by Zane Grey
The stable-boy’s reply to that was to rush off, his boots thudding.
“Enough said,” muttered Wall to himself as he looked round the place for what he required. “Mr. Hays stands well in Green River, as far as this outfit is concerned.”
Wall’s mind was active while he ministered to his horse. It had long been a familiar thing for him to ride into a strange camp or town; and judging men quickly had become a matter of habit, if not self-preservation. Utah, however, was far west and a wilder country than that he had roamed for years. He liked the looks of it, the long reaches of wasteland, the vast bulge and heave of the ranges, the colored walls of stone, the buttes standing alone, and the red and black mystery of the mountains.
“Bay, old boy, you haven’t had a stall for a coon’s age,” he said to his horse. “Enjoy it while you can, for it may not be long.”
When Wall sauntered back the whole west was one magnificent blaze of red and gold. He would have enjoyed being high up on the cliffs behind, just to gaze out toward those Henry Mountains he had seen all day. But the houses and trees blocked that view. Eastward across the river he could discern the speckled slope of yellow that climbed up to the book-cliff wall, now fading in the dusk.
Jim Wall never turned street corners without knowing what was ahead of him. So that before Hank Hays and the two individuals with whom he was talking were aware of his presence he had seen them. They turned at his slow clinking step. Neither of the two with Hays was the man called Red.
“Hullo! here you air,” spoke up Hays. “I was speakin’ of you. Meet Happy Jack an’ Brad Lincoln. . . . Fellers, this stranger to Green River answers to the handle Jim Wall.”
Greetings were exchanged, but not one of the three offered a hand. Their glances meant infinitely more than the casual few words. To Wall the man called Happy Jack fitted his name. The only contradictory feature lay in his guns, which it was not possible to overlook. Like Hank Hays, he packed two. This, however, signified little to Wall. The other, Lincoln, was some one to look at twice — a swarthy, dark, restless-eyed man, who, like Hays and his companion, had nothing of the cowboy stripe in his make-up.
“Let’s have a drink,” suggested Hays.
“Don’t care if I do,” responded Wall. “But I haven’t had anything to eat for two days.”
“Red’s havin’ supper cooked for us,” said Hays, pushing open the door.
The interior, bright with lamplight, proved to be more pretentious than the outside of the saloon. It had a flagstone floor, a bar with garish display of mirrors, paintings of nude women, bottles and glasses. Several roughly clad men were drinking, and ceased talking as Hays and his companion approached. In the back of the big room three cowboys lounged before an open fireplace where some fagots burned. There were several tables, unoccupied except for a man who lay face down on one. From an open door came the savory odor of fried bacon.
The men lined up at the bar, to be served drinks by Red, who was evidently bartender as well as proprietor. Wall missed nothing. Hays took his whisky straight and at a gulp; Happy Jack said, “Here’s lookin’ at you,” and Lincoln sipped lingeringly. Whisky was not one of Wall’s weaknesses; in fact, he could not afford to have any weakness. But he drank on politic occasions, of which this was more than usually one.
“Cow-puncher?” queried Lincoln, who stood next to Wall.
“Yes. But I’ve not ridden the range much of late years,” replied Wall.
“You’ve the cut of it. Where you from?”
“Wyoming.”
“Long ways. Don’t know thet country. Where you aimin’ for?”
“No place in particular,” replied Wall, guardedly. “Might try riding here, if I can get on some outfit.”
“On the dodge?” queried Lincoln, after a pause.
Wall set down his glass and turned to his interrogator. Their glances locked.
“Are you getting personal?” returned Wall, coldly.
“Not at all. I ain’t curious, neither. Just askin’ you.”
“Ahuh. Well, what might you mean by ‘on the dodge’?”
“Anybody particular lookin’ for you?”
“I dare say. More than one man.”
“Are you movin’ along, dodgin’ them?”
“Not them,” retorted Wall, contemptuously.
“So I thought. Friend, you have the cut, the eye, the movement, the hand of a gun-fighter. I happen to know the brand.”
“Yes? Well, if that’s so, I hope it isn’t against me in Utah.”
