Sunset Pass

by Zane Grey

  Clay Hill was a famous old roundup ground. The gray bare knob of clay rising over a grassy level had given it a name. There were several cabins near the springs that gushed from the base of the hill.

  Rock’s keen eye snapped at the old-time scene. Dust and color and action! Herds of cattle, fields of horses! So he rode on down through the cedars, now unable to see the bright variegated plain, and again catching an ever-growing glimpse. Not until he rounded the southern corner of Clay Hill, where the trail ran, and came abruptly upon the first cabin, horses, wagons, men, did he grasp that something was amiss. What could check a general roundup in the middle of the afternoon? No cowboys on guard! No cutting or branding! No movement, except a gradual straggling of the herds! The men he saw were in groups, and their postures were not expressive of the lazy, lounging, careless leisure attendant upon meal hours or cessation of work.

  Rock had permitted himself no anticipations. But now he divined the hour he had long dreaded; and instead of halting, as if momentarily checked by an invisible blow in the sinister air, he spurred his horse and rode down upon the men, scattering dust and gravel all over them.

  He was off, throwing bridle, gloves, and in two swift jerks he got out of his chaps.

  “What’s up?” he demanded of the six or eight cowmen who backed away. In the first sweeping glance he did not recognize one of them.

  “Fight busted the roundup,” replied a lean-jawed rider, whose face showed drops of sweat and pale freckles.

  “Jimmy Dunne shot,” replied an older man, warily, his narrow slits of eyes shifting all over Rock.

  “Dunne! . . . Is he dead?”

  “No.”

  “Who did it?”

  “Ash Preston.”

  “Where is Dunne?”

  “Layin’ in the cabin thar.”

  Rock brushed the men aside, to encounter more, all of whom he saw with lightning gaze.

  “Get out of my way,” he ordered, sharply, and forcing entrance to the cabin, he surveyed the interior. A line of dusty, sweaty cowboys fell back, to disclose a man lying on the floor, with another kneeling in attendance. A pan full of bloody water, the odor of rum! Rock saw a face of deathly pallor, clammy and leaden, and eyes black with pain. Yet he recognized the man. The kneeling one was ministering clumsily to him. Rock stepped in and knelt, to take up Dunne’s inert wrist and feel for his pulse.

  “Dunne, I hope you’re not bad hurt,” said Rock.

  At that the other man looked up quickly. It was Clink Peeples.

  “Howdy, Rock! . . . I don’t know, but I’m afeared Jim is. . . . Still I’m no good hand at judgin’ bullet holes.”

  “Let me see.”

  The angry wound was situated high up on the left side, and it was bleeding freely, though not dangerously. Rock, calculating grimly, saw that Preston had missed the heart by several inches. The bullet had no doubt nicked the lung. But there was no sign of internal hemorrhage.

  “Has he been spittin’ blood?” asked Rock.

  “No, I reckon he hasn’t. I shore looked for thet,” answered Peeples.

  “Did the bullet come out?”

  “It went clean through, clean as a whistle.”

  “Good!” exclaimed Rock, with satisfaction. “Dunne, can you hear me?”

  “Why, sure,” replied Dunne, faintly. A bloody froth showed on his lips. “Rock, reckon Preston—beat you—to this job.”

  “Reckon I’d never have done it. . . . Listen, Dunne. This is a bad gunshot, but not necessarily fatal. If you do what you’re told you’ll live.”

  “You—think so, Rock? . . . I’ve got—a wife—an’ kid.”

  “I know it,” returned Rock, forcefully. “Understand? . . . I know.”

  “Rock, thet’s shore—good news,” panted Peeples, wiping his face. “I was plumb scared. Tell us what to do.”

  “Make a bed for him here,” replied Rock, rising. “But don’t move him till he’s bandaged tight. Then awful careful. Make him lie quiet. . . . Heat water boilin’ hot. Put salt in it. Wash your hands clean. Get clean bandages. A clean shirt if there’s nothin’ else. Fold a pad and wet it. Bind it tight. Then send to town for a doctor.”

  “Thet’s tellin’ us,” returned Peeples, gratefully. “Frank, you heard. Rustle some boys now.”

  “Peeples, was it an even break?” inquired Rock, coolly.

  “Wal, I’m bound to admit it was. So we’ve nothin’ on Preston thet way.”

  “What was it about?”

  Dunne spoke up for himself, in stronger voice: “Rock, I had the—proofs on him—much as I didn’t—have on you.”

