by Zane Grey
“Brazos, dear, you do not grasp the situation. I don’t love you that way. I never will.... Why you’re not yet nineteen years old. And I am!... I feel like your mother. You’re only a boy.”
“Boy! — Holly, I’m as old as Britt, in the ways of the range. An’ this range is yore home. An’ if you can believe me or Tex or Britt or Buff Belmet, it’s gonna get powerful wild pronto. Holly, ain’t a man in the ootfit who wouldn’t give an eye to save you what Frayne saved you. He’s a darn good-lookin’ chap, educated, an’ was somebody once, as anyone could see. Buff Belmet knows the frontier. It’s only fair fer me to admit thet the ootfit took to Frayne. We’re scared of him, shore, but if he only takes to us he’ll be a round peg in a round hole.”
“Brazos, I hope Frayne, and all of them are as loyal and gallant as you,” rejoined Holly, feelingly. “Then I’ll have the outfit Britt has dreamed of. And Don Carlos’ Rancho will be the home for me that Dad prayed it would be.”
CHAPTER IV
LATE ONE AFTERNOON in early June, Britt rode wearily across the valley toward Cottonwood Basin where he expected to find a third group of his cowboys in camp. Weeks on end his outfits, widely separated, had been branding calves. That day Britt had ridden to White Pool and from there to Ute Flat. He had had worry enough without bad reports from these places, and he had been tired enough without this added ride across to the basin.
Yet despite the mounting burden of Britt’s responsibilities, he was as sensitive as ever to the open range. He faced a half circle where for thirty miles his keen vision could distinguish cattle as thick as scattered bunches of sage-brush. Off towards San Marcos a group of riders headed toward the little town. They might be cowboys, but Britt inclined to the conviction that they were not. Down the vast green slope a stagecoach rolled along, streaming dust behind. It was due at the trading-post below Don Carlos’ Rancho that night and the driver, Bill McClellan, was not letting any grass grow under the hoofs of his six horses. The run from Santa Fe to Las Animas had taken on greater risk these days.
But there was another side to Britt’s state of consciousness, and this was a revivification of pleasure and even exaltation in the beauty and wildness of his surroundings. Holly Ripple had been the cause of such sentiment in an old Texas Ranger, who had slept on the ground half his nights for twenty years. She rode with him almost every day and it was impossible not to see the West through her young and vivid eyes.
The range appeared limitless. Don Carlos’ Rancho was only à red dot on the green divide to the east. The roofs and trees of San Marcos blazed gold in the sunset. The basin was bisected by a shining ribbon. All the rest, beyond, was level plains and rolling land, and ridges and valleys, leading to the lilac-hazed mesas, to the rosy foothills, and the dim purple mountains.
A last flush of sunset bathed the valley in dying fire as Britt rode across the belt of cottonwoods to the camp. Evidently the cowboys had knocked off for the day. A small knot of cows and calves was working out toward the black-spotted range. Along the bank of the creek several score of horses grazed. This was Jim’s remuda. They waded knee-deep in luxurious grass and flowers. The Mexican cook, Jose, stooped over his camp fire and steaming pots. Cowboys stretched at length, their shoulders propped against packs. Riders were straggling in from the range.
Britt dismounted to greet Jim, the cowman in charge. He was a tall, stoop-shouldered, sandy-moustached range-rider of uncertain years. His dust-begrimed face showed the marks of sweaty fingers.
“Howdy, boss. Jest in time fer grub.”
“I’m shore needin’ some — an’ water, say! — Shades of old Texas Land!”
“You look it. Hyar’s a good cold drink.... Reckon you rid over from Ute Flat?”
“Yes, an’ White Pool, too.”
“Then you’ll hardly be ridin’ back to the rancho to-night?”
“Have to. But I’ll eat a bite an’ rest some.... It’s been a real warm day.”
“Humph! If you ask us, boss, we’ll say it’s been hot.”
During the interval before supper, while Britt walked a little to ease his cramped legs, the cowboys bestirred themselves languidly. They were tired, quiet. Some went bare-breasted to the creek; others importuned Jose for hot water.
“Skylark, if I’m as black as you, I’m a nigger,” said one.
“You’re blacker’n me, Laigs, but washin’ won’t make you handsomer,” was the reply.
“Come an’ geet eet,” called Jose.
