Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  “Ha, ha!” roared the rancher, rubbing his hands. “That’s funny from Molly Dunn. My dear, if you hadn’t had all the Western qualities I’m tryin’ to inspire in Jim, where would he be now?”

  Even across the room Jim saw her sweet face blanch and her big dark eyes dilate; and these evidences shot an exquisite pleasure and happiness through him.

  “Uncle, I’ll answer that,” he said. “I’d be in the Garden of Eden, eating peaches.”

  “Maybe you would, Jim Traft,” retorted Molly. “A little more bossin’ the Diamond outfit an’ your chances for the Garden of Eden are shore slim.”

  Later, when the ladies had retired, Ring Locke came in with his quiet step and his intent eye. Since Jim’s return from the disastrous failure of the drift fence (so he considered it, in contrast to his uncle’s opinion) and the fight at the cabin below Cottonwood, he had seemed to be in the good graces of this Westerner, Ring Locke, a fact he hugged with great satisfaction. Locke was a keen, strong, and efficient superintendent of the old cattleman’s vast interests.

  “Some mail an’ some news,” he announced, handing a packet of letters to Traft.

  “How’s the weather, Ring?” asked the rancher.

  “Clearin’, I reckon we won’t see any green round Flag till spring.”

  “Early winter, eh? Wal, we got here first...Son, letter for you from home — two. An’ in a lady’s fancy hand. You better look out Molly doesn’t see them...Ring, help yourself to a cigar an’ set down.”

  Jim stared at the first letter. “By gosh! Gloriana has written me at last. It’s coming Christmas, the little devil...And the other from Mother. Fine.”

  “Glory must be growed into quite a girl by now,” remarked his uncle.

  “Quite? Uncle, she’s altogether,” declaring Jim with force.

  “Wal, I hardly remember her, ‘cept as a pretty little kid with curls an’ big eyes. Favoured your mother. She shore wasn’t a Traft.”

  Locke lit a cigar. “Some of the Hash-Knife outfit been in town,” he announced, calmly.

  Jim forgot to open his letters. Old Traft bit at his cigar. “Nerve of ‘em! Who was it, Ring?”

  “Madden and a greaser whose name I’ve forgot, if I ever knowed it. Reckon there was another of the gang in town, but I couldn’t find out who. They bought a lot of supplies an’ left Thursday. I went around to all the stores an’ saloons. Dug up what I could. It wasn’t a lot, but then again it ‘pears interestin’. One in particular. Curly Prentiss swears he saw Madden comin’ out of Bambridge’s, after dark Wednesday, he says. But Curly has had a ruction with his gurl, an’ he’s been drinkin’, I’m sorry to say. That cowboy would be the grandest fellar, if he didn’t drink. Still, drunk or no, Curly has an eye, an’ I reckon he did see Madden.”

  “Funny, his comin’ out of Bambridge’s,” growled Traft, and the bright blue eyes narrowed.

  “Awful funny,” agreed Locke, in a dry tone, which acquainted the listening Jim with the fact that the circumstance was most decidedly not funny. “Anyway, it started me off. An’ the upshot of my nosin’ around was to find out that the Hash-Knife crowd are at Yellow Jacket an’ all of a sudden oncommon interested in you an’ young Jim, an’ the Diamond, an’ Slinger Dunn.”

  “Ahuh. Wal, they’ll be a heap more so by spring,” replied Traft. “Funny about Bambridge.”

  “The Hash-Knife have friends in Flag, you bet, an’ more’n we’d ever guess. Shore, nobody knows our business, onless the cowboys have talked. I’m afraid Bud an’ Curly have bragged. They do when they get to town an’ guzzle a bit. Madden did darn little drinkin’ an’ none ‘cept when he was treated. Another funny thing. He bought all the forty-five calibre shells Babbitt’s had in stock. An’ a heap of the same kind, along with some forty-fours for rifles, at Davis’s. He bought hardware, too. Some new guns. An’ enough grub to feed an outfit for a year.”

  “Winter supplies, I reckon. An’ mebbe the Hash-Knife are in for another war, like the one it started in eighty-two. Ha, ha! ...But it ain’t so funny, after all.”

  “It shore doesn’t look like peaceful ranchin’,” drawled Locke.

  “Damn these low-down outfits, anyway,” growled the rancher. “I fought them when I rode the range years ago, an’ now I’m fightin’ them still. Locke, we’ll be runnin’ eighty thousand head of stock in a year or two.”

  “Eighty thousand! — Then you can afford to lose some,” replied Locke.

