Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  Bodkin led down the west bank of the brook. The trees and rocks broke up the formation of the posse. Brazos’s sharp eye caught the rider behind Bodkin bending forward to untie his lasso from his saddle. They entered a rocky glade dominated by an old cottonwood tree with spreading branches and a dead top.

  “Open up,” shouted. Bodkin. “Prod his hoss out hyar.”

  “Boss,” spoke up one of the posse, “this deal is too raw for my stomach.”

  “Rustle, then. Git out if hyar,” yelled the leader, livid with passion.

  “I sure will. Come on, Ben. We didn’t join this outfit to hang a cowboy thet ain’t proved guilty.”

  The lean rider addressed detached himself from the group. “Bodkin,” he said forcefully. “You’re too damn keen on this necktie party. Frank an’ me are slopin’.”

  “Yellow, huh?” shouted the deputy as the couple rode off “See heah, Bodkin,” interposed Inskip, “did you ride all this way to have yore mind changed by surface?”

  “Inskip, you go to hell,” hissed Bodkin, enraged at the sarcastic implication.

  Brazos read in Inskip’s eyes what Bodkin failed to see, and it was that intelligence which sustained him. The Texan might have a trump card up his sleeve, but Brazos could only think of two desperate chances, one of which he was sure would be presented.

  “Flip thet noose, Barsh,” ordered Bodkin sardonically, addressing a lean rider whose hat shaded his face. He had a coiled rope in his left hand. He gave the coil a toss. The loop spread to fall over Brazos’s head and lodge on his shoulders. Another flip and the noose closed around his neck.

  The feel of the hard smooth hemp against Brazos’s bare flesh liberated in him the devil that he had kept leashed. Barsh plainly quailed before Brazos’s steady gaze.

  “Pile off, all of you,” shouted Bodkin stridently, dismounting to lean his rifle against the tree. “Barsh, throw the end of your rope over thet branch.”

  “Hold on!” This order issued from the Texan, whose hand obstructed Barsh’s arm in his effort to toss up the rope.

  “Wha — at?” bawled Bodkin.

  Bodkin was the only rider besides Brazos who had not dismounted. The others had laid aside their rifles and shot-guns to crowd back of Barsh, nervously hurrying to get the gruesome job done.

  Inskip deliberately rode between them and Brazos. “Bodkin, he might have a mother or sweetheart. An’ he’ll want to send some word.”

  “Aw, let him blab it pronto, then.”

  “Cowboy, do you want to tell me who you air an’ send some message?” queried Inskip calmly.

  “I shore do. But I don’t want this skunk to heah it.”

  “Wal, you can tell me.” Inskip pulled his horse toward Brazos.

  “Hyah, Inskip — not so close!” shrieked Bodkin.

  The Texan leaned toward Brazos to whisper soft and low, “Grab my guns, but don’t kill onless you have to.”

  Brazos’s claw-like hands swept out. As he jerked loose the two big guns Inskip spurred his horse to lunge away.

  “Freeze! Damn yu!” pealed out Brazos, as he covered Bodkin and the startled posse.

  CHAPTER 2

  BRAZOS HEARD INSKIP’S horse pound over the rocks and plough the brook. The Texan was racing for town. Bodkin turned a ghastly hue. Barsh gasped and dropped the rope. The others stood stiff.

  “Hands up! Turn yore backs!” ordered Brazos, his voice ice-edged. “Bodkin, tell yore men to fork their hawsses. One move for a gun means I’ll kill you first.”

  “Fellers — he’s got me — cold,” rejoined the deputy. “Fer Gawd’s sake — lay off your hardware — Climb on.”

  While they mounted stiffly, Brazos hauled the lasso in with his left hand and wound it around the pommel.

  “Ride oot, you hombres. Yu go last, Bodkin. An’ when we hit the road yell for Segel an’ yore other man to go ahaid.”

  When the riders emerged from the grove Bodkin bawled to the couple on guard with the dead man.

  “Ride on, you fellers — an’ don’t look back!”

  The wide, long main street of Las Animas was familiar to Brazos, despite the many new buildings. The place had doubled its population in five years.

  Brazos’s roving gaze caught sight of a sign, ‘Mexican Joe. Hot Tamales’, and his heart leaped. If old Joe happened to come out now, there would be a recognition somewhat disconcerting to Bodkin and his posse. But Joe was not one of the many to see the strange procession ride down the street. Before half a block had been traversed, Brazos saw to his left a building and a sign that had not been there in his day. Both sheriff and jail had come to the cattle town.