  “Ahuh! . . . Don’t talk any more, Dunne,” replied Rock, and turned to Peeples. “Do you know what proof he had?”

  “Rock, I don’t know a damn thing. Jimmy’s not a man to talk,” replied Peeples, in such a guarded way that Rock construed his words to mean the opposite.

  “Did he accuse Ash?”

  “He shore did. Braced him soon as he got here with his outfit. I didn’t see the fight. But thar’s a dozen fellers who did. You talk to them.”

  Rock did not need, except out of curiosity, to question anyone further. Besides, he knew Dunne had spoken the truth. If there had been any doubt, Dunne would have kept his peace.

  “Where are the Prestons?” asked Rock, stalking out.

  “Over at the third cabin,” replied some one.

  “Are they inside, holed-up, lookin’ for trouble?”

  “Shore lookin’ for trouble, but not holed-up, by any means. Ash is stalkin’ to an’ fro over thar, like a hyena behind bars.”

  Rock elbowed his way out of the crowd. Soon his glance fell upon those he sought, and in him surged the instinct of the lion that hated the hyena. Ash Preston stalked to and fro, away from the cabin, and when he faced back toward the watching men he appeared to do it sidewise. Two of his tall brothers sat together, back to the cabin wall. A third, probably Range Preston, stood in the doorway, smoking a cigarette. Apart from them sat Gage Preston, his burly form sagging, his bare head bowed. His sombrero lay on the ground. Rock’s impression was that Ga awaited only the sheriff.

  Long ago Rock’s mind had been made up and set. He grasped at inevitability—strode forth to meet it, aware of the low excited murmur that ran through the crowd behind him.

  Ash, espying Rock, halted in his tracks. The two brothers rose in single action, as if actuated by the same spring. Range Preston stepped outside to join his brothers. Gage Preston did not see, nor look up, until Rock hailed him. Then, with spasmodic start, he staggered erect.

  Ash Preston, seeing that Rock had sheered a little off a direct line, to approach his father, hurled an imprecation, and fell to his swift, striding, sidelong stalk.

  “Rock, I’m done,” rasped Preston when Rock got to him. “So double-crossin’ you like I did means nothin’ to me.”

  “Preston, have you been in any of these last butcherin’ deals’?” queried Rock, sternly.

  “No. An’ so help me Heaven, I couldn’t stop Ash.”

  “Why did you send Thiry—persuadin’ me to come in with you?”

  “Thet was why. I wasn’t beat then. I figgered I could fight it out an’ I wanted you. So I drove Thiry to it. . . . But now! . . . You had it figgered, Rock. I’m sorry—sorry most fer Thiry, an’ Ma, an’ the girls. If I had it to do over again, I’d——”

  “Do it now,” interrupted Rock, ringingly. “Come with me to Wagontongue.”

  “Too late! Too late!” returned Preston, hopelessly.

  “No! The situation is no worse—for you. For him it is too late!—Come, Preston, be quick. There’ll be hell poppin’ here in a minute. Will you give up—go with me?”

  “Rock, by Heaven! I will—if you——”

  “Yell that to Ash!” hissed Rock, strung like a whipcord.

  Preston, with face purpling, shouted to his son, “Hey, Ash!”

  “What you want?” came the snarling answer.

  “I’m goin’ to town with Rock.�
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  “What fer?” yelled Ash, as if stung.

  “Wal, just off, I’m gettin’ a marriage license for Thiry!—Haw! Haw! Haw!”

  What was that raw note in Preston’s thick voice—in the laugh which rang loud, clear? Did it connote revenge or hate or menace of the moment, or all combined?

  “I say what fer?” yelled Ash, dancing up and down.

  “To pay your thievin’ debts, you——!”

  “Preston, get to one side. Quick!” warned Rock, risking one long stride forward, when he froze in his tracks, his right side toward Ash, his quivering hand low.

  Ash Preston spat one curse at his father—then saw him no more. Again he began that strange sidelong stalk, only now he sheered a little, out toward Rock, forward a few strides, then backward the same, never turning that slim left side away from Rock. Rock learned something then he never had known—Ash Preston was left-handed. He approached no closer than thirty paces. Then he did not or could not keep still.

  “Howdy, spy!” he called.

  “Glad to meet you, beef rustler,” returned Rock.

  “Am givin’ you my card pronto,” called Ash, louder, more derisively.

  “Gave you mine at the dance. But I got six left! Carramba!”

