Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  Brasee rolled up the scattered bills with hands not perfectly steady. Then, using a pencil, he scribbled something on a piece of paper.

  “There’s your receipt, Señor. But I’m holding young Lambeth till Felipe comes.”

  “Yu jest think yu air. Say, how do yu know I’m not a Texas Ranger?”

  “Rangers don’t come west of the Pecos,” snapped Brasee, but he was wholly uncomfortable and uncertain.

  “Wal, anythin’ can happen west of the Pecos. An’ thet’s a hunch,” flashed the vaquero. “Sambo, grab thet ax an’ come with me.”

  Pecos backed out of the store. Contempt for such men as Felipe gathered around him did not make Pecos careless. Sambo had preceded him.

  “I knowed it, boss, I sho knowed it,” declared the negro, rolling his eyes.

  “What’d you know, Sambo?”

  “Dat Brasee wus yaller clean to his gizzard. But I sho kept my eye on de greaser. I’d ‘a’ busted him.”

  “Wal, I was watchin’ him, too. Thet’s a low-down outfit, Sambo. They cain’t last hyar.... Show me this calaboose where they stuck yore young Lambeth.”

  Some little distance back of the store stood a new adobe hut, small and square, with a wooden door fastened by a chain and padlock. Pecos walked around the structure, wondering where any air could get in. Sambo banged on the door.

  “Massa Rill, is yo’ dar?” he called, his voice thick and rich.

  “Oh, Sambo! ... If you don’t — get me out — I’ll soon be daid,” came a plaintive reply.

  “Tell him to stand aside from the door. We’ve got to break it in,” directed Pecos.

  “Git away f’om dat do’, honey, ‘cause I’se a-gwine to busticate it.”

  Pecos rather expected some interference from Brasee, possibly a shot from the back of the store. But there was no sign from that direction that anyone was interested in Sambo’s lusty blows with the ax. The powerful negro soon sent the door crashing in.

  “Whar yo’ is, Massa Rill?” he shouted, breathing like a huge bellows.

  Pecos expected to recognize a boy he tried to remember, but he saw a slender, well-formed youth stagger out into the sunlight. He wore a ragged gray coat and overalls and top boots, all of which were covered with dirt and grass. His battered black sombrero was pulled well down, shading big, deep eyes of a hue Pecos could not discern, and a tanned, clean-cut face. The sombrero, however, showed a tuft of glossy hair through a hole in its crown, and also straggling locks from under the brim. Pecos thought Sambo could be excused for his anxiety over this fine- looking youth.

  “Sambo, I almost — smothered,” gasped young Lambeth.

  “Whar’s det greaser dey done throwed in wid yo’?”

  “He was let out this mawnin’, still drunk.”

  Then Lambeth espied Pecos and gave a slight start. Pecos felt those strange, big eyes sweep over him, back again to his face, to fasten there a moment, and then revert to Sambo.

  “Massa Rill, yo’ have to thank dis heah gennelman fo’ gettin’ yo’ out,” said the negro, warmly.

  “Oh, thank you, sir,” said the boy, staring strangely at Pecos. There was deep gratitude in his voice, although his demeanor was shy.

  “Massa Rill, it was dis way. I nebber discubbered yo’ had left home till dis mawnin’,” spoke up Sambo. “Den I rid some. I sho did. But dat Brasee banged me ovah my haid an’ throwed me out. I wus plannin’ to kill him when dis old friend of ours come up. ‘Pears yo’ little friend Bobby tole him ‘boot us. An’ he sed he’d get yo’ out, Massa Rill. So we goes in. An’ det yaller Brasee sho tuk water. Yo’ bill is paid at de sto’ an’ you see how we busticated dis do’ heah.”

  “Paid! ... Sambo, did you pay it?”

  “Me? laws amassy! No, Massa Rill, it was him.”

  Pecos stood listening and watching with an amused smile at the eloquent Sambo and the excited youth. How little it took sometimes to make people happy! But when Lambeth wheeled suddenly with face flushed and eyes alight, Pecos quite lost his sense of the casualness of the moment. Somehow there was a significance in the occasion for which Pecos was unable to account.

  “Pecos Smith! ... I remember you. How very — good of you — sir!” exclaimed young Lambeth, extending his hand. It felt small and nervous to Pecos’, but it nevertheless was hard and strong. “I am Terrill Lambeth.... You remember me?”

  “Wal, I reckon I do — now,” replied Pecos.

