by Zane Grey
“Wal, I ask no more,” returned the Texan, feelingly.
“All the same, I’m gonna tell yu more,” flashed Brazos. “This day marks a change in my life. It’s been comin’ a long time. Somethin’s busted inside me like a million sparks. I’ll be what Holly Ripple thought I was or I’ll die tryin’.”
“Wal, now, cowboy, I reckon thet’s to say you’ve wiped oot the five years. Good! You’ve got much to live up to an’ I believe you’re equal to it.”
“Thanks, Kiskadden. . . . An’ heah we air forgettin’ the most important thing in thet letter. The hunch aboot Surface!”
“No, Brazos. I’m lettin’ thet ride fer the present. All aboot you was personal. Frayne’s hunch is business. An’ believe me, damn serious.”
CHAPTER
3
THE sheriff’s office appeared rather cramped quarters with the dozen or more occupants standing and sitting around. Outside a considerable crowd had collected. With few exceptions, notably the dark-garbed Surface and some close associates at his elbow, the assembly was composed of dusty-booted, roughly clad cattlemen.
Brazos took a swift survey of these spectators, more to sense their attitude than to look for some one who knew him. That there would be old acquaintances present he felt sure. For the time being the feeling in general seemed one of curious hostility.
“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. He stood erect. “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 forceful, arrogant, suggestive of power. His bland face appeared to Brazos to be a mask. Not since Brazos had taken to the cattle trails had he trusted eyes like these.
“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 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, Mister Raine Surface?” queried the sheriff, sarcastically.
“You wouldn’t hang a Texas cowboy. This murderer would already have swung but for Inskip, who’s another of your Texas breed.”
“Wal, Surface, thet Texas breed opened up this cattle empire. An’ the strange fact is you seldom heah of one of them gettin’ hanged. Thet might come from their gun-throwin’ proclivity, an’ then again it might be thet few Texans deserve to swing. In this case, I’m refusin’ your offer of a jury. The law of this county is invested in me.”
“Kiskadden, you may rest assured your authority will not last long,” rejoined Surface, heatedly.
Brazos took in this byplay with a thrilled interest and keen observation. Surface certainly had no conception of Texas character. Evidently, he was rich, powerful, sure of himself. He seemed utterly blind to the fact that he himself was on trial there, before at least three cool Texans.
“I’m as shore as you air of thet,” drawled Kiskadden, his narrowed eyes like slits of gray on the rancher. “An’ I’m also shore of somethin’ else. It’s goin’ to look damn queer presently, when I prove this cowboy innocent, thet you’re so keen on hangin’ him.”
Surface turned a dark red. His collar appeared to be too tight for his bulging neck.
“You insulting Texan. I’ll run you—out of office for that!” he exclaimed, stridently.
“Run an’ be damned. Yore action an’ yore talk air not regular in this deal. They look fishy to this court. To be lousy with money an’ haid of this new Cattle Association shore doesn’t entitle you to run me an’ my office. . . . Do I make myself clear, Mister Surface?”
If the rancher did not take the hint at that, his associates surely did, for they drew him back and shut his mouth.
“All right. The hearin’s on,” called out Kiskadden, loudly. “Deputy Bodkin, step forward.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the burly officer, coming up to the desk.
“Take off yore hat when you testify to the court. . . . Place yore hand on this Bible an’ swear to tell the truth an’ nothin’ but the truth.”
Bodkin took the oath.
“Now proceed with yore testimony.”
