Panguitch

by Zane Grey

  Chane at last came upon the left flange of the fence. It presented a gruesome spectacle, that part of it which was still standing. Bits of flesh and tufts of hair showed on the sagging wires, and many places were red with blood. The top wire was gone entirely; sections of the fence had been laid flat or carried out of sight; posts were broken and leaning. Farther east along this flange the fence was intact, and here Chane began to encounter crippled and dying horses. Promptly he shot them. Brutus reacted strangely to this work. He did not balk or show unwillingness to go on, but he grew exceedingly nervous.

  Most of these wounded horses had been cut across the chest, great deep gaps from which the blood poured. It sickened Chane, yet relentlessly he rode on, until no more horses appeared along that flange of the fence. Upon riding back, he saw the dust lifting, rolling away on the wind, and through the cloud a blood-red westering sun shone with weird sinister effect. Strings of horses were running north and west, away from that fatal notch. In the huge corral a dark mass of horses, acres in area, moved in close contact, and the whistling, snorting, squealing din was terrific.

  Chane heard a spatting of gunshots, out along the western flange of the fence, and as he neared the center of the notch, he espied Utah riding in, manifestly from the merciful task of ending the misery of crippled mustangs. Chane’s heart was heavy and sore and there had risen in him a temper that boded ill.

  At length he reached the spot where Melberne and his riders formed a singular group. Some were still sitting their wet heaving horses. Chess hunched on the ground with his face in his hands. Captain Bunk was trying to walk. Alonzo was so pasted with froth from his horse as to be unrecognizable in feature. Miller was a dust-begrimed rider who would never have been taken for a white man. Utah came riding up, his gun in his hand, a black sternness on his lean face. Loughbridge was jabbering like a wild man, beside himself, evidently, with the extraordinary success of the drive.

  “Seventeen hundred! More mebbe! Near two thousand horses trapped! We’ve struck a gold mine!” he shouted.

  Manerube received this acclaim as one his just due, but as he encountered Chane’s gaze his pompous air suffered a blight.

  Chane last bent a curious look upon Melberne. This was where the Texan must be judged. The leader of the outfit showed nothing of the feeling that characterized Loughbridge. He was weary, and heavy on his feet.

  “Well, Melberne, what do you think of your barbed-wire drive?” demanded Chane in a voice full of scorn and curiosity.

  Melberne turned to disclose a gray face and gleaming eyes. He seemed another man. Savagely he cursed, and gave Chane no intelligible reply. But his profanity was expressive enough. It took the edge off Chane’s bitterness, as he replied, “Man, the worst is yet to come.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Dusk found the weary riders approaching camp. Chane led the cavalcade, finding Brutus, as always, light of foot and eager to get home. The flickering campfire shone like a pinpoint through the gathering darkness, growing larger and brighter as he rode on. At last Chane, announced by a shrill neigh from Brutus, entered the circle of firelight.

  The womenfolk, excited and anxious at his arrival, inquired as one voice the whereabouts of the men and if all was well.

  “They’ll be in soon. It’s been a tough day, and I reckon Brutus is the only horse not dead beat,” replied Chane as he wearily swung out of the saddle.

  “Good!” ejaculated Mrs. Melberne. “Hungry as bears you’ll all be. We’ll have supper ready right off.”

  Sue Melberne limped out of the shadow into the firelight. She was bareheaded and her eyes seemed unnaturally large and dark in her pale face.

  “Tell me … was it successful … the drive?” she asked intensely.

  “Successful? Yes, if you mean a big bunch of horses captured,” replied Chane slowly.

  “I don’t mean numbers. Were they caught without crippling and torturing many?”

  “No. I’m sorry to say it was the bloodiest mess I ever saw,” returned Chane grimly. “I wouldn’t tell you how many horses I shot … how they looked. We can never tell the number that broke through the barbed wire … to die lingering deaths down in the desert.”

  “Oh! I feared that!” Sue said in distress. “How … how did Dad take it?”

