The Drift Fence

by Zane Grey

  During the next few days Molly went through a hundred variations of mood, ranging from lofty pride to self-pity, from resignation to furious revolt. And then she seemed to fix upon a settled wretchedness. Yet the days passed and life had to be lived and neglected work done.

  On Saturday afternoon she went to the village with her mother, the first visit there for a month. It was the one day in the week when there was any activity at West Fork. Molly felt a reluctance to being seen, yet a tingling curiosity in regard to possible rumors. She knew she could tell instantly, when she met any of the girls or young men, if they had heard of the marvelous romance that had enmeshed her.

  But she was to discover that, so far as her acquaintances were concerned, Molly Dunn was the same old Molly Dunn as ever. Strange to realize, Molly was chagrined. If they could know how far she had been removed from the ordinary life of West Fork!

  Old Enoch Summers’ establishment, that combined several stores in a row, all connected, stood on the main Saloon, a place of doubtful character, and one which Summers openly frowned upon, but in which rumor gave him a large interest. Board porches high off the ground, with wide steps in the middle and at each end, were a feature of West Fork’s few business houses. Saddle-horses and buckboards, along the hitching-rails, attested to visitors in town. And in the next block all the available room along the plank sidewalk was taken up by wagons and buggies.

  Molly for once was glad she had come with her mother, of whom it had been said that she had scant civility for Molly’s admirers. They came at length to Summers’ store, where Molly had to run the gauntlet of numerous men, old and young, strangers and acquaintances. It was a busy hour for the village merchant and his clerks. Mrs. Dunn and Molly had to await their turn, and when Mrs. Dunn met the worst gossip in West Fork, to become avidly absorbed at once, Molly, as a matter of self-preservation as well as taste, strolled on through this store into the next. Presently she found herself quite near the door, and curiously took a peep out. A young man had just ridden up to the porch. And when Molly recognized Jim Traft she nearly dropped to the floor. Fate had led her aimlessly to that door—for this. Then as the usual hum of talk of the loungers outside abruptly ceased, Molly realized that she was indeed not the only interested one. Jim surveyed the group on the porch, then dismounted and threw his bridle, to step up half the steps.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said, coolly, and his resonant voice carried. “My name’s Jim Traft and I’m looking for Slinger Dunn.”

  Molly bit her tongue to keep from crying out. Her next impulse was to rush to Jim. But that would be a crazy thing to do. He certainly would resent it. Her quick glance flashed over his lithe figure. He wore corduroys, high top-boots, and a brown shirt. Manifestly he could not have had a weapon upon him. Relief mitigated Molly’s terror. He did not mean to fight, and certainly Slinger, no matter how provoked, could not shoot an unarmed man before all these people. Jim did not look exactly pleasant, but how fine, Molly thought, and manly and clean-eyed.

  “Wal, Mister Traft, you’ll find Slinger in Mace’s saloon,” drawled some one.

  “Thanks,” replied Traft, and flipping a silver dollar to an urchin there, he said, “Johnny, go in and tell Slinger Dunn that if he isn’t afraid to come out Jim Traft would like to see him.”

  The boy snatched up the coin and bounded off the porch. Jim stepped up another step. He appeared composed, but pale. He had some deep motive in bearding Slinger Dunn right in his own den. Molly fell prey to a tumult of thrill and shudder. She could not have rushed out now, for she was riveted to the spot. Traft’s message had caused a low exclamation to run through the occupants of the porch, a dozen or more of whom Molly could see through door and window. Jim surely would have espied her had he looked in. But he faced down the porch, toward Mace’s saloon.

  “By gum! Slinger’s a-comin’!” said some one.

  “Reckoned thet’d fetch him,” replied another. These two stood near the door and partly shielded Molly. She wrenched at her fettered feet, to move a little forward, the better to see. However, she could not see Slinger yet. People in the store behind her approached.

  Then the slow step of a spurred boot sent a combined fire and ice over Molly. Slinger came into view, crossed the porch to confront Traft.

  “Did you send thet kid in heah?” and Slinger jerked his left hand backward. His right hung significantly free and low, “askin’ me out if I wasn’t afeard?”