“Wal, sir, it was late after two o’clock, night before last,” began Bodkin, glib with importance. “I’d been playin’ cards an’ had hardly got asleep when I was woke by somebody at my winder. I seen two men. It was too dark to see their faces plain. They was strangers. One of them told me they’d watched a cowboy shoot another off his horse, search him and drag him into the cabin. Thet was the old Hill cabin, long empty, six miles west of town. My informant told me the cowboy came out of the cabin, unsaddled the horses, an’ turned them loose. Then he went back. It was rainin’ an’ cold. He’d likely stay in the cabin till daybreak. Then the two fellars rustled off in the dark. I heerd their horses. . . . Wal, I got up, dressed an’ rustled out fer a posse. At thet hour, it wasn’t easy. I had to take who I could get. It was near dawn when I’d collected ten men. Inskip come along on his own accord. I didn’t want him. He heerd me wake his riders. He told them to saddle his hoss. . . . Wal, we rode out fast, an’ arrived at the cabin jest at daybreak. The prisoner thar had jest stepped out the door. We held him up, took his gun an’ what he had in his pockets. He was a cool one. I seen blood on his hand. I sent men inside to search the cabin. They found the dead man in the cabin an’ fetched him out. It was Allen Neece. Thet was sure a surprise to me. His pockets was turned inside out. I heerd today thet Neece won a hundred dollars at faro the afternoon before he rode out of town. He was goin’ to see some girl. . . . Wal, the prisoner hyar sure went white an’ sick when the dead boy was carried out an’ laid on the grass. A blind man could have seen thet he’d murdered him. We found one hoss, the prisoner’s. An’ Segel packed the dead boy in on his saddle. . . . All the way in I was debatin’ on hangin’ the murderer. An’ when I got to it, this side of Twin Sombreros Ranch, Inskip crowded in front of us an’ gave the cowboy a chance to grab his two guns. . . . We got held up pronto an’ drove into town. An’ I’m fer arrestin’ Inskip—”
“When Surface called you back, what did he say?” interrupted Kiskadden.
“What?” queried Bodkin, disconcerted for the first time.
“Surface halted you at his ranch, then followed you an’ stopped you. He drew you out of hearin’ of yore men. This court is powerful interested in what Surface said.”
“Wal—sir,” exploded the deputy, his swarthy visage turning yellow. “He advised hangin’ the cowboy right then an’ thar. Said he distrusted this office. Too much red tape an’ favor to Texans.”
“Surface advised hangin’ the prisoner without trial?”
“Yes, sir. An’ I was just set to do it. Barsh had the rope around his neck when Inskip broke up the game.”
“Thet will do, Bodkin,” said the sheriff. “Doctor Williamson, will you please step forward an’ make yore report.”
A stout middle-aged man, with ruddy face, approached the desk.
“Mister Sheriff,” he began, “and gentlemen. My fellow practitioner and I find that young Neece came to his violent death not later than the middle of the afternoon of day before yesterday. We find that death was caused by a compound fracture of the skull with consequent concussion of the brain. The bullet hole in his back was made long after he was dead. He had been roped and jerked heavily to the ground, probably from a horse.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” replied the sheriff. “Now, gentlemen, let me read you a telegram received heah
this mawnin’. It is dated Latimer, Colorado, an’ it reads: ‘Sheriff Steve Kiskadden, Las Animas. The letter addressed to Brazos Keene was delivered to him in person at eight-ten o’clock day before yesterday morning. May fifth. Signed Postmaster John Hilton.’”
“Brazos Keene!” ejaculated Bodkin, as if the name stirred vague associations. A murmur ran through the standing crowd. But it was certain that Raine Surface had never heard the name.
“Yes, Brazos Keene,” drawled the Texas sheriff, not without a dry satisfaction. “Gentlemen, you all know thet Latimer is a long way from Las Animas. Much too far for the hardest of hard-ridin’ cowboys to get to the Hill cabin in the afternoon—an’ murder an’ rob young Allen Neece. The letter Keene has in his possession absolutely clears him of any implication whatever in this tragedy. It was physically impossible for Brazos Keene to be there. What is more, Brazos Keene is not the breed of cowboy who would perpetrate such a cowardly job. For the benefit of those present who could not possibly have heard of Brazos Keene, an’ further, to clear his name in every way this court has power, I purpose to heah from men who do know him. . . . Mr. Hutchinson, will you please step forward. I need hardly tell the courtroom who an’ what Randolph Hutchinson is.”
A stalwart man, long past sixty, yet erect and keeneyed, stood out from the crowd.
“Mr. Sheriff an’ fellow citizens,” he said. “I have known Brazos Keene for years, in fact since his first trail trip up from Texas to Dodge City. He was a wild cowboy, as indeed all those boys had to be to survive those days. After that I gave him many an important job. Long after that time Brazos rode for the Ripple outfit at Don Carlos’ Rancho. He often rode into Las Animas. I am sure many of our merchants and cattlemen will remember him, and join me in saying no finer, straighter, squarer cowboy than Brazos Keene ever straddled a horse in the interest of the honest cattle business of the range.”
