Thunder Mountain

by Zane Grey

  A settler named Olsen lived there with his small family. Lee had supper with him and talked casually.

  “Been prospectin’,” he explained. “Don’t care for it much. But I like ranchin’. Could you use a good cowman?”

  “Huh! Got more work than I can do. Couldn’t pay wages, though. Fact is I’d like to sell out.”

  “That’s interestin’. What’d you take?”

  “I’d hate to have some real money shoved at me,” replied the settler, tersely.

  “So?—Well, if I strike pay dirt I’ll come back an’ shove some at you.”

  Next day, late, Kalispel trudged footsore and weary into Salmon. He had been there several times and he liked the place. It had been a mining-town for years and had seen more than one gold boom. Even in dull times Salmon was a bustling center, being a distributing point between towns over the Montana line and those west into Idaho as far as Boise. Salmon resembled other Western mining-towns in its one long, wide, main street, but off this thoroughfare it reminded Lee of some of the hamlets back in Missouri.

  He found pasture for his burros, and made a deal to secure three more, including pack-saddles. Then he repaired to the main street and a lodging-house he knew. When former acquaintances failed to recognize him, Kalispel decided that he must be a pretty dirty, bearded, ragged, hard-looking customer. The best he could do that night was to wash and shave, which helped mightily; but he seriously appreciated the fact that he must make a most advantageous deal in buying the supplies so that he would have money enough left for a new outfit. His boots had no soles and his trousers hung in tatters. He recalled a girl whose acquaintance he had made on a former sojourn in Salmon—what was her name?—and he could not present himself to her in this scarecrow garb.

  Kalispel put on his coat, then had to remove it because he had slipped one arm through a rent instead of the sleeve. This was another rueful reminder of his poverty. He did not care about his appearance or even comfort while out on the range or in the wilds, but here in town among people he did not like his poverty. He blew out the lamp and left his room.

  In the yellow flare of a hall lamp he saw two figures at the head of the stairway—a young woman standing with her back toward him, facing a man who had started down the steps and was looking back.

  “Dad, please don’t leave me alone. I—” she was entreating, in a voice that would have arrested Kalispel even if her small, dark, graceful head had not.

  “You’ll be all right, Sydney,” replied the man, with a laugh. “You’re out West now and must look after yourself. I want to talk to some miners. Go to bed.”

  He stamped on down the rickety stairway. The girl partly turned as Kalispel passed her and he caught a glimpse of a pale, clean-cut profile, striking enough in that poor light to make him want to turn and stare. But he resisted the desire and went quickly down, wanting to get another look at the father of that girl. He caught an odor of rum. There was a barroom connected with this lodging-house, but there was no doorway opening into it from the hall. Kalispel followed the man outside, where at the street corner under the yellow lights he met several men in rough garb, evidently waiting for him.

  Kalispel approached them. “Howdy men,” he said, genially. “I’m a stranger hereabouts. Where can I eat?”

  “Reckon I’ve seen you before,” replied one, a keeneyed, hard-visaged Westerner who apparently missed nothing in Kalispel’s make-up, especially not the gun hanging low.

  “Yeah? All the same I’m a stranger an’ hungry,” retorted Lee, as he returned the searching scrutiny.

  “Young fellow, there’s a good restaurant a few doors below,” replied the man Lee wanted a second glance at. He was beyond middle age, a handsome man with lined, weak face and dark eyes full of havoc. His frame was not robust and his garb betokened the tenderfoot.

  “Thanks. Would you have a bite with me?” returned Kalispel.

  “I had mine early.”

  “Say, cowpuncher, mozy along, will you?” broke in another of the trio of Westerners. He had a lean sallow face, a long drooping mustache, and eyes that burned in the shadow of his sombrero.

  That was sufficient to ignite the spark always smoldering in Lee’s spirit.

  “Why shore I’ll mozy along—when I get ready,” he replied, curtly.

  “Ain’t you thet Kalispel cowboy late of Montana?” queried the man who had first spoken, as with a slight gesture he silenced his lean-jawed companion.

  “Yeah, I happen to be that cowboy—Kalispel Emerson”.

