Twin Sombreros

by Zane Grey

  The day came when Brazos’ trail led to the sleepy village of Hooker, where he purchased a blanket and as much food supply as Bay could carry. Once over the line into the Panhandle, towns would be few and far between. When he rode across the Texas line it seemed as definite a break as riding out of Las Animas. He was in his beloved Texas land. Yet how he had loved Colorado!

  Thereafter travel became leisurely. There was now no need of hurry, if there had ever been, and he could think of Bay and be easy on the great horse.

  When one late afternoon Brazos rode down toward a gold and scarlet creek bottom, he experienced a singular revivifying sensation. All that Texas range beyond he knew as well as if it had been a treasured book. Camp that night was one of divided memories—the old traildriving days vied with the poignant experience he had left behind in Colorado. He sat up late before his ruddy little campfire, remembering, dreaming, yet unable to banish the thought of June and Janis. It would not be long now, as days went, until he arrived at Camp Supply, on the Chisholm Trail. After that there would not be much more lonely traveling for him. He would meet cattle trains coming north across Texas on their way to Abilene and Dodge. And he would meet trail drivers riding south. He would find company. At the posts he would be known.

  The deep wide rut in the prairie that was the old Chisholm Trail, which he had ridden so often with cowboys as wild as himself, led on and on down through the gray vastness of Texas. There was a comradeship in the old trail. One day was like another. He continued to make wide detours around settlements and wagon trains and herds of cattle.

  Brazos came at length to Doan’s Crossing. He was amazed to find himself so far down in Texas, arriving at one of the famous old posts of the frontier. Hungry and travel-stained, with Bay gone lame and needing rest, Brazos was forced to a halt.

  “Jest as wal,” he soliloquized. “Reckon I cain’t be a lone wolf forever. I gotta live. A little more of this lone prairie will make me dotty.”

  Turning away from the great trail at the crossing, Brazos rode toward the post. It stood back from the river and appeared different. Then he saw that Doan’s Crossing had grown to be a settlement. The huge rambling trading post, its adobe walls red in the westering sun, appeared the same as the picture in his memory. But it fronted on the corner of a wide street that stretched far between gray flat houses and red-walled buildings. Back from this typical Western street, full of dust and vehicles and houses, scattered cottages and shacks and tents grew up to the rise of the gray prairie.

  “Wal, doggone me!” ejaculated Brazos, mildly. ‘Tom Doan has shore thrown up a metropolis.”

  If there were a trail herd in from the south it would account for the saddle horses standing bridles down, and the lounging riders, and the sloe-eyed swarthy Indians, but hardly for the life and bustle of that street. As Brazos slid wearily out of his saddle a lanky young Texan met him with a keen gaze.

  “Howdy, rider. Air you stayin’ over?”

  “Howdy, young feller. I reckon. My hawse is lame. Will you put him up and look after him?”

  “Yu bet,” replied the lad, taking the bridle.

  “Tom Doan heah yet?”

  “Shore, Tom’s heah, big as life. Yu been heah before?”

  “Say, Tex, this old dobe post wouldn’t be heah now but for me,” drawled Brazos, as he untied his coat and saddle bags.

  “Wal, you don’t say?” queried the lad, his keen blue eyes taking Brazos in with Texas perspicuity. “Mister, there’s Doan comin’ oot.”

  Brazos’ glance lighted upon a tall Texan approaching. Same old Tom Doan! Brazos could have picked him out of a hundred Texans, though they all were sandyhaired, sallow-faced, with slits of gray fire for eyes. Brazos was used to scrutiny and he met it here in full measure. It gave him the first quick beat of pulse for days. He was home in Texas all right.

  “Howdy, stranger. Git down an’ come in,” was the greeting. “Hevn’t I seen you before?”

  “Tom, I reckon I’m starved and thin and black with this heah dust and beard. But it’s a downright insult for you not to know me,” drawled Brazos.

  Doan straightened up from his close scrutiny. His still lined visage broke into a broad smile.

  “Wal, talk of the devil an’ heah he is! Brazos Keene!”

  “Yep, it’s Keene all right, only not the boy you knowed. How air you, Tom?”

  The warm smile, the glad flash of Texas eyes, the hard grip, and the hand on his shoulder thrilled some of the cold weariness out of Brazos.