Next, without being called, a little wizen-faced, brighteyed Mexican rushed to take Hutchinson’s place.
“Mexican Joe—he know thees Señor Brazos Keene,” he began, dramatically. “Joe run leetle restaurants here many years. Joe lend the moneys many times to thees cowboy. He ees always pay. One time he save my girl from the drunk hombres. Señor Brazos es un caballero grande!”
This eloquent tribute elicited a smile from many of the sober-faced spectators. Then the crowd parted to let out a stooped, gray, hawk-faced, bowlegged man who had grown bent and stiff in the saddle.
Brazos gave a violent start. “Hank Bilyen! . . . Aw, sheriff, don’t let thet son-of-a-gun talk aboot me!” cried Brazos, appealingly.
“Howdy, Brazos,” drawled Bilyen, as he hobbled up to offer his hand. Brazos wrung it heartily. “Hank, you old geezer! I clean forgot aboot you.”
“Wal, I ain’t forgot you, cowboy, as you’ll get a hunch pronto,” replied Bilyen, stepping up to Kiskadden. “Sheriff, I take pleasure in accommodatin’ you with some facts about this cowboy you’ve had the nerve to arrest.”
“No, Hank, you’ve got it wrong,” drawled Kiskadden. “My bright deputy arrested him. Keene rode in heah with the whole posse in front of him. An’ he gave himself up for trial. I’ll take it as a personal favor to me if you testify to yore estimate of him.”
“Wal, gentlemen,” said Bilyen, with a dry chuckle, as he faced the gaping crowd. “It jest occurs to me how orful long five years is. Fer it’s been thet long since Brazos Keene used to give us somethin’ to talk about round the campfires. An’ in thet time the railroad has come, with many new people, an’ most of the old-timers have passed on. So to most of you, Brazos Keene is a stranger. An’ to the newcomers, like Surface an’ Bodkin, an’ the rest of you, I’d say you’re lucky to see one of the real cowboys who made this range safe. Brazos Keene was one of Cap Britt’s outfit. An’ if thet means little to you, let me add thet Britt was Colonel Ripple’s right-hand man. An’ Ripple was one of the greatest ranchers the West ever knew. Some years back, the Colonel fetched his daughter Holly Ripple up from the South, an’ about thet time the bad men of the border concentrated in New Mexico from the Cimarron to Glorietta Pass. Britt had a hundred thousand steers. To hold them he got together the greatest outfit of riders ever runnin’ fer one brand. Chisum’s bunch wasn’t a marker to Britt’s. An’ Brazos Keene was the leader of thet outfit. . . . It ill becomes a Westerner to speak of another’s gun record. An’ Brazos Keene might be offended. But I’ll risk a little. He was the swiftest man with a gun, the fiercest in spirit, the most relentless tracker any of us old-timers ever knew. It was Keene’s cunnin’, his hound-scent on a trail, an’ last, his skill with a gun thet broke up the associated bands of rustlers in New Mexico. Sewall McCoy—sure you’ve all heard his name—he was one of these rich, smooth, respectable, office-seekin’, social-prominent cattlemen who behind all thet was the blackest, craftiest, bloodiest rustler baron we ever had out heah. McCoy believed dead cowboys told no tales. If he could not corrupt honest boys he had them ambushed an’ shot. Brazos got this gentleman to rights—an’ he killed him. . . . Also he killed Williams, another cattleman followin’ in McCoy’s tracks. An’ he fetched the boss rustler Slaughter before McCoy—packin’ him over a saddle, hanged before he was bored full of holes—an’ he confronted Mr. McCoy with the little book thet rustler kept, an’ he called McCoy all the turrible names the range ever heerd of. Exposed him before two outfits, dared him, cussed him to draw, an’ killed him! . . . Thet, gentlemen, was only one of the little deals Brazos Keene is known by. . . . An’ this is the Brazos Keene our clever deputy had the gall to arrest, an’ our new neighbor Mr. Raine Surface, had the nerve to want hanged, an’ our smart young citizen, one Barsh, had the—Gawd! I don’t know what to call it, but for want of a better word I’ll say insanity—this Barsh had the insanity to throw a noose around Brazos Keene’s neck. . . . If I haven’t lived all these last twenty years on the frontier in vain, if Hank Bilyen hasn’t lost his sense of Western creed, an’ his memory for historical facts—then it’s a thousand to one thet Brazos Keene will find the murderer of Allen Neece, an’ he’ll get to the bottom of Mr. Surface’s queer hankerin’ to hang him—an’ as for Bodkin an’ Barsh—Wal! I ain’t predictin’ in these days of onsartin life, but I wouldn’t be in their boots for a million dollars!”
