Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  “That’s fine news. Is it safe?”

  “Safe? You mean this Ford?”

  “No, the road. That redheaded cowboy scared me.”

  “Tex Haynes? The son of a gun! What’d he tell you?” Martha repeated in full the dire list of calamities which Haynes had vowed would imperil her.

  “I’ll bet he wanted to drive you.”

  “Not exactly. He wanted to go along.”

  “Ahuh. Thet hombre will be hittin’ yore uncle for a job. I’ll give you a hunch, Miss, but you mustn’t squeal on me. Tell yore uncle not to hire Tex.”

  “Thank you. And why?”

  “Aw, Tex is gittin’ a bad name. He’s crippled a couple of cowboys. Been in jail for fightin’. But it’s not thet. There are hints out about him. I don’t know what they are. Darn shame, too. Tex is a wonderful puncher. Wins all the rodeos at Cheyenne. An’ you can’t help likin’ him.”

  Martha feared that all her driver had succeeded in doing was to increase her interest in Texas Haynes. Her insurgent mind always veered to the underdog. Moreover, he had not looked down upon her scornfully because she was a hitchhiker.

  “Who is Smoky?” asked the Chicago girl, as they drove out of town.

  “Smoky Reed? He’s a sure ‘nough bad egg of a cowpuncher. Sweet on Nell Glemm. An’ Nell is loony over Tex. Smoky lost his job, I heerd. An’ Tex ain’t had a job for ages. He could get one, though. Any cattleman would be glad to have Tex.”

  “Tell me all about this country. Range, you Westerners call it. Oh, I can’t see a thing but these scaly hills.”

  “Sorta shet in here, for a spell, Miss. But you jest wait till we come to the Sweetwater.”

  “I’m waiting...You didn’t tell me your name.”

  “Sim Glemm. Sim is nickname for Simpson. I’m Mrs. Glemm’s nephew.”

  Martha Ann loosed the battery of her inquisitive mind, and as there was nothing pretty or unusual to look at in the scenery, she plied her loquacious driver with question after question. Driving the two hours required to reach a point where they could see the river she came into possession of a vast store of Wyoming lore, concerning the history, people and gossip, some of which she accepted with a grain of salt. Sim had the kind of narrative mind that always tried and usually succeeded in amplifying the truth.

  But when they drove around a curve that brought them out from the shelter of a drab range which like a wall had hidden the view to the south and west, Martha Ann sat up with eyes wide open.

  “Here’s the river,” pointed the lad. “Shines like a ribbon, don’t it? Good fishin’ along here, too. An’ see the green willows winding down from thet blue range. It ain’t the sky you’re lookin’ at, Miss, but Wyomin’ range land. See them round pink an’ red things standin’ up? Row of little mountains called the Antelope Hills. Yore uncle’s ranch is right under them. An’ shore you’re missin’ them white saw teeth way yonder...Way high, Miss. Them’s the snow-tipped Rockies...Now what do you say about Wyomin’?”

  “Wonderful!” cried Martha.

  “I’ll tell the world,” sang out the western youth proudly.

  During the descent toward the river and bridge Martha Ann soon lost the far-flung view which had made her imagine that she was looking through colored glasses that magnified and glorified everything she saw. Across the Sweetwater, however, she had an unobstructed vision for leagues and leagues. There was nothing over there — nothing but endless land of many hues dominated by a hazy purple, countless acres of level land, rolling ridges, dark valleys, on and on to the shimmering horizon. She felt that to understand this amazing country, to appreciate it, she must begin with separate parts, first those that lay close at hand and intimate, and by studying them, graduate one day to some semblance of grasp of the vast infinitude that lay beyond.

  The river came first. It was indeed a bright ribbon, and in places, several ribbons, flowing between islands of sand and green cottonwoods. But it struck her that there was very little water for so wide a river bottom. From bank to bank the bed was wide. In times of flood the Sweetwater must be truly awe inspiring. The verdant banks and islands, the sparkling white and amber water, presented a vivid contrast to the somber range of grass and sage. Martha Ann gave this lonely river its proper place in the scene as the life and vitality of that magnificent range.

  “But I don’t see a single living creature!” she burst out.

  “Say, Miss Tenderfoot, you oughta fetched a spyglass,” replied the driver. “See them tiny little specks yonder?”

