by Grey, Zane
It was nineteen miles to Sunshine, and he wanted to reach that station after dark and board a night train without being seen.
A melancholy resignation had no power to cramp the slow-mounting exaltation in Jim Lacy's breast. Once free of the need to hurry, his mind reverted to the cause of this extraordinary adventure he had voluntarily accepted. Facts were cold, hard things. He had hidden his real identity; he had buried the past; he had risen on stepping-stones of his dead self to honest useful service; he had earned peace and victory, if not real happiness; and then, like a thunderbolt from heaven, an inevitable, irresistible fate had confronted him. What he had suffered during the moments when Tom Day had talked to Judge Franklidge about Ben and Hettie Ide! The old wound had not healed. The old love lived in his heart, stronger for the years of denial and repression. Jim Lacy rocked in his saddle. No eyes but those of hawks and prairie-dogs and perhaps a skulking coyote could see him surrender to his emotion.
The old horse walked slowly down the trail; the west wind blew hot desert fragrance in the rider's face; the dust arose and the heat beat down.
"Aw, I shore knew it--all these weeks I knew," whispered Jim, huskily. "Ben come to Arizona to find me! . . . Didn't he comb California--didn't he send men to all the ranges in the West? . . .
Didn't Tom Day tell me no more'n a month ago--how Ben Ide wanted to know if he'd ever met a cowboy called Nevada? . . . That was it-- the name Ben gave me--NEVADA! . . . He never forgot. An' at last he come to this wild land. He's married an' got a baby, they say.
Old Amos Ide must have died an' left Ben rich. Shore it was Ina he married. Yet all that didn't hold him back."
How terribly sweet and soul-satisfying that knowledge, and yet somehow bitter! In one tremendous moment of decision it had flung him back into the past, once more to own an infamous name. It had destroyed all he had built up. Only through the power of his dreaded name could he ever bring to successful issue the task he had set himself. What irony of fate that the fame he hated must be his open sesame to the rendezvous of the rustlers who were ruining Ben Ide!
"Like as not in the long-run I'll stop a bullet," he muttered, harsh in his agitation. "But hardly before I get the job 'most done. . . . An' shore that'd be better so. Ben would never know I am Jim Lacy. An' Hettie--SHE would never know. . . . But I reckon that's not my kind of luck. Like as not I'll run plumb into Ben before it's over. An' Hettie, too! . . . O my God! How sweet an' terrible!"
He rode on through the hot waning afternoon, absorbed with the strife of his soul. A storm, passing in gray-black pall at a distance, cooled and cleared the atmosphere. Sunset came, a glorious gold and purple pageant in the west, where it vied with the wonder of a rainbow, receding with the storm. But Jim Lacy scarcely took note of these physical manifestations around him.
When darkness fell he had reached the outskirts of Sunshine, and he halted under a clump of cottonwoods. Here, removing saddle and bridle from the horse, he turned it loose. That act seemed to sever the last thread which bound him to the ranching life he had followed for long. It had, too, a singular effect upon the emotions which had beset him. The hour had come when he must plan his return to the old life. Wherefore he sat down beside his saddle and pack, and with bowed head and rending of his spirit, he slipped, as into a long-unused garment, back into the old personality. And it seemed that the instant this transformation was consummated his plan for the perilous adventure at hand was simple and complete. He had only to be Jim Lacy.
The whistle of an approaching freight train inspired him with an idea more satisfactory than the one of waiting for the passenger train. He would steal a ride on the freight, thus obviating any risk of being recognized at the station. To this end he shouldered his pack and saddle and, hurrying to the railroad track, which was only a few hundred paces away, he waited beside the slowly halting train, peering through the gloom for an empty car. At length it reached him, just as the train stopped. Jim threw pack and saddle aboard and climbed in.
Daylight found him across the Territory line, in New Mexico. When the train stopped outside of a town at a water tank, he threw his baggage out, down over a grassy embankment, and got off. He had some money, beside the considerable sum Judge Franklidge had forced him to take. And it was with something of an old familiar zest that he strolled into the town.
Before encountering any riders or cattlemen Jim entered a barber shop, from which he emerged a changed man. Next he purchased a complete new outfit of rider's apparel, the costliest he could find. Jim Lacy, he remembered, had once affected something near to dandyism. He retained only his gun and chaps, which were things more intimate than clothes and were not to be discarded.