  That stopped the restless crouching steps, but not the singular activity of body. Ash’s muscles seemed to ripple. He crouched yet a little more. Rock could catch gleams of blue fire under the wide black brim of Ash’s hat.

  “Señor del Toro!” He had recognized the Spanish word.

  “Yes. And here’s Thiry’s mask—where she put it herself,” flashed Rock, striking his breast. “See if you can hit it!”

  At the last he had the wit to throw Ash off a cool and deadly balance—so precious to men who would live by the gun. When Ash jerked to his fatal move Rock was the quicker. His shot cracked a fraction of a second before his adversary’s. Both took effect. It was as if Ash had been hit in the head by a club. Almost he turned a somersault.

  Rock felt a shock, but no pain. He did not know where he was hit until his right leg gave way under him, letting him down. He fell, but caught himself with his left hand, and went no farther than his knees, the right of which buckled under him.

  Ash bounded up as he had gone down, with convulsive tremendous power, the left side of his head shot away. Blood poured down. As he swept up his gun Rock shot him through the middle. The bullet struck up dust beyond and whined away. But Ash, sustaining the shock, fired again, and knocked Rock flat. Like the first bullet this one struck as if it were wind, high on his left shoulder. He heard two more heavy booms of Ash’s gun, felt the sting of gravel on his face. Half rising, braced on his left hand, Rock fired again. He heard the bullet strike. Terrible fleshy sodden sound! Ash’s fifth shot spanged off Rock’s ex-tended gun, knocked it flying, beyond reach.

  Preston was sagging. Bloody, magnificent, mortally stricken, he had no will except to kill. He saw his enemy prostrate, weaponless. He got his gun up, but could not align it, and his last bullet struck far beyond Rock, to whine away. Ash’s physical strength had not matched his unquenchable spirit. He actually tried to fling the empty gun. It flipped at random. To and fro he swayed, all instinctive action ceasing, and with his ruthless eyes on his fallen foe, changing, glazing over, setting blank, he fell.

  Gage Preston hurried to Rock’s side. Men came running with hoarse shouts.

  “Help me—up,” said Rock, faintly.

  They raised him, speaking in awed voices. Then he dragged them, half-hopping, careless of his dangling leg, over to the writhing Ash, in time to see his last shudder.

  “Ah—huh!” gasped Rock, in emotionless finality, with strength and sense slowly failing into oblivion.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  WHEN Rock came to his senses again he was lying on the floor of the cabin where seemingly only a few moments before he had given advice as to the proper care of the wounded Dunne.

  He gazed around up at the grave faces of cowboys and cattlemen, at Gage Preston, who, grim and white, was binding his leg, at Peeples, still working over the prostrate Dunne.

  “Preston, how is it—with Rock?” asked Dunne, huskily.

  “Wal, the top bullet glanced off the bone,” replied the rancher. “Ugly hole, but nothin’ fer this fellar. The leg shot, though, is bleedin’ bad.”

  “Bind it tight,” whispered Rock.

  Dunne moved his head in slow action, until his cavernous eyes, supernaturally bright, rested upon Rock.

  “Say, Rock, it didn’t take you long to get—heah on the floor with me.”

  “Seems long,” said Rock, weakly.

  “Matter of ten minutes, mebbe,” explained Preston, as he wrapped and pulled with swift powerful hands. “Hyar, somebody help me . . . hold thet end tight.”

  Rock became conscious of awakening pain, of a burning in his breast and a dull spreading fire in his right leg. Presently Preston rose from his task, wiping his bloody hands, and the voices of watchers ceased.

  “Somebody get Rock to town pronto,” he said, gruffly. “Ain’t safe to let him wait fer the doctor.”

  “Lon Bailey has his four-seat buckboard,” replied a cowboy. “We can take out the hind seat, an’ fix a place for Rock to lay.”

  “Rustle now,” replied Preston, and then bent his gloomy gaze down. “Rock, if the artery ain’t cut you’ve nothin’ bad. No bones broke.”

  “Gage, I’m—sorry,” whispered Rock, faintly. “No—other way.”

  “Ha! You needn’t be. Shore, I’m not,” rejoined the rancher.

  “Will you—come to town?”

  “Tomorrow. Me an’ the boys will see Dabb. Mebbe it ain’t too late.”

  “It—never—is, Preston.”

  “I’m thankin’ you. Good-bye an’ good luck,” he returned, and stamped out.

  Rock closed his eyes.

