed his hand — an’ showed Tate’s trick. Clumsy holdin’ out of aces! — Tate jumped up, roarin’. He figgered Ames was too drunk to fight, anyway, an’ he was hot-tempered. He called Ames a lot of hard names, which were shore sent back, with some added. . . . Wal, the crowd got interested, an’ quiet all around. Reckon nobody figgered anythin’ but mebbe a little fist fight.
“Slink Tate kept pullin’ Lee down in his seat an’ Lee kept jumpin’ up, gettin’ madder all the time. They got to swingin’ at each other, an’ it’s a notion of mine thet Ames didn’t punch Stringer by accident. Stringer got up, an’ pullin’ his gun he swung it by the barrel.
“‘Ames, I’ll knock you cold an’ throw you in jail — if you don’t get out.’
“Wal, Ames was leanin’ over, leerin’ at Stringer, callin’ him a yellow crooked sheriff, when Lee Tate soaked him on the side of the head. Ames wasn’t actin’ when he fell. The crowd roared.
“Then Tate, bold as a lion now, went after his gun. . . . My Gawd! but it happened quick. Right from the floor! Ames drawed. But I seen only the flashes of his gun. Three shots, quicker’n lightnin’. Slink Tate’s gun went off in the air as he was saggin’. Lee screamed an’ grabbed his belly. Stringer dropped like a log. . . . You ought to have seen thet crowd split an’ rush, after the danger was over.
“Ames jumped up like a cat. Drunk? I should say not. With his smokin’ gun out he lifted a foot an’ shoved Lee Tate off the table, where he hung, bellerin’. Tate flopped to the floor on his back. His hands, drippin’ red, flung up. Ames looked to see if he was done fer. Anyone could have seen thet.
“‘Tate, heah’s to your Arizona,’ says Ames.
“Next he had a look at the other two. Slink ‘peared a goner, an’ Stringer had been shot through the heart. Lee Tate half sat up, a sickenin’ sight. Then Ames, shovin’ him down with a slow deliberate boot, sheathed his gun an’ went out.”
CHAPTER V
SPRING HAD COME to the Wyoming valley where the Wind River wound its shining way between the soaring ranges of snow-crowned peaks.
The eagle from his lonely crag could gaze down upon thousands of cattle, and if he flew across the wide valley, or soared above the center of its long length, from end to end, he could have seen the rolling grassy ridges, the green bottom lands and the vast levels, all dotted with straggling herds.
It was the heyday of the rancher, and therefore that of the rustler, the horse-thief, and the cowboy. Up in the wild notch where the Gros Ventre River crossed from the head of the Wind River Range, or where the Snake River cut through the Teton Range, the Wind River gang had their rendezvous. Down in Utah, in the canyon fastnesses of the Green River, hid the outlaws of Robbers Roost and the Hole in the Wall. These desperadoes sometimes rode far north along the winding Green River, across the Union Pacific Railroad, to the rich ranch lands of the Wind River Valley. These gangs engaged in conflict with one another more often than with the cowboy posses.
The leagues of this vast area were many, the grass and water abundant, the cattle numberless. But the small homesteader was not welcomed; the stranger without a horse as good as damned. The grub-line riding cowboy was received, but never trusted till he had proved his worth. No good rider ever wanted for a job in that country.
The ranches lay far apart, a day’s journey sometimes from one another, yet this was too close. There was not a drift fence in all the Wind River Valley.
The range of Crow Grieve had no northern boundary short of the mountains, but its southern lines were sharply defined by the East Fork of the Green on one side and Wind River on the other. They merged where the rivers joined.
Here, perhaps, was the most beautiful location for a ranch in all that country. Kit Carson, guide for Fremont on his exploring expedition, made camp there in the early days when the buffalo blackened the valley.
The ranch house stood on a high point above the shining rivers where they met. Here the ubiquitous cottonwood trees had been superseded by pines. The green-and-yellow range rolled downhill to the south, and to the north waved by endless slope and swale up and ever upward toward the black Wind River Mountains. Westward, across the dim blue void, the grand Tetons rose white-toothed against the sky.
One day in May the cowboy outfit of Crow Grieve straggled back to the ranch, in twos and threes, some ahead of the chuck-wagon, and others behind. They were returning from Granger, a shipping point on the railroad, where, following the spring round-up — Grieve had driven three thousand head of cattle. It had been a hard drive, ending in a carouse and the fights, under such circumstances, as common to cowboys as any of their habits. They had departed twenty-one strong, and had returned minus several comrades. No contingent of range hands, after a big drive and the accumulation of a winter’s wages, ever reached the home ranch intact. Two of Grieve’s boys would never ride again. Others had drifted. They veered like the wind, these fire-spirited striplings of the ranges. In this case, after being drunk for a week and then on horseback for another, the main body reached what they called home, sober, broke, several of them crippled, many of them bruis
ed, all of them weary, yet gay as larks. Nothing mattered to the cowboy of that period, except his status with his fellows.
