by Zane Grey
“Ahuh. I had you figgered, Jim,” replied Hays, wagging his head. “Shore Jim Wall ain’t your right handle. Wal, any handle will do out here. . . . Don’t be afraid to tell me about yourself, now or some other time.”
“Thanks, Hank. A man gets to be cautious. A rolling stone gathers no moss.”
“Wal, I’d rather train with enemies than alone. I can’t stand bein’ alone much.”
“That accounts for Lincoln. He rubs you the wrong way, Hank.”
“Brad’s a cross-grained cuss, but he has his good points. They don’t show in times like this.”
Jim had to make conjecture about the times that did bring out a desirable side of Brad Lincoln. And he had his doubts about it. The trail narrowed into rough going, which necessitated single file, and gradual separation of the riders. The morning was bright, cool, beautiful, with air full of sweet smells of sage, which soft gray growth had come down to meet them. Blue jays squalled, mocking-birds sang melodiously; ring-tailed hawks sailed low over the slopes. Deer loped away among the cedars. As there were three riders ahead of Jim, none of whom got off to shoot, it appeared no time for him to do so, either. Star Ranch probably abounded with game. Jim wondered about this new ranch. It would not last long.
They rode into the zone of the foothills, with ever-increasing evidence of fertility. The blue, cloudy color of the still pools of water in rocky beds gave proof of melting snow. But Jim’s view had been restricted for several hours, permitting only occasional glimpses up the gray-black slopes of the Henrys and none at all of the low country.
Therefore Jim was scarcely prepared to come round a corner and out into the open. Stunned by the magnificence of the scene, he would have halted Bay on the spot, but he espied Hays waiting for him ahead, while the others and the pack-animals disappeared round a gray rock-wall bend.
“Wal, pard, this here is Utah,” said Hays, as Jim came up, and his voice held a note of pride. “Now let me set you straight. . . . You see how the foothills step down to the yellow an’ gray. Wal, thet green speck down there is Hankville. It’s about forty miles by trail, closer as a crow flies. An’ thet striped messy pot of hash beyond is the brakes of the Dirty Devil. Reckon a diameter of seventy miles across thet circle wouldn’t be far wrong. Thet’s the country nobody knows. My father told me of a hole in there I’d shore like to see. Wal, where the green begins to climb to them red buttes — there you’re gettin’ out of hell. An’ beyond lays grassy plain after grassy plain, almost to Green River.”
Jim’s silence was eulogy enough. In fact, he could not think of adequate expression.
“Now shift an’ look across the canyon country,” went on Hays, stretching a long arm. “There’s two hundred miles of wind an’ water-worn rock. You see them windin’ threads, sort of black in the gray. Wal, them’s rivers. The Green runs into the Grand to make the Colorado, less’n sixty miles from where you’re sittin’ your hoss. An’ look at the threads meetin’ the Colorado. Canyons! I’ve looked down into Escalante, San Juan, Noki, Piute. But thet was when I rode with my father. I couldn’t take you to one of them places. We heard of great stone bridges spannin’ the canyons, but only the Injuns know of them. . . . Thet round-top mountain way across there is Navajo. An’ now, look, Jim. See thet high, sharp, black line thet makes a horizon, level as a floor. Thet’s Wild Hoss Mesa. It’s seventy-five miles long, not countin’ the slant down from the Henrys. An’ only a few miles across. Canyons on each side. It reaches right out into thet canyon country, which makes our Dirty Devil here look like a Mormon ranch full of irrigation ditches. Nobody knows that country, Jim. Think of thet. My father said only a few Mormons ever got on top of Wild Hoss Mesa. . . . What you think of it?”
“Grand. . . . That’s all, Hank.”
“Ahuh. I’m glad you ain’t like Lincoln. We’ll get somewhere together, Jim. . . . An’ now, comin’ nearer home, there’s the Black Buttes, sometimes called Bears Ears, an’ here’s Gray Bluff — thet wall thet dances toward us from the gray out there. . . . An’ this mess of rocks across the valley is Red Rocks. An’ so on, as you’ll come to know. Round the corner here you can see Herrick’s valley an’ ranch. It’s a bit of rich land thirty miles long an’ half as wide, narrowin’ like a wedge. Now let’s ride on, Jim, an’ have a look at it.”
