Essential Western Novels - Volume 6. Zane Grey
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for one instant. He had no wish to "show off" at the expense of his roughly speaking friends. Tommy's garrulity, considering how little he really had to say, sounded like the prattle of a child among grown-ups; but he was a good, well-meaning boy. Daily he spoke of getting work on the Double X, where Lin Sherwood could use another rider; but he had made no attempt to go, preferring to stay where she was and to follow her about at every opportunity.
Then came the afternoon when Johnny volunteered to show his guests about the ranch and they had set out, Tex remaining behind. Jane had felt a restraint at the thought of how close she and the ex-marshal would be thrown together on this ranch, but soon found it to be groundless. Deferential, reserved, friendly, he had not obtruded, and apparently had not noticed Tommy's attentions. They rode off, Jerry with their host, Tommy at the side of Jane. When down in the main valley Johnny had turned off to look at the fenced-in quicksands, Jerry going with him to see the now harmless death trap, and Tommy remained behind with her; and when they returned they found a flushed Jane and a despondent Tommy. The following morning when she sat down to a late breakfast with Mr. Arnold, Johnny's father-in-law, she learned quite casually that Tommy had gone to the Double X and that the rest of the men, her brother included, had ridden up to the north wire to make some repairs. Arnold explained about the difficulty of keeping the posts up along the bottom of the ravine where he had suffered his broken leg, and he told her of the fondness of the cattle for the wilderness of brush and of the difficult task of running a round-up on that part of the ranch.
"Let me throw a saddle on yore horse, Miss Saunders," he suggested. "It will make a pleasant ride for you; an' you can take 'em up some lunch if you like. They've got a bigger task than they think, for th' ravine floor is solid rock. I'll send Charley with you—he's on th' rampage because he overslept and I wouldn't let him go up and bother them. But he might as well go."
She thought for a moment, and then turned a grave and pitiful face to him.
"I feel that I can ask you anything, Mr. Arnold; and I'm so upset."
"You certainly can, Miss Saunders," he replied, abandoning the vernacular in response to her way of speaking.
She hurriedly told him of the killing of Henry Williams, of the blood on her hands, but avoided the real appeal, the question she must find her own answer to. He heard her through, and, arising, placed a fatherly hand on her shoulder.
"Jane," he said, slowly shaking his head. "Environment, circumstances, change all things. There's not a man on this ranch that doesn't feel proud of what he knows about you. A woman has as much right, and often a greater need, to defend herself, as a man has. Don't you worry about that beast; and don't you worry about anyone coming down here after you. We can muster forty fighting men, if we need them, purely on Johnny's say-so. We're all proud of you. Now I'll saddle your horse while Peggy puts up the lunch. You and Charley can easily carry it between you. There's no place down here where you can't safely go; but please keep in the saddle while you're on the range. These cattle are dangerous to anyone afoot."
While the simple preparations were being made she heard Charley's exultant whoops and soon she rode with him toward the upper end of the small valley, listening to his worshiping chatter about his heroes. Now he had a new one, the man who could pull poker hands out of a fellow's nose, eyes, and ears.
"He'd 'a' got that Hennery feller, too," he averred, "only you beat him out. Gee, Miss Saunders! Wish I'd 'a' been there! I ain't never shot nobody yet—but you just wait, that's all! I heard Tex say he'd 'a' shot up th' whole d—d town if they'd tried to bother you—an' Hoppy said he could 'a' done it, easy! Hoppy knows, too. Why don't you like Tex, Miss Saunders? I think he's aces-up!"
"Why, I do, Charley. Whatever made you ask me that?"
"Well, if you do, Tex don't think so," he grumbled. "You know that pile of rock, up on th' hill where th' Gunsight trail winds like a letter S?"
She nodded. She could see it plainly from her window.
"Well, I was layin' up there, keepin' watch for that Williams' gang, an' he never even reckoned anybody was near him!" he boasted. "Takes a good man to find me when I don't want him to, I tell you. Injuns can't, an' they're cussed cute, Hoppy says."
