The Westerners

by Zane Grey

  “Hi! Hi! Hi!” yelled the hunter, spurring Bess forward like a black streak.

  Uttering a piercing snort of terror, the gray stallion lunged out, for the first time panic-stricken, and lengthened his stride in a way that was wonderful to see. Then at the right moment Cuth darted from his hiding place, whooping at the top of his voice and whirling his lasso. Lightning won that race down the open stretch, but it cost him his best.

  At the turn he showed his fear and plunged wildly first to the left, then to the right. Cuth pushed him relentlessly, while Lee went back, tied up Bess, and saddled Billy, a wiry mustang of great endurance.

  Then the two hunters remorselessly hemmed Lightning between them, turned him where they wished, at last to rim him around the corner of the fence of cut cedars down the line through the narrow gate into the corral prepared for him.

  “Hold hard,” said Lee to Cuth. “I’ll go on an’ drive him ’round an’ ’round till he’s done . . . then, when I yell, you stand to one side an’ rope him as he goes out.”

  Lightning ran around the triangular space, plunged up the steep walls, and crashed over the dead cedars. Then as sense and courage gave way more and more to terror, he broke into desperate headlong flight. He ran blindly, and, every time he passed the guarded gateway, his eyes were wilder and his stride more labored.

  “Hi! Hi! Hi!” yelled Lee.

  Cuth pulled out of the opening and hid behind the line of cedars, his lasso swinging loosely. Lightning saw the vacated opening and sprang forward with a hint of his old speed. As he passed through, a yellow loop flashed in the sun, circling, shimmering, and he seemed to run right into it. The loop whipped close around the glossy neck, and the rope stretched taut. Cuth’s mustang staggered under the violent shock, went to his knees, but struggled up, and held. Lightning reared aloft.

  Then Lee, darting up in a cloud of dust, shot his lasso. The noose nipped the right foreleg of the stallion. He plunged, and for an instant there was a wild straining struggle, then he fell heaving and groaning. In a twinkling, Lee sprang off and, slipping the rope that threatened to strangle Lightning, replaced it by a stout halter and made this fast to a cedar.

  Whereupon the Stewarts stood back and gazed at their prize. Lightning was badly spent, but not to a dangerous extent, dabbled with foam but no fleck of blood appeared; his superb coat showed scratches, but none cut the flesh. He was up after a while, panting heavily and trembling in all his muscles. He was a beaten horse, but he showed no viciousness, only the wild fear of a trapped animal. He eyed Bess, then the hunters, and last the halter.

  “Lee, will you look at him! Will you just look at thet mane!” ejaculated Cuth.

  “Well,” replied Lee, “I reckon that reward, an’ then some, can’t buy him.”

  The Camp Robber

  “What the deuce!” exclaimed Hoff Manchester, the Selwyn Ranch foreman.

  “Boys, it ain’t no joke,” said cowhand Slab Jacobs. “Shore as the Lord made little apples, we been robbed!”

  The boys of the Selwyn Ranch had returned from the spring roundup . . . to find their bunkhouse door standing open, and their quarters ransacked.

  Yet a quick search, punctuated by an infinite variety of cowboy speech, revealed only a few valueless trinkets missing; untouched were a set of silver-mounted spurs, money, and a diamond stickpin.

  “Hoff, the laugh’s on us. What’s your idea?” Jacobs asked.

  “By gum, I think we’ve had a visit from the camp robber.”

  “Who’s this camp robber?” asked one of the cowboys.

  The foreman answered him. “Well, I reckon the camp robber always has been a joke ’round the range. But I can conceive of that joke wearin’ out. He’s been crackin’ them jokes for a good while now. I’ve heard them from all over, an’ this is no slouch of a range. But for the most part, such stealin’ seems to have been confined to Clear Creek, Cottonwood, an’ the Verde. Whatever or whoever this thief is . . . he comes in the day time, when there’s nobody home, an’ he takes some fool thing or other, leaving articles of real value. This bird sure is a slick one, whoever he is. Last year he stole two dolls we know of.”

  “Dolls?”

  “Yes, dolls. Stimpson over on Clear Creek has a little girl. She lost a doll. Missus Stimpson said the kid was sure she never lost it . . . that it was took. Wal, they got her another doll, an’, by golly, not long after, when the family was all away, that doll disappeared, too.”

