Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  “Heah yu air, pard!” rang out Brazos, in his lusty piercing tenor. “These heah conscientious cowmen never expected yu back atall. But I knowed yu’d come.”

  McCoy rose to his feet, livid of face, beginning to manifest a subtle change of front. Brazos would have been disconcerting even to an honest man.

  “Frayne, you backed out of meetin’ him?” he queried harshly.

  The answer he got from Frayne was a piercing, deadly stare. But Britt thought it well to launch a retort.

  “McCoy, is yore beady-eyed gun-slinger the best you can trot oot?”

  “Dead?” gasped McCoy.

  “Bored plumb centre. Hell, he didn’t have a chance.” Brazos reacted to that with a ringing laugh. He dominated the several groups, even Britt and Frayne backing from his restless front. His gun swung low in its sheath. He had a second weapon stuck into the hip pocket of his jeans. Britt smelled gun-powder on him; then made the observation that his belt was half emptied of shells. All the characteristic red had faded from his face and his pallor enhanced the smear of blood under his clustering hair.

  Clements coughed nervously and advanced a step.

  “McCoy, press your charge now against Frayne, an’ produce your proofs. This deal will begin to look queer if you don’t.”

  “Queer, eh?” sneered McCoy. “Look out how queer you make it. I told you Slaughter has the proofs.”

  “But you told us you knew them,” protested Clements, dubiously.

  “Will you stop raggin’ me an’ wait till Slaughter gets here?” yelled McCoy.

  Brazos leaped out in front of them all with a gun in each hand.

  “Wal, heah comes Slaughter.... Don’t nobody move a finger.... Yu McCoy hombres, I got eyes in the back of my haid. Somebody is gonna get bored.”

  Britt saw Brazos’ outfit turning from the lane into the barnyard. Jackson was on foot leading a pack-animal with what looked like a man hanging face and feet downward from the saddle. Santone, Cherokee, Tex and Mex Southard, rode behind the little negro; and if ever Britt saw a quartet that had been in a fight he saw it then. Black, ragged, dusty, bloody-scarfed, they resembled a crew of pirates. Behind rode Bluegrass, his face like a white splotch, reeling in his saddle.

  When this procession neared the runway leading up to the barn door Britt’s startled gaze confirmed the first glances at that object over Jackson’s saddle. It was a dead man, whose blood dripped down upon the flopping hands that dragged in the dirt.

  “Pile off, fellars,” called Brazos. “An’ come heah.... Jack, lead thet cayuse up.”

  The negro complied. Britt stared in sickening excitement. He could not see the head of the dead man, for that hung on the other side of the horse. But he knew who it was.

  “Dump him off, Jack,” ordered Brazos.

  The negro laid hold of the man’s hips and boosted him up so that he slid out of the saddle, to flop suddenly upon the barn floor, spattering blood in all directions. When the horse got out of line, Britt confirmed his suspicion as to the dead man. Russ Slaughter presented a hideous spectacle.

  “Look, all of yu,” pealed the ruthless showman. “But keep back. Take a good look, yu cowboys an’ cowmen, so yu’ll see what can happen to a cattle-thief.... See! He’s stretched hemp! — This rustlin’ gentleman was shot fust, an’ hanged alive, then pumped full of lead!”

  In the horrified silence that transfixed the onlookers Brazos leaped over the dead man to align the ghastly McCoy with his several wooden-faced cowboys.

  “Heah, McCoy, heah’s yore Russ Slaughter,” went on Brazos, his voice gaining the high-tensioned ring of cold steel. “He had proofs. Aw, he shore hed. But of yore rotten deals with him! Russ must hev been a hombre who didn’t trust yu or his memory. He jotted down every steer, every calf — every dollar. All in a little book. An’ I got thet book!”

  Brazos grew terrible in his cold-blooded fury. His young clear-cut face had the look of an avenging god. “Thet’ll be aboot all fer yu, McCoy,” he hissed. “Heah’s fer yore insult to Holly Ripple!” One gun crashed. McCoy, with an awful scream, spasmodically clapped his hands to his abdomen. “An’ heah’s fer yore old grudge an’ dirty deal to my pard, Renn Frayne!” The second gun crashed. McCoy sank behind the cloud of smoke. Brazos leaped through tbat to present his smoking guns at McCoy’s men. “Get a move on. Pronto! If yu ever meet a Ripple cow-hand again, go fer yore guns!”

  He drove them out of the barn.