  “Turn in, yu-all, an’ set tight,” called Brazos.

  Men were grouped about and out in front stood a tall bareheaded man in his shirt sleeves. He had a silver star on his black vest. He stood significantly sidewise toward the street, his right hand low. Brazos breasted the hitching-rail to see a broad, lined face, deep, piercing eyes, a thin-lipped, close-shut mouth, and bulging chin. Texas was written all over that visage.

  “Air yu Kiskadden?” queried Brazos.

  “That’s me,” came the curt reply.

  “Did Inskip give yu a hunch aboot this?”

  “He told me you’d be likely to ride in, but I’m bound to admit I didn’t expect you.”

  “Sheriff, will yu give me a square deal?”

  “You can rest assured of thet, cowboy, I’m the law heah.”

  “My Gawd, but it’s a relief to pass these over. Heah!” burst out Brazos, and with a dexterous flip of the guns, he turned them in the air to catch them by the barrels and hand them to the sheriff. “Sheriff, I shore haven’t had many deals where I was more justified in throwin’ guns than in this one. But Inskip whispered for me not to shoot unless I had to. So I bluffed yore deputy an’ his posse.”

  “Who air you, cowboy?” queried Kiskadden searchingly.

  “Thet’ll have to come oot, I reckon,” returned Brazos. “I haven’t been in Las Animas for six years. But there’ll be men heah who’ll vouch for me.”

  “Ail right. Get down. Bodkin, you look bustin’ with yore side of this story. Mebbe you’d better hold in—”

  “Aw, hell!” interrupted the deputy. “Wait till you hear my side. He’s a slick-tongued feller. I’ll gamble he turns out to be a range-ridin’ desperado. An’ it’s a thousand to one thet he murdered young Neece.”

  “Neece! Not Abe Neece’s boy?” exclaimed Kiskadden.

  “Yes. Young Allen Neece.”

  “Aw, too bad — too bad!” rejoined the sheriff in profound regret. “As if poor Abe had not had enough trouble!”

  “Boss, it’ll sure go hard with Allen’s twin sisters. Them gurls thought the world of him.”

  “Fetch Neece in,” ended Kiskadden, and, taking Brazos’s arm, he led him into the office.

  “An’ see here, Sheriff,” spoke up Brazos. “Will yu have my hawss taken-good care of? An’ Bodkin took my gun, watch, penknife — an’ a personal letter.”

  “Cowboy, I’ll be responsible for your hawss an’ your belongs.”

  “Thanks. An’ one thing more,” said Brazos, lowering his voice. “I reckon thet letter will prove my innocence. I got it yesterday mawnin’ at Latimer, which you shore know is a hell of a long day’s ride. An’ if I know anythin’ aboot daid men, young Neece was killed durin’ the day. Hold an inquest, sheriff, an’ make shore what hour thet pore boy was murdered. ‘Cause the whole deal has a look of murder.”

  A corridor opened from the office. Kiskadden unlocked the first door on the right, to disclose a small room with one barred window and a blanketed couch. Kiskadden escorted Brazos in.

  “Cowboy, you don’t seem to concern yourself aboot why I’m lockin’ you up.”

  “Concern? Say, I’m tickled to death. You’re a Texan an’ a man. You’ll see through my part in this deal. But when I get oot — Sheriff, I’m askin’ yu — please get my letter an’ don’t let anyone but yu read it. I shore couldn’t stand
thet.”

  “We’ll see.” The sheriff went out to close and lock the heavy door.

  Brazos lay down on the couch.

  Next morning the guards brought his breakfast, and the necessary articles with which to wash and shave.

  All morning he was left alone. The fact of the omission of his noon-day meal augured further for his release. At last a slow, clinking step in the corridor ended his wait.

  The door opened to admit Kiskadden, who closed and locked It.

  “Wal, Brazos,” he drawled. “I’m missin’ my dinner to have a confab with you.”

  “Yu know my name?”

  “Shore. It’s on the back of this letter. Brazos Keene. Wrote small an’ pretty. I’m glad to tell you no one else has seen it. An’ heah it is.”

  “My Gawd, Sheriff, but I could die for yu — savin’ me the shame of disgracin’ a girl once loved,” replied Brazos in grateful emotion.