  “I’d rather not say what I think,” returned Chane, and led Brutus away into the grove to have a care for him.

  A little later, when Chane went back to the campfire, all the riders were in and more than ready for the bountiful supper spread by the women. Mostly they ate in silence and like famished wolves. Chane was as hungry as any of them, but he did not miss word or look that passed. He was curious to see the reaction of this day.

  Loughbridge, somewhat rested and with appetite satisfied, reverted again to the manner and expression that had so disgusted Chane at the end of the drive. Naturally, after supper, the talk waged vigorously, and opinions, deductions, forecasts were as many and varied as the personalities of the riders. Loughbridge was already raking in big profits from the drive. Manerube had taken upon himself the honors of a hero, and swaggered before the listening women. Chess sat hollow-eyed and raging, his voice lifted high. Melberne presented a queer contrast. He had not spoken a word, but he no longer seemed stultified and thick. Presently Manerube detached himself from the half-circle of men on one side of the campfire and crossed to where the women sat listening. Ora obviously gave him the cold shoulder. Sue, however, began to question him eagerly.

  “You women go to bed,” Melberne spoke up gruffly.

  His wife obediently left the group, but Mrs. Loughbridge and Ora paid no attention to him, and if Sue heard, she gave no sign. She stood looking up at Manerube with an interest that could very easily be misunderstood.

  “Sue, I told you to go to bed!” called Melberne sharply.

  “But I’m not sleepy,” protested Sue. “I want to hear all about …”

  “Go to bed!” interrupted her father, in a voice that Chane had never before heard him use, and he swore at her.

  “Why … Dad!” faltered Sue, shocked out of her usual independent spirit.

  “You seem to take it for granted there’s only one man heah,” replied Melberne sarcastically. “The rest of us were aboot when it happened, I reckon.”

  Sue’s pale face flamed, and, turning away without another word, she limped into the shadow.

  Chane felt sorry for her, that she should be so pointedly reprimanded by her father before them all, but the significance of the incident made his heart beat quickly. The situation grew more to his liking. Sooner or later he would find himself vindicated.

  “Loughbridge, listen heah,” said Melberne deliberately. “You remember our deal. I lent you the money for this outfit an’ you were to pay me half out of your share of the proceeds of our wild horse huntin’.”

  “Yes, I reckon thet was the deal,” replied the other somewhat wonderingly.

  “Wal, on condition I boss this outfit I’ll consider your debt paid right heah. How about it?”

  “Suits me fine, Mel,” returned Loughbridge with his greedy smile.

  “A-huh. All right, it’s settled,” went on Melberne, and then turned to Manerube. “You said we’d divide the outfit into two squads for this ropin’ an’ hawg-tyin’ stunt tomorrow. Now I’m tellin’ you to pick your men.”

  “All I need is some help,” said Manerube. “I’ll do the roping and tying. My men will be Loughbridge, Miller, Alonzo, and Utah.”

  “Nope, you’re wrong, Mister Manerube,” retorted Utah coolly. “I wouldn’t be on your side.”

  “Utah, you’ll take orders,” said Melberne testily.

  “Shore, but not from him. An’ if you say for me to go on his side, I quit.”

  “Manerube, pick another man,” returned the leader.

  “Bonny,” said Manerube shortly.

  “Wal, that leaves
me, Utah, Captain Bunk, an’ the Weymers. Jake can stay in camp,” said Melberne reflectively. After a moment he addressed Chane. “I reckon you ought to take charge of our squad?”

  There seemed to be a good deal more in Melberne’s mind than he saw fit to speak.

  “If you think so I’ll do it,” replied Chane slowly.

  “I’m thankin’ you,” said Melberne. “Now, men, you’d better turn in, as I’ll call you aboot three o’clock.” Whereupon he left the fire.

  Chane followed him. Melberne did not walk like a man with hopeful prospects. Chane caught up with him and strode beside him into the grove until they reached a point where Chane’s way led to the left.

