Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  Late in the afternoon the boys reached Limestone. They found three old cows stuck in the mud, up to their eyes, with only their horns and faces showing. It took long hard work to get them out. They made camp there, turning the cows and calves loose, as this was their range.

  The following morning Pan and Joe rode up to the next boghole. They found seventeen mired cattle.

  “Nice an’ deep,” said Joe. “Damn these heah cows, allus pickin’ out quicksand!”

  It took until noon to pull them out. Another boghole showed twenty-four more in deep.

  “How many more bogholes on Limestone?” asked Pan.

  “Only four an’ the wust ones,” replied Joe, groaning. “If they’re boggin’ as good up there in them big holes, your dad will sure have to ship more cattle in soon.”

  There were six thousand cattle watering along that stream. When the water was low, as it was then, the cattle mired by the hundreds.

  “Looks bad, Pan,” remarked the older cowboy. “We’re goin’ to need help.”

  They returned to camp, got their supper, took fresh horses, and worked half the night pulling cows out of the mud.

  By sunrise the next morning the boys were at work again. Some of the mired cattle had died, others had kinks in their necks and had to be killed. Farther up the creek conditions grew worse, and the biggest pool on the range looked from a distance like a small lake dotted with ducks.

  “I’m cussin’ the world by sections,” growled Joe. “Wal, kid, you g’on up the crick, and get as near a count as you can. I’m ridin’ in after men an’ wagons. We’ll move the camp up heah. It’s the wust I ever seen, an’ we’ll lose a heap of stock. There’s a loblolly of blue gumbo mud an’ no bottom. An’ by thunder we’re stuck heah for Lord knows how long.”

  That fall Jim Blake sold his farm, and took his family to New Mexico. He had not been prospering in the valley, and things had gone from bad to worse. Pan did not get home in time to say good-by to Lucy — something that hurt in an indefinable way. He had not forgotten Lucy for in his mind she had become a steadfast factor in his home life. She left a little note of farewell, simple and loyal, hopeful, yet somehow stultified. Not so childish as former notes! Time flew by and Lucy might be growing up.

  The Hardmans had also moved away from the valley, where, none of the neighbors appeared to know. But Pan was assured of two facts concerning them; firstly that Dick had gotten into a serious shooting scrape in which he had wounded a rancher’s son, and secondly that from some unexpected and unknown source the Hardmans had acquired or been left some money.

  Pan promptly forgot his boyhood enemy. This winter was the last that he spent at home. He rode the Limestone range that summer, and according to cowboys’ gossip was fast developing all the qualities that pertained to the best riders of the day.

  Upon returning home he found that his father had made unwise deals and was not getting along very well. Grasping settlers had closed in on the range. Rustlers had ridden down from the north, raiding the valley. During Pan’s absence a little sister was born, which was indeed joyful news for him. And as he played with the baby he was reminded of Lucy. What had become of her? It occurred to Pan that sooner or later he must hunt her up.

  Pan decided that he could not remain idle during the winter. He could have had plenty to do at home, working without wages, but that was no longer to be thought of. So he decided to join two other adventurous cowboys who had planned to go south, and in the spring come back with some of the great herds being driven north.

  But Pan liked the vast ranges of the Lone Star State, and he rode there for two years, inevitably drifting into the wild free life of the cowboys. Sometimes he sent money home to his mother, but that was seldom, because he was always in debt. She wrote him regularly, which fact was the only link between him and the old home memories. Thought of Lucy returned now and then, on the lonely rides on night watches, and it seemed like a sweet melancholy dream. Never a word did he hear of her.

  Spring had come again when he rode into the Panhandle, and as luck would have it he fell in with an outfit who were driving cattle to Montana, a job that would take until late fall. To his chagrin stories of his wildness had preceded him. Ill rumor travels swiftly. Pan was the more liked and respected by these riders. But he feared that gossip of the southern ranges would reach his mother. He would go home that fall to reassure her of his well-being, and that he was not one of those “bad, gun-throwing cowboys.”

