by Zane Grey
Wade’s approach disrupted the altercation. He sensed an opportune arrival. The riders wheeled and stared with a sullen resentment and surprise. Fifty feet from them Wade slid off, left his horse, and began a very slow walk forward. He put in it and in his piercing survey of the group all the intense curiosity, suspicion and menace which obsessed him. He halted the instant he could see them distinctly.
“Dad, who is that man?” called a woman’s voice, rich and vibrant.
“Another one, I reckon.”
Wade did not let this answer nor a faint hint of remembrance of that feminine voice swerve him from intent scrutiny of the riders. They stood close together, silent no doubt, on account of Wade’s singular approach. Two of them were young louts, marked by no distinguishing feature except viciousness. If they carried guns Wade could not detect them, which was almost equivalent to a surety that they were unarmed. The third had a leaden visage, seamed with innumerably wavy lines of age, and a sneaking eye of negative hue. The fourth possessed bold features, ugly and wolfish, emphasized by glinting eyes. These last two riders wore guns in their belts.
“Wal, Urba,” snapped the third rider. “Mebbe when this stranger gets tired sizin’ us up, he’ll explain his gall.”
“What’d ye want?” queried the one addressed as Urba.
“Ask yourself,” retorted Wade.
“Wal, I’m askin’ myself to tell you to get goin’.”
The man threatened. But he did not possess the quality in bad men that Wade respected. Not one of the four gave Wade a sense of compunction. They did not even have the self-preserving power by which western men of quality gauged one another. Furthermore if the two armed ones felt provoked to draw on Wade, it would be too late.
A young woman emerged from the open door. Wade saw her over the heads of the riders. Wade could not tell whether it was her beauty or her magnificent dark eyes that struck at his heart. He recognized the girl who had saved him, grown into a woman.
“Dad, he’s not one of them,” she asserted, poignantly.
“They’re all alike, only wuss as they come along,” replied the man, bitterly. He stood erect, his white locks bristling, his fine dark face drawn with haggard lines, a Texan at the end of his rope.
“You’re Pencarrow,” asserted Wade.
“Yes, I’m Pencarrow,” snarled the rancher, wearily. “What do you want heah?”
“Lawsford, foreman for Aulsbrook, sent me over. I want a job.”
“Lawsford is no friend of mine.”
“Oh, Dad, that’s not true,” interposed his daughter. “Mr. Lawsford has been friendly, in spite of Aulsbrook’s enmity.”
“Humph! To you, lass, because he’s lost his haid over you. . . . Stranger, Lawsford’s name is no bid to my notice.”
Wade turned to the daughter and removed his sombrero. It required all his cold nerve—that gesture. But he would make the test at once. The four riders gaped from him to the Pencarrows, interested despite their resentment.
“You are his daughter?” asked Wade, courteous yet sharp.
“Yes. I am Jacque Pencarrow,” she reurned, shortly, her wide eyes upon Wade distrustfully. But his presence, his force must have had its effect.
“My name is Brandon,” went on Wade. “My errand here is to help your father—and you.”
“Help Dad and me?” she queried, wonderingly.
Pencarrow waved aside the idea as he would have this intruder. “Jackie, don’t listen to him. Haven’t I taken in a score of riders to be fooled an’ robbed? If he’s not thet kind, he’s only another lovesick cowhand come heah moonin’ after you.”
“Dad, this—this rider does not look or talk like that kind,” replied the girl, with a vivid blush. “Thank you, sir, for your offer. But we have no place for you heah.”
“Lady, you can’t expect me to believe that,” rejoined Wade, seriously. “Even if I haven’t been told, I can see what this ranch needs.”
“No doubt. I should have said that we can’t afford to employ anyone,” she replied with pathos.
“Nevertheless, I will stay,” returned Wade with the force of a man who could not be denied. “Naturally your father has lost faith in men. But you are young and keen, Miss Pencarrow. Trust me. At least enough to tell me if these four riders are not enemies of your father.”
“Indeed they are!” she flashed, passionately. “They belong to Band Drake’s outfit. He cheated Father—and has never ceased to make demands since. They came heah this time—”
“Shet up, gurl, or it’ll be the wuss fer yore old man,” interrupted Urba, with a vicious scowl.
