by Zane Grey
The day passed swiftly. Night overtook him before he got back to where he had left his horse. He made camp and relished what was left of his dry sandwiches, leaving one for the next day. What would Jim Fenner and Bligh think of his absence? They would be worried. What would Martha Dixon think? Andrew regretted his impulse, in so far as she had been the cause of it. He slept more warmly that night.
At break of day he rode into the wide entrance of the largest draw he had yet encountered. It actually was the opening of a valley leading up into the hills. Cattle dotted the landscape.
Andrew decided that he ought to watch that gateway during the early morning hours. Returning to a patch of cedars half a mile back along the way he had come, he haltered Zebra in a well-screened shady spot. Then he took his field glasses and rifle and set out on foot.
By the time he had reached the wide draw again the slopes, the range land and mountains had lost their gray mantle to take the color of the sunrise. For his hiding place he selected an outcropping of rocks on the slope nearest his horse, and taking up his position there he swept with his glasses the ten miles of sage slope between the hills and the river. Halfway down the slope he picked up two moving objects.
“Horsemen, by Judas!” he muttered excitedly.
With his naked eye Andrew could scarcely discern the riders. But through the field glasses he watched them approaching at a brisk trot. It was to be expected that he would see cowboys at any time or anywhere on that range. Most of them would be going about their work honestly, which meant that any one of them was innocent until proved guilty. Branding of calves went on daily. And he could not assume that all the calves belonged to Bligh. Not a tenth of them! McCall’s hired rustlers, however, were concentrating on Bligh’s stock simply because there was little risk for them. He had to come upon one of them branding a calf the mother of which wore the N.B. brand. It was a ticklish job, and he revolved slowly in his mind all of Jim’s words of advice.
Meanwhile the riders came on, making straight for the wide canyon entrance. Since both rode horses that camouflaged well against the sage brush, he could not make certain that he would be able to recognize them.
As he watched them through the glasses, he saw the horsemen halt at the edge of the scattered thickets and carefully survey the range between the hills and the river, and on to the north. One of them removed his sombrero, revealing a brightly shining head of flaming red hair and a red face, which could belong only to the cowboy Texas. The other rider wore a black sombrero which hid his face. All that could be noted as distinctive about him was a striped gray and black shirt, plainly visible through the glasses.
After a brief discussion they separated, the rider in the striped shirt taking the left side of the valley, and Texas proceeding to the right. He was the last to disappear. Andrew could hear the cracking of dead branches and the ring of metal on stone. Presently all was quiet again.
“Well, they’re here,” said Andrew to himself, feeling his pulse beating high. “Smoky Reed’s the one in the striped shirt, I’ll gamble. It’s not likely that Texas would take up with another cowboy...They’re both crooked. And now what?”
He answered his own query with immediate action, gaining a higher level without risk of being seen. He slung the field glasses over his shoulder, and moved on, ears alert and eyes roving. Presently he came to the place where the nearest rider had entered the canyon. He quickly picked up the fresh hoof tracks, and started to trail them, conscious of a thrill he had never before felt in his life. He was on the track of a crooked cowboy whom he meant to brand as an outlaw on that range.
He followed the tracks for half an hour before he realized that he was moving too slowly. Becoming bolder he quickened his pace. Before long he heard a distant crash of brush, and the bellow of a cow. But he could not locate either sound. Cattle trooped down the draw but they were mostly steers and yearlings. Andrew crouched behind some brush while they passed. Then he went on. The valley was no longer silent, and that emboldened him. Nevertheless he did not advance without being sure of cover. This needful caution grew more difficult to act upon as he advanced. The open places increased, and the cedars and thickets correspondingly afforded less protection. From before came the sound of water splashing somewhere near over stones.
Suddenly the whip-like crack of a gun rang out. The surprise of it shocked Andrew. Cold sweat exuded from his face. Then he realized that he should have expected it. Reed’s method was to drive the mother of a calf into a thicket or rocky recess, kill her, and then brand the calf.
