Twin Sombreros

by Zane Grey

  These hours together must have been sweet to the unfortunate girl. She prolonged them. Brazos had begun by dissimulation. But as their affair wore on there seemed to be less and less need for this. The respect, the gallantry, the deference Brazos paid her were things she thirsted for almost as much as love. And as daily, almost hourly, she responded to these, Brazos grew more toward sincerely feeling them. He divined, too, that she was so bound to her father, and perhaps to Orcutt, that she could not accept an honest man’s offer of marriage even if she dared risk his love.

  On the fourth day of this strange relation Bess came an hour late. Her face was colorless and showed other signs of havoc. For once Brazos failed to read the expression of her piercing eyes. Behind her stalked two men, one tall, the other short. That they were without vests and gun belts Brazos’ sharp eye recorded before he paid attention to their features. The little man had a visage that was a map of frontier crime. This should be Orcutt. The tall man then was Bard Syvertsen and he was a splendid specimen of Norwegian manhood, lofty of stature, fair-haired, with eyes like blue ice, and a handsome craggy face. He was all of forty years old.

  “Brazos,” said Bess, hurriedly, as she advanced, “meet my father, Bard Syvertsen, and Hen Orcutt.”

  “Howdy, gentlemen,” drawled Brazos, in his cool voice, and he made no effort to be other than Brazos Keene. At the moment he knew he risked no peril from them, and they had confronted him significantly unarmed. What their idea was, Brazos could not conjecture. Perhaps it was an overwhelming curiosity to see the cowboy at close hand.

  “Howdy, Keene. Glad to meet you,” said Orcutt, curtly.

  Syvertsen eyed Brazos with a curious intentness that was not all due to the fact of Brazos’ status on the frontier. Brazos read that cold blue eye as if it had been an open printed page. The Norwegian did not know fear; he was callous, yet he burned inwardly. He returned Brazos’ greeting in a voice Brazos would have recognized among a thousand voices. If Bard Syvertsen had been armed at the moment he would have been some time closer to the death Brazos meant to mete out to him.

  “My girl has been spending a good deal of time with you, cowboy,” he said.

  “Wal, I reckon I know thet, an’ how lucky I am,” replied Brazos.

  “I object to it.”

  “Yeah. . . . An’ on what grounds, Mister Syvertsen?”

  “No insult intended. But it’s common talk about town—you’re a trifler with women. I told Bess, and that she must stop your attentions. She said I could tell you myself.”

  “Ahuh. Wal, I’m sorry to say I cain’t take offense. But in this heah case I’m in daid earnest.”

  Both these allies of Bess Syvertsen evinced expectation of any other reply save this—evasiveness on Brazos’ part or curt assurance that it was none of their business, or a cool denial. Orcutt blazed under his swarthy seamed skin and if Syvertsen’s eyes did not glare with jealousy, Brazos was wrong. He loved the girl with a passion Brazos did not think paternal.

  “Keene, I did not believe Bess,” returned Syvertsen, as if forced. “That accounts for this intrusion. You’ll excuse us.”

  They turned into the hotel and Brazos’ keen ear caught a remnant of a curse Orcutt was bestowing upon the other. Brazos could not gauge the significance of this encounter.

  “Bess, what’n hell was all thet aboot?” queried Brazos, turning to the girl in apparent bewilderment. She seemed to be in distress.

  “Come. People are staring,” she answered hurriedly, and drew him away.

  The ensuing hours of the afternoon grew to be something of a nightmare to Brazos. They walked all over town and when too tired to walk more they sat down on whatever there was available.

  If Bess Syvertsen had been a fascinating creature on former days, she was on this occasion vastly more. Only late in the day did Brazos gather that the climax had come—that Bess Syvertsen had been driven by her accomplices to end the farce—or that she was a woman being torn apart by love and an evil power too strong for her. After supper, which they ate at Mexican Joe’s, she leaned her elbows on the table, her face on her hands and gazed at Brazos with eyes that hid much and expressed more.

  “Air yu in love with me, Bess?” asked Brazos, for the hundredth time.

  “Terribly. But what’s the use? . . . If I give in to it I’ll be killed. . . . If I don’t you’ll be killed.”

