The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  “I want him to round Riggs up down in the village—somewhere in a crowd. I want Riggs shown up as the coward, braggart, four-flush that he is. And insulted, slapped, kicked—driven out of Pine!”

  Her passionate speech still rang throughout the room when there came footsteps on the porch. Helen hurried to raise the bar from the door and open it just as a tap sounded on the door-post. Roy’s face stood white out of the darkness. His eyes were bright. And his smile made Helen’s fearful query needless.

  “How are you-all this evenin’?” he drawled, as he came in.

  A fire blazed on the hearth and a lamp burned on the table. By their light Bo looked white and eager-eyed as she reclined in the big arm-chair.

  “What ’d he do?” she asked, with all her amazing force.

  “Wal, now, ain’t you goin’ to tell me how you are?”

  “Roy, I’m all bunged up. I ought to be in bed, but I just couldn’t sleep till I hear what Las Vegas did. I’d forgive anything except him getting drunk.”

  “Wal, I shore can ease your mind on thet,” replied Roy. “He never drank a drop.”

  Roy was distractingly slow about beginning the tale any child could have guessed he was eager to tell. For once the hard, intent quietness, the soul of labor, pain, and endurance so plain in his face was softened by pleasurable emotion. He poked at the burning logs with the toe of his boot. Helen observed that he had changed his boots and now wore no spurs. Then he had gone to his quarters after whatever had happened down in Pine.

  “Where is he?” asked Bo.

  “Who? Riggs? Wal, I don’t know. But I reckon he’s somewhere out in the woods nursin’ himself.”

  “Not Riggs. First tell me where he is.”

  “Shore, then, you must mean Las Vegas. I just left him down at the cabin. He was gettin’ ready for bed, early as it is. All tired out he was an’ thet white you wouldn’t have knowed him. But he looked happy at thet, an’ the last words he said, more to himself than to me, I reckon, was, ‘I’m some locoed gent, but if she doesn’t call me Tom now she’s no good!’”

  Bo actually clapped her hands, notwithstanding that one of them was bandaged.

  “Call him Tom? I should smile I will,” she declared, in delight. “Hurry now—what’d—”

  “It’s shore powerful strange how he hates thet handle Las Vegas,” went on Roy, imperturbably.

  “Roy, tell me what he did—what Tom did—or I’ll scream,” cried Bo.

  “Miss Helen, did you ever see the likes of thet girl?” asked Roy, appealing to Helen.

  “No, Roy, I never did,” agreed Helen. “But please—please tell us what has happened.”

  Roy grinned and rubbed his hands together in a dark delight, almost fiendish in its sudden revelation of a gulf of strange emotion deep within him. Whatever had happened to Riggs had not been too much for Roy Beeman. Helen remembered hearing her uncle say that a real Westerner hated nothing so hard as the swaggering desperado, the make-believe gunman who pretended to sail under the true, wild, and reckoning colors of the West.

  Roy leaned his lithe, tall form against the stone mantelpiece and faced the girls.

  “When I rode out after Las Vegas I seen him ’way down the road,” began Roy, rapidly. “An’ I seen another man ridin’ down into Pine from the other side. Thet was Riggs, only I didn’t know it then. Las Vegas rode up to the store, where some fellars was hangin’ round, an’ he spoke to them. When I come up they was all headin’ for Turner’s saloon. I seen a dozen hosses hitched to the rails. Las Vegas rode on. But I got off at Turner’s an’ went in with the bunch. Whatever it was Las Vegas said to them fellars, shore they didn’t give him away. Pretty soon more men strolled into Turner’s an’ there got to be ’most twenty altogether, I reckon. Jeff Mulvey was there with his pards. They had been drinkin’ sorta free. An’ I didn’t like the way Mulvey watched me. So I went out an’ into the store, but kept a-lookin’ for Las Vegas. He wasn’t in sight. But I seen Riggs ridin’ up. Now, Turner’s is where Riggs hangs out an’ does his braggin’. He looked powerful deep an’ thoughtful, dismounted slow without seein’ the unusual number of hosses there, an’ then he slouches into Turner’s. No more ’n a minute after Las Vegas rode down there like a streak. An’ just as quick he was off an’ through thet door.”

  Roy paused as if to gain force or to choose his words. His tale now appeared all directed to Bo, who gazed at him, spellbound, a fascinated listener.