  But late fall found him cheated of his long summer’s wages, without money and job. He would not ride a “grub line” home, so he found a place with a rancher in Montana. He learned to hate the bleak ranges of that northern state, the piercing blasts of wind, the ice and snow. Spring saw him riding south toward his old stamping grounds. But always he was drifting, with the swift months flying by as fleet as the mustangs he rode, and he did not reach home. The Cimarron, the Platte, the Arkansas ranges came to know the tracks of his horses; and after he had drifted on, to remember him as few cowboys were remembered.

  At twenty years of age Panhandle Smith looked older — looked the hard life, the hard fare, the hard companionship that had been his lot as an American cowboy. He had absorbed all the virtues of that remarkable character, and most of the vices. But he had always kept aloof from women. His comrades gave many forceful and humorous reasons for his apparent fear of the sex, but they never understood him. Pan never lost the reverence for women his mother had instilled in him, nor his first and only love for Lucy Blake.

  One summer night Pan was standing night-guard duty for his cowboy comrade, who was enamored of the daughter of the rancher for whom they worked. Jim was terribly in love, and closely pressed by a rival from another outfit. This night was to be the crucial one.

  Pan had to laugh at his friend. He was funny, he was pathetic, so prone to be cast down one moment and the next raised aloft to the skies, according to the whim of the capricious young lady. Many times Pan had ridden and worked with a boy afflicted with a similar malady.

  This night, however, Pan had been conscious of encroaching melancholy. Perhaps it was a yearning for something he did not know how to define.

  The night was strange, a sultry oppressive one, silent except for the uneasy lowing of the herd, a rumble of thunder from the dark rolling clouds. A weird yellow moon hung just above the horizon. The range spread away dark, lonely and wild. No wind stirred. The wolves and coyotes were quiet. All at once to Pan the whole world seemed empty. It was an unaccountable feeling. The open range, the solitude, the herd of cattle in his charge, the comrades asleep, the horses grazing round their pickets — these always sufficient things suddenly lost their magic potency. He divined at length that he was homesick. And by the time the lay watch was ended he had determined to quit his job and ride home.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ON HIS WAY home Panhandle Smith rode across the old Limestone range that had been the scene of his first cowboy activities. It had not changed, although the cattle were not so numerous. Familiar as yesterday were the bogholes, where he and his partner — what was that cow-puncher’s name? — had spent so many toilsome days and nights.

  Pan made camp on the rocky ford where a brook joined the Limestone. It was thirty miles to Littleton, farther to Las Animas, and his pack horse was tired. He cooked his meager meal, and unrolled his bed, and as on many a hundred other nights he lay down under the open sky. But his wakefulness was new. He could not get to sleep for long. The nearer he got home the stranger and deeper his thoughts.

  Moving on next day he kept sharp lookout among the cattle for his father’s brand. But he saw no sign of it. At length, toward sunset, after passing thousands of cattle, he concluded in surprise that his father’s stock no longer ran this range. Too many homesteads and fences! He reached Littleton at dark. It had grown to be a sizable settlement. Pan treated himself to a room at the new hotel, and after supper went out to find somebody he knew. It was Saturday night and the town was full of riders and ranche
rs. He expected to meet an old acquaintance any moment, but to his further surprise he did not. Finally he went to Campbell’s store, long a fixture in the settlement of that country. John Campbell, huge of build, with his long beard and ruddy face, appeared exactly the same as when he used to give Pan a stick of candy. It did seem a long time, now. Campbell did not recognize him.

  “Howdy, stranger, reckon you’ve got the best of me,” he replied to Pan’s question, and he sized up the tall lithe rider with curious and appreciating eyes.

  “Now, John, you used to give me a stick of candy, every time I came to town,” said Pan, with a laugh.

  “Wal, I done that for every Tom, Dick an’ Harry of a kid in this heah country,” returned the old man, stroking his beard. “But durn if I recollect you.”

  “Panhandle Smith,” announced Pan, with just a little diffidence. Perhaps if he was not remembered personally he might have the good luck to be unknown in reputation.

  “Wal — Pan, if ‘t ain’t you, by gosh!” ejaculated Campbell, cordially, and there was unmistakable welcome in his grip. “But no one here will ever recognize you. Say, you’ve sprung up. We’ve heerd a lot about you — nothin’ of late years, though, now I tax myself...Cowboy, you’ve seen some range life, if talk is true.”

