by Zane Grey
“My Gawd—no!” gasped Bodkin, huskily. “Keene—all I can say is—you’re drunk—or crazy.”
“Yu’re the crazy one, Bodkin,” rasped Brazos, in a voice no drunken man could have used. “An’ yore boss, Surface, is wuss than crazy. He’s new heah. An’ yu’re not so damn old. Why, man, this corner of Colorado is close to New Mexico. There air Texans on this range. . . . Yu’re lookin’ at one now.”
“Brazos Keene—Texan or no—you’ll be run out of Las Animas,” blustered Bodkin, haggardly, fighting for wit and courage.
“An’ who’s goin’ to do thet little job?” queried Brazos, scornfully.
“Surface will. The Cattleman’s Association. . . . The business men of this town. . . . They can’t stand for such ravin’—”
“Cheese it, Bodkin,” cut in Brazos, piercingly. “Yu heahed me. An’ yore little audience heahed me. . . . Just what yu air ootside of a monumental liar I haven’t figgered yet. But yu’re crooked. Yu heah thet? . . . Yu’re crooked. An’ if yore crooked boss puts yu in as sheriff of Las Animas I’ll kill yu!”
Brazos ended that ringing denunciation in a silence which could be felt. Bodkin’s terrified visage satisfied Brazos that he had driven his point home. The spectators equally satisfied Brazos that his incredible affront would fly swiftly as the wind on a thousand tongues to every corner of the range. His New Mexico friends, Holly Ripple, Renn Frayne and Cap Britt would hear it before the week was out. Raine Surface would be a marked if not a ruined man.
One of the spectators outside the store was Kiskadden.
“Howdy, Texas. Where’n hell have yu been for so long? Did yu heah our little session in there?”
“Heah yu! Say, cowboy, yu could have been heahed over in the next county. Thet was good, even for Brazos Keene. I reckon they got yu desperate.”
“Riled, anyway. What’ll they do, Kiskadden?”
“I’ll be damned if I can reckon thet. Import some ootfit to get rid of yu, I reckon.”
“I’ve been lookin’ for the two men an’ a girl who killed Allen Neece. Cain’t find a trace of them.”
“Wal, yu will now. Surface will have to kill yu to save his name. It shore was a clever trick, Brazos. Let’s drop in somewhere an’ talk.”
For three days Brazos watched Bodkin unobtrusively. Brazos found nothing tedious in hiding in every conceivable kind of place to get track of Bodkin’s movements. The ex-deputy went about with a bold front, but it was evident to Brazos that the man was wearing to extreme perturbation. He never went near Twin Sombreros Ranch. Bodkin was waiting for the terrible news to reach Surface’s ears.
On the third night Brazos frightened the proprietor of the hotel where Bodkin stayed into giving him the room next to Bodkin’s. Brazos made sure Bodkin was out, then carefully cut a hole through the partition in a corner where it would not soon be discovered. This done, Brazos sat down to wait. Some time Bodkin would be cornered in that room by Surface, or would confer with one or more of the rancher’s men. Brazos meant to hide there, going out only after nightfall, until the developments he expected reached their climax.
But as Brazos’ luck would always have it, his marvelous patience did not need to be exercised. At midnight, just after the eastbound train had arrived, Bodkin entered his room with two men. Brazos, moving about in his stocking feet, glued his ear to the little hole in the corner.
“Talk low, fellars,” Bodkin said, “I’m scared even of the walls in this town. . . . Keene hasn’t been seen for three days.”
“Sure as God made little apples he’s trailin’ you,” whispered one of them.
“I feel it, Brad. . . . Set down. Hyar’s likker an’ cigars. I sure got a lot on my chest.”
Brazos’ frame leaped as if galvanized by a vital current at the name Brad. That night on the road, had he mistaken the name Bard for Brad? He was going to find out, and he stiffened with eagerness. He heard the gurgle of liquor out of a bottle and the striking of matches.