Presently Britt found himself seated amidst Jim’s outfit, eating as heartily as any hard-worked rider among them. From this group Britt missed Brazos Keene, and Mugg Dillon. The latter, of course, he had not expected to see. But where was Brazos? The magnificent Skylark, his clean thin visage as red as fire, stood up with pan in hand; Laigs Mason, the little bow-legged, homely clown of that outfit, sat on a pack, finding it awkward to get his knees close enough together to hold a pan; the Nebraskan, Flinty, bent his hard face over his supper; Tennessee, the sallow-faced, tow-headed southerner, knelt on one knee to eat. Santone, swarthy and beady-eyed vaquero, helped Jose at his tasks.
For a while only the sound of grease sputtering in the iron oven, the sizzle of fresh beef frying, broke the hungry silence. Twilight marched down over the range from the hills, and soon after that coyotes began their hue and cry. Cows lowed and calves bawled. The lonely night began to creep on.
Britt was not by far the first to finish supper. “Wal,” he said, at length, “thet was good. Jose is the best cook in the ootfit.... Gimme a smoke, somebody.”
“Boss, how’s tricks over White Pool an’ Ute Flat way?” asked Jim, at last finding a seat. One by one the cowboys clustered around, lighting their cigarettes.
“Good an’ bad. Hell of a new crop of calves, an’ a lot of activity to offset it.”
“Activity?” queried Jim.
“Thet’s what I said.”
“Ah-huh. An’ same for Ute Flat? Some movement of steers an’ a lot of burned hair not by the Ripple outfits, huh?”
“Exactly, Jim.... You don’t ‘pear bustin’ to make yore report.”
“Boss, I’m bustin’ all right, but not with good news.”
“Where’s Brazos?” returned Britt, quickly.
“He ought to be hyar before dark,” rejoined Jim, evasively. “Come oot with it,” snapped the foreman.
“Laigs, will you tell the boss what come off?”
“Cap, it was like this,” replied the bow-legged cowboy, sitting up. “Day before yestiddy me an’ Brazos run onto some rustlers drivin’ a bunch of steers thet wore our mark. This was way up at the head of the Cottonwood, I reckon fifteen or twenty miles from hyar. Brazos acted plumb sore, so I reckoned he’d been expectin’ it. Wal, there was four of the rustlers an’ one of them was Mugg Dillon. We yanked out our rifles. But they seen us pronto an’ rode off toward San Marcos. After a bit they slowed up, seein’ we didn’t follow. We rode back. Brazos rode slower an’ slower, till finally he stopped. ‘Laigs,’ he says, ‘I’m waitin’ hyar till dark an’ then I’m ridin’ to town.’ Wal, you know Brazos. All I said was I’ll go with you. ‘No, you go back to camp an’ report to Jim. An’ if the boss should ride in tell him I went after Dillon, but he’s not to let Miss Holly know.’”
“Damn thet cowboy!”
“No use to damn Brazos,” interposed Jim. “He an’ Stinger have shore got it in fer Dillon. I don’t know jest what made them so sore, outside of his double-crossin’ us.”
“Stinger never said a word to me,” rejoined Britt. “I couldn’t pump much out of him.”
“My hunch come from somethin’ Frayne said.”
“Frayne?”
“Shore. He thinks Brazos an’ Stinger were on to Dillon — thet they ketched him before an’ trusted him not to go into another low-down deal.”
“Wal!... A hawse deal?”
“No. I reckoned it must have been cattle, but Frayne didn’t think so.” —
“When did Frayne tell you this?”
“Weeks ago, jest after he started ridin’ with us.”
Britt pondered a moment, darkly revolving in mind what risks Brazos might have incurred while trailing Dillon. Finally he voiced his concern: “If Brazos doesn’t come back to-night, go after him — some of you.”
“Boss,” interposed Laigs Mason, coolly, “if you’d seen Brazos you wouldn’t be worried. I savvy thet hombre. He’s the nerviest fellar on this range, but when he takes chances he’s got an even break.”
“All right, Jim. What else?” went on Britt, gruffly.