  “Humph. I couldn’t lose a calf’s ear to those thievin’ outfits without gettin’ sore. They’ve kept me poor.”

  “Uncle, we appear to have the necessities of life around the ranch. Nice warm fires, and some luxury,” remarked Jim, humorously.

  “Just you wait,” retorted his uncle. “Just you wait! You’ll be a darn sight worse than me, pronto.”

  “Locke, who is this Madden?” asked Jim, quietly, with change of tone.

  “One of Jed Stone’s gang. Hard ridin’, hard drinkin’ and shootin’ hombre. Come up from the border a few years ago. The murder of Wilson, a rancher out of Holbrook, was laid to Madden. But that was only suspicion. In this country you have to catch a man at anythin’ to prove it. Personally, though, I’d take a shot at Madden an’ ask questions afterward.”

  “Tough outfit, Uncle tells me,” went on Jim, reflectively.

  “Boy, the Cibeque was a summer zephyr to thet Hash-Knife outfit. Stone used to be a square-shootin’ cowboy. Rode fer your uncle once. That was before my day here. He’s outlawed now, with crimes on his head. An intelligent, dangerous man. He’s got a Texas gun-fighter in his outfit. Pecos something or other, an’ I reckon he’s ‘most as bad as any of the killers out of Texas. Croak Malloy, though, is Stone’s worst an’ meanest hand. Then, there’s Lang an’ Anderson, who’ve been with him for years.”

  “Is Slinger Dunn the equal of any of these men?” queried Jim.

  “Equal? I reckon. Yes, he’s ahaid of them in some ways,” replied Locke, thoughtfully. “Slinger could beat any one of them to a gun, unless mebbe this Pecos feller. But Slinger is young an’ he has no crimes on his haid. That makes a difference. None of this Hash-Knife outfit could be arrested. They hang together an’ you bet they’ll die with their boots on.”

  “Then we’re in for another fight?” mused Jim, and though he sustained a wonderful thrill — cold as a chill — he did not like the prospect.

  “Traft,” said Locke, turning to the rancher, “strikes me queer that Stone hangs on in this part of Arizona. He’s no fool. He shore knows he can’t last for ever. If the Diamond doesn’t drive him out it’ll break up his outfit. An’ other riders will keep on his track.”

  “Wal, you know, Stone will never be run out of anywhere. But he’s an Arizonian, an’ this range is home, even if it has outlawed him. He’s bitter an’ hard, which is natural enough. Stone ought to be a rich cattleman now. I — I feel sorry for him, an’ that’s why I’ve let Yellow Jacket alone.”

  Jim thought his uncle spoke rather feelingly.

  “Wouldn’t it be better to drive off what stock’s left there an’ let the land go?” went on Locke.

  “Better? Humph! It can’t be done. We’ve got to organise against these rustlin’ outlaws or they’ll grow bolder an’ ruin us. Take that case over in New Mexico when a big cattleman — crooked of course — hired Billy the Kid an’ his outfit to steal cattle, an’ he sold them to the Government. That deal lasted for years. Everybody knew it, except the Government officials. Wal, I’m inclined to think there’s some ranchin’ man backing’ Stone.”

  “Ahuh. I know how you incline, Traft,” returned Locke, dryly. “An’ it’s likely to get us into trouble.”

  “Wal, if Bambridge is buyin’ in our stock we ought to find it out,” said Traft, testily.

  “Suppose your suspicions reach Bambridge’s ear? He might be honest. In any case he’s liable to shoot you. An’ I say this Yellow Jacket isn’t worth the risk.”

  “Ring, I don’t like the man. I suspect him. We’ve
clashed from the first. He was hoppin’ mad when he found out I owned Yellow Jacket an’ had the range rights there. It’ll be interestin’ to see what move he makes.”

  “Like watchin’ a game of checkers,” rejoined Locke, with a laugh. “All right, boss. I’m bound to admit you’ve made some sharp guesses in my days with you. Reckon I’ll go to bed. Good-night.”

  In the silence that succeeded after he had gone, Jim slowly opened the letters he had been idly holding.

  “Uncle, I’m afraid Locke is against this Yellow Jacket deal, especially the Bambridge angle.”

  “Locke is cautious. He hates this sort of thing as much as I do. But what can we do? I take it as my duty to rid Arizona of this particular outfit, an’ I’m goin’ to do it.”

  “Then it isn’t a personal grudge against Bambridge?”

