Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  “Rotten of me!” he muttered, under his breath. “My God, how terrible she made me feel!... But even half drunk she could take care of herself. I saw that. Yet I... Jealousy made me low-down. If she had been kissing me... it would have been heaven. A tough spot for Lance Sidway!... Well, Madge, whatever else you are, you’re straight — and I can climb out of hell on that.”

  Lance stood up, shivering a little at the cool air and the indifferent stars. This was the end of his secret love affair. And there would never be another, he was certain. It did not seem possible that any man, much less he, could see Madge Stewart as he had seen her, and carry her in his arms, and kiss her with such abandon, and then fall in love with another woman.

  Lance strode down to the bunkhouse, his mind trying to take up the threads of the information he had forced from Bonita. There was a light in Nels’ cabin. Lance’s watch said that morning was less than an hour away. He burst in upon the old cattleman, who was in the act of undressing.

  “Nels, are you sober?” demanded Lance.

  “Hello, son, what’s ailin’ you — all white an’ eyes aburnin’?”

  “Hell to pay, Nels. Are you sober enough to get me straight?”

  “Sober? — Dog-gone! I don’t know. Thet shore was some punch. I jest couldn’t stop drinkin’ it.”

  “Swell drink, all right. What’d it do to Danny and Ren and Stewart?”

  “Wal, they cleaned oot the bowl. Gene said it was an act of charity on their part. He was sober. Gene used to hold more bad likker than any man on the range. But Danny an’ Ren were lit up some.... Say, what you got on yore chest?”

  “Plenty! Now, listen. Pack me some biscuits, meat, dried apples — anything you can dig up pronto. Put it in a saddlebag. I’ll wrangle my horse. And you be sure you sober up while I’m gone.”

  “Son, I reckon I savvy,” drawled Nels.

  Lance went into his cabin, and hastily changed into his riding garb, buckled on his gunbelt, and hurried out, to jerk a bridle off a peg on the porch. The night before, because of the strange horses that had arrived, Lance had put Umpqua in the barn. The moment Lance’s step sounded on the runway, Umpqua nickered, and stamped his hoofs. Lance looped the bridle round his neck, led him out, and filling a nosebag with grain, he put that over Umpqua’s head. Then leading the horse he hurried back to Nels’ cabin. There he saddled Umpqua, but left the cinch loose. He decided before seeing Nels to go into his cabin thinking hard what to take. It was necessary to light the lamp. A blanket, his fleece-lined coat, his rifle and some shells, his gloves, money and matches — these he thought would be about all. Then he remembered Madge’s photograph. He would take that, for the chances were against his returning, or ever seeing her again. Fortunately the picture fit inside his coat pocket. He wrapped it in a silk scarf and carefully put it away. Funny, he thought, if a rustler’s bullet pierced that lovely likeness of Majesty Stewart before it pierced his heart! But even so it could not hurt any more than she had hurt him. Then he extinguished the lamp and went out. The east was breaking gray. Dawn was not far off.

  Umpqua was pitching the nosebag to get the last of the grain.

  “Nels, come out,” he called.

  “Heah I am. Been waitin’, son, kinda worried.”

  “Thanks, Nels,” replied Lance, receiving the saddlebags. “Nothing to worry about — much.”

  “No. Wal, you act kinda queer. I’ve spent my life with range fellers. An’ if you’re not drunk on thet punch, you’re shore drunk on somethin’.”

  “Yeh? Well, what, old wiz?” rejoined Lance, his swift hands at work over the saddle.

  “You’re leavin’ Majesty’s Rancho.”

  “Ha! Gee, Nels, you’re keen. I rather snicker to snort that I am.”

  “An’ on account of Majesty?”

  “Yes, on account of Majesty!” ejaculated Lance, flippantly.

  “Aw! — Did you quarrel?”

  “Look where she split my lip. That little lady has a sock.”

  “Son, don’t tell me she — she hit you?”

  “I’ll tell the world she did.”

  “What in Gawd’s name for?”

  “Nels, it’s too long a story. I deserved it and I took it.”

  “Lance, you’re uncommon bitter.... I don’t mind admittin’ thet I had it figgered you — you was in love with Majesty.”

