Dorn Of The Mountains

by Zane Grey

“If you need to be told…yes…I reckon I do love you, Nell Rayner,” he replied.

  It seemed to Helen that he spoke from far off. She lifted her face, her heart on her lips. “If you kill Beasley I’ll never marry you,” she said.

  “Who’s expectin’ you to?” he asked with low coarse laugh. “Do you think you have to marry me to square accounts? This’s the only time you ever hurt me, Nell Rayner.…I’m shamed you could think I’d expect you…out of gratitude….”

  “Oh…you…you are as dense as the forest where you live,” she cried. And then she shut her eyes again, the better to remember that transfiguration of his face, the better to betray herself. “Man…I love you!” Full and deep, yet tremulous, the words burst from her heart that had been burdened with them for many a day.

  Then it seemed in the throbbing riot of her senses that she was lifted and swung into his arms, and handled with a great and terrible tenderness, and hugged and kissed with the hunger and awkwardness of a bear, and held with her feet off the ground, and rendered blind, dizzy, rapturous, and frightened, and utterly torn asunder from her old calm thinking self.

  He put her down—released her. “Nothin’ could have made me so happy as what you said.” He finished with a strong sigh of unutterable wondering joy.

  “Then you will not go to…to meet…?” Helen’s happy query froze on her lips.

  “I’ve got to go,” he rejoined with his old quiet voice. “Hurry in to Bo…. An’ don’t worry. Try to think of things as I taught you up in the woods.”

  Helen heard his soft padded footfalls swiftly pass away. She was left there, alone in the darkening twilight, suddenly cold and stricken, as if turned to stone.

  Thus she stood an age-long moment until the upflashing truth galvanized her into action. Then she flew in pursuit of Dorn. The truth was that, in spite of Dorn’s early training in the East and the long years of solitude that had made him wonderful in thought and feeling, he had also become a part of this raw bold and violent West.

  It was quite dark now and she had run quite some distance before she saw Dorn’s tall dark form against the yellow light of Turner’s saloon. Somehow in that poignant moment, when her flying feet kept pace with her heart, Helen felt in herself a force opposing itself against this raw primitive justice of the West. She was one of the first influences emanating from civilized life, from law and order. In that flash of truth she saw the West as it would be some future time when through women and children these wild frontier days would be gone forever. Also, just as clearly she saw the present need of men like Roy Beeman and Dorn and the fire-blooded Carmichael. Beasley and his kind must be killed. But Helen did not want her lover, her future husband, and the probable father of her children, to commit what she held to be murder.

  At the door of the saloon she caught up with Dorn. “Milt…oh…wait…wait!” she panted.

  She heard him curse under his breath, as he turned. They were alone in the yellow glare of light. Horses were champing bits and drooping before the rails.

  “You go back!” ordered Dorn sternly. His face was pale, his eyes were gleaming.

  “No! Not till…you take me…or carry me,” she replied resolutely, with all a woman’s positive and inevitable assurance.

  Then he laid hold of her with ungentle hands. His violence, especially the look on his face, terrified Helen, rendered her weak. But nothing could have shaken her resolve. She felt victory. Her sex, her love, and her presence would be too much for Dorn.

  As he swung Helen around, the low hum of voices inside the saloon suddenly rose to a sharp hoarse roar accompanied by a scuffling of feet and crashing of violently sliding chairs or tables. Dorn let go of Helen and leaped toward the doors. But a silence inside, quicker and stranger than the roar, halted him. Helen’s heart contracted, then seemed to cease beating. There was absolutely not a perceptible sound. Even the horses appeared, like Dorn, to have turned to statues.

  Two thundering shots annihilated this silence. Then quickly came a lighter shot—the smash of glass. Dorn ran into the saloon. The horses began to snort, to rear, to pound. A low muffled murmur terrified Helen even as it drew her. Dashing at the door, she swung it in and entered.

  The place was dim, blue-hazed, smelling of smoke. Dorn stood just inside the door. On the floor lay two men. Chairs and tables were overturned. A motley, dark, shirt-sleeved, booted, and belted crowd of men appeared hunched against the opposite wall with pale set faces turned to the bar. Turner, the proprietor, stood at one end, his hands aloft and shaking. Carmichael leaned against the middle of the bar. He held a gun low down. It was smoking.