  “Howdy, Slinger. Yes, I did,” replied Jim, and he stepped up the last step. After a keen fearless glance straight into Slinger’s eyes, he extinguished the cigarette he carried and dropped it off the porch. It was noticeable that he wore gloves.

  “Wal, you want to be careful aboot sendin’ fer me thet way.”

  “No offense. I just wanted you outside.”

  “An’ what fer, Mister Traft?”

  “Several things, Slinger, and for that reason I’m glad some of your friends and town folks are present,” replied Traft. A small group of men had followed Dunn out of the saloon, but did not come up on the porch. In fact, they edged out toward the hitching-rail.

  “What you want?” demanded Dunn, in mingled anger and amaze.

  “First I want to tell you I’m sorry my outfit suspected you of cutting our drift fence. We found out who did it, and though we never said it was you, we think we owe you an apology. So I’m apologizing for myself and the Diamond—to you, publicly.”

  “Wal, it wasn’t necessary fer nobody to apologize to me,” returned Dunn, with a grim laugh. “All the same, I hadn’t nuthin’ to do with cuttin’ your drift fence.”

  “Well, that settles that. Now you settle this. There’s talk going around about your sister and me. Some of it is credited to you. Did you tell Hack Jocelyn and Seth Haverly that you not only heard I had insulted Molly—mistreated her, but you believed it?”

  “I reckon I did, Mister Traft,” replied Slinger, not shorn of his personality, because nothing could have done that, but plainly staggered.

  “Thanks,” said Traft, raising his voice. “Now listen. You are dead wrong. I fell in love with Molly—pretty pronto, I admit. And I asked her to marry me. Twice! … Was that an insult? I shall ask her again. Will that be an insult?”

  “I cain’t see it thet way.”

  “I did—well, embrace her before I asked her. But I meant no insult. I was just excited—out of my head. Could that be held against me by any fair-minded person—knowing I followed it up with an offer of marriage?”

  “No, it couldn’t be,” declared Dunn.

  “Thanks again. … Well, Molly refused me. And one of the reasons she gave me was that she was Slinger Dunn’s sister.”

  Molly saw Arch flinch, and tremendously agitated as she was she felt a pang for him. This Jim Traft had a tongue as deadly as a bullet.

  “Now, Slinger Dunn, listen,” added Traft, his voice rising to a ring. “You’re going to hear something. If you were half the man you think you are you’d quit this lazy, drinking, gunslinging life for your sister’s sake. She’s a fine little girl—good as gold, damn your stupid heart! And she deserves a better fate than to be disgraced and degraded by a rotten two-bit of a desperado brother. … But you’ve not got sense enough to see what she’s worth. And as for your talk about her, well, you are a dirty, low-down skunk. You’re a yellow dog. You’re a liar, and suspicious, miserable Cibeque blood-spiller. Now, I’m not much on guns, but if you’re not a coward—a coward—you’ll lay off that gun-belt. And I’ll swear, if I don’t beat you as you deserve, I’ll borrow a gun from somebody here, and fight you your own way.”

  Without the slightest hesitation Slinger unbuckled his belt, containing the heavy gun, and handed it shakily over to some one. He sailed his sombrero off the porch, exposing a livid face. He made a gesture, eloquent of supreme fury, and added to it with incoherent speech. Then like a panther he leaped at Traft.

  Molly saw Jim move as quickly, just as Slinger reached him, and appeared to strike at t
he same instant. The blow cracked. Its force, added to Slinger’s momentum, sent him off the porch, where only a remarkable agility kept him on his feet. But he thumped solidly against the hitching-rail, which broke. Horses snorted and jumped. The crowd let out a whoop. Fights were mostly as common as meals in the Cibeque and infinitely more amusing. People inside the store crowded out, and joining the men cut off Molly’s view. She edged out, back to the wall fearful, yet tremendously impelled. She had gloried in Jim’s brave front, but she felt he would be helpless in a fight with Slinger. Bumping against a bench, Molly stepped up on it.