  “Ye-es, I guess so.”

  “Cattle,” he said, with finality. Cattle were the aim and end of this vast country.

  Sim turned off the road to the left just before reaching the bridge, and Martha Ann soon lost sight of all the open country. The bumpy road necessitated slow driving along the river bank. Groves of cottonwoods and patches of willow filled the river bottom.

  “See thet big tree down thar?” queried her guide, pointing to a huge round-foliaged cottonwood, with wide-spreading branches. “My dad has helped hang rustlers on thet tree.”

  “Oh, how dreadful!...What are rustlers?”

  “Fellars who rustle cattle.”

  “How do they rustle them? Make noises to frighten them?”

  “Whoopee!” roared Sim, and then gave way to mirth. “I dare say I’m very much a tenderfoot. But how can I learn if I am not told?”

  “You’re gonna be a circus for the cowpunchers. But come to think of it you’ll have the best of them right off pronto.”

  “That’s good news, anyway. How will I?”

  “‘Cause you’re so durn pretty thet they won’t dare — not even Tex Haynes — to torment you an’ play tricks.”

  “I fail to see why my — why that will protect me?”

  “Shucks! You jest wait.”

  “I’ll wait patiently, young man. But tell me, what does ‘rustle’ really mean?”

  “Rustle means to rustle off with cattle. To steal them. Calves, cows, yearlin’s, two-year olds, all kinds of cattle. An’ there are rustlers workin’ yet on this range. Only two-bit stuff, sure. But my dad says there always has been rustlers in Wyomin’ an’ always will be.”

  “‘Two-bit stuff.’ What’s that?”

  “Two bits is twenty-five cents.”

  A long stretch of better road put a different face on the last lap of the approach to Bligh’s Ranch. The land to the left began to slope gradually upward toward the beautiful bare colored hills. And suddenly Martha Ann became conscious of a nearer view of the grand panorama which had so enraptured her more than twenty miles back. Here it was clearer, closer, more eye filling and breath-taking. But the near approach to the ranch drew and held the young girl’s gaze. She saw a long low squat building without a vestige of green about it, and beyond it stood sheds and pens and fences, all sadly in need of repair. And then as the car advanced farther she caught view of a gray old log cabin, picturesque in its isolation and ruin, situated on the river bank, facing the west.

  Martha’s mounting excitement left her with a sudden constriction of her throat. She swallowed hard and found breathing oppressive. If she had been mad with yearning for Wyoming, with the sacrifices this trip had cost, she now realized how true her instinct had been. The solitude of the scene drew her, the wildness of the view called to something deep and instinctive within her, the beauty made her soul ache with sadness.

  But she must not give way to her emotions now that she was here, or present herself to Uncle Nick as a maudlin, sentimental girl. The driver was babbling on, but Martha could not attend to him. She saw a colt sticking a curious lean head over a fence, she saw two busy little puppies that could scarcely waddle, then a big yellow-haired, fierce-eyed dog. Suddenly she realized that the car had come to a stop.

  “Hi! Anybody home?” yelled the driver, with the lusty voice of youth.

  “Don’t shout. I-I’ll go in.”

  “Nix. Not with thet yaller dawg eyin’ us.”

  Trepidation vied i
n Martha’s breast with a bursting joyous expectancy as she espied a man, little and lean and gray, fit habitant for that dwelling, come ambling around a corner of the house. When he aimed a gentle kick at the yellow dog she saw that he was bowlegged. But all Westerners had legs more or less bowed. Already she had the door of the car open, and now she leaped out to run up to the little man.

  “Uncle Nick — I’m — your niece — come to—” she cried, and failing of voice threw her arms around him and quickly kissed his cheek.

  “For the land’s sakes!” he ejaculated mildly, as he gently released himself. “Lass, I’m plumb sorry, but I jest don’t happen to be yore Uncle Nick.”

  “Oh-h!...Ex-cuse me. You must think I’m crazy...But I never saw him,” burst out the fair visitor, adding confusion to her agitation.

  “Hey Nick, come a-runnin’,” yelled the little man.

  The door opened to reveal a tall man, gray-haired, weather-beaten of face standing in the doorway. The instant his astonished blue eyes saw the girl he ejaculated: “Martha Dixon!”

