by Zane Grey
“Yes. But they didn’t know you were drunk.”
“Well, the fact is, I wasn’t. But I had been an’ I was tuckered out. — Esther, I’ve got to have some money.”
Esther laughed at him. “You don’t say.”
“Have you got any? I mean of your own.”
“Yes, a little, and I’m going to keep it, Fred Halstead. You’ll never get another dollar from me to drink and gamble with.”
“I need this to pay a debt. I owe money, Esther, an’ I’ve got to pay it.”
“To those men who fetched you here last night?”
“Yes, to one of them.”
“What’s his name?”
“Never mind who he is. But he’s waitin’ out there.”
“You’re ashamed to tell me, Fred Halstead.”
“What’s the difference to you?” he demanded, dragging a shaking hand through his hair.
“Will you trust me with his name?”
“No, I won’t. You’d tell dad.”
“Fred, if you ever had a chance to get the money, it’s gone now. How many times have I helped you and kept your secrets. You’re ungrateful. . . . But you needn’t confess. I don’t blame you for being ashamed. I know whom you’ve lost money to.”
“Shut up, then, if you do,” he flashed.
“Barsh Hen — !” Suddenly Fred clapped a hand over Esther’s mouth and dragged her into the living-room. Amazed and furious, Esther freed herself.
“How dare you, Fred Halstead!” she cried, hotly.
“There was a man — right behind you,” panted her brother.
“What! Right behind me?” ejaculated Esther.
“Yes, a stranger, a tall fellow with eyes like daggers. I didn’t see him. He must have come up close — or he’d been there all the time. He heard you, Esther. I know it. I could tell by his look. Damn the luck! I told you to shut up.”
“It serves you right,” replied Esther, thoughtfully.
“He must have been that stranger Joe took in,” fumed Fred. “What was his name? Ames somethin’?”
“I didn’t see him,” replied Esther, coolly. “Go out and satisfy yourself.”
“But, Esther, you’ll give me the money?” he implored.
“How much?” she asked.
“Three hundred dollars.”
“Good heavens! . . . I wouldn’t if I had it,” replied Esther, and retreating into her room she closed the door. There she sat down on her bed in a brown study, which was as much of an effort to analyze her own feelings as to forget Fred and his troubles. After a while she returned to the living-room to find Gertrude there alone.
“Gertie, did you see Fred?”
“Yes, a little while ago. He was sittin’ out there with his head in his hands. I asked him if he was still in love with Biny Wood. He roared at me an’ stamped off.”
“Good for you! I didn’t think of that,” replied Esther, unable to resist a giggle. “Sis, did you see anyone else?”
“Ahuh. A tall fellow in cowboy boots. He’s gone down to the creek with Brown. Joe went down, too, right after.”
“He has,” cried Esther, eagerly, and she ran to look out of the window. From there only a bit of the creek was visible, so she went out on the porch. She caught no glimpse of the stranger, but as she turned to look down the lane she was amazed and delighted to see her father’s familiar stalwart figure striding up. She ran to meet him, but at closer sight of his face her delight changed to concern. Once only had she ever seen his fine dark face and eyes betray such trouble, and that time had been at her mother’s death.
“Father! Back in the morning? Oh, I’m glad!” she cried.
“Hello, daughter!” he replied, heartily kissing her, and relinquished to her one of the armloads of packages he was carrying. “For you and the kids. . . . Well, bless you! It’s good to see you, anyway.”
His emphasis on the pronoun did not fail to arrest Esther, who mutely followed him in. Fred had been her father’s favorite, and this could mean nothing but that Fred had hurt him again and no doubt gravely.
“Hello, Gertie!” Halstead greeted his younger daughter, as he spilled his other armload and took Gertrude in its place. He gave her a great hug, lifting her from the floor, stifling her gleeful cries and queries. “Yes, I fetched the candy. Esther has it. . . . Where are the boys?”
“I think down at the creek,” replied Esther. “Shall I go call them?”
“No hurry. My, what rosy cheeks you have! Well, I hate to chase them away.”
“Father, you’ve bad news?”
“What’d you expect?” he queried, with mock jocularity. “We live on Troublesome, don’t we? . . . Never mind, Esther. We’ll lick it yet.”
“But tell me, Father,” said Esther, earnestly. “Surely I’m old enough now to hear all your troubles and share them.”
