by Zane Grey
“I can only appeal to your intelligence, your good sense, your loyalty. Pencarrow has a new lease on life. A misfortune like that—a tragedy, for these louts are raw evil men, and they would make away with you—indeed, it would ruin Pencarrow, and it certainly would wreck the plans I’ve made for him.”
“Oh, I see. You think a great deal of Dad, don’t you?”
“Yes, and of all of you.”
“Brandon, I would do anything you asked me to,” she replied without flippancy.
“Oh! . . . Thank you—that relieves me,” returned Wade, composed and staggered. “Good-by.” And he turned to Pencarrow, who came out of the house with a packet of letters.
“How long will you be gone?” added Jacqueline.
“I don’t know. We’ll hurry. Believe me.”
“If you meet John McComb give him my regards. He was very nice to Rona and me.”
“I shall not forget,” replied Wade, vaguely disquieted. Then Pencarrow claimed his attention.
“Letters to mail,” said the rancher. “Here’s three lists. Mine, mother’s and the girls’. I shore wouldn’t be in your boots. . . . Sell for the best price you can get. Buy complete outfits for yourself an’ your riders, not forgettin’ the Winchesters an’ shells you mentioned. Heah’s my bankbook. Deposit to my account. . . . An’ rustle back, Brandon.”
“Yes, sir. I want to buy a good field glass and to order a telescope. This is a wide long range. We need to see what’s going on.”
“Buy anythin’ you need. Only keep track of it. You must account to Jackie for expenses. . . . Have an eye for Hal.”
Wade made the drive to Holbrook in five days, a quick uneventful trip, without loss of steer or any appreciable weight of beef.
He found that his fame had preceded him. And he further stirred gossip and conjecture by stalking into saloons and gambling halls silently, but apparently bent on meeting some particular man. That night in the office of the little hotel he had some pertinent things to say about Band Drake and Harrobin. These rustler barons manifestly had other friends besides Kent in that community. Wade left bitter seed to germinate.
The herd of cattle brought nine thousand six hundred dollars. Wade kept out six hundred and banked the rest, a little business dealing that further set Holbrook by the ears.
“Boys,” he said to the eager brown-faced quartet of riders, “here’s some hard-earned coin, your first wages. But as you see, hardly enough to go on a toot. Remember now, Tex Brandon’s outfit is on trial. Be on deck early in the morning to help me buy rifles, shells, saddles, bridles, spurs, boots, sombreros, clothes, bedrolls, and whatever else we need.”
“Brand new outfit—whoopee!” yelled the cowboys, and arm in arm, their spurs jangling and their high heels thumping, they paraded down the street.
Wade kept Hal with him, to the lad’s obvious pride. Before that second day was gone Wade had met John McComb, a young merchant of the town, a dark, good-looking likable westerner. Wade had not found anything harder than delivery of the message to this Arizonan.
“Miss Jacqueline sent her regards to you,” he managed to get out.
“She did! . . . That was kind of her,” ejaculated McComb and he blushed like a girl.
Wade readily saw how the wind lay in that quarter and it gave him a queer sickening qualm. It was not surprise at evidence of another victim to Miss Pencarrow’s charms. It must have been that she chose to remember this fine young fellow. Wade stored away in his mind something to face and fight out at a quieter lovelier time.
Late in the afternoon Wade and his riders started back on the return trip. He let Hal ride a horse and he drove the wagon. They were a merry party. They camped at a spring near the road and feasted on a broiled wild turkey Kinsey had shot from his saddle.
Next day, with the loaded wagon, the cavalcade could make only about twenty miles. On the following morning they started at dawn, intending to reach the ranch by night. Soon they were well down out of the heavy timber, within occasional sight of the purple range and the sentinel knolls and the red rim rocks.
With the riders ahead of the wagon and Kinsey in the lead, under strict orders to keep sharp lookout, Wade drove ten hours at a stretch, and then, where a rocky brook crossed the road, they halted to rest and eat. Starting again in an hour they ran out of the solid timber into the patches of oak and pine that dotted the gray range. The ranch was already in sight and the party was passing a thicket when two whiplike rifle reports, one close after the other, cracked out. Wade saw the puffs of white smoke. Hal’s horse was shot from under him and a bullet knocked Wade off the wagon seat.
He lay on the load of supplies, not unconscious but stunned. Still he heard shrill yells from the cowboys and a volley of gunshots, then the crack of ironshod hoofs over rocks. Hal’s pale face appeared.
