by Zane Grey
“Where’d they go?”
“Your pa never told me where, but I heerd afterward that he hit Hardman’s trail an’ went to western New Mexico. Marco is the name of the place. New country up there. Gold an’ silver minin’, some cattle outfits goin’ in, an lately I heerd of some big wild-hoss deals on.”
“Well,” exclaimed Pan, in profound amaze and sorrow at this news.
“It’s a wide-open frontier place, all right,” declared Campbell. “Some cowpuncher rode through here an’ talked about Marco. He said they stepped high, wide an’ handsome up there.”
“Why did Dad go?” asked Pan in wonder.
“Reckon I couldn’t say fer sure. But he was sore at Hardman, an’ the funny thing is he wasn’t sore till some time after Hardman left these parts. Mebbe he learned somethin’. An’ you can learn whatever it was if you hunt up them ranchers who once got stung by Hardman.”
“Ah-uh!” muttered Pan, thoughtfully. “Don’t know as I care to learn. Dad will tell me.… Jim Blake, now, what become of him?”
“Jim, a while back, I reckon some years though after you left home, was foreman for Hardman’s outfit. An’ he went to Marco first. Reckon Hardman sent him up there to scout around.”
“Did Jim take his family along?” inquired Pan, pondering.
“No. But they left soon after. In fact, now I tax myself, several homesteaders from hereabouts went. There’s a boom over west, Pan, an’ this here country is gettin’ crowded.”
“Marco. How do you get there?”
“Wal, it’s on the old road to Californy.”
Pan went to the seclusion of his room, and there in the dark, sleepless, he knew the pangs of remorse. Without realizing the flight of years, always meaning to return home, to help father, mother, little sister, to take up again with his never-forgotten Lucy—he had allowed the wild life of the range to hold him too long. Excuses were futile. Suppose he had failed to save money—suppose he had become numbered among those whom his old schoolteacher had called “bad cowboys”! Pride, neglect, love of the range and new country, new adventure had kept him from doing his duty by his parents. That hour was indeed dark and shameful for Panhandle Smith. Instead of drowning his grief in drink, as would have been natural for a cowboy, he let it work its will upon him. He deserved the pangs of self-reproach, the futile wondering, the revived memories that roused longings stronger than that which had turned him on the homeward trail.
Next day Pan sold his outfit except the few belongings he cherished, and boarded a west-bound stage. Once on the way he recovered from his brooding mood and gradually awakened to the fact that he was riding to a new country, a new adventure—the biggest of his life—in which he must make amends to his mother, and to Lucy. Quite naturally he included Lucy in the little circle of beloved ones—Lucy, whom he had deserted for the open range, for pitching horses and running steers, for the dust and turmoil of the roundup, for the long day ride and the lonely night watch, for the gaming table, the bottle, the gun—for all that made life so thrilling to the American cowboy.
Riding by stage was not new to Pan, though he had never before taken more than a day’s journey. The stage driver, Jim Wells, was an old-timer. He had been a pony-express rider, miner, teamster and freighter, and now, grizzled and scarred he liked to perch upon the driver’s seat of the stage, chew tobacco and talk. His keen eyes took Pan’s measure in one glance.
“Pitch your bag up, cowboy, an’ climb aboard,” he said. “An’ what might your handle be?”
“Panhandle Smith,” replied Pan nonchalantly, “late of Sycamore Bend.”
“Wal, now, whar’d I hear thet name? I got a plumb good memory fer names an’ faces. ’Pears I heerd thet name in Cheyenne, last summer.… I got it. Cowpuncher named Panhandle rode down street draggin’ a bolt of red calico thet unwound an’ stampeded all the hosses. Might thet lad have happened to be you?”
“I reckon it might,” replied Pan, with a grin. “But if you know any more about me keep it under your sombrero, old-timer.”
