Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  “Boys, when I go broke I’d like to ride on your outfit,” he said.

  “You could get on, all right,” said Thatcher. “I’m foreman for Lee. You met him last night. Any cowboy who calls him Colonel is riding high right then.”

  “Mr. Lee, eh? Nice man. No fool at cards, either. But that outfit seesawed him broke.... So long, boys. I’ll be riding out to see you some day.”

  “Doggone it! I reckon I’d be glad to see you.... Bradway, you won’t listen to no good advice from us cowboys?”

  “Not if you’re advising me to move on,” concluded Lincoln, and turned up the cross street. Those boys were not half-bad fellows. They just had some secret or were in some fix that they preferred a stranger not to know about. Linc began to think that perhaps he had been too precipitous in mentioning his connection with Jimmy Weston.

  The street ended at the bank, a low, squat building made of irregular-sized bareheads. Entering, Lincoln presented himself at the counter and asked if he could exchange some gold and small currency for large bills. It was evident that word of his little to-do at the Leave It the preceding night had not reached the bank official, who proved to be most agreeable and businesslike. Perhaps such a gambling flare-up was no rarity in South Pass. He was not invited to open an account. Other customers stamped in, some of them rough miners with sacks of gold dust. There was a scale on the counter. Linc lingered long enough to observe that gold, too, was far from rare in this camp.

  A path led along the hillside back of the buildings on the main street. Linc followed this path around the slope from which vantage point he could view the northern side of the town. The narrow valley widened here, and from it a rocky gully led up to the noisy, smoking mill. The street crossed below the mouth of the gully, and followed it up to where the big rusty structure stood dark against the sky. Houses spread all over this area; and back of them, on the slope, clung rough little shacks and huts, their crude chimneys or stovepipes told of permanency, and that the winters were severe. The brook brawled down from the mountains, and all along it for a mile, until it disappeared in a green-timbered gorge where huge banks of sand and gravel indicated an extensive placer mining operation on each side of the rushing stream.

  South Pass was the only town near the center of the Sweetwater Valley, already alive with cattle. Some traveler had told Bradway that there already were several hundred thousand head of cattle between Independence Rock and the end of the valley where the Sweetwater flowed from its source in the mountains.

  Lincoln walked up to the mill, conversing with any miner he met who would talk. The mill turned out to be a huge structure filled with noise and smoke. He was not permitted to enter. The guard pointed to a small building on one side of the works, and here the Nebraskan found an office with busy clerks. He hung around until he was able to see the superintendent, a robust, bluff man of thirty.

  “They threw me out down there,” complained Linc. “I didn’t have any idea of holding up the place.”

  “What did you want? A job?” inquired the man, quizzically, directing a sharp gaze of recognition upon his visitor.

  “I might buy your gold mill,” drawled Linc, in reply to the mill man’s look.

  “Didn’t I see you in Emery’s saloon last night?”

  “You must of, if you were in there early,” replied the cowboy. “Hope you’re not a friend of Emery’s.”

  “No, indeed. As far as I’m concerned personally, I think you let them off too easily.... Excuse me for being inquisitive, but are you any person in particular, or just a wandering cowboy, quick of temper and trigger?”

  “Well, I reckon I’m just a wandering cowboy, and I’m not offended. Now let me ask one. Who in hell in this mining dump will talk?”

  “Talk! — What about?”

  “Oh, everything in general, and in particular that outfit I bucked last night, especially the Bandon woman.”

  “I doubt if there is anyone here who will talk about Kit Bandon,” rejoined the superintendent, coldly.

  “Ahuh. All stuck on her or scared to talk,” said Linc, with heavy sarcasm.

  “Hardly that. Couldn’t you see for yourself that she is a good sport, a thoroughbred gambler, square as they come on this frontier, and friendly with everybody?”

  “Sure, I saw all that, and a heap more. But that isn’t enough.”

  “Sorry I can’t oblige you, cowboy,” returned the mill boss, curtly.

  Linc stalked out, a little nettled until he reflected that suspicion, even hostility, here in this town were all he had any right to expect. He must curb his impatience and proceed more slowly. On the way back to town he saw a livery stable and made for it with quicker step. Anyone who earned his living with horses was a potential friend of Linc Bradway. He found in charge of the stable a cheerful red-bearded man of the miner type, who limped as he came out to meet Lincoln.

