by Zane Grey
“Brazos out of sight again,” went on the negro, intent with the glass. “Dawg-gone! Boss, we sho ought to hev a telescope..... Dat cain’t be far from where I last seen Brazos to de man on de knoll.... I got it, boss. I done has. Brazos is off his hoss; crawlin’ up on, dat hombre. I’m sho glad I’se me ‘stead ob him. De odder boys will be holdin’ Brazos’ hoss, ready to run oot when he shoots. Brazos will be in his saddle again, quicker’n hell. Dat shot will be de signal. Den de bawl is on.”
“Give me thet glass, you bloo’d-thirsty coon!... No, take it back. I cain’t see clear. My eyes water. Keep close tab, Jack, an’ sing oot. I want to know what’s goin’ on.”
“Wal, boss, if dey run dis way you’ll see sho.”
Jackson swept the scene again. “All de round-up riders bunched, boss. Got all dey want, I reckon. Hah! dey ain’t hawgs atall — O no! — Bet dere’s five hundred haid in dat bunch.... Boss, dat far scout’s ridin’ in.... It’ll be jes like dat Brazos boy to git dere at de right minnit. Dat’s Brazos.... No sign yit.... Ah, boss — puff o’ white smoke!”
Britt saw that tiny white puff appear against the green. “Dat fust scout falls offen his hoss, Cap,” reported Jackson, with sang-froid. “Slides offen de bluff. Dem rustlers bunch sudden. Den dey ride fer de crick. But not straight fer our ootfit. Dat’s tough luck. Dey git goin’, boss.... Awha! Up piles dat ootfit, smokin’ dem rifles.... I see a rider fall. Dey wheel west. But Brazos an’ dem two pards cut ’em off.... Boss, dey haid dis way. Dat crick ootfit spreadin’.... Dere’s Santone on his grey, quarterin’ east. Anudder rider close to him. Dat will be Stinger.... Boss, dem rustlers pilin’ by de steers dey stole. Haw! Haw! Dey won’t drive no me dis day.... It’s a race fer de hills, boss, an’ dem white trash might jes as well fold dere arms an’ pray.’Cause it’s all ober but de fireworks.”
“Any more shootin’, Jack? I cain’t see any smoke,” cried Britt, eagerly straining his eyes.
“No mo. Dey’s too fur apart.... Dere! De rustlin’ gents air pilin’ under dat ridge.... Dey’re oot of sight.... Dat wash leads right heah, boss. Our boys air crossin’ de wash. Some of dem stay on dis side. Dey’se on bof sides, boss. All workin’ jes as Brazos planned.... Boss, now’s de time fer us to run back an’ haid dat draw.”
“Lead, Jack, an’ don’t run too fast.”
Britt snatched up his rifle and started after the negro. Through the brush, back under the cedars, beyond the horses, slanting down the slope they ran until they came out above the saddle that dipped from the back of Grey Hill to the next foothill.
“Boss, dis is de best place to see,” said the negro, as he halted. “It’s better’n up dere on top.”
“Shore is — if they keep on,” panted Britt.
“Dis is de only way dey can go. Dey’se cut off. Dey gotta come up de trail dere. See it? Dat’s whar McCoy’s ootfit drove our cattle last fall. Dere’s an easy grade. All de udder slopes air steep.”
“Find a place, Jack.”
Presently the two were located somewhat lower down on a low bluff which afforded a perfect ambush of the trail and a fan-shaped view of the range below. Britt could now see with his naked eye rising puffs of dust and running horses. There were four riders on each side of the wash and a string of others down inside.
“Boss, dem rustlers hev to com up oot of dat wash,” observed Jackson, through the field-glass. “Too sandy. Dey gotta get on hard. Our boys air gainin’, boss. An’ dey ain’t stretched oot, neither.... Dere! Up dey come. Dust flyin’. — Away dey’se off, haidin’ fer de trail....Wal, now we’ll see. I reckon Brazos an’ his tree on dat fur side will stay dere. Dat wash peters oot up heah.... Aboot even race so fur, boss. An’ five miles to come.”
“Not so far, Jack. I can see pretty good now. — By Gawd, it looks bad fer thet bunch. One-two-three-four.... How many, Jack?”
“Nine, I reckon. But dey’re sho pilin’ ober each udder. Every dawg fer hisself!”