“Haw! Haw!” roared Wells, slapping his knee. “By golly, I will if I can. There’s a funny old lady inside what’s powerful afeerd of bandits, an’ there’s a gurl. I seen her takin’ in your size an’ spurs, an’ thet gun you pack sort of comfortable like. An’ there’s a gambler, too, if I ever seen one. Reckon I’m agoin’ to enjoy this ride.”
After the next stop, where the travelers got dinner, Pan returned to the stage to find a young lady perched upon the driver’s seat. She had serious gray eyes and pale cheeks.
“I took your seat,” she said, shyly, “but there’s enough room.”
“Thanks, I’ll ride inside,” replied Pan.
“But if you don’t sit here—someone else might—and I—he—” she faltered, flushing a little.
“Oh, in that case, I’ll be glad to,” interrupted Pan, and climbed to the seat beside her. He had become aware of the appearance of a flashily dressed, hawk-eyed individual about to enter the stage. “Are you traveling alone?”
“No, thank you. Father is with me, but he never sees anything. I have been annoyed,” she replied.
The stage driver arrived, and surveyed the couple on the seat with a wink and a grin and a knowing look that quite embarrassed the young lady.
“Wal, now, this here stage drivin’ is gettin’ to be mighty fine,” he said, as he clambered up to the seat, and unwound the reins from the brake handle. “Lady, I reckon I seen you didn’t like ridin’ inside. Wal, you’ll shore be all right ridin’ between me an’ my young friend Panhandle Smith.”
“I think I will,” replied the girl, dimpling prettily. “My name is Emily Newman. I’m on my way with my father to visit relatives in California.”
Pan soon found it needful to make conversation, in order to keep the loquacious old stage driver from talking too much. He had told Miss Newman about Pan’s escapade with the red calico, and had launched upon another story about him, not funny at all to Pan, but one calculated to make conquest of a romancing young girl. Pan managed to shut Wells up, but too late. Miss Newman turned bright eyes upon Pan.
“Oh, of course, I saw you were a cowboy,” she said, dimpling again. “Those enormous spurs you wear! I wondered how you could walk.”
“These spurs? They’re nothing. I sleep in them,” replied Pan.
“Indeed. You’re not serious.… Was that true about your riding round Cheyenne dragging yards and yards of red calico behind your horse?”
“Yes. It was silly of me. I fear I had been looking upon something beside calico that was red.”
“Oh, you mean red liquor?… You were—under its influence!”
“A little,” replied Pan laughing, yet not liking the turn of the conversation.
“I wouldn’t have guessed that you—” she added, without concluding what she meant to say. But her tone, her look, and the intimation conveyed a subtle flattery to Pan. It seemed that whenever he approached young women he always received similar impressions. That was seldom, for his encounters with girls were few and far between. He could not help feeling pleased, somehow embarrassed, and rather vaguely elated. He divined danger for him in these potent impressions. Without ever understanding why he had avoided friendships with girls.
“Miss Newman, cowboys as a rule aren’t worth much,” rejoined Pan, submerging his annoyance in good humor. “But at that they are not terrible liars like most of the stage drivers you meet.”
“Haw! Haw!” roared Jim Wells, cracking his long whip, as the stage bowled over the road. “He’s a modest young fellar, Miss, a most extraordinary kind of a cowboy.”
And so they bandied words and laughs from one to another, while the long white road stretched ahead, and rolled behind under the wheels. The girl was plainly curious, interested, fascinated. Old Jim, after the manner of westerners, was bent on making a conquest for Pan. And Pan, trying hard to make himself appear only an ordinary and quite worthless cowboy, succeeded only in giving an opposite impression.
New Mexico was strange and new. He saw the desert through eyes intensified by emotion. He knew the plains from Montana to Texas. But this was different country, with its stretches of valley, its walls of red and yellow, its strange shafts of rock, its amber ranges, and far away on every horizon the dim purple and white of great peaks were magnificent.
The Mormon ranches were scattered along the few green valleys. Cattle were scarce, only a few herds dotting the endless sweeps of green sage and bleached grass. As he traveled farther westward, however, the numbers of wild horses increased until they ran into the thousands.