  “Please tell me where you are staying — where I can find you. Else how can I ever repay the debt?”

  “Wal, I reckon you needn’t worry none aboot thet.”

  “But I shall.... You have befriended us both. Please tell me your address?”

  “‘Most the same, Lambeth.... Pecos Smith, Texas, west of the Pecos,” he drawled.

  “Oh, you’re not serious,” laughed Lambeth.

  “Massa Rill, he sho looks Texas an’ talks Pecos,” interposed Sambo, with a huge grin.

  “Indeed yes,” replied Terrill. “Sambo, I rode my pinto pony in here yesterday. Left him in front of the store. Bobby might have him.”

  They walked across the wide street, with Pecos in advance. Presently, emerging from behind the post, he espied his horses as he had left them.

  “Lambeth, I’d like to talk somethin’ over with yu,” said Pecos, presently. “We can set down over heah in the shade. How aboot it?”

  “I’ll be glad to,” replied the youth. “Sambo, you run over to Bobby’s. See if he’s got my pony.... I’m starved and very thirsty.”

  An idea had taken root in Pecos’ mind — one that refused several attempts to dislodge it. The boy Bobby, the negro Sambo, and recognition of young Lambeth had each in succession given it impetus. An opportunity knocked at Pecos’ door.

  “Wal, it’s shore nice heah,” began Pecos, when they had found shady seats on the grass not far from Pecos’ horses. “Thet boy yu call Bobby told me things an’ so did yore nigger. I’m plumb curious, Lambeth, an’ I’d like to ask yu a few questions.”

  “Fire away. People do get curious aboot me. I don’t wonder. Only I’m mum as an oyster. But you’re shore different — and I’ll tell you anything I — I can.”

  “Yu from eastern Texas?”

  “Yes. We lived on a plantation near the Louisiana line. The war ruined my dad.... Mother died before he came home. There was nothing left. Dad decided to go west. When we were aboot ready to start my uncle died — he had been in the war, too — and left Dad some money. But we started west, anyhow. Dad had freed our slaves. Sambo and his wife, Mauree, refused to leave us.... We had a canvas-covered wagon and eight horses. I rode and I drove and I rode for eight months — all the way across Texas. Toward the end of that journey Dad picked up cattle. Texas longhorns! — You found us lost up the Pecos. After you guided us to Horsehead Crossing we drove the Pecos and worked down this side of the river, heading the brakes until Dad found a place that suited him.... There we started ranching. Two years ago we had around ten thousand haid. We were rich. But Dad wouldn’t sell. Aboot that time we began to see our stock fade away. There were riders in the brakes. Dad made an enemy of a half-breed cattleman named Don Felipe. Sambo was shot at twice.... Then... then ... Oh, it hurts so — to bring it back.”

  “Yore dad was killed,” interposed Pecos, gently, as the youth averted his face.

  “Yes.... He was — murdered,” went on Lambeth. “Found with an arrow through his body. Felipe and his vaqueros said it was the work of Comanches. But I know better. Many times the Indians rode out on the river bluff across from my home. They watched us. They shot guns and arrows into the river. But bullets and arrows could not reach halfway. The Indians could not get across for miles above and below. They never tried. So I know Comanches never killed my dad.... From that time our fortunes fell. Felipe took on a partner named Sawtell — a villain who had hounded me. Sambo and I could not keep track of stock. You see our range went twenty miles up river and more down. And in low water our cattle crossed the river. There are hund
reds, maybe thousands of longhorns under the east wall of the Pecos. They are mine. But how can I ever get them? No doubt Felipe and Sawtell will get them eventually.... Oh, Mister Smith, I’ve been cautioned not to say that. Because I can prove nothing.... But I’ve seen Felipe’s vaqueros steal our cattle. Brand-blotters! ... Well, it’s grown harder lately. We had to have supplies. Dad had gone in debt for them. And this last winter I had to. Brasee would not take cattle in payment.... Last and worse — they’ve waylaid me — tried to catch me alone.... Oh, I can’t tell you the half.... But yesterday this Brasee dragged me — forced me into that stinking dungeon — locked me in.... There, Mister Smith, have I anticipated all your questions?”

  “Yu can call me Pecos,” responded the vaquero, thoughtfully. “Wal, wal, it’s a tough story, Terrill, ‘most as tough as mine. But dog-gone! What I cain’t understand is why, yu bein’ shore old Texas stock, yu didn’t kill this half-breed greaser an’ his partner. Yu must be all of fifteen years old, ain’t you?”

