Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  “Please, may I drive?” she asked, leaning over the car door on Andrew’s side. He might have refused the spoken solicitation, but the man did not live who could have denied the appealing look in those amber eyes.

  “Why — er — certainly,” stammered Andrew, hastily sliding over to the right side of the front seat.

  Martha threw her little bag upon the seat and got in, and as she manipulated the gears with deft hands, her eyes on the dashboard, she said in a most casual way: “When I ride with a handsome young mari I always like to drive.”

  “Yeah, so I’ve noticed,” Andrew retorted, and looked across the range to the hills. Her remark hinted at the old enmity. But the look in her eyes when she had asked permission to drive remained with him. He pondered over the lovely expression in those amber eyes. Had it been nothing but youthful, thrilling eagerness to drive the car? Any expression in them was bewildering. They were dangerous eyes because they appeared to any poor, asinine, masculine clod to say infinitely more than she obviously meant. Their exquisite light, their strange color, their indescribable loveliness were simply facts of nature, and therefore false. He had seen them blaze with scorn and that had been something to remember. They had been true then. But how much of their play and change and charm had been intended, for instance, that evening when she flirted so outrageously with the callow youth at the hotel? The recollection of that occasion seemed crude and raw to him. As Jim would say, “it stuck in his craw.” But nature could make a woman a flirt when she was absolutely innocent and unconscious of it. Then he groaned inwardly at the realization that he was developing an excuse like this for everything that Martha Ann Dixon had done. All the same the idea persisted, and another formed, haunting and ruthless — an attempt to imagine how perfectly glorious her marvelous eyes would be if motivated by real, unselfish love.

  Martha drove all the way to Split Rock without exchanging another word with Andrew. In town, the moment they stopped, the Glemm girls and their friends claimed her and drove off with her in their car to the rodeo. Andrew felt relieved. If it were not for the serious business he had in mind he would have gone back to the ranch. Bligh learned that McCall had gone to Casper. A few minutes later they took to the road again with Andrew at the wheel.

  The run from the ranch to Split Rock had been short, but this one to Casper seemed endless, although he gave the old engine all it could stand. They arrived about dark. Andrew did not remember very much about Casper. It appeared to be a big town and the main street blazoned a welcome to visitors. They went to two hotels before they could find lodgings. The town was full of visitors, tourists, cowboys, ranchers, with two girls to every man.

  The hotel to which Bligh had taken Sue and Andrew appeared to be a second-class place, full of noisy cowboys. That suited the Easterner, and immediately he was on the qui vive. Bligh took Sue in to supper while Bonning changed his rough garb. When he came downstairs the lobby and lunchroom were crowded with a noisy, jostling, smoking, haranguing lot of cowboys. All were youthful and some had been drinking, though Andrew could not help liking them.

  After supper he sat down beside a plain, weatherbeaten little cattleman and made himself agreeable.

  “Stranger hereabouts?” queried the cattleman casually.

  “Yes, I suppose I am, though I’ve been west a while.”

  “Easterner, I see.”

  “I was. My name is Bonning.”

  “I’m Jeff Little. Reckon you’re here for the rodeo, same as everybody.”

  “Sure am. Never saw one before. Just what is a rodeo, anyhow?”

  “Cowboy circus. Thet’s about all. Casper puts on a good show. But nothin’ compared to Cheyenne or Kalispel. Some professionals here, though.”

  “What are professionals?”

  “Cowboys an’ girls who make their livin’ out of rodeos. Trick riders. There’s some home talent here, though, thet can make any riders go some. I’ve a couple in my own outfit.”

  “Interesting. Where’s your range, Mr. Little?”

  “Down on the Platte River, south of the Pathfinder Reservation. I run the Double X.”

  “How is the cattle business right now?”

  “Perkin’ up. I’m runnin’ about forty thousand head, an’ am not sellin’ this year. Thet’s a hunch.”

  “Forty thousand. You must employ many cowboys?”

  “Only two outfits now, but they’re good. I don’t keep poor riders. Reckon one time or another I’ve hired every puncher in middle Wyomin’ .”

  “Ever hire a redheaded cowboy called Texas something?”