"Who was it who didn't see you?"
"Tex," chuckled the boy. "He come walkin' along like there wasn't nobody around, an' he sorta slammed hisself down on th' rock next to th' top one. You an' Tommy an' Jerry was ridin' back from th' main valley. We could just see you, me an' him, only he didn't know I was there. After awhile we could see plain. Jerry rode off to look at somethin', an kinda fell back, leavin' you an' Tommy goin' on without him. I was watchin' Tex, because he had a funny look on his face. He just looked steady, an' when he saw you two ridin' along together, he threw out his arms an' said somethin' about bein' like Jerry. Somethin' about falling back an' seein' you an' Tommy ridin' through life together—as if anybody would ride as long as that! Tell you what: These grown-ups say some cussed foolish things. There was tears in his eyes—him, a grown-up, gun-fightin' son-of-a-gun! Huh! An' they used to tease me when I cried! What you think about that?" He looked eagerly at her for the answer and then snorted in frank disgust. "Cuss it—an' yo're snifflin', too! I'll be a son-of-a-gun!"
"You mustn't tell anyone about it, Charley!" she pleaded. "They won't understand!"
"I won't," he promised. "Don't blame you for bein' ashamed. Tex would 'a' been, too, if he knowed I saw him. Then mebby he wouldn't go up there every night an' watch yore window till the light goes out, an' I wouldn't have nobody to trail. Reckon he's scared that Williams gang will trail you down here? Huh! With him settin' up there, me roamin' loose, an' with Johnny, Hoppy, an' Red in th' house, I shore wish they would come a-pokin' their noses around here! I tell you, things'd shore pop. If Tex could clean out their whole town all alone, they'd shore have a pleasant time down here ag'in' him an' his friends! Gee!"
After supper the nightly gathering on the porch passed a pleasant hour or two and then dwindled as its members retired, the two women and Charley going first. Jerry followed soon afterward and not much later Red and Hopalong left to go to the bunkhouse, where they now were berthed. Arnold soon went into the house, to the room which Tex stubbornly had refused to occupy, the latter preferring the bunkhouse with his old friends. After a cigarette or two Johnny said good night and left his companion alone. Tex arose, paced restlessly to and fro across the yard and, wheeling abruptly, went toward the corral. He had not been gone very long when Charley, noiselessly crawling out of the window of the room he shared with his father, froze in his tracks as he heard a noise beyond the summer kitchen. He had Red's Winchester, which he had taken from the gun rack in the dining-room, and he scouted cautiously toward the suspicious sounds. The moonlight let him see plainly, and he drew back behind the corner of the building as Jane rode away, leaving the light burning brightly in her room.
Charley frankly was puzzled. "Somethin's goin' on," he cogitated. "I was goin' to stalk Tex—now I dunno. Shucks! He can look out for hisself, but she might get lost. Reckon I'll foller her." He suited action to the words and soon was riding after her, keeping out of her sight with a woodcraft worthy of his elders.
She led him along the Gunsight trail, closer and closer to the S it made up the rocky hill, and because of the view commanded by the rocky pile on the summit, he had to dismount, picket his horse, and proceed on foot, working from cover to cover, often on hands and knees.
Tex had taken his time, buried in thought, oblivious to everything outside of himself. He followed the well-marked trail instinctively and soon reached the top of the hill, where he sat quietly in the saddle for a few minutes. Finally, shaking his head, he dismounted and listlessly walked to the place of his nightly vigil. Seating himself on the top-most bowlder he gazed steadily at the yellow light of the distant window and, like many men of his class, given to solitude, he argued his problem aloud. It seemed that often he could think more clearly that way.
This could not go on. Tomorrow he would start back to Montana, and he soon arose to return to the SV, to spend his last night there. As he went back to his horse another verse came to his mind, a verse of finality, and one fitting the present situation. He laughed bitterly and flung out his arms:
And