Horses had meant more to Pan than anything. In his wanderings up and down the western slope of the prairie land east of the Rockies he had often encountered wild horses, and had enjoyed many a chase after them. Every cowboy was a wild horse hunter, on occasions. If he had ridden these desert ranges, he would inevitably have become permanently a hunter and lover of wild horses. Moreover, Pan did not see why there would not be vastly more money in it than in punching cows. He grew charmed with the idea.
Western New Mexico at last! It appeared a continuation and a magnifying of all the color and wildness and vastness. Sand dunes and wastes of black lava, dry lake beds and cone-shaped extinct volcanoes, with the ragged crater mouths gaping, low ranges of yellow cedar-dotted hills, valleys of purple, and green forests on the mountain slopes—all these in endless variety were new to the cowboy of the plains. Water was conspicuous for its absence, though at long intervals of travel he crossed a stream. The homesteader, that hopeful and lonely pioneer, was as scarce as the streams.
One night, hours after dark, the stage rolled into Marco, with Pan one of five passengers. Sunset had overtaken them miles from their destination. At that time Pan thought the country wild and beautiful in the extreme. Darkness had soon blotted out the strange formations of colored rocks, the endless sweep of valley, the cold white peaks in the far distance.
Marco! How unusual the swelling of his heart! The long three-week ride had ended. The stage had rolled down a main street the like of which Pan had never even imagined. It was crude, rough, garish with lights and stark board fronts of buildings, and a motley jostling crowd of men; women, too, were not wanting in the throngs streaming up and down. Again it was Saturday night. Always it appeared Pan hit town on this of all nights. Noise and dust filled the air. Pan pulled down his bag, and mounted the board steps of the hotel the stage driver had announced.
If Pan had not been keenly strung, after long weeks, with the thought of soon seeing his mother, father, his little sister and Lucy, he would yet have been excited over this adventure beyond the Rockies.
Contrary to his usual habit of throwing his money to the winds like most cowboys, he had exercised rigid economy on this trip. Indeed, it was the first time he had ever done such a thing. He had between four and five hundred dollars, consisting of wages he had saved and the proceeds from the sale of his horses and outfit. There was no telling in what difficulties he might find his father and what need there might be for his money. So Pan took cheap lodgings, and patronized a restaurant kept by a Chinaman.
He chose a table at which sat a young man whose face and hands and clothes told of rough life in the open in contact with elemental things. Pan could catch such significance as quickly as he could the points of a horse. He belonged to that fraternity himself.
“Mind if I sit here?” he asked, indicating the vacant chair.
“Help yourself, stranger,” was the reply, accompanied by an appraising glance from level quiet eyes.
“I’m sure hungry. How’s the chuck here?” went on Pan, seating himself.
“The Chink is a first rate cook an’ clean.… Just come to town?”
“Yes,” replied Pan, and after giving his order to a boy waiter he turned to his companion across the table and continued. “And it took a darn long ride to get here. From Texas.”
“That so? Well, I come from western Kansas, just across the Texas line.”
“Been here long?”
“Reckon a matter of six months.”
“What’s your work, if you’ll excuse curiosity. I’m green, you see, and want to know.”
“I’ve been workin’ a minin’ claim. Gold.”
“Ah-huh!” replied Pan with quickened interest. “Sounds awful good to me. I never saw any gold but a few gold eagles, and they’ve sure been scarce enough.”
Pan’s frankness, and that something simple and careless about him, combined with his appearance, always created the best of impressions upon men.
His companion grinned across the table, as if he had shared Pan’s experience. “Reckon you needn’t tell me you’re a cowpuncher. I heard you comin’ before I saw you.… My name’s Brown.”
“Howdy, glad to meet you,” replied Pan, and then with evident hesitation. “Mine is Smith.”
“Panhandle Smith?” queried the other, quickly.
“Why, sure,” returned Pan with a laugh.
“Shake,” was all the reply Brown made, except to extend a lean strong hand.
