by Zane Grey
Jim solemnly regarded the prostrate cowboy, while poising aloft the clenched mace of retribution. Bud’s true spirit flashed out. In his code of honour he had not transgressed. But Jim did not like the familiarity with which the boys bandied about Gloriana’s charms. It was absolutely inevitable, it was Western and there was not any harm in it; nevertheless, he was inconsistent enough to see the humour of it and still resent.
Suddenly an idea occurred to Jim and in an instant he accepted it as a way of escape out of the dilemma. He certainly had not intended to strike Bud, unless there was real offence. He released the cowboy and got up.
“Bud, you are hopeless,” he said, with pretence of sorrow and resignation. “No use to beat you! That’d be no adequate punishment. I’ll make you an example...I’ll tell Glory what you said about her!”
“Aw — Boss!” gasped Bud.
“I shall, Bud Chalfack. Then we’ll see where you get off.”
“But, Jim, for Gawd’s sake, think! You’d have to tell her Curly punched me for it. Then I’d be wuss’n a coyote an’ he’d be a hero. Thet’d be orful, Jim, an’ you jest cain’t be so mean.”
“Curly never talked exactly that same way about Gloriana, did he?”
“No, I never heerd him, but I reckon he thinks it, an’ more’n thet, too, you bet.”
“Bud, if you admire a girl and must gab about her, why not confine yourself to her eyes, her hair, or mouth? Couldn’t you be satisfied to say her eyes were like wells of midnight, her hair spun gold, and her lips sweet as red cherries?”
“Hell yes, I could. But I never swallered no dictionary. An’ dog-gone-it, any bootiful girl has more’n eyes an’ hair an’ lips, hasn’t she?”
“Nevertheless, I shall tell Gloriana,” returned Jim, inexorably.
“Boss, I’ll take the beatin’,” implored Bud.
“No, you won’t, Bud. You’ll take your medicine. And pretty soon, too. We’re all going back to Flag for Christmas. Jed Stone agreed to get off Yellow Jacket and that leaves us free, for the present, anyway.”
“Whoop-ee!” yelled the outfit, in a united chorus.
Only Bud was not radiant. “I’ll get drunk an’ disgrace the outfit,” he avowed.
“Listen, men, and tell me what you make of this deal,” said Jim, and seating himself on a pack while the cowboys gathered around, he began a detailed account of his visit to the Hash-Knife outfit. He took longer than usual in the telling of an incident, because he wanted to be specific and not to omit a single impression. When he had finished there was a blank silence, rather perturbing. At length Slinger Dunn broke it:
“My Gawd! Boss, you’re as good as daid!” he ejaculated, with the only expression of concern Jim had ever seen on his dark impressive face.
Curly Prentiss broke out: “Jim! You’ve slugged the dangerousest gunman in Arizona!”
One by one the others vented similar opinions, until only Bud was left to express himself.
“Boss, you’re a tenderfoot, same as when you come West,” declared that worthy. “You cain’t be trusted with a job like thet. Didn’t I ast to go? Didn’t I tell you to take Curly? You dod-blasted jackass! Now you’ve played hell!”
“So it appears,” returned Jim, sober-faced.
“If you’d only shot Malloy when you had the chanct,” said Slinger, moodily.
“But I didn’t pack a gun,” expostulated Jim, “I went unarmed so that I couldn’t shoot anybody.”
“Wal, Boss, you shore made another mistake,” spoke up Curly. “Jed Stone is square. He’ll keep his word. But he’s only the brains of the Hash-Knife. Croak Malloy haids the gun end of thet outfit. An’ if he doesn’t shoot up Arizona now, I’ll miss my guess.”
“Well, it’s too late. I’m sorry. I sure was mad. And I’d have slammed that dirty little rat around if it was the last thing on earth...But let’s get our heads together. What’ll we do? Slinger, you talk first.”
“Better lay low an’ wait while I watch the trails. Jed will go, but he might go alone. An’ I’m shore tellin’ you if he goes alone the Hash-Knife will be ten times wuss’n ever.”
“I reckon he’ll get off Yellow Jacket an’ persuade the outfit to follow,” said Curly. “Stone is a persuasive cuss, I’ve heahed men say. An’ Yellow Jacket is cleaned out of cattle. They’ve made way with your Diamond stock, Jim, an’ once more you’re a poor cowboy. Haw haw!”
“They’re welcome to my stock, if they only vamoose,” returned Jim, fervently.