  “Now I tax myself, I can remember the darnedest lot of things the loss of which was laid on thet locoed thief. Comb an’ brush, silver buckles, beads, handkerchiefs, socks, cough medicine, face powder, lace curtains, towels, mirror, bell, clock. Oh, Lord, there’s no end to them. Yet nothin’ worth much, so to speak. Everybody just laughs an’ says . . . ‘Wal, by gosh, the camp robber has been here.’ ”

  Stimpson pushed back his papers on the desk and looked up at the rider with a keen interest.

  “So your name’s Wingfield?”

  “Yes, sir,” was the quiet reply.

  The rancher surveyed the lithe figure, dusty and worn, the dark, lined face and its piercing eyes, with appreciation of the strong impression they gave.

  “Where have you been ridin’?” Stimpson asked.

  “I rode for Stillwell durin’ the spring roundup. But he didn’t need me longer. I got on at Brandon’s. Lasted only one payday. Next got a job at Hall’s. Couldn’t stay there. Then Randall’s. An’, as I told you, I’ve been ridin’ a grub line since.”

  “Wingfield, tell me just why you couldn’t hold a job?” asked Stimpson.

  “It was my fault, sir.”

  “You don’t look like a drinkin’ man.”

  “Well, I hit the bottle pretty stiff some years ago . . . just after. . . . But I tapered off . . . an’ lately I haven’t drank at all.”

  “Because you were broke?”

  “No. I’ve a little money left. I just got sick of it.”

  “I can understand that. Now, if you want to work for me, come clean about this trouble you’ve been havin’. Tell me why a man of your evident intelligence an’ ability can’t hang on here.”

  Wingfield looked out of the window, across the summer range, where the heat veils were rising. His face twitched. It was somber and sad. And when he turned again, Stimpson saw that the dark lightning of his eyes had dimmed.

  “Seems, sir, that I can’t stay anywhere long. I’ve been restless, an’ I reckon I’m irritable. Can’t make friends. I don’t care about anythin’. But I realize now that I’ve got to correct that. An’ I promise you, if you’ll take me on, I’ll try to overcome it.”

  “I’ll take you on, Wingfield. Thanks for your confidence. I appreciate it. I’d like to know more, though. What happened to such a fine fellow as you . . . that you don’t care for anythin’?”

  “Some years ago I . . . I lost my wife . . . an’ it knocked me out,” said Wingfield.

  “Uhn-huh. Too bad. . . . I didn’t take you for a married man. How old are you, Wingfield?”

  “I’m twenty-nine.”

  “Well, that surprises me. You look older. . . . All right, Wingfield, you’re on. An’, let us hope, to your advantage as well as mine. Report to Neff an’ ask for quarters, by yourself, if you prefer. Later today we can talk wages an’ what this particular job is.”

  That deal was consummated in July. Wingfield made a valiant effort to prove worthy of the opportunity Stimpson had placed in his way. And he succeeded so far as the work was concerned. He overcame much to stick to that job, but he could not correct his taciturn habit, his aloofness, and sharpness of tongue, when he did speak.

  Naturally he had not made friends with Stimpson’s foreman, Neff. Signs were not wanting, however, that some of the riders looked favorably upon him. He had even been asked to accompany them to town this Saturday night, which was the end of August, and payday.

  Late that afternoon Wingfield rode back to the ranch, and before he dismounted in front of Neff’s cabin, he
sensed trouble. All the riders were in. Wingfield went in without greeting any of those who regarded him curiously.

  “Wingfield,” spoke up Stimpson, “the payroll is missin’.”

  “It is, sir? Well! How you mean . . . missin’?” asked Wingfield, flashing his eyes from Neff to the rancher.

  “I don’t know how,” said Stimpson, slowly guarding his speech. “I just got here. . . . Speak up, Neff.”

  “It . . . it was this way, boss,” replied Neff hurriedly. “Reckon I got here about ten o’clock. Straight from the house, when you gave me the money. Wally Peters, over there, helped me count it. Didn’t you, Wally?”

