by Zane Grey
“What’s the idea of pretendin’ to be poor, when you’ve got a big stake for a cowboy?”
“Sorts of suits me, Sol.”
“You’ll need an outfit.”
“Sure. I want a jim-dandy outfit, you bet. Two saddle-horses—the best on the range, if money can buy them.”
“We can find one of them pronto,” replied Winter, with satisfaction. “Come out to my house for supper. Wife will be happy to see you. She was fond of you, son. . . . After supper we’ll walk out to Leslie’s. He’s sellin’ out an’ he has some good stock. One horse in particular. I never saw his beat. Dabb has been hagglin’ with Leslie over the price. It’s high, but the horse is worth it.”
“How much?”
“Three hundred.”
“Whew!—When I used to buy the best of horses for fifty.”
“Reckon you never laid eyes on one as good as Leslie’s. Wait till you see it.”
“All right, Sol. We’ll buy. But reckon one saddle-horse will do. Then I’ll need a pack-horse and outfit. In the mornin’ we’ll pick out a tarp and blankets, grub and campin’ outfit. I’ve got saddle, bridle, spurs, riata—all Mexican, Sol, and if they don’t knock the punchers on this range, I’ll eat them. My Texas pardner gave them to me. And last, I reckon I’ll require some more hardware.”
This last came reluctantly with a smile not quite grim from Rock.
“Ahuh! . . . An’ with all this outfit you’re headin’ for Sunset Pass,” asserted Winter, wholly grim.
“Yeah. I’m goin’ to ride down slow and easy-like, renewin’ old acquaintances and makin’ new ones. Then I’ll end up at Gage Preston’s and strike him for a job.”
“What at? Ridin’?”
“Milkin’ the cows, if nothin’ else offers.”
“Son, it’s a bold move, if it’s all on account of Thiry,” returned Winter.
“Sol, I don’t mind tellin’ you it’s all on account of Thiry,” replied Rock, imitating his friend’s solemnity.
“Gage Preston can’t hardly refuse you a job,” went on Winter. “He needs riders. He has hired about every cowpuncher on the range. But they don’t last.”
“Why not?”
“Ash gets rid of them, sooner or later. Reckon about as soon as they shine up to Thiry.”
“How does he do that?” queried Rock, curiously.
“Wal, he scares most of them. Some he has bunged up with his fists. An’ several punchers he’s driven to throw guns.”
“Kill them?”
“Nope. They say he just crippled them. Ash shoots quick an’ where he wants.”
“Most interestin’ cuss—Ash Preston,” said Rock, lightly.
“Son, this is what worries me,” went on Winter, with gravity. “It’ll be some different when Ash Preston butts into you.”
“How you mean, pardner?”
“Wal, no matter how easy an’ cool you start—no matter how clever you are—it’s bound to wind up a deadly business.”
“Thanks, old-timer. I get your hunch. I’m takin’ it serious and strong. Don’t worry unreasonable about me. I’ve got to go.”
CHAPTER
THREE
TRUEMAN ROCK was not one of the cowboy breed who cared only for pitching, biting, kicking horses. He could ride them, when exigency demanded, but he never loved a horse for other than thoroughbred qualities. And sitting on the corral fence watching Leslie’s white favorite, he was bound to confess that he felt emotions of his earliest days on the range.
“Wal, True, did you ever see the beat of that hoss?” asked Sol Winter, for the twentieth time.
Rock shook his head silently.
Leslie, a tall rancher in overalls and boots, stood inside the corral. “Reckon I haven’t had time to take care of him lately. He’s had the run of the range. There hasn’t been a leg thrown over him for a year.”
“I’ll take him, Leslie, and consider the deal a lastin’ favor,” replied Rock.
“Reckon I’m glad. Dabb said yesterday he’d buy him an’ send out today. But you beat Dabb to it. Somehow I didn’t want Dabb to have him.”
“What have you against Dabb?” inquired Rock.
Leslie laughed shortly. “Me? Aw, nothin’.”
“Mrs. Dabb has been wantin’ this hoss, didn’t you tell me, Jim?” asked Winter.
“Wal, I reckon so. She has been out here often. But I don’t think Mrs. Dabb really cared about the horse so much. She just wanted to show off with him. But today there was a girl here who loved him, an’ I’d shore have liked to let her have him.”