  “I reckon I’m downright glad to see yu, Tom,” he responded, hoarsely.

  “Say, yu’re spittin’ cotton. Come in, boy, an’ hev a drink.”

  “Wal, I need one, Tom. But not red likker.”

  Doan led Brazos through a lane of curious riders, into the post. The huge interior, its adobe walls decorated with Indian designs and ornaments, the colored blankets and utensils hanging from the rafters, the counters laden with merchandise, and the shelves packed with a miscellaneous collection of stores, and especially the great open fireplace at the end—all these appeared just the same as if he had seen them yesterday. But there was a wide door that Brazos did not remember. It led into a saloon full of smoke and noise. Dusty-booted and shirt-sleeved Westerners stood at a long bar; Indians in buckskin lounged back along the wall; gamblers sat intent at their tables.

  “Tom, what the hell has come off about heah?” asked Brazos, after he had quenched his thirst.

  “Brazos, we’ve growed up. Doan’s Crossing is a town,” replied the host, proudly.

  “Hell, Tom, I ain’t blind. But how come? There never was nothin’ heah. Wal, nothin’ but buffalo, Injuns, and trail herd rustlers.”

  Doan laughed. “So we used to think, cowboy. But we was blind. There’s rich land heah. Lots of farms. Plenty ranches. Fine grass an’ water. We’ve got a growin’ town. A dozen stores an’ more, too many saloons, a school an’ a church an’ a doctor. I’ve added a hotel to my post. Turnin’ ’em away some days. Two stages a week, herds still trailin’ north, travel heavy. Aw, Doan Crossin’ is boomin’.”

  “Wal, doggone! I’m shore glad, Tom. But who ever would have reckoned on it?”

  “I did for one, Brazos. . . . Where yu headin’?”

  “West of the Pecos,” replied Keene, ponderingly, his gaze averted.

  “Aw! Don’t tell me yu are on the dodge, Brazos?”

  “Not atall. I reckon I did get in bad up Colorado way. But thet county I cleaned up will be so glad about it they’d fire any sheriff who put oot strings for me.”

  “Ah-huh. Wal, I hain’t heerd nothin’ an’ I ain’t askin’.”

  “Good. . . . Tom, I want a room and hot water. Last time I was heah I slept on the counter oot there. Recollect thet?”

  “I shore do. An’ you didn’t need no bath, ’cause yu an’ Herb Ellerslie got piled off in the river.”

  “Gosh! Tom, yu do remember heaps. Did I by any chance owe you some money?”

  “Nope. Anyway thet’s too long ago to remember.”

  “Tom, yu’re a liar. What become of Herb Ellerslie?”

  “Shot, Brazos. Shot at Dodge by a gambler named Cardigan.”

  “Aw, no! . . . I’m sorry. Herb and I were pretty thick on the trail. . . . Cardigan? . . . I’ll remember thet name. . . . How aboot Wess Tanner?”

  “Jest fine. Wess drove through—let’s see—along in August. He raved aboot one of them electric storms. Come to think of it Wess will be along any day now.”

  “Wouldn’t I like to see Wess!” ejaculated Brazos, dreamily, following his host out of the saloon into a long corridor. The whitewashed walls were colorful with Indian blankets, as was also the earthen floor. There were windows on one side and doors on the other. Doan halted at the end of the corridor, which apparently opened into a green and flowery patio. Brazos heard the tinkle of running water. He was ushered into a room that spoke eloquently of the advance Doan’s Crossing had made toward civilization.

  “Doggone! . . .
Tom, this heah is mighty stylish for me. Wonder if I can sleep in thet bed.”

  “Wal, you look like you needed to,” replied Doan, with a laugh. “I’ll send some hot water. You got about a half hour before supper.”

  Brazos laid off his sombrero, his gun, spurs and chaps. Then he opened his saddle bags to take out his last clean shirt, scarf and socks, and also his shaving outfit. “Heigho!” he sighed, and sat down on the bed. “Doan’s Crossing. . . . Jesse Chisholm’s Trail. . . . And I’m a broken old man!”