  “Before I got to Turner’s door—an’ thet was only a little ways—I heard Las Vegas yell. Did you ever hear him? Wal, he’s got the wildest yell of any cow-puncher I ever beard. Quicklike I opened the door an’ slipped in. There was Riggs an’ Las Vegas alone in the center of the big saloon, with the crowd edgin’ to the walls an’ slidin’ back of the bar. Riggs was whiter ’n a dead man. I didn’t hear an’ I don’t know what Las Vegas yelled at him. But Riggs knew an’ so did the gang. All of a sudden every man there shore seen in Las Vegas what Riggs had always bragged he was. Thet time comes to every man like Riggs.

  “‘What ’d you call me?’ he asked, his jaw shakin’.

  “‘I ain’t called you yet,’ answered Las Vegas. ‘I just whooped.’

  “‘What d’ye want?’

  “‘You scared my girl.’

  “‘The hell ye say! Who’s she?’ blustered Riggs, an’ he began to take quick looks ’round. But he never moved a hand. There was somethin’ tight about the way he stood. Las Vegas had both arms half out, stretched as if he meant to leap. But he wasn’t. I never seen Las Vegas do thet, but when I seen him then I understood it.

  “‘You know. An’ you threatened her an’ her sister. Go for your gun,’ called Las Vegas, low an’ sharp.

  “Thet put the crowd right an’ nobody moved. Riggs turned green then. I almost felt sorry for him. He began to shake so he’d dropped a gun if he had pulled one.

  “‘Hyar, you’re off—some mistake—I ain’t seen no gurls—I—’

  “‘Shut up an’ draw!’ yelled Las Vegas. His voice just pierced holes in the roof, an’ it might have been a bullet from the way Riggs collapsed. Every man seen in a second more thet Riggs wouldn’t an’ couldn’t draw. He was afraid for his life. He was not what he had claimed to be. I don’t know if he had any friends there. But in the West good men an’ bad men, all alike, have no use for Riggs’s kind. An’ thet stony quiet broke with haw—haw. It shore was as pitiful to see Riggs as it was fine to see Las Vegas.

  “When he dropped his arms then I knowed there would be no gun-play. An’ then Las Vegas got red in the face. He slapped Riggs with one hand, then with the other. An’ he began to cuss him. I shore never knowed thet nice-spoken Las Vegas Carmichael could use such language. It was a stream of the baddest names known out here, an’ lots I never heard of. Now an’ then I caught somethin’ like low-down an’ sneak an’ four-flush an’ long-haired skunk, but for the most part they was just the cussedest kind of names. An’ Las Vegas spouted them till he was black in the face, an’ foamin’ at the mouth, an’ hoarser ’n a bawlin’ cow.

  “When he got out of breath from cussin’ he punched Riggs all about the saloon, threw him outdoors, knocked him down an’ kicked him till he got kickin’ him down the road with the whole haw-hawed gang behind. An’ he drove him out of town!”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  For two days Bo was confined to her bed, suffering considerable pain, and subject to fever, during which she talked irrationally. Some of this talk afforded Helen as vast an amusement as she was certain it would have lifted Tom Carmichael to a seventh heaven.

  The third day, however, Bo was better, and, refusing to remain in bed, she hobbled to the sitting-room, where she divided her time between staring out of the window toward the corrals and pestering Helen with questions she tried to make appear casual. But Helen saw through her case and was in a state of glee. What she hoped most for was that Carmichael would suddenly develop a little less inclination for Bo. It was that kind of treatment the young lady need
ed. And now was the great opportunity. Helen almost felt tempted to give the cowboy a hint.

  Neither this day, nor the next, however, did he put in an appearance at the house, though Helen saw him twice on her rounds. He was busy, as usual, and greeted her as if nothing particular had happened.

  Roy called twice, once in the afternoon, and again during the evening. He grew more likable upon longer acquaintance. This last visit he rendered Bo speechless by teasing her about another girl Carmichael was going to take to a dance. Bo’s face showed that her vanity could not believe this statement, but that her intelligence of young men credited it with being possible. Roy evidently was as penetrating as he was kind. He made a dry, casual little remark about the snow never melting on the mountains during the latter part of March; and the look with which he accompanied this remark brought a blush to Helen’s cheek.

  After Roy had departed Bo said to Helen: “Confound that fellow! He sees right through me.”

  “My dear, you’re rather transparent these days,” murmured Helen.