  “Yes,” cried Martha, running to him. “Martha Ann...Your niece.”

  A swift change from amazement to unmistakable gladness, and the quick embrace, relieved the girl, not only of her strength, but of the overwhelming dread that had consumed her. Uncle Nick resembled her grandmother. He had kind keen blue eyes that were filling with tears.

  “My niece? Bless your heart! Child, I’m plumb buffaloed...Who’s with you? How’d you come? What—”

  “I’m alone. Walked a lot of the way. Begged rides — to save my money...And here I am — to stay.”

  “Martha, did you run away from home?”

  “So did you, Uncle Nick...I — I wanted to help you.”

  He held her in his arms a little closer and bent his lined face close to hers.

  “I never expected to see any of my kin again,” he said, with a voice that trembled. “Much less havin’ Martha Dixon’s daughter run away from home on my account.”

  “It wasn’t, Uncle — all on your account. I was crazy to see the West.”

  “You must have been. Never heard of such a thing. Trampin’ alone an’ stealin’ rides! Jim, what do you think of thet?”

  “Wal, Nick, I reckon I’m loco,” grinned the little man.

  “Come in, Martha. You can tell us all about it,” said her uncle. “Jim, fetch in her packs.”

  “Oh, I mustn’t forget to pay Sim,” cried Martha, running back to the car.

  “I’m tellin’ you, Miss. It won’t be very long till you’re gettin’ all the free rides you want,” said Sim, pocketing his fee.

  Martha’s uncle led her into the house, apologizing for his humble abode, which he had not expected to be graced by such a fair guest. Martha’s quick survey was much at variance with her preconceived idea of the interior of this rude house. She saw a fairly large room, consisting of roughly plastered walls covered with skins and Indian ornaments, guns lying across the horns of a deer head over the open fireplace, a wooden floor, bare except for a couple of Indian rugs, table and oil lamp, an old rocker and a couch. There was only one window, which was large enough to let in the western light.

  “Come in, Mrs. Fenner. See who’s here,” called Bligh through an open door.

  “I been lookin’,” replied a feminine voice, and a little woman hopped in like a bird. She had the brightest of dark eyes shining out from a small face, pleasant despite the havoc wrought by a hard, lonely life.

  “Mrs. Fenner, this is my niece, Martha Ann Dixon,” said Bligh proudly. “Martha, meet Jim’s wife.”

  Greetings had scarcely been exchanged before Martha had taken a liking for this little western woman. Then Jim came in with Martha’s bags.

  “Set down, Martha, an’ make yourself to home,” invited Bligh, as he placed the rocker for her. “Mrs. Fenner, I reckon this room will have to be Martha’s.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t take your living room,” protested the girl.

  “Wal, you’ll have to, ‘cause it’s our only one. It’s got to be fixed up, too. What’ll we need, Mrs. Fenner?”

  “Washstand, mirror, bureau, some pegs to hang clothes on, some more rugs on the floor an’ a curtain for the window,” replied Mrs. Fenner practically.

  “Reckon we can find all but the bureau. We’ll get thet in town. We’ll rustle things pronto...Martha, tell us how in the world you ever got here, alone, an’ in them togs.”

  Whereupon Martha, inspired as well as excited by her glad-eyed, wondering audience, related the pleasantest part of her hitchhiking experience.

  “An’ nothin’ else happened?” ejaculated her uncle.

  “Not much. Tramps tried to rob me and a couple of young men got fresh. But altogether my trip was uneventful.”

  “Nick, it was them eyes,” spoke up Jim Fenner solemnly.

  “No — the good Lord!” added Mrs. Fenner.

  “Wal, she’s here, an’ I say the day of miracles isn’t past...Come, we’ll rustle what we can find to make her comfortable.”

  “But, Uncle, the driver told me that to rustle means to steal,” remonstrated Martha. “Please don’t rustle all those things for me.”

  They laughed and departed in great excitement, plainly bewildered by her unexpected arrival, but undoubtedly happy over it. And that was what made Martha’s heart sing. She began to unpack her luggage, but the unpacking, owing to frequent interruptions, took a long time. At last between the four of them they had the living room most satisfactorily furnished.

  “Wal, thet’s fine,” declared Bligh, viewing the result of their labors. “I’ll send Jim or Andrew into town tomorrow for what else we can think of...Mrs. Fenner, will you fix some lunch for us? Are you hungry, lass?”

