by Zane Grey
“Jim! Sue! Rustle out here,” shouted Bligh, as Andrew halted. “My Gawd, boy, don’t say she’s bad hurt.”
“She had a spill. Sprained her ankle. But she’ll go to the dance next week...Here. Easy now. She’s a pretty hefty little armful.”
As Andrew handed her down to eager arms he had a last look at her white strained face and great eyes, dark with emotion, as she turned her eyes away from his. They haunted him all the way back to the draw where he returned to fetch her boot.
CHAPTER VIII
TRAINING FOR COLLEGE football had been mild compared to the strenuous exactions of Andrew’s ranch work.
Digging post holes, building fences, repairing barns and corrals, piping water down from the hills, and innumerable odd jobs fell to Andrew’s lot aside from the work on his cabin. There were hours in the saddle and an occasional trip to town in the truck or car. His labors began at dawn and ended long after dark.
For the past few weeks his portion had been blistered hands, sunburned face and aching muscles. He thinned down to one hundred and seventy pounds, which was considerably less than the weight his football coaches had allowed him. Steady hard toil with his hands was something entirely new to Andrew. In the first stages sheer physical discomfort, then actual pain and fatigue that dragged him to bed heavy as a log, could not be denied. In spite of the unaccustomed toil he remained cheerful and to all outward appearances indifferent to the hardships.
But it was the actual range-riding, all day and every day under the hot sun, or facing dust or hail or rain, that put him to the crucial test. A stock saddle was a new contrivance to him; and to keep on riding when he wanted to rest was surely the hardest physical ordeal that he had ever met. When hot midsummer arrived Andrew had to hunt the cattle up in the foothills. Sometimes Jim rode with him, and they would lie out over night in the cedars, or out under the stars. That first week of torture in the saddle sweated and bled all the softness and the indolence, and most of the morbidity, out of Andrew Bonning. He had welcomed the trial; never for a single moment had he quit. From the very first he had sensed something vastly heating in this elemental contact, in this driving of spirit and flesh. He just kept on without thinking much about it, realizing that some distant day he would be made over.
In due time Andrew grew hard and strong and enduring. The day came when he awoke to the fact that joy in action and labor had imperceptibly come to him. Happiness still held aloof; often a strange melancholy lay on his spirit like a mantle; and sometimes his old bitter, mocking self returned, though less and less often. Martha Dixon could still rouse that almost forgotten self in many baffling and humiliating ways. When he was out on the range, where he could not see her as she puttered around, planting flowers, feeding the stock that she had adopted as pets, riding the horses, doing everything imaginable — even to standing like a statue to watch the sunset — then he seemed free of his old somber self. Also it had no place in a man’s mind while out in the open. There were the elemental things for man to combat, the inherited instinct for action without introspection. Martha Dixon did not belong in the West any more than he, and he doubted her complete assimilation. Yet she appeared the gayest, happiest girl he had ever seen. On Sundays the cowboys rode in, more and more each Sabbath. Andrew had to admit that she had handled the situation in a different fashion than he had anticipated.
Andrew knew the West had claimed him. Still he had not faced that realization yet. It was too good to be true. He had expected to find work, to wander from place to place until he was settled, but to fit in as he had, to love the open, the solitude, and particularly the man’s game of wrenching home and competence from wild nature — this had been a revelation to him. And in it he was going to become completely absorbed.
This range had once supported millions of buffalo. It could never be cultivated, except along the waterways and around the spring holes. It would support cattle and horses, in which he calculated man would always find use and profit. There would never be any radical change in the level reaches, in the rolling ridges, the black and gray foothills, the vast purple hollow of sage and grass, in the white-tipped barrier of the mountains. What inexplicable comfort he derived from this assurance!
“Andy, where was you ridin’ yestiddy?” queried the Arizonian one morning.
“South. Along the foothills to Stone Tank.”
“No wonder I didn’t run acrost you. Reckon you seen some of our stock?”
“Yes, a good many. Branded three calves. Cows getting wild. Saw a lot of Triangle X and Cross Bar stock.”
“See any riders?”