“Who was she, Jim?” asked Winter, with a knowing wink up at Rock.
“Thiry Preston. She passed here today with her dad an’ some of the boys. Gage stopped to have a talk with me. All the Prestons are keen on hosses, but they won’t pay much. Hossflesh is plenty cheap out Sunset Pass way.”
“What did Miss Preston do?” queried Rock, casually.
“She just petted the hoss while the other Prestons walked around, talkin’ a lot. Miss Thiry never said a word. But I seen her heart in her eyes.”
“Speaks well for her,” replied Rock, with constraint, as he slid off the fence and approached the animal. If this beautiful white horse had appeared desirable in his eyes upon first sight, what was he now? Rock smoothed the silky mane, thrilling at the thought that Thiry’s gentle hand had rested there. “Leslie, I’ll come out in the mornin’. I want a pack-horse or a mule. . . . Here’s your money. Shake on it. What’s one man’s loss is another’s gain.”
“I’ll throw the pack-hoss in to boot,” replied Leslie.
“Sol,” said Rock, thoughtfully, as they retraced their steps toward town, “I’ll hardly have time to look up folks I used to know. Reckon it doesn’t matter. I can leave that till I hit town again. . . . Do the Prestons come in often?”
“Some of them every Saturday, shore as it rolls, round. Thiry comes in about twice a month.”
“Pretty long ride in from Sunset. Sixty miles by trail.”
“There’s a new road, part way. Longer but better travelin’. Goes by Tanner’s Well.”
“Reckon the Prestons make a one-night stop at some ranch?”
“No. They’re not much on that sort of travel. They camp it, makin’ Cedar Creek, where they turn off into a flat. Good grass an’ water. There’s an old cabin. It belonged to a homesteader. Preston owns it now. Thiry was tellin’ me they’d fixed it up. When they’re comin’ to town, she an’ the other womenfolks sleep there, an’ the men throw beds outside.”
“Queer how all about these Prestons interests me so,” said Rock, half to himself.
“Not so queer. Leavin’ Thiry aside, they’re a mighty interestin’ outfit,” returned Winter. “You’ll find that so pronto.”
“Reckon I’ll find out a lot pronto,” said Trueman. “Never could keep things from comin’ my way, particularly trouble. But, Sol, in all my life no adventure I ever rode down On could touch this one. I’m soberin’ a little and realize how crazy it seems to you.”
“Not crazy, son,” replied Winter, earnestly. “It’s wild, perhaps, to let yourself go over this girl all in a minute. But then, wild or no it might turn out good for Thiry Preston.”
“Sol, why is her face so sad?” queried Rock, stirred by his friend’s implication.
“I don’t know. I’ve asked her why she looks sad—which you can see when she’s not speakin’, but she always makes herself smile an’ laugh then. Says she can’t help her face an’ she’s sorry I don’t like it. Rock, it hurts Thiry, sort of startles her, to mention that. It makes her think of somethin’ unhappy.”
“It’s for me to find out,” said Rock.
“You bet. I’ve always been puzzled an’ troubled over Thiry. My wife, too. An’ True, it’ll please you that she took kindly to your sudden case over Thiry. She says, ‘If Trueman Rock stops his drinkin’ an’ gun-throwin’ an’ settles down to real ranchin’ he could give that girl what she needs.’ . . . She didn’t say what Thiry need
s. So we can only guess.”
“Sol, I’ll sure have to get away from you. Else you’ll have me locoed.”
“True, I may be wrong thinkin’ you’ve growed to be a man. . . . But one last word. This here has been stickin’ in my craw. These Prestons have heard all about you, naturally, an’ when you ride out on the range it’ll all come fresh again. No cowboy ever had a finer reputation than you—for bein’ keen an’ honest an’ clean, an’ a wonder at your work. You never drank much, compared to most cowboys. . . . But your gun record was bad—forgive me, son, I don’t want to offend. Remember I’m your friend. Every old-timer here knows you never went around lookin’ for trouble. It’s not that kind of a bad reputation. It’s this kind. You’ve spilled blood on this range, often, an’ more’n once fatal. That made you loved by a few, feared an’ misunderstood by many, an’ a mark for every fame-huntin’ sheriff, gambler, an’ cowpuncher in the country. Now you’re back again, after some years, an’ all you ever done here will come up. An’ your Texas doin’s, whatever they were, will follow you. . . . Now the point I want to make is this: Preston knows most of this or will know it soon, an’ if he keeps you in his outfit it will be pretty strong proof that these queer dark hints from the range are without justification.”