  Brazos noted that she did not grasp it as strange when he asked no explanation of her enigmatic reply. She was beyond cunning. Evil was losing its hold over her. It struck him that she was evading the issue or postponing it, trying to cheat time, to extract some bitter sweetness from the present. Brazos had no doubt that when she had left the hotel with him some hours previous she had bowed to Syvertsen’s bidding. But all afternoon she had struggled against that. Brazos knew what she did not guess—that he had seen Syvertsen and Orcutt ride out a side street toward the open country where they expected Bess to make a rendezvous with Brazos. She was a tortured woman. Up to nightfall Brazos expected some importunity of hers—some subterfuge to entice him out of town. But it never materialized, and for that proof of womanliness on her part he swore he would spare her when the worst befell.

  “Let’s go,” she said, suddenly, her eyes alight with new impulse too soft to be crafty. They went out upon the street. It was the supper hour and the street was deserted. There was no one in the lobby of Hailey’s hotel. “Come!” And she drew him with steel hands and will as steely, up the stairs to the floor above. The lamp had not been lit and the corridor was shadowy. Brazos grew wary. Still he could not sense any relation to Syvertsen and Orcutt in Bess’s tense mood and action. She unlocked a door and opened it.

  “Wal, sayin’ good night early, eh, honey?” he drawled. “It’s been a hard day at thet. See yu tomorrow same time.”

  “Yes—but come in—now,” she panted.

  “Bess! Air yu loco—askin’ me into yore bedroom?”

  “Loco, indeed! Come . . . don’t be a fool.”

  “I’m only human, Bess—an’ I reckon I’d weaken if we was goin’ to marry. But with all yore love talk I cain’t see yu’d marry me.”

  “Brazos Keene! Would you marry me?” she whispered, passionately.

  “My Gawd! What yu take me for? I told yu I was a Texan an’ had respect for a woman I loved.”

  She threw her arms around his neck and clung to him quivering, appearing to stifle speech as well as sobs upon his breast. It was as if a new emotion had consumed a lesser fire within her. The paroxysm ended in a passionate embrace, in sudden wild despairing kisses upon his cheek and lips. And she tore at his hair. “Go . . . go—before I . . .”

  She broke off huskily, and releasing him shut the door in his face.

  Brazos heard her fling herself on a bed with smothered sobs. He went swiftly downstairs and out upon the street, where in a shadowed doorway he halted to watch and think. The street appeared less deserted; a wagon rolled by; the clip-clop of a saddle horse sounded at a distance; pedestrians were chugging by with heavy boot tread.

  “Before I—before I—” mused Brazos, thinking of Bess’s last choked words. Before she what? Before she succumbed to that frenzy which had possessed her and dragged him into her room? No! . . . Before she betrayed herself to be other than the good woman she believed he thought her? No! Before she told him the truth! That was what Brazos felt drummed into his temples. That was what love had done for Bess Syvertsen. She might not betray Surface and she would not betray Syvertsen and Orcutt, but she could no longer deceive Brazos as to herself.

  Brazos’ morning habit of whipping and rolling his guns—at rare intervals he packed two guns—had infinitely more next morning than the perfunctory practice indulged in by all gunmen. His instinct told him the day had come—the meeting with the murderers of Allen Neece, was not far away. His dark favorite gun made a shining wheel as he rolled it on his finger. And like magic it leaped at his bidding from the gun sheath. He went down to breakfast with his right hand burning, w
ith the thin skin on his thumb feeling almost raw. He was late for this meal, yet he lingered over it, brooding while he watched the street. When he saw Surface drive by in a buckboard he muttered. “Ah-huh. I reckon my hunch was aboot correct.”

  At length Brazos stalked out of Mexican Joe’s tense for the climax, choosing as always to let the moment demand its decision and action of him.

  He met Kiskadden and Inskip on the street.

  “What’s Surface doin’ in town?” he queried, bluntly.

  “Meetin’ of the Cattlemen’s Association,” replied Inskip. “Surface looked black as a thundercloud.”

  “Either of yu know Syvertsen an’ Orcutt when yu see them?”

  “I do,” returned Kiskadden. “They ducked in Hall’s to avoid meetin’ me. Somethin’ on their minds, Brazos.”

  “Will yu fellars do me a favor? Cross the street heah an’ walk up thet side an’ down on this side. Don’t miss seein’ anybody, but be particular to locate Syvertsen an’ Orcutt. I’ll wait heah. Take yore time. Those hombres shore won’t be paradin’ the street.”