  “Howdy, cowboy,” was his laconic greeting.

  “Howdy, miner. How come you’re dealing with horses?”

  “Wal, son, when I had this laig broke I bought out Jeff Smith, an’ hyar I am, not doin’ so bad either for a miner.”

  “Say, anything to do with horses is good. I’m from back Nebraska way. Name is Bradway.”

  “Mine is Bill Headly. Glad to make yore acquaintance.”

  “Same to you. Bill, I want to buy a horse, and have someone to take care of him while I’m in town. Only he’s got to be the best horse in these hills. ‘Cause I might be chased!”

  “No! Not really? Son, I’d never took you for that kind of a cowboy.”

  “Well, Bill, I’m not crooked, and if I am chased it’ll be by men who are. Savvy that?”

  “Don’t savvy exactly, but you sound convincin’.... In any case, howsomever, I have not only one, but two horses hyar thet can’t be beat in the Sweetwater Valley. Just happened I got them. Yestiddy, a cowboy down on his luck — fired off his range — come to town. Red likker an’ cyards. You know. An’ he sold his horses to me. He’s due hyar at ten o’clock to get his money.”

  “How much?”

  “Wal, I shore hate to tell you. Shows me up. But he done it. I’m no horse buyer. I had to borrow the hundred dollars.”

  “Only one hundred for two good horses? Bill, you are a swindler... . But here, take two hundred. I’m buying that cowboy’s ponies.”

  “Without seein’ them?” queried Headly, dazzled at the sight of the two greenbacks thrust into his hands.

  “I take your word.”

  “Wal, I took the cowboy’s. Let’s see — his name?... Vince somethin’. But he’ll be hyar in a minnit. Set down, Bradway. I’ll fetch them out.”

  Presently the man led out a sorrel, and a white-faced bay. Both were superb, the sorrel having a shade the better of it. But that glossy bay, deep-chested, strong-limbed, would have thrilled any cowboy, even one more critical than Bradway. He decided not to put a hand on either animal until an idea of his had a chance to work out.

  “Hyar comes Vince now,” spoke up Headly. “Comin’ to his funeral!.. . Bradway, wouldn’t thet wring yore heart?”

  A sturdy, bow-legged cowboy appeared shuffling slowly toward the livery stable, his sombrero in his hand, his towhead bowed.

  “Headly, don’t mention the sale right off,” suggested Linc. How many times had he seen cowboys come or go like this! Grief, shame, despair could not have been better exemplified, not to Linc Bradway’s keen eyes. Inexplicably he liked this down-on-his- luck cowboy without ever having seen his face. A moment later, when the young man arrived and showed his face, Linc saw a homely, sun-tanned young countenance, darkly shadowed by two days’ growth of beard.

  “Mawnin’, Bill. Heah I am, an’ I hope to die.”... Then the speaker espied Linc, who stepped out from behind the horses.

  “Howdy, Vince,” spoke up Headly. “Meet this young feller who jest called on me. Linc Bradway — Vince — I didn’t get yore other handle.”

  “Vince is enough, I reckon.... How do, cowboy.... What you lookin
’ over my horses for?” asked Vince. He was sober, but a little surly.

  “Glad to meet you, Vince. I’m a cowboy on the loose. Asked for a horse and Bill here showed me yours. That sorrel is mighty nice. And the bay, well, he’d suit me.... Which one do you fancy most?”

  “Fancy? — Hell, I raised ’em both from colts. Brick is the best horse on the Sweetwater, bar none. An’ Bay is all horse too. Only I could stand to lose him.”

  “Vince, I just bought both your horses,” said Lincoln, quietly.

  “Aw!... Then it’s too late? Bill, I was goin’ back on sellin’ Brick. I jest couldn’t. I’m sober this mawnin’.”

  “Sorry, Vince. I been paid for them, an’ hyar’s yore hundred dollars,” interposed Headly, regretfully.

  Vince’s reception of the disaster and the money thrust upon him brought about one of Linc’s quick reactions. At that moment he thought he saw through the cowboy. He remembered that Jimmy had been weak, too, and prone to make mistakes and regret them afterward.

  “Vince, I happen to have a weakness for good horses, too,” he said. “I bought Brick, but I’m giving him back to you.”