  “Shore have, an’ ain’t likely to forget him. Likable lad, finest of horsemen, wonder with a rope, but unreliable, if you know what I mean. Proud, wild, Texas breed. Never heard his last name. He’s here, by the way. Saw him today. Great fellow for the girls.”

  “Aren’t they all pretty much the same?” inquired Andrew, with a laugh. “Let’s see. There’s another cowboy I heard mentioned over at Split Rock. Smoky something.”

  “Reed. I know him. He rode for me once — about a day,” returned the cattleman, with a brevity that was significant to Andrew.

  “Thanks. I think I’ll go out and look them over,” said Bonning, rising.

  “So you like Wyomin’?”

  “Crazy about it!”

  “Any idea of ranchin’?” queried the older man shrewdly.

  “Well, the idea has occurred to me.”

  “Buy cattle before fall then. In a year you’ll double your money.”

  Andrew strolled thoughtfully out into the street. He was revolving in his mind the fact that out here in the West everything gravitated to him. Back east they had passed him by. If he were going to get into the cattle business this appeared to be the time. He walked down his side of the gaily thronged street and up on the other. One busy place halted him and that was a brilliantly lighted corner store where ice cream, sodas and other refreshments were served. It was being patronized so briskly by young people that he could not get waited on. Then he went into a moving-picture theater where there was standing room only. Tiring of the picture, he left and went back to the hotel to bed. He was honest enough with himself to admit that he felt disappointed at not having seen Martha Dixon. A melancholy and absurd regret was plaguing his spirit, though he knew that if he had not been a fed-up and morbid Easterner, he might have been having a jolly time with that girl.

  In the morning Andrew donned his cowboy duds, except the chaps, and sallied forth to what he had a feeling would be a memorable day. He devoted a few hours to listening and watching on the street and in the stores and hotels. More than one bantering cowboy made his ears tingle, not by some tart or crude words of ridicule, but because he seemed unable to hide the tenderfoot in him. This, however, was more than compensated for by the decidedly roguish and flattering glances which he received from several pretty girls. The town was full of them. In all the store windows were placards advertising the rodeo dance. Andrew kept a keen eye open for three persons — Martha Dixon, Texas and Smoky Reed.

  On the street, in the hotel lobby or at the lunch counter, everywhere that he encountered cowboys he met with the prevailing good-natured western raillery, offensive only in a few instances. He started early for the fair grounds, where the rodeo was to be held.

  A short time afterward, he found himself inside the high fence, free of the noisy crowd and gibing cowboys, holding in his hand a ticket that permitted him to enter any or all contests. The preliminaries were being run off before a half-filled grandstand, and Andrew thought he would get the agony over quickly. At a window to which some one directed him, he made application and presently found himself outside the circular fence bounding the race track. Things were happening right then, but he was told to do this and that, and before he realized it he was climbing into a little pen. To his horror the beast therein was not a horse but a ferocious-looking long-horned steer of a species unfamiliar to Andrew. There was a rope around its body, evidently for the rider to clutch.
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  “Get set, cowboy,” called the guard curtly. “Fork him!”

  Andrew dropped down to straddle the steer, grasped the rope with his hands, squeezed the huge body with his legs and held on desperately. The door slid back, the wild buffalo, or whatever the beast was, bawled and plunged out.

  A tremendous force broke Andrew’s leg hold and flung his feet high in the air. But he held on to the rope to descend with a sickening thud upon the back of the animal. Up he was flung again, like a feather. The spectators roared with glee, and Andrew was sure that they were looking at him. Down and up, down and up, while the infuriated beast ran faster than any horse Andrew had ever ridden. It bounded like a monstrous jack rabbit, all the way down the oval enclosure, to wheel and plunge back again, at every leap flinging Andrew aloft. He long had ceased to come down astride the steer. At last Andrew’s tenacious hold broke and he soared aloft for the last time and then crashed to the turf. The fall jarred his teeth to the roots, but he did not appear to be killed or maimed. To his astonishment the audience gave him unstinted applause. Bonning limped off vowing that his ambitions to be a rodeo star had been completely squelched. At the gate he encountered Jim, who drew him inside.