Andrew stole forward as noiselessly as he could, soon learning that stiff cowboys’ boots were poor adjuncts for a stalk of this nature. Presently across an open patch of grass and beyond some cedars there rose a thin column of blue smoke. Andrew knew that he must hurry if he were going to catch the rustler red-handed, yet he doubted the wisdom of crossing that open place. So he made a detour and then could no longer locate the smoke. He listened. Far across the canyon he could see dust rising, and could hear faint thudding sounds. Texas must be busy over there. On this side there was now comparative silence. The movement of excited cattle did not mean much to Andrew at the moment. But his nostrils were assailed by a pungent odor of burning hair.
He came to a clump of cedars and scrub oaks. All at once against the background of barred light he caught sight of something moving. It was crossing a small sunlit aperture in the foliage. A patch of striped gray and black! At the sight Andrew’s nerves grew tense. He felt that he had been heard, but he had no idea if he had yet been seen. An impulse to shoot flashed over him, difficult to restrain in the heat of that moment.
The next instant dead cedar branches close to his head exploded to scatter their fragments almost in his face. The heavy report of a gun followed. Andrew gasped, and actually ducked when he realized that he had been shot at and narrowly missed by a bullet. Angrily he leveled his Winchester and fired into the midst of the cedar brush where he had seen the gray and black object. The high-powered projectile crashed through the branches and ricocheted off some rocks. The thump of hoofs, the plunging of a horse, either tied or under a strong hand, gave Andrew another location for a target. He sent a bullet spatting through the thicket, and working the lever of the rifle as fast as he could, he shot three more times. Sound of the bullets hitting and glancing afforded him considerable satisfaction. Then he waited with rifle cocked.
Rustlings and crashings, apparently both close at hand and far away, stealthy footsteps and heavy hoof beats — these all confused Andrew, and added to his rage. His determination to close with the man who had tried to kill him caused him to make a precipitate move from behind the tree that had screened him.
He felt something like the snap of a whip above his temple, then a tearing pain, followed by a stunning blow that knocked him against the tree. He sank to his knees. Realizing that he had been hit and aware of hot blood pouring down his cheek, he still knew that he was conscious, that he had the will and the strength to kill his assailant. He waited for him to appear. But the wall of gray-green thicket did not split to emit a man. Instead a rapid crunch of boots, a clink of spur on iron stirrup, a crash in the brush and the pounding clip-clop of hoofs, told Andrew that the cowboy he had been stalking was on his way out of there.
“Thinks he — got me,” grunted Andrew, sinking to a seat. “Maybe he has. Look at the damn blood!”
He took off his sombrero to find that the bullet had gone through the band. It took courage for Andrew to run his forefinger into the wound from which the blood was streaming. For a moment he thought it was all up with Andrew Bonning. Then he found the shallow groove above his ear.
“Close shave, but I’m still kicking,” he muttered grimly. “Smoky Reed, if I ever get my hands on you — good night!”
He folded his scarf and bound the wound tightly. While he was attending to his wound he heard another horse rapidly passing his position over to the right. That would be Texas making himself scarce. Listening until the sounds ha
d ceased, Andrew got up to wipe his bloody hands on the cedar foliage. Then he pushed through the thicket to the open patch of ground from which the rustler had shot at him. A little fire of dead cedar sticks still was burning brightly. A running-iron, still smoking and smelling of scorched hair, lay on the ground. But the calf had disappeared. Andrew’s search beyond the opening in the thicket was rewarded by finding a dead cow with the brand N.B. on her flank.
“Well, I can prove Bligh’s cow was killed, his calf branded, and that I was shot...but no more...I’ll have to look Smoky Reed up, and see if I can make him give himself away.”
Andrew went back for the branding iron, and after cooling it in a pool of water, he hurried down the canyon. At the entrance his search with the field glasses for riders proved unavailing. Soon thereafter he returned to the spot where he had tied Zebra, mounted his horse and headed ranchward. The sick giddiness had left him, and except for a dull throbbing pain, he did not seem to suffer any great inconvenience from his recent experience. As he rode slowly along, the determination to discover his would-be murderer vied in Andrew’s mind with more speculative fancies about how he would be received at home. He had to laugh at his own boyishness. It was the first time he could remember desiring to dramatize himself. But he did remember what he had promised Bligh, and he smiled in anticipation of old Jim’s droll humor over his first experience with a bullet, and he could hardly wait to have Martha Dixon see him ride in all covered with blood.