  “Watch ‘em, boys. If they look back — shoot!”

  Brazos wheeled to confront the cattlemen, of whom Clements was the one most obviously shaken. He quailed before the fire-eyed cowboy.

  “Clements; — yore yellow soul! I cain’t be certain about how crooked yu air. But yore name is in Slaughter’s book. Yu bought cattle of him. How you explain thet?”

  “Unbranded stock, Keene — I swear to Gawd!” gasped out the cattleman, ashen-hued behind his beard.

  “Aw, yu lie! I can see it in yore eyes. An honest man has nothin’ to fear. But yu ain’t honest. Yu knowed McCoy was crooked.”

  “No — I swear — I didn’t!”

  “Wal, yu knowed Slaughter was.... Oo t with thet before I bore yu.”

  “Yes — yes.... I knew it.”

  “An’ you bought Ripple stock from him?”

  “I shet my eyes.... All unbranded calves — yearlings.”

  “Ah-huh. — Wal, I’ll bore yu jest fer luck.... But if yu hadn’t been mean in yore talk to Miss Ripple, I might hev let yu off.”

  “Oh, my Gawd! — Keene — !”

  Brazos’ gun crash cut short that impassionate and desperate appeal.

  “Rustle, yu conscientious cowmen, before I cut loose. An’ in the act. We got McCoy comin’ an’ goin’. We hev written proofs. We hev Saunders’ confession. Mill over thet, yu wise range galoots.... An’ pack these daid hombres away on their hawses, onless yu want them throwed to the hawgs.”

  Half an hour later Brazos stepped to the side of a fresh mettlesome horse that Santone had fetched into the court. A light pack and a canteen were significantly bound upon the saddle. Brazos mounted with his slow, inimitable grace.

  “Whoa, Bounce, or I’ll rake yu,” he called, as he pulled the big bay down with iron arm. “So long, Jim, Rebel — all yu sons-of-guns!”

  They muttered a farewell that they neither sanctioned nor approved of. Their acquiescence had in it something of Brazos’ detachment. Cowboys had to ride away. They bowed to the fate and the greatness of their comrade.

  Britt and Frayne crowded close.

  “Brazos, you don’t hev to go,” said Britt, huskily.

  “Pard, the man confessed his guilt,” protested Frayne. “Hayward, Spencer — all of us heard him.”

  Brazos lighted his cigarette, and flicking away the match he looked down with his slight enigmatical smile. His wonderful eyes lost their piercing blue hardness behind a shadow that might have been pain.

  “Wal, I’m kinda tired of Don Carlos’ Rancho,” he drawled, in his slow, cool speech. “Me fer the Pecos an’ the Texas longhorns.”

  Britt was silent because he could not speak, while Frayne stared up with mute sorrow and a gathering, dark understanding in his gaze.

  “Pard, do me a favour,” went on Brazos, his lean hand going to Frayne’s shoulder. “If yu — an’ Holly ever hev a boy — call him Brazos.”

  Then, with a clink of spurs, and a clatter of hoofs, he was off, swift as the wind. They watched him cross the road and stretch out upon the grey range, headed for the pass, and the long, lonely trail to Texas.

  Days passed. June warmed into July. Far and wide spread the fame of Holly Ripple’s cowboys. Both factions in the Lincoln County War sought to win them to their side. A month of peace had lulled the riders back into their old lazy ways. They rode, they bet, they played tricks, they watched the cattle, they revelled in their won independence and the respect and aloofness of the range.

  Holly’s birthday rolled around, and the event this year was to cele
brate her wedding. Only the cowboys and her few neighbour friends were invited.

  Britt, who felt himself responsible for this great and happy event, left the restless, primping, whispering cowboys to go up to the ranch-house. There be found Holly radiant at the close of preparations, ready almost to consign herself to Ann and Conchita.

  “Oh, Cappy, the girls are going to dress me now,” she cried. “Will Renn like me? We made the dress ourselves. Dear old padre Augustine is here. Renn swears he wants to marry me twice — the second time by an American preacher. He wants to make sure of me. But my old padre would do for me.”

  At that juncture Ride-’Em Jackson came puffing to the living-room door, where he pounded.

  “What you want, Jack?” queried Britt.

  “Who is it? — Oh, Jackson! You poor fellow! What are you panting about?” exclaimed Holly.

  “Missy Ripple — I’se done — powerful — sorry. I sho is,” panted Jackson, solemnly rolling his eyes.