  A Mexican lad brought a bucket of hot water and towels. Then Brazos indulged in the luxury of a bath, a shave and some clean clothes. He was scrutinizing his lean brown face in the mirror, shaking his head dubiously, when the supper bell rang. Brazos did not forget to strap on his gun belt. Then he went out. He had to be directed to the dining room, and found a dozen or more men ahead of him. Most of them were merry riders. Finding an empty seat Brazos stepped across the bench and sat down. The fellow next to him on the right was friendly, though not curious. Still Brazos found himself the cynosure of all eyes. That Doan had mentioned his name seemed evident. A middle-aged man, surely a rancher, sitting at Brazos’ left, made himself agreeable. But presently Brazos discovered that he was a starved wolf, and that the meal was sumptuous. He ate until he felt ashamed of himself, and was the last to leave the table.

  After supper he went outdoors to walk a little. In the cool darkness Indians had a fire burning. It was pleasant for Brazos to watch and listen. The night wind was cold. He heard coyotes out on the prairie. Presently Brazos went into the post, to lounge around in the background listening to the gossip of the trail that had once been his world. He shunned the saloon with its bright lights and gay riders. Then he strolled down the wide street, along the board walk, from one end to the other, finding it like any other promenade of a frontier town. The brightly lighted stores, the passers-by, a few of whom were giggling girls who made shy eyes at him, the rattle of a roulette wheel and the metallic clink of silver coins, the sound of music and gay song, loud voices, the bang of a gun, and then silence—all these things left Brazos uninterested and he returned to his room with the pang in his breast more leaden and heavy than when he had sat around his lonely campfires.

  He went to bed. But tired as he was, he could not sleep. The bed felt too soft, too comfortable. He lay awake, thinking. It was as dark as pitch in his room. Only a hum of noises penetrated the thick walls. And June and Jan Neece filled his mind.

  Strangely, though, of all the nights he had been riding away, this one began to assume different and tremendous importance. Perhaps contact with men again had dispelled the dream, the fantasy, the unreality. Something had clarified his clouded mind. It seemed that through all these days and nights he had been nearing the truth of his problem without being conscious of it. Jan and June Neece no longer existed in his consciousness as a single entity—one girl. He had separated them into the twins once again, as they had been at first.

  In the dead of night in the blackness of his room at Doan’s post, hundreds of miles from the scene of his downfall, he at last saw clearly. All the time, it had been June, and June alone. He had worshiped her, and worshiped her still. At the very onset both girls had won his sympathy, his championship. But it had been June who had uplifted and inspired him, called so deeply and poignantly to the finer side of him, that he had never known really existed. He had thought of June as a girl to work for, to change his nature, to make a home for him and be the mother of his children. All dream! but he saw through it clearly now.

  Jan, the devil, the sweet counterpart of her twin sister, the natural coquette, had stimulated all the physical and the wild in Brazos. He had loved her, too. It was impossible not to. Yet he saw it now as singularly different. If it had been possible, failing to get June, he would have chosen Jan for a wife, realizing that instead of peace he would have found turmoil.

  The truth seemed to be a relief. He was not so ashamed as he had been. What chance had he had against those lovely girls, both in their way equally devastating? Not one man in a hundred, not one cowboy in a thousand, similarly situated, could have resisted the appalling temptation June Neece had visited upon him. Brazos shook in his bed. That old wave of fire passed through every fiber of his being. He feared that he would feel that until he was old, perhaps to his grave. And yet he would not have had it otherwise. There had been something great in his downfall. Yet what folly to call it downfall or ruin! Those twins had been his salvation. He had to be worthy of what they had made him.

  Yet all this did not make clear to Brazos the subtleties of the present. For days he had traveled more and more slowly. It seemed the reverse of that old step on his trail. Doan’s Crossing marked some kind of a dividing line for him. Had his subconscious mind been harboring a hidden thought for him to take the stage north? This query shook Brazos anew. How was he to know what he might do? But that was unthinkable. Still there was something that haunted and mocked him—something which seemed to hold aloof inexplicably, to damn him with vague conviction that he had no control over his wretched destiny.

  Sleep came very late to Brazos that night. He was awakened from a dead slumber of exhaustion by a pounding on his door. He sat up rubbing his eyes.

  “Hey, Mister Keene, air yu daid?” called a voice Brazos recognized as belonging to the Texas lad.