Jackson took the glasses from his eyes and wiped them with his scarf. Britt attended closely to the race. It seemed to him that the distance between Santone, whom they recognized by his grey horse, and the last of the fugitives was about a quarter of a mile. All horses were running, but apparently not extended yet. If the rustlers had rifles they had a chance to stop their pursuers and escape. If not — ! Britt was keen to ascertain this point. He had been in many a running race in which the general dislike of most riders for rifles had been their doom.
“Boss, guess I hed dat five miles wrong,” said Jackson. “Nebber was no good at distance.... Reckon two miles now. An’ dey’re comin’ into dat long sage-flat.... Brazos cuts across. His men foller. Dey’re behind Santone’s bunch. But ketchin’ up.... Spreadin’ again, boss. An’ dem rustlers stringin’ straight ahaid. By golly, it’s like chasin’ rabbits into a burro.... Whoopee! Brazos has cut loose. Dat white hoss is stretchin’. Boss, dere ain’t his beat on dis range.... An’ look at dat Santone. He ain’t gonna be left at de post. None of ’em is — Boss, dat space is shortenin’ some pronto. See dem rifles shine... Boss, de rustlers air shootin’!... Six guns, boss. Haw! Haw! I jes see one damn rifle in dat string. Ob all de white trash fools!... Boss, I’se gettin’ hot under de collar. I see de dust kickin’ up by bullets way in front ob our boys. Aboot tree hundred yards, mebbe.... Dey’se comin’, boss. Heah dem guns boomin’?... Lud, how Brazos can hold dat fire! I’d sho be smokin”em.... Awha! Dey’se shootin’, boss. Dem rifles air talkin’! Whoopee!... Dat last rustler. Hit! He sho takes a lot of killin’. Down! — Dere’s a hoss piles up.... Anudder rustler down! Anudder!... Haw! Haw! Youse will steal Ripple cattle.... Two hosses down! Tree plungin’ off, saddles empty.... Boss, boss! Heah — dem rifles pingin’? See dat rustler lead failin’ — short?”
“Save yore breath, Jack,” ordered Britt, sharply. “You’ll hev to be runnin’ to haid some of them off. Two of them air far in front. They’re on the grade.”
“Look at dem beat dere hosses! — Boss, dey might git away down dere. But nebber up heah.”
Jackson laid the glass down and slipped back into the brush. Britt heard his boots thudding. The negro would close the one avenue of escape.
Two of the rustlers were far in advance, out of rifle range. The two behind them, goading their horses, tried to increase the distance between them and their relentless pursuers. Brazos was in the lead, reloading his rifle. Santone came next and his rifle was puffing blue clouds of smoke. The other riders, scattered in line to the right, were firing at intervals. Suddenly the last rider swerved abruptly off the trail and tore across and down in a daring attempt to pass Brazos. Then began as thrilling a man-hunt race as Britt had ever seen. Brazos headed to cut the rustler off before he gained the corner of the slope, some few hundred yards distant. The fugitive, desperately goading his horse, gained perceptibly. But he had farther to go. And Brazos had slowed. Perhaps he wanted to get his rifle fully reloaded. Certainly he did not choose to close in on the rustler, whose bullets were striking up dust beyond him. In a magnificent burst of speed, slanting down the slope, the rustler passed Brazos out upon the flat. But he had not reckoned upon what the crafty cowboy had counted upon. Once on a level, straight in front, the rustler had no hope for his life. He was now reloading. Still at two hundred yards Brazos withheld his fire. The white racer stretched lower, to close up that gap as if by magic. And then as the rustler turned again in his saddle, his arm high, his gun spouting red, Brazos bent his head over his levelled rifle. One blue puff of smoke — another — a third! The rustler pitched headlong out of his saddle, to be dragged by a stirrup at the heel of a terrified horse, to be torn loose by the grasping sage. Brazos kept on.
Britt’s gaze came back to the draw, in time to see the rustler farthest behind shot off his horse. He flopped like a crippled rooster. He got up on one knee, and with levelled gun, faced his merciless pursuers. Even as his gun puffed smoke they mowed him down.
That left the two fugitives far up the draw, still goading their horses.
When Santone slowed up on the trail, now getting too steep to run a horse, the rustlers did likewise. One of them kept shooting back down the draw. He handed one of his guns to his comrade who proceeded to load it. Santone’s followers caught up with them. Brazos’ piercing yell floated up from the flat. He put the white to a gallop until he reached the grade.