  “Nels, damn your lunatic hide!” burst out Lance. “You don’t mind admitting! — Say, you lying old matchmaker, you’ve been driving me nuts! You haven’t given me any peace for weeks. You wouldn’t even let me sleep. ‘Ain’t I kinda in love with Majesty? She shore is sweet on you!’... What kind of talk! — Now, listen, for once, for good and all. ‘Kinda in love with Majesty?’ Ha! Ha! Ha!... I love that good-for-nothing angel so terribly I’m dying for her. Do you get that? I’m stark staring mad about her. I’d shoot myself if I hung around here any longer. So I’m beating it. Now, take a load of that.”

  “Son, it’ll be the turriblest mistake if you run off now,” replied Nels, awed and moved. “Fer Majesty’s jest as turrible in love...”

  “Skip it. You’re balmy. You’re nuts. You’re crazy,” retorted Lance, wrenching the words out. It was insupportable to listen to such raving from this simple old man. “Listen to this. All the cattle Stewart had left were rustled last night, right after dark. Must have been rounded up in the daytime.”

  “What?” roared Nels, changing magically. “Why’n’hell didn’t you tell us?”

  “Your darling Madge begged me to keep it till tomorrow. Well, that’s today.”

  “Who told you?”

  “Bonita.”

  “Ahuh. How’d you drag thet oot of her?”

  “I threw a couple of those punches into her, danced with her, took her out. Well, she spilled the beans, on conditions.”

  “What conditions?”

  “Never mind them, Nels. I won’t tell you. And you’re not to give Bonita away to Stewart or Ren.”

  “Humph! You cain’t fool them.”

  “That’s not important. The cattle have been rustled by vaqueros. Bound across the border. By the Gray Ridge Divide. Where’s that?”

  “It’s thet long gray hill southeast of heah. Aboot ten miles, closest. Separates the range from the foothills of the Peloncillos. There’s a cattle trail straight down the valley across the border. Rustlers used it years ago.”

  “Stewart’s cattle ought to be around that divide by now.”

  “Shore, an’ then some. What’s yore idee, son?”

  “I’m going to find out.”

  “Good. But don’t let yourself be seen from the ridge top. Those rustlers will figger thet the cattle won’t be missed right off. But they’ve got sharp eyes. With two days’ start they’d aboot get acrost before we could haid them off.... I’ll get Stewart an’ Danny, an’ Starr drunk or sober, an’ hit this cattle trail. Meanwhile you locate the rustlers, then ride on in to town. Don’t lose no time gettin’ an ootfit of cowboys — or any land of a posse, an’ ride hell fer leather to haid these greasers off.”

  “Use my own judgment as to where I’ll cross the ridge?”

  “Shore. But if you’re smart an’ lucky you can cross by the Cochise Trail. Only don’t ride down into thet valley onless you’re ahaid of the rustlers.”

  “Okay, Nels. I’m on my way,” replied Lance. “Nels, that outfit might get suspicious or something, and hit up the Cochise Trail. Tell Gene and Ren to look for my tracks on that trail, crossing the valley.” Then vaulting astride he rode across the square, down by the sleeping village, out upon the shadowy gray range. It was almost daybreak when he struck the wash. By the time a ruddy light showed over the dark mountain barrier Lance had struck the fresh cattle track. It crossed the highway and headed straight for the low slant of gray that marked the northern end of Gray Ridge Divide. Satisfied and thrilled, Lance swerved off the trail to make a short cut, intending to climb the ridge ten miles or so toward the south. It was then only that his mind reverted to the t
ragedy of his leaving. Madge haunted him, her lovely face white and tragic, her big eyes, and most of all, after he had told her that she had ruined her father, the way she sank down, crushed by amaze and shame. Lastly that imploring hand, mute appeal for mercy. Would she like him and Nels and Ren to donate their wages? — those had been his last words. Too late! Lance writhed in his saddle. As the dawn slowly flamed to a glorious sunrise and the broad daylight drove away his morbid thoughts, he could not understand how he had been so base. He felt that he would be driven to go back to the ranch and explain to Madge how his jealousy and passion had made him a coward and a cad. That would be a betrayal of his love, a refuting of all his scorn. As he rode along, his brooding self-reproach and remorse augmented his error and mitigated Madge’s faults. If it turned out that he was to be the means of saving her father’s cattle, and perhaps getting himself shot in Madge’s interest, that would be all right with him, if only she could know of his repentance.

