by Zane Grey
Jones presented a contrast to most of the aloof Westerners they had seen and met. Harriet was quick to grasp that it was because he loved the country, had been and no doubt still was a factor in its development, and that he delighted in the acquisition of new pioneer blood.
They led him upstairs to the parlor, which was empty, and all of them seemed inspired by his presence. It was Jones, however, who took the initiative by plying Mr. Lindsay with questions. In a few moments he was in possession of all the facts about Lindsay’s deal with Allen.
“Wal, wal, you are a fast stepper. I hope it’s all right. I’ll look into it…. Spanish Peaks Ranch? It’s over in Colorado. Beautiful country, fine range, ideal for cattle. A high dry climate.”
Then he asked further questions as to distances from towns, railroad, market, water, and lastly the ranch-house.
“Big place, stone and mortar, built round some cottonwood trees and a spring——”
“O Lord! Is that your ranch-house? Wal!—I’ve been there. You needn’t fear that it’ll blow down or that you can’t keep the wolves and cold out in winter.”
“Dear me!” sighed Mrs. Lindsay. Harriet hid what the two younger girls expressed. But Neale was eager to know more about the wolves, the hunting, the wildness. Jones rather endeavored to retrieve the dismaying impression he had conveyed, despite the fact that if he was not dismayed for them he certainly was concerned.
“May I ask if you are prepared to spend considerable more money to make this place possible for your women folk?”
“Oh yes. I expected that. I can afford it.”
“Wal now, that puts a different light on the matter,” said Jones, with satisfaction. “You can make that old fort one of the show places of the West. Like Maxwell’s Ranch over in New Mexico…. Will you arrange for me to meet this Lester Allen and his foreman?”
“I’m sorry. They left town at daybreak. I had planned to meet them here at the hotel. But they had breakfast before I was up.”
“Wal, you don’t say!” ejaculated Jones, plainly surprised. “An’ the deal was only settled yesterday?”
“We kept the bank open after regular hours to settle it.”
“What was their hurry?”
“They didn’t say. I confess I was a little put out.”
“Humph! … Of course Allen will send his foreman back to help you buy your outfit an’ pack it to the ranch.”
“No. Nothing was said about that. Arlidge did not seem keen to take charge for me. But he finally agreed. I think my daughters decided him.”
“Arlidge. Who’s he?”
“Allen’s foreman.”
“Not Luke Arlidge?” queried the old plainsman, quickly.
“Luke Arlidge. That’s the name.”
“Wal, Lindsay,” went on Jones, constrainedly, “we’ll talk that all over later. It’d bore the ladies.”
“Now tell us why you’re called Buffalo Jones?” begged Lenta.
“Wal, for a number of reasons, all to do with buffalo. But I like to feel that I deserve it most because I did preserve the American bison,” replied the plainsman. “The fact is, though, that the name never stuck till after the massacre of the last great herd of buffalo an’ the bloody Indian fight it raised.
“In the late ’seventies the buffalo hide-hunters chased the buffalo to their last stand. This was in Texas, south of the Pan Handle. Thousands of hide-hunters were scattered all along the range an’ millions of buffalo were butchered for their hides alone. The Indian tribes saw their meat going, their buffalo robes, and that if they did not stop the white hunters they would starve. The Comanches were the fiercest tribe, though the Kiowas, Arapahoes an’ Cheyennes were bad enough. If they had joined forces the West never would have been settled. As it was the buffalo-hunters banded together an’ broke the power of the redmen forever.
