The Trail Driver

by Zane Grey

  “Have I yore consent?”

  “Why child!”

  “But yu’re my Dad. I cain’t remember my real one.”

  “Yu have my blessin’, dear. An’ I think the world of Texas Joe. He’s the salt of the earth.”

  “Could yu let him quit trail drivin’? Because if he drove I’d have to go, too.”

  “Reddie, I got a fortune for thet herd. Which reminds me I still have ninety-two hawses to sell.”

  “But yu cain’t sell mine.”

  “We’ll leave him with Selton, to be sent south with the first ootfit.”

  She leaped up, flushed and happy, with tears like pearls on her tanned cheeks and eyes of sweet, thoughtful shadows.

  “Hurry. Get up an’ dress. Take me oot to buy things. A girl’s! Oh, I will not know what to buy. It’s like a dream. …Hurry, Dad. I wouldn’t dare go alone.”

  “I should smile yu wouldn’t.”

  When she ran out Brite made short work of getting into his torn and trail-stained rags. Soon they were on their way down the main street of Dodge. It presented a busy scene, but the roar was missing. Too early in the day! Reddie was all eyes. She missed nothing. Cowboys, gamblers, teamsters, negroes, Mexicans, Indians, lined the street, waiting for something to begin.

  Brite took Reddie into Denman’s big merchandise store, where he turned her over to a woman clerk to give her the best of everything and not consider expense. Then he hastened to purchase an outfit for himself. That did not require long, but he encountered a trail driver, Lewis by name, and in exchanging experiences time flew by. Hurrying back, he found Reddie dazed and happy, sitting amid a circle of parcels. They had a merry and a toilsome job packing their purchases back to the hotel. Reddie barred herself in with her precious possessions.

  Some time later a tap on Brite’s door interrupted the finishing-touches of his dressing.

  “Come in,” he answered.

  Texas Joe entered, his lean, handsome face shining despite its havoc.

  “Mawnin’ boss,” he drawled. “My, but yu’re spruced up fine.”

  “Yes, an’ yu’ll be feelin’ like me pronto. How’s the boys?”

  “I don’t know. Asleep I reckon. They come in town to go to bed. I’ll find them some place.”

  “Where’s Pan Handle?”

  “Sleepin’ to quiet his nerves. Boss, he’ll be lookin’ for Hite before the day’s oot.”

  “Tex, if I asked yu as a particular favor, would yu give up goin’ on a debauch an’ take first stage with me an’ Reddie?”

  “Boss, yu’re askin’ too much. Somethin’ turrible, or mebbe wonderful, has gotta come between me an’ thet hell-rattlin’ drive.”

  “I understand. But do this for me. Go with me to Hall’s office, then to the bank. An’ I’ll take yu to the store where I bought this ootfit.”

  “Thet’s easy. I’ll stick to yu shore till I get my money. Clean broke, boss. Not a two-bit piece. An’ I had some money when we left Santone. My Gawd! will I ever see thet town again?”

  “Shore yu will. Come on.”

  They went out into the street. “Boss, would yu mind walkin’ on my left side. I might have to clear for action, yu know. If we meet Hite—wal! our pard Pan is gonna be left.”

  But nothing happened on their several errands. Upon returning to the hotel, Texas engaged a room and proceeded to get rid of the stains and rags of the Chisholm Trail. Brite went to Blackwell, where he sold the remuda for twenty dollars a head. He was treading the clouds when he got back to the hotel. Cattlemen he knew engaged him in spirited inquiry about the resourcefulness of Texas. Men and women, some of them flashily dressed, passed through the lobby to the dining-room. Brite noted a very pretty young lady, in gayly colorful array, pass to and fro as if on parade. He observed that she had attracted the attention of a frock-coated gambler. And when he accosted her, Brite decided he had better make sure the girl wanted this kind of attention. When he strode over, what was his amaze and consternation to hear the girl say in a sharp familiar voice: “Heah, Mr. Flowery Vest, if I was packin’ my gun I’d shoot yore laig off!”

  “Reddie!” burst out Brite, beside himself.

  “Hello, Dad. An’ yu didn’t know me! Lend me yore gun.”

  The gambler fled. Brite gazed speechless at his adopted daughter, unable to believe his own sight.

  “Reddie, darlin’, is it yu?”

  “Shore it’s me. Thet is, I think an’ feel it is ’cept when I look in thet mirror. …Oh, Dad! I feel so strange—so tormented—so happy. Thet woman was smart. She picked oot all these things for me. …Do I look—nice?”

