Raiders of Spanish Peaks

by Zane Grey

  The plainsman’s greeting defined Laramie’s status and the regard in which any friends of his must be held. Then Jones turned to a pale, rather handsome man, with whom he had been talking before the interruption and who had stepped back.

  “Lindsay, you must meet these boys,” said Jones, drawing the man toward Laramie. “This is Laramie Nelson. He was with me when I had the campaign against Old Nigger Horse, the Comanche chief. You heard me tell the story to your daughters only last night. Laramie was a boy then.”

  Laramie quickly responded to the Easterner’s genuine interest and pleasure. Then he introduced Lonesome and Tracks. To do them credit, they acquitted themselves with modest restraint. Laramie was not now afraid of their appearance. That was a recommendation. This meeting augured well.

  “Laramie, it’ll interest you to learn Mr. Lindsay is from Ohio,” went on Jones, “and has come West for his health. With his wife, three daughters, and a son! Isn’t that just fine? The West needs Eastern stock, good blood with the pioneer spirit.”

  “We’re shore glad to welcome yu,” said Laramie, warmly, and Tracks and Lonesome seconded him.

  “Laramie, you know this country like a book. Lindsay has bought a ranch and a big herd of cattle over in Colorado. Pretty high up on the plains. Lester Allen sold out to him. I’m curious about the deal. Maybe you know Allen?”

  By the merest chance Laramie was able to connect the name of Lester Allen with Spanish Peaks Ranch, and he said so casually.

  “Lindsay, you’re in luck,” declared Jones, with a flash of his wonderful eyes. “You’re an Easterner, a tenderfoot, if you’ll excuse me. You’ve bought a strange ranch from a stranger, without seeing either. It’s an irregular transaction. You must have a man you can trust. Here he is, Laramie Nelson. I vouch for him, stand back of him. He knows the West from Texas up. He knows cattle, and what’s more to the point—the ways of cattlemen, honest and dishonest. Last he had few equals with a gun—and that was years ago.”

  “Mr. Nelson, you’re spoken so highly of that I’d want you even if I didn’t need you, and indeed I do,” said Lindsay, earnestly. “My family and I are up a tree, so to speak. Can I persuade you to come along and help us run Spanish Peaks Ranch?”

  “Thanks. I’ll be glad to talk about it,” replied Laramie, biting his tongue to restrain it within bounds, and he had all he could do to keep from kicking Lonesome and Tracks, who kept edging in, eyes wide, mouths agape. “We’re pretty tuckered out an’ need a rest. But I might take yu up, provided, of course, I could bring my riders, Mulhall an’ Williams. I don’t want to brag about them, but I never saw a rider as good with a hawse an’ rope as Mulhall, or a tracker in Williams’ class.”

  “To be sure I’d want them. By all means,” replied Lindsay, hastily. Then he turned to Jones. “The wife is waiting for me. Suppose you excuse me now and meet me here in an hour, say?”

  “We’ll be here, Lindsay. Meanwhile I’ll try to talk Laramie into going with you,” said Jones.

  Whereupon Lindsay bowed and left them, to join two ladies who were waiting at the corner. It discomfited Laramie to become aware that the younger of this couple bent grave, fascinated eyes upon him. As he wheeled he was in time to see Lonesome come out of a trance, apparently, and turn a radiant face to him. Sometimes that homely, dirty, bearded face could shine with beauty. It did so now.

  “My Gawd, Tracks, did you see what I seen?” he whispered.

  “No. What was it?”

  “A girl—a slip of a girl—inside the lobby here. She had the wonderfulest eyes…. But she’s gone!” he ended, tragically.

  “So are you gone,” retorted Tracks.

  Laramie heard all this while Jones was questioning him further.

  “Boys, go in the lunchroom an’ order some grub. I’ll be along pronto.” And after they had rushed in Laramie turned to Jones.

  “No, I’m not acquainted with Lester Allen, but if Luke Arlidge is his foreman there’s shore a nigger in the woodpile.”

  Buffalo Jones cracked a huge fist in a horny palm, and his eagle eyes flashed as Laramie had seen them years before.

  “Laramie, that deal had a queer look,” he declared, forcibly. “It had been settled—money paid—papers signed—before I met this merchant from Ohio. And Allen had gone. Allen is not well known here. No one would say good or bad of him. And that’s bad. If you know Luke Arlidge is off color ——”

  “Shore I know thet,” interposed Laramie, as the plainsman hesitated.