  “You needn’t talk. He gave you a dig,” retorted Bo. “He just knows you’re dying to see the snow melt.”

  “Gracious! I hope I’m not so bad as that. Of course I want the snow melted and spring to come, and flowers—”

  “Hal Ha! Ha!” taunted Bo. “Nell Rayner, do you see any green in my eyes? Spring to come! Yes, the poet said in the spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. But that poet meant a young woman.”

  Helen gazed out of the window at the white stars.

  “Nell, have you seen him—since I was hurt?” continued Bo, with an effort.

  “Him? Who?”

  “Oh, whom do you suppose? I mean Tom!” she responded, and the last word came with a burst.

  “Tom? Who’s he? Ah, you mean Las Vegas. Yes, I’ve seen him.”

  “Well, did he ask a-about me?”

  “I believe he did ask how you were—something like that.”

  “Humph! Nell, I don’t always trust you.” After that she relapsed into silence, read awhile, and dreamed awhile, looking into the fire, and then she limped over to kiss Helen good night and left the room.

  Next day she was rather quiet, seeming upon the verge of one of the dispirited spells she got infrequently. Early in the evening, just after the lights had been lit and she had joined Helen in the sitting-room, a familiar step sounded on the loose boards of the porch.

  Helen went to the door to admit Carmichael. He was clean-shaven, dressed in his dark suit, which presented such marked contrast from his riding-garb, and he wore a flower in his buttonhole. Nevertheless, despite all this style, he seemed more than usually the cool, easy, careless cowboy.

  “Evenin’, Miss Helen,” he said, as he stalked in. “Evenin’, Miss Bo. How are you-all?”

  Helen returned his greeting with a welcoming smile.

  “Good evening—Tom,” said Bo, demurely.

  That assuredly was the first time she had ever called him Tom. As she spoke she looked distractingly pretty and tantalizing. But if she had calculated to floor Carmichael with the initial, half-promising, wholly mocking use of his name she had reckoned without cause. The cowboy received that greeting as if he had heard her use it a thousand times or had not heard it at all. Helen decided if he was acting a part he was certainly a clever actor. He puzzled her somewhat, but she liked his look, and his easy manner, and the something about him that must have been his unconscious sense of pride. He had gone far enough, perhaps too far, in his overtures to Bo.

  “How are you feelin’?” he asked.

  “I’m better today,” she replied, with downcast eyes. “But I’m lame yet.”

  “Reckon that bronc piled you up. Miss Helen said there shore wasn’t any joke about the cut on your knee. Now, a fellar’s knee is a bad place to hurt, if he has to keep on ridin’.”

  “Oh, I’ll be well soon. How’s Sam? I hope he wasn’t crippled.”

  “Thet Sam—why, he’s so tough he never knowed he had a fall.”

  “Tom—I—I want to thank you for giving Riggs what he deserved.”

  She spoke it earnestly, eloquently, and for once she had no sly little intonation or pert allurement, such as was her wont to use on this infatuated young man.

  “Aw, you heard about that,” replied Carmichael, with a wave of his hand to make light of it. “Nothin’ much. It had to be done. An’ shore I was afraid of Roy. He’d been bad. An’ so would any of the other boys. I’m sorta lookin’ out for all of them, you know, actin’ as Miss Helen’s foreman now.”

  Helen was unutterably tickled. The effect of his speech upon Bo was stupendous. He had disarmed her. He had, with the finesse and tact and suavity of a diplomat, removed himself from obligation, and the detachment of self, the casual thing be apparently made out of his magnificent championship, was bewildering and humiliating to Bo. She sat silent for a moment or two while Helen tried to fit easily into the conversation. It was not likely that Bo would long be at a loss for words, and also it was immensely probable that with a flash of her wonderful spirit she would turn the tables on her perverse lover in a twinkling. Anyway, plain it was that a lesson had sunk deep. She looked startled, hurt, wistful, and finally sweetly defiant.

  “But—you told Riggs I was your girl!” Thus Bo unmasked her battery. And Helen could not imagine how Carmichael would ever resist that and the soft, arch glance which accompanied it.

  Helen did not yet know the cowboy, any more than did Bo.

  “Shore. I had to say thet. I had to make it strong before thet gang. I reckon it was presumin’ of me, an’ I shore apologize.”

  Bo stared at him, and then, giving a little gasp, she drooped.