  “Nice!—Reddie, yu air the sweetest thing I ever seen. I am knocked flat. I am so glad I could bust. An’ to think yu’re my lass.”

  “I’d hug yu—if we was anywhere else. …Dad, will he like me—this way?”

  “He!— Who?”

  “Texas Jack, of course.”

  “Like yu? He’ll fall on his knees if yu give him a chance.”

  “Oh!” She started, with dark bright eyes widening. “There’s Texas now. Oh, I hardly knew him. …Dad, stand by me now. I wouldn’t say my happiness is at stake—or all of it—but my love is. …If I’ve only got—the nerve——”

  “Remember Wallen, honey, an’ thet day of the stampede,” was all Brite had time to say, when Texas Joe transfixed him and Reddie in one lightning flash of falcon eyes.

  “Boss!— Who—who——”

  “Jack, don’t yu know me?” Reddie asked, roguishly. Brite marveled at the woman of her—so swift to gain mastery over her weakness.

  “For Gawd’s sake!” gasped Texas.

  “Come Jack,” she cried, clasping his arm and then Brite’s, and dragging them away. “We’ll go up to Dad’s room. I’ve somethin’ to say—to yu.”

  All the way up the stairs and down the hall Texas Joe seemed in a trance. But Reddie talked about the town, the people, the joy of their deliverance from the bondage of the Trail. Then they were in Brite’s room with the door shut.

  Reddie subtly changed. She tossed her dainty bonnet on the bed as if she had been used to such finery all her life.

  “Jack, do yu like me?” she asked, sweetly, facing him with great dark eyes aglow, and she turned round for his benefit.

  “Yu’re staggerin’ lovely, Reddie,” he replied. “I’d never have knowed yu.”

  “This ootfit is better then them tight pants I used to wear?”

  “Better! Child, yu’re a boy no more,” he said, wistfully. “Yu’re a girl—a lady. An’ no one who knowed yu would want to see yu go back now.”

  “Yu’d never dare spank me in this dress, would yu?”

  Texas flushed red to the roots of his tawny hair. “Gawd, no! An’ I never did spank yu as a girl.”

  “Yes, yu did. Yu knew me. Yu saw me bathin’ in the creek thet day. …Naked! Don’t yu dare deny thet.”

  It was a torturing moment for Texas and he seemed on the rack. “Never mind. I forgive yu. Who knows? Mebbe but for thet. …Jack, heah is what I want to say?— Will yu give up goin’ on a drunk?”

  “Sorry, Miss Bayne, but I cain’t. Thet’s a trail driver’s privilege. An’ any human bein’ wouldn’t ask him not to drown it all.”

  “Not even for me?”

  “I reckon—not even for yu.”

  She slowly drew close to him, as white as if sun and wind had never tanned her face, and her dark purple eyes shone wondrously.

  “If I kiss yu—will yu give it up? … Once yu begged for a kiss.”

  Texas laughed mirthlessly. “Funny, thet idee. Yu kissin’ me!”

  “Not so funny, Jack,” she flashed, and seizing his coat in strong hands she almost leaped at his lips. Then she fell back, released him, sank momentarily against him, and stepped back. Texas Joe, with corded jaw in restraint, bent eyes of amber fire upon her. They had forgotten Brite or were indifferent to his presence.

  “Wal, yu did it. Yu kissed me. An’ I’m ashamed of yu for it. …Reddie Bayne, yu
cain’t buy my freedom with a kiss.”

  “Oh, Jack, it’s not yore freedom I want to buy. It’s yore salvation.”

  “Bah! What’s life to me?” he retorted, stern-lipped and somber-eyed. “I want to carouse, to fight, to kill, to sleep drunk—drunk—drunk.”

  “I know, Jack. Oh, I think I understand. Wasn’t I a trail driver, too? An’ do I want these awful things? No! No! An’ I want to save yu from them. …Yu madden me with yore cold. …Jack, spare me an’ end it—quick.”

  “I’m sparin’ yu more’n yu know, little lady,” he replied, darkly passionate.

  “Shore somethin’ will coax yu oot of this hell-givin’ idee. …What? I’ll do anythin’—anythin’——”

  He seized her in strong arms and lifted her off her feet against his breast.

  “Yu’d marry me?”

  “Oh yes—yes—yes!”

  “But why, girl? Why?” he demanded in a frenzy of doubt.

  Reddie flung her arms around his neck and strained to reach and kiss his quivering cheek. “’Cause I love yu, Jack—so turrible!”

