The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  “What do you care for the insinuations of such a man?” said Diane Sampson, her voice now deep and rich with feeling. “After a moment’s thought no one will be influenced by them. Do not worry, George, tell papa not to worry. Surely after all these years he can’t be injured in reputation by—by an adventurer.”

  “Yes, he can be injured,” replied George quickly. “The frontier is a queer place. There are many bitter men here, men who have failed at ranching. And your father has been wonderfully successful. Steele has dropped some poison, and it’ll spread.”

  Then followed a silence, during which, evidently, the worried Wright bestrode the floor.

  “Cousin George, what became of Steele and his prisoner?” suddenly asked Sally.

  How like her it was, with her inquisitive bent of mind and shifting points of view, to ask a question the answering of which would be gall and wormwood to Wright!

  It amused while it thrilled me. Sally might be a flirt, but she was no fool.

  “What became of them? Ha! Steele bluffed the whole town—at least all of it who had heard the mayor’s order to discharge Snell,” growled Wright. “He took Snell—rode off for Del Rio to jail him.”

  “George!” exclaimed Diane. “Then, after all, this Ranger was able to arrest Snell, the innocent man father discharged, and take him to jail?”

  “Exactly. That’s the toughest part.…” Wright ended abruptly, and then broke out fiercely: “But, by God, he’ll never come back!”

  Wright’s slow pacing quickened and he strode from the parlor, leaving behind him a silence eloquent of the effect of his sinister prediction.

  “Sally, what did he mean?” asked Diane in a low voice.

  “Steele will be killed,” replied Sally, just as low-voiced.

  “Killed! That magnificent fellow! Ah, I forgot. Sally, my wits are sadly mixed. I ought to be glad if somebody kills my father’s defamer. But, oh, I can’t be!

  “This bloody frontier makes me sick. Papa doesn’t want me to stay for good. And no wonder. Shall I go back? I hate to show a white feather.

  “Do you know, Sally, I was—a little taken with this Texas Ranger. Miserably, I confess. He seemed so like in spirit to the grand stature of him. How can so splendid a man be so bloody, base at heart? It’s hideous. How little we know of men! I had my dream about Vaughn Steele. I confess because it shames me—because I hate myself!”

  Next morning I awakened with a feeling that I was more like my old self. In the experience of activity of body and mind, with a prospect that this was merely the forerunner of great events, I came round to my own again.

  Sally was not forgotten; she had just become a sorrow. So perhaps my downfall as a lover was a precursor of better results as an officer.

  I held in abeyance my last conclusion regarding Sampson and Wright, and only awaited Steele’s return to have fixed in mind what these men were.

  Wright’s remark about Steele not returning did not worry me. I had heard many such dark sayings in reference to Rangers.

  Rangers had a trick of coming back. I did not see any man or men on the present horizon of Linrock equal to the killing of Steele.

  As Miss Sampson and Sally had no inclination to ride, I had even more freedom. I went down to the town and burst, cheerily whistling, into Jim Hoden’s place.

  Jim always made me welcome there, as much for my society as for the money I spent, and I never neglected being free with both. I bought a handful of cigars and shoved some of them in his pocket.

  “How’s tricks, Jim?” I asked cheerily.

  “Reckon I’m feelin’ as well as could be expected,” replied Jim. His head was circled by a bandage that did not conceal the lump where he had been struck. Jim looked a little pale, but he was bright enough.

  “That was a hell of a biff Snell gave you, the skunk,” I remarked with the same cheery assurance.

  “Russ, I ain’t accusin’ Snell,” remonstrated Jim with eyes that made me thoughtful.

  “Sure, I know you’re too good a sport to send a fellow up. But Snell deserved what he got. I saw his face when he made his talk to Sampson’s court. Snell lied. And I’ll tell you what, Jim, if it’d been me instead of that Ranger, Bud Snell would have got settled.”

  Jim appeared to be agitated by my forcible intimation of friendship.

  “Jim, that’s between ourselves,” I went on. “I’m no fool. And much as I blab when I’m hunky, it’s all air. Maybe you’ve noticed that about me. In some parts of Texas it’s policy to be close-mouthed. Policy and healthy. Between ourselves, as friends, I want you to know I lean some on Steele’s side of the fence.”