  “Not at all. I shore hope we find out my suspicions are wrong. An’ I’m relyin’ on your Slinger Dunn to find out. He’s the man we need, Jim. I shore appreciate your gettin’ hold of him.”

  Jim spread out one of the letters on his knee and read it.

  “Good heavens!” he ejaculated, blankly. “Son, I hope you’ve no bad news. Who’s the letter from?”

  “Mother,” replied Jim, still blankly.

  “Wal?”

  “Uncle, what do you think? Mother is sending my sister, Gloriana, out here to stay with us a while...Doctor’s orders. Says Gloriana has a weak lung and must live a year or more in a high dry climate...By gosh! Glory is on her way right now!”

  “Wal, wal! I’m shore sorry, Jim. But Arizona will cure her.”

  “Cure!...Cure nothing!” snorted Jim. “Gloriana has no more lung trouble than I have. She’s the healthiest girl alive. It’s just a trick to get her out here.”

  “Wal, I reckon there ain’t no need of tricks. We’ll be darn glad to have her, won’t we?”

  “Uncle, you don’t understand,” replied Jim, in despair.

  “Tell me, then.”

  “Gloriana will upset the ranch, and break the Diamond and drive me crazy.”

  “Haw, haw, haw!”

  “It’s no laughing matter.”

  “But, Jim, you’ve been away from home ‘most a year. Your sister could have failed in health in much less time.”

  “That’s so...Oh, I hope not...Of course, Uncle, I’ll be glad to have her, if she’s really sick. But...”

  “Son, don’t you care for this little sister?”

  “Gosh, Uncle, I love her! That’s the worst of it. I can’t help but love her. Everybody loves her, in spite of the fact she’s a perfect devil.”

  “Humph! How old is Gloriana?”

  “She’s eighteen. No, nearly nineteen.”

  “Wal, the Trafts were all good-lookin’. How does she stack up?”

  “Glory is the prettiest girl you ever saw in all your life.”

  “Shore then it’ll be fine to have her,” replied the rancher. “An’ I’ll tell you what, Jim. When we once get her out heah we’ll keep her.”

  “What?” queried Jim, weakly.

  “We’ll never let her go back again. We’ll marry her to some fine Westerner.”

  Jim felt his turn to laugh. “Ha, ha, ha! ...Uncle, there’s not enough men in Arizona to marry Glory. And I’m afraid not one she’d wipe her feet on.”

  “Sort of stuck up, eh? Thet ain’t a Traft trait.”

  “I wouldn’t say she was stuck up. But she’s certainly no plain everyday Traft, like you and I, or Dad or Mother. She’s not conceited, either. Glory is a puzzle. She changes each moon. I wonder what she’s like now...Jerusalem! Suppose she doesn’t take to Molly!”

  “See heah, young man,” spoke up Traft, gruffly. “Mebbe it’ll be the other way round. Molly mightn’t take to her.”

  “Molly? Why, Uncle, that adorable child would love anybody, if she had half a chance.”

  “Ahuh. Wal, that accounts fer her lovin’ you...Jim, it’ll work out all right. Remember your first tenderfoot days. Would you go back East now to live?”

  “Gosh, no!”

  “Wal, the West will do the same for Gloriana, if she has any red blood. It’ll go tough, until she’s broke in. An’ if she’s a high-steppin’ Easterner, it’ll be all the tougher. But she must have real stuff in her. She’s a Traft, for all you say.”

  “Gloriana May takes after Mother’s side of the family, and some of them are awful.”

  “She’s got to have some Traft in her. An’ we’ll gamble on that. For my part, I’m glad she’s comin’. I hope she burns up the ranch. I’ve been so long without fun and excitement and devilry around heah that I could stand a heap.”

  “Uncle Jim, you’re going to get your desire,” exploded Jim, dramatically. “You’ll see these cowboys walk Spanish and perform like tame bears with rings in their noses. You’ll see the work on the ranch go to smash. The round-ups will be a circus. As for dances — holy smoke! every one of them will be a war!”

  “Wal, I’ll be gol-darned if I wouldn’t like the girl all the more,” declared Traft, stoutly. “These cowpunchers make me awful sick with their love affairs. Any girl will upset them. An’ if Glory is all you say my Gawd, but I’ll enjoy it!...Goodnight, son.”

  Jim slid down in his chair and eyed the fire. “Gosh! It’s a good bet Uncle Jim will be apple-pie for Glory. But if she really loves him, why, I reckon, I’ll be glad. And I might get along with her, in a pinch — But there’s Molly...Heigho! I’d better dig into Glory’s letter.”