“It was in 1877 that the big fight came off—also the end of the buffalo. But the hunters had to quit killin’ buffalo to kill Indians. I was in the thick of that campaign. Comanches under a fierce chief named Nigger Horse made repeated raids on hunters’ camps, murderin’ an’ scalpin’. I organized a band of hunters an’ we tracked Nigger Horse to his hidin’-place up on the Staked Plains. I had Indian and Mexican scouts who tracked the wily old devil over rock an’ sand. I surrounded Nigger Horse’s force in a deep rocky gulch an’ planted part of my men to block the escape of the Comanches. That was about the bloodiest fight I was ever in. We surprised them at dawn an’ all day the battle waged. Then when Nigger Horse saw he was beaten an’ was in danger of bein’ wiped out completely, he sent his son at the head of the hardest-ridin’ bucks straight for the mouth of the gully. That was a magnificent sight. The Comanches were the grandest horsemen the West ever developed. An’ the war-cry of the Comanches was the most blood-curdling of all Indian yells. We all saw what was comin’. The Indian riders collected at a point below out of rifle-shot. Comanches were vain, proud, fierce warriors, an’ this was a race their hearts reveled in. Our men yelled along the line. The son of Nigger Horse—I forget that buck’s name—pranced his horse at the head of the band. It was somethin’ that made even us hardened old buffalo-hunters thrill. Then with him in the lead an’ with such a yell as never was heard before they charged. What ridin’. But Nigger Horse’s son, swift an’ darin’ as he was, never got halfway. He fell at a long shot from one of my sharpshooters. That broke the back of the charge an’ Nigger Horse’s last defense. Only a few of those riders got away. An’ the rest of the great Comanche band that escaped climbed out on foot. I reckon no other single fight had so much to do with breakin’ the redmen as that one. Certainly not with the Comanches.”
“Oh—terrible!” cried Lenta, breathlessly, her eyes shining. “But I don’t see how—why they called you Buffalo Jones, just for that.”
“Wal, I don’t see, either,” laughed the plainsman. “It’s true, though. That night in camp it turned out the sharpshooter who killed Nigger Horse’s son was a young North Carolinian named Nelson. Laramie Nelson. He got the front handle here on the plains. I never knew his right name. Wal, he stood up among us as we sat round the camp fire, a crippled dead-beat outfit, an’ liftin’ his cup high he yelled, ‘Heah’s to Buffalo Jones!’ The men roared an’ they drank. An’ from that night they called me Buffalo Jones.”
“So that was it? Oh, how I’d liked to be there!” cried Lenta.
“Was it coffee they drank your health in?” asked Lindsay, quizzically.
“Wal, no.”
Harriet felt an unfamiliar impulse, that seemed to come from a thrilling heat along her veins.
“And what became of the young man?” she asked.
“Nelson, you mean? Wal, he made other great shots after that,” replied the plainsman, reminiscently. “He belonged to that Southern breed of wild youngsters who spread over Texas an’ the West. Laramie was one of the finest boys I ever knew. But those were hard days, an’ if a man survived, it was through his quickness with a gun. He shore earned a name for himself. For years now I haven’t heard of him. Gone, I reckon. An unmarked grave somewhere, out there on the ‘lone prairie,’ as his kind called the plains.”
An unaccountable pang assailed Harriet’s breast. Poor brave wild boy! The West took its first strange hold upon her. There were things she had never dreamed of. History, story, legend, were somehow unreal. But here she was listening to a man who had seen and lived great events of the frontier, whose face was a record of those unparalleled adventures about which Easterners could not help but be skeptical and cold.
Soon after that narrative Jones left with her father, and Harriet went back to her room and the growing puzzle of plans and lists, of what to discard and what to retain. Bedtime came with Lenta’s yawning entrance. The young lady, while undressing, delivered herself of a last humorous remark:
“Dog-goneit, Hallie, I’m a-goin’ to like this West!”
Bright and early next morning, all the Lindsays, except Neale, assembled for breakfast and with visible and vol
uble anticipation of an exciting day.
“Oh yes, I nearly forgot,” said Lindsay, in the midst of the meal. “Jones bade me be sure that you womenfolk bought heavy coats and woolen shirts, rubber buskins, slickers, and warm gloves. He said it wasn’t summer yet by a long chalk and we might hit into a storm.”
This interested all except Florence, who leaned more to decorative than useful purchases. Harriet saw that she added these new articles to her list. After breakfast they sallied forth, with Harriet, for one, realizing that they were furnishing covert amusement to employees of the hotel.
That was a day. Harriet found herself so tired when evening came that she scarcely had appetite for dinner. Her father appealed to her for help in making out a list of food supplies to purchase on the morrow.
“I don’t believe I’m equal to that—at least not tonight,” replied Harriet, dubiously.
“Jones was right about the foreman, Arlidge. He should have stayed to advise me. What do I know about supplies in this country?”
“Or I? But we know what we have been accustomed to and can easily buy that, so far as it is supplied here. I discovered one fine big grocery, I dare say they keep everything.”