  As I lighted a cigar I saw, out of the corner of my eye, how Hoden gave a quick start. I expected some kind of a startling idea to flash into his mind.

  Presently I turned and frankly met his gaze. I had startled him out of his habitual set taciturnity, but even as I looked the light that might have been amaze and joy faded out of his face, leaving it the same old mask.

  Still I had seen enough. Like a bloodhound, I had a scent. “Thet’s funny, Russ, seein’ as you drift with the gang Steele’s bound to fight,” remarked Hoden.

  “Sure. I’m a sport. If I can’t gamble with gentlemen I’ll gamble with rustlers.”

  Again he gave a slight start, and this time he hid his eyes.

  “Wal, Russ, I’ve heard you was slick,” he said.

  “You tumble, Jim. I’m a little better on the draw.”

  “On the draw? With cards, an’ gun, too, eh?”

  “Now, Jim, that last follows natural. I haven’t had much chance to show how good I am on the draw with a gun. But that’ll come soon.”

  “Reckon thet talk’s a little air,” said Hoden with his dry laugh. “Same as you leanin’ a little on the Ranger’s side of the fence.”

  “But, Jim, wasn’t he game? What’d you think of that stand? Bluffed the whole gang! The way he called Sampson—why, it was great! The justice of that call doesn’t bother me. It was Steele’s nerve that got me. That’d warm any man’s blood.”

  There was a little red in Hoden’s pale cheeks and I saw him swallow hard. I had struck deep again.

  “Say, don’t you work for Sampson?” he queried.

  “Me? I guess not. I’m Miss Sampson’s man. He and Wright have tried to fire me many a time.”

  “Thet so?” he said curiously. “What for?”

  “Too many silver trimmings on me, Jim. And I pack my gun low down.”

  “Wal, them two don’t go much together out here,” replied Hoden. “But I ain’t seen thet anyone has shot off the trimmin’s.”

  “Maybe it’ll commence, Jim, as soon as I stop buying drinks. Talking about work—who’d you say Snell worked for?”

  “I didn’t say.”

  “Well, say so now, can’t you? Jim, you’re powerful peevish today. It’s the bump on your head. Who does Snell work for?”

  “When he works at all, which sure ain’t often, he rides for Sampson.”

  “Humph! Seems to me, Jim, that Sampson’s the whole circus round Linrock. I was some sore the other day to find I was losing good money at Sampson’s faro game. Sure if I’d won I wouldn’t have been sorry, eh? But I was surprised to hear some scully say Sampson owned the Hope So dive.”

  “I’ve heard he owned considerable property hereabouts,” replied Jim constrainedly.

  “Humph again! Why, Jim, you know it, only like every other scully you meet in this town, you’re afraid to open your mug about Sampson. Get me straight, Jim Hoden. I don’t care a damn for Colonel Mayor Sampson. And for cause I’d throw a gun on him just as quick as on any rustler in Pecos.”

  “Talk’s cheap, my boy,” replied Hoden, making light of my bluster, but the red was deep in his face.

  “Sure, I know that,” I said, calming down. “My temper gets up, Jim. Then it’s not well known that Sampson owns the Hope So?”

  “Reckon it’s known in Pecos, all right. But Sampson’s name isn’t connected with the
Hope So. Blandy runs the place.”

  “That Blandy—I’ve got no use for him. His faro game’s crooked, or I’m locoed bronc. Not that we don’t have lots of crooked faro dealers. A fellow can stand for them. But Blandy’s mean, back handed, never looks you in the eyes. That Hope So place ought to be run by a good fellow like you, Hoden.”

  “Thanks, Russ,” replied he, and I imagined his voice a little husky. “Didn’t you ever hear I used to run it?”

  “No. Did you?” I said quickly.

  “I reckon. I built the place, made additions twice, owned it for eleven years.”

  “Well, I’ll be doggoned!”

  It was indeed my turn to be surprised, and with the surprise came glimmering.

  “I’m sorry you’re not there now, Jim. Did you sell out?”

  “No. Just lost the place.”

  Hoden was bursting for relief now—to talk—to tell. Sympathy had made him soft. I did not need to ask another question.