At this juncture Britt picked up the field-glass. In that hard grim moment he had no pity for these doomed men. They were some four or five hundred yards distant, and still below him. The trail ascended on the far side of this draw. Jackson would be hidden somewhere above.
Britt fixed the glass upon the two rustlers, and brought them so close that it seemed he might touch them. The taller, a bare-headed, sallow, lead-faced ruffian, he had seen in Slaughter’s outfit. He mopped back his wet dishevelled hair with a bloody hand, still holding a gun, and gazed down the slope, speaking to his companion, who on the instant handed him another weapon. He cocked and levelled it deliberately, to aim long, to fire down the draw. Dust puffed up right in front of the cowboys’ horses. They made haste to spread; and harsh yells rang up from them. Britt did not recognize the second rustler. He was a matured, grizzled man, his dark face sullenly vague under his black sombrero.
They pushed the dust-and lather-coated horses just to the point of stalling them on the trail. Loud curses pealed down upon their pursuers. Britt clearly saw the bulging jaw of the hatless one, the sombre hawk-head of the other. Then the silence split to the negro’s bellow.
“Slow down — white trash!”
Britt’s keen gaze, glued to the glass, saw the rustlers whirl with terrific start. Something checked their violence. Something like wind streaked the tall grass beyond them, to strike up dust. Then two Winchester shots pealed almost simultaneously. The rustlers fell together, one upon the other. And the spent horses drooped. Britt realized that he had been witness to an extraordinary sight — that of seeing the impact of two bullets upon grass and ground, after they had passed through the bodies of the men, and before he had heard the shots. Wheeling in grim amaze, Britt espied the little negro out in the open where undoubtedly he had stepped to confront his quarry.
CHAPTER XII
SPRING RUDELY DISRUPTED Holly Ripple’s dream. All the long winter months she had been happy, free from the dreams of rustler raids and cowboy fights, reading and dreaming in the big sunny living-room, before an open fire of cedar logs, and on Saturday nights giving a little fiesta with music and dancing. Always she had contrived to see Frayne or to send him a note, and though he always made excuses, the love in her heart kept warm and sweet. He feared to be with her, and Holly feared to be with him, though she yearned for it.
Holly hated the snow, and she could not face the cold wind that whipped down from the heights. Wherefore in winter she could indulge in languishing dreams during her enforced idleness. Holly was ashamed of what she considered a weakness. Always she intended to grow hardy and strong like Ann Doane, to ride in any weather, to exercise the various accomplishments that she possessed, to learn what a pioneer wife should know. But she did not progress far that winter. She blamed it upon love.
The restlessness of spring pervaded her. When the snow melted off the knolls, and it felt good to walk out in sunny protected spots, when the dusty mêlées began again in the corrals, and the lean riders to sweep over the grey bleached flats, when caravans and stages, horses and cattle began to move, then Holly knew that the thrilling, disturbing, shocking range-life had again come into its own.
The killing of Doane opened Holly’s eyes to the true state of affairs on that range. Not right but might was the law of the unscrupulous, and its exponent was the six-shooter. If her father had lived on to this period he might have been as helpless before such a ruthless creed as had been Doane. Britt blamed Doane for talking too much. It came to light after this tragedy that Doane’s stock had entirely vanished from the range, and his son and daughter were left in poverty. Holly sent for them. They arrived one day with a wagon-load of possessions, and the few horses that bad been left them. Joe took up his abode with the cowboys, who welcomed him heartily. Young Doane was no detriment even to the hard-riding Ripple outfit. Ann went up to the big ranch-house to live with Holly.
All the cowboys, especially Skylark, approved of this arrangement, and only Britt demurred. The reason for this, Holly divined, was that Britt would find it harder to keep her in the dark as to what was going on. Ann Doane was younger than Holly in years, but appeared far older. She had been born in a prairie-schooner crossing the plains; she had only the teaching her mother had given her as a child; she was a comely, rose-cheeked, stalwart girl who could ride like a cowboy, throw a rope, and who had at the calloused finger-tips of her strong brown hands all the skill of the pioneer girl. And she was as strong in character as she was in body. She was frank, droll, simple, big-hearted and wise in the ways of the range. She was Western.
Very soon after Ann arrived Skylark voiced the desire of his heart. He wanted to marry her at once. Ann was willing, though she felt that she ought to wait until a little after her father’s death. There was an empty log cabin which could be fixed up comfortably.
“You see, Holly, it’s this way,” pleaded the tall cowboy. “Ann an’ me might as well have each other while we can.”