  “Si, Señor,” replied Terrill, with a little laugh. “I’m all of fifteen.”

  “Wal, thet’s old enough to handle a gun.”

  “I can. I’ve shot buffalo, deer, wolves, panthers, javelin, mean old mossy-horns. But never a — a man. I might have, lately, if all our guns hadn’t been stolen.”

  “Wal, Terrill, I’ll shore have to kill Don Felipe an’ Breen Sawtell fer yu,” mused Pecos, softly, marveling that he had not long ago decided that this deed was decreed for him.

  “Mister Smith! ... Pecos, you can’t be serious!” cried the youth.

  “Never was so serious before.... Would yu want to heah somethin’ aboot me?” drawled Pecos.

  “Yes,” whispered Lambeth, evidently overcome.

  “An’ will yu swear yu’ll never tell what I tell yu?”

  “I — I swear, Pecos,” said Terrill, excitedly.

  “Wal, yore not the only orphan in Texas.... I come of one of the old families, Terrill. But I never had much schoolin’ or home influence. An’ so I just growed up a vaquero. The years I spent in Mexico were good an’ bad fer me.... Wal, I rode through heah first a few years ago, with thet trail driver, McKeever. An’ last time, up at Santa Fé, I got reckless with my trigger finger again. Dog-gone it, there was always some hombre thet needed shootin’.... My last job was on the H H outfit up the river. An’ I was almost happy. There was a girl I liked awful well, but never had the nerve to say so. An’ the day I had to go... Wal, thet’s not goin’ to interest yu, an’ maybe I was wrong.... Anyway, I got accused of rustlin’ by one Sawtell, brother of this same Breen Sawtell thet’s been houndin’ yu. Course I had to kill him. Thet made me so sore I got to feelin’ I might as well have the game as the blame. So I throwed in with two shady cowhands an’ took to rustlin’.”

  Terrill gasped at that. The boy in his excitement pulled off the old sombrero to crumple it in his hands. Whereupon Pecos had his first clear view of the lad. He was surprisingly young and his clean, tanned cheeks bore not a vestige of downy beard. Indeed, he looked like a very pretty girl, notwithstanding the strong chin, the sad, almost stern lips. His eyes were large and a very dark blue, almost purple.

  “Wal, it’s my conscience that accuses me of rustlin’,” went on Pecos, presently. “But as a matter of fact, Terrill, I wasn’t no rustler. My game was brandin’ mavericks, an’ yu know thet’s not crooked. Every cowman in Texas has done it. Only the drawback was thet I knowed damn well thet not one of those calves could be mine. There’s the difference. A cowhand with a small herd grazin’ aboot can brand a maverick with a kind of satisfaction. But shore I couldn’t.... Wal, thet went on all last winter. My pardners drove stock to their market in New Mexico while I stayed in camp. The last time they were trailed to our camp. Shore I wasn’t there. I happened to be watchin’ a bunch of redskins thet were crossin’ the river. To make it short, when I sneaked back to camp, there was four cattlemen very busy with my pards. They’d already hanged one an’ had a rope on the other. They were haulin’ him up when hell busted loose right under me. The Comanches had sneaked up on the camp. There was a pretty lively fight in which I took part from the hillside. When what was left of the Indians had run off I found only one white man alive an’ he was dyin’. He told me my pards had been burnin’ brands. Yu see, they double- crossed me, for I never saw a haid of stock they drove, except my mavericks. Thet deal made me a rustler when I’m really not one atall. Do yu reckon I am?”

  “No, you’re not a rustler — at heart,” replied Terrill, soberly. “Dad used to put our brand on mavericks. He thought that was honest. So do I.”

  “Much obliged, boy. Thet shore makes me feel better, now it’s off my conscience. An’ I reckon I can hit yu for a job.”

  “Job!” echoed Lambeth.

  “Shore. I hate to brag. But there’s nothin’ I cain’t do with a rope. I’ll bet I could find a thousand calves thet yu never dreamed of in those brakes.”

  “You mean ride for me? Be my — my vaquero?”

  “Yeah. I’m reckonin’ yu need one,” drawled Pecos, pleased with the effect of his story and proposition.

  “It would be — wonderful.... But I have no money.”

  “Wal, I’d trust yu.”

  “You’d trust me?”

  “Shore, I would, if yu believed in me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Thet I’m no thief. Thet I want to find a home in some lonely brake along the river, an’ work, an’ ferget a lot.”

