Grey, Zane - Novel 27

by Wild-Horse Mesa

  “Shore. That was our understandin’,” went oh Melberne, stepping closer to Chane. “Reckon you’re not duty bound to express opinions to me, especially when they concern an enemy of yours. But on the other hand, I’ve befriended you. I fed you when you were starved, an’ then I gave you a job. Now, as man to man, isn’t it fair for you to tell me if you know anythin’ for or against this wild-horse drive?”

  “It’d be more than fair of me, Melberne,” declared Chane, significantly. “It’d be more than you or any other man could expect.”

  Melberne took that as a man receiving a deserved blow. Chane’s retort had struck home to Sue as well. Chane Weymer was certainly not in duty or honor compelled to approve of or aid the plans of Manerube. Besides, there was a subtle pride in Chane’s meaning, whatever that was.

  “Ahuh! I get your hunch,” returned Melberne, gruffly. “Mebbe you’ve somethin’ to say for yourself. If so, I’ll listen.”

  “No, Melberne, I don’t have to talk for myself.”

  “Dammit, man, self-defense is only right,” retorted Melberne, losing patience. “Even the law expects that.”

  “Talk is cheap out here on the desert,” rejoined Chane, with cool disdain. “I’d never employ it in my defense. But you notice I pack a gun?”

  “Ahuh! I shore didn’t overlook it,” said Melberne, and his tone lost impatience for menace. There was probability of imminent antagonism here. Sue held her breath. Chane’s fearless disdain matched her father’s fearless uncertainty. Chane showed the proud sense of right; Melberne seemed divided between his doubt of right or wrong. Sue divined that in both men’s minds had risen the thought of the calumny which hung like a shadow over Chane. How scornful and reticent he was, considering what must be true!

  “Melberne, any man who believes of me what you believe has got to know he can’t talk it, unless he wants to hear my gun talk,” declared Chane, bitterly.

  Thus Weymer threw down the gauntlet between them.

  “Weymer,” began Melberne, in slow crisp utterance, “I asked you kindly to do me a favor. Now you’re politely invitin’ me to draw.”

  “Bah! Such talk from a Texan!” exclaimed Chane, quick as a flash. “You know I’ve respect and liking for you. The last thing on earth I’d want would be to fight you. The trouble with you, Melberne, is you’ve got your bridle twisted out here in Utah. Your two-bit partner Loughbridge and your skunk foreman Manerube are to blame for that. Why don’t you use your own head?”

  If Sue had not been in the cold clutch of deadly terror she would have thrilled to Chane’s surprising arraignment of her father. But she could only stare open-mouthed and quake. Melberne shot a quick expectant glance at Manerube. That individual sat in the fire-lighted circle. At Chane’s stinging remark his face turned livid. But he made no move to rise or speak. Then slowly Melberne shifted his gaze to Loughbridge, less expectant this time. He saw a stupid angry wonder on that worthy’s features. It roused him to a laugh, gruff, not merry.

  “Weymer, I reckon I feel like apologizin’ to you for fetchin’ you out heah,” said Melberne, still with gruff, , grim voice. The cold edge, however, had left it. His face, too, had lost its tightness. Then it was that Sue felt a sudden flooding warmth of relief, joy, admiration. Her father was indeed a man.

  “You needn’t apologize,” returned Chane, visibly softening. “I’m glad you understand me.”

  These words from him, following her father’s, so wrought upon Sue that she answered to unconsidered emotional impulse.

  “Chane,” she called, rising to step into the light, “I think you ought to tell dad what he asked.” Once spoken, she could not recall her thought, nor could she sink, as she longed to, back into the shadow that had concealed her. Brave it out she must, and so she gazed across the fire.

  “Miss Melberne—you do—may I ask why?” he queried, courteously.

  “I—I don’t know just why, but I believe you will.”

  “You ask me to?” he went on, with an inflection that cut her.

  “I beg you to,” she returned. “I don’t approve of this barbed-wire trap. If you know anything against it—please tell dad. If you can make it easier for the poor horses—please tell dad how.”

  “Do you realize you are asking me to go against your friend Manerube?” went on Chane, still so cool and courteous.

  A hot blush burned up into Sue’s neck and cheeks. How glad she was for the cloak of darkness!