  “Wal, no offense meant,” rejoined the other, hurriedly. “We jest want to talk business to Mr. Blair hyar. An’ time’s pressin’.”

  Kalispel did not trouble to reply. He fixed piercing eyes upon the tenderfoot, who appeared to sense something amiss, but could not gather what. “Excuse me, Mr. Blair, if I give you a hunch, usin’ the advice I just heard you give your daughter. You’re out West now an’ must look after yourself.”

  With that pointed speech Kalispel wheeled to pass on down the street. “Dog-gone!” he soliloquized. “They’ll fleece the socks off that tenderfoot....An’ the wolf-jawed hombre—where’d I ever see him? Gambler, I’ll bet....Well, it’s none of my mix. I’ve trouble of my own. But that girl—now——”

  Kalispel went into the restaurant to go about appeasing his ravenous hunger. He had not had a square meal for so long that he felt like a starved bear. His quick eyes surveyed the assembled males, not one of which was a cowman. From long habit Kalispel always looked for that uncertain quantity. He fell to conversing with a miner and soon forgot the Blair incident. Then, in a few moments, he was attending to savory food set before him.

  Then Kalispel, cheerful and responsive to exciting surroundings, strode out to see the town. How many nights had he ridden in off the range to make up for the monotony of a rider’s life! But a voice cautioned him to remember the importance of his mission. No bucking the tiger—not a single drop of red liquor! This somewhat subdued his exuberance. Still, he would have to look, anyhow, and to that end he made the rounds of the saloons, the gambling-dens and dance-halls, winding up at the Spread Eagle, a composite resort at the edge of town on the bank of the river. This place was in full blast, and as Kalispel went into the big barnlike, gaudily-decorated dance-hall, full of smoke and the merry roar of music and dancers, he experienced a thought that had come to him many a time before—it would be well for him to have an anchor. He liked this sort of fling, which he argued would be all right, if it were not for the drink and fights and worse that seemed to attend a lonesome cowboy’s infrequent visits to town.

  Presently, at the end of a dance, he saw a girl detach herself from a burly dancer, to make her way in his direction. Kalispel had observed that, besides himself, there was not a young fellow in the hall. And this girl was hardly more than sixteen. She was little in stature, pretty in a birdlike way, with golden hair, and certainly was most inadequately clothed for such a cool night. She accosted Kalispel with a query as to where she had met him before.

  “Gawd only knows, sweetheart. I’m shore a rollin’ stone.”

  “You’re not one of these mining galoots?” she asked, quickly. “I’ll bet you’re a grub-line cowpuncher out of a job.”

  “Plumb center, little girl. Gosh! but you’re smart. An’ you know the range, too.”

  “Put on your hat, unless you want to dance with me. I’m not used to bareheaded men,” she returned, testily, while she fastened penetrating blue eyes on him.

  “I’d like to dance with you, but I’m too much of a ragamuffin.”

  “That’s no matter. Come on.”

  “Besides, I’ve no money to buy drinks.”

  “I don’t want to drink. I can’t stand much. I hate these club-footed, rum-soaked miners who slobber over me and paw me....And I kind of like you, cowboy.”

  “Dog-gone it, I like you too,” replied Kalispel, dubiously, feeling a wave of the old loneliness surge over him.

  She was about to put a hand on his arm
when a pale-faced, sombre-eyed man, approaching from behind Kalispel, with a slight gesture of authority, sent her hurriedly away.

  “Young fellow, you’ll excuse me,” he said, coldly. “Nugget is much in demand.”

  “Nugget?” queried Kalispel, slowly.

  “Yes, Nugget. Nobody knows her real name.”

  “Ah-huh. Suppose I take this act of yours as an insult. Your Spread Eagle is open to all.”

  “Certainly, but not over cordial to tramps.”

  “Your mistake, mister, an’ damned risky,” flashed Kalispel, changing to a menace the bitter range had fostered in him. “If I had intended to dance with your Nugget—an’ she asked me to—you’d be dancin’ to dodge hot bullets with your feet, right this minute.”