  “I could believe that. If you tell me there will be no more cattlemen trailing you to hang you — I will believe you.”

  “Wal, Terrill, I’m not so dinged shore aboot thet. There’s one man, an’ he’s this Breen Sawtell. The dyin’ rancher told me Sawtell was stealin’ his own brother’s cattle. What aboot thet? An’ it was he who sent thet brother down to have me fired an’ run off the range.... So then this Breen Sawtell may turn up heah, like his brother did there. All of which doesn’t mean anythin’ to me, since I’m shore to kill him anyhow.”

  Pecos had been somewhat puzzled and nonplused over this Texas youth, and kept hoping he would overcome what seemed unusual agitations. Probably the soft-spoken lad had not recovered from the shock of his father’s murder. Motherless, too — and he had lived alone with only a couple of negroes, harried by vaqueros and hounded by these crooked cattlemen. There was excuse for much. Besides, young Lambeth had not been brought up in the south and west of the wild Lone Star State.

  “I hope you do kill Sawtell — and shore that Don Felipe,” suddenly burst out Terrill, after a long pause. His face turned pearl gray, and such a blaze of purple fire flashed upon Pecos that he was surprised out of the very change he had wished for.

  “Then I get the job with yu?” retorted Pecos, responding to the other’s fire.

  “You shore do. I think I’ve found a — a friend as well as a vaquero. Heah’s my hand.”

  It was minus the glove this time, and the little calloused palm, the supple fingers that closed like steel on Pecos’, shot a warm and stirring current through his veins.

  “So far as friend is concerned, I hope it works the other way round,” replied Pecos. “An’ if we get along good an’ I build up yore herd of cattle an’ buy a half interest in yore ranch — do yu think yu’d take me on as yore pardner?”

  “Pecos, I think God ... Well, never mind what I think,” replied Lambeth, beginning with eloquent heat, and suddenly faltering. “But, yes, yes, I will take you.”

  Sambo’s arrival, leading a pony with the lad Bobby astride, put an end to this most earnest colloquy.

  “Heah yo is, Massa Rill,” called out Sambo, happily. “Our luck has done changed.”

  “Take all this grub so I can git down,” piped up Bobby.

  * * * * *

  The advent of the lively Bobby and the exuberant Sambo, together with the generous supply of food and drink they brought, effectually silenced Terrill and brought back the singular aloofness Pecos had sensed. Still the
lad could not be expected to be gay and voluble when he was half starved, with the means at hand to allay hunger and thirst. But there was something more.

  Pecos shared a little of the food. He was thoughtful during this picnic and realized that he had made a profound and amazing decision. He could see no drawbacks. His mounting zeal had burned them away. He had not been caught burning brands. Williams and Adams were dead, as were all of the posse that had tracked them. He was free. What did a brawling cheat or two like Breen Sawtell matter to him? He was forewarned and forearmed. As for Don Felipe — the half-breed was dangerous like a snake in the grass was dangerous. Both of these men failed to raise the tiniest clouds on Pecos’ horizon.

  For ten years Pecos had lived more or less in an atmosphere of strife. That was Texas. It had to grow worse before it ever could grow better. And this range west of the Pecos was bound to see stirring life as the cattle herds augmented. Ranchers and settlers would trail grass and water like wolves on a scent. Vaqueros would throng to the Pecos. And likewise the parasites of rangeland. Pecos had a vision of the future. He had had his one brief fling at outlaw life. No more! Let accusers flock in. No sheriff could put handcuffs on him, nor would any court in Texas uphold a sheriff who tried. A wonderful gladness flushed his veins. What a little incident could transform a career! He owed much to Bobby, to Sambo, and most to this strange orphaned lad, out of place there on the wild range. But for his plight Pecos might have gone on drifting. Somehow Terrill seemed a lovable lad. He needed a protector, a trainer, some one who could bring out the latent Texas qualities that must be in him. And Pecos felt eminently qualified for the position.

  “Yo sho wuz starved,” declared Sambo. “Whar yo put all dat grub?”

  “I was hungry,” admitted Terrill. “But I shore didn’t eat it all, Sambo. Bobby was around. And so was Pecos, heah.”

  “Pecos? Thet’s a funny handle fer a man,” quoth Bobby. “Pecos means ‘most anythin’. Hell an’ killin’ a man an’ everythin’ orful.”

  “Shore does, Bobby,” drawled Pecos, fishing out another dollar. “Hyar’s another peso.”