  Lance crossed the valley obliquely and headed up the ridge about five miles south of the point. The sun was high in the heavens when he gained the summit. He took care not to show his horse or himself on top of the ridge. There were rocks and scrub cedars all along, affording good cover. Lance dismounted to reconnoiter. He had to walk a long way north on the ridge before he discovered the cattle. They had been driven into the head of the narrow valley between the foothills and the ridge, and were grazing. The distance was not quite too far to distinguish horses and riders, but Lance had to wait a good while before he made sure he saw them. They should have traveled down the valley to a point almost equal with his position. Lance lingered there until he saw the herd move down the valley toward him. Then he retraced his steps.

  Vaqueros had almost as keen eyesight as Indians. But if these rustlers had anticipated immediate pursuit they would not have traveled so leisurely during the night. They had probably calculated upon the cowboys and riders sleeping all this day after the excitement and disturbance of the señorita’s fiesta. The raid would not be discovered for several days, which would give the thieves time to get across the border. It was a clever and nicely timed move on their part.

  Arriving at the spot where he had left his horse, Lance sent a keen gaze back across the valley toward the ranch. He espied puffs of dust some miles out from the highway, about on a line with the cattle trail. He concluded Gene and his riders were in pursuit of the rustlers.

  “Okay,” soliloquized Lance, with satisfaction. “Pretty lucky for me to worm this out of Bonita. Poor kid! All to save her good-for-nothing brother! Well, I’ll keep my word.”

  Lance mounted and rode along a rough summit trail, which Umpqua had to walk. Lance calculated that he was forty miles from the highway, and close to forty from town. The hour was short of midmorning. He had all the rest of that day, and longer, if need be, to carry out Nels’ instructions. Recovery of the cattle looked easy to Lance. He tried to conjecture unforeseen circumstances. If the vaqueros discovered they were being pursued they would take to the foothills and escape. Lance eyed those formidable hills, rising and swelling gradually to the rough black summits of the Peloncillos.

  “My best bet is to go down to the range and look for a cattle outfit between here and town,” Lance told himself, and after thinking of every angle possible he decided to put his idea into effect. There were several ranches along that slope of the ridge, and he might be fortunate enough to meet some riders. To this end Lance headed down the slope.

  Lance had enough on his mind to make the miles and hours seem short. Umpqua walked and trotted under the hot sun. As long as he had soft ground to travel on he would not tire. Late in the afternoon Lance arrived at the last ranch along the ridge, and ascertained that an outfit of cowboys had left not long before to round up some cattle south of Bolton. This was good luck, indeed, and Lance set off with high hopes. These riders would very likely camp outside of Bolton.

  It was sunset when Lance caught up with a trio of cowboys leading three pack horses, and half a dozen extra mounts. Lance joined them with a greeting and pulled Umpqua to a walk.

  “Howdy,” returned a lean towheaded rider, fastening penetrating eyes upon Lance. “I seen you coming ‘way back. Jest about in a hurry, wasn’t you?”

  “I’ll say. You’re the Bar X boys from Spencer’s ranch, aren’t you?”

  “Wal, we’re some of them.”

  “I’m Sidway, riding for Gene Stewart.”

  “I reckoned you was. My handle’s Tim Sloan, an’ my pards are brothers, sons of Spencer.”

  “Your boss told me you were bound south of Bolton to round up some of his cattle.”

  “We air, if we can locate them. But I reckon they’re rustled across the border. Some two-bit outfit been workin’ the edges of the range lately.”

  Lance lost no time accounting for his presence, and the lean rider was so interested that he reined his horse, and halted the cavalcade in the middle of the road. “Hell you say! — Boys, you hear thet?... How far back air these raiders with Stewart’s cattle?”

  “Over the ridge in the valley, halfway at the least.”

