by Zane Grey
“Maybe he can tell me where to find Adolfo Urbina?” Dave suggested.
“Humph! If he can’t, Tad Lewis can. Say, Dave, this case of yours has stirred up a lot of feelin’ against Tad. The prosecutin’ attorney says he’ll sure cinch him and Urbina, both. One of Lewis’s men got on a bender the other night and declared Adolfo would never come to trial.”
“What did he mean?”
“It may have been mescal talk, but witnesses sometimes have a way of disappearin’. I wouldn’t put anything past that gang.”
Not long after breakfast Don Ricardo Guzman appeared at the Jones house and warmly greeted his two friends. To Dave he explained:
“Last night I came to town, and this morning I heard you had returned, so I rode out at once. You were unsuccessful?”
“Our man never went to Pueblo.”
“Exactly. I thought as much.”
“He’s probably safe across the river.”
But Ricardo thought otherwise. “No. Urbina deserted from this very Colonel Blanco who commands the forces at Romero. He would scarcely venture to return to Federal territory. However, I go to meet Blanco to-day, and perhaps I shall discover something.”
“What takes you over there?” Blaze inquired.
“Wait until I tell you. Señor David, here, brings me good fortune at every turn. He honors my poor thirsty rancho with a visit and brings a glorious rain; then he destroys my enemies like a thunderbolt. No sooner is this done than I receive from the Federals an offer for fifty of my best horses. Caramba! Such a price, too. They are in a great hurry, which looks as if they expected an attack from the Candeleristas at Matamoras. I hope so. God grant these traitors are defeated. Anyhow, the horses have gone, and to-day I go to get my money, in gold.”
“Who’s going with you?” asked Law.
Ricardo shrugged. “Nobody. There is no danger.”
Blaze shook his head. “They know you are a red-hot Rebel. I wouldn’t trust them.”
“They know, also, that I am an American, like you gentlemen,” proudly asserted Guzman. “That makes a difference. I supported the Liberator—God rest his soul!—and I secretly assist those who fight his assassins, but so does everybody else. I am receiving a fine price for those horses, so it is worth a little risk. Now, señor,” he addressed himself to the Ranger, “I have brought you a little present. Day and night my boys and I have worked upon it, for we know the good heart you have. It was finished yesterday. See!” Ricardo unwrapped a bundle he had fetched, displaying a magnificent bridle of plaited horsehair. It was cunningly wrought, and lavishly decorated with silver fittings. “You recognize those hairs?” he queried. “They came from the mane and tail of your bonita.”
“Bessie Belle!” Law accepted the handsome token, then held out his hand to the Mexican. “That was mighty fine of you, Ricardo. I—You couldn’t have pleased me more.”
“You like it?” eagerly demanded the old man. “That is good. I am repaid a thousandfold. Your sentiment is like a woman’s. But see! I am famous for this work, and I have taught my boys to use their fingers, too. That mare will always guide you now, wherever you go. And we handled her gently, for your sake.”
Dave nodded. “You’re a good man, Ricardo. We’re going to be friends.”
Guzman’s delight was keen, his grizzled face beamed, and he showed his white teeth in a smile. “Say no more. What is mine is yours—my house, my cattle, my right hand. I and my sons will serve you, and you must come often to see us. Now I must go.” He shook hands heartily and rode away, waving his hat.
“There’s a good Greaser,” Blaze said, with conviction, and Dave agreed, feelingly:
“Yes! I’d about go to hell for him, after this.” Then he took the bridle in for Paloma to admire.
XVI
THE RODEO
It was with a feeling of some reluctance that Dave drove up to Las Palmas shortly after the lunch hour, for he had no desire to meet “Young Ed.” However, to his relief, Austin did not appear, and inasmuch as Alaire did not refer to her husband in any way, Dave decided that he must be absent, perhaps on one of his notorious sprees.
