by Grey, Zane
Drive under your personal supervision. Get a move on!"
At high noon, five days later, Huett stood on an elevated part of the rim at the confluence of Turkey and Sycamore Canyons.
The resonant yells of cowboys floated up to his tingling ears; the weird, wild cries of Indians whipped back in echo from wall to wall.
"Sight of your life, old-timer!" called Doyle, hoarsely in Huett's ear.
"It is, Al, and thirty-three years' wait makes it sweeter."
Far as eye could see, across the floor of Turkey Canyon and up its six-mile length, spread a living, restless mosaic of cattle. The yells that pealed from cowboy to cowboy and Indian to Indian were the relays down to Huett. His answering shout was to start the drive. The cowboys had taken three days moving the cattle in Turkey over to Sycamore.
Huett's arrival on the rim was the signal that Lee Doyle and Jess Smith waited for.
"Blow your horn, Gabriel," said Al, with gusto.
Huett began to draw in breath, to fill his wide lungs and expand his deep chest; and when he was full to bursting, he expelled it all in one stupendous stentorian explosion. "Waahoo-oo!"
Abe's old hunting-call, augmented to grand volume by Huett's passion, boomed across the canyon and banged back. All the hope and failure, the ambition and discouragement, the endless toil and unceasing trouble, all Huett's life as a cattleman, the terrible years at last crowned with victory, success, wealth, pealed out in that long, wonderful yell. Before echoes ceased the Indians below on each side of the herd relayed the signal one to another up the canyon until their voices were lost in the distance. The head of that magnificent herd was out of sight round the bend, probably far beyond the cabin.
Huett watched in silence. He could hear his heart beating. At last, far up the canyon, the mass of cattle began to move. Like a turgid current of stream, congested by tossing driftwood and roots of stumps, the movement came on down slowly through the herd until all the cattle were on the move.
"The drive's on, old timer," shouted Al, waving his sombrero. "Good-bye, old bulls and long-horns--good-bye to Sycamore."
Huett lingered. The herd moved at a slow walk, gradually going faster as the forward mass broke into free action. The old cattleman waved to them a farewell to Sycamore. There was a lump in his throat. His eyes grew dim so that the red and white and black chequered carpet of cows and steers blurred in his sight. This was the most exceedingly full, the greatest moment of Logan Huett's life.
"Wal--Al, they're off," he said, in husky accents. "My cup is almost full... If only my sons could see!"
They left the rim, climbed over the rough ledges to the open woods, and out to the road and the waiting car. Huett had the driver run the six miles up to Long Valley, and stop at the forks of the road, where the branch led down to his ranch. But instead of going down to a vantage-point on the wall below, Huett, this time alone, climbed the steep bluff and got out on the edge above his cabin. He gazed, and an irresistible yell escaped his panting lips.
His cabin appeared to be a little moss-roofed, green-logged island in a river of many colours and jostling waves and milling eddies. The narrow construction of the canyon here was packed solidly with wagging, bawling cattle. "Whoopee!... Ki-yi-ki-yi!" rang up the piercing yells a the cowboys. Their echoes mingled with the sing-song chant of the Navajo riders. The trample of thousands of hoofs made a low, subdued roar. Dust rose in puffs and patches, rolling back on the light breeze to merge into a cloud that obscured the wide mass of the herd below.
This scene was intimate and beautiful. Huett could smell the cattle, the manure, the dust, the hoof-ploughed earth of his corn and alfalfa fields.
What of his great patch of potatoes? He could see the burly bulls, the wide-horned cows, the thick-necked steers, the yearlings and heifers, crowding along the corrals, obliterating the brook, colouring the bench, surrounding the cabin, passing on under the pines. Huett thought he revelled in bliss, but there was a pang in his breast. His cattle were going. Something was passing. It seemed almost like the end of life.
Soon the vast volume of animals down around the corner in the wide stretch from wall to wall by their very momentum forced those ahead in the constricted neck of the canyon into a lumbering gallop. And then the trample grew deafening, the dust rose to hide the motley stream. Huett stood a while longer above the ranch he could not see and the cattle that thundered by under a yellow pall. Then he retraced his steps back down off the bluff and out to the road where Doyle and the driver awaited him.