“Panhandle Ruckfall showed yellow clear to his gizzard,” spoke up another voice, thin and low, somehow sibilant. “He turned the job down. I raised the ante to two thousand dollars. Ruckfall gave me the laugh. ‘A hell of a lot of fun I’d get out of ten thousand after meeting Brazos Keene!’ is what he said. . . . He had too much sense to tackle such a deal. He might have killed Keene, but it’s an even bet that Keene would kill him. . . . There was not another gunman in Dodge or Abilene who would have any chance against Keene. I advised against that . . . and there we are. Wild Bill was in Hays City—sheriff there. But we couldn’t hire him for a dirty job like this. And if we tried Billy the Kid he’d be liable to bore us.”
“We’re stuck,” whispered Bodkin, thickly. “I’ve been keepin’ out of the boss’s way. But he corraled me today. . . . Gawd Almighty! I reckoned he was goin’ to shoot me.”
“You’re wrong, Bodkin,” rejoined the one with the curt voice. “It’s he who’s stuck. Serves him right. He’s gone too far. That Neece deal was too raw. I told him. . . . Now, if Bard and his girl fail . . .”
An eloquent silence gave Brazos time to grasp this new connection.
So there was a Bard as well as a Brad!
“Did you fetch them?” queried Bodkin.
“Yes. And Orcutt with them. They went to Hailey’s.”
“Now what?” asked the third man.
“We’ll lay low till it’s over, Brad.”
“Listen,” whispered this member of the trio. “It’ll be over pronto. Brazos Keene will see through thet dodge. Bard’s black-eyed wench is a slick one. But I’ll bet she fails hyar.”
“She’s our best bet,” returned Bodkin, hoarsely. “Keene is hot after women. The town is full of talk about him runnin’ after Lura Surface an’ the Neece twins. An’ they’re all good girls. Bess Syvertsen is bad—bad from her mother up. Add to thet, she’s handsome as hell. Keene can’t resist such a combination.”
“The hell’s fire he can’t,” retorted Brad. “You don’t savvy that hombre. Now here’s what I think of your deal. I’m not beholdin’ to any of you. An’ tomorrow I’m lightin’ out of this town an’ I’m ridin’ far. If you’ve got an ounce of sense you’ll do the same.”
“Brad, I can’t pull up stakes hyar. I’m goin’ to be sheriff of this county.”
“You’re goin’ to be a stiff,” snorted Brad.
“Not so loud,” put in the third man, with his cool voice. “Bodkin, I’m afraid Brad has it figured. I’d say if we had plenty of time we’d have a sure thing with Bess Syvertsen on the job. She’s the most fascinating girl I ever met. But the hell of it is, can we take time? It’s got to be done right now.”
“We’ll have to give her time.”
“Every hour adds to the doubt and suspicion already working.”
“Even with Brazos Keene dead—which is sure a farfetched conclusion, gentlemen—this town is going to think on. Henderson, Kiskadden, Inskip, Moore, Hadley, Stevens—all these men are getting their heads together. They are going to buck the Cattlemen’s Association. They’ll split it wide open. Most of them are honest cattlemen, you know. They’ve just been fooled. Cattlemen are the easiest of men to fool because they take a little irregularity for granted, even among themselves, and they don’t want to think. But when it comes to being robbed by rustlers—they wake up. . . . Look at the Lincoln County War—the Nebraska range feud, the Wyoming Jasper deal, or any of the famous examples, especially that Sewall McCoy-Russ Slaughter combine a few years ago over here in New Mexico. And Brazos Keene is the cowboy who ferreted that out, confronted those men with the fact of their guilt—and killed them both!”
Another pregnant little silence ensued. One of the men got up to move about and breathe hard. A second poured out a drink. That interview was wearing to a close. And Brazos grew tense and stiff with a fast approaching problem of what his next move should be.
“Fellars,” said Brad, at length, “I’m pullin’ up stakes. An’ I don’t mind tellin’ you I’d take that bag of gold w
ith me, if I could find it.”
“Ha! Ha!” Bodkin laughed low and sarcastically. Brad was not the only one who had had that ingenious idea.
“Where did he put it?” queried the unknown man. “He must have banked such a large sum.”
“Not much. He hid it,” declared Bodkin.
“What was the motive in that?”
“He couldn’t bank it. An’ it’s too soon yet after Neece’s holdup. But it runs in my mind that he’ll keep it close so he’ll be well heeled when he slopes.”