  With a gasp Helen flashed her eyes back to Dorn. He had seen her—was reaching an arm toward her. Then she saw the man lying almost at her feet. Jeff Mulvey—her uncle’s old foreman! His face was awful to behold. A smoking gun lay near his inert hand. The other man had fallen on his face. His garb proclaimed him a Mexican. He was not yet dead. Then Helen, as she felt Dorn’s arm encircle her, looked further because she could not prevent it—looked on at that strange figure against the bar—this boy who had been such a friend in her hour of need—this naive and frank sweetheart of her sister’s.

  She saw a man now—wild, white, intense as fire, with some terrible cool kind of deadliness in his mien. His left elbow rested upon the bar, and his hand held a glass of red liquor. The big gun, low down in his other hand, seemed as steady as if it were a fixture.

  “Heah’s to thet…half-breed Beasley an’ his outfit!”

  Carmichael drank while his flaming eyes held the crowd, then with savage action of terrible passion he flung the glass at the quivering form of the still living Mexican on the floor.

  Helen felt herself slipping. All seemed to darken around her. She could not see Dorn, although she knew he held her. Then she fainted.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Las Vegas Carmichael was a product of his day.

  The Panhandle of Texas, the old Chisholm Trail along which were driven the great cattle herds northward, Fort Dodge where the cowboys conflicted with the cardsharps—these hard places had left their marks on Carmichael. To come from Texas was to come from fighting stock and a cowboy’s life was strenuous, wild, violent, and generally brief. The exceptions were the fortunate and the swiftest men with guns, and they drifted from south to north and west, taking with them the reckless chivalrous vitriolic spirit peculiar to their breed.

  The pioneers and ranchers of the frontier would never have made the West habitable had it not been for these wild cowboys, these hard-drinking, hard-riding, hard-living rangers of the barrens, these easy, cool, laconic, simple young men whose blood was tinged with fire and who possessed the strange power to transform into a magnificent and terrible effrontery toward danger and death.

  Las Vegas ran his horse from Widow Cass’s cottage to Turner’s saloon, and the hoofs of the goaded steed crashed in the door. Las Vegas’s entrance was a leap. Then he stood still with the door ajar and the horse pounding and snorting back. All the men in that saloon who saw the entrance of Las Vegas knew what it portended. No thunderbolt could have more quickly checked the drinking, gambling, talking crowd. They recognized with kindred senses the nature of the man and his arrival. For a second the blue-hazed room was perfectly quiet, then men breathed, moved, rose, and suddenly caused a quick sliding crash of chairs and tables.

  The cowboy’s glittering eyes flashed to and fro, and then fixed on Mulvey and his Mexican companion. That glance singled out these two, and the sudden rush of nervous men proved it. Mulvey and the sheepherders were left alone in the center of the floor.

  “Howdy, Jeff. Where’s your boss?” asked Las Vegas. His voice was cool, friendly; his manner was easy, natural, but the look of him was what made Mulvey pale and the Mexican livid.

  “Reckon he’s home,” replied Mulvey.

  “Home? What’s he call home now?”

  “He’s hangin’ out hyar at Auchincloss’s,” replied Mulvey. His voice was not strong, but his eyes were ste
ady, watchful.

  Las Vegas quivered all over as if stung. A flame that seemed white and red gave his face a singular hue.

  “Jeff, you worked for old Al a long time, an’ I’ve heard of your differences,” said Las Vegas. “Thet ain’t no mix of mine…. But you double-crossed Miss Helen!”

  Mulvey made no attempt to deny this. He gulped slowly. His hands appeared less steady, and he grew paler. Again Las Vegas’s words signified less than his look. And that look now included the Mexican.

  “Pedro, you’re one of Beasley’s old hands,” said Las Vegas accusingly. “An’…you was one of them four greasers thet….”

  Here the cowboy choked and bit over his words as if they were a material poison. The Mexican showed his guilt and his cowardice. He began to jabber.

  “Shet up!” hissed Las Vegas with a savage and significant jerk of his arm, as if about to strike. But that action was read for its true meaning. Pell-mell the crowd split to rush each way and leave an open space behind the three.