"Makes me think of the old buffalo days," said AL "Hope that run doesn't develop into a stampede."
"Nothing to--worry us," panted Huett. "They're crowding--through that narrow neck... She opens out soon. Before sunset they'll be--up on the range."
They drove up to the end of Long Valley, and leaving the road, bumped and swayed over rough going through the woods until compelled to stop. Then they dismounted and walked. Two chuck-wagons, widely separated, awaited the drivers at the point where the open range sent a grey wedge into the woods. Huett and Doyle were not far ahead of the vanguard of the herd.
For three hours Huett sat on a chuck-wagon seat, watching his cattle flow like a magic colourful river out of the forest and spread across the wide corner of range. Those hours might have been minutes.
Before sunset the entire herd was up on the level and halted for the night. Cowboys came swinging in on dust-caked horses. Soon Lee, Bill, Jack Ray, Con Sullivan, and other drivers rode up to pay their happy respect to the cattleman. They were all as black as the nigger Johnson, but not so shiny of face.
"Mr. Huett--Dad," called Lee, cheerfully, as with a scarf he wiped his begrimed face to show it red and wet, "it was easy as duck-soup."
"Wal, old-timer," drawled Bill Smith, with the dust rolling off him in little streams, "we shore piled along high, wide, and handsome."
"Mister Huett, it waz graa-ndd," boomed the Irishman.
Johnson's eyes rolled to show their contrasting whites. "Boss, we done it. Yas, suh, we sho did."
"From now on," said Jack Ray, "it'll be sing an' roll on, little dogies."
When Huett got a chance he shouted: "I'd rather be a cowboy than President!"
"Come an' git it before I pitch it out!" yelled the cook.
During the drive Logan went three times from Flagg to cheer the boys and feed his insatiate love of all which pertained to cattle. As luck would have it, the good fall weather persisted, and on the afternoon of the tenth day the herd rolled, tired and slow, but in fine condition, into the railroad pastures. Lee Doyle and Bill Smith, astride their horses, one on each side of the gate, counted the cattle. Lee gave the number to be thirty-one thousand and sixth odd.
A counter for Mitchell did not attend, much to Huett's dissatisfaction.
The erstwhile suave Government buyer struck Huett as being sore under the collar. Barbara, upon being questioned, made the reason perfectly clear to Huett; the man, so far as women were concerned, was brazen, unscrupulous, and extraordinarily vain.
Five hundred and more cattle-cars cluttered up the side track and yards of the Santa Fe. For the first several days Mitchell loaded and shipped an average of fifteen hundred head every twenty-four hours. After that, with cowboys and railroad men working in double shifts, he shipped three trainloads every day until the great herd was gone. At his office that night he informed the waiting cowboys and Indians that he would pay off next morning. For some reason or other he was inaccessible to Huett.
Sleep did not soon visit Huett's eyelids that night. The November wind sang paeans under the eaves. And the morning sunlight danced for the rancher's magnifying eyes. He was prodigal in promises to his wife and daughter. And he went down street with boots ringing on the frosty sidewalks. Mitchell, urging press of settling his affairs, put him off until two o'clock.
It was a Saturday afternoon--a half-holiday for the bank. Huett had hoped to bank his cash upon receipt of it. Nevertheless nothing could concern him this day. On the su
nny sidewalk he waited the Government man's pleasure. Holbert and Doyle were with him, loyal, proud, excited. They both took some share of credit for Huett's dramatic finish with the cattle.
"Al, did I ever tell you about Abe's shooting at the training camp?" asked Logan, fully aware of other listeners.
"Not that I recollect," replied Al.
"Wal, it was sure great... The first day when Abe was marched out on the shooting range with a lot of green recruits a red-headed cuss of a sergeant shoved Abe up to the mark, and handed him a thirty Government rifle: 'Hey, long legs, do you know one end of this from the other?'... Abe said he reckoned he did. 'All right, then take your turn.