A hard downhill trail and a horse eager to get home argued well for a quick return to the ranch. But the way was long, the sun hot, and Andrew did not bear up under both as well as he had expected. Evidently he had lost considerable blood. When after three hours of riding he arrived at the ranch he felt that it was not any too soon. He did not stop at the barn, because he knew he was going to fall off, and he wanted to be near the house where he would be seen.
Jim was on the porch, however, and with a call that fetched his wife, Bligh and Martha, he came running out.
“Wal, if you’re not a bloody mess,” he said coolly, striding quickly to the side of Andrew’s horse.
“Andrew! What happened to you?” shouted Bligh, in consternation.
“Somebody took a pot shot at me,” replied Andrew, trying to be nonchalant, but the words were very faint. All sensation seemed to be leaving him from his legs up. As he reeled in the saddle his fading sight registered Martha’s great staring eyes dark with alarm, and as he toppled over he heard her cry as from far off: “Oh...How awful!”
Andrew lost his equilibrium but did not quite lose consciousness. He felt in a dull way that he was being upheld and then laid down on the cool grass. Someone supported his head while cold water was slapped in his face. Then he recovered to hear what was being said, but did not open his eyes.
“Jest a bullet crease,” Jim was saying with evident satisfaction. “Wash it clean an’ tie it up. Reckon he bled a lot, an’ the long ride...”
“Let me drive to town for a doctor,” pleaded Martha Dixon. It was she who was holding his head.
“Wal, thet’s unnecessary trouble an’ expense,” replied the Arizonian. “His hurt ain’t nothin’. He’ll be around tomorrow as usual.”
“I’ll bandage it, Sue,” cried Martha. “First aid is old stuff to me.”
Andrew remained quiet until his wound had been dressed — a procedure both painful and pleasurable — after which he opened his eyes and sat up. Martha and Sue were on their knees beside him, and the men stood by watching. Jim had his rifle out of the saddle sheath, examining it. “Much obliged, folks,” said Andrew. “Guess I went down and out for a little. I’m okay now...Say, you got blood on your hands!”
Martha gazed down at them. “Why, so I have,” she said simply, and rose with averted face to go into the kitchen.
“Andy, you been firin’ this rifle,” said Jim.
“Yes. Three or four times,” replied Andrew, and rose to his feet.
“What at?” queried the other sharply.
“Well, the fellow who shot at me.”
“After he hit you?”
“No. He missed the first time. I saw him move. He was hidden behind brush,” replied Andrew, and briefly related his experience. He kept his suspicions and deductions to himself.
“Wal, thet opens the brawl,” said Jim, dryly, as his eyes narrowed.
“Andrew, you were careless,” interposed Bligh.
“I’m afraid I was, boss. Overanxious. Believe me, I’ve learned a lesson.”
“Jim, things are goin’ from bad to worse,” declared the rancher, gloomily.
“Wal, it’s a way things have.”
“What’ll we do about this?”
“Leave it to Andy an’ me, boss. But stavin’ off McCall — thet’s another matter.”
“What new has come up since I left?” queried Andrew.
“McCall sent word that he wanted his outfit to drive my stock across the Sweetwater to mix with his, as I agreed. I don’t see anythin’ else but to comply with this demand. He has my letter, which is equivalent to a contract.”
“Letter hell! We ain’t goin’ to let McCall have nothin’ .” growled Jim.
“If he hales me into court—”
“It would be most damn disastrous for him, Mr. Bligh,” interposed Andrew quickly. “Let’s rely on Jim’s judgment in this matter...There’s something fishy about McCall.”
“Jim, do you agree with thet?”
“Shore. Somethin’ rotten — fishy.”
“I had a hunch, myself.”
“Boss, you’re goin’ to take Martha to the rodeo. McCall will be there. Call his bluff. Tell him the deal doesn’t look good to you no more an’ you won’t go through with it.”