  Whereupon Kalispel lunged out of the glaring hall into the cold, dark night. It was getting late and the street was no longer crowded. He took to its center and made for his lodging-house. A familiar old sensation assailed him, a weakening, a sinking down, always in the past the precursor to a drinking debauch and a period of oblivion. But this had to be battled now. His status had changed. There was fortune to be made and happiness to achieve. In that clarifying passionate moment of vision he saw the future, and it was like a picture, beautiful and golden and rosy.

  He reached the tavern. Men were passing in and out of the crowded noisy saloon. Kalispel went into the hall and up the rickety stairway. The lamp burned brightly on the landing of the second floor. As he turned toward his door he heard a low agitated voice, “Get out—of here!”

  He stopped short. That Blair girl, whom her father had called Sydney! A man’s voice, hurried and sibilant, answered her. “Sssch! Some one will hear. Listen to me——”

  “No! Get out of my room!” she cried, her voice poignant with anger and fear.

  Kalispel saw that her door was ajar. In two long strides he reached it and with forceful hand shoved it open violently. The act disclosed a tall man starting back from this sudden intrusion, and a white-faced girl, with dark eyes distended in fear, in the act of slipping off her bed. She was clad in a long nightgown and with one hand held the edge of a blanket to her breast. A lighted lamp stood on a little table close to her bed; a book lay face open on the floor.

  “Pardon, Lady,” said Kalispel, curtly. “Did I hear you order some one from your room?”

  “Yes—you did,” she replied, poignantly.

  “All a mistake. I got in the wrong room,” spoke up the man, with a short laugh that betrayed little concern for this intruder but considerable annoyance at the intrusion. He had to brush by Kalispel to get out the door.

  “It was not a mistake,” spoke up the girl, hotly. “He came in. I asked if it were Dad. He saw me—in bed—reading. I ordered him out. Twice! But he—he came toward me.”

  “Aw, nonsense!” rasped the man, halted by her accusation to confront Kalispel. He had bold eyes that gleamed, a protruding, clean-shaven jowl, a forceful presence. “She’s a tenderfoot, scared silly because I happened to open her door instead of mine.”

  “Ah-huh. Why didn’t you step out quick when you saw the lady in bed?” demanded Kalispel.

  “I was going to.”

  “Say, I heard her order you out. Twice!”

  “Look here, are you questioning me, you——”

  “Not any more,” interrupted Kalispel. “But I’ll take a whack at you.”

  A sharp left-handed blow sent the man staggering back off his balance. He might have gained his equilibrium, but Kalispel leaped after him and swung a terrific right to that prominent jaw. The sudden blow knocked him against the railing, which gave way with a crack. He went down the stairway, to fall with a resounding crash to the floor below. The jar that accompanied the crash brought the trample of heavy boots and excited voices of men entering below.

  “Lady, shut your door,” called Kalispel, and whipped out his gun. He hardly expected any trouble from the offending Romeo he had knocked down, but he had lived to distrust these incidents so often forced upon him.

  “It’s Borden,” rang out a hoarse voice. “Dead—or damn near it!”

  “Back of his head all bloody,” spoke up another man. “Must have been hit with an ax. Hold up, mebbe. Thet Casper outfit in town. He had a big roll on him. I seen him flash it today. Search him, boss.”

  “Hold the lamp, somebody....Nope—no hold up. Here’s his money an’ watch.”

  “He’s not dead, either. He’s cornin’ to.”

  Kalispel stepped to the head of the stairway. “Hey, down there!” he called.

  There followed a tense pause, then, “Hey yoreself!”

  “Who is that man?”

  “What man?”

  “Why, the one I just rapped gently on the chin.”

  “Ha! It must have been orful gentle, stranger.”

  “Wal, come out with it. Who an’ what is he?”

  “His name’s Cliff Borden. An’ he’s well known hyar. Part owner of the Spread Eagle. Buys minin’ claims, an’——”

  “Forces his way into a young lady’s bedroom,” interrupted Kalispel, scornfully. “An’ wouldn’t get out when she ordered him out.... Now listen, you Salmon gentlemen. Drag Mister Borden out of this lodgin’-house an’ when he comes to his senses tell him he’d better steer clear of me.”

