Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  CHAPTER V

  TO THE COWHANDS at Healds’ ranch he called himself Pecos Smith. They were not long in discovering that he was the best horseman, the best shot, the best roper that had ever ridden up out of Southwest Texas. But that was about all they ever learned about his past.

  Pecos had come up the river with a trail driver named McKeever, who had a contract to deliver cattle at Santa Fé, New Mexico. The Spanish towns of Santa Fé, Taos, Las Vegas, and Albuquerque furnished a growing market for beef. The Government forts added largely to this demand. Cattlemen, believing in future protection against the marauding bands of Indians, had followed the more adventurous settlers into southern New Mexico and western Texas. Most of the cattle at this period came from the Rio Grande.

  McKeever, on his return, stopped at Healds’ minus one of his rangy vaqueros, and it was observed that that rider was Smith.

  “We left Smith behind at Santa Fé,” explained the trail driver. “He pecosed another man an’, like he always does after a shootin’, he got drunk. We couldn’t wait fer him. But I reckon he’ll be along soon.”

  “Quarrelsome cowhand, this Smith?” asked Bill Heald, one of the brother ranchers.

  “Not atall. He’s aboot the best-natured boy you’d want to meet,” returned McKeever. “But he gets picked at, seems like, or else he’s everlastin’ bustin’ into somebody’s trouble. An’ he’s shore hell with a gun.”

  That was Smith’s introduction to the Healds. Several days after that he dropped in at the ranch, a clean-cut, smiling, devil-may-care Texas boy of the old stock. Bill Heald took a fancy to him, and being in need of riders offered him a job.

  “Wal, I’ll shore take ye up,” drawled Smith. “Mac won’t like it. But he was ornery up there at Santa Fé. Cussed me powerful.”

  “McKeever told me you shot a man,” rejoined Heald, slowly, watching the rider. “In fact, he said another man.”

  “Damn Mac’s pictures, anyhow,” complained the rider, annoyed. “He’s always talkin’ aboot me.”

  Heald decided it would be wiser to waive personal inquiries, despite the curiosity Smith aroused. Heald’s experienced eye, however, took in certain details about this rider that prompted one more query. “Ever work for a Mexican?”

  “Yeah. Don Felipe Gonzales,” admitted Smith, readily. “My father was killed in the war an’ my family busted up. Don Felipe was an old acquaintance of ours. So I went across the Rio Grande an’ rode his range four or five years. I’m not shore how many. Anyway, till I got chased back over the river.”

  Further than that Smith never vouchsafed information about himself, to the Healds or any of the hands.

  Upon close scrutiny of Pecos Smith, Heald decided that his appearance belied the boyishness that seemed to be born of his careless, free insouciance. His age must have been between twenty and twenty-five years, which was not very young for a range rider in Texas. He was just above medium height, not so lean and rangy as most horsemen, having wide shoulders and muscular round limbs. He struck Heald as a remarkably able horseman, which opinion was soon more than verified. All the leather trappings about Smith and his horse were ragged and shiny from use, particularly the gun holster which hung low on his left thigh and the saddle sheath. The ivory handle of his gun was yellow with age. What metal showed, and this was also true of his rifle, shone with the bright, almost white luster of worn, polished steel. His saddle, bridle, and spurs, also his black sombrero, were of Spanish make, decorated with silver; and if they had not been so old might have made a thief out of many a vaquero.

  “Smith, you’re on,” declared Bill Heald, finally, having been unaccountably slow in decision, for him. “Thet’s a grand hoss you’re forkin’. If he ain’t Arabian I’ll eat him. Have a care for him. What with this outfit an’ the Comanches you’ll have hell keepin’ him.”

  “Wal, Cinco cain’t be caught in a race, anyhow,” drawled the rider, patting the tired and dusty horse. “Heald, I’m shore thankin’ you for the job.”

  “Not atall. We’re short-handed. An’ you strike me right. But, Smith, if you’ve got thet queer hand-itch fer a gun, won’t you doctor it with axle grease or somethin’?”

  “Never no more, boss. I’m a sick hombre. Red likker an’ me air on the oots,” drawled the rider, his flashing smile answering the other’s levity.

  “Then you’re set heah,” concluded Bill Heald.