  “Yu love me, Reddie Bayne?”

  “I do. I do.”

  “Since—when?” he whispered, playing with his joy.

  “Thet day—when Wallen came—an’ yu—saved me.”

  He kissed her hair, her brow, her scarlet cheek, and at last the uplifted mouth.

  “Aw, Reddie!— Aw! It was worth goin’ through— all thet hell—for this. …Girl, yu’ve got to kill the devil in me. …When will yu marry me?”

  “Today—if yu—must have me,” she whispered, faintly. “But I—I’d rather wait—till we get back to dad’s—to Santone, my home.”

  “Then we’ll wait,” he rang out, passionately. “But we must leave today, darlin’. … This Dodge town is brewin’ blood for me.”

  “Oh, let’s hurry,” she cried, and slipping out of his arms she turned appealingly to Brite. “Dad, it’s all settled. We’ve made up. When can yu take us away?”

  “Today, an’ pronto, by thunder,” replied Brite, heartily. “Pack yore old duds an’ go to the stage office at the east end of the street. We’ve got plenty of time. But go there pronto. It’s a safer place to wait. I will pay off an’ rustle to meet yu there.”

  Brite spent a fruitless hour trying to locate the cowboys. Upon returning to the hotel, with the intention of leaving their wages, as well as their share of the money found on the stampeder Wallen, he encountered Pan Handle, vastly changed in garb and face, though not in demeanor.

  “Hullo, Pan. Lookin’ for yu. Heah’s yore wages as a trail driver an’ yore share——”

  “Brite, yu don’t owe me anythin’,” returned the gunman, smiling.

  “Heah! None of thet or we’re not friends,” retorted Brite, forcing the money upon him. “I’m leavin’ in an hour by stage with Tex an’ Reddie. They made it up, an’ we’re all happy.”

  “Fine!— I’m shore glad. I’ll go to the stage to see yu off.”

  “Pan, hadn’t yu better go with us, far as Abiline, anyway?”

  “Wal, no, much as I’d like to. I’ve somebody to see heah yet.”

  “Wal, I’m sorry. Will yu take this wad of bills an’ pay off those fire-eaters of mine.”

  “Shore will. But they’re heah, just round on the side porch.”

  “Let’s get thet over, pronto,” said Brite, fervently. Strange how he wanted to see the last of these faithful boys!

  Holden sat on the porch steps, while Ackerman and Little leaned arm in arm on the rail. They still wore their ragged trail garb, minus the chaps, but their faces were clean and bright from recent contact with razor and soap.

  “Howdy, boss. Got any money?” asked Rolly, lazily, with a grin.

  “Shore. I have it heah waitin’ for yu—wages, an’ bonus, too. Thet share of Wallen’s money amounts to more’n all yore wages.”

  “Boss, I’m gonna take ten to blow in, an’ want yu to put the rest in somebody’s hands to keep for me,” said Ackerman, keenly. “Yu know I’m not trailin’ back to Texas.”

  “We’ll miss yu, Deuce.”

  Less Holden stood up, lithe and clean cut, with warm glance on the money about to be handed to him.

  “Dog-gone yu! Rolly, gimme thet quirt,” drawled Deuce, mildly.

  “Darn if I will,” rejoined Little, holding the quirt behind his back.

  “It’s mine, yu son-of-a-gun!” They wrestled like boys in play, but before Deuce could obtain the quirt from his friend, Holden snatched it.

  “I reckon findin’s keepin’s,” he laughed.

  With a shout the two cowboys flung themselves upon him. Brite sat down to watch the fun. Pan Handle looked on dubiously. The boys were sober. They had not had a drink. They were just full of lazy glee. As the three of them tugged at the quirt their warm young faces flashed into sight, one after the other. And they grunted and laughed and tugged.

  “Aw, Less, thet hurt. Don’t be so gol-durned rough,” complained Rolly as Holden wrenched the quirt away from the other two. Little looked askance at the blood on his hand. But he was too good-natured to take offense. Deuce, however, suddenly changing from jest to earnest, wrenched the quirt in turn from Holden.

  “Heah, Rolly. It’s yores. Let’s quit foolin’,” said Deuce.

  But Holden leaped for the quirt, and securing a grip he tore at it. He flung Rolly off his balance. Like a cat, however, the agile cowboy came down on his feet. The playful violence succeeded to something else. Holden, failing to secure the quirt, let go with his right and struck Rolly in the face.