“No, and I didn’t pick up any tracks.”
“Wal, I had better luck, or wuss, accordin’ to how we take it. I rode west along the river, haided the creek thet runs in about ten miles down, an’ then struck for the west end of the Antelope Hills. Must have rid nigh unto thirty miles. Rough and brushy in the draws. Lots of water an’ grass. Reckon I seen two thousand haid of cattle. Located three daid cows by watchin’ the buzzards. Thet’s our best bet, Andy. You gotta have sharp eyes, though.”
“Dead cows?” repeated Andrew. “Dead from what?”
“Lead slugs, son. What’d you expect? I cut one bullet out. Forty-five, I reckon. Gave it to the boss. He hit the roof. He’s touchy these days, with McCall pressin’ him.”
“Jim, then — it’s begun?”
“Begun! Why, cowboy, it’s been goin’ on for weeks. I’ll bet we’ve lost a hundred calves. An’ thet means the same number of cows.”
“Two hundred head!” cried Andrew, shocked by the Arizonian’s estimate.
“Wal, it’s a hell of a big country. Our stock is scattered all over, same as thet of the other outfits. We couldn’t keep track of them if we had a dozen riders. I found where some slick hombre had buried the ashes of his brandin’ fire. Trailed him half a mile, then lost the tracks. I’ve a hunch he tied up those calves in the brush an’ drove them away after dark.”
“Where would he drive them?”
“Ask me an easy one. Across the river, mebbe, or around in some canyon where there were cows wearin’ the brand he was burnin’ or possibly to some far part of the range. We’re helpless unless we can ketch him at it. An’ then if there’s more’n one rustler operatin’...Aw, hell, it ain’t no cinch, as I heerd Martha say.”
“Jim, locate me out there. Give me a landmark,” said Andrew eagerly.
“Wal, jest make for the west end of the Antelope Hills. Anywhere up them draws. I reckon on the south side we’ll have our eyes opened. But thet’s purty far. You’ll have to lay out all night.”
“I’ll be glad to! Will you come?”
“Can’t today. Mebbe I’ll meet you out there tomorrow. Keep yore eyes peeled, Bonnin’. You want to see these hombres first an’ hold ’em up. Otherwise — wall, you mightn’t come back. Two cowpunchers was shot last spring, an’ one’s still missin’. Blamed on bandits. But I’m doubtful of thet. You look sharp. I hadn’t ought to let you go alone, but the boss needs me here.”
“Don’t worry, Jim, I’ll be careful,” replied Andrew, and turning toward the kitchen he saw Martha Dixon standing in the doorway. Something about her eyes told him she had heard what Jim had said. It pleased Andrew. Her wonderful eyes had fooled him often, but he felt certain that he saw in them now a fleeting look of apprehension.
“Morning. Is Mrs. Sue here? I could use a little grub,” said Andrew, briskly, as he moved closer to the girl. “She’s house-cleaning.”
Andrew noted then that Martha’s sleeves were rolled high over slender round arms. Her hands were white with flour. She wore a colored gingham apron which did not entirely conceal her shapeliness. A golden tan had now replaced the sunburn of her face. Her golden hair waved rebelliously. He could not look at her saucy mouth without remembering the kiss he had stolen, and which had left him ashamed and troubled.
“What are you doing?” he queried brusquely.
“Mixing dough.”
“Dough tell?”
he said with a grin.
“Can’t you ever come near me without saying something mean?”
“Martha Dixon, you get me wrong. You always do...I was surprised, of course, to see flour on your hands. But I didn’t mean to be mean. I was even trying to be funny. It flashed over me what a distractingly pretty little wife you’ll make some cowboy — maybe.”
“Indeed!” she retorted mockingly. But a blush mantled her neck and cheek.
“Would you be good enough to fix me up some sandwiches?” he asked.
“Certainly,” she answered, and went into the kitchen.
Andrew stepped inside and sat down. Martha paid no attention to him, and he watched her in silence, sure of only one thing — that she was decidedly pleasing to look at. He made up his mind then and there never to say another mean thing to her. Presently she turned to hand him a small package wrapped in brown paper.