  It chanced that Heald’s sister, Mary, had watched this interview from the door, unobserved. She was only sixteen, and with the brothers had been made an orphan not so long ago. She was the pride of their eyes as well as the disturber of their peace.

  “Oh, Billy!” she exclaimed, her black eyes shining roguishly. “That’s the handsomest rider I’ve seen since I came West.”

  “Thunder an’ blazes!” ejaculated Heald. “If I’d seen thet I’d never hev hired him.... Mary, if you make eyes at him ranchin’ will shore stop heah.”

  The next time Heald saw Smith he remembered Mary’s tribute and took keener note of the stranger. Smith was not an unusual type for a Texan, though he appeared to have Texas characteristics magnified. Many Texans were sandy-haired or tow-headed, and possessed either blue or gray eyes. This rider had flaxen hair and he wore it so long that it curled from under his sombrero. His face was like a bronze mask, except when he talked or smiled, and then it lightened. In profile it was sharply cut, cold as stone, singularly more handsome than the full face. His eyes assumed dominance over all other features, being a strange- flecked, pale gray, of exceeding power of penetration. His lips, in repose, were sternly chiseled, almost bitter, but as they were mostly open in gay, careless talk or flashing a smile over white teeth, this last feature was seldom noticed.

  The remudo filed in that night, enlivening the ranch again, and next day Bill Heald asked his brother what he thought of the new cowhand.

  “Strikes me fine. Likable cuss, I’ll gamble,” replied John Heald. “Real Texas stuff in thet fellar.”

  “Mary has fallen in love with him already.”

  “O Lord! What’ll we do, Bill? Send her back to Auntie Heald?”

  “Hell no! She stays if she puts the outfit up a tree. Mebbe this Pecos hombre can win her.”

  “I don’t know aboot thet,” replied John, soberly. “Mary’s tryin’ an’ thet’s no joke. I want her to settle out heah an’ marry some good fellar. But this Pecos has a gun record, Bill. Did you know thet?”

  “McKeever told me Smith had killed another man,” admitted the elder brother, thoughtfully.

  “Sandy told me more than thet,” went on John, impressively. “Sandy says he sneaked a peep at this Pecos fellar’s gun. It had six notches on the handle an’ one of them was cut fresh.”

  “Six.... I reckoned it might be more. Let’s not borrow trouble, John. Anyway, it’s a shootin’ country an’ we might be most damn glad to have thet kind of a Texan among us.”

  “Shore. An’ it ain’t likely Mary will capitulate to a blood- spiller. She’s squeamish for a Heald. But she might flirt with the fellar. Mary’s the dod-blastedest flirt I ever seen.”

  “Flirtin’ might be as bad as a real case,” rejoined Bill. “What concerns me is the effect thet’d have on our outfit. You know, John, every last man Jack of them thinks he’s goin’ to wed with Mary.”

  Pecos Smith gave opportunity for various discussion among the brothers and their cowhands. It was a lonesome country, and strangers, that were not to be avoided, were few and far between. Their opinions, however, fell far wide of the mark, except as they had to do with Smith as a vaquero. The horse Cinco lived up to his looks and his rider’s pride. Pecos was a whole outfit in himself. He never knew when work was done. His riding and roping might have been that of the famous vaquero, Rodiriquez. Every cowhand in the outfit had his sombrero full of bullet holes, proofs of Pecos’ marksmanship. Pecos was most obliging and he could not resist any kind of a bet. He seldom missed a sombrero tossed into the air, and as often as not he put two bullets through it before it
dropped. He would never let anyone handle his gun, which shared with Cinco in his affections. Pecos proved to be a round peg fitting snugly into a round hole. Riders were scarce, cattle growing plentiful, likewise rustlers, and always the horse-stealing Comanches.

  Long before McKeever drove north again with a herd of steers Pecos had won the regard of the X Bar outfit, which was run by an adjoining rancher, as well as that of the H H outfit, belonging to the Healds.

  The singular thing about Pecos, remarkable in view of the universal esteem in which he was held, was that he avoided contact with people, save the riders with whom he worked or those of the neighboring ranch. Mary Heald gave a party one night to which all the people in that part of the country were invited. Somebody had to be out with the cattle on that particular night, and Pecos took the job for another rider. Mary Heald was furious with him, and snubbed him on the following day when he happened to run into her at the corrals.

  “Wal, I just cain’t please the ladies, nohow,” he drawled to Sandy McClain.