  “Then another trusting Easterner has been bilked. It’s a damn shame. Fine man. And the nicest family. The boy, though, he’ll blow up out here…. Do you want my advice?”

  “Shoot, old timer, an’ yu bet yore life I’ll take it.”

  “Chance of your life to help a worthy family and get ——”

  “Thet’s enough for me. Never mind what I’ll get. But, Jones, I was throwin’ a bluff. We’re daid broke. We haven’t had work for weeks. We hadn’t any in sight. An’ we just cain’t go along with this Lindsay outfit half naked.”

  “I’ll fix that, Laramie,” replied the plainsman. “Lindsay has plenty of money. I’ll get you an advance…. No. It might be better to lend you some. I’ll do it. But don’t you be in a hurry sprucing up. Let this Eastern outfit see you in real Wild West rags. Savvy? Go and eat now. Meet me here in an hour.”

  Chapter Three

  THE Lindsay family, late from Ohio, were assembled in the upstairs parlor of the Elk Hotel, Garden City, Kansas. They had arrived that morning, and now, intensely interested though bewildered, they gazed out upon this new country with many and varied feelings.

  It was a raw day in early spring, with puffs of dust rising down the wide street and the windmills in the distance whirling industriously. Evidently Saturday morning was an important one to that community. Old wagons with hoops covered with canvas, and laden with all kinds of farm produce lumbered by the windows; light high-seated four-wheeled vehicles, drawn by fast trotting horses, rolled down the street toward the center of town, some few blocks westward; a string of cattle passed, driven by queer-garbed big-hatted riders; knots of men stood on every visible corner; women were conspicuous for their absence.

  John Lindsay, head of the family, an iron-gray-haired man of fifty years, and of fine appearance except for an extreme pallor which indicated a tubercular condition, stood with his back to a window, surveying his children, and especially his wife, with rueful and almost disapproving eyes.

  “It’s too late. I’m committed to the deal with this cattleman, Allen. And I couldn’t get out of it if I wanted to,” he said.

  His wife’s red eyes were significant, without her expression of misery.

  “Upper Sandusky was good enough for me,” interposed Neale, the eighteen-year-old son of the Lindsays, a rather foppish youth, whom the three sisters eyed in some disgust. Harriet, the oldest, was thinking of the embarrassing incidents they had had to suffer already through this spoiled only son.

  “Neale, you were hardly good enough for Upper Sandusky,” retorted the father, curtly. “This raw West may improve you.”

  “Improve Neale! It couldn’t be done,” declared Lenta, the youngest, who was sixteen. She was little, auburn-haired, with innocent baby-blue eyes that could conceal anything.

  “Aw, shut up! You could stand a lot of improvement yourself,” replied Neale as he snatched his hat and arose.

  “Dear, don’t go,” implored the mother, with words and looks that betrayed her weakness. “We were to hold a conference.”

  “What I think or say doesn’t go far with this Lindsay bunch,” he growled, and strode out.

  “The Lord be thanked!” cried Lenta, after him.

  “Mother, you must give up coddling Neale,” said her husband, earnestly. “We’re out West now. Start in right. He must take his medicine.”

  “But such rough-looking men!”

  “Yes, the men we meet will be plain and rough, and the West will be hard,” went on Lindsay. “Once an
d for all, let me have my say. I begged you all to stay home at Upper Sandusky. But none of you, except Neale, would consider that. The doctors held out hope for my health, if I came to live in a high dry country. I wanted to come alone. That was not easy to face. You had plenty of time to decide. And come West you would. So I sold out—and here we are. Let’s make the best of it. Let’s not expect too much and fortify ourselves against jars. Naturally we feel lost. But other families have become pioneers before us. Honestly, I lean to it. I always had a secret longing to do this very thing. It certainly will be the saving of me if you all pitch in, take what comes, and work out our destinies and happiness here.”

  “Father, it will all come out right,” rejoined Harriet. “Mother is tired out and blue. You go down and look around. Meet people. Inquire about this Lester Allen, to whom you have committed yourself. We’ll cheer mother up and tackle our problem.”

  “Thanks, Hallie, you’re a comfort,” replied Lindsay, with feeling, and went out like a man burdened.