  Las Vegas waited. But Mulvey seemed obstructed. The Mexican looked dangerous through his fear. His fingers twitched as if the tendons running up into his arms were being pulled.

  An instant of suspense—more than long enough for Mulvey to be tried and found wanting—and Las Vegas, with laugh and sneer, turned his back upon the pair and stepped to the bar. His call for a bottle made Turner jump and hold it out with shaking hands. Las Vegas poured out a drink while his gaze was intent on the scarred old mirror hanging behind the bar.

  This turning his back upon men he had just dared to draw showed what kind of a school Las Vegas had been trained in. If those men had been worthy antagonists of his class, he would never have scorned them. As it was, when Mulvey and the Mexican jerked at their guns, Las Vegas swiftly wheeled and shot twice. Mulvey’s gun went off as he fell, and the Mexican doubled up in a heap on the floor. Then Las Vegas reached around with his left hand for the drink he had poured out.

  At this juncture Dorn burst into the saloon suddenly to check his impetus, to swerve aside toward the bar, and halt. The door had not ceased swinging when again it was propelled inward, this time to admit Helen Rayner, white and wide-eyed.

  In another moment then Las Vegas had spoken his deadly toast to Beasley’s gang and had fiercely flung the glass at the writhing Mexican on the floor. Also, Dorn had gravitated toward the reeling Helen to catch her when she fainted.

  Las Vegas began to curse, and, striding to Dorn, he pushed him out of the saloon.

  “…What’re you doin’ heah?” he yelled stridently. “Hevn’t you got thet girl to think of? Then do it, you…big Indian! Lettin’ her run after you heah…riskin’ herself thet way! You take care of her an’ Bo, an’ leave this deal to me!”

  The cowboy, furious as he was at Dorn, yet had keen swift eyes for the horses at hand and the men out in the dim light. Dorn lifted the girl into his arms and, turning without a word, stalked away to disappear in the darkness. Las Vegas, holding his gun low, returned to the barroom. If there had been any change in the crowd, it was slight, but the tension had relaxed. Turner no longer stood with hands up.

  “You-all go on with your fun!” called the cowboy with a sweep of his gun. “But it’d be risky fer anyone to start leavin’.”

  With that, he backed against the bar, near where the black bottle stood. Turner walked out to begin righting tables and chairs, and presently the crowd, with some caution and suspense, resumed their games and drinking. It was significant that a wide berth lay between them and the door. From time to time Turner served liquor to men who called for it.

  Las Vegas leaned with back against the bar. After a while he sheathed his gun and reached around for the bottle. He drank with his piercing eyes upon the door. No one entered and no one went out. The games of chance there and the drinking were not enjoyed. It was a hard scene—that smoky, long, ill-smelling room with its dim yellow lights and dark evil faces, with the stealthy-stepping Turner staring in horrible fixity at the ceiling, and the Mexican quivering more and more until he shook violently, then lay still, and with the drinking somber waiting cowboy, more fiery and more flaming with every drink, listening for a step that did not come.

  Time passed, and what little change they wrought was in the cowboy. Drink affected him, but he did not become drunk. It seemed that the liquor he drank was consumed by a mounting fire. It was fuel to a driving passion. He grew more sullen, somber, brooding, redder of eye and face, more crouching and restless. At last, when the hour was so late that there was no probability of Beasley’s appearing, Las Vegas flung himself out of the saloon.

  All lights of the village had now been extinguished. The tired horses drooped in the darkness. Las Vegas found his horse and led him away down the road and out a lane to a field where a barn stood, dim and dark, in the starlight. Morning was not far off. He unsaddled the horse and, turning him loose, went into the barn. Here he seemed familiar with his surroundings, for he found a ladder and climbed to a loft, where he threw himself on the hay.

  He rested, but did not sleep. At daylight he went down and brought his horse into the barn. Sunrise found Las Vegas pacing to and fro the short length of the interior, and peering out through wide cracks between the boards. Then during the succeeding couple of hours he watched the occasional horse man and wagon and herder that passed on into the village.