  “Huh! Say, you mysterious cuss — you could have ’em eatin’ out of your hand if you’d give ’em a chance.”

  “Sandy, yore what them Colorado chaps call loco.”

  “Am I? What’s thet?”

  “Wal, it’s a kind of weed thet hosses eat an’ go off their haids.”

  “Pecos, air you hitched to some gurl? — Married, I mean?”

  “Me? — Santa Maria!”

  “Air you a woman-hater then? Had yore heart broke? ... Honest, Pecos, yore laughin’ an’ whistlin’ an’ makin’ fun don’t fool this heah chicken none. You’re a sad hombre.”

  “No, Sandy, my heart’s shore not broke yet, but dog-gone me, it wouldn’t take much.”

  Bill Heald and his brother satisfied themselves finally as to Pecos’ peculiar aloofness.

  “First off I figured Pecos was one of them Texas-Ranger- dodgin’ hombres,” said Bill. “But I’ve changed my mind. Thet fellar never did a shady thing in his life. He comes of a good family, you can tell thet, an’ he’s had trouble.”

  “Bill, I agree with you. More’n thet I’d say if there was a sheriff or a ranger huntin’ Pecos he’d never dodge him. I’d shore hate to be the sheriff that tried to arrest him, provided it was an even break.”

  “He fooled us aboot Mary, didn’t he? Darn good lesson fer thet little lady. Only I hope she doesn’t fall daid in love with Pecos.”

  “Wal, if she did it wouldn’t last.... No, Pecos is just one of them driftin’, fascinatin’ vaqueros. I’ve met as many as I have fingers. Texas is the only country thet could produce such a breed.”

  McKeever, on his return from Santa Fé spent a night at the Heald ranch and not only inquired about his lost vaquero, but wanted to see him. Pecos was not to be located.

  “Reckon he likes it hyar an’ wants to hang aboot,” concluded the trail driver, with a sly look at Mary, which made her blush flamingly.

  “I’m shore nobody hyar wants him hangin’ aboot,” she retorted, her chin tilting.

  “My loss is your gain, folks,” returned McKeever, resignedly. “They don’t come any finer than Smith.”

  If there were any doubts at the H H ranch as to the status of Pecos Smith, that recommendation definitely dispersed them.

  * * * * *

  The time came when Pecos Smith justified the prefix to his name, if he had not already done so. Like an Indian, it was second nature for him to remember any trail, any thicket, any creek bottom, or canyon that he had ever seen. His brain instinctively photographed places.

  The Rio Pecos from Castle Gap Canyon to the New Mexico border became his intimate possession. The Healds did not know whether they were running twenty thousand head of stock or thirty thousand. Pecos Smith had a more accurate estimate of their cattle than anyone, and his reports of unbranded calves and yearlings and steers hiding in the thickets of the creek bottoms or the brakes of the Pecos ran into the thousands.

  Bill Heald took this with a grain of salt, while his brother pondered over it seriously. Like all ranchers of the period, they were careless branders. That was to say they did not have the hands nor the time to comb the range for unbranded stock. Cattle had begun to demand a price and the future looked promising. But money was scarce. Texas was in her first stage of recovery after the ruin left by the war. The Healds were doing about all that was possible for them.

  Rustlers appeared on the Pecos range. The long-horns had come originally from south of the Rio Grande; so had the cattle thieves. Nowhere had there ever been such wholesale and tremendous thefts of cattle as along the Mexican border. That was one reason why Texans like the Healds had moved to isolated ranges.

  But up to this period the X Bar, the H H, and other outfits had not suffered much from rustling. At least they had not been aware of it. Every rancher lost stock, the same as he appropriated a little that really did not belong to him. There had not been, however, any appreciable inroads upon the herds.

  It was through the trail driver, McKeever, that the Healds found the opportunity they had planned and waited for, and this was a considerable market for their product. McKeever bought cattle from them in large numbers and drove them to the Spanish settlements in New Mexico and the Government headquarters. Extensive military operations against the Indians were already under way. Rumors of railroads through New Mexico and Texas were rife. Altogether the Healds looked forward to huge markets, to advancing prices, and trail herds of their own.