But Jim elected to stay behind, trying to realize what it was that caused him to stare blankly, to feel his temples throb. Had he ridden half across the wild West to be made to feel like this?
Jim tried to grasp the spectacle that his eyes beheld. But a moment’s sight seemed greater than a thousand years of man’s comprehension. It would take time and intimacy to make this Utah his own. But on the moment he trembled, as if on the verge of something from which he could never retrace his steps. His sensations were not his to control.
Across the mouth of Herrick’s gray-green valley, which opened under the escarpment from which Jim gazed, extended vast level green and black lines of range, one above the other, each projecting farther out into that blue abyss, until Wild Horse Mesa, sublime and isolated in its noonday austerity, formed the last horizon. Its reach seemed incredible, unreal — its call one of exceeding allurement. Where did it point? What lay on the other side? How could its height be attained?
Nearer, and to the left, there showed a colossal space of rock cleavage, walls and cliffs, vague and dim as the blank walls of dreams, until, still closer, they began to take on reality of color, and substance of curve and point. Mesas of red stood up in the sunlight, unscalable, sentinels of that sepulcher of erosion and decay. Wavy benches and terraces, faintly colorful, speckled with black and gray, ran out into the void, to break at the dark threads of river canyons.
All that lay beyond the brakes of the Dirty Devil.
Here was a dropping away of the green-covered mountain foothills and slopes to the ragged, wild rock and clay world, beginning with scarfs of gray wash and rims of gorge and gateways of blue canyons, and augmenting to a region that showed Nature at her most awful, grim and ghastly, tortuous in line, rending in curve, twisting in upheaval, a naked spider-web of the earth, cut and washed into innumerable ridges of monotonous colors, gray, drab, brown, mauve, and intricate passageways of darker colors, mostly purple, mysterious and repelling. Down in there dwelt death for plant, animal, and man. For miles not one green speck! And then far across that havoc of the elements which led on to a boundless region of color — white jagged rents through miles of hummocky ground, and streaked by washes of gray and red and yellow, on to vast green levels, meadow-like at such a distance, which stretched away to the obstructing zigzag wall of stone, the meandering White Bluffs along the base of which Jim had ridden for many days.
“Down in there somewhere this Hank Hays will find his robbers’ roost,” soliloquized Jim, and turned his horse again into the trail.
Before late afternoon of that day Jim Wall had seen as many cattle dotting a verdant, grassy, watered valley as ever he had viewed in the great herds driven up from Texas to Abilene and Dodge, or on the Wind River Range of Wyoming. A rough estimate exceeded ten thousand head. He had taken Hays with a grain of salt. But here was an incomparable range and here were the cattle. No doubt, beyond the timbered bluff across the valley lay another depression like this one, and perhaps there were many extending like spokes of a wheel down from the great hub of the Henry Mountains. But where was the market for this unparalleled range?
Herrick had selected as a site for his home what was undoubtedly the most picturesque point in the valley, if not one that had the most utility for the conducting of a ranch business. Ten miles down from the apex of the valley a pine-wooded bench, almost reaching the dignity of a promontory, projected from the great slope of the mountain. Here, where the pines straggled down, stood the long, low cabin of peeled logs, yellow in the sunlight. Below, on the flat, extended the numerous barns, sheds, corrals. A stream poured off the mountain, white in exposed places, and ran along under the bench, and out to join the main brook of the valley.
Somewhat apart from both the corrals and outbuildings on the flat stood a new log cabin, hurriedly built, with chinks still unfilled. The roof extended out on three sides over wide porches, where Wall observed three or four beds, a number of saddles, and other riders’ paraphernalia. The rear of the cabin backed against the rocks. Jim understood that Hays had thrown up this abode, rather than dwell too close to the other employees of Herrick. From the front porch one could drop a stone into the brook, or fish for trout. The pines trooped down to the edge of the brook.
Naturally, no single place in all that valley could have been utterly devoid of the charm and beauty nature had lavished there, but this situation was ideal for riders. Hays even had a private corral. As Jim rode up to this habitation his quick eye caught sight of curious, still-eyed men on the porch. Also he observed that there was a store of cut wood stowed away under the porch.
“Wal, here we air,” announced Hays. “An’ if you don’t like it you’re shore hard to please. Finest of water, beef, lamb, venison, bear meat. Butter for our biscuits. An’ milk! An’ best of all — not very much work. Haw! Haw!”