  She saw Jim go down off the steps to meet Slinger. Then began a fierce exchange of blows, with Slinger slowly forced backward in front of Mace’s saloon. Something was wrong, or unusual, Molly vaguely gathered from the exclamations and whispers of the villagers. Slinger Dunn had the reputation of being able to whip his weight in wildcats. But evidently he was slow in getting started here. Suddenly a blow upset him, and he plumped down ridiculously. The crowd warming to the fight greeted that with yells.

  Slinger bounced up, only to be knocked down again. Then pandemonium broke loose. The young man from the Diamond might not be going to get mauled into a pulp. He might be cordially hated, but that had nothing to do with the surprise and glee of the West Forkers. Molly could no longer distinguish the shouts, the jeers, the egging on of the contestants, the riotous advice.

  Bounding up with the agility he was noted for, Slinger took a couple of nasty digs in order to get hold of Traft. He clinched and plainly sought to trip his antagonist or wrestle him down. But Jim was the heavier and stronger, for with a whirl and a fling he sent Slinger sprawling. This occasioned a sudden silence. Was it possible for Slinger Dunn to be worsted?

  “Stand up and fight—you Indian!” yelled Traft. And indeed Dunn had the look and the suppleness of an Indian.

  Dunn, now bloody and dirty, responded as if he had no control over himself, as if this taunting voice could drive him to anything. He crouched and bored in, fighting low, until Traft swung up under his guard. Dunn’s head jerked up. Another blow sent it back, and a third, square on the nose, making the blood fly, landed him on his back.

  This time Slinger did not bounce up. Something was being battered into his consciousness—something that had already dawned upon the crowd. He slowly and cautiously rose, a stream of red running from his nose, down across his tight lips and protruding chin. Again he changed his tactics, proving that a fury of confidence had succeeded to grim realization, and that where an ordinary fighter would have been whipped he still had resource to spirit and energy. He tried a square stand up, give and take. It grew evident that had he adopted this style in the beginning he would at least have done better, for he hit Traft now and then. But the latter could take punishment. If it hurt he gave no sign. His method grew clear to the bystanders, and wagers were shouted out, backing him to win. Molly, in a fit of wild joy at Jim’s unexpected and wonderful ability, jumped up and down on the bench, and it was not certain that she did not cry out.

  Soon down went Slinger again. The blow that prostrated him was from Traft’s right, and was a swing, delivered fast and closely, no doubt to beat his antagonist back and out of balance. Anyway, Molly saw her brother go piling into the dust.

  “Reckon now Slinger will rooster him, an’ it’s shore aboot time,” declared a young fellow in front of Molly.

  “Yep. An’ I’m damn curious,” replied his companion.

  Other remarks were not wanting. Evidently Slinger Dunn was not yet beaten. Molly had heard of the “rooster” trick in fighting, but had never seen it. And her lot had been to see many an encounter between boys of the Cibeque. She had seen more than one dance interrupted, with the dancers fleeing to the walls, while a fierce battle ensued in the middle of the floor.

  But fear for Jim had fled from Molly. He could meet any of Slinger’s backwoods tricks.

  Slinger slowly circled Traft, keeping well away. Undoubtedly Traft was ready for a new attack. When he got rather close to the wall he divined that Dunn was trying to back him into such a position, whereupon he stood stock-still and waited. Suddenly Slinger dove down with incredible swiftness, on the back of his head and neck and elevated his feet even higher than his arms had been.

  His boots were armed with long spurs. He began to kick at Jim. He actually appeared to stand on the back of his neck and his elbows.

  “Rooster him, Slinger!” bawled a lusty-lunged lout. And the crowd of West Forkers roared.

  Molly saw Jim back from this amazing onslaught, and that was what he should not have done. For Slinger, hunching himself on his elbows, quick as a cat, forced Jim to the wall. He dodged one vicious kick that raked the wall. Another caught him on his extended arm, tearing his sleeve from wrist to shoulder. Molly saw a glimpse of red. Then a cruel spur cut open Jim’s chin. At this Molly screamed at her brother, but her voice was lost in the din. If Slinger did not kill Jim he would surely disfigure him for life. She leaped off the bench and darted here and there to get through the circle of men. Suddenly a louder yell, hoarse and thrilling, made Molly desperate. She squeezed into the front.