“We been hyar seventeen days, an’ shore slapped our irons on a sight of calves,” replied Jim complacently. “Jest about cleaned up this basin. But we had help, an’ thet riles me some. Sewall McCoy’s ootfit hung in this neck of the woods till the other day. We jest know his men was brandin’ calves whose mother had a Ripple brand on her flank. We seen a hundred an’ more that had new burned Bar M’s on them. The boys was partickler not to drive any cows over hyar but ours. McCoy’s ootfit didn’t round up a bunch, as is our way. They jest rode everywhere, brandin’ every maverick in its tracks. Shore we might have got a few calves not really ours. But damn few.... An’ to be short an’ sweet, I don’t like this McCoy cattleman nor his ootfit.”
“Sewall McCoy? So he’s rangin’ over heah. Jim, how many cattle has he on this range?”
“Couldn’t say. But I’d swear not more’n five thousand haid.”
“Wal, while you an’ yore boys air ridin’ around, make a count of McCoy’s an’ any other brands. We got too many cattle an’ too many calves. I’ll recommend thet we sell a bunch to the government beef-buyers an’ make a big drive to the railroad.”
“Thet’s a good idee, boss. It’d give us a chance to get a line on what’s bein’ bought an’ shipped. Countin’ the increase this year, we’re runnin’ sixty thousand haid.”
“Thunder an’ blue blazes!” snorted Britt. “We can’t handle them. We could sell to the posts, an’ reservations, an’ to eastern markets, over an’ over again without makin’ a hole you could see in our herd.”
“Shore. But we’re havin’ help in makin’ thet hole,” remarked Jim, impressively. “Rustlers drove a good big herd off toward the Purgatory last week, an’ you can bet your life most of them steers belonged to Miss Holly.”
“Et ees so, senor,” corroborated the vaquero, puffing a cloud of smoke.
“Not mucho malo, but... Hello, what’s thet?”
“Hoss comin’.”
“Thet’s Brazos. I know his trot,” added Laigs Mason.
“Wal, I shore hope so,” returned Britt, peering into the gathering gloom. Presently a horse bobbed black against the grey. Jim threw some bits of sage on the fire. It blazed up brightly. Soon the horseman entered the circle of light.
“Who comes?” shouted Jim.
“Brazos,” came the harsh retort.
Then in the flare of fire Britt recognized the striking figure of his favourite cowboy. Laigs Mason, who got up, was the only one to stir. Brazos stepped off. With a few swift violent pulls he loosened the cinches, then one powerful sweep of arm flung saddle and blanket to the ground. Slipping off the bridle, he slapped the wet horse, to send him cantering off in the darkness.
“Pard — you all right?” queried Laigs, haltingly. At that moment there emanated from Brazos something inimical to approach. He tossed his sombrero at Mason and stood bareheaded beside the fire, over which he held lean brown hands that quivered slightly. His fair hair stood up, shining like a mane. His face appeared ghastly grey, out of which slits of glittering eyes swept over his comrades.
“Aw!... So you’re heah — Cap,” he jerked out, in colourless voice.
“Howdy, Brazos,” replied the foreman.
Laigs approached to place a hesitating hand on his friend’s arm.
“Hey, you — ! Lay off!” exclaimed Brazos.
“Thought thet wing hung kinda funny. Hope it ain’t broke.”
“Gun-shot. Nothin’ much. But sorer’n a burnt thumb.”
“Pard, you look peaky. Ain’t you hungry?”
“I don’t know, Laigs. But I haven’t eaten anythin’ since I left.”
Britt interposed with a dry query: “How aboot whisky, Brazos?”
“Nary a red drop, boss,” replied the cowboy, wildly.
“Three days? Gosh!” ejaculated Laigs, with concern. “You must be starved.”
“I can’t eat, pard.”
“But Brazos!... You gotta try. I’ll rustle some soup — an’ a biscuit.”
“Got the makin’s — anybody?” asked Brazos, hoarsely.
“Hyar, cowboy. Jest rolled one,” replied Skylark, sitting up. “Ketch.”
He flipped the cigarette accurately, but the nervous Brazos failed to catch it in the air. Stooping, he picked it up, and at the same time a bit of half-burned stick, with which he lighted it, and puffed clouds of smoke. Then he sat down on a pack, and with expulsion of deep breath appeared to relax. No one spoke to him. Laigs, who brought a plate and cup, handed these to Brazos without speaking. The cowboy took a few more pulls at his cigarette, then spat it out. He sat motionless a moment, gazing into the fire. Then he seemed to remember the food and drink which he held. But at first they must have been tasteless and repellent, for he could hardly force them down. At length, however, hunger manifested itself, and he ate what Laigs had fetched him.