“Boss, they shore ain’t welcome to the half of thet stock you gave me,” declared Dunn, darkly. “I was pore, an’ all of a sudden I felt rich. An’ now—”
“Slinger, you still have your half interest in what cattle are left and what I’ll drive in,” replied Jim. “My uncle won’t see us left stripped.”
“Wal, thet’s different,” said Slinger, brightening.
“You stay off the war-path, you darned redskin,” interposed Curly. “We’re shore goin’ to need you...Now, Boss, heah’s the deal in a nutshell, as I see it. An’ I know these rustlin’ outfits. Jed Stone will change his base. But he won’t get out of the brakes. There’s rich pickin’ on the range below. The Hash-Knife will hide down heah, an’ then go to operatin’ big an’ bold. Stone will throw thet outfit down or I don’t read the signs correct. An’ as Slinger says, then the Hash-Knife will be worse. Somebody will have to kill Malloy or we cain’t do any ranchin’ in these parts. Shore everythin’ will be quiet till spring.”
Jim maintained a long, thoughtful silence. He respected Curly Prentiss’s judgement, and could not recall an instance when it had been wrong. Curly was young, but old in range wisdom. Then his intelligence and education were far above that of the average cowboy.
“Very well,” finally said Jim. “We’ll stick close to camp, with two guards out day and night. Slinger will watch the Hash-Knife gang and report. So until then I guess we’ll have to play mumblypeg.”
Two lazy idle yet watchful days passed. Slinger did not return until long after dark of the second day, so long that it took persuasion by Curly to allay Jim’s anxiety. Slinger came in with Uphill Frost, who had been on guard down the trail and who had missed the supper hour.
“The Hash-Knife gang is gone,” announced Frost, loudly. “I seen the whole caboodle ride by, an’ I damn near took a peg at thet Croak Malloy.”
“What — You sure, Up?” shouted Jim, leaping excitedly to his feet.
“Yep. I wisht I was as sure of heaven. It was aboot two o’clock this afternoon. I’d come back sooner, but Slinger slipped up on me an’ told me to wait till he got back. There was eight of ’em an’ they had a string of pack-horses.”
“Slinger, where’d they go?” asked Jim, breathlessly.
“I followed them ten miles, an’ when I turned back they were travellin’,” returned Dunn. “To-morrer I’ll take a hoss. I reckon they’re makin’ fer the Black Brakes.”
“How far is that?”
“Aboot twenty miles as the crow flies.”
“Too close for comfort.”
“Boss, I sneaked up almost within earshot of the cabin,” went on Dunn. “Fust off this mawnin’ I seen the greaser Sonora wranglin’ their hosses. An’ as he’s the only one of thet outfit I’m skeered of I went up the crick an’ crawled up in the brush. I got close enough to heah voices, but not what they said. Shore was a hell of a argyment, though. They’d pack awhile, then fight awhile. Reckon I didn’t need to heah. All as plain as tracks to me. Malloy kicked on quittin’ Yellow Jacket an’ most of the outfit was with him. But Stone was too strong. An’ along aboot noon they rode off.”
“Yippy-yip!” yelled Jim, in wild elation. “Gone without a scrap. Gosh! but I’m glad.”
“Boss, you shore air previous,” spoke up Bud, with sarcasm. “Thet Hash-Knife gang hey only rid off aways to hide till you throw up a fine big cabin. Then they’ll come back an’ take it away from you.”
“They will like — h-hob,” stammered Jim.
“Thet’ll be like Malloy,” admitted Slinger. “I’m afeered they went off too willin’.”
“Shore is aboot the deal to expect,” chimed in Curly, cheerfully. “But life is short in Arizona an’ who knows? — Malloy may croak before spring.”
“Curly Prentiss, you’ve somethin’ on your mind,” declared Jim, darkly.
“Humph! It’s only curly hair an’ sometimes a sombrero,” said Bud.
“Shore. I’m a thoughtful cuss. Always reckonin’ fer my friends an’ my boss.”
“An’ your next sweetheart.”
“Bud, old pard, for me there’ll never be no next one.”
“Boys, we’ll build the house,” interposed Jim, with decision that presupposed heretofore he had been only dreaming. “Jeff, we’ll break camp at daylight. Better pack some tonight. We’ll hit the trail for Yellow Jacket. Gosh! I’m glad! ... We’ll keep Slinger on watch, and the rest of us will cut, peel, an’ make pine poles out of the woods.”
“Swell job for genuine cowpunchers,” observed Bud, satirically.