  “Melberne,” Chane said as they both halted, “I know how you feel. This drive looks bad. It is bad. And I told you, the worst is yet to come. But I reckoned you’d put too much store on the success of catching large numbers of wild horses for the market. You’ve just followed wrong hunches. This deal will likely lose you money. It’ll do worse than that. It’ll hurt you, because you’re a man with human feelings. But it’s nothing to discourage you as to the future. You’ll do well in Utah. The country has great possibilities that men such as you will develop. So don’t worry. This barbed-wire mess will be over in a few days. You’ll soon get things straight.”

  “Say, Weymer, are you giving me a good hunch?” inquired Melberne.

  “Hardly. I see you’re a little down tonight, and I just wanted you to know I understood.”

  “A-huh. Wal, mebbe you do,” responded Melberne heavily, and went his way under the cottonwoods.

  * * * * *

  It was one thing for Melberne to say he would rout everybody out at three o’clock next morning and another to accomplish it. As the matter transpired, Chane was the early riding riser who called the men and built the fire and went out after the horses. All these except Brutus had been left in the corral at the far end of the grove. In the darkness Chane had difficulty locating Brutus. Instead of being found, he answered Chane’s whistles and made it easy for Chane, though he did not come in of his own accord. Chane led Brutus back through the grove and gave him a double handful of grain.

  “Chess, wake up! You’re late,” called Chane.

  “I’m … asleep,” mumbled Chess.

  “Roll out and get your horse. Breakfast’s almost ready.”

  “I’m dead. Aw, Chane, do I have to help murder those poor ponies?”

  “Boy, you’ve got to help me make it as easy as possible for them. Melberne has made me boss of our squad.”

  “I forgot. Sure that’s different,” returned Chess as he rolled out of his blankets, dressed except for his boots.

  Chane found a bustle around the campfire. Jake was cook, with several assistants. Melberne had a quick, serious manner.

  “What’ll we need?” he asked Chane.

  “Lots of soft rope. Saddlebags for grub and water bags for water. It’ll be a twenty-hour day. And don’t let any fellow forget his gloves.”

  * * * * *

  Chane’s squad of five rode out of camp into the dark hour before dawn while Manerube’s men were getting ready. The air was cold, the ground gray with frost, the sky steely blue lighted by white stars. The silent grim men might have been bent on a deadly scouting mission. Chane led at a brisk lope, and when the first streaks of morning brightened the east, he drew rein before the huge trap corrals. A whistling and trampling roar attested to the fact that the wild horses had not broken the fence.

  “We’ll wait for the other gang,” said Chane. “Reckon we’d better throw off our saddles. It’ll be noon before we get ready to ride.”

  The men unsaddled, haltered their horses, uncoiled and recoiled their lassos, and lastly cut the short lengths of soft rope designated as necessary by Chane. When this was done the other squad rode up.

  “You fellars get a hustle on,” said Melberne.

  “No rush,” replied Manerube. “Are any of you fellows betting we don’t tie up two horses to your one?”

  “Manerube, this is a gamblin’ matter for me, but not for you,” retorted Melberne significantly.

  “Now, boys,” said Chane, “crawl under the wires. We’ll go around to the empty corral.”

  Two corrals had been constructed, one a quarter of a mile in diameter, which now contained the seventeen hundred wild horses, the other smaller in size, and with a fifty-foot gate of poles and wires.

  “Boys, here’s our system,” said Chane, when his men gathered around him inside the empty corral. “We’ll open the gate and let in ten or a dozen or twenty horses. They won’t need to be driven in yet a while. Keep out of their road. Some wild horses are bad. I’ll do the roping. When I throw a horse, you all make a dive to hold him down. Melberne, you’re the heaviest. You sit on his head. Chess, you hold one front hoof while I tie up the other. Utah, you know the game. I’m asking you to look out for Cap till he gets the hang of it.”

  Manerube’s squad now appeared in the gray gloom of the morning, and all approached the wide gate. When it had been released at the fastening, it was swung open wide. Horses were thick in the gray obscurity of the larger corral, but evidently the dim light did not prevent them from seeing well. Soon a wild leader shot through like an arrow from a bow, to be followed by several passing swift as flashes, and then by a string of them, whistling and plunging.