The mistress of the big ranch was in her harness, having at once assumed her neglected duties. She came to welcome her caller in a short khaki riding-suit; her feet were encased in tan boots; she wore a mannish felt hat and gauntlet gloves, showing that she had spent the morning in the saddle. Dave thought she looked exceedingly capable and business-like, and not less beautiful in these clothes; he feasted his eyes covertly upon her.
“I expected you for luncheon,” she smiled; and Dave could have kicked himself. “I’m just going out now. If you’re not in too great a hurry to go home you may go with me.”
“That would be fine,” he agreed.
“Come, then I have a horse for you.” As she led the way back toward the farm buildings she explained: “I’m selling off a bunch of cattle. Benito is rounding them up and cutting out the best ones.”
“You keep them, I reckon.”
“Always. That’s how I improve the grade. You will see a splendid herd of animals, Mr. Law—the best in South Texas. I suppose you’re interested in such things.”
“I’d rather watch a good herd of stock than the best show in New York,” he told her.
When they came to the corrals, an intricate series of pens and chutes at the rear of the outbuildings, Law beheld two thoroughbred horses standing at the hitching-rail.
“I’m proud of my horses, too,” said Alaire.
“You have reason to be.” With his eyes alight Dave examined the fine points of both animals. He ran a caressing hand over them, and they recognized in him a friend.
“These beauties were raised on Kentucky blue grass. Brother and sister, aren’t they?”
“Yes. Montrose and Montrosa are their names. The horse is mine, the mare is yours.” Seeing that Dave did not comprehend the full import of her words, she added: “Yours to keep, I mean. You must make another Bessie Belle out of her.”
“Mine? Oh—ma’am’” Law turned his eyes from Alaire to the mare, then back again. “You’re too kind. I can’t take her.”
“You must.”
Dave made as if to say something, but was too deeply embarrassed. Unable to tear himself away from the mare’s side, he continued to stroke her shining coat while she turned an intelligent face to him, showing a solitary white star in the center of her forehead.
“See! She is nearly the same color as Bessie Belle.”
“Yes’m! I—I want her, ma’am; I’m just sick from wanting her, but—won’t you let me buy her?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t sell her.” Then, as Dave continued to yearn over the animal, like a small boy tempted beyond his strength, Alaire laughed. “I owe you something, Mr. Law, and a horse more or less means very little to me.”
He yielded; he could not possibly continue his resistance, and in his happy face Alaire took her reward.
The mare meanwhile was doubtfully nosing her new master, deciding whether or not she liked him; but when he offered her a cube of sugar her uncertainties disappeared and they became friends then and there. He talked to her, too, in a way that would have won any female heart, and it was plain to any one who knew horses that she began to consider him wholly delightful. Now, Montrosa was a sad coquette, but this man seemed to say, “Rosa, you rogue, if you try your airs with me I will out-flirt you.” Who could resist such a person? Why, the touch of his hands was positively thrilling. He was gentle, but masterful, and—he had a delicious smell. Rosa felt that she understood him perfectly, and was enraptured to discover that he understood her. There was some satisfaction in knowing such a man.
“You do speak their language,” Alaire said, after she had watched them for a few minutes. “You have bewitched the creature.” Dave nodded silently, and his
face was young. Then half to herself the woman murmured, “Yes, you have a heart.”
“I beg pardon?”
“Nothing. I’m glad you like her.”
“Do you mind if I call her something else than Rosa, just to myself?”
“Why, she’s yours! Don’t you like the name?”
“Oh yes! But—see!” Dave laid a finger upon Montrosa’s forehead. “She wears a lone star, and I’d like to call her that—The Lone Star.”
Alaire smiled in tacit assent; then when the two friends had completely established their intimacy she mounted her own horse and led the way to the round-up.
Dave’s unbounded delight filled the mistress of Las Palmas with the keenest pleasure. He laughed, he hummed snatches of songs, he kept up a chatter addressed as much to the mare as to his companion, and under it Montrosa romped like a tomboy. It was gratifying to meet with such appreciation as this; Alaire felt warm and friendly to the whole world, and decided that out of her abundance she must do more for other people.