  “Yes, I did,” answered a clean-cut young cowboy, stepping forward to confront the rancher. “There was two thousand, three hundred an’ sixty dollars. Neff put it in the desk here, shut the drawer . . . this one, sir, but he didn’t lock it. Then we went out together.”

  “Had there been anyone about the place?” inquired Stimpson.

  “Yes, sir. Wingfield must have been in . . . I found the paper . . . here it is . . . shows the time of his outfit. I always pay from his figures. . . . This paper was here when I came back. But not when I left,” said Neff.

  Wingfield spoke up instantly. “That is correct, sir. I left my time paper here about noon. There was no one in.”

  A silence ensued that developed from embarrassment to a strained suspense.

  Then Stimpson, seeing that Neff would not or could not accuse Wingfield to his face, burst out impatiently.

  “Wingfield, I’m sorry I have to explain. Neff has charged you with theft of the payroll.”

  Wingfield gave a gasp that sounded like suppression of a cry of pain. His dark face went ashen. With one swift lunge he struck Neff a terrific blow, knocking him over a chair, to crash into a corner. Then Wingfield leaped clear, drawing his gun.

  The spectators of that move waved in noisy pell-mell to one side, leaving Stimpson standing his ground. With a long stride he got in front of Wingfield.

  “Hold on!” he called sharply. “There’s no call for gun play.”

  Indeed, there did not appear to be, at least at the moment, for Neff had been completely knocked out. Wingfield slowly sheathed his gun. The fury that had actuated him seemed to shudder out.

  “My God . . . you don’t believe I stole that money?” he asked Stimpson.

  The rancher took one long look at the man’s convulsed face.

  “No, Wingfield, I don’t,” he replied feelingly. “But Neff does, an’ no doubt he’s not the only one. Somethin’ must be done about it.”

  “Thank you, Stimpson,” said Wingfield huskily. “I swear to God I didn’t take the money.”

  “You need not deny that to me,” replied the rancher. “But you can see, Wingfield, if you’re to stay on here, you must try to prove you didn’t.”

  “Yes, I see. An’ I’ve fallen pretty low . . . when any rider dares think me a thief,” muttered Wingfield.

  “Circumstantial evidence has hanged many a man. Don’t let it beat you here. You’re valuable to me. An’ it’s sure plain, Wingfield, either you crack an’ lose out, or you prove what I think you are.”

  Wingfield raised his bowed head, and the harshest of the bitter darkness left his face. He made no move to reach the rancher’s half-proffered hand.

  “I’ll take your hand when I show these men your faith in me is justified.”

  That night Wingfield lay dressed on his bed in the darkness and silence. All hands had gone to town for the dance. Lying there in the blackness, he waged the battle. If he had not become a sore and strange outsider all over the range, if he had hid the secret of his misery in wholesome labor and friendliness, he would never have been accused of theft. That was the last straw.

  He did not choose to sink under that. He would disprove the charge, and thereafter regulate his conduct to harmonize with his environment. Stimpson had been right—he must mend his character or crack for good.

  But there could never be any mending of his broken heart. In the five years since the catastrophe, there had never been a single night, when he was sober, that he had not lain awake, thinking, remembering, suffering. He had wronged his wife, and in the shame of his unworthiness he had augmented the quarrel that had ended in her leaving him. It all came back mockingly, and he lived over again his fruitless search for her, and then his despair.

  He beheld for the thousandth time a vision of the bonnie head, with its curly golden locks, and the flower-like blue eyes, and the frail, graceful shape. Long ago he divined she was dead. She could never have borne grief and privation together. She had never been strong, although she had gained somewhat after he took her from schoolteaching and married her. He recalled with agony his panic, his joy, his pride, when she shyly imparted a secret, and how zealously from that moment he had guarded her health.

  Then came his fall, a natural although despicable thing. Vain regret! Sleepless and eternal remorse! But these pangs were softening with the years. He knew that before she died she had forgiven him, and that, if he could have found her, they would have been reunited.

  There in the dead hour of midnight he struggled for faith to believe she might hear his whisper and give him strength to live better the life that had to be lived.