“I’m most as lucky as I am unlucky,” said Pan warmly. “It’s a small world.… Now tell me, Brown, have you seen or heard anything of my dad, Bill Smith?”
“No, sorry to say. But I haven’t mingled much. Been layin’ pretty low, because the fact is I think I’ve struck a rich claim. An’ it’s made me cautious.”
“Ah-uh. Pretty wide open town, I’ll bet. I appreciate your confidence in me.”
“To tell you the truth I’m darn glad to run into someone from near home. Lord, I wish you could have brought word from my wife an’ baby.”
“Married, and got a kid. That’s fine. Boy or girl?”
“It’s a girl. I never saw her, as she was born after I left home. My wife wasn’t very well when she wrote last. She wants to come out here, but I can’t see that yet a while.”
“Well, wish I could have brought you news. It must be tough to be separated from your family. I’m not married, but I know what a little girl means.… Say, Brown, did you ever run into a man out here named Jim Blake?”
“No.”
“Or a man named Hardman? Jard Hardman?”
“Hardman! Now you’re talkin’, Panhandle. I should smile I have,” replied Brown, with a flash of quiet eyes that Pan had learned to recognize as dangerous in men. His own pulse heightened. It was like coming suddenly on a track for which he had long been searching. The one word Hardman had struck fire from this young miner.
“What’s Hardman doing?” asked Pan quietly.
“Everythin’ an’ between you an’ me, he’s doin’ everybody. Jard Hardman is in everythin’. Minin’, ranchin’, an’ I’ve heard he’s gone in for this wild horse chasin’. That’s the newest boom around Marco. But Hardman has big interests here in town. It’s rumored he’s back of the Yellow Mine, the biggest saloon an’ gamblin’ hell in town.”
“Well, I’ll be doggoned,” ej
aculated Pan thoughtfully. “Things turn out funny. You can show me that place presently. Does Hardman hang out here in Marco?”
“Part of the time. He travels to Frisco, Salt Lake, an’ St. Louis where he sells cattle an’ horses. He has a big ranch out here in the valley, an’ stays there some. His son runs the outfit.”
“His son?” queried Pan, suddenly hot with a flash of memory.
“Yes, his son,” declared Brown eyeing Pan earnestly. “Reckon you must know Dick Hardman?”
“I used to—long ago,” replied Pan, pondering. How far in the past that seemed! How vivid now in memory!
“Old Hardman makes the money an’ Dick blows it in,” went on Brown, with something of contempt in his voice. “Dick plays, an’ they say he’s a rotten gambler. He drinks like a fish, too. I don’t run around much in this burg, believe me, but I see Dick often. I heard he’d fetched a girl here from Frisco.”
“Ah-uh! Well, that’s enough about my old schoolmate, thank you,” rejoined Pan. “Tell me, Brown, what’s this Marco town anyway?”
“Well, it’s both old an’ new,” replied the other. “That’s about all, I reckon. Findin’ gold an’ silver out in the hills has made a boom this last year or so. That’s what fetched me. The town is twice the size it was when I saw it first, an’ many times more people. There’s a lot of these people, riffraff, that work these minin’ towns. Gamblers, sharks, claim jumpers, outlaws, adventurers, tramps, an’ of course the kind of women that go along with them. A good many cow outfits make this their headquarters now. An’ last, this horse tradin’, an’ wild horse catchin’. Sellin’ an’ shippin’ has attracted lots of men. Every day or so a new fellar, like you, drops in from east of the Rockies. There are some big mining men investigatin’ the claims. An’ if good mineral is found Marco will be solid, an’ not just a mushroom town.”
“Any law?” inquired Pan thoughtfully.
“Not so you’d notice it much, especially when you need it,” asserted Brown grimly. “Matthews is the town marshal. Self-elected so far as I could see. An’ he’s hand an’ glove with Hardman. He’s mayor, magistrate, sheriff, an’ the whole caboodle, includin’ the court. But there are substantial men here, who sooner or later will organize an’ do things. They’re too darned busy now workin’, gettin’ on their feet.”