Here Hays, who had heard this bit of dialogue, interposed both with personal speech.
“Wall, thet’s ag’in’ a man anywhere in the West, generally. So many damn fools wantin’ to try you out! But I reckon it’s a ticket for my outfit.”
“Your outfit,” declared, rather than questioned Wall, as if to corroborate the robber’s direct statement of something definite.
“Shore. Don’t mind Brad. He’s a curious, blunt sort of cuss. Let’s go an’ eat. . . . Feller’s, we’ll see you later.”
Wall followed Hays into a back room, where a buxom woman greeted them heartily and waved them to seats at a table.
“Red’s woman, an’ she shore can cook,” said Hays. “Wal, fall to.”
No more was said during the meal. At its conclusion Jim Wall had to guard himself against the feeling of well-being, resulting from a full stomach.
“Have a cigar?” offered Hays. “They shore come high and scarce out here.”
“Don’t care if I do.”
“Wal, let’s go out an’ talk before we join the other fellers,” suggested Hays. They returned to the big room. It was empty except for Red, who was filling a lamp.
“They’ve all gone down to meet the stage. It’s overdue now.”
“Stage! — From where?”
“West, so set easy,” laughed Hays. “Thet one from East won’t git in till — wal, now, let me see what day this is.”
“Saturday.”
“Wal, so it is. Then next Wednesday. By thet time you won’t be here.”
“No? Where will I be, since you seem to know?”
“You may be in the Garden of Eden, eatin’ peaches,” retorted Hays. “See here, Wall, you’re a testy cuss. Any reason why you can’t be a good feller?”
“Come to think of thet, yes, there is,” returned Wall, thoughtfully.
“All right. Thanks for thet much. I reckon I understand you better. An’ I don’t want to know why,” he said, with deliberation. He kicked the smoldering fire, and picking up a chip, he lighted his cigar, puffing clouds of smoke. “Aahh! Makes me think of a store I used to run in West Virginia, years ago. . . . What were you, Wall, once upon a time?”
Wall laughed musingly. “A country-school teacher once, for a while, before I was twenty.”
“Wal, I’ll be dog-goned! You ain’t serious?” ejaculated Hays, incredulously.
“Yes, I am. It’s funny. I wouldn’t have remembered that before supper.”
“It do beat hell what a man can be, at different times in his life. But I’m concerned with now. An’ I’d like to ask you some questions.”
“Fire away.”
“You didn’t hold it ag’in’ me thet I held up the old geezer at the ferry?”
“No. He was about the stingiest man I ever ran across.”
“All right. Would you have done thet yourself?”
“Possibly.”
“All right. I’d have done it without provocation. Does thet make any particular difference to you?”
“Not any — in particular. It’s none of my business.”
“Wal, make it your business.”
“Hays, you’re beating around the bush,” returned Wall, deliberately. “Come clean with it.”
“I reckoned so,” mused Hays, eying his cigar and flicking off the ashes with a slow finger. Then he veered his gaze to the brightening embers in the fire.
Wall felt that this was the first really unguarded moment Hays had shown,
although he had appeared nothing if not sincere. It somehow defined his status, if not his caliber.
“You said you was broke?” Hays began again.
“I will be when I pay for this night’s lodging.”
“Thet’s on me. I’ll stake you to some money. You’ll want to set in the game with us?”
“Any strings on a loan?”
“Hardly thet. With me, it’s come easy, go easy.”
“Thanks then. I’ll take fifty dollars. That’ll do me until I can get located.”
“Wal, friend, the string is thet I want to locate you.”
CHAPTER 2
“BEND OVER HERE, so I can get your ear,” went on Hays, confidentially, and when Wall had complied he said: “I run true to form today when I held up thet Mormon. But it was a blunder, considerin’ the iron I have in the fire. If he wasn’t a Mormon, I’d feel uncomfortable about thet. . . . Now listen. Lately I’ve got in with a rancher over here in the Henry Mountains. He’s an Englishman with more money than sense. Fact is, he’s rich an’ crazy as a bedbug. It’s beautiful country an’ he got stuck on it. Bought ten thousand head of cattle an’ a lot of hosses. There’s some tough cowboy outfits over there, an’ more’n one real rustler outfit. Wal, this Englishman — his name is Herrick — got the idee of hirin’ all the hands available, cow-punchers, range-riders, gun-toters, an’ plain out-an’-out bad men. An’ to throw this select outfit ag’in’ the whole country. What do you think of the idee?”