  “How’d you like thet?” queried the Arizonian mildly. “Man alive! Never again!” panted Andrew, feeling to see if any of his bones were whole.

  “Bust anythin’?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Wal, you needn’t look so flustered. You rode thet steer better’n any puncher I ever seen. Fact! An’ the crowd cheered you.”

  “Quit your kidding, Jim.”

  “Honest. It was funny — the way you rode in, standin’ on your haid. But it ain’t the way you ride thet counts. It’s stickin’ on. I’ll bet you win a prize.”

  “No!”

  “Wal, anyway, Martha Ann is up in the grandstand with a bunch of girls. You should have heerd them squeal.”

  “Okay, Jim. You’re an encouraging chap,” declared Andrew, plainly pleased. “I’d like to take another whack at something.”

  “Wal, we’ll see. Come along here, Andy. I’ve located a striped shirt an’ its on Smoky Reed.”

  He felt his arm swell tight under his companion’s guiding hand. “Yeah,” he said, glancing at the dark, impassive profile of the Arizonian.

  “Lot of punchers over here, waitin’ for their turns an’ watchin’,” explained Jim. “Some of them been lookin’ on red likker too. I reckon you won’t have no trouble gettin’ a rise out of Reed, unless he recognizes you. In thet case you’ll know him, an’ you can brace him pronto. But if he doesn’t know you, then you’ll have to get a rise out of him...There he is. Tall puncher, freckled, towhaided, wearin’ the striped shirt. Strut up an’ down before him an’ the outfit he’s with. I’ll hang back an’ watch.”

  Andrew saw a long shed, open in front, facing the arena and directly next to the circular fence. Horses and cowboys were much in evidence, to men standing mostly in little groups, smoking, talking, laughing. There was a fairly wide aisle between the benches and the fence.

  When he got a close view of the four cowboys Jim had pointed out, Andrew strode toward them. As he did so he felt for his buckskin gloves, to find that he had not removed them from his hands. There was no redheaded cowboy in the quartet. The nearest to him was a mature man, stocky in build, with a round paunch protruding above his belt. The next two were lean, hardfaced youths, and the fourth was the cowboy Jim had described. He appeared to be muscular, but not heavy. His eyes were blue and bold of expression, gleaming from under bushy brows. He had a sallow freckled face somewhat flushed from drink. When Andrew saw the striped gray and black shirt his heart leaped, and he was certain that he recognized it. But recalling Jim’s instructions, he got himself well in hand, and walked past the four men, looking squarely at them. Then he wheeled and came back, this time giving Reed the benefit of a searching glance.

  The cowboy stared at him, but did not wink an eye. If he had associated Andrew in the slightest with the man he had deliberately tried to kill and had left for dead or wounded, he would not have been able to conceal some slight start that would have given him away.

  Nevertheless Andrew felt doggedly sure that he had his man cornered. He was absolutely certain of McCall’s offer, of Texas’ promise to arrange the rustling deal, and of the fact that the two had ridden into the canyon out in the Antelope Hills.

  “Hey, puncher, was you the hombre who jest forked thet steer?” called one of the four.

  “Yes, if it’s any of your damned business,” retorted Andrew. “Trying to kid me, huh?”

  “Not at all. You did fine — fer a Yankee tenderfoot.”

  Andrew glared at the speaker, who was the short stout one of the four. His retort focused the attention of the others upon Andrew, and evidently they at once discovered the aptness of their comrade’s epithet. Bonning proceeded to strut and swagger up and down before them. And they began to make remarks. The tenderfoot pretended to take no heed, but his sharp ears took in everything. Meanwhile, with his object nearly attained, he used his eyes to further good advantage. There was an open space between the grandstand and the shed where the men were standing. Spectators could look right down upon it. To the right stood a refreshment booth before which a crowd was lined up. People were straggling in through the gates. Jim, within ear shot, leaned over the fence watching the preliminary exercises on the rodeo track.

  “Shore he’s a Yankee,” drawled the spokesman of the quartet.

  “Pretty snooty,” said another.

  “Lady killer, I’d say. Swell Stetson, fancy-top boots, buckskin gloves, an’ all.”

