Black Mesa. Zane Grey
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under the looming wet cliff that was mirrored in the deep, dark pool beneath. A hundred little threads of water trickled down with soft silky sounds, like the seep of blowing sand in the sage. The pool resembled a huge repellent eye, clear and dark and hard. In the shadow of the cliff it looked deep. At one side, an iron pipe ran from a barrel set in a niche of the cliff, and from this spilled a clear stream of water, splashing on a flagstone. For the rest, the pool was open to wild animals and to the stock of the range. Paul bent down to drink from the end of the pipe. The water was cold and bitter.
Color, sound, the shadow of the cliff, the white band of alkali, like crusted salt, the absence of frogs and water insects, and the rank green sedge—all gave the scene a compelling aspect, as if to force its undeniable power upon the spectator.
Trails led from it in three directions, the largest and most trodden of which struck off to the west, between the knoll and the base of the great slope of the mesa. Down this wide strip of sand and sage Manning espied the moundlike hogans, earth-covered frames, that furnished homes for the nomad Indians. Lean, ugly canines barked and slunk out of sight. Columns of blue smoke rose from the holes in the roofs of the hogans. A black disheveled head peeped from behind a blanketed doorway.
Paul slowly followed Kintell toward the trading post. It stood almost on the top of the knoll, which from this angle appeared to be low. Gray-barked cedars, with naked, twisted branches standing out from the scant green foliage, covered the knoll back of the cabin. It was a big house, irregular in shape, rough and crude, built of logs and clapboards, and roofed with red earth, in which weeds grew luxuriously. Evidently section after section had been added to this rambling jumble of cabins, each with a window but minus doors opening to the outside.
The ragged mustang stood haltered by a leather riata to the hitching rail. The little beast had a mean eye, a humped nose, and a broom-tail. A red blanket lay pressed in the saddle. Several Indians lounged on the porch. Manning was used to seeing Indians at Wagontongue, and had long ceased to look for a picturesque one. These appeared swarthy, beady-eyed, sullen savages. A squaw ambled out of the door of the post. She had a huge, round, pleasant face. She wore a dirty gingham dress and high-heeled shoes that had once been patent leather.
Paul sat down on the edge of the porch. “Ask Belmont to come out,” he said to Kintell. Just after the cowboy had entered, an Indian girl emerged. She was young, and the dark face, with its great, dusky eyes, and the small birdlike head, with its tangled raven tresses, had a singular wild attractiveness. She wore a dark ragged skirt, silver-ornamented moccasins, and a purple velveteen blouse that revealed her full breasts.
Then, with heavy tread that shook the porch, a rugged white man in the prime of life strode out. With coarse and familiar gesture he gave the Indian girl a resounding slap on the backside. “Get the hell out of here, Natasha,” he said, with a voice as hearty as his action. The squaw giggled, but the girl gave him a magnificent, blazing look of hate. At that instant the trader accosted Manning.
“Howdy, Mr. Manning. I’m glad to make your acquaintance.” He had a big voice, a big frame, a big hand. His boldly cut features were not unhandsome, but gave an impression other than pleasant. For a desert man he had a pale complexion. His eyes were a shade between green and hazel. Evidently he was a hard drinker.
Paul shook hands with him, making a commonplace greeting. His instincts were always keen, and instantly he sensed something strong and inhibitive in this meeting.
“Won’t you come in?” asked Belmont. “I can offer you a drink.”
“Thanks, presently. I’d like to sit out here for a while,” returned Paul. “I want to make you a proposition, Belmont.”
“So your cowboy friend said. Glad to hear it.”
Paul called to Kintell, who was trying to flirt with the Indian girl. She was shaking her dusky head and twisting her brown hands in the folds of her dress. She appeared to be a wild and shy creature.
As Belmont plumped himself down expectantly and Kintell joined them to squat after the fashion of outdoor men, Manning continued, “I don’t know, though, just what kind of a proposition I want to make you.”
“Cattle,” interposed Kintell shortly.
“Strikes me fine,” replied the trader, enthusiastically rubbing his big hands. “I’m runnin’ only a thousand head or so. Can’t attend much to range work. An’ the Indians are lazy. But we could run ten thousand head between this post an’ the river. There’s a big basin out here, long easy slope, southern exposure an’ good grass, where the snow melts quick.”
“Reckon Mr. Manning doesn’t aim to throw in any cattle at present,” said Kintell. “He’d buy an interest. Then if the deal panned out he would go in deeper.”
“I see,” rejoined Belmont, plainly disappointed. “Well, I’d consider sellin’ a half interest an’ furnish the water. My partner to run the stock.”
“That sounds reasonable and fair to me,” spoke up Manning.
“Shore, so far as it goes,” drawled the Texan. “How much a head?”
“Forty dollars.”
“Too high. Cattle sellin’ at Wagontongue for thirty.”
“We won’t haggle over that,” returned Belmont impatiently.
“Any hawses?”
“Plenty of mustangs. You’re welcome to your pick.”
Kintell turned to Paul, spreading his expressive hands. “Reckon it’s up to you now, boss.”
“Then it’s a deal,” replied Paul, glad to get the wearisome details settled. He had a feeling that if he considered the matter further he would lose his interest altogether. And he must have some place to stay, some work to do.
“Wal, Belmont, you an’ me will make the count of cattle. Then we’ll all ride into Wagontongue, fix up papers, payments an’ such. . . . After which I’ll teach Manning to be a cowpuncher.”
“Right-o,” acceded the trader, beaming.
“Wess, I don’t want to go back to town,” said Paul thoughtfully. “You won’t need me. I’ll give you a blank check. Get a lawyer to draw up the contract. . . . Go to my room and fetch all my clothes, everything. Buy me a saddle, bridle, blanket, spurs—all a rider needs—”
“You can buy all that right here,” interrupted Belmont, with gusto.
“Wal, if Belmont wants to rustle with me we can make thet count today an’ get off for Wagontongue tonight.”
“Rustle is my middle name, cowboy,” returned the trader heartily.
“Rustle or—rustler?” drawled Kintell, with a geniality that robbed the query of all save subtlety.
“Yes, I’ve been that last, too, in my younger days,” boomed Belmont, with a loud laugh. “Suppose you come in, Manning. This post ain’t no hotel, but I can put you up tolerable. An’ Sister can’t be beat as a cook.”
Despite Paul’s year of residence in Wagontongue, where he had gone from college at Lawrence, Kansas, to take up a career of writing, he had never been inside a trading post. The great, poorly lighted, barnlike place smelled of sheep wool, tobacco, hides and other odorous things Paul could not identify. A high counter ran the length of the room on one side and a low one on the other. Both were piled with colorful merchandise. Behind the low counter stretched rows of shelves packed with a miscellaneous assortment of objects, most prominent of which were saddles, blankets, bridles, harnesses, boots and sombreros, and a bewildering array of utensils for camp use. A rack of farming tools and one for guns, and shelves full of dry goods, mostly cheap gaudy ginghams and various colored velveteens, attested further to the trader’s surprising stock of merchandise.
A wide door opened into a stone-floored storeroom containing barrels, tins, bins of carded wool and huge burlap sacks, stuffed full, and piles of stinking goat hides.
Belmont