  “Wal, we had two doctors make the inquest on young Neece,” went on Kiskadden. “Our Doc Williamson an’ a surgeon from Denver who was on a train. They found young Neece had been killed early in the evenin’ of thet day you rode oot of Latimer. The bullet bole in his back was shot there after Neece was daid. Both doctors agreed that he had been roped — there were abrasions on his arms above his elbows — an’ jerked off his hawss on his haid. Thet caused his death.”

  “Wal, my Gawd!” ejaculated Brazos. “I had no rope on my saddle.”

  “Brazos, I was convinced of yore innocence yestiddy, an now I know it. But for your good, you better stay for the hearin’. It’ll show Bodkin up an’ I’ll discharge him pronto. Another angle, it leaked oot thet Surface would jest as lief see you hanged, along with all the grubline cowboys thet ride through.”

  “Hell, yu say?” queried Brazos. “I shore didn’t take a shine to him.”

  “Surface is new heah. Claims to be from Nebraska. But he’s from Kansas. Rich cattleman — an’ has a lot of stock.”

  “Ahuh. How’d Surface get thet Twin Sombreros Ranch from Neece?”

  “Wal, thet never was cleared up to suit me. Neece was operatin’ big. He had five thousand haid comin’ up from Texas for Surface. The cash for this herd was paid Neece at the Cattleman’s Bank in Dodge. More than fifty thousand dollars. Neece was fetchin’ thet sum over heah to our bank. But he got held up by three masked men an’ robbed. Wal, the queer angle is thet the big herd jest vanished off the range. Neither hoof nor hair of them was ever found.”

  “But the cow ootfit!” exclaimed Brazos, aghast.

  “Same as the herd. They vanished. Neece made a blunder at Dodge. He hired a foreman thet he didn’t know, let him pick an ootfit, an’ sent them south after the herd.”

  “That ootfit was bought off.”

  “Wal, there was no proof of anythin’ except the longhorns were gone. Neece couldn’t deliver, an’ he had been robbed of the money. Twin Sombreros was mortgaged an’ the banks wouldn’t advance more. Neece lost all to Surface. He’s a broken man now, livin’ down the Purgatory. An’ the twin gals, Neece’s joy an’ pride, air running a restaurant over by the railroad station.”

  “Twin girls?”

  “Shore. Eighteen years old — the prettiest gurls in all the West. An’ you cain’t tell them apart — not to save yore life. June an’ Janis, they’re called. Neece sent them to Kansas City to go to school. Thet was ten years ago. An’ he didn’t see them often an’ not at all of late years. He developed this Twin Sombreros Ranch for them. Thet was his brand. Two high — peaked sombreros.”

  “Kiskadden, what yu tellin’ me all this for?” suddenly queried Brazos, sharp with suspicion.

  “Aw, just range gossip, cowboy,” drawled the Texan with a smile.

  “Yeah? Wal, yu don’t strike me as the gossip kind. I figure Inskip’s a friend of yore’s?”

  “Yes. We’re pardners in a cattle business, but I’m the silent one. Wal, to come back to yore hearin’, which is set for two o’clock, I’d like you to read thet letter to me.”

  “Aw! Sheriff, what for?”

  “Brazos, I really don’t have hear it. But it’ll strengthen my conviction, I’m shore. An’ I may have to talk turkey to Surface an’ some of his cattle association. All the same, I’ll respect yore confidence.”

  “Shore. I — I’ll read it to yu,” replied Brazos. As he opened the letter his lean brown hands shook slightly.

  “‘Don Carlos’s Rancho, Cimarron, N.M., May 2, 1880,’” he read, “‘Dear Brazos: This is the third letter I have written you since you left us five years ago. I am sure the others never reached you else you would have written, This time, however, I know you will receive this one. We have a railroad mail service now, caballero mio; and this epistle should reach your post office in less than two days. So near yet so far, Brazos!

  “‘We heard that you had lately ridden down from Wyoming to a job with the Two-bar X outfit. A cattleman neighbour of ours, Calhoun, had just returned from Latimer, and he met Britt at the station. Calhoun told Britt a lot of range gossip, including your latest exploit at Casper, Wyoming (which I did not believe), and poor Britt came home like a man who had seen ghosts.

  “‘Since you and your outfit broke up the Slaughter gang and did away with Sewall McCoy, Clements and their tools, we have no rustling on a big scale. Strange to say, we were never drawn into the Lincoln County War. That terrible feud accounted for the lives of three hundred men, surely the bloodiest war the West ever knew. Billy the Kid came out of it alive. He and a few of his desperado allies still actively rustle cattle and find a ready market.