Of course Dave had to tell of Don Ricardo’s thoughtful gift, and concluded by saying, “I think this must be my birthday, although it doesn’t fit in with the calendar.”
“Don Ricardo has his enemies, but he is a good-hearted old man.”
“Yes,” Dave agreed. Then more gravely: “I’m sorry I let him go across the river.” There was a pause. “If anybody harms him I reckon I’ll have a feud on my hands, for I’m a grateful person.”
“I believe it. I can see that you are loyal.”
“I was starved on sentiment when I was little, but it’s in me bigger than a skinned ox. They say gratitude is an elemental, primitive emotion—”
“Perhaps that’s why it is so rare nowadays,” said Alaire, not more than half in jest.
“You find it rare?” Dave looked up keenly. “Well, you have certainly laid up a store of it to-day.”
Benito and his men had rounded up perhaps three thousand head of cattle when Alaire and her companion appeared, and they were in the process of “cutting out.” Assembled near a flowing well which gave life to a shallow pond, the herd was held together by a half-dozen horsemen who rode its outskirts, heading off and driving back the strays. Other men, under Benito’s personal direction, were isolating the best animals and sending them back to the pasture. It was an animated scene, one fitted to rouse enthusiasm in any plainsman, for the stock was fat and healthy; there were many calves, and the incessant, rumbling complaint of the herd was blood-stirring. The Las Palmas cowboys rode like centaurs, doubling, dodging, yelling, and whirling their ropes like lashes; the air was drumming to swift hoof-beats, and over all was the hoarse, unceasing undertone from countless bovine throats. Out near the grub-wagon the remuda was grazing, and thither at intervals came the perspiring horsemen to change their mounts.
Benito, wet, dusty, and tired, rode up to his employer to report progress.
“Dios! This is hot work for an old man. We will never finish by dark,” said he, whereupon Law promptly volunteered his services.
“Lend me your rope, Benito, till I get another caballo.”
“Eh? That Montrosa is the best cutting horse on Las Palmas.”
But Dave shook his head vigorously. “I wouldn’t risk her among those gopher-holes.” He slid out of his seat and, with an arm around the mare’s neck, whispered into her ear, “We won’t have any broken legs and broken hearts, will we, honey girl?” Rosa answered by nosing the speaker over with brazen familiarity; then when he had removed her equipment and turned away, dragging her saddle, she followed at his heels like a dog.
“Diablo! He has a way with horses, hasn’t he?” Benito grinned, “Now that Montrosa is wilder than a deer.”
Alaire rode into the herd with her foreman, while Dave settled his loop over a buckskin, preparatory to joining the cowboys.
The giant herd milled and eddied, revolving like a vast pool of deep, swift water. The bulls were quarrelsome, the steers were stubborn, and the wet cows were distracted. Motherless calves dodged about in bewilderment. In and out of this confusion the cowboys rode, following the animals selected for separation, forcing them out with devious turnings and twistings, and then running them madly in a series of breakneck crescent dashes over flats and hummocks, through dust and brush, until they had joined the smaller herd of choice animals which were to remain on the ranch. It was swift, sweaty, exhausting work, the kind these Mexicans loved, for it was not only spectacular, but held an element of danger. Once he had secured a pony Dave Law made himself one of them.
Alaire sat her horse in the heart of the crowding herd, with a sea of rolling eyes, lolling tongues, and clashing horns all about her, and watched the Ranger. Good riding she was accustomed to; the horses of Las Palmas were trained to this work as bird dogs are trained to theirs; they knew how to follow a steer and, as Ed Austin boasted, “turn on a dime with a nickel to spare.” But Law, it appeared, was a born horseman, and seemed to inspire his mount with an exceptional eagerness and intelligence. In spite of the man’s unusual size, he rode like a feather; he was grace and life and youth personified. Now he sat as erect in his saddle as a swaying reed; again he stretched himself out like a whip-lash. Once he had begun the work he would not stop.