“Meaning what, you persuasive devil?” inquired Holly, dubiously.
“I’m liable to get shot any day,” returned Skylark, bluntly.
“Oh, dreadful! — Such an argument for marriage! — You are not going to get anything of the kind.”
“Lady, some of us boys will get it this summer — an’ it might be me,” said Skylark, with the cool inevitableness of his kind, which always stilled Holly’s protests.
“Sky, marry Ann whenever she says,” replied Holly. “I’ll do all I can to start you comfortably.”
Whereupon Skylark ran off with a glad whoop, evidently sure of Ann’s surrender. She did set a day, a not very distant one; then naturally, she grew absorbed in the important details of making a bare log cabin habitable for house-keeping. Holly fell into the spell of this, and helped so much and gave so much that Ann protested.
“Holly, it’s shore awful good of you. But I just can’t take any more. Save somethin’ for yourself.”
“Me! — Oh, nonsense,” exclaimed Holly, with a blush. “You’ll be gettin’ married one of these days.”
“Ann, a girl has to be asked,” retorted Holly, lightly.
“Holly Ripple! You can’t be serious.... An’ you ought. This marryin’ business is serious out heah.”
“I’m serious, Ann.”
“Thet is nonsense. Everybody on this range knows all the single boys an’ some of the married men have tried to court you. Didn’t my man?”
“You mean Skylark? — No indeed. Sky liked me. He tried to—”
“Wal, Sky told me so himself,” interrupted Ann, in her appallingly blunt way. “It’s all right. I couldn’t be jealous of you. All the boys love you.... Holly, ain’t you ever goin’ to love one of them back?”
“Dear me, I hope so,” murmured Holly.
“Wal, you’ll just have to. A girl can’t go single on this range. It ain’t good. It ain’t right.... These pore, lonely, woman-hungry men! They all need an’ want a woman. An’ just think, Holly, outside of you an’ me there’s only five other unmarried white girls in eastern New Mexico. An’ hundreds of cowboys. Not quite enough to go round.”
“Ann, you make it look terrible. Poor boys.”
“How aboot Brazos, Holly? There’s a fellow! — I was crazy over Brazos.”
“He’s wonderful. I — I like him, Ann. But that’s not enough.”
“I heah a lot aboot this Renn Frayne,” went on Ann, complacently. “Talk goes thet he’s turrible sweet on you. Is it so, Holly?”
“He never — told me,” faltered Holly, wanting the floor to open and swallow her. Yet she knew this honest Western girl would be good for her.
“Do you like him, too?”
“He’s a man, Holly, no young wild cowboy! — Wonderful lookin’ chap. Kinda sad, I thought. I’d hate to have him shine up to me, Skylark or no Skylark. His gun record wouldn’t phase me. Dad told me all thet’s said aboot Frayne.... Holly, out heah you can’t afford to be particular. If you are goin’ to live in the West you’ve got to take the West. I know Westerners. Most of them at some time or other weren’t so damn good. My Dad rustled calves when he first started in. Yet he shot a man once who stole from him. An’ Sky has confessed some pretty bad jobs of his.... Holly, you’re young, you’re rich, you’re beautiful, an’ everybody loves you. But where are you gettin’ with it all?”
“Nowhere, Ann.”
“Wal, I say thet’s too darn bad. I’m going to talk to some of these cowboys.”
“Don’t you dare, Ann Doane.”
“I’m goin’ to tell thet handsome hombre Frayne somethin’.”
“Oh, Ann — please don’t,” cried Holly, wildly, her dignity dissolving.
“Holly! You shore must like him a lot,” rejoined the Western girl, shrewdly. “Wal, in thet case I’ll lay off Frayne. But somethin’ has got to be done aboot you. I’m shore glad I’ve come to live at Don Carlos’ Rancho.”
Holly escaped somehow, but that talk with the Western girl, coupled with all the preparations for the wedding and the furnishing of the little cabin, awakened Holly to her own outcast and deplorable state. She made the discovery that she longed for this very thing herself. It was not that she desired marriage so much: she wanted to be Frayne’s wife. She had dreamed of him all winter; she had been happy because he really loved her, and some day it would all work out beautifully. But now something stirred her sluggish blood. If she could have changed places with Ann Doane, provided Skylark were Frayne, she would have given money, jewels, all the old Spanish lace, her ranch and her cattle, just for that cosy little log cabin.