  Jim, in bent position, had both arms round Slinger’s legs. The terrible spurs stuck up, but they scarcely moved. Jim threw Slinger from him with such force that he turned clear over, his head and shoulders acting as a pivot. He fell with a flop. Jim made one jump and landed square on him with both heavy boots. This overbalanced Jim, who went down, but he went down kicking. Rolling over, he was up and at Slinger just as that hideous blood-and-dirt begrimed individual tried to rise.

  Jim fastened both hands in his neck and lifted him and flung him sheer against the wall, where his head rang like bone on wood. But Jim did not stop. As Slinger, eyes rolling, tongue hanging out, was sinking down, Jim banged him against the wall again, and finished with a terrific sodden blow. Slinger sank down limp and senseless.

  The crowd grew silent. Molly had sense enough to hide behind some one. Jim gazed down a long moment at his beaten antagonist, and then with a scarf he wiped the blood and sweat and dirt from his face. He turned sidewise, so that Molly saw a pale tense cheek.

  “See here—you fellows,” panted Jim, “I come down—here—to lick him—and to offer him—a job. … Reckon he’s not worth it. … But I’ll go through with my part. … Tell him—when he comes to—that if he can play square—there’s a place on the Diamond for him.”

  Then Jim parted the crowd and disappeared. Molly slipped back up on the porch in to the store, and never even thinking of her mother, she hurried through to the other corner store and went out the side entrance. Sobbing, and in a terrible condition of mind, she ran home.

  CHAPTER

  18

  IT did not help much for Molly to be home, safely hidden in her loft, except that presently she could breathe freely and would not be seen. Her world of the Cibeque had come to an end. She had been publicly championed, in a royal way that left no peg for the poison-mongers of West Fork to hang calumny upon. Jim Traft had beaten her brother half to death. He had proclaimed his love in the street, for those who ran to hear. He had blazoned abroad the incredible fact that twice Molly Dunn had refused to marry him and that he meant to ask her again. He had called Slinger Dunn all the dastardly names he could lay his tongue to, had banged and pounded and kicked him to insensibility, and then he had told the crowd Slinger could have a place on the Diamond, if he were man enough to take it.

  Not one of the romances Jim had sent her in book form could reach up to the heights of this true happening in West Fork. How impossible to believe! Yet Molly knew her eyes and ears were to be trusted, if not her heart. Jim Traft had done a marvelous thing. It was breathtaking. He had a noble spirit that might not be wholly realized in the valley, but his ability to whip the wildcat of the Cibeque and then offer him a job on the greatest outfit of the range, would be appreciated. That kind of language was understood down in the brakes.

  Molly began to divine that Jim was invincible. H
e had brought brains and brawn with him, and the West had taken stock of it. He had given his enemies a hard row to hoe. Molly had spent so many hours dreaming and thinking about Jim that now in the light of his decisive and open stand she could understand him. And she summed up her reaction to it all in a tragic whisper: “My land! If he comes heah I—I’ll fall at his feet!”

  Her mother’s return warned Molly that she was liable to have a bad half hour, and she tried to fortify herself.

  “Molly, you up there?” came a trenchant call.

  “Yes, ma.”

  “Come down pronto.”

  Molly started promptly, but lagged slower and slower, and she thought she would drop off the last steps of the ladder. Her mother stood there, arms akimbo, gazing at her with an entirely new and astounding expression.

  “Why’d you run home?” she demanded.

  “There was a fight—an’—an’ it scared me.”

  “It needn’t have—since it was in your honor. … Molly Dunn, did you hear what that young Traft told the crowd?”

  “Yes, ma. I was there.”

  “And it’s the truth? He did ask you to marry him?”

  Molly nodded mournfully. Presently she would be treated to a terrible harangue, and she had already stood enough for one day.

  “It’s all over town. Crowds on the corners talking. I was told by ten or a dozen people. But I couldn’t believe it. You’re sure it’s no trick? I ran everywhere, hunting you.”

  “Mother, it’s the bitter truth,” said Molly, steadily.

  “Bitter! Are you crazy, girl? … It tastes pretty sweet to me. … Did you say ‘No’ to young Traft?”

  “Of course I did.”