  “I’ll say I am!” cried Martha.

  “Wal, it does my eyes good to see you,” replied her uncle, taking her hand. “You look so much like your mother that at first I thought she had come...Child, I don’t know what to say to you.”

  “Don’t scold, Uncle,” she pleaded. “I just had to come.”

  “You ran off?”

  “Yes. I lied to Mother. That hurts terribly. It seems so much worse now.”

  “Have you written her?”

  “Once. I told her I was with a girl friend, whose uncle wanted to take us to the Black Hills.”

  “Your mother will have to know.”

  “Yes — but — but there’s no hurry...Oh, what can I say to her?”

  “Martha, is this a visit you are paying me?”

  “A long one — perhaps forever,” replied Martha Ann, as she looked away.

  “What has hurt you, lass?”

  “Oh, everything.”

  “An unhappy love affair?” he asked, with a grave smile.

  “No. I’m sick of boys and men who keep pestering me...Then I grew to hate the city — the noise, dirt, rush — and being poor. I worked while I went to college — paid my own way — saved a little to come west...Uncle, I didn’t realize till I got to the Black Hills what it was I really wanted and needed. It was change, freedom, loneliness. To be thrown on my own!”

  “How old are you, Martha?”

  “Nineteen last February.”

  “You look younger...Now, my dear, I’m curious to know how a slip of a college girl aims to help a poor old cattleman?”

  “Uncle Nick, wait till you get acquainted with this modern college girl! I shall help you in a thousand ways...Tell me, Uncle, just how are you situated?”

  “Wal, I’ve picked up considerable in health out here. It’s higher country. As for worldly wealth, lass, I have mighty little. Got here with the last thousand head of cattle I saved back at Belle Fourche. I should tell you thet before I left there I corresponded with a cattleman whose range is on the Sweetwater. An’ he induced me to come in on a deal with him — which I’m sorry to say Jim Fenner doesn’t like.”

  “What kind of deal?” queried Martha Ann.

  “I was to furnish stock an’ he would run them with his, savi
n’ me the expense of an outfit.”

  “On what basis?”

  “Equal shares. But when I got out here he bucked. I expected an equal share of his stock, but he claims I was only to get a share of my own thet he’d raise an’ market.”

  “How much stock has this man?”

  “Wal, some less than mine.”

  “I think he drove a sharp bargain.”

  “So do I. Anyway, he now refuses to reconsider the deal. Says he has my agreement in black an’ white. An’ if I don’t agree he’ll take the deal to court.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “McCall. What’s more, he claims thet he has a lien on this homestead. A homesteader named Boseman settled here, but never proved up on his claim. Abandoned the farm, which was homesteaded by other cowmen, who in turn never got a patent on it.”

  “Did you lay out any more for it?”

  “Only on improvements.”

  “How much?”

  “I don’t know. Not much yet.”

  “Then if you have to get off you won’t stand to lose much?”

  “No. But I’ve taken a shine to the place. Spring water has some mineral quality. Good for me. I’d like to stay.”

  “Then you bet we’ll stay,” declared Martha Ann.

  Uncle Nick clapped his hands. “Once in a long while I have a hunch...I just had one.”

  “What is it, Uncle?” asked Martha smilingly.

  “You’ve changed my luck.”

  “Why, of course. What do you think I hitchhiked out here for?”

  “I reckon the Lord sent you. Come to think of it, Martha, I believe he’s rememberin’ my years of toil an’ defeat on the ranges. He has sent me help. This man Jim Fenner is an Arizonian. He threw in with me, not in hope of profit, but because he an’ his wife liked me. They’ve had a hard time since Jim got crippled an’ couldn’t do a regular cowboy’s work. Then a handy man came along — works for his board. Now you come with a modern college girl’s ideas on cattle raisin’!”

  “Uncle, I’m going to run outdoors where I can yell!”

  Martha Ann did run. She ran so fast that she could scarcely see where she was going. Pell-mell she ran around a corner of the barn only to bump so violently into a man that she sat down with a thud. Her hat fell off and her hair cascaded down over her eyes. She put both hands flat on the ground in order to raise herself when the person with whom she had collided uttered a strange exclamation.