  “Mawnin’, Tex. No I ain’t daid yet. What’s the row about?”

  “I been tryin’ to wake you.”

  “Say, Kid, don’t tell me you called me more’n once.”

  “I have, though.”

  “What time of day is it?”

  “Long after midday. I reckon two o’clock.”

  “Wal, what’s the idee? Injuns or fire?”

  “Wuss, for yu, Mister Brazos.”

  “Hell you say! Look heah, Tex, I’m liable to bounce somethin’ off yore haid. What you mean—wuss?”

  “I—yu . . . fact is, Brazos, the Dodge City stage rolled in—with . . . an’—some old friends of yores rode in with it.”

  The lad’s voice betrayed excitement if not confusion.

  “Friends?” flashed Brazos, his slow blood quickening.

  “Tanner an’ some of his riders. I heerd Doan tell him to come wake yu up. An’ Wess said: ‘Me wake Brazos Keene? Mebbe out on the trail, but not heah. Umpumm!’ . . . They was afraid to wake yu, Brazos. An’ I wasn’t so damn happy about it, nuther. Yu see. . . .”

  “What’n hell you all think—thet I ain’t human?” yelled Brazos, as he leaped out of bed. “Tell Wess I’ll be there in a jiffy. Rustle, you towhaid.”

  Brazos laughed at the quick footfalls of the lad fading down the corridor. He washed and dressed as swiftly as if this summons had been a trail call. Warm thoughts attended his actions. He wagered that he would be as glad to see Wess Tanner as Wess. . . . Afraid to wake him? That was a good one. The damned old maverick hunter. Brazos belted on his gun belt and strode out into the corridor. He halted at the door of the saloon. There were a dozen or more men at the bar, all strange to see, facing the corridor entrance. All unknown to Brazos, he noted at a glance; but that keen glance registered also that they knew him and looked uneasy. Brazos swore under his breath and strode on into the trading post. A hubbub of voices stilled as he entered. That also stilled Brazos’ pleasant sensations. What was amiss? Even if he was Brazos Keene. . . . Indians and riders grouped around the wide door. Outside there appeared to be a crowd. At the far and lighter end of the big post Doan appeared to have stopped waiting on a customer. Brazos saw him jerk a thumb toward the entrance, and following that cue Brazos espied half a dozen riders, standing a little to the left of a tall blond fellow, lean and intent of face, with eyes like daggers. Brazos recognized Wess Tanner and saw him suddenly jerk as if frozen blood had sustained a hot release. One other of the riders Brazos recognized in that quick glance. They all appeared under a restraint. It irritated Brazos. Why should friends act like strangers when he stalked in? That was one bitter price Brazos
Keene had to pay. But he shook it off and advanced. When he reached Tanner only genuine gladness possessed him.

  “Wess! . . . You lean hungry-lookin’ old trail driver!” burst out Brazos. “My Gawd, I’m shore glad to see you!”

  “Pard. . . . You damned ole brown-skinned vaquero!” replied Tanner, unsteadily, as he met that proffered hand. “Brazos—I never expected to see this day. An’ am I happy?”

  They clasped hands and locked glances. It was a meeting between tried and true Texans who had slept and fought and toiled together through unforgettable days. Whatever had made Tanner strange and backward vanished the instant Brazos faced him.

  “Brazos—meet my ootfit,” said Tanner, presently. “Yu ought to remember Sam heah.”

  “Sam Jenkins. I shore do. Howdy, Sam,” replied Brazos, offering his hand to the sleek dark Jenkins. “It shore is good to meet you again. Can you palm aces like you used to and sing the herd quiet?”

  “Howdy—Brazos,” replied Jenkins, warming brightly. “Darn glad to see you. . . . Shore I can do them same old tricks.”

  Brazos was introduced to the other riders, most of them striplings such as he had been when he first started herd driving. Obviously they were overcome at this meeting, and though pleased and excited, they did not succeed in throwing off the restraint.

  “Wal, Wess, I reckon you’re ridin’ back to Santone for the winter. No more trail drivin’ this year?”

  “Not till spring, Brazos. An’ mebbe not then. Pard, I shore have the grandest ranch bargain there is in all Texas. If I can only raise the backin’!”