His next move was to buy a good horse. This turned out to be easier than he had anticipated, and was accomplished without exciting any particular attention. Lastly he led the horse out of town, found his saddle and pack, and soon he was riding back across the line into Arizona.
Traveling leisurely, and stopping at ranches and stations convenient to the day's travel, Jim Lacy in due time arrived in Winthrop.
The day was a Friday, toward the close of afternoon. He made his way to Beacham's corrals, where over-night visitors to town usually left their horses to be cared for. The first corral appeared to be a little too crowded for Jim, so he led his animal out to another and smaller one. Several rangy, dusty-garbed riders had just ridden in, evidently behind a dilapidated old wagon drawn by a shaggy gaunt team. The driver, a lanky man, dark of face and bearded, clambered down with the cramped movements of one more at home in the saddle. Jim had seen him before, but could not place him. There was a young girl sitting on the driver's seat, and she appeared quite pretty, in a wild-rose way. Jim's quick eye also took in the stock of a rifle projecting from the side of the seat.
Jim led his horse somewhat closer to the wagon, and choosing one of the covered stalls adjoining the fence, he leisurely began to remove the saddle, while his eyes roved elsewhere. He noted presently, when the girl jumped down, that her slim brown legs were bare, that she wore beaded moccasins, and the rest of her apparel showed further indications of the backwoods. As she passed out of the corral with the bearded man, Jim had a closer scrutiny.
"Shore, I'll bet that'll be Elam Hatt an' his daughter Rose," muttered Jim. "An' if so, those three riders are the other Hatts. . . . Reckon the ball is openin' pronto."
By the time Jim had turned his horse over to the Mexican stable-boy the Hatts had gone into town. Jim got out just in time to see them turn a corner. He followed very slowly, not reluctantly in any sense, but ponderingly. Familiar as he was with Winthrop, it did not seem the same town. Turning into the broad main street, he strolled along, seeing everything while not appearing to be interested in anything. He passed several persons whom he knew well. They did not give him a second glance. The restaurant- keeper, standing in a doorway, did not recognize Jim. A cowboy came along on his horse, evidently going home. It was Jerry Smith from Franklidge Ranch. He saw Jim, yet did not look twice.
"Jerry! An' the son-of-a-gun didn't know me," soliloquized Jim, elated. "He owes me money I'll never get now. Wal, could I surprise him?"
The later afternoon hours were the busy ones in the stores of Winthrop, owing to the heat of midday. The saloons were always busy, all day and all night. Jim had never entered a saloon in Winthrop. He would break that record presently, but not just yet.
At the next corner he came abreast of three cowboys sitting on a stone step of a saloon.
"Look, Bill, do you see the same as me--somethin' awful pretty?" asked one.
"By josh! I do," was the jocular reply.
"Boys, anybody'd know there was a dance on tonight--huh?" said the other.
"Hey, stranger, yore sure steppin' high, wide, an' handsome," spoke up the third.
Jim wheeled round to face them, with amusement difficult to hide.
These fine-spirited cowboys were far from being harmless, but it was only their way to extract fun out of every incident.
"Wal, are you boys lookin' for a fight or a drink?" he asked, smiling.
"Since you ask us, stranger, it sure must have been a drink," replied the first speaker.
Jim waved them into the saloon, followed them, threw money on the bar, and said: "On me, boys. Sorry I ain't drinkin' to-day. I just buried my grandma an' feel bad."
Loud guffaws greeted his sally, and as he walked out through the swinging doors one of the cowboys yelled, "You're all right, stranger."
Jim crossed the side street and went on down toward the center of the main block. He idled along, halting to gaze into windows, leaned against doorways here and there, watching the people.
Presently he came to the entrance of a store and espied the girl he had taken for Rose Hatt standing in the door. She had a package under her arm and was evidently waiting for some one.
"Excuse me, miss," said Jim, doffing his sombrero and stepping up to her. "Don't I know you?"
She looked up at him with big hazel eyes that had not been long free of tears.
"You might, mister, but I sure don't know you," she replied.
Jim decided she was more than pretty and not such a child as he had first supposed. She had wavy brown hair, rather rebellious, red lips, and tanned rose-tinted cheeks.
"Aren't you Rose Hatt?" he asked.
"Sure."
Jim leaned easily against the doorpost, smiling down upon her.
"Reckon I thought so. Shore that's not many girls as pretty as you in these parts."