Grieve’s quarters for cowboys were famous throughout Wyoming and farther still. The mess cabin had a fine location, far from the ranch house, adjacent to scattered pines, and from it extended a line of small bunk-houses, tiny cabins, each with fireplace, two bunks, and running water. Beyond spread the corrals, the barns, the grain-sheds, the blacksmith shop, and other accessories to a great ranch. Grieve controlled, if he did not own outright, a hundred thousand acres.
Lany Price, cowboy of nineteen, tanned and tawny, comely of face, rode in far ahead of Grieve’s outfit. He had reason to hurry. Absence from the ranch had not been to his liking. His wild comrades had gotten him drunk for the first time. There was some one at the ranch he wanted to tell about that, to make excuses for himself.
The door of his bunk-house stood open. A heavy silver-mounted saddle and a neatly folded saddle-blanket lay against the wall. A tall rider in high boots appeared in the doorway.
“Howdy!” he said, pleasantly. “There wasn’t anybody heah, so I made myself at home.”
“Howdy, stranger!” returned Lany, inclined to be irritated, not that he felt anything but welcome for a visitor, but because he had a reason for wanting to be alone, and an errand he preferred no one to see him perform. But after a second look at the stranger the irritation left him.
“Reckon your outfit is comin’ in?” he asked in a slow drawl that made Lany take him for a Texan.
“Yep. Strung out for miles. Our chuck-wagon will beat most of them in. I rustled along. Are you hungry?”
“Tolerable.”
“Just ridin’ by or aimin’ to stop?”
“Reckon I’ll stay if I can get a job.”
“Spread out, then. Crow takes every rider on, which ain’t sayin’ he’ll last long.”
“Ahuh. I heah Crow Grieve is a hard boss. Never hires a foreman. Is that correct?”
“You bet it is. He’s bad medicine any time, but after bein’ drunk for a week he’s hell on stilts.”
“Drinkin’ rancher, eh? Just sociable-like, or does he like red liquor?”
“Stranger, you’re new in these parts,” returned Price as he dismounted and unbuckled the saddle cinch.
“Shore am. Wyomin’ is aboot the only range I haven’t ridden these last six years.”
“Where you from?”
“Where’d you say?”
“Texas.”
“I was born in Texas, but left when I was a boy.”
“My handle’s Lany Price. What’d you say yours was?”
“Reckon I didn’t say yet,” drawled the other.
“So I noticed. Excuse my curiosity,” rejoined Lany, with a keen cowboy’s appreciative glance at his visitor. He liked his looks, yet had reason to resent this newcomer. “Maybe you happen to be related to Grieve’s wife? She’s from the South.”
“No. So he’s married?”
“Yep,” said Price, with unconscious relief. “Been married a couple of years. Amy — er — Mrs. Grieve,” he corrected, hastily, “is much younger. She’s just my age. Nineteen. . . . They have a baby.”
“How old is Crow Grieve?”
“Between thirty an’ forty somewhere. . . . Well, stranger, I’m seein’ after my horse. If you don’t want to look around, just make yourself at home.”
The stranger contented himself with sitting on a bench against the wall while he looked across the river at the far-flung vista, with eyes that seemed to see far beyond. Presently young Price returned, evidently in a hurry.
“Say, is that your horse in the first corral there?” he queried.
“Yes. Like him?”
“You better ride on, stranger, if you love that horse. What with this outfit of cowpunchers an’ the Wind River gang you’ll sure lose him.”
The rider smiled as if pleased at the covert compliment, but he did not reply. Price went into the bunk-house, to emerge rather hurriedly, carrying a packet under his coat, something he evidently wished to conceal.
“Some of the outfit comin’ now,” he said, pointing down the wide lane past the corral. “Take them as they come, stranger, an’ be mild. Savvy?” Then he strode off toward the ranch house, shining white through the green of trees.
The stranger lounged on the bench, watching the riders straggle in. Apparently to his casual interest these cowboys presented nothing striking. Soon the two-team chuck-wagon rolled by, to be brought to a halt in front of the mess-cabin. More riders put in an appearance down the lane, and by the time Price returned there was a line of saddle-horses, pack-horses, and noisy cowboys all along the front of the bunk-houses.
“Hey, Lany,” called a lanky red-faced fellow, pausing with rope in his hands, “is thet thar your sister’s sweetheart come visitin’?”
“Hey, Red, you better not get funny,” replied Lany, in cheerful banter.
That broke the ice and other sallies intended to be witty were forthcoming from each side of Price’s bunk-house.