  “I am thinking of the wild horses, not of Mr. Manerube’s success or failure—or my father’s profit,” returned Sue, in the spirit of her rising temper. She became aware of some one close behind her. Chess! She had felt his presence. He had been listening. As she half turned, he took a step and encircled her with his arm.

  “Chane, old boy, she’s got you figured right,” he spoke up, quite loudly. “Tell the boss what you told me about this wild-horse drive—-what a bloody mess it’ll be.”

  At this juncture Manerube rose to his feet, sullen-faced, and unmistakably laboring under stress.

  “Melberne, am I a horse thief that I have to listen to this gab?” he demanded.

  “Wal, it’s a little rough on you, I’ll admit,” declared Melberne, in perplexity. “But you needn’t indulge in crazy talk. If your wild-horse deal is what you claim for it you needn’t fear heahin’ what others think about it.”

  Chane had turned his back upon Manerube and was regarding Chess and Sue with something akin to ironical amusement.

  “Melberne, the young couple there seem to endow me with great virtue,” he said, smiling. “I’m supposed to concern myself about the good fortunes of your outfit when you all despise me.”

  “Wal, I’ve tried to keep this a confab on horses, not personal character,” rejoined Melberne, testily.

  “Melberne, you’ll talk to me some day about personal character,” retorted Chane. “Now, what do you want to know?”

  “Year idea aboot drivin’ wild horses into this barbed-wire trap,” replied Melberne, eagerly.

  “It’s a cruel, bloody, cowardly method that originated in Nevada. It will catch twice as many wild horses as any other kind of a trap, and kill half of them, and maim many for life. It never ought to be done at all. If you must make this drive do it in the daytime, not by moonlight as Manerube wants.”

  “Why so?”

  “Because more horses will cut themselves to pieces at night.”

  “Ahuh! I reckoned that myself. Now how many horses do you figure we can trap in one drive?”

  “Somewhere round two thousand, if we work fast.”

  “Two thousand/” ejaculated Melberne. “Shore you’re not serious?”

  “I’m serious enough, Melberne. It’s a serious matter—just how bad you don’t realize.”

  “Wal, that knocks me flat. Two thousand wild horses in one drive! A whole train-load. Weymer, I could ship an’ sell them all.”

  “Ah, there you are wrong. You might sell a trainload if you could ship them. But it’s impossible. You’d be very lucky to get even a hundred head to the railroad in fit shape to ship.”

  “How’s that?” queried Melbeme, incredulously.

  “Hasn’t Manerube informed you how it’s done?” queried Chane, just as incredulously.

  “No. He says trap them an’ drive them to the railroad, an’ ship them,” declared Melberne.

  “Sounds easy. But it’s the hardest, dirtiest, and meanest job ever tackled by horsemen,” continued Chane, almost wrathfullv. “Say you’ve got your horses trapped inside the first big wire corral. All right. We rustle down there at daylight. We open the gate from the big corral to the small one, and let in a few horses. Then we pitch into work. Five good men can handle a wild horse, but seven do it quicker and better. We rope a horse, throw him, jump on him, hold him down. Then one of us takes a short rope and doubles a front foot up under his knee and binds it tight. Round his knee tight! Then we let him up and go after another. The faster we work the more time we have to drive to the railroad.
We’ve got to get the bunch of horses to the railroad the same day we tied them up. So we work like dogs say from daylight to noon. Then we start off with maybe a hundred or more horses. These three-legged ,wild horses take a lot of driving. They can run almost as well on three legs as on four. Some of them will get away from this small outfit. Others will kill themselves plunging and falling. The bound knees sometimes develop terrible swelling sores. Of course the knees have to be untied in the stockyard at the railroad. Then many horses that looked fit to ship develop gangrene and have to be shot. You don’t get paid for them! Well, after the first shipment you ride thirty miles back to camp at night, get a couple of hours sleep, and at daylight tackle the same dirty job again. I’d say three days will be about your limit. The wild horses left in the corrals will cut themselves to pieces, if they don’t break down the fence. Even if you had strong wooden corrals you couldn’t keep so many horses long. . . . There, Melberne, you have the barbed-wire game. It’s a hell of a job.”