“But man, I can’t go into court now,” protested Bligh. “You won’t never have to go to court.”
“McCall says he has hired a new outfit, built a cabin over on Willow Creek, trucked lumber an’ supplies in. He has a comeback at me.”
“Wal, we have one on him, an’ a hell of a good one.”
“Then we’ll take the bull by the horns.”
Soon after that Andrew was called to supper. Since his departure two days before the dining table had been moved out onto the back porch, where all Bligh’s household were to eat together. During supper Andrew began to feel that his status with Martha Dixon had changed somewhat. She was a disturbing presence at any time, but now that she seemed no longer angry with him, he could see complications ahead.
After supper Jim found him on the front porch of his cabin.
“What’s on your mind, son?”
“Martha Ann Dixon,” replied Andrew, truthfully.
“Wal, thet’s fine an’ shore sarves you right. But I mean about this deal you had in the hills. You didn’t tell Bligh an’ me all of it.”
“No. I thought I’d better not. But I’ll tell you, Jim.” And Andrew recounted the entire adventure in detail, and ended the account with his own deductions.
“Wal, whoever thet cowpuncher was, he shore figgered he’d done for you. An’ if you can face him sudden-like, surprise him, he’ll give himself away, if he recognizes you.”
“Jim, that is my angle. I know it’s Smoky Reed.”
“Ahuh. But no proof except the striped shirt. There might be two cowboys wearin’ thet brand. Anyway, it’s a good clue, thet an’ the Brandin’ iron. What you goin’ to do if you identify him?”
“Old-timer, I’ll incapacitate that cowboy for some time to come.”
“Sounds good — thet word, but I don’t savvy it...Andy, whoever this hombre is, he’ll be with his outfit. They’ll be mean. They’ll kid the pants off you. Razz you in front of the girls. Cowboys are death on tenderfeet. You’ll have to take a crack at ridin’ somethin’ in the rodeo. An’ thet’ll give them a chance to humiliate you still more. But it’ll give you a chance, too — to get sore.”
“Don’t need it, Jim. I’m sore now — at any outfit that Mr. Striped Shirt rides for.”
“Okay.”
“Andy, was you skeered out there in the hills — when you heerd thet bullet?”
“I’ll say I was. Scared stiff,” declared Andrew, with a short laugh.
“Are you goin’ to be thet way when you meet this outfit at the rodeo?” asked Jim curiously.
“Will they be packing guns?”
“No. Thet ain’t allowed at rodeos.”
“Then I’ll simply be delighted.”
“Humph! I don’t figger you, son. It shore ain’t no cinch to buck up agin an outfit of mean cowpunchers.”
“Jim, out here on the range, on a horse, or alone in the hills I’m not of much account,” returned Andrew. “But flat on my feet — facing a bunch of unarmed men — well, that’s different. I may say I’ve often held my own in a husky crowd. Ha!”
“Ahuh, You have? Wal, I ain’t never seen a puncher yet who could pitch a hundred pound sack of oats around like you can. I’m gonna be there when you meet up with thet outfit, I’ll get a man to take my place here for a couple of days. But don’t tell the boss.”
On the following day Andrew felt very little the worse for his creased skull, and ten days later he dispensed with the bandage over his temple. If anyone had been particularly interested in the young man’s movements these several days, they would have discovered something unusual for a ranch. He had filled a small burlap bag with sand and had hung it up about face high from a rafter in the barn. Then he put on his buckskin riding gloves and proceeded to punch that bag. When he hit the bag it gave forth a sodden sound.
“Not so bad!” he muttered, at the end of his last workout, which was on the morning Bligh asked him to drive the car to town.
Martha was the last to come out of the house. That was one of her failings, Andrew had long ago observed. She just could not be on time. But when she appeared she looked bewitching in a trim blue dress she had made herself. Her shapely legs were bare, except for socks rolled down over flat-heeled shoes. She had apparently given up wearing hats. Andrew turned away his eyes. This young lady was getting surprisingly on his nerves.