Shoot,' ordered the drill sergeant. 'What at?' asked Abe. 'At the target, you dumb head!'... Then Abe saw a lot of white targets with black centre and rings. Fifty yards, a hundred, two hundred, and so on up to a thousand. Abe asked which one he should shoot at. 'Rooky, look here. Can you shoot?' yelled the sergeant, and Abe modestly replied that he reckoned he could not shoot very well. 'But I wouldn't want to shoot at this first target,' added Abe... Then he threw up the rifle. Gosh! It always was wonderful to see Abe get set and aim. When he was a little boy he took to guns... Well, Abe took five shots at the thousand-yard target, off hand. The flag man waved back three bull's-eyes and two shots inside the first circle... Ha! That red-headed sergeant got red in the face.
'Hell, you said you couldn't shoot.' And Abe kind of kidded him cool and easy: 'my ole man says I can't.'"
Mitchell finally called Huett into his office. Another official in khaki sat on the other side of a table containing a few papers and two large, neatly wrapped packages, identical in size and appearance.
"Huett, my man's count was thirty thousand nine hundred," began Mitchell, cold of voice and mien.
"All right. That's near enough."
"Sign here," went on the buyer, indicating a dotted line on an official-looking document. Huett bent over the table, and taking the proffered pen wrote his name with a fine flourish. "Witness his signature, Lieutenant."
When the official had done this, Mitchell folded the document and put it in his pocket. Then he handed one of the packages to Huett.
"Here's your money," he said, brusquely, and shoved it into Huett's hands as if it burned him. "I don't need to tell an old westerner like you that the town's full of bums, redskins, greasers... Good day."
Huett found himself out in the street, light-headed with a heavy, compellingly pregnant parcel under his arm.
"Let's have a drink," he said, gaily to Holbert and Doyle.
They went into the corner saloon and sat at a table. Huett placed his parcel between his knees out of sight. They drank. Huett would not hear of his friend's returning the compliment--not on that day of days. Then he ordered another drink. Scarcely had they set down their glasses when Mitchell, accompanied by a stranger in civilian garb, entered the saloon.
Mitchell espied Huett and his friends, and with a direct gesture and an elated laugh he drew the attention of his companion to them. They turned abruptly on their heels and went out.
"Them Eastern army men are queer hombres," remarked Holbert.
"Wal, if you ask me," drawled the shrewd Doyle, "that swelled-up galoot got took in by a plain westerner and snubbed by his daughter."
"Let's have another drink," said Huett, chuckling with a deep grin.
Holbert and Doyle were the first to make a move. One on each side of Huett, they steered him through the crowd. The short fall day had almost closed. Cold wind slipped down from the dark peaks and the dust swirled.
Huett's comrades made sure no one was following them. They left him at the gate.
"Wal, old-timer, cache that little windfall to-night and sleep with one eye open," advised Doyle.
"An' have yore guns layin' around," added Holbert. "Some hombre might have seen you comin' out of that office."
Logan went in and locked the door. The sitting-room was cheerful with lighted lamp and fire. A smell of ham and coffee was wafted in from the kitchen. Lucinda appeared wiping her hands on her apron and Barbara ran from her room.
"Wal, Bab, have you seen your soldier admirer to-day?" asked Logan, cheerily, as he laid the parcel on the table.
"Have I? Dad, not half an hour ago he sneered at me and laughed in my face. I didn't know what to make of it.'
"Luce, pull down the blinds--and shut the kitchen door... I've something to show you."
His big hands shook as he stripped the tight rubber bands from the heavy parcel. "Thirty thousand nine hundred at twenty-eight!" he whispered tensely.
"Oh Dad--hurry... I feel..."
Logan rasped the stiff paper covers flat. A neat pile of cut newspaper and tinfoil pieces spread out over the table.
Chapter SIXTEEN.
It was dusk when Huett stamped out of the cottage, deaf to Lucinda's entreaties and Barbara's cries, his big fist tight about a ragged wad of bogus paper money, his mind blocked at what he thought could be only a stupendous joke.
Yet his breast seemed to be crushed with a paralysing fear. The night watchman was lighting the street lamps. Huett strode on faster. He found Mitchell's office empty and vacated. Then he remembered that the cattle-buyer and his associate in the saloon had been carrying hand baggage. They were leaving Flagg. Then on the moment he heard a distant shrill whistle of the East-bound train. Whereupon Huett, who had not run for years, broke into a dash for the station. He arrived there strangled for breath, his great chest heaving like a bellows. In the waiting-room he found a woman at the ticket window. He stamped through to the platform.