"Put your hat back on, mister," she replied, tartly. "Standin' bareheaded don't go with such taffy. Besides, I ain't used to it."
"All right," returned Jim, good-humoredly. "Bad habit of mine.
I'll get sunstruck some day."
"Say, you'll ketch worse if my dad comes along," she said, laughing, "Onless you tell me pronto who you are."
"Wal, Rose, I might be Samuel Snoozegazzer," drawled Jim.
"Only you ain't," she added, with interest, and she looked Jim over from boots to sombrero. She was not bold, but she certainly did not show embarrassment or shyness. Jim gathered that she was used to men.
"I'll tell you my name if I drop in on the dance tonight," he said.
"Mister, I knowed that was comin'," she returned. "An' I'll bet you never met me before."
"Wal, to be honest, I never did."
"Reckon it ain't no difference. But I'm afeared I can't promise to dance with you."
"Why not?"
"Dad says I can go, but Cedar--he's my brother--he says no. An'
Cedar is boss of our outfit."
"Wal, if your dad's willin', why, go ahaid. He's your father."
"Say, mister, I reckon you ain't acquainted with Cedar Hatt," declared the girl, almost with scorn. "You're sure a stranger in these parts."
"Yes, I am, sorry to say," replied Jim, thoughtfully. "But what's so bad aboot your brother?"
"Cedar's just plain cactus an' side-winder rattlesnake mixed up with hell."
"Aw, that's a terrible thing to call a brother," rejoined Jim.
"He's only a half brother, same as Henny an' Tobe."
"Oh, I see! Your dad was married twice an' your ma was the second."
The girl's eyes grew somber and her red lips curled with bitterness.
"There're some folks out in the brakes who say my dad wasn't never married no second time."
"Shore he was, lass. Don't believe gossip of low-down people. An' don't be so hard on your brother Cedar."
"I hate him," she burst out, with passion.
"Wal! Why do you hate your own kin, little girl? Shore it's not natural," went on Jim, in his slow, persuasive drawl, so full of interest and sympathy.
"Reason enough," she retorted. "It was his fault that Clan Dillon took to runnin' after me."
"DILLON!" flashed Jim, in an amaze too swift and deep to hide.
His tone, his look betrayed to the simple passionate girl that she had allowed her tongue too much freedom.
"Say, mister, here I am talkin' like an old woman," she cried, almost in affright. "I'm beggin' you to keep mum that slip of my tongue. Cedar would half kill me."
"Shore I will," returned Jim, in his former kindly tone. "Rose, you just happened to run into a man you can trust."
"You look it, mister. I like you," she replied, with relief.
"Thanks. I'm shore the lucky hombre. But I reckon now you're engaged to marry this Clan Dillon."
"Marry, hell!" she exclaimed, suddenly almost fierce again. "I wouldn't marry HIM to save his life, the handsome, smilin'-faced liar. Not even if he wanted to, which he sure don't. I'd be only a sheepskin rug to Clan Dillon."
Jim dropped his head, conscious of an inward shrinking of tingling nerves, to the coldness of ice. It had come again--that thing which had not frozen within his breast for years. How life tracked him down! Then he looked once more at the girl. She was recovering composure. Manifestly she was a primitive little girl, as much like a wildcat as a wild rose. Jim felt intuitively that she was good. The flame left her hazel eyes and the hardness around her lips softened. Jim did not need to be told more about her life.
"Rose, have you any friends?" he asked, earnestly. "Shore I mean women-folks who could advise a young girl like you."
"Me? Why, mister, didn't I tell you I lived down in the brakes?"
"Haven't you a man friend, then, or even a boy--who's good?"
"No. But I was makin' one fast enough," she replied, both with resentment and mischievousness in face and voice. "A boy from California! Say, he was nice. But Cedar caught me with him."
"Too bad. What'd Cedar do, now?" queried Jim, much concerned.
"Not much, for Cedar," replied the girl, demurely. "He drove my boy friend off into the woods, dodgin' bullets! An' he kicked me till I couldn't set down for days."
"Wal! . . . Look heah, girl, you're old enough an' you've sense enough to know a friend when you meet him. Aren't you?"
"Mister, I think so. But I--I'm afraid to trust myself," she faltered, swayed by his earnestness.
"Wal, you needn't be in my case. I'm going to trust you."