  To this end Pecos Smith was promoted to be their outside man. He accepted the job with reluctance, and upon being asked why he was not keen about it he replied rather evasively that it held too much responsibility. His duty was to ride all over the country, to the farthest outlying ranges, not only to keep track of the Heald cattle, but to gauge general conditions, study the methods of other ranchers, and watch their round-ups. Thus Pecos Smith added to his already wide knowledge of the country.

  Upon his return from one of these trips, in the autumn of his second year’s service to the Healds, he ran into the inevitable trouble that had always hounded his trail.

  Pecos had ridden into the ranch early in the morning, and after cleaning up was enjoying a much-needed rest and a smoke when Sandy McClain came hurrying over from the ranch-house. Pecos divined there was something up before Sandy drew near enough to distinguish his features. He could tell by that hurried yet suspensive stride. So that when Sandy arrived at the porch of the cabin, his hazel eyes full of fire and his lips hard, Pecos cursed under his breath.

  “Pecos, thar’s shore — hell to pay,” declared Sandy.

  “Who’s payin’ it?” queried Pecos, in his cool, lazy drawl.

  “Nobody yit, but you’ll have to. An’ I’m gittin’ this off my chest first. If it comes to a fight I’m with you.”

  “Thanks, Sandy, I shore appreciate thet. But usually I can tend to my own fights. Suppose you tell me aboot what’s up?”

  “You know thet Sawtell, foreman fer Beckman?” rushed on Sandy.

  “Shore. I was at Marber’s Crossin’ not two months ago,” replied Pecos, his boots coming down from a bench. “They had a round-up. I was there, you bet, an’ I stayed, in spite of the cold shoulder from Sawtell.”

  “Pecos, it ain’t so good. Sawtell is hyar, with three of his outfit. An’ he’s been hittin’ the bottle, Pecos. He’s loud an’ nasty.”

  “What’s it all aboot?”

  “I didn’t heah. But I can guess. Bill is all upset, an’ madder’n hell under his hat, as I could see. He sent me to fetch you.”

  Pecos sat silent a moment with slowly contracting brows. His eyes were downcast. Presently he drew his gun, and flipping it open he extracted an extra cartridge from his vest pocket and inserted it in the one empty chamber. Then he arose to his feet, sheathing the gun. Without another word he strode off toward the ranch-house, with Sandy beside him, talking wildly.

  Presently Pecos espied four saddled horses standing, bridles down, across the open space in front of the h
ouse. He sheered a little to the left so that he would not go abruptly around the corner.

  “Keep out of this, Sandy,” he ordered.

  “But they’re four to one, Pecos,” expostulated Sandy. “An’ thet red-faced Sawtell doesn’t talk like he savvied you. I’ve got a hunch, Pecos. It won’t do no harm to let them see you got a pard.”

  Pecos answered with a gesture that needed no speech. Sandy sheered widely to the right. Pecos heard a loud voice. Next moment he came into the open, where he had a clear view. Mary Heald was the first person he saw.

  “Go in the house,” Bill Heald ordered her.

  “Oh, your grandmother!” retorted Mary. She was flushed and excited, and upon espying Pecos gave a violent start.

  “Bill! ... Hyar he is,” she called.

  Pecos took in the prospect. Sawtell, a tall cattleman wearing a bandana as red as his face, stood out before three cowhands whose posture was not easy. Bill Heald, turning from Mary, called to his brother: “This ain’t no mix fer her. Drag her inside.”

  “Let her stay. Mebbe she’ll hyar somethin’,” declared John.

  “I did hyar somethin’ and it’s a confounded lie,” flashed Mary, hotly.

  Upon seeing Pecos approaching, Bill Heald showed a subtle change of manner.

  “Sawtell, hyar’s Pecos now, to speak fer himself. We think you’re on a wrong track. An’ if you’ll listen to reason, you’ll go mighty slow.”

  “Hell! — Air you threatenin’ me, Bill Heald?” returned the visitor, harshly.

  “Not atall. I’m just advisin’ you.”

  “Wal, I don’t need any advice. I was ridin’ these ranges long before you.”

  “Shore. But you don’t know Pecos Smith.”

  “Pecos! Whar’d he git thet handle?”

  “I don’t know. He had it when he come.”

  Pecos halted some paces out.

  “Boss, what’s up heah?”

  “I’m ashamed to tell you, Pecos, an’ I swear I’d never done it if I could have persuaded Sawtell to ride off.”