“Does Bard know where that money is?”
“No more than do I. . . . It’s always stuck in his craw—that bag of gold. He an’ Orcutt held Neece up. An’ once I heard Orcutt say, ‘Why did we let that gold get out of our hands?’ ’’
“Same reason that applies to all of us. The stronger will of a crookeder man! . . . Well, he’s run his race. It’s not in the nature of things for all the men he has used to stand around now, waiting to be hanged or shot. How about you, Bod?”
“I’ll stick around,” replied Bodkin, evasively.
“Every man for himself from now on, eh?”
“Let’s drink to thet.”
Brazos had only a moment more to decide his course of action. All the tiger in him leaped at the thought of confronting these conspirators before they left that room. He had heard the facts. But the strong heady impulse to kill could not hold against his intelligence, his judgment, his genius for thinking the right thing at the right moment. There would be little to gain in a fight and very much to risk. Wherefore Brazos relaxed from that passionate blood lust. This Brad, and the unnamed man, would go their separate ways, and probably never cross Brazos’ trail again. But Bodkin, coward though he was, had some powerful motive for remaining in Las Animas.
Brazos heard the two men depart, treading softly, and he heard Bodkin curse his relief and satisfaction. Something had ended and it was more than that interview. Brazos went to bed and for a long while was aware of Bodkin pacing the floor. Then all sounds ceased. The hour was late. Brazos could address himself to considering the exciting possibilities for the morrow. So he was to be made game of by this Bess Syvertsen—this handsome black-eyed clever little siren whom no cowboy could resist? Brazos confessed to a weakness for meeting Bess and he began to revolve in mind a cunning to match her own. But before he perfected it, he went over the situation as it stood. He had no immediate gunplay to consider. The old range custom of getting rid of an enemy by the common method of provoking a gun fight was going to fail in the case of Brazos Keene. As Brazos’ tension of mind eased to that fact he had a melancholy exultation in his reputation. This Surface combine could not find a man to meet him face-to-face. Wild Bill Hickock and Billy the Kid could not be approached for the simple reason that the great frontier sheriff on one hand and the great frontier desperado on the other would both take Brazos Keene’s side. It was something of which to be proud, something to tell June, when he saw her. He had sent word to her by Jack that he might not be able to see her for a day or two. June would understand. The warmth and the softness of the thought of her was an emotion he sternly banished from his mind.
This Bard Syvertsen, with his allies, would proceed with caution and secrecy. They would not risk an open encounter with Brazos, nor would they dare shoot him in the back on the street or in a gambling den. That would bring to a head the already aroused public suspicion. The girl Bess would work on Brazos as she had done upon poor Allen Neece. Brazos thought over every possible phase of such a plot and how to meet it and what invention of his own might not only defeat them but gain the objective he had set himself—a betrayal of Surface.
CHAPTER
8
ON every Sunday, the event of the day was the arrival and departure of the afternoon train. It was about as much of a social gathering as Las Animas saw except at dances and school entertainments. There was no church. The crowd appeared dressed in their best.
Brazos occupied his old stand against the wall of the station building. His presence, for those who noticed him, served to inhibit somewhat the leisurely pleasure of the hour.
Bess Syvertsen was there with some country folk about whom Brazos was almost as curious as he was about her. He needed only one look to convince himself that no two of the four men could be Bard Syvertsen or Orcutt. The fifth was a woman of rather bold and flashy appearance. Brazos studied them with interest.
He was surprised at this incident. He had not expected the stellar member of Surface’s crooked trio to show any interest in people of the community. He had expected them to be strangers. Moreover, Bess Syvertsen should be looking for him, which she assuredly did not happen to be doing. The train arrived, and the woman, accompanied by the best-dressed of the men, boarded it. Bess, with the other two, turned away to stroll along the station platform, following the crowd up street. Brazos, from under his sombrero brim, looked that trio over as if his eyes were magnifying glasses. The two men were hangers about town; he had seen them somewhere.
Brazos paid little attention to Bess Syvertsen’s cowgirl garb, except to note that she packed a gun somewhat too heavy for her slim build. He looked at her face.