  “You mustn’t believe all you hear, Mr. Campbell,” replied Pan, with a smile. “I’d like to know about my dad and mother.”

  “Wal, haven’t you heerd?” queried Campbell, hesitatingly.

  “What?” flashed Pan, noting the other’s sudden change to gravity. “It’s two years and more since I got a letter from Mother. I wrote a couple of times, but she never answered.”

  “You ought to have come home long ago,” said Campbell. “Your father lost his cattle. Old deal with Hardman that stood for years. Mebbe you never knowed about it. There are ranchers around here who swear Hardman drove sharp deals. Wal, your father sold the homestead an’ left. Reckon it’s been over a year.”

  “Where’d they go?”

  “Your pa never told me where, but I heerd afterward that he hit Hardman’s trail an’ went to western New Mexico. Marco is the name of the place. New country up there. Gold an’ silver minin’, some cattle outfits goin’ in, an lately I heerd of some big wild-hoss deals on.”

  “Well,” exclaimed Pan, in profound amaze and sorrow at this news.

  “It’s a wide-open frontier place, all right,” declared Campbell. “Some cowpuncher rode through here an’ talked about Marco. He said they stepped high, wide an’ handsome up there.”

  “Why did Dad go?” asked Pan in wonder.

  “Reckon I couldn’t say fer sure. But he was sore at Hardman, an’ the funny thing is he wasn’t sore till some time after Hardman left these parts. Mebbe he learned somethin’. An’ you can learn whatever it was if you hunt up them ranchers who once got stung by Hardman.”

  “Ah-uh!” muttered Pan, thoughtfully. “Don’t know as I care to learn. Dad will tell me...Jim Blake, now, what become of him?”

  “Jim, a while back, I reckon some years though after you left home, was foreman for Hardman’s outfit. An’ he went to Marco first. Reckon Hardman sent him up there to scout around.”

  “Did Jim take his family along?” inquired Pan, pondering.

  “No. But they left soon after. In fact, now I tax myself, several homesteaders from hereabouts went. There’s a boom over west, Pan, an’ this here country is gettin’ crowded.”

  “Marco. How do you get there?”

  “Wal, it’s on the old road to Californy.”

  Pan went to the seclusion of his room, and there in the dark, sleepless, he knew the pangs of remorse. Without realizing the flight of years, always meaning to return home, to help father, mother, little sister, to take up again with his never-forgotten Lucy — he had allowed the wild life of the range to hold him too long. Excuses were futile. Suppose he had failed to save money — suppose he had become numbered among those whom his old schoolteacher had called “bad cowboys”! Pride, neglect, love of the range and new country, new adventure had kept him from doing his duty by his parents. That hour was indeed dark and shameful for Panhandle Smith. Instead of drowning his grief in drink, as would have been natural for a cowboy, he let it work its will upon him. He deserved the pangs of self-reproach, the futile wondering, the revived memories that roused longings stronger than that which had turned him on the homeward trail.

  Next day Pan sold his outfit except the few belongings he cherished, and boarded a west-bound stage. Once on the way he recovered from his brooding mood and gradually awakened to the fact that he was riding to a new country, a new adventure — the biggest of his life — in which he must make amends to his mother, and to Lucy. Quite naturally he included Lucy in the little circle of beloved ones — Lucy, whom he had deserted for the open range, for pitching horses and running steers, for the dust and turmoil of the roundup, for the long day ride and the lonely night watch, for the gaming table, the bottle, the gun — for all that made life so thrilling to the American cowboy.

  Riding by stage was not new to Pan, though he had never before taken more than a day’s journey. The stage driver, Jim Wells, was an old-timer. He had been a pony-express rider, miner, teamster and freighter, and now, grizzled and scarred he liked to perch upon the driver’s seat of the stage, chew tobacco and talk. His keen eyes took Pan’s measure in one glance.

  “Pitch your bag up, cowboy, an’ climb aboard,” he said. “An’ what might your handle be?”

  “Panhandle Smith,” replied Pan nonchalantly, “late of Sycamore Bend.”