“Thank you, Miss Pencarrow,” said Wade, swiftly. “That’s quite enough. I’ll step aside now and let these men take up their argument with your father.”
“You will, huh?” demanded Urba. “Wal, what’n hell is to prevent me from bootin’ you out of hyar?”
Wade laughed in the man’s face and deliberately backed away to one side.
“Say, Urb, don’t bother with him,” spoke up his nearest comrade. “We’re wastin’ time. This hyar smart aleck is tryin’ some Romeo guff on the gurl. Shore can’t blame him, but he’s a sucker for tryin’ it.”
“Pencarrow, my boss is out of patience with you an’ I’m losin’ mine,” said Urba, insolently, to the rancher. “We came after thet thousand you owe Drake an’ we’re gonna get it.”
“I don’t owe Band Drake a dollar,” replied Pencarrow, wearily. “I paid him for twice the haid of cattle thet he left heah.”
“Thet’s yore story, Pencarrow. Drake’s word is as good as yore’s in this country. An’ as there ain’t any court or law to pass judgment it comes down to man to man. Yore cowboys hev quit you an’ thet looks bad on this range. It’ll go agin you.”
“Quit me? Most of them were thieves in cahoots with these rustlers. The others hadn’t the guts to stick to a cattleman who was good to them.”
“Say, Pencarrow, you made a crack before thet riled me,” declared Urba. “Are you castin’ a slur at me?”
Pencarrow appeared too disgusted to reply to that. He was a sorely beset man, losing his grip on himself. There seemed to be some strong obstacle to his meeting these riders like a Texan. And Wade divined that it had to do with Pencarrow’s family. All disputes in that wild section of Arizona were settled with guns, and Pencarrow feared he might leave his loved ones unprotected. These riders, and no doubt other gangs, had grown brazen because the Texan’s hands were thus tied.
“Pencarrow, are you gonna pony up?” queried Urba, impatiently.
“If I had thet much money I’d never give it to Drake.”
“Wal, yore hosses, then. We looked them over. An’ I reckon them an’ the bunch of cattle we cut out will square this little debt.”
“No!” thundered Pencarrow, growing livid.
“Dad! Control yourself,” implored his daughter.
“Jackie, please go in an’ let me cuss these men.”
“I shall not. You can curse them before me—or I will!”
“Aw, Urb, ain’t she a pippin’?” drawled Urba’s lieutenant. “Look at them eyes. An’ them heavin’ breasts!”
Wade gazed at the speaker, yet had the will power to stay his hand. But the speech, the burning glance of that lewd-eyed ruffian had sealed his death warrant.
“Wal, I guess,” retorted Urba with a guffaw, and he walked halfway up the steps to leer into the girl’s pale face. She shrank but did not flinch. “Jacque, I reckon you might save yore dad—”
Her supple body moved swiftly as her arm swept out. The resounding smack was more of a blow. It staggered Urba and almost upset him. His hand at his bloody lips, he glared up malignantly. But the white fury of her checked his utterance.
“Get out of heah—before I shoot you,” she cried. “I’m not afraid of you. And don’t think I can’t shoot you. . . . My father knows all about Band Drake. He’s a cheat and a thief. He’s worse —as I could tell. And you and your crew are his low-down tools!”
&n
bsp; “Ahuh! You hell-spittin’ cat! . . . So you come clean with all the old man hadn’t nerve to say?” rasped Urba, brutally, and then he shot a baleful gaze up at the rancher. “Pencarrow, we’re takin’ yore hosses an’ thet bunch of cattle. . . . An’ by Gawd! you better hev a care of thet white-faced slut!”
He strode out with clinking spurs, his head still turned to the rancher, until he collided with Wade who thumped a hard left hand on his chest, shoving him backwards.
“Greaser, you’ve had your say. Now hear mine!” commanded Wade.
Urba appeared so completely astonished that he stood there, strangled with rage.
“Jackie, get in the house!” yelled Pencarrow, shrilly. His Texan keenness saw the imminence of catastrophe.
The girl backed away from the steps and inside the door. But she did not close it. Her dark eyes appeared all the wider for the shadow.
Wade fronted the two men who stood almost abreast with Urba a step ahead. At last the menace of the situation penetrated Urba’s thick head.