“I’ve ridden all over Yellow Jacket, Jim,” spoke up Curly. “Some years ago. But shore there’s timber to build a town. Grandest place for a ranch! It’d be tough to spend a lot of coin on it, an’ work a good outfit to death, an’ haul in stuff to make a nice home, an’ fetch your little Western bride down fer your honeymoon — an’ then stop one of Croak Malloy’s bullets...Shore would be tough!”
“Curly, you’re a blamed pessimist,” burst out Jim. “Don’t you ever have any dreams?”
“Me? Never once in my life,” drawled Curly.
“Boss, he’s dreamin’ now — an’ if you knowed what it’s aboot you’d punch him on his handsome nose,” said Bud, revengefully.
“Bud, you surprise me,” rejoined Jim, mildly. Then he advised the outfit to turn in and be up at daylight.
Jim rode through the colourful rock-wall gateway of Yellow Jacket, imagining himself Vercingetorix riding his black stallion at the head of his army into one of the captured cities.
On his hurried visit to Jed Stone he had scarcely noted details of this wild and beautiful retreat. But now he had eyes for everything.
“Wal, we’ll shore have hell cuttin’ a road in heah,” Curly was observing. “Reckon it’ll have to be at the up end of the canyon.”
The trail wound among big sycamores and spruces, a remarkable combination for contrast, of green and white and silver, and of gold. The brook brawled between mossy banks of amber moss, and at the ford it was deep enough and swift enough to make the horses labour.
“Cain’t cross heah in a spring an’ fall freshet, that’s shore,” went on Curly. “By golly! this place gets under my skin.”
Blocks of red and yellow rock lay scattered beyond the gateway, with tall pines and spruces shading them, except in occasional grassy open sunlit nooks. The grey walls converged from the gate, sculptured by nature into irregular and creviced ramparts, festooned with bright-red vines and bronze lichens, and with ledges supporting little spruces, and with crags of every shape lifting weathered tops to the fringe of pines on the rim.
There was a long slow ascent thinning from forest to park-like ground, up to the old cabin. Indeed, Jim meant to preserve this relic of rustler and outlaw days.
“What’s thet white thing stuck on the door? Looks like paper to me,” said the sharp-eyed Bud.
Curiously they rode up to the cabin, dismounting one by one. Jim saw a dirty page of a lined note-book pegged into the rotten woodwork of the door. Upon it was scrawled in a crude, but legible hand-writing, the word “Mariana”. And under it had been drawn the rude sketch of a hash-knife, somehow compelling and suggestive.
“Clear as print,” replied Curly, tersely. “Wal, heah’s four bits thet Croak Malloy left thet,” added Slinger.
“Well?” demanded Jim, somewhat impatiently.
“Boss, yore mind’s so full of ranch an’ house an’ — wal, an’ so forth thet it ain’t workin’,” explained Bud. “Mariana means to-morrer. An’ the knife says they’ll come back pronto to make hash out of us.”
“Oh, is that all?” returned Jim, with a laugh. “Bud, life does not seem very bright and hopeful for you just now.”
“Hell no! I got brains an’ six-sense eyesight,” replied the gloomy cowboy.
“We’ll throw the packs under the pine trees there. No sleeping in that buggy cabin for me,” said Jim. “Jeff, I’d rather you didn’t cook here unless it storms. You can build a fireplace under the extension roof there...Say, there’s an open-roofed extension at the back too. Used for horses. Well, here we are. Let’s rustle. Slinger, your job is to use your eyes.”
“Boss, there’s two holes to this burrow,” spoke up Bud.
“Where’s the other?”
“Reckon it’s aboot three miles west, where the canyon boxes,” replied Curly, pointing. “Higher an’ not so rough. If I recollect, the trail grades down easy. We’ll cut the road through there. It’ll take some blastin’.”
“We’ll take a chance on that end,” said Jim. “Bud, I tell you what you can do. While we pitch camp you ride up and find the best place to cut our poles. But remember, it must be back in the woods, out of sight. No defacing the beauty of this property!”
“Funny how some fellars are,” observed Bud, philosophising. “Beooty first an’ last, an’ always in wimmen.”
Then he rode away. Jim gazed after him in perplexity. “What’s wrong with Bud?” he asked.
“His nose an’ his feelin’s are hurt,” replied Cherry Winters.
“You forgot, Boss. You swore you’d give him away,” drawled Curly. “An’ the poor kid is in love. I’ve seen him like this sixty-nine times.”
Jim set the outfit to work, and had no small hand in the cutting and trimming of pine poles. Bud had located a fine stand of long straight trees, growing so close together that there was scarcely any foliage except at the top. This particular grove would benefit by a good thinning out. The peeling of the green bark was no slight task. Some of the boys proved adept at that.