  “An’ who might you be, young fellar?” queried the gruff leader below.

  “My name is Emerson an’ I hail from Kalispel.”

  A whispering ensued, which soon gave place to the clearer voices of men engaged in lifting and carrying Borden out of the house.

  After a moment Kalispel sheathed his gun and stood irresolute. Should he not assure the girl that the incident was past? The fact of her door being ajar emboldened him, and he knocked.

  “Who is there?” came the quick response.

  “It’s me, Miss Blair.”

  The door opened wide. Kalispel had intended to inform the girl that all was well, but sight of her sent his thoughts whirling. She had thrown a dressing-gown over her shoulders, the effect of which simply enhanced a beauty he had only faintly grasped upon first sight.

  “Oh!... Is—is he dead?” she faltered, with great, dark eyes upon him.

  “Goodness no, miss!” exclaimed Kalispel, hastily. “I only hit him. Shore he fell hard an’ must have busted his head below. They said it was all bloody. Don’t you fear for him, miss. He’s not hurt much.”

  “You misunderstand me. I don’t fear for him. I wouldn’t care—if—if you had killed him.”

  “Aw, now!” ejaculated Kalispel, staring. A flush came over the whiteness of her cheek. Her face was the loveliest thing Kalispel had ever gazed upon. He felt something terrible happening to his heart.

  “I thank you for saving me—I—I don’t know what,” she said, tremulously.

  “Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad as it looked,” replied Kalispel, lamely. “He might have made a mistake about your door—an’ then, after he was in—just lost his head, you know—which wouldn’t be no wonder.”

  “You are generous to him, and—and—” she replied, suddenly to check her reply and to blush scarlet. “But I should tell you that he followed me today. He spoke to me twice. He knew this was my room.”

  “I stand corrected, Miss Blair,” returned Kalispel. “It will be just as well for Mr. Cliff Borden to keep out of sight tomorrow.”

  “I heard what you told those men to tell him.”

  “Yes? I’m sorry. That wasn’t nice talk for a girl new to the West.”

  “I’m new, all right,” she breathed, almost passionately. “I’m a most atrocious tenderfoot—and I—I ha-hate this West.”

  “I’m terrible sorry to hear that, miss,” replied Kalispel, earnestly. “It’s shore tough on newcomers. I know. I came from Missouri years ago....But you’ll love it some day....Here I am keepin’ you up! I only wanted to tell you everythin’ was all right.”

  “But it’s not,” she said. “There’s no lock on my door. That’s why I was readi
ng while waiting for Dad. His room is next to mine. Only, he stays out so late. And he comes in——”

  She broke off confusedly, evidently in her serious train of thought about to betray something not favorable to her father.

  “You’ll be all right. Never mind when your Dad comes in. Shut your door tight an’ brace it with a chair under the knob. My room is just at the head of the stairs. An’ havin’ been a cowboy, I sleep with one eye open. I’d hear if a mouse came sneakin’ up this hall.”

  “Thank you,” she replied, shyly. “I will see you tomorrow....Good night, Mr. Kalispel.”

  He bade her good night and went to his room, to light his lamp and sit upon his bed, for long so absorbed that he had no idea where he was nor what he was doing.

  Around midnight Kalispel heard voices below in the lower hall. He opened his door slightly. Blair had evidently been accompanied, if not escorted, back to the lodging-house by his Western acquaintances. They were hot on his trail. Kalispel heard him stumble over the broken steps and come up breathing heavily, to open and close a door. Kalispel undressed and went to bed.

  He was up early, the first to await breakfast in the restaurant. From there he went to the largest store in town and presented his list of supplies, and told how he wanted them packed for a hard trip into the mountains. His next errand was out to the pasture. This proved to be unfruitful, as the owner was in town, whereupon Kalispel went back.

  He remarked to himself that he had seen the sun shine before, he had seen the pearly, fuzzy buds opening on the willows, he had been out on many and many a cold sparkling spring morning with the gold and rose on the hills; but no morning nor one of the things he noted had ever been so beautiful and heart-swelling as now.