“Bill!—” he yelped, “This hyar hombre—”
His comrade interrupted that trenchant call by dropping his hand toward his weapon. The move appeared more intimidation than draw. But it failed of both, for Wade’s gun leaped and belched in the same instant. Bill fell against one of the other men who supported him a moment, then at a sucking terrible intake of breath dropped him like a sodden sack.
“Urb!” he screeched in warning where now no warning was needed. He and his comrade slunk aside, ready to run but afraid.
When Urba took a backward step he almost tripped over the prostrate Bill, who appeared to be shuddering in the last throes of sudden death. Urba had turned a ghastly white. Only an idiot then could have been blind to impending fate. Wade held his gun low. It still smoked. The issue with the Ruffian was whether he would try to draw or cravenly accept the inevitable doom.
“Urba, Pd shot you along with your pard,” said Wade in cold scorn, “but boring daylight through you isn’t enough to pay for your insult to Pencarrow’s daughter.”
Wade swung the heavy Colt across Urba’s mouth, knocking him flat.
“Man, don’t—shoot!” bawled Urba, spitting blood from his mangled mouth. “I’ll crawl! . . . I take it back! . . . ’pologize!”
“Pull your gun or I’ll murder you.”
“No! I ain’t no gun-slinger. . . . Wait, Brandon. . . . Wait! . . . Aghh, my Gawd!”
As Urba got up heavily, Wade prodded him in the abdomen with the gun.
“Hold—Brandon,” panted Urba, in a horrible earnestness to save his life. “We’ll leave cattle—hosses. . . . I’ll squeal on Drake. His orders. . . . An’ he means to git the gurl—one way or another. I’ll tell everythin’. . . . Only give me. . . .”
Wade deliberately cocked his gun and then jabbed it at Urba, who doubled up in mortal terror.
“Don’t!—you!” he shrieked. He tripped and fell backwards and as Wade jabbed at him he dragged himself along the gravel road toward the horses.
“No use, Urba. You’re done. But pull your gun,” called Wade, and he kicked the ruffian over backwards. Urba bellowed with pain and terror and fury, the last of which made him a madman. Like a bent sapling released he sprang up scattering drops of blood, with enough manhood left to draw his gun. Wade shot him in the act.
“Here you tellows,” shouted Wade, wheeling to the stunned riders. “Pack these men away from here.”
The two broke into action. They led Bill’s horse up to the porch and flung him over the saddle. Then they fetched Urba’s horse and did the same for Urba. Next they got their own horses and mounted.
“Listen,” said Wade, “I know your faces. And if I ever meet you again, guns or no guns, I’ll take a shot at you. Savvy? . . . Tell your boss, Band Drake, that Urba squealed on him. Tell him to steer clear of Tex Brandon. Now rustle.”
Wade watched the gruesome procession until the pine trees obscured it from sight. Then, released from stress, he slowly walked back toward the house. Pencarrow, who had stood through all this, sat down on a porch chair as if it was relief to get off his legs. White agitated faces appeared inside the far door, and as Wade reached the porch, the girl emerged from the other door just behind her father. Wade had himself in hand; his opportunity had come; and he would not make any mistakes. He thought it best to keep his face averted from the girl, or at least his eyes, for the time being. He had sheathed the gun. He took a step up and addressed the rancher.
“Well, Pencarrow, this Arizona is a wild and hard country for a decent Texas family.”
“My God, it is—an’ bloody,” replied the Texan. “An’ I chose the wildest range in the whole damned territory.”
At that juncture a manly lad of fourteen came thumping up in his bare feet. He was fair, like his father, showing little resemblance to Jacqueline.
“Mister, I heahed it all,” he burst out, “and I saw you shoot the darned skunks.”
“Did you? Where were you?” replied Wade, instantly warming to this frank-eyed boy.
“I was in the sitting room with Ma and Rosemary and the kids.”
“Why didn’t you come out to back me up?” Wade said in fun, but the boy took him seriously.
“I wanted to. But Ma held on to me. And besides, Pa won’t let me have guns.”
“We’ll have to talk your Dad out of that,” said Wade, seriously. “You’ve got to learn to handle guns in Arizona.”
“Jackie,” interposed the rancher. “Will you tell Mother that everythin’ is all right out heah now. Take Hal with you.”