“Brazos, lemme see your arm?” asked Mason.
“Get some hot water. You’ll have to soak my sleeve off. It’s all caked.”
Britt’s heart warmed anew to this wild youth. Yet on the moment dismay dominated his feelings. Brazos was no uncertain quantity: his actions could be fairly well forecast. Britt got up to stroll away into the darkness, revolving in mind what to say to Brazos. And he recalled the last argument he had had with Holly anent the managing of these cowboys. Britt seemed to feel that the time was ripe to put her plan to a test. Returning to the camp fire he found Brazos stripped to the waist, his slender powerful white torso shining in the light. An ugly red bullet hole showed in the upper part of his left arm. Britt bent over to scrutinize it closely. It was a superficial wound.
“Clean as a whip, boss,” said Mason, deft and business-like. “It won’t be nothin’.”
Brazos sat indifferent to pain, if he felt any, intent on the fire. Britt resumed his seat. Skylark appeared to be the only curious one, though he did not manifest this vocally. As always, Britt was amused and thrilled by these cowboys. Of all western types he admired them most. He had vision to see that they, more than trappers, traders, gold-seekers, freighters, soldiers, and pioneers, should be given the glory of being the empire builders. With the buffalo-hunters, who were going to subjugate the Indian and drive him into the waste places, these cowboys, with their rolling herds of cattle, would be the true and great freers of the West.
“Wal, Brazos, it won’t hurt you none to talk,” drawled Britt, mildly, after a long interval of silence.
“Cap, now I’m back again with the ootfit, it ain’t easy to say what I had in mind,” replied Brazos, soberly.
“Shore, I savvy. But I’m leavin’ pronto, an’ I reckon you might as wal get it off yore chest.”
“Did Laigs tell you I quit my job?”
“No.”
“Jim, did he tell you?”
The tall cowman shook his head as he removed the cigarette from his lips. “Laigs talked a heap, but he didn’t tell thet.” Brazos turned to the comrade who was bandaging his arm.
“You — !”
“Pard, you’d quit before more’n onct an’ come back. So I jest kep mum about it,” explained Mason.
“Dog-gone! I used to ride with boys thet you could depend on,” complained Brazos, bitterly.
“What’d you quit fer, Brazos?” asked Britt.
“‘Cause I knowed you’d let me oot if I didn’t quit.”
“Wrong, cowboy. I wouldn’t let you oot, no matter what you did.”
“What’s thet?
” demanded Brazos, swiftly, as for the first time he turned from the fire to face Britt.
“You heahed me, Brazos.”
“But I don’t savvy.”
“Wal, since you been oot on this round-up, Miss Holly has laid down the law to me. I convinced her that we had the greatest ootfit of riders ever got together under one brand. But the hell of it was to hold them, to make them pards, to stand one an’ all loyal to her.... Brazos, an’ the rest of you — listen. Miss Holly took that responsibility off my hands.” Every cowboy sat up, cigarette suspended, eyes intent on Britt in the firelight. Brazos’ stern pale visage worked with a voiceless question.
“You bet, boys, Miss Holly has a big idee. She sees these bad times abaid. She knows she’s dependent on her ootfit. You all know she could sell oot fer a million, leave this hard range, an’ go live a life of luxury an’ comfort. But she won’t do it. She is Ripple’s daughter, an’ she’ll carry oot his dream of a great cattle kingdom. To do thet she must have such an ootfit as I have roped in heah. I reckon Miss Holly cares a heap fer you-all, collectively an’ singly. Yore bad record don’t phase her. Wal, every last one of you knows in his heart whether he’s worthy of thet or not. But what concerns her now is not yore past, but yore loyalty to her.”
“What’s she mean — loyalty?” queried Brazos, hoarsely. “Wal, mebbe this will explain. I called you boys Rowdies of the Saddle. Thet was Kurnel Ripple’s name fer his ootfit. But Miss Holly doesn’t like it. She calls you her Knights of the Range.... I reckon there ain’t a one of you so ignorant thet he never heahed what a knight is.... Wal, loyalty means you’ll stand by her in these bad times, fight to save her rancho, her herd, an’ if necessary — die for her.”