"How?" she asked, wonderingly. "I'll tell you presently. I don't want you to run off scared before I say all I want to. . . . Now who's this California boy your brother caught you with?"
"Swear you'll never tell?" she returned, impulsively, drawn by his potent sympathy.
"Rose, I'll shore keep your secret, an' more. I'll help you to MAKE a friend of him."
"Oh, mister, if that could be!" she cried, rapturously.
"Hurry. I see your dad comin' down the street."
"His name is Marvie Blaine," she whispered.
Jim Lacy drew a sharp swift breath that seemed to cut him like a knife as it swelled his breast. He leaned down to the girl.
"Listen," he whispered. "I will be your friend--an' this boy's--if you'll keep your mouth shut."
"Lord, mister, you needn't be afeared of ME," replied the girl. "I wouldn't dare. Sure I don't know why I ever talked to you. But you're different. An' oh! How I need some one to talk to!"
"Shore you've found some one. Me! I'll be goin' down into the brakes."
"But who are you, mister?" she queried, aghast at his assertion.
"Did you ever heah of Jim Lacy?"
Her red lips parted to let out a little gasp and her brown face paled. "My Heavens--are you him?"
"Yes."
"Hear of you, Mister Jim Lacy!" she ejaculated, her eyes dilating.
"Ever since I can remember I've heerd of you. Many men ride to my Dad's ranch, an' none but they speak your name. Some of them had seen you, an' two of them at least knowed you once."
"Rose, I'll tell you their names--Hardy Rue an' Cash Burridge."
"Yes--yes. Oh, you ARE Jim Lacy. An'--an' I'm not scared a bit," she whispered. "Why, it ain't so long ago that I heerd Cash Burridge tell of seein' you call out an' kill a man for beatin' a girl. . . . Oh, Mister Lacy, no one ever taught me about God, but I've prayed
--prayed night after night--for some one to come an'--"
"That your Dad right heah?" interrupted Jim.
"Oh yes. . . . What'll I say?"
"Nothin', lass. He hasn't seen us. Don't forget. Keep mum. Good- by."
Jim strode out as if he were just leaving the store, and he passed Elam Hatt so close he might have touched him. Hatt was walking with a man as rough in garb and hard of face as he was himself.
Neither appeared to notice him. After a few steps Jim glanced back. The girl had disappeared and the men were passing on.
"Good!" said Jim, to himself. "That lass is game, but she's only a kid, an' I reckon it's better her dad didn't see her with me. Wal, wal! The old luck of Jim Lacy! Half an hour in Winthrop an' I'm on a hot trail."
Marvie Blaine! Marvie--the boy who had worshipped him and Ben Ide in those wonderful Forlorn River days! Jim had found the boy way over here in Arizona. Marvie would be eighteen now--quite a man as cowboys were rated on the ranges. But then Ben and his family had only arrived at Cedar Springs in July.
"Tall, freckled-faced, tow-haided kid, Marvie was," went on Jim.
"Shore he's straddlin' mean hosses an' packin' a gun. . . . Reckon it's not the best country for a boy like him. But Ben could hold him in. . . . By golly! I'm forgettin' Rose Hatt. Shore as shootin' Marvie has fallen in love with her. No wonder. Reckon I would, too, if my heart hadn't been eaten up long ago. Wal, wal!
A girl an' a boy I hadn't reckoned on. . . . How queer things come! Rose said it was Cedar's fault that Clan Dillon . . . Poor kid! She shore called Dillon. Handsome, smilin'-faced liar! An' she knows, if I ever saw truth. Wal now, I wonder, just WHAT kind of a hombre is Ben Ide's foreman. Tom Day liked him. So does everybody I've ever heard speak of him, except this Hatt girl. . . .
It's a hunch. I'll be damned if I don't back her against all of them."
Jim strolled the length of the main street, and crossing, sauntered back again, talking to himself in an undertone, and with his apparent casual observance taking cognizance of all visible persons. He had the pleasure of meeting Judge Franklidge face to face in front of the hotel. The rancher saw Jim only as a passer- by. It would have been the opposite of pleasure, however, for Jim to have encountered Ben Ide face to face; and that was one reason Jim's keen eyes sighted every man first. But accidents could happen. It would be well for Jim, while in Winthrop, to keep under cover of the saloons or places not likely to be frequented by Ben Ide. At most, Jim's hours in town would be few and far between.