“Oh, Tex! . . . You’re alive!—I thought . . . they shot my horse. I got pitched hard. Are you bad hurt? . . . There were two that we saw. They hid behind the bushes—shot from their horses. Kinsey and Marshall chased them, burnin’ powder. . . . Oh, you’re so white!”
Bilt Wood joined Hal, standing on a wheel to look down at Wade.
“Boss, where’d they hit you?” queried Wood, sharply, his eyes fearful.
“Creased my head. . . . It burns—I’m dizzy. Call Hogue back,” replied Wade, with sight waning. Then all went dark for him.
When Wade regained consciousness, it was dusk and he was being carried from the wagon. Excited whispers, a girl’s low cry, Pencarrow’s deep voice told him where he had been taken. The cowboys laid him upon a couch. Some one lighted a lamp. Blood dripping down over Wade’s forehead kept him from opening his eyes, and an impulse, of which he was perfectly conscious yet did not understand, kept him from speaking.
Pencarrow put a heavy hand on Wade’s breast.
“He’s alive. Heart all right,” he said, in gruff relief. “What a bloody mess! Fetch water an’ a towel, somebody.”
“Dad, they shot my horse from under me,” spoke up Hal, importantly. “I was in the air when I heard the second bullet hit Tex. The tumble dazed me, but I got up on the wagon wheel. Bilt did too. Tex lay back on the canvas. His eyes were wide open. He spoke. . . . Oh, Dad, it couldn’t—have been. . . .”
“Hal’s right, Mr. Pencarrow,” said Wood, as the lad faltered. “Thet hombre bounced lead off Tex’s head, sure, but it wasn’t no brain shot.”
“Hal,” called Jacqueline, from the head of the stairs, “have the cowboys come back from town?” Then when the lad failed to answer her, quick footsteps sounded descending to the hall, entering the living room. “Dad! . . . What has happened?—Who—”
“It’s Tex. He’s been shot. We’re not shore how bad.”
She reached the couch. Wade felt her before she touched him. “Oh, my God!” she whispered low. Her hands fluttered on his head. “Where?—Show me where it—” She parted his wet hair. Her finger touched the wound and burned like a red hot iron “It’s—here,” she went on, with agitation. “No hole, Dad! . . . A long furrow. . . . I feel the bone—smooth all the way.”
“Wall now—thet’s fine,” exploded Pencarrow, thickly.
“Aw!” breathed Hal, as if unbearable oppression had been removed. And then excitedly, “Come in, Rona. I’ll tell you all about it. Had my horse shot from under me. And Tex got hit.”
Wade decided it was time to relieve these good people further: “Jacqueline, will you make sure my brains are intact?” he asked clearly. “I can’t dispense with any and hold down this job.”
“Oh!” cried Jacqueline, startled.
“We thought you were unconscious. . . . Brandon, you just escaped. . . . It’s only a scalp wound.”
“I’m rather used to gunshots,” replied Wade, wildly. “Will you please wash the blood out of my eyes?”
Presently Wade was able to see and the first face happened to be Rona’s. It was pale and compassionate. She smiled gladly.
“Tex, you weren’t so careful as you made me
promise to be,” she said.
“Rona, I sure wasn’t.”
Jacqueline asked Wade to raise his head. “Iodine. It’ll hurt.”
“I don’t believe coats of fire would hurt at this moment,” replied Wade, lightly. But his boast and his indifference were only a blind to hide the guilty tumult roused by Jacqueline’s soft hands upon his head and face, her close fragrant proximity, her eyes that still caused the havoc of their first shock.
“Indeed you are not badly hurt,” she said.
“Boss, you had a narrow squeak,” interposed Bilt Wood. “I’ll mosey along now with the horses.”
“Where’s Kinsey?” queried Wade, suddenly remembering.
“Last I seen of him an’ Kid Marshall they was shore pullin’ leather after them two hombres.”
“Bilt, did you ever see them before?” asked Wade.
“I’ve an idea I’ve seen one of the horses. But, Boss, we’ll know for sure pronto. Hogue an’ Kid cain’t be beat ridin’ on the range.”
The cowboy clanked out. Jacqueline finished bandaging Wade’s head.
“Thanks. I’ll go to my cabin now. Hal, will you lend me a hand?”
“Brandon, you will stay right here where I can look after you,” said Jacqueline. “Hal, pull off his boots. Ronn, fetch a blanket and pillow.”