  “Wal, I just run in to say howdy an’ to inquire after you-all,” said Carmichael. “I’m goin’ to the dance, an’ as Flo lives out of town a ways I’d shore better rustle.… Good night, Miss Bo; I hope you’ll be ridin’ Sam soon. An’ good night, Miss Helen.”

  Bo roused to a very friendly and laconic little speech, much overdone. Carmichael strode out, and Helen, bidding him good-by, closed the door after him.

  The instant he had departed Bo’s transformation was tragic.

  “Flo! He meant Flo Stubbs—that ugly, cross-eyed, bold, little frump!”

  “Bo!” expostulated Helen. “The young lady is not beautiful, I grant, but she’s very nice and pleasant. I liked her.”

  “Nell Rayner, men are no good! And cowboys are the worst!” declared Bo, terribly.

  “Why didn’t you appreciate Tom when you had him?” asked Helen.

  Bo had been growing furious, but now the allusion, in past tense, to the conquest she had suddenly and amazingly found dear quite broke her spirit. It was a very pale, unsteady, and miserable girl who avoided Helen’s gaze and left the room.

  Next day Bo was not approachable from any direction. Helen found her a victim to a multiplicity of moods, ranging from woe to dire, dark broodings, from them to’ wistfulness, and at last to a pride that sustained her.

  Late in the afternoon, at Helen’s leisure hour, when she and Bo were in the sitting-room, horses tramped into the court and footsteps mounted the porch. Opening to a loud knock, Helen was surprised to see Beasley. And out in the court were several mounted horsemen. Helen’s heart sank. This visit, indeed, had been foreshadowed.

  “Afternoon, Miss Rayner,” said Beasley, doffing his sombrero. “I’ve called on a little business deal. Will you see me?”

  Helen acknowledged his greeting while she thought rapidly. She might just as well see him and have that inevitable interview done with.

  “Come in,” she said, and when he had entered she closed the door. “My sister, Mr. Beasley.”

  “How d’ you do, Miss?” said the rancher, in bluff, loud voice.

  Bo acknowledged the introduction with a frigid little bow.

  At close range Beasley seemed a forceful personality as well as a rather handsome man of perhaps thirty-five, heavy of build, swarthy of skin
, and sloe-black of eye, like that of the Mexicans whose blood was reported to be in him. He looked crafty, confident, and self-centered. If Helen had never heard of him before that visit she would have distrusted him.

  “I’d called sooner, but I was waitin’ for old Jose, the Mexican who herded for me when I was pardner to your uncle,” said Beasley, and he sat down to put his huge gloved hands on his knees.

  “Yes?” queried Helen, interrogatively.

  “Jose rustled over from Magdalena, an’ now I can back up my claim.… Miss Rayner, this hyar ranch ought to be mine an’ is mine. It wasn’t so big or so well stocked when Al Auchincloss beat me out of it. I reckon I’ll allow for thet. I’ve papers, an’ old Jose for witness. An’ I calculate you’ll pay me eighty thousand dollars, or else I’ll take over the ranch.”

  Beasley spoke in an ordinary, matter-of-fact tone that certainly seemed sincere, and his manner was blunt, but perfectly natural.

  “Mr. Beasley, your claim is no news to me,” responded Helen, quietly. “I’ve heard about it. And I questioned my uncle. He swore on his death-bed that he did not owe you a dollar. Indeed, he claimed the indebtedness was yours to him. I could find nothing in his papers, so I must repudiate your claim. I will not take it seriously.”

  “Miss Rayner, I can’t blame you for takin’ Al’s word against mine,” said Beasley. “An’ your stand is natural. But you’re a stranger here an’ you know nothin’ of stock deals in these ranges. It ain’t fair to speak bad of the dead, but the truth is thet Al Auchincloss got his start by stealin’ sheep an’ unbranded cattle. Thet was the start of every rancher I know. It was mine. An’ we none of us ever thought of it as rustlin’.”

  Helen could only stare her surprise and doubt at this statement.

  “Talk’s cheap anywhere, an’ in the West talk ain’t much at all,” continued Beasley. “I’m no talker. I jest want to tell my case an’ make a deal if you’ll have it. I can prove more in black an’ white, an’ with witness, than you can. Thet’s my case. The deal I’d make is this.… Let’s marry an’ settle a bad deal thet way.”

  The man’s direct assumption, absolutely without a qualifying consideration for her woman’s attitude, was amazing, ignorant, and base; but Helen was so well prepared for it that she hid her disgust.