  “Enough. Shut the gate!” yelled Chane. They were just in time to stop a stampede. “Now follow me around,” Chane added, and broke into a run toward the dim shapes of the wild horses. Chane swung his lasso as he ran. Its use was an old story to him. As a boy he could rope the sombrero off a cowboy’s head as dexterously as it might have been snatched by hand.

  “Chase them past me!” yelled Chane. “Chess, you stick by me to lend a hand. If a horse gets the jerk on me instead of me getting it on him, I’m liable to be yanked out of my boots.”

  A group of wild horses broke up and scattered, running everywhere. Chane ran forward, to one side, swinging a wide loop around his head. In the dim gray he had to guess at distance. But this roping was as much a feeling with Chane as an action. Several horses raced past. At the fourth, a lean wild bay, clearly outlined against the gray, Chane cast his lasso. He did not need to see the horse run into the loop. Bracing himself, Chane gave a sudden powerful jerk just as the noose went taut around the forelegs of this horse. It was in the middle of his leap, and he went down heavily.

  “Quick!” yelled Chane to his comrades as hand over hand he closed in on his quarry. Melberne plunged down on the head of the prostrate horse. Utah was almost as quick at his flanks. Captain Bunk fell on the middle of the horse. “Good! Hold hard!” shouted Chane. “I got both his legs.”

  Chane loosened the noose and slipped it off one leg, which he drew back from the other. “Grab that leg, Chess. Hang on!”

  The groaning, quivering horse lay helpless. He could kick with his two free legs, but to no purpose. Chane hauled the foreleg back, then let go his rope to grasp the leg in his hands. Chess, by dint of strength and weight, was holding down the other leg. Chane pulled one of the short lengths of soft rope from the bundle hanging in his belt. He had to expend considerable force to draw the leg up, bending it back. The horse squealed his fury and terror. Then Chane’s swift hard hands bound that bent leg above the knee. It gave the leg an appearance of having been cut off. The foreleg and hoof were tied fast against the inside of the upper part of the leg. Chane slipped off the noose of his lasso, and jumped up.

  “Get away and let him up,” ordered Chane. All the men leaped aside with alacrity.

  The wild horse got up as nimbly as if he had still the use of four legs. He snorted his wild judgment of this indignity. His first move was a quick plunge, which took him to his knees. But he bounded up and away with amazing action and balance. His speed, however, had been limited to half.

  Chane heard the rival squa
d yelling and squabbling over a horse they had down. The gray gloom was lifting. Chane coiled his lasso, spread the loop to his satisfaction, and ran to intercept another passing horse. His aim went true, but it was good luck that he caught one foreleg instead of two. This horse was heavier. As he went down he dragged Chane, boots plowing the ground. Chane’s helpers piled upon the straining, kicking horse and forced him flat. Thus the strenuous day began.

  * * * * *

  Chane tied up fifty-six horses before he was compelled to ask Melberne for a little rest.

  “My … Gawd!” panted Melberne as he flopped down against a fence post. “I’m daid … on my feet … Weymer … you’re shore … a cyclone … for work.”

  The sun shone bright and hot. A fine dust sifted down through the air. All of Chane’s squad were as wet as if they had fallen into a pond. Melberne’s face ran with dirty streaks of black sweat; his heavy chest heaved with his panting breaths. Chess was the least exhausted of the squad, as his labors had been least. Captain Bunk was utterly played out for the moment.

  “Blast me!” he gasped. “I could … drink … the ocean … dry.”

  “Cap, don’t let the boys guy you any more,” said Chane. “You’re awkward, but you’re game, and you haven’t shirked.”

  They passed the water bag from one to another, and passed it around again. Then Melberne, beginning to recover somewhat, began to take active interest in the operations of Manerube’s squad. On the moment they were dragging a mustang down.

  “Weymer, that man cain’t throw a horse,” declared Melberne testily.