  At the conclusion of Chane’s long statement there ensued a silence that testified to its effect. All eyes gravitated from Chane to Melberne. He did not appear in any hurry to speak. Sue imagined she detected a slight paling of her father’s ruddy cheeks.

  “Loughbridge,” he said, at length, addressing his partner, “let’s give up this barbed-wire drive.”

  “No, by dam!” shrieked Loughbridge, in a frenzy. “If you don’t go through with it I’ll demand half the outfit money back. I ain’t takin’ stock in this pretty talker. Besides, we cain’t ketch wild horses without scratchin’ them a bit. Sure it’s tough on them, an’ men, too. But we’re out for cash, aren’t we? What do we care if we kill a hoss or two?”

  Melberne threw up his hands with a gesture of impotence. Disgust distorted his visage. “Turn in, everybody,” he ordered, and taking Sue’s arm he led' her away from the camp fire toward her tent.

  Sue felt so fatigued from the day’s exertion and stress that she staggered along, leaning on her father. She was unnerved, too. That illuminating explanation of the barbed-wire capture of wild horses had been the last straw.

  “Lass,” began her father as they halted before her tent, “I’m shore glad you spoke up to Weymer. If you hadn’t he’d never have told us. But he’s sweet on you an’ you fetched him. . . . I’m bound to say, Sue, I’m worried. Not only by this horse deal we’re in, but by this mix-up among the men. Loughbridge’s a good friend an’ bad enemy. This Manerube begins to look fishy to me. He doesn’t ring true. Can you imagine a Texan swallerin’ what Weymer called him, before us all? He’s yellow, that’s all. An’ Weymer —he shore shot it into me. . . . An’ I deserved it. Sue, I was ashamed. . . . Mebbe this Weymer has been foolin’ with Indian squaws, but he’s straight with men. He has an eye on him, an’ he’s shore dangerous. I’m worried. There’s been bad blood made, an’ some of it’ll get spilled.”

  “Don’t worry, dad,” replied Sue, coaxingly, and kissed his worn cheek. “It’ll all come right. You’ve never been anything but fair and square. If the wild horse-drive turns out as we fear—why, you must never do it again. You got led into this. First Jim Lough- bridge, and then Manerube. ... And, oh, dad, you must keep Chane Weymer from fighting!”

  “Lass, I reckon it’s got beyond me,” replied her father. “But shore I’ll do my best. Good night.”

  Sue went to bed fighting desperately to silence that insistent trenchant voice within, the voice which cried out in defense of Chane Weymer. What if her father had begun to rely upon this strong-spirited rider of the old school? Fearless he undoubtedly was, one to whom men and women would instinctively draw near in a moment of doubt or peril. He stood out in this company of riders. But for Sue all his fine qualities, that seemed to grow from his arrival in Stark Valley, had been poisoned at the roots. Lover of squaws! She hid her face at the shameful thought. But the still small voice bade her listen—to wait—to watch—to withhold judgment—to be tolerant—to give benefit of a doubt—to plead extenuating circumstances. A desert rider’s loneliness, the need of woman’s touch, kindliness of a big heart, the imperious desires of nature, the hard fierce life of that wasteland, the power of propinquity, even love—these one and all flashed through Sue’s merciless mind, tried her, tested her, and before the flame of her pride and jealousy they perished. But forgiveness was one thing and love another. She could no more help loving Chane Weymer than she could forgive him. Yet as the struggle went on the balance shifted, to the slow corroding and wearing of her spirit.

  Sue had been dissatisfied with all the horses she had ridden of late. Brutus had spoiled her. When she passed him in camp, and he threw up his beautiful head with that quick look, to whinny at her, the desire to run to him was well-nigh irresistible. She rode this horse and that mustang, only to like each one less.

  And on the last day before the drive, when the barbed-wire fence was completed, she went out to see it, riding another strange horse. He appeared tractable enough and soon she forgot any uneasiness she might have felt at first.

  Away down in the valley bands of wild horses dotted the green, some moving, others grazing, ignorant of the plot against their freedom and of those miles of iron-toothed fence that stretched across their domain.

  Sue gazed upon them with pity, praying for something to scare them far away before it was too late.