  “Say, fellars, nobody hain’t told me what happened to thet Ash Preston,” spoke up Dunne. “He’s done fer me, an’ most the same fer Rock. If you-all let him——”

  “Daid,” interrupted a blunt cowboy, without solemnity.

  “Preston had the side of his haid half shot off,” replied another range rider. “Shot clean through the middle an’ then plumb center. He died orful hard.”

  “Rock, you heah me?” said Dunne. “I had you wrong—an’ I’m askin’ pardon. . . . An’ fellars, if I have—to die—I’ll go happy.”

  Merciful unconsciousness did not return to Rock. When strong and gentle hands lifted him into the buckboard he knew agony. When the swift wheels ran over a bump or a rut in the road it was like a rending of flesh and bone. He set his teeth and endured, his brain in the vise of sensorial perceptions. The miles covered, the black night, the white stars, the cold—of these he was aware, but they meant nothing. Gray dawn and Wagontongue found him spent and in a daze of agony.

  Rock was lying in the pleasant sitting-room of the Winters’ home where a couch had been improvised for him. It was late in the day, according to the slant of the sun rays, coming through the low window above his bed. He had awakened to less torture, but he could move only his one arm and head. A fire crackled cheerfully in the small crate. Outside the window waved the branches of a pine tree and a soft sough of wind came strangely, like an accompaniment of something sad in the past.

  Another day Rock awoke to rest, if not ease, and slowly the stream of consciousness resumed its flow.

  The little doctor was cheerful that day. “You’re like an Indian,” he said, rubbing his hands in satisfaction. “Another week will see you up. Then pretty soon you can fork a hoss.”

  “How is your other patient?” asked Rock.

  “Dunne is out of danger, I’m glad to say. But he will be a good while in bed.”

  Sol Winter came bustling in with an armful of firewood.

  “Mornin’, son! You shore look fitter to me. How about him, Doc? Can we throw off the restrictions on grub an’ talk?”

  “I reckon,” replied the
physician, taking up his hat and satchel. “Now, Rock, brighten up. You’ve been so thick and gloomy. Good day.”

  “Wal, son, I almost feel young against this mornin’,” said Sol, cheerfully, as he kindled the fire. “Shore is some fine mornin’. First frost.”

  “Sol, do you reckon you could shave off this brush on my chin? It’s sure irritatin’.”

  “Wal, I’ll guarantee to get it off,” replied Winter, with a warming laugh. “There, we’ll have a fire pronto.”

  Then Mrs. Winter entered with breakfast for Rock. She was a slim, plain, busy little body, with gray hair, kindly eyes, and a motherly manner.

  “Mawnin’, Trueman!” she greeted him, smiling. “Sol says the bars are down an’ heah I’ve rustled you fruit, rice, egg, toast, and coffee.”

  “Mother Winter, you’re no less than an angel,” returned Rock, gratefully. “Sol, help me sit up in bed. . . . Oh, I can if you’ll lift me.”

  “Hurt much?” inquired Winter, when the desired position had been attained.

  “Reckon—a little. Now, fetch it to me, Mother Winter.”

  “Do you hear the church bell?” she asked, as she deposited the tray on his lap.

  “Sure. Then it’s Sunday?”

  “Yes, and another Sunday you might go to church, with a crutch.”

  “Me go to church? . . . Lord, can’t you see the congregation scatter?”

  “Trueman, there’s news,” said Winter, after his wife left the room. “Might as well get it over, huh?”

  “I reckon so,” rejoined Rock, slowly.

  “Gage Preston paid me the money you gave Slagle. Yesterday, before he left.”

  “Left?” echoed Rock, putting down his cup.

  “Yep, he left on Number Ten for Colorado,” replied Winter, evidently gratified over the news he had to impart. “Go on with your breakfast, son. I’ll talk. I’ve been wantin’ to for days. . . . Rock, it all turned out better’n we dared hope. They tell me Hesbitt was stubborn as a mule, but Dabb an’ Lincoln together flattened him out soft. I got it all from Amy, who has been most darn keen to help. Rock, thet little lady has a bad conscience over somethin’. . . . Wal, with the steer market jumpin’ to seventy-five, even Hesbitt couldn’t stay sore long. They fixed it up out of court. Dabb an’ Lincoln made it easy for Preston. They bought him out, ranch, stock, an’ all. Savvy those foxy ranchers! They shore had a chance an’ they fell on it like a turkey on a grasshopper. Cost Preston somethin’ big to square up, but at thet he went away heeled. I seen him at the station.”