  “‘Well, the good, bad old days are over, at least for Don Carlos’s Rancho. We are running over seventy thousand head. The railroad has simplified cattle-raising. The long, hard drives are a thing of the past in this territory.

  “‘Brazos, I am wonderfully happy. Renn is a big man on the New Mexico ranges and long ago has lived down that vague hard name that came with him from Dodge and Abilene. My father’s traditions and work have been carried on. We have our darling little boy and — dare I confess it? — expect another little Frayne at no distant date. May it be a girl — Senorita Holly Ripple Frayne? I forgot to tell you that my riders have a share in our cattle business. In fact, Brazos, there is only one drop of bitterness to taint the sweet cup of Don Carlos’s Rancho. And that is your loss, your wandering life, your bitter, fiery spirit, and your fate to throw a gun, your inevitable fall.

  “‘Brazos, in this letter you have come to the end of your rope. You will stop your wandering — your drinking. You must find a steady job — if you refuse to return to Don Carlos’s Rancho — and you will be worthy of my faith and Renn’s regard, and the love of these cowboys.

  “‘This is the last letter I shall ever write you, my friend. I hope and pray you take it as I have written it, and that you will consider my husband’s proposition, which follows in a postscript. Adios, Senor. Ever yours faithfully, Holly Ripple Frayne.

  “‘P.S. Dear Cowboy Old-Timer: I am adding a few words to Holly’s letter, which I have read. But she will not get to see what I write you.

  “‘Britt wants you to come back to Don Carlos’s Rancho. So do I. So does the outfit. We are going to need you.

  “‘Brazos, Holly’s letter might mislead you about affairs of the range out here. As a matter of fact, the rustling business is as good as the cattle business. There’s a new outfit up in the hills, and Britt doesn’t like the prospects one damn little bit.

  “‘The old game is kicking back, as we always expected it to. Not so long ago, the biggest herd of long-horns Britt ever saw drifted up the Cimarron — a gaunted bunch that had seen long and hard travel. The outfit worked them across the valley, avoiding the cow camps, taking scarce enough time to fatten up, and they split the herd and drove to the rail-road, shipping from Maxwell and Hebron to Kansas City.

  “‘Britt thought the drive had a queer look and took pains to get these details. They were all the facts obtainable. But somewhere along this trail t
o the railroad, the name Surface leaked out. It’s a safe bet, Brazos, that this drive was a steal, as big a one as we ever saw come out of Texas. And naturally we’re passing the buck with a hunch to you. Ride down this man Surface, and write to us, Brazos.

  “‘And while you’re doing it, consider coming back to be my foreman of the outfit running the Ripple brand. On shares! Yours truly, Renn Frayne.’”

  “Brazos,” the sheriff declared finally, “I’m glad I trusted you. If I hadn’t an’ you’d sprung thet letter on me, I’d shore been ashamed. It’s a wonderful letter! And now, it’s aboot time for yore trial,” he added, consulting his watch.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE SHERIFF’S OFFICE appeared rather cramped with the dozen or more occupants standing and sitting around. Outside, a considerable crowd had collected. With few exceptions, notably Surface and some close associates at his elbow, the assembly was composed of dusty-booted, roughly-clad cattlemen.

  “Set there, Keene,” said Kiskadden, indicating one of two chairs back of his desk. Brazos saw his gun and belt, his watch and penknife, lying on some papers. The desk drawer was half open, showing the dark butts of several Colts.

  “Let everybody in, if there’s room,”, called the sheriff to the guard at the door. Presently Kiskadden pounded on his desk to stop the talking. “Fellow citizens,” he said, “my mind aboot this case is made up. But I’ll hold a hearin’ so thet you all can get the facts.”

  Surface took a step out from the group of ranchmen evidently accompanying him. His mien was arrogant, suggestive of power. His bland face appeared to Brazos to be a mask.

  “Sheriff, I move we try this man before twelve jurors. I will serve along with the members of the Cattlemen’s Association. We can pick the others from the businessmen here.”

  “What’s the idee of thet?” demanded Kiskadden.

  “Your declaration that you had already come to a decision proves the consensus of opinion correct.”

  “An’ what’s thet opinion?” queried the sheriff sarcastically.