  “Swelled-up tenderfoot,” snorted Reed, loud enough for cowboys of other groups to hear. Laughs were immediately forthcoming. Plenty of fun seemed imminent. Only Andrew knew just how much fun there was going to be. Perhaps Jim, standing now back to the fence, had an inkling. A flood of range banter eddied around Andrew’s ears. He gave no sign that he heard, and went on strutting to and fro.

  “Look at that mail-order cowboy!”

  “Ump-umm. He’s a dude-ranch tourist.”

  “Where’d he git thet outfit?”

  “Hey, pretty boy, stop obstructin’ the landscape,” called Reed derisively. “Reckon you’re thet dude tenderfoot who drives the little hitchhikin’ queen around.”

  “Are your remarks addressed to me?” Andrew queried, wheeling. He did not raise his voice, but there was a note in it that stopped the conversation and directed everyone’s attention upon him. A moment of surprised silence ensued. The tenderfoot’s sudden change of front gave the cowboys pause.

  “Shore they was,” replied the older man cheerily. “We was jest pokin’ fun.”

  “Fun, hell! If you didn’t insult me, you sure insulted a lady!”

  “Aw wal, take it thet way if you like,” returned the other, plainly nettled.

  “That’s how I do take it,” snapped Andrew. “Certainly I’m a tenderfoot. An Easterner new to the range. I’m not used to cowboy humor. But I know the difference between fun and insult. And I demand an apology!”

  “Haw! Haw!”

  “Say, dude, shet your loud mouth.”

  Andrew poked a finger in the face of the eldest of the four.

  “One at a time, will you?” he cried. “You seem to be half human. Answer me this. If an eastern tenderfoot called an outfit of Westerners like you — called them some choice names and invited them to swallow it or fight — what would happen?”

  “Wal, I’m afeared the tenderfoot would git mauled jest to beat hell, an’ swallow a lot of dust in the process.”

  “All right, then, listen. You’re a bunch of dirty pack rats! Four lousy cowpunchers! Coyotes, skunks, and all the rest of the range vermin put together. And probably rustlers besides.”

  “Stranger, we’re shore gittin’ an earful,” retorted the eldest, sharply, red as a beet in the face.

  “Do the three of you know the company you keep?” demanded Andrew, scornfully i
ndicating the astounded Smoky Reed, whose slow mind seemed to be assimilating a startling thought.

  “Keepin’ company at rodeos doesn’t mean ridin’ pards, stranger,” parried the other harshly, as the blood left his face.

  “Then the three of you are only vermin, but this striped-shirt hombre is a coward in the bargain. Now you gentlemen of the range are invited to step out, one at a time. Let me see the western stuff you’re made of.”

  “Wal, it’ll only take one of us, you rantin’ dude,” yelped the stout man, and he lunged out.

  Andrew swung a savage right uppercut to the pit of that prominent abdomen. A deep bass sound rumbled out. The victim doubled up and his round face grew distorted, with eyes bulging, and mouth open sucking at air that would not go in. He sank down to his knees convulsively clutching his paunch.

  Swiftly Bonning leaped forward to swing a snakelike left to the gaping mouth of the next cowboy and a right to the breadbasket of the third. Down like tenpins they crashed.

  “Step out, Smoky, you polecat and get yours,” shouted Andrew, and snatching at the striped shirt, he gave the cowboy a powerful pull which propelled him out from under the shed into the open space below the grandstand. Excited yells drew the spectators on that side of the grandstand to the rail.

  “Lay off me, you bruiser! I’m on to you,” harshly rasped out Reed.

  Bonning threw his sombrero aside, and pointed to the angry red bullet mark over his temple.

  “See that, Reed! You did that! You shot me! From behind a bush like the coward you are!”

  The cowboy turned livid and snatched at a gun that was not on him.

  “You dirty low-down calf rustler!” yelled Andrew, in a voice he meant to carry into the stand. “This is no gun-slinging scrap.” Then he charged the cowboy, beat down his defense, slugged him with lefts and rights, knocked him down and dragged him up, and then backing him against the fence landed terrific blows on the already bloody face, and would soon have knocked him out completely but for the interference of some shocked bystanders.