  Brazos leaned against the wall and watched, while his friends reconnoitered. They seemed to take a long while. It wanted a quarter of an hour to his appointment with Bess Syvertsen. Hank Bilyen came along, apparently casually, but he stepped aside to join Brazos.

  “Kiskadden told me you was heah. What’s comin’ off, Brazos?” he queried, sharply.

  “Go into Hall’s an’ line up at the bar so yu won’t look nosey. But if Syvertsen an’ Orcutt come oot be shore where they go.”

  Bilyen’s uncertainty ceased. Without another word he walked on to enter Hall’s saloon. Inskip was the first of the other two men to get back. He breathed hard, his gray eye glinted.

  “Brazos, I got a hunch there’ll be hell a’poppin’ pronto,” he announced, excitedly. “I seen Surface an’ Bodkin in the doorway of the stairs leadin’ up to the Odd Fellows. Surface was poundin’ his fist in his hand, purple in the face. An’ Bodkin was the color of sheepskin.”

  “Ahuh . . . Aboot what time will thet cattlemen’s meet-in’ be comin’ off?”

  “At two. But I reckon with Surface on the rampage it’ll be late.”

  “Wal, yu an’ Kiskadden make it yore business to be there in case I run in yu won’t miss nothin’.”

  “Brazos, are you goin’ to brace Surface?”

  “Don’t stand heah. Go back across the street. Watch Hall’s. An’ when I go in yu come pronto.”

  Kiskadden reached Brazos at exactly two o’clock, the time of Brazos’ appointment with Bess. The Texan showed no exterior fire, but Brazos felt him burn.

  “Surface just went into Hailey’s. He stopped Bess Syvertsen, who was comin’ oot. I took time to light a smoke. I couldn’t heah what Surface said to the girl, but I shore heahed her answer.”

  “An’ what was thet?”

  “‘No——you, Surface! I won’t! Get some one else to do yore dirty work!’”

  “Ahuh. Short an’ sweet. I had Bess figured. . . . Anythin’ more?”

  Surface hissed like a snake an’ dragged the girl into the lobby. He’s there now, ridin’ her, I’ll bet.

  “Wal, he’s ridin’ for a fall. What else, Kis? I’m rustlin’.”

  “I peeped into Halls. Yore men air still there.”

  “Drinkin’?”

  “Not them. Watchin’ oot the window.”

  “Wal, thet’ll be aboot all. Yu stay heah. An’ when I go into Hall’s yu follow pronto.”

  “Brazos, let me go with yu?”

  “Nope. The cairds air all oot, but they don’t savvy them.”

  Brazos strode swiftly into the first store, traversed its length, hurried out into the alley and ran to the side street. Here he slowed up, caught his breath, and went on to Hailey’s hotel, which occupied the corner at its junction with the main street. Brazos stepped into the side entrance and on to the lobby. Surface stood near the door of the hall, his tall form bent over the girl who was in the act of wrenching free from his clutch. His back was toward Brazos. Bess leaned against the wall as if for support. She looked a defiant hounded creature, game to the finish.

  “You can’t scare me. Raine Surface,” she said, low and hard. “I tell you I wouldn’t be in your boots for all your money.”

  Brazos entered the lobby to confront them.

  CHAPTER

  9

  WAL, Bess, air yu meanin’ daid man’s boots?” queried Brazos, as he stepped between them.

  “Oh—Brazos!” gasped the girl.

  Surface’s visage changed instantly, markedly in color, monstrously in expression. The surprise was so complete that had Brazos sought more proof of the man’s perfidy he would have seen it with the mask off. Unquestionably for an instant Surface thought his death was imminent.

  “What yu raggin’ my girl for?” asked Brazos, with a pretense of jealousy.

  “Your—girl!” ejaculated Surface, huskily, his jaw ceasing to wobble. “She deceived you, Keene—same as all of us. . . . She’s Syvertsen’s—”

  “Daughter, yu mean?” interposed Brazos.

  The rancher swerved. As his first shocking fear subsided he began to recover his nerve. “Daughter—hell! She’s no more Syvertsen’s daughter than mine.”

  “So yu say? Wal, what is she, then?”