“Aw, I want to stay,” remonstrated the boy, as his sister led Slim away. “I like that man. And I’m sick of being. . .
Wade heard no more. Then he spoke: “Pencarrow, you’re a Texan. It’s odd that you keep guns from your boy. Doesn’t seem like Texas to me.”
“His mother’s fault. The boy’s uncle was a gunman. Glenn Pencarrow. Killed by rangers. She has always hated guns since. That’s one reason why I’ve failed heah.”
“Does your daughter share that feeling?”
“You heahed her, stranger. An’ I’ll bet she’d have shot thet bastard if you hadn’t.”
That thrilled Wade back to a remembrance of the girl’s denunciation of the black-browed Urba. He was about to address the rancher again when Jacqueline returned, light of step and singularly impelling of presence.
“Dad, I’ve calmed them somewhat and sent them out of the sitting room,” she said. “Hal will look after Mr. Brandon’s horse. . . . Let us go indoors.”
Wade followed them into a large and well-lighted room, with windows looking out upon both sides. It was richly and colorfully furnished. A huge open fireplace, with Navajo designs on the stones, took Wade’s eye. He felt composed and sure of himself though deep down there was tumult.
“Heah, take this chair, stranger,” said Pencarrow, hospitably. “Brandon? Was that what you called yourself?”
“Yes. Brandon.”
“Where you from?”
“All over the West. But I was born in Missouri. They call me Tex.”
“Ahuh. . . . Daughter, would you mind leavin’ us alone?”
“I certainly would. What’s more I won’t do it,” replied the girl, with spirit. “Heahafter, I’m going to sit in on all the deals. . . . Forgive me, Dad, for disobeying. But you have made such a mess of it. . . . This terrible thing that’s just happened—it seems the time to change.”
“Well! Well!” ejaculated the rancher, surprised, and perhaps secretly pleased. “You’re as much of a rebel as Hal.—Brandon, this is my eldest—Jacqueline—just turned twenty-one.”
“How do you do, Miss Pencarrow,” rejoined Wade, with a bow.
“Brandon, your Arizona has ruined all of us,” went on the rancher.
“I couldn’t think that,” replied Wade with strong feeling. He meant to revive the courage and hope of this Texan. “You’re far from old. You still have plenty of fight left. And Miss Jacqueline here—well sh
e didn’t strike me as being ruined. The lad Hal has fire and spunk. If I judge the rest of your family by you three I’d be willing to gamble on it that you’ll find success here.”
“Who are you?” queried Pencarrow, responding to that challenge. His fine piercing eyes narrowed in scrutiny of his visitor.
“Just a wandering rider,” replied Wade, with his disarming smile.
“Excuse my curiosity,” the rancher hastened to add. “You’re not like the riders who pass heah. . . . I don’t need to ask if you’re a gunman. I’m a Texan. My brother Glenn was swift on the draw. But you had it on him. . . . Who told you about me?”
“I happened to ride into Lawsford’s camp, asked for a job. I reckon he liked to talk. Mentioned the few cattlemen of this Cedar Range, among them Aulsbrook. Then he spoke of you and your family. How ashamed he was of the rough deal Arizona has given you. Told about Drake, and in short, how you’d been robbed by all the outfits in this country.”
“Ahuh. An’ thet is why you rode over heah to ask me for a job?”
“Pencarrow, it struck me that I might be the kind of man you needed.”
“Ha! thet struck me, too, most damned hard. . . . But air you shore it wasn’t talk about Jacqueline thet fetched you?”
“Oh, Dad,” interrupted the young woman, blushing furiously. “Such a question to ask!”
“Wal, why is it?” demanded her father, testily. “Haven’t riders too many to count rode up heah—every last one of them to pester an’ hound you, an’ worry me sick? Or turn out to be scoundrels! Why shouldn’t I ask Brandon?”
“I’m not offended, Pencarrow,” returned Wade. “Lawsford’s cowboys did gossip about Miss Jacqueline—most flatteringly. But I had made up my mind to come before I heard them.”
“An’ you run plumb into some of Band Drake’s outfit! . . . Wal, Brandon, I didn’t take kindly to yore cornin’. But I’m thankin’ God you stayed in spite of my insults.”
“Dad, evidently Mr. Brandon had determined to get that job,” interposed Jacqueline.