“Well! Listen to my nineteen-year-old!” he returned, gayly. “Put these parcels away. They’re marked, Gertie. Hide your own and don’t dig into the boys’. I declare, I bought all the fishing hooks and lines in Yampa. — Tell Joe the wagon is full of supplies. Jed will help him up with them. Have the cowboys been in?”
“No. Not since you left.”
“Well, that’s one comfort. Did Fred come home?”
“Yes, last night.”
“Was he drunk?” asked the father, bitterly.
“He said he — had been,” replied Esther, reluctantly. Then she added, loyally, “He was all right this morning.”
Without more comment her father opened the door of his room, which was to the left of the fireplace, and went in. Esther assorted the numerous parcels, some of which she opened, and carried their precious contents to her room. Her father never had been close, but when had he ever, since they had lived in the West, bought so generously? It worried Esther. She carried other parcels to the kitchen, where she encountered the teamster, Jed, packing in supplies.
“Whar’s thet air cook?” queried Jed.
“He went off up the creek with the boys. Get Smith to help you, Jed.”
“Don’t need none, miss. I was just wantin’ to give Joe his terbaccer. I’m leavin’ it hyar, with you as my witness.”
“I’ll guarantee its delivery, Jed,” replied Esther, laughing. “How were things in Yampa?”
“Not slow fer onct,” said Jed, with a guffaw. “Too swift fer this gennelman.”
“Swift. You mean fights?”
“A couple, fair to middlin’. But I was meanin’ the play at Bosomer’s. I like to have a little fly. But I didn’t set in nothin’. Clive Bannard an’ his gang was in town, flush with money.”
“Lucky for you then, Jed,” replied Esther. She went back to her room, and assiduously applied herself to sewing that had waited for necessities from Yampa. But her mind was as active as her fingers, and she had a sensitive ear for what went on in the living-room. She heard Gertrude say to the boys: “Here’s your candy. An’, Ronnie, dad’s got a little gun for you when you stop swearin’.”
“Aw, hell! thet’s wuss than no gun atall!” wailed Ronnie.
“An’, Brown, here’s a grand lot of trash.”
“Trash! Wot is it?”
“It says, ‘Brown’s fishin’ hooks an’ lines.’”
“Trash! —— —— —— ! Whoopee! Gimme thet, woman! . . . Cummon, Ronnie, grab your oufit an’ let’s go show Arizonie.”
“But, Brown, wot’s candy? I got my gun, only I ain’t got it. An’ there you are with a million dollars’ wuth of fishin’ stuff.”
“Cummon. You’re showin’ a streak of yaller. Arizonie will get thet gun fer you. Can’t you tell? He’ll get it. I hope to die if he doesn’t.”
They ran out to the shrill laughter of the little sister, who then communed with herself, “Gee! this Arizonie must be a fairy!”
Esther whispered to herself: “Gee! Arizonie? — Well, I declare!” And there followed a slow swelling beat of her heart. He might be the rider she had dreamed of. But, no, he was too old. — And t
hat vague hint of Joe’s! Yet the fascination grew. It was revealed to Esther that she had been fascinated by every rider of the last few years — for a few dreamy moments, before she saw them. She had seen Arizona Ames, a weary, bent, ashen-faced man of uncertain age, yet the illusion still persisted. She must go out presently to meet him, and have it dispelled.
Other things happened that long morning. Esther heard Halstead’s riders go by, following which a long colloquy took place in her father’s office. She heard their voices, sometimes loud and again low, but the words never distinguishable. She did not need to catch the content, however, for her father’s tones were fraught with trouble. Esther sighed. Did not they live on the Troublesome? At the moment she almost hated it. But never long could she feel resentment for the rushing stream and the colorful hills.
At length Gertrude ran in to tell her they had rung the dinner bell twice. Then Esther hastily put her work upon the bed, and tarried a moment before the mirror, at once abandoning whatever vain impulse had actuated her. When she went out through the living-room and down the porch toward the dining-room she had a flitting wild idea that she was walking to her doom. But she strolled in, cool, casual, humming a tune. Only the family sat at the table, and there was a sudden drop of her unaccountable sense of buoyancy and expectation.
“Where is Mr. Ames?” asked Esther, seating herself as Joe entered.