“Ho, cowboy, who’s the white-headed gent?”
“There’s a wild cowpuncher a-lookin’ fer me.”
“This hyar is Wyomin’, stranger, an’ we don’t see your hoss.”
“I am a wanderin’ cowboy,” sang out a lusty-lunged rider. “From ranch to ranch I roam. At every ranch when welcome, I make myself at home.”
Another cowboy intoned in answer:
“My parents reared me ten-der-lee;
They had no child but me,
But I was bent on ramblin’
An’ lit out for the U Bar E.”
Price sat down beside his guest and laughed as he named his comrades. “Some pretty decent boys, an’ some hell’s rattlers, too. Did you ever hear of Slim Blue?”
“Reckon I have,” replied the other, with a quiet smile.
“He’ll make it hot for you, an’ if he keeps on makin’ it hotter you can swear he likes you. But don’t let on. An’ there’s Blab McKinney. He’s bad stuff any time, but just now he’s mean. Got burned in a gun-fight at Granger.”
“I know Mac. But you needn’t let on. Did he hurt some hombre?”
“Hurt? He damn near killed two fellars. — So you know Blab? That’s interestin’.”
The line of cowboys below Price’s bunk-house led their horses off toward the corrals but those above had to pass it, and they were nothing if not curious about the newcomer. Each one emitted some characteristic remark, which brought only a slight pleasant smile to the stranger’s keen tanned face. The last cowboy stalked up, bow-legged, dusty, with jangling spurs. He had a lithe slim figure, striking because it gave the impression of strength and suppleness not usual in a man so thin.
“Here’s Slim Blue,” whispered Lany Price. “He always wears a blue shirt. Whatever you do now, don’t dodge!”
Blue possessed a remarkable face. It resembled a desert that had been scoured by fire, avalanche, lightning, rain, and wind. He was so burdened with rider’s paraphernalia that he had only a thumb free to indicate the quiet figure sitting next to Price.
“Lany, has your paw come to see you?” he queried.
“No. Stranger blowed in,” replied Price.
“Good day, Mister Blue,” spoke up this stranger, pleasantly.
“Who’n hell told you to call me Mister Blue?” demanded the cowboy, belligerently.
“Nobody. It’s your shirt. I saw you comin’ four miles away.”
“Is thet so?” queried Blue, sarcastically. “So you’re thet sharp-sighted, huh? — Wal, now, how good can you see with one eye swelled shut?”
The stranger leaned back with his sinewy brown hands clasping one knee. His wonderful eyes, a flashing blue, seemed to bear out his assertion.
“Cowboy, see heah,” he drawled, in a lazy, cool way, most deceptive. “You’ve had a long drill, an’ I reckon you’re weak in more’n your mind. Better get some nourishin’ food under your belt an’ a night’s rest before you talk that wa
y to me.”
Blue’s jaw dropped. His face could not have grown any redder, so it was impossible to tell whether this remark had infuriated or confused him.
“Much obliged, stranger,” he replied, curtly. “You’re orful considerate. But I jest can’t take all thet advice. I’ll be back to ask you suthin’.”
The cowboy ahead of Blue had halted to listen to this colloquy. Facing ahead, he yelled: “Whoopee! Nuthin’ goin’ to happen atall! Aw no!”
They hobbled along to the corrals. Lany Price turned speculative eyes upon the stranger.
“Excuse me if I got you wrong, stranger,” he said, apologetically.
“Shore. Reckon I’ve made mistakes,” was the smiling reply.
“It’d be great if Slim Blue has made one an’ I’m darned if it don’t look like he has,” replied Price.
“Mebbe he has. It happens now an’ then. How aboot this Slim Blue? He struck me all right.”
“As good a fellar as you’d meet in a week’s ridin’. Slim’s just cantankerous. He got licked in Granger. An’ he’s always cross when we get home. Always jumps every new rider.”
“Ahuh. I’ve met up with a heap of his kind. Do you want to risk this heah courtesy you’re showin’ me? You needn’t, you know. It’s shore decent of you. I know this game. An’ if I didn’t get a place with Grieve you’d come in for some cussin’.”
Young Price regarded his interrogator with keener interest, and after a moment’s study he replied: “I’m not any too — too well liked. You see, the boss an’ — an’ his wife have been pretty nice to me, an’ that’s made some of the outfit sore. But I’ll risk makin’ them sorer.”
“No, you won’t, La —— What’d you say your name was?”
“Lany. Lany Price.”
“Well, Lany, you leave me to my fate,” replied the stranger, ruefully. “But so far as Slim Blue is concerned, you shore want to be around when he comes back.”
“I’m goin’ to. An’ I reckon, if you’ll let me, I’ll take a chance on standin’ by you.”
“Thanks, Lany. But you just wait.”