All that afternoon the cowboys labored, and toward sundown the depleted herd was driven to the water. It moved thither in a restless, thirsty mass; it churned the shallow pond to milk, and from a high knoll, where Alaire had taken her stand, she looked down upon a vast undulating carpet many acres in extent formed by the backs of living creatures. The voice of these cattle was like the bass rumble of the sea, steady, heavy-droning, ceaseless.
Then through the cool twilight came the drive to the next pasture, and here the patience of the cowboys was taxed to the utmost, for as the stronger members of the herd forged ahead, the wearied, worried, littlest members fell behind. Their joints were limber, and their legs unsteady; one and all were orphaned, too, for in that babel of sound no untrained ears could catch a mother’s low. A mile of this and the whole rear guard was composed of plaintive, wet-eyed little calves who made slower and slower progress. Some of them were stubborn and risked all upon a spirited dash back toward the homes they were leaving and toward the mothers who would not answer. It took hard, sharp riding to run them down, for they fled like rabbits, bolting through prickly-pear and scrub, their tails bravely aloft, their stiff legs flying. Others, too tired and thirsty to go farther, lay down and refused to budge, and these had to be carried over the saddlehorn until they had rested. Some hid themselves cunningly in the mesquite clumps or burrowed into the coarse sagauista grass.
But now those swarthy, dare-devil riders were as gentle as women; they urged the tiny youngsters onward with harmless switches or with painless blows from loose-coiled riatas; they picked them up in their arms and rode with them.
Once through the gate and safe inside the restraining pasture fence, the herd was allowed to settle down. Then began a patient search by outraged mothers, a series of mournful quests that were destined to continue far into the night; endless nosings and sniffings and caressings, which would keep up until each cow had found her own, until each calf was butting its head against maternal ribs and gaining that consolation which it craved.
A new moon was swinging in the sky as Alaire and Dave rode back toward Las Palmas. The dry, gray grass was beginning to jewel with dew; the paths were ribbons of silver between dark blots of ink where the bushes grew. Behind rose the jingle of spurs and bridles, the creak of leather, the voices of men. It was an hour in which to talk freely, an environment suited to confidences, and Dave Law was happier than he had been for years. He closed his eyes to the future, he stopped his ears to misgivings; with a song in his heart he rode at the stirrup of the woman he adored.
How or when Alaire Austin came to feel that this man loved her she never knew. Certain
ly he gave no voice to his feeling, save, perhaps, by some unconscious tone or trick of speech; rather, the knowledge came to her intuitively as the result of some subconscious interchange of thought, some responsive vibration, which only a psychologist could analyze. However it was, Alaire knew to-night that she was dear to her companion, and, strange to say, this certainty did not disturb her. Inasmuch as the thing existed, why deny its right to exist? she asked herself. Since it was in no wise dishonorable, how could it be wrong, provided it went no further? Alaire had been repelled by Luis Longorio’s evident love for her, but a similar emotion in this man’s breast had quite the opposite effect. She was eager for friendship, hungry for affection, starved for that worship which every woman lives upon. Having a wholesome confidence in her own strength of character, and complete faith in Law’s sense of honor, she was neither alarmed nor offended.
For the first time in years she allowed her intimate thoughts free expression, and spoke of her hopes, her interests, and her efforts; under the spell of the moonlight she even confided something about those dreams that kept her company and robbed her world of its sordidness. Dave Law discovered that she lived in a fanciful land of unrealities, and the glimpse he gained of it was delightful.
Supper was waiting when they arrived at Las Palmas, and Dolores announced that “Young Ed” had telephoned from the Lewis ranch that he would not be home. Yielding to a sudden impulse, Alaire said to her companion:
“You must dine with me. Dolores will show you to a room. I will be ready in half an hour.”
Dave hesitated, but it was not in human nature to refuse. Later, as he washed himself and combed his hair, he had a moment of misgivings; but the next instant he asked himself wherein he was doing wrong. Surely there was no law which denied him the right to love, provided he kept that love a secret. The inner voice did not argue with him; yet he was disquieted and restless as he paced the big living-room, waiting for his hostess.