“Sol, it would seem so,” replied Rock, meditatively.
“Wal, it’ll be good if you find it that way. For Thiry’s sake first, an’ then for everybody concerned. Then these hints against Preston will be little different from those concernin’ other ranchers. Most outfits have cowboys who brand calves an’ kill beeves they oughtn’t to. That’s common, an’ it don’t count, because they about all do it.”
Rock regarded his anxious friend a thoughtful moment. “Winter, you’ve made a point you weren’t calculatin’ on. You’re hopin’ I’ll find Preston one of the common run of ranchers. But you’re afraid I won’t.”
It was nearly noon the following day when Rock had his pack outfit ready for travel. Leslie came up presently with the white horse.
“Black leather an’ silver trimmings,” said the rancher, admiringly. “Never seen him so dressed up. An’ the son-of-a-gun is smart enough to know he looks grand.”
“He’s smart, all right,” agreed Rock, with shining eyes. “Now we’ll see if he’ll hang me on the fence.”
“Reckon you can ride ’most anythin’,” observed Leslie, his appreciative glance running over Rock.
The white horse took Rock’s mount easily, pranced and champed a little, and tossed his head.
“Good day and good luck, rancher,” said Rock, lifting the halter of the pack animal off a post.
“Same to you, cowboy,” replied Leslie, heartily. “Reckon you don’t need any advice about them hard nuts down in the Pass.”
“Need it all right, but can’t wait. When you see Sol tell him I’m off fine and dandy,” rejoined Rock.
With that he headed down the road which the Prestons had taken the preceding day. Before Rock was far out of town he had ascertained his horse was a fast walker and had an easy trot. For speed and endurance, Leslie had committed himself to the claim that no horse in the country could approach him.
“I’ve hit the trail,” sang out Rock, explosively, though it was a broad, well-trodden road that he was traveling.
As many times as he had ridden out from Wagontongue and other towns, and from the innumerable range camps all over the West, not one of them had ever been like this venture. He laughed at himself. His boyhood had returned. There was nothing but good and joy in the world. The hot June sun pleasantly burned through his shirt sleeves; the dust tasted sweet; the wind, coming in puffs, brought the fragrant odors of the desert, spiced by a hint of sage; the hills slumbered in blue haze.
Out of town a little way he caught up with a young rider who had evidently seen him.
“Howdy, cowboy!” he greeted Rock.
“Howdy, yourself!” returned Rock, genially.
“I seen you was up on Leslie’s white hoss, so I waited.”
“You know the horse?”
“Shore do. I ride for Spangler out here an’ we often had Leslie’s stock to pasture. . . . Reckon you own the white now. You kinda have thet look.”
“Yes, I went broke buyin’ a horse to go with this saddle.”
“Wal, you shore got two thet fit. You-all make a flash outfit. . . . Where you ridin’, cowboy?”
“I’m aimin’ for Sunset Pass.”
“Got a job with Preston?”
“Nope, not yet. I hope to land one.”
“Easy, if you will stand long hours an’ poor wages. Preston pays less than any rancher hereabouts.”
“How much?” queried Rock, as if it was important.
“Forty, with promise of more. But no puncher ever sticks long enough to get more.”
“What you mean by easy?”
“Preston is always hard up fer riders. Reckon he’s only got a couple beside his sons. He asked me yestid-day if I wanted a job.”
“What’s the reason no cowboy ever rides long for Preston?”
“I knowed you was a stranger round Wagontongue,” said the other, grinning.
“Sure I am, lately. But I was here years ago.”
“Before my time, shore. ’Cause I’d remembered you. What’s your handle?”
“Trueman Rock, late of Texas.”
“’Pears to me I’ve heerd that name, somewheres. Wal, I’m glad to meet you. I’m Hal Roberts. An’ if you don’t tie up with Preston, come back an’ try Spangler.”