Another day saw their personal wants wonderfully and fearfully attended to. Mrs. Lindsay had bought furniture, kitchen ware, bedding, linen, and in fact, Harriet’s father said, enough truck to fill several of the six big wagons he had obtained.
“What we can’t take we’ll send back for,” he concluded, ending that mooted question.
Buffalo Jones had dinner with them that evening and his keen interest and sympathy were nothing if not thrilling. He laughed over some of their purchases.
“Wal, you’re a lucky outfit!” he drawled. “Just suppose you hadn’t any money. That you had to tackle the plains with your bare hands, so to say! … I wish my family was here. I’ve got two girls. I’d like you-all to meet them.”
Harriet was drawn away to her father’s room, where he and Jones desired a little privacy. To Lindsay’s explanation that Harriet was his right-hand man and would handle the financial end of the new enterprise, Jones gave hearty approbation.
“She looks level-headed,” he went on, “an’ I reckon will stand up under the knocks you’ll get…. Now, Lindsay, for the first one. You’ve gone into an irregular deal, an’ some way or other are bound to be cheated.”
Lindsay never batted an eye.
“Father, I told you,” said Harriet.
“You’ve to learn that Westerners are close-mouthed. They almost never talk to strangers about other Westerners. It’s not conducive to long life. But no matter—I’m goin’ to waive that…. Your man Allen has not the best of reputations. An’ Arlidge has been in several shady deals, over the last of which he killed a man. In fact, he has several killin’s to his credit, an’ at that he has not been many years in western Kansas. You’ve bought a ranch, all right, an’ if my memory is good it’s one that will make a wonderful place. But you’ll find probably less than half ten thousand head of stock, maybe only a third. There’s where the trick came in. It always does in deals where tenderfeet buy Western stock. Couldn’t be otherwise. Can you swallow that?”
“I have, already. I’m no fool. The gleam in Allen’s eye and Arlidge’s glib tongue were not lost on me. I’ve swallowed this and can stand more.”
“Good. Now brace yourself for a harder jolt. The worst is yet to come. It’s a safe bet that Allen, with another so-called ranch thirty miles from Spanish Peaks Ranch, an’ his foreman Arlidge workin’ for you, will clean out most if not all the stock they sold to you.”
“Clean out! Steal it?” ejaculated Lindsay, his jaw dropping.
“They’ll rustle it off. Let me explain. We are now in the midst of what I might call the third great movement of early frontier history—the cattle movement. First came the freighters, wagon-trains, gold-seekers, fur-trappers, an’ the Indian fights. Next the era of the buffalo an’ the settler. This is the cattle movement. For years now vast herds of cattle have been driven up out of Texas to Abilene an’ Dodge, the cattle terminus. From these points cattle have been driven north an’ west, an’ shipped East on cattle-trains. The cattle business is well on an’ fortunes are bein’ made. With endless range, fine grass an’ water, nothin’ else could be expected. I sold out my own ranch a year back. Reason was I saw the handwritin’ on the wall. Cattle-stealin’! There had always been some stock stole. Every rancher will tell you that. But rustlin’ now is a business. The rustler has come into his own. He steals herds of cattle in a raid. Or he will be your neighbor rancher, brandin’ all your calves. The demand for cattle is big. Ready money always. An’ this rustlin’ is goin’ to grow an’ have its way for I don’t know how long. Years, anyway. You’ll be in the thick of it an’ I want to start you right.”
“You’re most kind, Jones,” replied Harriet’s father, feelingly. “I appreciate your—your breaking a Western rule for me. However I’m not dismayed. I’ll see it through. Only tell me what to do.”
“That’s the stumper,” rejoined the plainsman, with a dry laugh. “You’ve got to live it. But the very first thing you must do is to get a man—a Westerner—who will be smart enough for Allen an’ Arlidge. They sold nine range-riders with the range. It’s a foregone conclusion that most of these riders, if not all, will remain on Allen’s side of the fence. You won’t be able to tell who they are until they prove themselves. I must find you a hard-shootin’ range-rider who knows the game.”
“Hard-shooting?” echoed Lindsay, in consternation.
“That’s what I said, my friend. The harder an’ quicker he is the better. I reckon there’ll be some powder burned at Spanish Peaks Ranch this summer.”