  “It was two years ago—two years last March,” he went on. “I was in a big cattle deal with Sampson. We got the stock, an’ my share, eighteen hundred head, was rustled off. I owed Sampson. He pressed me. It come to a lawsuit, an’ I—was ruined.”

  It hurt me to look at Hoden. He was white, and tears rolled down his cheeks.

  I saw the bitterness, the defeat, the agony of the man. He had failed to meet his obligation; nevertheless he had been swindled.

  All that he suppressed, all that would have been passion had the man’s spirit not been broken, lay bare for me to see. I had now the secret of his bitterness.

  But the reason he did not openly accuse Sampson, the secret of his reticence and fear—these I thought best to try to learn at some later time, after I had consulted with Steele.

  “Hard luck! Jim, it certainly was tough,” I said. “But you’re a good loser. And the wheel turns!

  “Now, Jim, here’s what I come particular to see you for. I need your advice. I’ve got a little money. Between you and me, as friends, I’ve been adding some to that roll all the time. But before I lose it I want to invest some. Buy some stock or buy an interest in some rancher’s herd.

  “What I want you to steer me on is a good, square rancher. Or maybe a couple of ranchers if there happen to be two honest ones in Pecos. Eh? No deals with ranchers who ride in the dark with rustlers! I’ve a hunch Linrock’s full of them.

  “Now, Jim, you’ve been here for years. So you must know a couple of men above suspicion.”

  “Thank God I do, Russ,” he replied feelingly. “Frank Morton an’ Si Zimmer, my friends an’ neighbors all my prosperous days. An’ friends still. You can gamble on Frank and Si. But Russ, if you want advice from me, don’t invest money in stock now.”

  “Why?”

  “Because any new feller buyin’ stock in Pecos these days will be rustled quicker’n he can say Jack Robinson. The pioneers, the new cattlemen—these are easy pickin’. But the new fellers have to learn the ropes. They don’t know anythin’ or anybody. An’ the old ranchers are wise an’ sore. They’d fight if they.…”

  “What?” I put in as he paused. “If they knew who was rustling the stock?”

  “Nope.”

  “If they had the nerve?”

  “Not thet so much.”

  “What then? What’d make them fight?”

  “A leader!”

  I went out of Hoden’s with that word ringing in my ears. A leader! In my mind’s eye I saw a horde of dark faced, dusty-booted cattlemen riding grim and armed behind Vaughn Steele.

  More thoughtful than usual, I walked on, passing some of my old haunts, and was about to turn in front of a feed and grain store when a hearty slap on my back disturbed my reflection.

  “Howdy thar, cowboy,” boomed a big voice.

  It was Morton, the rancher whom Jim had mentioned, and whose acquaintance I had made. He was a man of great bulk, with a ruddy, merry face.

  “Hello, Morton. Let’s have a drink,” I replied.

  “Gotta rustle home,” he said. “Young feller, I’ve a ranch to work.”

  “Sell it to me, Morton.”

  He laughed and said he wished he could. His buckboard stood at the rail, the horses stamping impatiently.

  “Cards must be runnin’ lucky,” he went on, with another hearty laugh.

  “Can’t kick on the luck. But I’m afraid it will change. Morton, my friend Hoden gave me a hunch you’d be a good man to tie to. Now, I’ve a little money, and before I lose it I’d like to invest it in stock.”

  He smiled broadly, but for all his doubt of me he took definite interest.

  “I’m not drunk, and I’m on the square,” I said bluntly. “You’ve taken me for a no-good cow puncher without any brains. Wake up, Morton. If you never size up your neighbors any better than you have me—well, you won’t get any richer.”

  It was sheer enjoyment for me to make my remarks to these men, pregnant with meaning. Morton showed his pleasure, his interest, but his faith held aloof.

  “I’ve got some money. I had some. Then the cards have run lucky. Will you let me in on some kind of deal? Will you start me up as a stockman, with a little herd all my own?”

  “Russ, this’s durn strange, comin’ from Sampson’s cowboy,” he said.

  “I’m not in his outfit. My job’s with Miss Sampson. She’s fine, but the old man? Nit! He’s been after me for weeks. I won’t last long. That’s one reason why I want to start up for myself.”