  “Sorry! What for?”

  “I’se de bearer of turrible sad news.”

  “Jack, get out. This is no time to worry Miss Ripple,” protested Britt angrily. The negro was serious and probably had some dismaying news that might just as well be left until some other time.

  “Diss message comes fro Massa Renn.”

  “Renn! — For goodness sake!” cried Holly, excitedly. “What is it, Jackson?”

  “He say to tell yu dat he’s turrible sorry dat he cain’t marry yu to-day.”

  “Oh, mercy! — Britt — Ann, did you hear Jackson? — Heavens, what is it now? Oh, I never felt sure of Renn! He’ll ride away — leave me—”

  “Nonsense, Holly,” interposed Britt. “Don’t take on so. It cain’t be anythin’ serious. Why, less than an hour ago I saw Renn so locoed he couldn’t heah the boys. Mad aboot you, Holly. I never saw a man so happy.” — ~

  “Mad? — Happy! Then why on earth.... Jackson, you staring ebony lunk-head! Why can’t Frayne marry me to-day?”

  “‘Cause, Missy, dere’s a raid on de cattle. Santone jest rode in. He tole us. Oot by Grey Hill. Gosh! I nebber seen Massa Renn so mad. He cuss terrible. ‘Hellsfire! Cain’t they give me a day to be married?’”

  “But, Jack — he didn’t ride off?” wailed Holly.

  “Yassum, he sho did. Wif de whole ootfit all dressed up. An’ I’ll sho hev to rustle to ketch them.”

  “Did he say — when he’d come back?” asked Holly faintly. “He say to tell yu he cain’t be sho. Mebbe to-morrow. Mebbe not.”

  Holly fell into a magnificent rage — the first Britt had ever seen her exhibit. At first she was so speechless she could only throw things. But soon she burst out: “Oh, damn the cattle! What do I care for cattle?... On my wedding-day! He leaves me to chase rustlers! Oh, to hell with my cattle! — I want to be married. I want my husband!”

  “Missy, I sho forgot,” said the negro. “He say fer yu to wave yu scarf — like yo always do. But yu mus hurry befo dey’s oot of sight.”

  “No. I won’t. Wave to him — when he deserts me for some miserable cows? I see myself.... Oh, Britt, it must be very bad. A big raid! Renn would not leave me otherwise.... Where’s my scarf? Ann — Conchita. My scarf, you ninnies!”

  Holly ran to and fro, weeping, wringing her hands, wild with mingled emotions. Presently she snatched the scarf from Ann and fled precipitously out on the porch. Britt ran after her. Off the porch she leaped, into the open path, her arm aloft, her beautiful eyes strained.

  The range was empty. But in the path, not twenty rods down the gentle slope, Holly espied a procession of marching cowboys, with Renn Frayne at their head, looking handsome, foolish and unutterably happy.

  Holly backed with a scream until she reached the porch steps, where she sat down suddenly. The scarf fell to the ground. A flash of joy quickly left her face. Britt was transfixed by the black dilated eyes. She was a tragic savage child.

  “Hello, Holly,” called out Frayne, as he neared her. “How do I — we look? We’re early. But couldn’t wait.”

  “It’s — a trick,” planted Holly.

  “Trick? Indeed not. This wedding is the most serious, the most beautiful — the most glorious—”

  “Devil!” shrieked Holly.

  “What?” gasped Renn, blankly.

  “Perfidious wretch!”

  At that he could only stare down at her. The smile left his face.

  “Villain!”

  Frayne appealed to Britt in mute consternation. But for once the foreman was equally mute. He had an almost irresistible desire to imitate Jackson, who was rolling in the grass. All of the other cowboys were beginning to manifest terrific and uncontrolled agitation.

  “Cowboy! I can think of no more horrible name to call you.... Cowboy!” cried Holly.

  “But, darling, what have I done?” asked the bewildered Frayne, sitting beside her.

  “Don’t darling me! I hate you! I’ll never marry you!... Look! Look at your friendly conspirators.”

  Frayne did look, to be more mystified than ever. His cowboy comrades, heedless of their best suits, so cleanly brushed and carefully pressed, were rolling over and over in the grass, giving vent to growing sounds of irresistible glee.

  “Holly, whatever it is — I am innocent,” declared Frayne.