  “What the hell!... Givin’ him back?...” The cowboy burst out incredulously, and though disbelief leaped to his face, so did a dazzling light of hope.

  “Straight goods. Just a little present from a flush cowboy to one down on his luck.”

  “Flush!... By thunder! Then you could be the feller who cleaned out Emery’s joint last night an’ shot thet hatchet-faced McKeever?”

  “Yes, Vince, I’m that hombre. Did you happen to be there?”

  “No, wuss luck. My Gawd, I’d like to have seen thet mixup.... But, what’s up yore sleeve? Shore you’re flush. You must be a millionaire. An’ I savvy what a cowboy can do. I was damn near thet big myself once.”

  “Vince, there’s nothing up my sleeve, as far as you’re concerned,” replied Lincoln, earnestly. “I felt sorry you had to sell your horses. That you had been fired. And I like your looks.”

  “Bradway, I shore like yore’s. But ain’t you got no other reason at all?”

  “None, except I’m a lonesome cowboy in a strange country, a long way from home, and I’ve made enemies.”

  “Wal, you’ve made a friend, too. One who’ll stick to you till hell freezes over, if you want him.” The cowboy’s voice shook and there was fire in his blue eyes. “Things happen powerful strange, don’t they? I was jest thinkin’ downtown, when I heerd about you, how I’d like to meet you. An’ it shore was worthwhile!... But, Bradway, you an’ Bill please excuse me for ten minutes.... I sold my horses to get money I’d borrowed from a woman. An’ I could kill myself runnin’ to pay it back!”

  Vince hurriedly made off. His earnestness was manifest in his effort, but one could see he had not been used to foot races.

  When he disappeared Bill turned to Linc with a queer expression, which Linc could not quite solve, though he read in it approbation of his conduct over the horse deal, and something that might have been a better understanding of Vince. He did not care to inquire how the ex-miner felt. Again he had stumbled upon an incident, if not fateful, certainly one that was pregnant with possibilities important to him.

  “Bill, I wonder who was the woman Vince rushed off to pay so quick?” queried Linc, thoughtfully.

  “Wal, it couldn’t be no one else but Kit Bandon,” returned the livery man. “She stakes cowboys an’ shore holds them to strict account. Howsomever, I reckon no cowboy would want to cheat Kit. She’s as square as Calamity Jane. Why, any lone rider, or cowboy on a grub line, or tramp, is always welcome at her ranch.”

  “Stands ace-high with the cowboys?” asked Lincoln, his question an assertion.

  “You bet. But Kit an’ the cattlemen don’t seem to hit it thet way. I reckon because most of them have tried to marry her one time or another.”

  “Does that cardsharp Emery have the inside track with Miss Bandon?”

  “Wal, when she’s in town week ends. But out on the range it’s another story, so they say. Emery never goes there.”

  “Just life. Like any other cattle country. Same old things underneath the surface....”

  The talk became desultory after that, until they saw Vince returning. The cowboy who approached now might have been someone else, so changed was he. This boy had recaptured his self- respect. He beamed upon Headly, and in his attitude toward Bradway there seemed the birth of something big.

  “Pard, if I may call you thet, you’ll never know how I feel,” he said.

  “Gosh, Vince, how come paying some dame fifty bucks can brighten you up so?” asked Linc, casually.

  “It wasn’t just payin’ thet debt. It was endin’ somethin’, by Gawd, forever!” He spoke with finality and his dignity at the moment permitted of no inquisitiveness. Linc registered that subtle expression in his mind as one to ponder over later.

  “Where’s your gun, cowboy?” he asked. “Or don’t you pack one?”

  “Yes, I pack hardware, an’ I can use it, too, as I’ll bet you discover,” Vince replied, spiritedly. “But mine’s in hock. I’ll get it out somehow.”

  “You can’t trail around with me without being heeled,” said Bradway, quietly.

  “Am I goin’ to trail with you?” the cowboy asked, eagerly.

  “Didn’t you make an exaggerated statement a little while back about sticking to me?”

  “Shore, but thet was more hintin’ than sayin’. If you want it straight, no feller I ever met hit me so deep an’ hard as you. It was the time, I reckon. Someday, mebbe, I can tell you.”