  As soon as he had gone Mrs. Lindsay began to weep again.

  “Mother ——”

  “Hal, let her cry,” interrupted Lenta. “You know ma.”

  Florence, the second daughter, sat looking out of the window, at once dreamy and thoughtful. She was nineteen and the beauty of the family, a dazzlingly pretty blond with dark eyes. Harriet had her fears about Florence. Vain, coquettish, now amiable and again perverse, her possibilities in this new country were uncertain. Lenta crossed to the window. “Flo, I’ll bet you see a man,” she said.

  “Lots of outlandish gawks going by, all hats and boots,” observed Florence.

  “Girls, wouldn’t it be more sensible of you to help me with mother and our immediate problem?” asked Harriet. “Just think! In a few days we will be traveling in canvas-covered wagons across the plains to this new home. We have endless things to buy, to plan for, as well as screwing up our courage. And here you are curious about men!”

  “Who’s curious?” queried Lenta.

  “Both of you. Weren’t you all eyes at the station? You never looked out across the prairie. But that prairie is important for us to get used to. It’s no matter what kind of men there are here, at least not yet.”

  “But—there is,” burst out Mrs. Lindsay, in a fresh outburst. “That terrible little greasy, hairy man who called me sweetheart. Me! … He had the most devilish eyes. He carried my bags to the bus and when I offered to pay he grinned and said, ‘Lady, your money’s counterfeit.’ I protested it was not and insisted he accept pay. Then he called me sweetheart. I believe if you hadn’t come he would have chucked me under the chin…. Oh! Outrageous!”

  “Mother, I’d take that as a compliment,” said Harriet. “He took you for our sister instead of mother.”

  “Ma, you should be tickled to death,” added Lenta, teasingly. “That proves you still have some of the beauty grandma raves about.”

  “Oh, be serious!” cried the mother, distracted. “What in heaven’s name—will my daughters do—for husbands!”

  Lenta shrieked with delight. “Flo, can you beat that?”

  Harriet was for once so taken aback that she had no ready reply. Florence took their mother’s wail in a grave, superior, smiling sort of way which intimated a confidence in the future. Harriet got her mother’s point of view. Their father’s health and the making of a new home were matters of importance, but in the long run nothing could equal the need of husbands.

  “Mother, there seem to be plenty of men to pick from,” finally replied Harriet, her sense of humor dominant.

  “Such men!”

  “But, mother, you are unreasonable. They may be fine, big-hearted, honest, splendid fellows.”

  “Listen to our man-hater!” exclaimed Lenta, impishly.

  By that Harriet realized that in her earnestness she had broken her usual reserve. Lenta was an adorable girl, but she could say things that stung. Years before, it seemed long ago, Harriet had formed an attachment for a handsome clerk in her father’s store. It had been Harriet’s only romance, and an unhappy one. Her father’s estimate of Tom Emery was justified and Harriet, heartbroken, withdrew in secret sorrow and felt that she was done with men.

  “Hallie, do you really believe so?” queried Mrs. Lindsay, hopefully.

  “Certainly I do. Appearances are nothing. Out here men must work hard. They have no time to think of clothes and looks. Then what have we seen? Only a few dozen horsemen, farmers, and whatever they were. Let’s give the Western men a chance.”

  “Flo, what’s got into Hal?” inquired Lenta.

  “Lord only knows, Lent, unless we may expect a rival in her,” replied Florence, complacently.

  These younger sisters had infinite capacity for rousing Harriet’s tried spirit and the present was no exception. Only Harriet reacted differently this time.

  “My darling sisters, you put it rather vulgarly, but you may expect just that,” replied Harriet, with a cool audacity somewhat discounted by a furious blush.

  “Hal Lindsay!” ejaculated Florence, confronted by an incredible and disturbing idea.

  “Look at her! Handsome, shameless thing! She ought to blush,” cried Lenta, trillingly.

  “What’s that your sisters may expect?” interposed the mother, quite mystified.

  “Mother dear, for some years past Flo has appropriated every young man who happened around. And lately Lent has more than followed in Flo’s footsteps. I was just warning them that now we have arrived out in this wild West I shall contest the field with them.”

  Harriet had spoken on the spur of the moment, out of need to hide her hurt, and she had gone farther than she had intended.