  About the breakfast hour Las Vegas saddled his horse and rode back the way he had come the night before. At Turner’s he called for something to eat as well as for whiskey. After that he became a listening, watching machine. He drank freely for an hour, then he stopped. He seemed to be drunk, but with a different kind of drunkenness from that usual in drinking men. Savage, fierce, sullen, he was one to avoid. Turner waited on him in evident fear.

  At length Las Vegas’s condition became such that action was involuntary. He could not stand still or sit down. Stalking out, he passed the store, where men slouched back to avoid him, and he went down the road, wary and alert, as if he expected a rifle shot from some hidden enemy. Upon his return down that main thoroughfare of the village not a person was to be seen. He went back into Turner’s. The proprietor was there at his post, nervous and pale. Las Vegas did not order any more liquor.

  “Turner, I reckon I’ll bore you next time I run in heah,” he said, and stalked out.

  He had the stores, the road, the village to himself, and he patrolled a beat like a sentry watching for an Indian attack.

  Toward noon a single man ventured out into the road to accost the cowboy.

  “Las Vegas, I’m tellin’ you…all the greasers air leavin’ the range,” he said.

  “Howdy, Abe,” replied Las Vegas. “What’n hell you talkin’ aboot?”

  The man repeated his information. And Las Vegas spat out frightful curses.

  “Abe…you heah what Beasley’s doin’?”

  “Yes. He’s with his men…up at the ranch. Reckon he can’t put off ridin’ down much longer.”

  That was where the West spoke. Beasley would be forced to meet the enemy who had come out single-handedly against him. Long before this hour a braver man would have come to face Las Vegas. Beasley could not hire any gang to bear the brunt of this situation. This was the test by which even his own men must judge him. All of which was to say that as the wildness of the West had made possible his crimes so it now held him responsible for them.

  “Abe, if thet…greaser don’t rustle down heah, I’m goin’ after him.”

  “Sure. But don’t be in no hurry,” replied Abe.

  “I’m waltzin’ to slow music…. Gimme a smoke.”

  With fingers that slightly trembled Abe rolled a cigarette, lit it from his own, and handed it to the cowboy.

  “Las Vegas, I reckon I hear hosses,” he said suddenly.

  “Me, too,” replied Las Vegas with his head held high like that of a listening deer. Apparently he forgot the cigarette and also his friend. Abe hurried back to the store, where he disappeared.

 
Las Vegas began his stalking up and down, and his action now was an exaggeration of all his former movements. A rational ordinary mortal from some Eastern community, happening to meet this red-faced cowboy, would have considered him drunk or crazy. Probably Las Vegas looked both. But all the same he was a marvelously keen and strung and efficient instrument to meet the portending issue. How many thousands of times, on the trails, and in the wide-streeted little towns all over the West had this stalk of the cowboy’s been perpetrated! Violent, bloody, tragic as it was, it had an importance in that pioneer day equal to the use of a horse or the need of a plow.

  At length Pine was apparently a deserted village, except for Las Vegas, who patrolled his long beat in many strange ways—he lounged while he watched; he stalked like a mountaineer; he stole along Indian fashion, stealthily, from tree to tree, from corner to corner; he disappeared in the saloon to reappear at the back; he went through the yards of the villagers and slipped around behind the barns to come out again in the main road; and time after time he approached his horse as if deciding to mount.

  The last visit he made into Turner’s saloon, he found no one there. Savagely he pounded on the bar with his gun. He got no response. Then the long pent-up rage burst. With wild whoops he pulled another gun and shot at the mirror, the lamps. He shot the neck off a bottle and drank till he choked, his neck corded, bulging and purple. His only slow and deliberate action was the reloading of his gun. Then he crashed through the doors, and with a wild yell leaped sheerly into the saddle, hauling his horse up high and goading him to plunge away.

  Men running to the doors and windows of the store saw a streak of dust flying down the road. And then they trooped out to see it disappear. The hour of suspense ended for them. Las Vegas had lived up to the code of the West, had dared his man out, had waited far longer than needful to prove that man a coward. What ever the issue now, Beasley was branded forever. That moment saw the decline of what ever power he had wielded. He and his men might kill the cowboy who had ridden out alone to face him, but that would not change the brand.