“Where do we bunk?” asked Jim, presently.
“On the porch. I took to the attic, myself.”
“If you don’t mind I’ll keep my pack inside, but sleep out under the pines,” responded Wall.
When at length Jim carried his effects up on the porch Hays spoke up: “Jim, here’s the rest of my outfit. . . . Fellers, scrape acquaintance with Jim Wall, late of Wyoming.”
That was all the introduction Hays volunteered. Jim replied: “Howdy” and left a return of their hard scrutiny until some other time.
Hays went at once into low-voiced conference with these four men. Happy Jack hauled up the supplies. Brad Lincoln occupied himself with his pack. Jim brought his own outfit to a far corner of the porch. Then he strolled among the pines, seeking a satisfactory nook to unroll his bed. Jim, from long habit, generated by a decided need for vigilance, preferred to sleep in coverts like a rabbit, or any other animal that required protection. He was not likely to depart from such a habit, certainly not while in the company of Hank Hays and comrades. His swift glance at the four members new to him had not been comprehensive, but it had left a sharply defined impression. Any rancher who would hire this quartet of lean, dark-faced, hard-lipped border-hawks for cowboys was certainly vastly ignorant, if not mentally deranged. Jim was most curious to meet the English rancher.
At length he found a suitable niche between two rocks, one of which was shelving, where pine needles furnished a soft mat underneath, and the murmur of the brook just faintly reached him. Jim would not throw his bed where the noise of rushing water, or anything else, might preclude the service of his keen ears. There was no step on his trail now, but he instinctively distrusted Lincoln, and would undoubtedly distrust one or more of these other men. Hays exemplified the fact of honor among thieves. Jim had come to that conviction. This robber might turn out big in some ways.
CHAPTER 4
NOT UNTIL THE following morning did Jim Wall get a satisfactory scrutiny of the four members of Hays’ outfit.
His first impression was that not one of them had ever been a cowman, which gave their presence there such incongruity. Nor would any of them ever see their thirtieth year again.
Before breakfast, at the table, and afterward, out on the porch, it was give and take between Wall and this quartet. His lot had never been cast with just such men, but he knew how to meet them.
The eldest, who answered to the name of Mac, was a cadaverous-faced man, with a clammy skin and eyes like a ghoul. He was always twisting and squeezing his hands, lean, sinewy, strong members.
“Whar you from?” he had asked Wall.
“Wyoming last,” replied Jim, agreeably.
“An’ before thet, Texas, I’ll gamble.”
“Funny how I’m taken for a Texan, for I’m not. I never was in that state.”
“Not funny atall,” replied the other, with a laugh. “Leastaways not to Smoky hyar. Haw! Haw! You shore have the look of a Texan.”
“Hope that’s not against me here in Utah.”
“Jest contrary, I’d say,” rejoined Mac.
Jeff Bridges, a sturdy, tow-headed man of forty or thereabouts, probably once had been a farmer or a villager. He had a bluff, hearty manner, and seemed not to pry under the surface.
“Glad Hank took you on,” he said. “We need one cattleman in this outfit, an’ that’s no joke.”
Sparrowhawk Latimer, the third of the four, greatly resembled a horse thief Wall had once seen hanged — the same beaked nose, the same small sleek head, the same gimlet eyes of steel.
“Jim Wall, eh, from the Wind River country,” he said. “Been through thar, years ago. Must be populated now. It wasn’t a healthy place then.”
“Lots of ranchers, riders — and sheriffs,” returned Jim, easily. “That’s why I rode on.”
“Wal, them articles is scarce hyar. Utah is wild yet, except over east in the Mormon valleys.”
Hays had said to Slocum, the fourth member of this quartet, “Smoky, you an’ Wall shore ought to make a pair to draw to.”
“You mean a pair to draw on,” retorted the other. He was slight, wiry, freckled of face and hands, with a cast in one of his light, cold-blue eyes.
“Hell, no!” snorted the robber, in a way to fetch a laugh from his men. “Not on! . . . Smoky, do you recollect thet gambler, Stud Smith, who works the stage towns an’ is somethin’ of a gun-slinger?”
“I ain’t forgot him.”