Once in his life Brazos had stood for frank eulogy about himself and for blunt reference to his career. The crowd stood silent under Bilyen’s harangue, and at the thundering end, it gave further proof of how the truth had sunk in, especially in the case of the cowering Barsh, the pallid sweating Bodkin, and the pale Surface.
Brazos wrestled up out of his seat. “Hank, old-timer, thet’ll be aboot all,” he drawled in his cool dry way. “If you think so doggone much of me as thet, stake me to a sack full of pesos, will yu? I’m fiat broke an’ it’s shore embarrassin’.”
“Come to the bank with me,” replied Bilyen, grinning, shaken out of his passionate earnestness.
Kiskadden pounded on the table to stop the talking, laughing and shuffling of boots.
“This hearin’ ain’t quite over yet,” he explained. “Brazos, I’m returnin’ yore gun. . . . There! An’ I’m apologizin’ as a man if I cain’t as a sheriff.”
“Thanks, Kiskadden,” replied Brazos, as he buckled on the heavy belt. “Gosh, thet’s good! You know I sorta feel undressed withoot it. . . . Ahuh! Wal, I had a hunch. Some slick law-abidin’ hombre took the shells oot. I’ll just load up again—to be ready in case I meet any skunks in the street.”
The humorous speech of the cowboy contrasted strangely with the singular dexterity with which he reloaded the weapon, and then rolled it in a flashing steely wheel. One of the onlookers burst into a nervous laugh, but the majority seemed fascinated by that action of Brazos’. On the frontier, the six-shooter was supreme, law or no law.
“Bodkin,” called out the sheriff, drastically. “I never did cotton to you. How I ever hired you to represent me in this community is hard to explain an’ impossible to swallow. But I reckon you was for
ced on my hands by Surface an’ some of his Cattle Association friends. . . . You’re the blunderin’est—not to say wuss—excuse for a deputy thet I ever seen. Why, down in Texas you’d last aboot as long as it took you to walk oot from yore appointment. An’ my last official act as sheriff heah is to discharge you. Get oot! You’re fired. It’d be a good idee for you an’ Barsh to hide. . . . Open up there. Let ‘em oot! . . . Now, gentlemen, the Brazos Keene hearin’ is ended, an’ I’m resignin’ as sheriff.”
A response approaching uproar succeeded this dramatic climax of the trial. Brazos caught a general disapproval in the assembly. There appeared to be immediate discord in the Cattlemen’s Association. Kiskadden would not hear those who approached him to disclaim against the turn of affairs. He forced these men to follow the others out to the street. Brazos and Bilyen were left alone with the sheriff.
“Wal, mebbe I wasn’t glad of a chance like thet!” he exclaimed, his face shining.
“Don’t blame you. But the county will be hot over it,” replied Bilyen.
“What yu got up yore sleeve, Texas Jack?” queried Brazos, shrewdly.
“I’ll tell you later. Brazos, you ain’t slopin’ off, by any chance? . . . Haw! Haw! Excuse me. . . . Wal, I want to move oot. What you want done with thet fine bay hawse?”
“Doggone if I know.”
“Tell you what,” interposed Bilyen. “I’ll send a boy over to fetch your hoss an’ saddle to where I keep mine. Later I’ll be takin’ you out to meet my boss.”
“An’ who’s he?”
“No less than Abe Neece—a grand old man, Brazos. I was his foreman at Twin Sombreros, an’ after the crash, I jest couldn’t leave him. Brazos, you’ll be so sorry fer him thet you’ll go gunnin’ fer trouble.”
“Will I? Doggone it! Oot of the fryin’ pan into the fire! . . . At thet, I’m sorry enough now for these Neeces. Hank, it was like yu to stick. I kinda think yu’re a real fellar.”