From a distance it appeared oval, of pale olive hue, lighted by piercing dark eyes. As she came nearer he had opportunity to observe more closely. A small face, framed in dark hair which showed well under the small black sombrero, it would have been strikingly pretty but for a hard ruthless hawklike cast that Brazos did not miss. He would have been most thoughtful about it but for the conviction, as she passed, that without doubt she knew him and had all the while been aware of his presence. She was a consummate actress then, which discovery occupied his thoughts to the exclusion of her singular physical attraction. Brazos wended a thoughtful way up street, and though he lingered here and there until nightfall he did not see her again.
Monday brought back the bustle and rising dust and moving color to the cattle town. Brazos felt that this day he would meet Bess Syvertsen and he was on edge for the event. He would give her all the opportunity to approach him, if that was to be her first step. Would she make that move on the street, in one of the stores, at the post office or railroad station, or in the seclusion of a saloon or gambling hall? During the day he saw her twice on the street and once in the lobby of Hailey’s hotel, and each time she passed him with different persons and apparently did not see him. Brazos decided that she was making as many chance acquaintances as she could, so that eventually her attachment of him would not appear marked.
“Doggone!” drawled Brazos, to himself. “I’m shore gettin’ powerful keen aboot this heah bad girl in cowboy pants. Darn good thing for me I’m in love with June Neece!”
Wherefore Brazos was all primed and set for the momentous meeting when it came about at the post office. Bess had dropped out of the sky, apparently, to follow him up to the window where Brazos was asking for mail. She pressed close to Brazos and asked the clerk for a stamp. What a hot gush ran along Brazos’ veins at the sound of that young high-pitched voice! He recognized it, except for the sweet quality, which had taken the place of the nervous shrill note he remembered. For the stamp she tendered a hundred-dollar bill, which the clerk pushed back with a laugh.
“What will I do?” she complained.
“I’ll trust you. Go to the bank and get change.”
Brazos promptly produced some coins. “Heah, Lady, I’ll oblige yu,” he drawled.
“Oh, thank you,” she replied, suddenly becoming aware of his presence. She took the two cents and paid for her stamp, but she had no letter upon which to put it. Then she turned to Brazos, who had dropped back a few steps. That was the moment and it certainly gave Brazos one of the great thrills of his life. Here was the girl who was the prime instrument in the plot to murder him. Nevertheless, Brazos felt her charm.
“Cowboy, how is it I haven’t seen you?” she asked, merrily.
Brazos took off his sombrero and stood uncovered before her, with his habitual cool courtesy in t
he presence of the opposite sex.
“Wal, I was just thinkin’ the same aboot yu,” he drawled, with his slow smile.
“I am Bess Syvertsen,” she said, deliberately.
Brazos made her a gallant bow. “I shore am happy to meet yu,” he replied, but he did not mention his name.
While these remarks were exchanged she led Brazos aside from the doorway to the window. They stood there then, looking at each other. She was as sincere as a woman could be. Brazos’ interest, a cowboy’s sudden flare-up at meeting a new girl, was only a smiling dissimulation. Surprise seemed to be her dominant feeling of the moment, behind which she betrayed a profoundly deep interest. Brazos thought ironically that a girl who meant to murder a man in cold blood would be likely to have some interest in him.
“Put on your sombrero, I’m not used to men standing bareheaded before me,” she said, a little irritated by something she had not anticipated.
“Thet’s just one of my habits,” rejoined Brazos, frankly. “Where I come from men bare their haids to women.”
“I like it. But it struck me—sort of—of odd. . . . You’re from Texas?”
“I reckon yu guessed right.”
“Who are you?”
“Aw, I hate to tell yu.”
“You needn’t be afraid,” she said, with a smile that changed the flinty beauty of her face. “I can stand a shock.”
“But if I tell yu—why yu’ll dodge an’ run oot thet door, leavin’ me unhappy.”
“No, I won’t.”
“Wal, then, doggone it—I’m thet poor hombre, Brazos Keene.”
“No!” she exclaimed. Despite her deceit she betrayed sincerity as well. “Not that hard-riding, hard-drinking, hard-shooting cowboy?”