  “What could she be, Keene? For a cowboy who’s supposed to be so damned smart you’re sure a fool. . . .”

  “That’ll do, Surface,” cut in Bess, coming from behind Brazos. “I meant to tell him myself and leave Las Animas. Take care you don’t drive me to tell him what you are!”

  Brazos jerked as if stung. That was a liberation of his pent-up force. But the imperative need of pretense still persisted.

  “What the hell!” he flashed. “Bess, I don’t like this talk between yu an’ him. But I trust yu. . . . Surface, I always thought there was somethin’ queer aboot yu.”

  Dealing Surface a powerful left-handed blow, Brazos knocked him flat. The rancher, scrambling up, stuttering maledictions, lifted a bloody, distorted visage. “You’ll pay for this—outrage—you”

  “Aw, go for yore gun,” snorted Brazos, contemptuously.

  But if Surface had a gun on his person he made no move to get at it. Surface now concerned himself about the several witnesses to this scene.

  “This cowboy is drunk,” he said, thickly, as he faced them, and began to brush dust from his black coat. “Another example for citizens of Las Animas. We’ve got to have law and order here.”

  “Bah! Who told yu yu were a citizen of Las Animas?” retorted Brazos. “Yu’re not even Western, Surface. Yu don’t belong oot heah. An’ if yu’re gonna stay I advise yu to get law an’ order—a hell of a lot.”

  Surface controlled a malignant rage. He had sense enough to see that he was impotent in the Western creed of man to man. But he could not control his expression, which flamed demonically upon Brazos and Bess, as he lunged away, colliding with the door in his hurry. Brazos watched him a moment. The man was not big or strong in any sense. Brazos marveled that he had lasted as long as he had. To compare Raine Surface with Sewall McCoy, or any of the great cattle thieves, would have been to insult them.

  “Come—Brazos,” said Bess, low-voiced, and she touched his arm.

  “Doggone it, Bess!” complained Brazos, going with her into the street. “I come pretty near gettin’ sore.”

  “You well had reason,” she replied, composedly. “I’m sorry you saw me with Surface. You might believe that influenced me—to tell you—what I must.”

  “Ump-umm, Bess. But yu don’t have to tell me nothin’.”

  “I must . . . if it’s the last honest thing I ever do.”

  “All right, if yu put it thet way.”

  “Will you believe me, Brazos?” she entreated. “Believe me—when I’ve been such—a—a—cheat and liar?”

  “Wal, Bess, yu air upset,” he replied, soothingly. But after a swift glance he did not want to look at her again. He had
to see every man who approached them, as they walked on down the street. “An’ I can make allowance. If it’ll do any good to tell me what’s on yore mind go ahaid—an’ I’ll believe yu.”

  “Brazos Keene, you are the only man I ever honestly loved,” she said earnestly.

  “Wal, I’m glad to heah thet, but I don’t savvy ‘honestly’.”

  “I am proving it right now. If I hadn’t loved you—you’d be a dead man right now.”

  “Yeah? Bess, thet kind of talk has a familiar ring. I’ve heahed it before.”

  “I was a cheat and a liar,” she went on swiftly. “Whatever else I am you can guess. Surface told the truth. Bard Syvertsen is not my father. . . . I never had any parents that I knew of. I was brought up in a home for—for illegitimates. . . . Syvertsen did not ruin me—nor Orcutt. Don’t hold that against them. They were hired to make away with you. . . . I was to work on your well-known weakness for women—entice you to some secluded spot—or my room, where you’d be shot—supposedly by an angry father and lover for attempting to dishonor me. . . . That was the plot. But I give you my word—never once since I met you, looked into your eyes, have I kept faith with them. I double-crossed them. . . . And today—after I say good—good-by to you—I’ll tell them. . . .”

  “Ump-umm, sweetheart,” returned Brazos, enigmatically, and he felt rather than saw her sudden start. They had almost reached Hall’s saloon. Inskip stood at his post across the street; Kiskadden remained where Brazos had left him; Bilyen had not come out. Brazos laid hold of Bess’s arm with his left hand, so that she could not break away from him. But she appeared unresisting, bewildered.

  “Girl, when yu confessed all thet yu proved a lot. . . . Yu won my respect. . . . An’ yu saved yoreself a term in prison if not yore life!”