  “Innocent! When you sent that grinning demon of a nigger up here to tell me you couldn’t marry me to-day? — Rustlers! You had to ride off. You couldn’t get back — maybe not tomorrow! — Oh, how could you? Such a horrible trick! Can’t you cowboys tell what is fun — and what is cruel?... It broke my heart. I — I’ll never marry you now.”

  “Holly! — Don’t say that. I didn’t know. They played it on me, too. I thought something was afoot. But I was loco. In a trance! Honey, don’t visit their sins upon my poor head.”

  “Oh, Frayne! — I warn you. Don’t — don’t lie. That would be too much.”

  “Holly, I’ll prove it,” declared Frayne, and he jumped up to give the rolling Jackson a resounding kick. “You black rascal! Come here! — Tell her, on your knees, or I’ll beat you half to death.”

  He dragged the convulsed negro to Holly’s feet, where she regarded him with parting lips and startled eyes.

  “Good Lud — Miss Holly.... I don’t knowed — dis would fall on my haid. But Brazos made me do it.”

  “Brazos?” cried Holly, as if stabbed.

  “Yas-sum. Brazos. Dat tow-haided debbil. He done it all before he left, Miss Holly. He planned de trick — swored us all in — an’ made me tink nobody but me could fool you.... I’se turrible sorry. I is.”

  “Jackson, get up off your knees,” returned Holly. “I forgive you. But only because Brazos trapped you in one of his infernal tricks.”

  “Thank yo, Missy Ripple. I swear I’ll nebber play tricks no mo.”

  “Jackson, haven’t you any heart?” went on Holly, overcome by curiosity. “Were you ever about to get married?”

  “Yas-sum. I done come orful near such castrophy onct. I sho did. But de good Lud who watches ober niggahs saved me. Dat wench runned off wid a long goose-necked niggah who suttingly got let in bad. An’ she tooked sixty-nine dollars of mah money.”

  “Jackson, we will excuse you,” said Holly. “Boys, go into the living-room and have Roseta brush off your clothes.”

  They trooped indoors like a lot of schoolboys glad to be let off so easily. Holly leaned her glossy head against Frayne’s shoulder.

  “Bless their hearts!” she whispered. “I came very nearly letting them see.”

  “What? Don’t tell me you were not furious.”

  “I was — at first — wild with rage and disappointment. But when I understood and saw their glee — I wanted to shriek.”

  “You did shriek, Holly,” replied Frayne, nodding gravely. “You called me some dreadful names. Didn’t she, Cappy?”

  “Wal, I should smile she did.”

  “You were tickled, you old reprobate! Renn, once a cowboy always a cowboy!”
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  As if to corroborate this unique statement, Ride-’Em Jackson appeared at the door, his round black head protruding, his solemn black orbs rolling.

  “Missy Ripple, it sho might have happened dat way. It sho might.’Cause me an’ Santone seen some rustlers dis mawnin’. An’ we didn’t say nuffin’ to Mars Frayne aboot it.”

  “Cappy, throw something at that black monster!”

  Britt complied with alacrity. “Gosh, they’ll shore drive you mad to-night.”

  “Cap, they’ve got me buffaloed,” admitted Frayne.

  “I don’t care what they do — after—” murmured Holly.

  “After what?” asked Frayne, softly, when she left off. But she kept silent. “Holly, I’d feel better if you substituted some nice names for those you called me.”

  “Renn!” she whispered.

  “That’s fair.”

  “Darling!”

  “Better. But try again.”

  “Sweetheart!”

  Frayne appeared overcome with her sweet coquetry, under which breathed a passionate tenderness. He could only press her dusky head to his lips.

  Holly sprang up. “I’ll be calling you husband pronto!” she flashed, with a gay laugh of joy, and ran indoors.

  Frayne stood up beside Britt to gaze out over the range. The old foreman did not care to voice his feelings then. But he knew that Holly was safe at last. He knew the West and he knew Westerners. There would still be years of rustling and hard-lipped, hard-eyed men would come and go. He doubted that there was one living who could match Renn Frayne. He thought a moment of that fire-eyed, great-hearted cowboy who had ridden away into the lonely melancholy wastes of Texas. Britt’s loyalty embodied in Brazos all that was great on the range. But on the moment he remembered with a pang those cowboys, moulded in the same heroic crucible, who made merry inside Holly Ripple’s house, keen to ride out on the moment, ready to die for her as had their comrades — the wild-spirited knights who slept in unmarked graves, out on the lone prairie.

  Twin Sombreros

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1