Ten days of uninterrupted labour followed. Slinger Dunn had trailed the Hash-Knife outfit to Black Brakes, the very retreat to which he had surmised they would go; and according to him they had stayed there, or at least had not ridden north on the trail toward Yellow Jacket. When Jim allowed himself to think of it he was vastly concerned. The prospect of a ranch and a home within twenty miles of the hardest and most notorious gang in Arizona was almost unthinkable. They would have to be dealt with. Nevertheless Jim nursed a conviction that Jed Stone would turn out to be the kind of man Uncle Jim had vowed he was. To be sure, all Jim had to substantiate such faith was the fact of Stone’s leaving Yellow Jacket, and an undefinable something Jim felt.
One night Jim overheard Curly and Bud talking. It was late, the fire had died down so that it cast only ruddy flickering shadows, and no doubt the boys thought Jim was sound asleep. Bud had seemed more like his true self lately, and had forgiven the blow on his nose and the affront to his vanity. He worshipped Curly like a brother.
“It’s a fool job, I tell you, Curly,” Bud was saying, almost in a whisper. “Like as not Malloy will burn this pile of logs while we’re in Flag.”
“Shore he will, or more like wait till the house is half up,” agreed Curly. “But, dog-gone-it, Bud, I cain’t go against the boss. He has a way of makin’ me soft. Shore as hell he’ll stop my drinkin’. I’m jest a-rarin’ fer a bust. It’s due in Flag this heah trip, an’ honest to God, Bud, I’ll be afraid to take a drink.”
“I feel the same, but I’m gonna get orful drunk onct more or die tryin’...Curly, if you don’t watch out Jim will argue you or coax you to stop gun-throwin’. An’ then you’ll be slated for a quiet rest under a pine tree!”
“Uh-ugh. I practise just the same as ever, Bud, only on the sly.”
“Wal, I’m glad. If I don’t miss my bet we’re gonna need some gun-throwin’. Slinger don’t like this ‘possum-playin’ of the Hash-Knife. He know
s. Curly, what do you think? Slinger was tellin’ me he reckoned he oughta dog them rustlers, an’ pick them off one at a time, with a rifle.”
“Slinger cain’t do thet, no more than I could. Shore I’m not Injun enough. But you know what I mean. What’d you say, Bud?”
“I ast him why he oughta. An’ he said for Molly’s sake.”
“Shore. The same thing worries me a lot. I never seen a girl love a fellar like she loves Jim. Dog-gone! It’d shore be...Wal, Croak Malloy will shoot Jim the first time he lays eyes on him, no matter where.”
“Curly, I agree with you. Croak would. But I bet you Slinger gets to him first. Because, Curly, old pard, our backwoods cowboy is turrible in love with Gloriana May. Did you get thet?”
Curly swore surprisingly for him, and not under his breath by any means.
“Not so loud. You’ll wake up somebody,” admonished Bud, in a fierce whisper.
“Shore he is, Bud,” admitted Curly. “But thet’s nothin’. I’ve lost my haid. So’ve you, an’ all the boys. The hell of it is Glory is in love with Slinger.”
“Wow! You are out of your haid. He amuses Glory — fascinates her, mebbe, ‘cause she’s crazy aboot desperadoes, but thet’s all, pard,” returned Bud, with all the heart-warming loyalty of his nature.
“Shore sounds queer — for me to say that aboot Glory,” went on Curly. “Lord knows I mean no disrespect. She’s a thoroughbred. But, Bud, jest consider. She’s an Easterner. She’s young. She’s full of sentiment an’ romance. An’ she’s had some kind of trouble. Deep. An’ it’s hurt her. Wal, this damn Slinger Dunn is far better-lookin’ than any of us — than any cowpuncher I ever seen. He’s a wonderful chap. Bud. If I wasn’t so jealous of him that I want to shoot him in the back — I — I’d love him myself. It wouldn’t be so strange for a girl like Glory to fall haid over heels in love with him. An’, honest, I’m scared so I’m afraid to go to Flag.”
“Nonsense. Any damn fool could hev seen you had the inside track with Glory. Sure, if you back out an’ show yellow, Slinger, or somebody else, will beat you. Don’t you think I’m backin’ out. I reckon Glory couldn’t see me with a spy-glass, but I’m in the race an’ I got a flyin’ start. When I raved aboot Slinger havin’ her picture she gave me one, an’ a darn sight newer an’ prettier than his.”