“Wal, we set in a poker game with him one night. I was lucky. Stud took his losin’ to heart, an’ he shore tried to pick a fight. First he was goin’ to draw on me, then shifted to Jim. An’ damn if Jim didn’t bluff him out of throwin’ a gun.”
“How?”
“Jim just said for Stud not to draw, as there wasn’t a man livin’ who could set at a table an’ beat him to a gun.”
“Most obligin’ an’ kind of you, Wall,” remarked Smoky, with sarcasm, as he looked Jim over with unsatisfied eyes. “If you was so all-fired certain of thet, why’d you tip him off?”
“I never shoot a man just because the chance offers,” rejoined Jim, coldly.
There was a subtle intimation in this, probably not lost upon Slocum. The greatest of gunmen were quiet, soft-spoken, sober individuals who never sought quarrels. They were few in number compared with the various types of would-be killers met with on the ranges and in the border towns. Jim knew that his reply would make an enemy, even if Slocum were not instinctively one on sight. There was no help for these things, and self-preservation could scarcely be felt by men like Slocum. Like a weasel he sniffed around Jim.
“You don’t, eh?” he queried. “Wal, I work on the opposite principle. Reckon I’ll live longer. . . . Wall, you strike me unfavorable.”
“Thanks for being honest, if not complimentary,” returned Jim. “I can’t strike everybody favorably, that’s sure.”
Hays swore at his lieutenant. “Unfavorable, huh? Now why the hell do you have to pop up with a dislike for him?”
“I didn’t say it was dislike. Just unfavorable. No offense meant.”
“Aw, buffalo chips!” ejaculated Hays, in disgust. “You can’t be pards with a man who strikes you unfavorable.”
“I have been, up to the limit.”
“Smoky, I won’t have no grudges in this outfit. I’ve got the biggest deal on I ever worked out. There’s got to be harmony among us.”
“Hank, you’re in your dotage. Harmony among a bunch of grown men, all hard, bitter, defeated outlaws? Bah!”
“Smoky, because you’re an outlaw doesn’t make me one, or Happy or Brad or Mac or any other of us, unless Jim here. He hasn’t confided in me yet.”
“I’m no outlaw,” declared Jim, coolly.
“It’s a little matter thet’ll soon be corrected. This Englishman has money enough to fetch the law out on this border. There’s your mistake, H
ank. I’ve been ag’in’ this deal an’ I’ll stay ag’in’ it.”
“Same here,” interposed Lincoln.
“Wal, we don’t agree,” said Hays, calmly. “An’ thet’s nothin’. But Smoky bobbin’ up ag’in’ my new man — thet’s serious. Now let’s lay the cards on the table. . . . Jim, do you want to declare yourself?”
“I’m willing to answer questions — unless they get nasty,” replied Jim, frankly. He had anticipated some such circumstance as this, and really welcomed it.
“Will you tell the truth?” queried Slocum, bluntly.
“I’ll agree to — if I answer at all,” rejoined Jim, slowly.
“How do you size up Hank an’ his outfit?” went on Slocum.
“Well, that was easy, as far as Hank is concerned,” replied Wall, leisurely. “We met at the ferry on Green River. A third party came over with us. Stingy Mormon who swam his horses to save two bits. Hank held him up.”
“Wal, I’ll be jiggered!” ejaculated Slocum. “Right thar in town? An’ a Mormon, too!”
“Smoky, it was a fool thing to do, but I just couldn’t help it,” declared Hays, in exasperation.
“We’ll be huntin’ a roost in the canyons before long,” declared Slocum, derisively. And then he addressed Wall again: “Thet puts another complexion on your showin’ up with Hank. All the same, since we started this, I’d like to ask a couple more questions.”
“Shoot away, Smoky,” rejoined Jim, good-humoredly, as he sensed now less danger of a split.
“You got run out of Wyomin’?”
“No. But if I’d stayed on I’d probably stretched hemp.”
“Rustlin’?”
“No.”
“Hoss-stealin’? Thet hoss of yours is worth stealin’.”
“No.”
“Hold up a stage or somebody?”
“No. Once I helped hold up a bank. That was years ago.”
“Bank robber! You’re out of our class, Jim.”
“Hardly that. It was my first and only crack at a bank. Two of us got away. Then we held up a train — blew open the safe in the express car.”