Wade gave in gratefully. The truth was he did not feel too well. He had become conscious of a throbbing pain in his head.
“Here’s your bankbook and receipt for expenses,” he said to Pencarrow, handing out a packet. “I sold for thirty dollars a head”
“Splendid—all out of a clear sky!” ejaculated the rancher, in glad amaze. “Brandon, it’s almost too good to be true.”
“Well, it’s true—as true as this rustler brand on my head. . . . Pencarrow, the opportunity for you grows. Cattle on the hoof, beef, hides, ought to bring better prices all the time. The market grows. That Lincoln County War has deflected half a million head from the Kansas City and Chicago markets already this year.”
“Brandon, you should say our opportunity grows,” corrected the rancher, pointedly.
“Our! . . . Oh, I savvy. Sure. It’s my chance, too. I think I’ve got an outfit of cowboys. Hogue Kinsey is a wonderful chap. I wonder about that Carter—”
“You must stop talking,” interrupted Jacqueline, her cool hand going to Wade’s hot face: “Dad—all of you get out of heah.”
They left precipitously. She turned the lamp down and shaded the light from Wade’s eyes. Then she drew a rocking chair close to the couch.
“You may be Tex Brandon, who has been shot full of holes, and scoffs at them, but all the same you are feverish,” she said, softly. “You must go to sleep.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Are you in great pain?”
“It hurts all right. But I’m used to that. I might sleep, if you left me.”
“No. I’ll stay heah, and be very quiet.”
“Jacqueline, the man does not live who could fall asleep with you sitting beside him.”
“Indeed, and why?”
“Do you need to ask?”
“Surely. Am I so—so disturbing?”
“Disturbing?” laughed Wade, a little wildly. “You are storm, wind, wildfire in prairie grass, chain lightning!”
“Well! A compliment—a doubtful one—from Tex Brandon at last. Thank you, even if it took a gunshot to get it out of you.”
“Don’t be sarcastic—or humorous at my expense,” said Wade, realizing he was on the verge of a precipice. “It is not my place to pay compliments to Jacqueline Pencarrow.”
“I do not see why, if they are sincere. I’d like to hear them.”
“You—would?” he whispered, unsteadily.
“Yes, but not now. You’re getting flighty. And if you ever pay me compliments I want you to be very clearhaided indeed. . . . Try to sleep now. . . . I will go. . . . But how can I if you hold my hand?”
“I’m afraid I don’t—want you to—go,” returned Wade, irrationally, and his eyes fell shut irresistibly. He felt himself drifting. His last sensation was that she ceased to try to withdraw her hand.
When he awoke the room was in deep shadow, the lamp turned very low. He was alone. Coyotes were wailing out on the range. Strange vague thoughts attended him until he drifted off once more. He roused again at dawn, sensing a presence, but fell asleep again. Next time he opened his eyes the sunlight was streaming through the window. His pain was less acute. The house was astir. He heard Mrs. Pencarrow berating Hal. “But you fool boy, why do you wear the horrid thing indoors, to bump into everybody? It gives me the shivers.”
“Wal, Ma, you can’t never tell when you’re gonna need a gun,” replied Hal, vaguely. Then the lad appeared at the living room door, bright-eyed and handsome.
“Howdy Tex, old-timer,” he said, advancing with the cowboy gait he had assumed. “Jacque says you slept well. She stayed up all night with you, Tex. I’ll tell you, cowboy, it’s somethin’ to have that girl for a nurse.”
“No!—Hal, where’d she stay?” asked Wade, incredulously.
“Right heah in Dad’s arm chair. She’s gone to bed now to get a little sleep. Do you know, Tex, I believe Jacque likes you. I’ve seen a heap of men come and go heah. She couldn’t see them with a telescope. Rona was crazy about you, too. But girls are funny. Last night she was more worried about Hogue Kinsey than you.”
“Hand me my boots,” said Wade, surcharged with energy. “I’ll rustle for my cabin before the crowd comes in. . . . All right, Hal, if you want to help me over. Carry my coat and gun belt.”
Wade made the distance to his cabin easily enough, but he was glad to fall on his bed.
“I’ve been out to the barn,” Hal was saying. “Bilt was up early looking for Kinsey and Kid Marshall. Hicks rode out at daylight, so they said. Jerry troubled, restless—black as a thundercloud. Rain Carter gone.”
“Gone where?” asked Wade.
“They don’t know. And they’re plumb curious.”
“Run along, Hal. I’ll want to know pronto when the boys get back.”