Rock thanked him and asked questions about the range. Soon afterward the cowboy bade him good-by and turned off. Back from the road Rock espied a new ranch house and corrals that had not been there in his day. Then as he passed on he drew away from the dry-farming levels and the wastes of cut-over land, to get out into the desert proper. It waved away to the southward, gray and yellow, with spots of green cedars and dotted groups of cattle, on and on to a beckoning horizon line. Familiar landmarks stared at him, and grew in number and power to stir him, as he went on. His quick eye made especial note of improvements along the road. Stone culverts had been put in at some of the deeper washes.
Rock kept looking for a cabin where he had stopped many a time. He could not recall the name of the homesteader who had located there. Coming to the top of a low rise of ground, he saw a little valley beyond, with a fringe of green. Then he found the cabin. It had been long deserted; the roof had fallen in, and the outside chimney of yellow stone had partly crumbled away. What had become of the homesteader and his hard-working wife and tousle-headed youngsters?
Rock rode on. Further along he saw a dam of red earth that had been built in a depression, where in the rainy season water ran. A red, sun-baked, hoof-marked hollow glared there now. Cattle were few and far between. But this was barren desert. Some miles on, over the summit of this long slope, conditions would improve.
In due time he reached the top and there halted the horses to spend a few moments in reveling in the well-remembered country.
A thirty-mile gulf yawned wide and shallow, a yellow-green sea of desert grass and sage, which sloped into ridge on ridge of cedar and white grass. The length of the valley both east and west extended beyond the limit of vision, and here began the vast cattle range that made the town of Wagontongue possible. Rock’s trained eye saw cattle everywhere, though not in large herds. It was a beautiful scene for any rider. Rock feasted his eyes, long used to the barrens of the Texas Panhandle. The rough country commenced some fifteen miles or more farther on. Sunset Pass and its environs were not in view, nor even the mountain ranges that were visible from the town.
The valley smoked with the thick amber light of the warm June day. Lonely land! Rock’s heart swelled. He was coming back to the valleys and hills that he now discovered he had loved.
An hour’s ride down the slow incline brought Rock into a verdant swale of fifty acres, fresh with its varied shades of green, surrounding a pretty ranch house. Here Adam Pringle had lived.
If he were still there, he had verified his oft-repeated claims to Rock that here had been the making of a prosperous farm and cattle ranch.
The barn and corrals were closer to the road than the house. Rock saw a boy leading a horse, then a man at work under an open shed. The big gate leading in was shut. Rock halloed. Whereupon the farmer started out leisurely, then quickened his steps. It was Adam—stalwart, middle-aged, weatherbeaten settler.
“True Rock, or I’m a born sinner!” shouted Pringle, before he was even near Rock.
“Howdy, Adam! How’s the old-timer?” returned Rock.
“I knowed that hoss. An’ I shore knowed you jest from the way you straddled him. How air you? This is plumb a surprise. Get down an’ come in.”
“Haven’t time, Adam. I’m rustlin’ along to make camp below. . . . Adam, you’re lookin’ good. I see you’ve made this homestead go.”
“Never seen you look any better, if I remember. Thet’s a hoss an’ saddle you’re ridin’. You always was hell on them. Whar you been?’
“Texas.”
“Reckon you heerd aboot Cass Seward bein’ popped off, an’ you ride back to the old stampin’-grounds?”
“Adam, I didn’t know Cass was dead till I got to Wagontongue. Guess I was homesick.”
“Whar you goin’?”
“Sunset Pass.”
“Cowboy, if you want work, pile right off heah.”
“Thanks, Adam, but I’ve got a hankerin’ for wilder country. I’ll try Preston. Think he’ll take me on?”
“Shore. But don’t ask him.”
“Why not?”
“I’m advisin’ you—not talkin’,” returned the rancher, with a sharp gleam in his eye. “You know me, True.”
“Used to, pretty well, Adam. And I’m sort of flustered at your advisin’ me that way,” replied Rock, keenly searching the other’s face.
“Stay away from Sunset Pass.”
“Adam, I just never could take advice,” drawled Rock. “Much obliged, though.”
“Cowboy, you may need a job bad, an’ you shore always hankered for wild range. But it ain’t that.”