“Thank you,” he said, rising, and made as if to go. But he did not. “How’s your ankle?”
“Most well.”
“Well enough to dance — at the rodeo?”
“Oh, yes.” She seemed detached, and the absence of her usual spirit and excitement impressed Andrew acutely. Yet he admitted his inconsistency. It was certainly ridiculous of him to disapprove of her, doubt her, insult her, and then feel peevish because she did not act as though she enjoyed being in his presence.
“If I go, will you dance with me?” he found himself asking, outwardly cool and nonchalant, but inwardly uncertain and fearful.
“Do you dance?” she inquired, as though in great surprise.
“Of course I do.”
“I rather imagined that you would think dancing immoral.”
“Do you take me for a prissy reformer?”
“I take you for a mid-Victorian.”
“Well, that’s better than being a modern lounge lizard...You haven’t said you would dance with me?”
“No.”
“Oh, all right...I asked you — anyhow,” he replied lamely, and went out. His unpremeditated friendly overture had been rebuffed. It made him smart. Still for some occult reason beyond his ken he was glad that he had unbent as far as he had. When he came out of the corral with his horse a few minutes later he glanced back at the house and felt sure that he saw her peeping from behind the window curtain. That was a queer thing for her to do when she despised him so cordially. He ruminated over it. Perhaps she was just curious about his trip — from which he might not return! That prompted him to shout to Jim, who had come out with Bligh.
“Hey, Jim, I’ll be back tomorrow night sure unless something unexpected happens.”
At the moment he had a juvenile impulse to stay out another night, just to frighten Martha Dixon. However, he doubted that she would even notice that he was away. He mounted and rode away toward the west.
He took the river trail, a hard-packed cattle thoroughfare that wound through the cottonwoods and out into the open. Andrew had long since learned to know his horse, and liked him better every day. He was a bay with white spots and bars. Andrew changed the cowboy name of Slats to Zebra. It had required a little time for him to find out that Zebra was fast, tireless, spirited yet tractable under a gentle hand, and that he was what the former owner had called a single-footer.
As he rode along, thoughts of the girl, and her strange attraction for him, gradually gave place to more tangible things — his horse, the river, the fragrance of sage, the long swelling slope up to the Antelope Hills, and the vigilant search for moving objects. Rabbits, coyotes, deer crossed his vision. For Andrew, in a ride like this, the absorbing fascination of it and his intense eagerness to practice what he had learned from the Arizonian, seemed to make the hours fly. Always the sense of bigness, of openness came first, then the tremendous force of the range as a thing to be conquered. This horse, this range, this wildness was a job; and always before he had been a failure. Now he was on his mettle, and he must win.
By mid-afternoon Andrew had reached the foothills at the west end of the range. Down between them, opening wide and choked with rocks and cedars, ran draws that were almost as deep as canyons. They were dry as dust and hot, despite the breeze from the heights. Far up these draws water remained in pockets in the rocky stream beds. Cattle trails threaded the maze of narrow deer trails zigzagging through the brush up the slopes. White bleached grass stood knee high in the aisles and glades, while under the shade of the trees, the grass was still green. The air was fragrant, a tangy mixture of dry sage, dry cedars and the hot earth.
Andrew penetrated to a grassy glade where a thin ribbon of water ran down a shallow gully, forming shallow pools here and there. He unsaddled and hobbled his horse, hung his canteen and food on a branch and, rifle in hand, took to the trails.
It occurred to him that he was proceeding with almost ridiculous caution. But since that was the order he had given himself he kept to it, peering, listening, smelling, sensing — using all of the faculties he had learned to use. Whenever he came to a patch of sand or bare earth, or a dusty length of trail, he searched for tracks. And old tracks, which he had learned to know on sight, did not interest him. Fresh signs of cattle did, however, and soon he heard rustlings in the brush, the bawling of calves and the lowing of cows. As the afternoon was very quiet he sat down often to listen, rifle in hand. The several horse tracks he found were old and had been made by unshod animals.