“Wal, Miss Esther, he excused himself this time, sayin’ he’d wait for me an’ the riders,” replied Cabel, and he gave Esther a deliberate knowing wink. A hot tingle shot up into Esther’s cheeks. What did the fool mean?
“Father, have you met Mr. Ames?” she inquired, presently.
“No, daughter. I had a set-to with your brother. After that Stevens and Mecklin.”
“Cheer up, Daddy,” replied Esther, incomprehensibly gay all of a sudden. Seldom, indeed, did she ever revert to the more childish epithet. “If things have to get worse to turn better, maybe this is the day.”
“Well!” ejaculated Halstead, giving her a surprised and grateful look.
Presently he finished his dinner, and rising called to Joe, “Fetch your friend in to see me when you’re through.”
During the meal, at least while Esther had sat with them, Fred had not spoken a word or lifted his eyes from his plate, even though the excited boys had plied him to give attention to their gifts. Finally Esther was left alone with Fred and she took advantage of the opportunity to ask, “What’s up between you and father?”
“Same old thing,” he replied, gloomily.
“No, it isn’t. You can’t fool me. Does he know about your debt to — —”
Fred made a warning sign toward the open door of the kitchen. Then he got up and slouched out. Esther followed.
“If dad does know, he never let on. But he sure gave me a rakin’ over the coals,” continued her brother.
“Did you see this Barsh Hensler this morning?” asked Esther.
“Yes. Down the creek trail. He raised hell with me. Threatened to. . . . Well, never mind that.”
“It’s a gambling debt?”
“Sure. What else? And the worst of it is he’s a crooked gambler. I knew it. But when I get a few drinks, I think I’m the slickest fellow in the world.”
“Fred, you show a faint glimmering of intelligence,” replied Esther, dryly.
“I know what you think of me, Esther,” he rejoined, thickly, and left her.
Somehow from that Esther extracted a grain of comfort, if not actual hope. Fred had not grown wholly callous. He might be reclaimed, but she had not the slightest idea how to go about it.
Esther went to her room, and quite without intent left the door slightly open. Presently she heard her father and Fred come in.
“But, Dad, it was rotten of you to — to rake me before the cowboys, and especially that stranger, Ames,” Fred was expostulating, poignantly.
“What do I care for them?” rejoined Halstead, coldly. “You don’t care for my feelings, let alone other and more important things.”
“My word! I never had a man look through me like he did. I felt like — like a toad.”
“No wonder. You’ve quite a little reason,” said his father, with sarcasm.
“Dad, will you let me stay while you’re having this talk?” queried Fred.
“It wouldn’t interest you.”
“But I heard Joe tell that man Ames you were facing ruin.”
“That’s why it wouldn’t interest you. There won’t be any cards or drinks or saloon gossip or shady stories.”
“Dad!” cried Fred, miserably.
“Get out.”
“But I — I might be of some — use. I — I know — I’ve heard things — —”
“Fred, it’s too late for you to help me. Please oblige me by leaving me to talk over my misfortunes with men.”
Fred’s dragging steps from the living-room were eloquent testimony of the state of his mind. Esther’s heart ached for him. There seemed some little extenuating circumstance in Fred’s favor. He had been brought young and raw into this wild country, and had not been able to resist its bad elements.
While Esther was cogitating over the perplexing questions, Joe came hurriedly into the living-room.
“Boss, I just run in ahead of time to ask you somethin’,” he said.
“Fire away, Joe,” returned Halstead.
“I sure don’t want to make any mistakes in a delicate family matter like this,” went on Cabel, earnestly. “The thing is now — do you trust me well enough to want me in on it?”
“Why, yes, I do, Joe. You’ve been a help. If I’d listened to you — —”
He did not conclude the sentence.
“Much obliged, boss. Wal, then, if you trust me you’ll take my word for Arizona Ames.”
“I would take your word for him or anyone.”
“Fine. Then I’ll fetch Ames in. That’s what I wanted to ask. I’m sure relieved an’ glad. For Ames is goin’ to hurt. He’ll cut right to the roots of this sore spot at Troublesome.”
“Well! Who is this Arizona Ames, Joe?” queried Halstead, gruffly.
“Sure it’d take too long to tell. But he’s the damndest fellow I ever knew on the ranges. An’ thet’s sayin’ a great deal, boss.”
“What do you mean? Damndest fellow — that’s no recommendation,” returned Halstead, irritably.