  In time she circled to the west, and eventually got into rough ground, which she desired to cross, so that she could climb to the valley rampart and ride the ridge top round to where it joined the mountain slope neai the camp. Her horse stumbled over a shallow clay- banked wash, and, falling, threw her hard against the opposite bank.

  The impact stunned Sue, though not to the point of total unconsciousness. She lay there, numb, for a few moments, slowly becoming conscious of pain in her right knee. After a while she recovered enough to sit up. And feeling of her injured knee she sustained such a .excruciating pain that she had a moment of panic. She feared a broken leg. But, presently, despite the pain, she found she could bend her knee, and that relieved her dread.

  As the pangs lessened to a considerable degree she stood up with great difficulty and looked for her horse. He did not appear to be in sight. This occasioned Sue genuine distress, and she was wringing her hands and crying out what in the world could she do, when she espied a horse and rider coming down the trail she had intended to climb. Surely he could not pass by without seeing her. Immensely relieved, Sue untied her scarf and waved it. The rider evidently had espied her even before her effort to attract him. And at that instant Sue recognized Brutus, then his rider.

  “Chane Weymer!” gasped Sue, with swift change of emotion. “That it’d—have to be he! ... Of all the miserable luck!”

  Clouds of dust puffed from under the great horse as he leaped the washes. Before Sue had time to think of composure he ploughed the clay and sand before her, sliding to a halt as the rider threw himself off.

  “What’s wrong?” he demanded, his searching eyes sweeping her from disheveled head to dusty boots.

  To find herself tingling to the point of dwarfing her pain roused in Sue a very devil of perverseness.

  “There’s nothing wrong with me ” replied Sue, flippantly. “I’m admiring the scenery.”

  “You’ve been crying,” he said, coining close to her. “You’ve had a fall. Are you hurt?”

  “Only my vanity,” she said.

  He looked doubtfully at her and inquired about her horse.

  “He’s gone, and I hope I never see him again.”

  “Did you let him wander off ?” queried Chane.

  "I reckon he just left without my letting him.”

  “Well, it’s good you weren’t hurt,” he went on, severely. “But you shouldn’t ride out alone this way. . . . Perhaps you meant to meet Manerube!”

  “That’s none of your business,” she retorted, with a tilt of her chin. “But I didn’t intend to meet him. I’d rather, though, it’d been he—than you.”

  “You can
ride Brutus,” he said, ignoring her slighting speech. “I’ll shorten the stirrups. . . . Miss Melberne, I shall tell your father this is dead wrong of you —riding far from camp this way.”

  “I don’t care what you tell. But ride back to camp. Send some one with a—a wagon.”

  She saw the brown flash out of his face, and as he whirled from beside Brutus she could not meet his piercing eyes.

  “You are hurt!” he exclaimed.

  “Yes. My knee. It’s not broken, but it hurts terribly. It’s getting stiff. I—I can’t ride.”

  “I’ll carry you,” he said.

  “No—no. Ride back to camp. Send some one with the wagon. Don’t scare dad.”

  “But it’ll be dark long before the wagon can get here. In fact, nothing on wheels could come within a mile of this place.”

  “Oh, what shall I do?” cried Sue.

  “I am afraid you must submit to the humiliating necessity of my carrying you,” he replied, with that slight scorn again in his grave voice.

  “I’ll not let you,” declared Sue, hotly.

  “Miss Melberne, I certainly don’t want to carry you. But the afternoon is far gone. Your folks will be worried. I can’t let you stay here alone. There’s no other way.”

  “I—I don’t care,” cried Sue, succumbing to combined pain and mortification. “I’ll—I’ll die before I let you—carry me.”

  “Well, what a sweet disposition you have!” he declared. “I wouldn’t have guessed it.”

  Suddenly he placed a hand under each of her arms, and lifted her bodily, with a sweep, and set her feet gently down on the edge of the wash. It was done so adroitly and with such strength that Sue could only stare her amaze and resentment. He returned the resentment fourfold.

  “I’m not a rattlesnake or a—a Mormon,” he shot down at her, not without passion. “You stand still. If you make a fuss you’re going to hurt yourself. So don’t blame me.”

  Sue did not leave the spot where he had set her down, for the very good reason that her leg pained so badly she did not dare move it. Chane vaulted upon Brutus and rode him down into the wash and close to where Sue stood.