From time to time he arose to steal on up the draw, which became wilder and rougher as he progressed. It surprised him to find how wild the cattle were. He would come upon a group standing on guard like listening deer, and as soon as they espied him they would gallop off, crashing through the brush. And presently it occurred to him that if there were any cattle thieves working this canyon they surely would be forewarned and be able to slip away. A better plan might be to hide at the entrance to one of these wide draws and wait.
Zebra was quietly grazing, yet scented or heard him. For he threw up his fine head to look. Andrew approached him with keen appreciation of what a horse could be to a man in the open. He ought to have a dog, too. Twilight was stealing into the glade and the air was turning cold. An abundance of firewood, however, assured him that he could make a comfortable night of it. First he cut some armloads of cedar boughs for a bed; then he collected a store of dead wood and started a fire. By this time darkness had set in. With his rifle at hand, and his saddle blankets for a seat, he sat down and opened the package of food Martha Dixon had put up for him. He had tied it up in his slicker. Opening it, he was more than surprised to discover its generous contents. Where had his eyes been while that girl had packed this food for him? Where? He shook his head dubiously: “I’m skating on thin ice. Character in a woman has nothing to do with what a man falls for,” he muttered. “Well! I’ll be jiggered!”
Evidently Martha had taken him for a dude tourist. He had asked for sandwiches. In addition, she had supplied cake, pie, cheese and lastly, wrapped in a small packet which he nearly missed, a single lump of sugar. Sugar! She might as well have included apple sauce or caviar. Sweets to the sweet!
This discovery, however, did not keep Andrew from enjoying his supper. When he had finished eating he drew his saddle up for a back rest, and made himself comfortable before the fire.
As he sat there, watching the glow of the embers and the last ruddy flames, it was hard for him to realize that only a few months ago, all of this would have been impossible. The night was black, the sky overcast, the silence oppressive. After a while the wild ki-yiing of a coyote accentuated the loneliness of the wilderness. This little scene of a lone rider and his horse, a campfire in the hills had been enacted there many, many times for years on end. The Indian, the padre, the courriere des bois, the trapper, the explorer, the gold digger, the frontiersman, the soldier, the hunter, the pioneer, the cattleman, the cowboy, the rustler and bandit and outlaw — all of these alone, and with their kind, had sat by a campfire in the wilderness. That lonely scene had been epochal in the history of the West.
As he sat there watching the embers, he knew that he had never been meant for the crowd, for work in an office, for gambling in business deals with men. Peace hovered somewhere near him.
He lay down to sleep with one blanket underneath, the other over him, his feet to the replenished fire, and his head pillowed on his saddle. He lay down expecting to stay awake for hours only to find his eyelids grow heavy, his body grow still, his thoughts fade. When he awakened, chilled to the marrow, the fire was dead. He rebuilt it, warmed his hands and feet and his back, then went to sleep again. Gray cold dawn saw him stirring.
Leading his horse, he walked down to the open slope and then kept to the edge of the cedars along the base of the hills. He passed several draws where cattle were grazing.
Sunrise was lost to Andrew because he had gotten around to the western side of the hills. But the glory and color now were spreading across the vast prairie leading to the mountains. Something to be conquered — this range land! That was how it affected Andrew. To endure it, to fight it, to live by it — what a man’s game!
Coming to another canyon with rugged slopes, he entered it far enough to hide his horse in a thicket, and then continued on foot. First he spent hours high up on a bank watching the gray slope down to the river. During this vigil he counted more than a hundred cattle, near and far. Then he went down to explore the canyon. The sight of lowing cows with full milk bags, dripping udders, and no calves filled him with deep anger. Manifestly here was the work of Smoky Reed or one of his henchmen. When Andrew came upon the remains of a little branding fire, he felt of the ashes, but they were cold. Between this point and the head of the draw he found three more such signs. Allowing for the very small amount of the actual acreage he could cover, he estimated that the brander of calves had done well there. But what he did with the calves was a question. Ranchers had spring and fall roundups when each collected all stock wearing his brand. The game puzzled Andrew and roused him thoroughly. He saw but few of Bligh’s cattle, and did not find a single dead cow nor a horse track.