“Halstead, if you was a born Westerner or had lived long enough out here you’d know what I mean. But, to put it blunt — if you can get Ames to stay here your troubles will be over pronto.”
“Impossible! How could any one man do that?”
“I’m tellin’ you. I know.”
“But, Joe, I’m poor, almost ruined. Even if there were such a man, I couldn’t pay him.”
“Hell! Who’s talkin’ about pay?” retorted Cabel, in a tone Esther had never heard. “I reckon Ames wouldn’t even take a rider’s wages from you, at least now.”
“Joe, you’ve made me see many times how little I know about the West and Western men. I certainly can’t — what do you call it? — savvy? — savvy such a man as Ames. I don’t savvy you, either.”
“Listen. You don’t need to, this minute. Take my word for Ames. He’s clean an’ fine as gold. He’s ridden the ranges now for thirteen or fourteen years, an’ he’s forgotten more about cattle than these Colorado two-bit ranchers ever knew. Years ago he was one of the greatest cowboys thet I ever seen fork a hoss. But his qualifications to straighten your troubles are more than these. You are bein’ robbed by low-down cattle-thieves who wouldn’t dare show their tracks on a real range. An’ my friend Arizona Ames is sure the man to fix them hombres.”
“Why is he? What’ll he do?” asked Halstead, sharply.
“Boss, if you tell Ames what you’re up against here on the Troublesome he’ll stay. An’, my Gawd! I wish I could convince you what thet’ll mean. Why, it’s no less than an act of Providence thet he got lost up on the Flat Tops an’, wanderin’ round, struck t
he Troublesome an’ ended up here. — He loves kids an’ has taken a shine to Ronnie an’ Brown already. I’m bound to admit, though, thet Miss Esther is a stumblin’-block — in fact, the only one. Ames is a shy, queer man where women are concerned. An’ if there ever was a prettier an’ sweeter girl than Miss Esther I never seen her. But, boss, if you make your story strong enough, sayin’ your son has gone to the bad, an’ thet you’re afraid you might get shot an’ leave Miss Esther alone to fight this Troublesome hell — why, I reckon Ames just won’t be able to ride away.”
“Joe, you’re not so shy, but you’re a queer man yourself,” remarked Halstead, with a laugh. “But I like your talk — your interest in me and my family. I’ll take your advice this time. My story will be strong enough. I don’t need to enlarge on the truth, as you’ll see.”
“Good! Then Ames will stay. Then, boss, if Clive Bannard an’ thet Barsh Hensler steal as much as an unbranded calf — wal, it’ll be all day with them.”
“It will. And how?”
“Ames will kill them. He sure is bad medicine. But I don’t want you to get a wrong impression of my friend. Any day you might meet a traveler in Yampa or a line-ridin’ cowpuncher who’d tell you Arizona Ames is one of these notorious gun-men. It’s not true. He’s a little handy with a gun — I reckon, an’ he’s killed a half dozen fellars thet I know of. But don’t get any wrong idee of him.”
“Cabel, you astonish me!” ejaculated Halstead.
“Wal, I’ve only begun, then. Now listen. This mornin’ Ames went down the creek with the kids. An’ while they fished he walked around a bit to stretch his sore legs. He seen two riders on the trail, an’ your son Fred meet them. Wal, things don’t strike Ames queer unless they are queer. Fred sure didn’t want anyone to see him with these riders. An’ for thet reason Ames slipped up close to get a peek at them. An’ he described them to me. . . . Boss, one of them was Barsh Hensler.”
“I guessed it before you told me. Go on,” replied Halstead, harshly.
“Wal, thet’s all of thet. But I reckon Ames had some kind of a hunch about Fred. Anyway, I seen him lookin’ the boy over most damn sharp. Next, when your riders, Stevens an’ Mecklin, came in the kitchen Ames was there with me. They’re eatin’ dinner now, but this was earlier, I reckon, just after they’d had the row with you. They were excited, an’ sure they talked. I never had any use for Mecklin. He couldn’t look you in the eye. An’ I’ll gamble now there was reason for it. Wal, to them Ames was only another rider goin’ through an’ one who’d talk, to you perhaps, an’ sure in town, an’ they had some things they wanted spread. After they’d gone Ames said: ‘Joe, this cowboy, Mecklin, is crooked. Didn’t you know it?’ An’ I said I’d just about come to thet conclusion.”