“Original, to say the least. But not practical, unless he can reform bad men,” replied Wall, much interested.
“Wal, exactly. But I’m not concerned with the practicability of it. Herrick took a shine to me, made me what he calls his superintendent, an’ sent me off all over, lookin’ for hard-shootin’, hard-ridin’ men. An’ thet’s how you happened to run into me. I call it good luck for us both.”
“You’ve taken me for one of the hard-shooting, hard-riding kind, eh?”
“Shore. I only need to clap eyes on a man. . . . An’ don’t overlook, Wall, thet I’m not askin’ questions.”
“I haven’t missed that. Go on.”
“Wal, I want you in my outfit,” resumed Hays. “Brad didn’t cotton to you, I seen first off. But he’s a gun-thrower himself, a suspicious, jealous, queer sort, as more of them fellers air. He’s done for I don’t know how many ambitious-to-be killers. All the same he’s in my outfit an’ I reckon you might get along. It’s Heeseman who sticks in my craw.”
“Heeseman? Who’s he?”
“You’ll take this as confidence, in case you don’t want to throw in with me?” queried Hays, earnestly.
“Yes. I’ll regard it all that way.”
“Wal, Heeseman is the rustler of Dragon Canyon. None of the ranchers even round here know thet, but I know it. He’s got a small outfit, but shore enough bad. An’ in some way he got wind of Herrick’s scheme. Damn me if he didn’t pack over to Henrys with his outfit an’ start ridin’ fer Herrick.”
“Heeseman saw the same opportunity as you?” queried Wall, quietly.
“Wal, yes, I was comin’ to thet,” resumed Hays, gruffly. “I got the upper hand, though, an’ I’ll be the boss. Thet’ll lead to friction, shore as hell. There’ll be two factions sooner or later, an’ the sooner thet fight comes off the better.”
“I see. Less of a division of spoils.”
“Wall, I’m no rustler,” snapped Hays, annoyed.
“Excuse me. If it isn’t impertinent, may I ask just what you are?”
“Ever hear of Henry Plummer?”
“Can’t remember if I did.”
“Wall, Plummer flourished some ten an’ more years ago, first in Montana an’ later in Idaho. He was the greatest robber the West ever developed. Educated man of good family, born in the East. But the gold fever called an’ he was not the kind of a man to dig. He operated on the placer mines. Was an officer of the law while he was head of the biggest robber gang the frontier ever knew. From Bannock to Lewiston he kept the miners, the stages, the Wells Fargo in terror for years. . . . Wal, I seen Plummer hanged. I was one of his gang, a young man then in years.”
“Thanks for the confidence, Hays,” returned Wall, in surprise. “You must have strong interest in me to tell that.”
“Shore I have. But I don’t care to be classed as a rustler.”
“Too low down, eh — Well, then, what’s your plan with Herrick?”
“It certainly ain’t any two-bit cattle-stealin’. . . . However, thet’s not the point between you an’ me. What I want to know is, will you take a job in my outfit?”
“That depends, Hays,” returned Wall, ponderingly.
“Any scruples about it? Remember, I come clean with you.”
“No. I broke jail in Cheyenne.”
“What was you in for?”
“Shot a man. They were goin’ to hang me.”
“Ahuh. Was thet square?”
“I didn’t think so. . . . Had to kill the jailer to get out.”
“When was all this, Wall?”
“Some years ago.”
“An’ since then?”
“Been shooting my way out of one jam after another. I just couldn’t steer clear. So I’ve come far out West where no one ever heard of me.”
“Much obliged,” replied Hays. “I feel better, now you’ve returned the compliment. I’ve a hunch you haven’t sunk to stealin’. Am I right?”
“Not yet. But I’ve been on the verge often,” replied Wall, bitterly.
“Wal, you’re a hunted man. You’re broke. It’s about where you cross the divide.”