  “Wal, now, whar’d I hear thet name? I got a plumb good memory fer names an’ faces. ‘Pears I heerd thet name in Cheyenne, last summer...I got it. Cowpuncher named Panhandle rode down street draggin’ a bolt of red calico thet unwound an’ stampeded all the hosses. Might thet lad have happened to be you?”

  “I reckon it might,” replied Pan, with a grin. “But if you know any more about me keep it under your sombrero, old-timer.”

  “Haw! Haw!” roared Wells, slapping his knee. “By golly, I will if I can. There’s a funny old lady inside what’s powerful afeerd of bandits, an’ there’s a gurl. I seen her takin’ in your size an’ spurs, an’ thet gun you pack sort of comfortable like. An’ there’s a gambler, too, if I ever seen one. Reckon I’m agoin’ to enjoy this ride.”

  After the next stop, where the travelers got dinner, Pan returned to the stage to find a young lady perched upon the driver’s seat. She had serious gray eyes and pale cheeks.

  “I took your seat,” she said, shyly, “but there’s enough room.”

  “Thanks, I’ll ride inside,” replied Pan.

  “But if you don’t sit here — someone else might — and I — he—” she faltered, flushing a little.

  “Oh, in that case, I’ll be glad to,” interrupted Pan, and climbed to the seat beside her. He had become aware of the appearance of a flashily dressed, hawk-eyed individual about to enter the stage. “Are you traveling alone?”

  “No, thank you. Father is with me, but he never sees anything. I have been annoyed,” she replied.

  The stage driver arrived, and surveyed the couple on the seat with a wink and a grin and a knowing look that quite embarrassed the young lady.

  “Wal, now, this here stage drivin’ is gettin’ to be mighty fine,” he said, as he clambered up to the seat, and unwound the reins from the brake handle. “Lady, I reckon I seen you didn’t like ridin’ inside. Wal, you’ll shore be all right ridin’ between me an’ my young friend Panhandle Smith.”

  “I think I will,” replied the girl, dimpling prettily. “My name is Emily Newman. I’m on my way with my father to visit relatives in California.”

  Pan soon found it needful to make conversation, in order to keep the loquacious old stage driver from talking too much. He had told Miss Newman about Pan’s escapade with the red calico, and had launched upon another story about him, not funny at all to Pan, but one calculated to make conquest of a romancing youn
g girl. Pan managed to shut Wells up, but too late. Miss Newman turned bright eyes upon Pan.

  “Oh, of course, I saw you were a cowboy,” she said, dimpling again. “Those enormous spurs you wear! I wondered how you could walk.”

  “These spurs? They’re nothing. I sleep in them,” replied Pan.

  “Indeed. You’re not serious...Was that true about your riding round Cheyenne dragging yards and yards of red calico behind your horse?”

  “Yes. It was silly of me. I fear I had been looking upon something beside calico that was red.”

  “Oh, you mean red liquor?...You were — under its influence!”

  “A little,” replied Pan laughing, yet not liking the turn of the conversation.

  “I wouldn’t have guessed that you—” she added, without concluding what she meant to say. But her tone, her look, and the intimation conveyed a subtle flattery to Pan. It seemed that whenever he approached young women he always received similar impressions. That was seldom, for his encounters with girls were few and far between. He could not help feeling pleased, somehow embarrassed, and rather vaguely elated. He divined danger for him in these potent impressions. Without ever understanding why he had avoided friendships with girls.

  “Miss Newman, cowboys as a rule aren’t worth much,” rejoined Pan, submerging his annoyance in good humor. “But at that they are not terrible liars like most of the stage drivers you meet.”

  “Haw! Haw!” roared Jim Wells, cracking his long whip, as the stage bowled over the road. “He’s a modest young fellar, Miss, a most extraordinary kind of a cowboy.”

  And so they bandied words and laughs from one to another, while the long white road stretched ahead, and rolled behind under the wheels. The girl was plainly curious, interested, fascinated. Old Jim, after the manner of westerners, was bent on making a conquest for Pan. And Pan, trying hard to make himself appear only an ordinary and quite worthless cowboy, succeeded only in giving an opposite impression.