  He held it to the dying glow of the fire and read:

  DEAR BROTHER JIM,

  “Don’t let Mother’s letter worry you. I’m not very sick. I’ve planned to start west the day after I mail this letter, so you won’t have time to wire me not to come. I’m just crazy about the West. Your letters have done it, Jim. I’ve devoured them. Dad is so proud of you he almost busts. But Mother thinks it’s terrible. I’m sorry to spring this on you so sudden. I hope you will be glad to see me. It seems ages since you left. You’ll never know your Gloriana May. Expect me on the Western Special, November 7th, and meet me with a bunch of cowboys, a string of horses, and one of those tally-ho things you call a chuck-wagon. I’m starved to death.

  “Love.

  “GLORIANA.”

  Jim read the letter twice and then stared into the fire. “Sounds like Glory, yet somehow it doesn’t...I wonder if she is really ill...Or in any kind of trouble...It was Glory’s affairs with boys that stuck in my craw...Well. November the seventh. By jinks! it’s Monday! What shall I say to Molly?”

  The difficulty, it seemed to Jim, would be serious. Glory was bright and clever. She had graduated from high school at seventeen. She could do ‘most anything well, and had a genius for designing and making modish dresses and bonnets. Molly, on the other hand, was a shy little wood-mouse. She had never had any advantages. Two years at a backwoods school had been all the opportunity for education that had ever come to her. She was exceedingly sensitive about her lack of knowledge and her crudeness. The situation would be a delicate one, for Molly, in her way, was quite as proud as Gloriana was in hers.

  “I’ll trust to Molly’s generous heart and the western bigness of her,” soliloquised Jim. “In the end Glory will love her. That I’ll gamble on.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  NEXT MORNING AS they went out to breakfast, Jim hugged Molly disgracefully in the dark, cold corridor. When Molly escaped into the dining-room a less keen eye than that of the old rancher, who stood back to the blazing-fire, could have made amusing deductions.

  “Mawnin’, Uncle Jim. I — I been chased by a bear,” laughed Molly.

  “Good mornin’, lass. Shore I seen thet...Howdy, son! What do you think of Arizona weather?”

  “Terrible. And you’re sending me to camp out after Thanksgiving!” protested Jim. It seemed to him there was going to be good reason for him to stay in Flagerstown.

  “Wal. Yellow Jacket is five or six thousand feet lower, an’ if it snows it melts right off. Molly can vou
ch for thet. An’ the valley of the Cibeque is higher than Yellow Jacket.”

  “I’ve seen snow every winter I can remember, most up on the Diamond. Down at my home it never lasted a day,” replied Molly.

  “That’s some consolation.”

  “Jim, I think it’s grand. I shore hope you won’t go back on your promise,” said Molly.

  “What promise?”

  “Aboot takin’ me to town in a sleigh, with bells ringin’. An’ snowballin’ me. Oh! I’m shore I’ll love this winter.”

  “Yes, I’ll keep my praise, and I bet you beg for mercy.”

  Jim made good his promise, and when he had Molly bundled in the sleigh beside him, her cheeks like roses and her dark curls flying, he was as proud as she was delighted. Much to his satisfaction, all the young people of Flagerstown appeared to be out sleigh-riding also; and many a girl who had made Jim uncomfortable when he was a tenderfoot saw him now with Molly.

  Jim drove around to the barn, having in mind the latter half of his promise to Molly, which surely she had forgotten. As they went by the big bunk-house Bud Chalfack poked his ruddy cherub face out of the door and yelled, “Hey, boss, thet ain’t fair.” Jim yelled back, “Get yourself a girl, you cowboy.”

  At the barn he handed the reins to a Mexican stable boy, and helped Molly out. Then he led her into the lane toward the ranchhouse. She was paddling along beside him through the deep snow and babbling merrily. When fully out of sight of the hawk-eyed cowboys Jim snatched up a big handful of snow, and seizing Molly he washed her rosy face with it.

  “Jim Traft — you — you—” she sputtered, as he let her go. Then before she could recover her sight and breath he snatched up a double handful of snow and pitched that at her. His aim was true. It burst all over her in a white shower. She screamed, and bending quickly she squeezed a tight little snowball and threw it at Jim. He managed to save his eye, but it struck him on the head. Molly, it appeared, was no mean antagonist. Then fast and furious came the little snowballs. Never a one missed!

  “Hey, you said — you’d never had a snowball fight,” he panted.