  “Hoden sent you to me, did he? Poor ol’ Jim. Wal, Russ, to come out flat-footed, you’d be foolish to buy cattle now. I don’t want to take your money an’ see you lose out. Better go back across the Pecos where the rustlers ain’t so strong. I haven’t had more’n twenty-five-hundred head of stock for ten years. The rustlers let me hang on to a breedin’ herd. Kind of them, ain’t it?”

  “Sort of kind. All I hear is rustlers.” I replied with impatience. “You see, I haven’t ever lived long in a rustler-run county. Who heads the gang anyway?”

  Frank Morton looked at me with a curiously-amused smile.

  “I hear lots about Jack Blome and Snecker. Everybody calls them out and out bad. Do they head this mysterious gang?”

  “Russ, I opine Blome an’ Snecker parade themselves off boss rustlers same as gun throwers. But thet’s the love such men have for bein’ thought hell. That’s brains headin’ the rustler gang hereabouts.”

  “Maybe Blome and Snecker are blinds. Savvy what I mean, Morton? Maybe there’s more in the parade than just the fame of it.”

  Morton snapped his big jaw as if to shut in impulsive words.

  “Look here, Morton. I’m not so young in years even if I am young west of the Pecos. I can figure ahead. It stands to reason, no matter how damn strong these rustlers are, how hidden their work, however involved with supposedly honest men—they can’t last.”

  “They come with the pioneers an’ they’ll last as long as thar’s a single steer left,” he declared.

  “Well, if you take that view of circumstances I just figure you as one of the rustlers!”

  Morton looked as if he were about to brain me with the butt of his whip. His anger flashed by then as unworthy of him, and, something striking him as funny, he boomed out a laugh.

  “It’s not so funny,” I went on. “If you’re going to pretend a yellow streak, what else will I think?”

  “Pretend?” he repeated.

  “Sure. You can’t fool me, Morton. I know men of nerve. And here in Pecos they’re not any different from those in other places. I say if you show anything like a lack of sand it’s all bluff.

  “By nature you’ve got nerve. There are a lot of men round Linrock who’re afraid of their shadows, afraid to be out after dark, afraid to open their mouths. But you’re not one.

  “So, I say, if you claim these rustlers will last, you’re pretending lack of nerve just to help the popular idea along. For they can’t last.

  “Morton, I don’t want to be a hard-riding cowbo
y all my days. Do you think I’d let fear of a gang of rustlers stop me from going in business with a rancher? Nit! What you need out here in Pecos is some new blood—a few youngsters like me to get you old guys started. Savvy what I mean?”

  “Wal, I reckon I do,” he replied, looking as if a storm had blown over him.

  I gauged the hold the rustler gang had on Linrock by the difficult job it was to stir this really courageous old cattleman. He had grown up with the evil. To him it must have been a necessary one, the same as dry seasons and cyclones.

  “Russ, I’ll look you up the next time I come to town,” he said soberly.

  We parted, and I, more than content with the meeting, retraced my steps down street to the Hope So saloon.

  Here I entered, bent on tasks as sincere as the ones just finished, but displeasing, because I had to mix with a low, profane set, to cultivate them, to drink occasionally despite my deftness at emptying glasses on the floor, to gamble with them and strangers, always playing the part of a flush and flashy cowboy, half drunk, ready to laugh or fight.

  On the night of the fifth day after Steele’s departure, I went, as was my habit, to the rendezvous we maintained at the pile of rocks out in the open.

  The night was clear, bright starlight, without any moon, and for this latter fact safer to be abroad. Often from my covert I had seen dark figures skulking in and out of Linrock.

  It would have been interesting to hold up these mysterious travelers; so far, however, this had not been our game. I had enough to keep my own tracks hidden, and my own comings and goings.

  I liked to be out in the night, with the darkness close down to the earth, and the feeling of a limitless open all around. Not only did I listen for Steele’s soft step, but for any sound—the yelp of coyote or mourn of wolf, the creak of wind in the dead brush, the distant clatter of hoofs, a woman’s singing voice faint from the town.

  This time, just when I was about to give up for that evening, Steele came looming like a black giant long before I heard his soft step. It was good to feel his grip, even if it hurt, because after five days I had begun to worry.