  “Vince, you hit me plumb center, too. Part ‘cause you were in trouble, but most because you’re like an old pard I lost.”

  “Daid?”

  “Yes,” returned Linc, looking down. To think of anyone taking Jimmy’s place was strange, almost unbelievable. Yet life had to go on and he needed a friend.

  “Aw, thet’s hell. I’m sorry.”

  “Before we shake hands let me warn you that trouble and gunplay and blood seem to trail me everywhere.”

  “All in the day’s ride for me! Let me tell you thet I’m a ruined cowboy on this range.”

  “Ruined? You mean there’s no outfit you can ride with any more?”

  “I reckon not — thet is, not in the valley. I cain’t tell you, pard.... Mebbe, some day—”

  “Tell me nothing. I don’t want to know. I’ve pulled crazy deals myself. I take you for what you are to me.... Let’s mosey down the street and reclaim your gun. And you’re a pretty ragged cowboy, I notice. Just about walking on your bare feet. I’ve done that, too.... Bill, take better care of Brick and Bay from now on.”

  They walked down the street wrapped in an eloquent silence. Linc had an idea this chance meeting might prove to be even more fortunate for him than for Vince. Just before they reached the main thoroughfare, he passed some greenbacks to Vince. “Get your gun out and strap it on. Then meet me in front of that big outfitting store on the corner.”

  “Would you kick me one in the pants jest to prove this ain’t no dream?” asked Vince.

  “Cowboy, it’ll be a nightmare pronto. Rustle now.”

  Bradway strolled along, close to the buildings on his side, watching everything that went on in the street with hawk eyes. He halted every little while to back up to a wall and lean there just as though he were in no hurry at all, the better to appraise what was going on. It was a busy street, and it bore evidence that South Pass was the supply center for a wide area. Freighters were unloading. One big wagon was full of kegs which spoke eloquently of the favorite beverage South Pass consumed. The cowboys and chuck wagon he had seen in the early morning were gone. An overland stage was just rolling in from the West, down the dusty hill road, its four lathered horses breathing hard. Several canvas-covered prairie schooners were laboring up the same slope, headed westward on the Oregon Trail. The tall Nebraskan ambled on down to the store. It was a lively corner. Some boys were playing dangerously close to the busy st
reet, and a spirited team hitched to a buckboard came within a few inches of running them down. The youngsters were scrambling on the board sidewalk, and one of them, the oldest evidently, had bent over to pick up something.

  “Hey, kid, you’re too big to be sprawling in front of horses,” said Linc, severely. He made a grab at the youngster, but he dodged and piled headfirst into the three smaller ones and down they went in a heap.

  The lad Linc had tried to seize leaped up with amazing agility and whirled as quickly. The cowboy looked into the scarlet face and blazing eyes of a girl dressed in boy’s clothes. As if by magic the youngster in gray blouse and blue jeans was transformed into a slim feminine creature, burning with fury.

  “What do you mean?” she blazed, swinging a gauntleted hand which just grazed Linc’s cheek.

  He drew back thunderstruck, staring incredulously, his hand going to his face.

  “Oh! a girl — excuse me — miss,” faltered the tall cowboy. “I — I thought you were a boy old enough to set these little tykes a better example—” He stopped in confusion as he saw the girl’s pretty face with its eyes of blue fire.

  “You did — like hob!” she retorted, and her scornful glance raked him up and down. “I’m used to fresh hombres trying to introduce themselves in this town but I’ll thank you, Mr. Cowboy, to keep your hands off me!”

  Clinking spurs and quick footsteps announced the presence of Vince, who stepped between the fiery girl and the stammering Nebraskan.

  “Whoa girl, what you doin’?” he burst out, in alarm, as he held her.

  “Oh, Vince! — Shoot this cowboy for me,” she cried.

  “Aw! — There’s some mistake,” exclaimed Vince.

  “Mistake, nothing. This — this hombre insulted me. He tried to grab me—” The younger children were standing by, speechless, watching the action. Linc was looking for a hole to fall through.

  “Aw, no! Not this cowboy.”

  “Yes, this cowboy. You punch him, Vince, if you haven’t nerve to shoot him, or I’ll get someone else.”

  “Insulted — you! I jest cain’t believe that, Lucy. This cowboy is my pardner.”