“I’ll send somebody with your breakfast, boss,” replied Hal, and rushed off.
Midafternoon came with Wade unable to sleep longer, restless and suffering, worried about the missing cowboys. Jacqueline visited him a little while, to bathe his hot face with cold water, to soothe his pain and strangely ease his unrest. She had little to say and avoided his eyes. When she left him, prey to greater trouble of spirit, and insupportable longing for her presence, her touch remained to torture him.
Then Pencarrow and Lightfoot came in.
“Kinsey an’ Marshall been sighted down the range,” announced the rancher. “Reckon they’re about heah by now. . . . How air you, Brandon?”
The tall homesteader stood over Wade and gazed down at him with narrowed eyes and grim smile.
“So you been an’ gone an’ done it,” he said. “After all my hunch about your seein’ them hombres before they seen you.”
“Elwood, I didn’t expect to be ambushed on our own range in sight of the house,” protested Wade.
“Listen. This is Arizona. More desert-bred hombres will shoot you in yore doorway. Anywhere—any time—except when you meet them face to face!”
“I never will be surprised again,” promised Wade, quietly.
“Some of them will hide along the trails, watchin’ and waitin’ while their pards run off a few more cattle.”
“But they can’t rustle cattle after dark. I tried it. Not in this country of canyon, rocks and thickets. In the daylight we’ll see them. We’ve got the cattle in the open. I’ll split my men in couples. We’ll ride out before dawn or camp at the edge of the pines. Elwood, these thieves are going to ride square into rifle fire.”
“Now you’re talkin’. Play them at their own game.”
“Heah comes the cowboys,” interposed Pencarrow, from the open door. “Hal is with them. An’ the girls runnin’ from the house.”
“Howdy, boss. Them boys told me just now. I never expected to see you alive after thet bullet knocked you off the wagon seat. I seen who shot you an’ I went after him.”
“Reckon I’m just as glad to see you, Hogue.”
Jacqueline entered with Jerry, whose haggard face showed signs of softening. Evidently Jacqueline had heard something to make her tense and white.
Kinsey got up to look from Wade to Pencarrow. “I’ve a tough report. Shall I make it before Miss Jacqueline?”
“No,” rejoined Wade, sharply, as he sat up. Turning to Jacqueline he said: “Please go.”
“I asked Kinsey to tell me what had happened. He refused. I regard myself as a part of this Pencarrow outfit and I insist upon staying. I appeal to you, Brandon.”
“It was only for your sake,” explained Wade.
“Stay, Jackie. I like your spunk. An’ it’s time you were havin’ a say in all my affairs,” said Pencarrow.
“All right,” went on Kinsey, swallowing hard. “Miss Jacqueline, I wanted to spare you some harrowin’ details. . . . Jerry, suppose you tell your story first.”
“Thet I will, an’ short an’ sweet,” replied Jerry with fire in his eye. “Boss, after you rode off on your way to town Carter left us. I didn’t see him till sundown. An’ then he was shore queer. Next day he rode off alone. I waited, made a circle, took up his trail—an’ caught him meetin’ some riders in the woods. They had a long confab. I left before they got through. I didn’t get very close, so couldn’t recognize any of them riders, even if I’d known them. Thet night Carter talked queerer than ever, kind of pumpin’ me. I got leery an’ guessed he was up to somethin’ slick. Like wantin’ me to say I was tired ridin’ for you an’ lookin’ for a bonanza. If he’d had an openin’ he’d made me a proposition—I never knew what. Wal, next day he rode off an’ didn’t come back.”
After a pregnant silence, Kinsey spoke out abruptly:
“Boss, it was Carter who shot you. The other man, Neale, one of Harrobin’s riders, as we found out, he shot first an’ shot at Hal. I seen them just a second before they pulled trigger. You bet they knew who they wanted to shoot at! . . . I spurred after them an’ Kid followed me. They had about five hundred yards start. Kid an’ I had the best horses, as I seen pronto. It was fifteen miles across thet sage flat. I reckoned we’d be in range before we got there. But we wasn’t. They run in on the Pine Mound trail an’ stuck to it. Rocks loomed on each side. We began to gain. The timber was open. If they’d split at Dry Canyon an’ gone into the brush we’d lost them. But they appeared hell-bent to get somewhere. They began to shoot back at us, usin’ their rifles. Kid an’ I kept our fire. We had our new Winchesters full of shells, an’ it shore looked bad for Carter an’ his pard.”