  “An’ when was it you sighted them?”

  “This morning around ten. Stewart will be behind them, keeping out of sight. And it’s my job to get some riders to head them off from this end.”

  “We’re with you, Sidway.... Boys, like as not this same outfit has been runnin’ off our stock.”

  “Purty shore, I’d say,” replied one of the brothers. “But we’d help you out if there wasn’t a chance.”

  “Thanks, fellows. I’m relieved.... And now, Sloan, what do you advise?”

  “Wal, them stolen cattle won’t get nowhere near this end of the valley tonight. My idee is to camp here outside of town, an’ be off before daylight in the mawnin’. How’s thet suit you?”

  “Fine. It’s just going to work out great.”

  Before dusk settled down the riders halted just on the edge of Bolton near a clump of trees Lance remembered having passed on the trip to the Peloncillos.

  “Sloan, will we eat in town?” queried Lance, as he dismounted.

  “No. Boss won’t stand for thet. We’ll throw up some grub here. But we’re out of coffee an’ butter.”

  “I’ll buy some. Do you think I ought to notify the sheriff?”

  “Hell no. This deal is a cinch, an’ thet old geezer would hawg all the credit.”

  Lance strode off into town, his mind thronged with thoughts. He seemed on the verge of an adventure much to his liking. Stewart and Nels were sure to like him better than ever. And proud, wild, volcanic Madge Stewart would surely be indebted to him, whether or not she ever confessed it. Lance had a desire to telephone the ranch. At that hour, with Stewart and his men absent, it was ten to one that Madge would answer. How coolly he could make his report, not omitting subtly to augment the dangers! Did that violet-eyed girl have a heart? Lance had to admit that she had, but he had never touched it. His bitter and final resolve of last night still held, yet he was conscious of a rending of spirit at the thought of keeping it, and leaving Majesty’s Rancho forever.

  At Smith’s Store on the highway Lance purchased butter and coffee, and several cakes of hard chocolate, one of which he put in his pocket. While the clerk was wrapping Lance’s purchases the proprietor accosted him.

  “Hey, Sidway, when did you leave the ranch?”

  “Before daylight this morning. Rode down the ridge looking for cattle.”

  “Then you don’t know Stewart’s phone is out of connection? I suspect it has been cut.”

  “Indeed I don’t.”

  “Well, something’s wrong. This morning Mrs. Stewart phoned in an order. I expected some things she wanted by express, so did not call until after they arrived. Then I couldn’t get an answer.”

  “That’s not strange. One of the old telephone poles may have toppled over,” replied Lance, thoughtfully.

  “Yes, it might, but it didn’t,” returned Smith, bluntly.

  �
��Yeah? How do you know?”

  “Mike Scanlon was in not ten minutes ago. He’d been out for a load of dead aspen wood. He said that when he was cuttin’ it, out there along the creek, he saw a big black car dustin’ along toward town hell-bent fer election. An’ it stopped down the road eight or ten miles. Mike forgot about thet until he got near to the highway. Then he tangled up in a wire thet turned out to be Stewart’s. It had fallen across the road. Hadn’t been cut long, for Mike saw the bright end, where it had been clipped. He thought somebody in thet big black car had done it. Not half an hour ago! Damn queer, don’t you call it?”

  “Where does this Mike Scanlon live?”

  “Up at the end of town, on the other side of the highway. Ask Meade, the garage man.”

  Lance, hurrying along past the bright red and yellow lights, pondered this news. It clamped down upon him with a presagement far out of proportion to probabilities. Apparently Stewart’s telephone wire had not been cut until late in the day. That seemed to preclude any possibility of the rustlers being accountable. A big black car! Lance wanted to talk to Mike Scanlon about that car.

  He passed the last bright neon lights. Meade’s garage appeared to be deserted. Just at that moment a big black car, with headlights dark, moved slowly down the back road. Lance wanted a look at that car. It was strangely familiar in line and build. He swerved off the highway, crossed the open space to the back road.

  “Hi there. Hold up,” he called boldly. Manifestly the driver heard him for the car came to a halt. The street lamp behind Lance caught the gleaming faces of men in the front seat.