“One more question. What about this Herrick’s family?”
“Wal, he ain’t got any,” rejoined Hays. “We heard somethin’ about a sister comin’ out, but she never turned up.”
“Sister? It’d be a hell of a note if she did.”
“Wal, this shore ain’t no country fer women.”
It seemed to Jim Wall that this sally completed a definite conscious feeling in his mind toward the self-confessed robber. If it had not been dislike and disgust before, it certainly fixed at that now. Wall sensed a gathering interest in the situation he had happened upon. A thirst for adventure had played no small part in the event which had started him on his rolling-stone career.
Hays called for drinks and insisted on a handshake, which he executed solemnly, as if it were a compact which implied honor even among thieves. Shortly afterward the saloon gradually began to fill with loud-voiced, heavily-booted men.
Among them were Happy Jack, Lincoln, and a giant of a man with a russet beard, whom Hays introduced as Montana. He might have been a miner once, but his hand, which he offered agreeably, was too soft to have been lately associated with hard labor.
By tacit acceptance of a situation not vague to Wall, these men kept off to themselves, and were quiet and observing. Brad Lincoln had the hawk eyes of a man who was not going to be surprised.
Jim Wall sat back with interest and a certain enjoyment long unfamiliar. Saloons and gambling-halls were well known to him, from the notorious Dodge City to Kalispel, but he had not seen any like this of Green River, Utah. There was not a typical black-frock-coated gambler present, nor a half-naked dance-hall girl, nor a long-haired four-flush gunman looking for an easy mark to add another notch to his gun.
Cowboys were conspicuous by their absence, although before supper Wall had seen three. Teamsters, prospectors, cattlemen were there to the number of a dozen, and the others, making a score in all, had to remain problematical to Wall’s keen observance. Then a man, undoubtedly a trapper, entered. He wore buckskin and seemed out of place in that crowd. The bartender, Red, did a thriving business, selling only whisky, at four bits a glass.
“Seems to be no lack of money,” observed Wall to the watchful Hays. “Where do they get it?”
“Wal, you’re surprised, I see. So was I. This burg here is a stage stop for points in Utah an’ west. Lots of travel. But there’s big cattle ranges o
ff toward the Henrys. South is most Mormons.”
“I see. But at that bar there are half a dozen men who are not travelers or ranchers or riders.”
“Wal, fer thet matter, all men in these diggin’s have got to be riders. It’s a long way from one waterin’-place to another. But you hit into things at thet. There’s four or five fellers I never seen before.”
“Who’s the tall one, with his hat pulled down, so you can only see his black, pointed beard?”
“Thet’s Morley. Claims to be a rancher. But if he ain’t the boss of the Black Dragon outfit, I’ll eat him.”
“And the loud fellow — the one with the plaid vest. He’s got guns inside that vest, one in each pocket, with the butts pointing out.”
“Hell you say! I hadn’t noticed. His name is Stud somethin’ or other. Seen him before an’ ain’t crazy about him.”
At this juncture the door slammed open, propelled by a vigorous hand, and a stout woman entered with a fierce mien. She had a red shawl tied round her head, and she tramped like a man in heavy boots.
“Sam Butler, you come out of this,” she shouted, peremptorily, to a man in the front rank of drinkers. He detached himself with alacrity from his fellows, and amid their boisterous bantering he sheepishly followed the woman out.
“Now thet’s the kind of a wife I oughta had,” observed Hays, admiringly.
“Let’s play poker.”
“Shore, but not just among ourselves.”
“Got any money, Hank?” asked Happy Jack.
“Did you ever see me broke? Brad, go dig up some suckers. But not thet hombre they call Stud. He didn’t get thet name playin’ solitaire.”
There were only two large gaming-tables, one of which was in use. Lincoln went among the men to solicit players, returning with Morley and the russet-bearded giant, Montana. There was no formality or greeting between Hays and these men. It was dog eat dog, Wall grasped.
“Make it six-handed. Come an’ set in, Wall,” said Hays. “Friendly little game of draw. Sky limit.”
Wall laughed. “I couldn’t play penny ante.”