The usual loungers were there, and hurrying station-men, and waiting passengers. Down the railroad track shone the headlight of the train entering Flagg. Huett rushed on. At last, under one of the yellow street lamps, he espied Mitchell, the lieutenant who had been in the office, and two other men, and several young women. Huett broke into the circle to confront Mitchell.
"You--you... What do you mean?" exploded Huett, in a husky almost incoherent voice, and he extended the big fist still clutching the cut papers.
"Hello, Huett," replied the Government man, in cool irritation. "No time for you. I'm saying good-bye to friends."
"By God--you've time--for me!... That package you--gave me... Cut newspaper and tin foil... Not money!... Damn poor joke."
"Man, you must be drunk," flashed Mitchell, his piercing eyes like cold steel.
"Drunk?... Hellsfire!" thundered Huett. "You gave me paper--instead of cash... Look!"
Huett opened his huge fist to disclose pieces of shiny tin foil and crumpled cuts of paper. Some of them fell to the platform.
"You're either drunk or crazy," replied Mitchell, sharply. "I paid you in cash. I have your receipt. Lieutenant Caddell witnessed your signature.
We warned you to be careful with all that cash. But you didn't heed. We saw you drinking in that dive."
Huett stood transfixed and mute, his spread hand still out-held, the fingers shaking, while Mitchell looked to his Lieutenant for confirmation of his claims.
"That's right, Huett," declared Mitchell's companion, crisply. "I saw Mr.
Mitchell pay you cash. I saw you take the money and sign the receipt, and I witnessed it. Later I understand you were drinking with your cronies in the worst joint in town. But what happened to you after, you left our office with the money is no concern of ours. That's all."
"Mistake--wrong package!" gasped Huett, suffocatingly.
Caddell made a gesture of scornful dismissal. Mitchell turned to the black-eyed, staring girl who held his arm. The train rumbled into the station, with puffing engine and grinding wheels. Baggage and mail-cars passed on down the platform. Then with a jerk the train stopped.
Huett's mind cleared. A terrible flash of truth swept away the fog of stupefaction. This man had cheated him. Like an imbecile he had walked into a hellishly clever trap inspired by his demand for payment in cash.
This swift deduction gave way to a slow metamorphosis i
n Huett's feeling.
Violent release of dammed-up blood forced spasmodic expansion and movement of muscles. As he stood there, with that great hand outstretched, the quivering, calloused fingers like a claw, he felt the rise of a maelstrom of fury. In all his life Huett had never been subjected to a full storm of passion. It transformed him. An expulsion of breath whistled through his teeth. His sight filmed with a tinge of red, colouring the pretty faces of the young women, the paling visage of Caddell, and the averted one of Mitchell. Disjointed thoughts blocked Huett's mind... To rend--to beat down these baffling foes--to kill--to tear from them his money, which surely they had.
He shut that spread hand into a ponderous fist. His bellow brought Mitchell around just in time to meet a blow like that from a battering-ram. Blood squirted as Mitchell went down, dragging two of the screaming girls with him. Caddell shouted lustily for help, and leaped to avoid Huett's fist. The other two men seized Huett from behind. He threw them sprawling and lunged upon the prostrate Mitchell, to half strip him of clothing. Then a crowd of men dragged Huett off his victim, back from the platform to the road. At length Huett stopped surging like a lassoed bull, and stood quiet in the grip of many hands, to see Mitchell carried on the train and his baggage thrown on after him. Caddell stood on the car-step, trying to rid himself of the clinging, hysterical young women.
The train started with a jerk, gathered momentum and passed on out of the station. Then the excitement of the crowd centred upon, Huett.
"Let go of me," he rumbled.
"All right, men," called the sheriff. "Huett, you don't 'pear to be drunk. What'n hell was the matter? Who was you tryin' to kill? I didn't get here in time to see."
"Mitchell, the Government cattle-buyer. I sold him thirty thousand and nine hundred head... He was to pay me in cash... Gave me a package. Got my receipt... I didn't open that package at once. Had some drinks with Doyle and Holbert... When I got home--I opened it--found I'd been swindled... My cash was cut newspaper and tin foil!"