  Sunrise found him out behind Neff’s cabin, studying, in the clear light of day, some strange tracks he had found. A faint long flat depression of grass and dust and on each side of it a small round mark, scarcely a hole. Wingfield followed the tracks at the walk into the woods. In places, where the pine needles formed a thick springy mat, devoid of grass or flowers, he passed quickly on in the direction in which the trail headed, and sooner or later, on more favorable ground, he would find it again. It led deeper and deeper into the woods.

  In the afternoon on the first clear spot of soft ground that he had encountered in miles he found the well defined print of a large flat foot. Close on each side was the accompanying little round mark.

  “A-huh! He’s slipped off that long thing which gave me such trouble,” said Wingfield, as he surveyed the trail. “Quit on me, huh? Feelin’ pretty safe now! One foot track. . . . By thunder! I’ve got it. He’s a cripple. A one-legged man! An’ these little round tracks were made by crutches. . . . I’m a locoed son-of-a-gun!”

  With renewed enthusiasm and stronger resolve and curiosity, Wingfield pressed on,; and now, owing to the slackened vigilance of the man he was trailing, he made fast time. Almost at his feet showed a narrow trail leading down the precipitous wall. And the tracks he was trailing stood out like print on a page.

  Five hundred feet down, the trail emerged from the shade into the open cañon, where Wingfield’s advent scarcely disturbed the turkeys and deer. He proceeded slowly and cautiously. A little gray burro grazed in the one open glade. Beyond this, a jutting wall shut off extended view. He kept close to the wall, under cover, and soon peeped around the yellow stone corner. He was amazed to discover a child playing in front of an old weather-beaten cabin.

  Wingfield sheathed his gun and stepped out to approach the little girl. She saw him before he spoke.

  “Hello, little girl. Do you live here?”

  “Who’s you?” she asked, without alarm, although she ceased her play.

  “I’m a cowboy. Where’s your mother . . . an’ your daddy?”

  “My muvver’s dead. . . . I never had no daddy,” she said.

  She could not have been more than five years old. She was very pretty with eyes as blue as cornflowers. It needed not a second glance at her crude strange garments for even Wing-field to see that no woman had made them. Her little dress had been fashioned from a cowboy’s shirt.

  Upon her feet were moccasins made from sheepskin, with the wool outside, and Wingfield believed that material had come from a range rider’s vest. Then the thought that had been dammed by his consciousness burst through—he had stumbled upon the retreat of the camp robber.

  “My grandad’s sick,” said the little girl seriously.
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  “Where is he?” asked Wingfield thickly.

  She pointed toward the cabin. The door was open, and the sunlight poured in.

  An old man, with face as gray as his hair and beard, lay upon a bed. His bright eyes fixed in terrible earnestness upon the visitor.

  “Well, old-timer, who are you?” burst out Wingfield, taking in the gaunt form and the wooden leg strapped to a short thigh.

  “Did you ever . . . hear . . . of Pegleg Smith?” came the husky response.

  “Sure I have. Old prospector . . . traveled ’round with a burro. I’ve heard the cowboys talk. . . . Uhn-huh! Are you that hombre?”

  “Yes. . . . Did you trail me?”

  “I did . . . old-timer. I’m sorry. The little girl said you were sick.”

  “Aye, I am, indeed . . . sick unto death.”

  “Aw, no. Don’t say that. Maybe I can do somethin’. What ails you?”

  “Old age. Love an’ . . . fear,” he returned.

  “I don’t just savvy the last,” said Wingfield, approaching the bed in quandary. But pity was paramount.

  “Did you trail me?”

  “Yes, but you needn’t fear me. Only tell me, old-timer.”

  “You trailed me to get back the money I stole from Stimpson’s ranch?”

  “I did, Smith. You see they accused me of stealin’ it.”

  “It is here . . . every dollar,” hurriedly cried the man, and, laboriously fumbling under his head, he found a packet, and held it out with shaking hand.

  “Thanks, old-timer. That’ll help a lot,” said Wingfield huskily. “How’d you come to . . . to take it?”

  “Stranger, I never stole a cent in my life, until then. All I stole was for the child. But that day . . . when was it? Yesterday? When I saw the money, I had a wild idea. I would steal that . . . and with it . . . I would take my little girl away . . . and find a home and comfort for her . . . someone to love her. . . . So I stole it. And when I got back . . . I fell here . . . it’s the end. . . . Thank God, you came. I can die in peace.”