  “Aw!” cried Rolly, aghast. Then as fierce wild spirit mounted he slashed at Holden’s darkening face with the quirt. Blood squirted.

  “HEAH BOYS! STOP!” yelled Pan Handle.

  But too late. Holden threw his gun and shot. Rolly doubled up, his face convulsed in dark dismay, and fell. Like tigers then Holden and Ackerman leaped to face one another, guns spouting. Holden plunged on his face, his gun beating a tatoo on the hard ground. Brite sat paralyzed with horror as Deuce sank down, his back to the porch.

  The demoniac expression faded from his dark face. His gun slipped from his hand to clatter on the steps, blue smoke rising from the barrel. His other hand sought his breast and clutched there, with blood gushing out between his fingers. He never wasted a glance upon the prostrate Holden, but upon his beloved comrade Rolly he bent a pitying, all-possessing look. Then his handsome head fell back.

  Pan Handle rushed to kneel beside him. And Brite, dragging up out of his stupor, bent over the dying boy. He smiled a little wearily. “Wal, old—trail driver, we pay,” he whispered, feebly. “I reckon—I cain’t—wait for—little gray-eyed—Ann!”

  His whisper failed, his eyes faded. And with a gasp he died.

  An hour later Brite met Pan Handle and with him left the hotel.

  “Pan, I’ll never drive the trail again,” he said.

  “Small wonder. But yu’re a Texan, Brite, an’ these air border times.”

  “Poor, wild, fire-hearted boys!” exclaimed Brite, still shaken to his depths. “All in less than a minute! My God! … We must keep this from Reddie. …I’ll never forget Deuce’s eyes—his words. ‘Old trail driver, we pay!’ … I know an’ God knows he paid. They all paid. Oh, the pity of it, Pan! To think thet the grand game spirit of these cowboys—the soul thet made them deathless on the trail—was the cause of such a tragedy!”

  Dodge was not concerned with auditing a few more deaths. It was four in the afternoon and the hum of the cattle metropolis resembled that of a hive of angry bees.

  Saddle horses lined the hitching-rails as far as Brite could see. Canvas-covered wagons, chuck-wagons buckboards, vehicles of all Western types, stood outside the saddle horses. And up one side and down the other a procession ambled in the dust. On the wide sidewalk a throng of booted, belted, spurred men wended their way up or down. The saloons roared. Black-sombreroed, pale-faced, tight-lipped men stood beside the wide portals of the gaming-dens. Beautiful w
recks of womanhood, girls with havoc in their faces and the look of birds of prey in their eyes, waited in bare-armed splendor to be accosted. Laughter without mirth ran down the walk. The stores were full. Cowboys in twos and threes and sixes trooped by, young, lithe, keen of eye, bold of aspect, gay and reckless. Hundreds of cowboys passed Brite in that long block from the hotel to the intersecting street. And every boy gave him a pang. These were the toll of the trail and of Dodge. It might have been the march of empire, the tragedy of progress, but it was heinous to Brite. He would never send another boy to his death.

  They crossed the intersecting street and went on. Brite finally noticed that Pan Handle walked on the inside and quite apart. He spoke briefly when addressed. Brite let him be, cold and sick with these gunmen—with their eternal watchfulness—their gravitating toward the violence they loved.

  Dodge roared on, though with lesser volume, toward the end of the main thoroughfare. Brite gazed with strange earnestness into the eyes of passers-by. So many intent, quiet, light eyes of gray or blue! Indians padded along in that stream, straight, dusky-eyed, aloof, yet prostituted by the whites. No more of the gaudy butterfly girls! Young men and old who had to do with cattle! The parasites were back in that block of saloons and dance-halls and gambling-dens.

  They passed Beatty and Kelly’s store, out from under an awning into the light. A dark-garbed man strode out of the barber shop.

  “Jump” hissed Pan Handle.

  Even as Brite acted upon that trenchant word his swift eye swept to the man in front of the door. Sallow face, baleful eyes, crouching form—Ross Hite reaching for his gun!

  Then Brite’s dive took him out of vision. As he plunged off the sidewalk two shots boomed out, almost together. A heavy bullet spanged off the gravel in the street.

  Lunging up, Brite leaped forward. Then he saw Pan Handle standing erect, his smoking gun high, while Hite stretched across the threshold of the barbershop door.

  A rush of feet, excited cries, a loud laugh, then Pan Handle bent a little, wrenching his gaze from his fallen adversary. He sheathed his gun and strode on to join Brite. They split the gathering crowd and hurried down the street. Dodge roared on, but in lessening volume.