  “Thank God you’ve come to your senses,” declared Mrs. Lindsay bluntly.

  “Hal, you know darn well we wouldn’t look at one of these louts,” asserted Florence, spiritedly.

  “Humph! I’d like to see the masculine gender you wouldn’t look at—twice, and then some,” returned Harriet, dryly.

  “This is great. Gosh! but we love each other! I’m going to have the time of my life,” said Lenta, with immense satisfaction. “I hated school, and the idea of spending all my life in that hole Upper Sandusky was sickening. Out here something will happen. We can do things.”

  “Yes, you can work,” rejoined the mother, with equal satisfaction. “I declare. Harriet has bucked me up. If she can talk that way, coming West is the best move we ever made in our lives…. I can think again. Here we are. And some miles out on that gray flat is our new home. There’s a ranch-house, an old Spanish affair, almost a fort. So this Mr. Allen wrote father. I suppose it’s a barn. I hope it’s empty. What we need to know most is what’s in it. Thank goodness we’re not poor. We can buy things for our comfort.”

  “There! All mother needs to buck her up is a chance to spend money on a house,” said Harriet, pleased with her diplomacy.

  “We’ll have to buy a thousand things we know are not in that ranch-house. Suppose we go out to look in the stores?” suggested Mrs. Lindsay.

  “I’ll go,” declared Florence, with vivacity.

  “Ma, I must write to Bill and Jack and—” said Lenta, tragically.

  “We’ll come later, mother, or go with you after lunch,” interrupted Harriet.

  “Good. It would never do to leave Lenta alone,” replied the mother, practically, and followed Florence out.

  Lenta’s baby-blue eyes held an expression no precocious infant’s ever held.

  “Hal, I’ll bust out some day,” she said, as if overburdened.

  “What for?”

  “Just because mother expects me to.”

  “Nonsense! You know mother is the best ever. She has been distressed over father and us. If we can only get her started right!”

  Lent left the window and came to sit on the arm of Harriet’s chair. Long and earnestly she gazed at this elder sister. When Lenta was sweet and serious like this no one could resist her, not even Harriet.

  “You did start he
r right. Hal, you’re the kindest, most thoughtful, helpful person. I do love you. I do appreciate you; and I want you to start me right,” said Lenta, with emotion.

  “Why, child!” returned Harriet, deeply touched. Praise and affection from this younger sister had never been too abundant. But back in Ohio Lenta had been absorbed in her school, friends, affairs. Here in the West it would be different, and Lenta recognized it. Harriet hugged and kissed her warmly, as she had not for long. “And I adore you, Lenta. Nothing could have made me any happier. I will help you. I’ll be more of a sister to you. Something tells me we have a tremendous experience ahead of us. It thrills while it frightens me.”

  “I’m thrilled to death…. Hal, I hope you weren’t deceiving us—just to help buck mother up.”

  “Oh, that—about contesting the masculine field with you and Flo?” queried Harriet, embarrassed. But she did not need to fear the light in Lenta’s eyes now.

  “Yes. It’d be great, if you meant what you said.”

  “Well, honey, it was sort of forced out of me. Self-preservation. I didn’t know I had it.”

  “Hallie dear, are you all over that—that old love-affair?” asked Lenta, softly.

  “No, not quite all…. But I shall get entirely over it out here.”

  “Oh, I’m glad! … I remember Tom Emery, though I was only ten. You couldn’t help but like him…. Bosh! We’ve got to say good-by to old friends and find new ones. No wonder Ma went under!”

  “The idea grows on me, Lent. I feel sort of giddy—like I used to feel. Young again!”

  “Why, you dear old goose!” ejaculated Lenta, fondly. “You’re not old. Only twenty-five and you don’t look that. And you’re darned handsome, Hallie. Your brown hair and white skin and gray eyes are just the most fetching combination. And what a figure you have, Hallie! I’m a slip of a thing and Flo is a slim willow stem. But you’d take the eyes of real men. If you weren’t so aloof—so reserved!”

  “You flatter me, dear,” murmured Harriet. “But, oh, how good it sounds! I think you have helped me to face this thing.”

  “Well, I’ll need a lot of help by and by,” said he girl, returning to her roguishness. “Sufficient unto the day! … I’ll write my letters, Hal. Then we’ll paint the town.”