“O Lord! What will the wife say? Hallie, look what I’ve got you all into.”
“Father, it makes my stomach feel sickish,” declared Harriet. “But we can’t back out now.”
“Back out! I should say not. Damn those two slick cattlemen! … Jones, where’ll I get the range-rider I’m going to need?”
“Stumps me some. I can’t put my hand on anyone just now. But I’ll look around. An’ if no one can be found I’ll go myself back to Dodge an’ fetch one. I like your spirit, Lindsay. I like your family. An’ I’m goin’ to do what I can to help you.”
The plainsman’s gray-blue eyes gave forth a narrow piercing gleam, hard to meet, but wonderful to feel.
“I reckon you’d better keep all this to yourselves,” he advised. “An’ don’t be in a hurry to leave.”
With that he departed, leaving Harriet deeply perturbed and her father downcast. As in the past, Harriet endeavored to cheer and inspirit him. And they managed to hide their feelings and fears from the rest of the family. Neale, however, threw a bombshell into the midst of their breakfast the next morning by blurting out: “They’re talking about us in this hayseed town. Say we’re a family of rich tenderfeet and that we got properly fleeced.”
“Where’d you hear such gossip?” queried Lindsay, red in the face.
“In a saloon. But it’s common talk all over.”
“Well, if it’s true, that’ll give you a fine opportunity to help support this tenderfoot family.”
“Neale couldn’t support a baby if he had a cradle and a flock of cows,” retorted Lenta, sententiously. “Never mind, Dad. We came out here for you to get well. And we can stand anything.”
The girls were in and out of the hotel all morning, so that Harriet lost track of them. About noon they came in, giggling, and left packages strewn from one room to another.
“Hal, you missed something,” said Lenta, mysteriously.
“Did I? Thank goodness. I’ve sure missed a good deal of money I had figured up.”
“Ha! Ha! You will. But honest, sis, this was rich. Flo came staggering into the hall downstairs, and as she could hardly see from behind her pile of bundles, she ran plump into the handsomest strangest-looking Westerner we’ve seen. I nearly burst myself laughing, but I kept out of it. Flo kno
cked him galley-west and of course the packages went flying. She was flabbergasted—and you know to flabbergast Flo isn’t easy. This handsome ragamuffin laughed, doffed his old sombrero, and apologized with the grace of a courtier. His manners and speech were hardly what you’d expect from such a tramp. His dusty clothes hung in rags. He had a big gun in a belt and that belt had a shiny row of brass shells. He was young, thin, tanned almost gold, and his eyes—oh! they were wonderful! Black and sharp as daggers. His hair was black, too, and all long and mussed. I saw all this, of course, while he went to picking up Flo’s packages. Then, will you believe it? he said: ‘Permit me to carry these for you, miss.’ Flo blushed like a rose. Fancy that. And she stammered something. They went upstairs. I hope she was not so rattled she forgot to thank him.”
“Well, that was an adventure,” replied Harriet, with interest.
“It wasn’t a marker to what happened to me,” retorted Lenta, her eyes shining. “I had stepped aside into the doorway of that storeroom. I didn’t want to meet that black-eyed cavalier on the stairway. I heard his spurs clicking on the steps. He passed without seeing me and he said to another fellow who had come in, and whom I hadn’t seen yet. ‘My Gawd! Lonesome, did you see her? She was a dream.’
“This other fellow let out a yelp. ‘Did I? Lordy! Lock the gate!’
“Well, they went out and I ventured forth,” continued Lenta. “But I tripped on the rug. Honest I did, Hallie! One of my bundles dropped. Then, lo and behold! this second fellow appeared as if by magic. He was young, rosy, ugly, bow-legged. He wore the awfulest hairy pants. His shirt was in tatters. He smelled like—like the outdoors. He picked up my bundle and laid it on top of the others in my arms. And he said:
“‘Sweetheart, look out for Western range-riders. Even my pard is a devil with the women.’
“His eyes fairly danced, they were so full of fun. If his pard was a devil, I’d like to know what he is…. I know I got as red as a beet and I rushed away without giving him a piece of my mind.”
“God help us from now on! It has begun,” exclaimed Harriet, solemnly.