Zane Grey - The Mysterious Rider

“What the hell's goin' on?” he roared.

The cowboys released Jack. That worthy, sullen and downcast, muttering to himself, stalked for the house.

“Jack, stand your ground,” called old Belllounds.

But the son gave no heed. Once he looked back over his shoulder, and his dark glance saw no one save Moore.

“Boss, thar's been a little argyment,” explained Jim, as with swift hand he hid Bludsoe's gun. “Nuthin' much.”

“Jim, you're a liar,” replied the old rancher.

“Aw!” exclaimed Jim, crestfallen.

“What're you hidin'?... You've got somethin' there. Gimme thet gun.”

Without more ado Jim handed the gun over.

“It's mine, boss,” put in Bludsoe.

“Ahuh? Wal, what was Jim hidin' it fer?” demanded Belllounds.

“Why, I jest tossed it to him—when I—sort of j'ined in with the argyment. We was tusslin' some an' I didn't want no gun.”

How characteristic of cowboys that they lied to shield Jack Belllounds! But it was futile to attempt to deceive the old rancher. Here was a man who had been forty years dealing with all kinds of men and events.

“Bludsoe, you can't fool me,” said old Bill, calmly. He had roared at them, and his eyes still flashed like blue fire, but he was calm and cool. Returning the gun to its owner, he continued: “I reckon you'd spare my feelin's an' lie about some trick of Jack's. Did he bust out?”

“Wal, tolerable like,” replied Bludsoe, dryly.

“Ahuh! Tell me, then—an' no lies.”

Belllounds's shrewd eyes had rested upon Wilson Moore. The cowboy's face showed the red marks of battle and the white of passion.

“I'm not going to lie, you can bet on that,” he declared, forcefully.

“Ahuh! I might hev knowed you an' Jack'd clash,” said Belllounds, gruffly. “What happened?”

“He hurt my horse. If it hadn't been for that there'd been no trouble.”

A light leaped up in the old man's bold eyes. He was a lover of horses. Many hard words, and blows, too, he had dealt cowboys for being brutal.

“What'd he do?”

“Look at Spottie's mouth.”

The rancher's way of approaching a horse was singularly different from his son's, notwithstanding the fact that Spottie knew him and showed no uneasiness. The examination took only a moment.

“Tongue cut bad. Thet's a damn shame. Take thet bridle off.... There. If it'd been an ornery hoss, now.... Moore, how'd this happen?”

“We just rode in,” replied Wilson, hurriedly. “I was saddling Spottie when Jack came up. He took a shine to the mustang and wanted to ride him. When Spottie reared—he's shy with strangers—why, Jack gave a hell of a jerk on the bridle. The bit cut Spottie.... Well, that made me mad, but I held in. I objected to Jack riding Spottie. You see, Hudson was hurt yesterday and he appointed me foreman for to-day. I needed Spottie. But your son couldn't see it, and that made me sore. Jack said the mustang was his—”

“His?” interrupted Belllounds.

“Yes. He claimed Spottie. Well, he wasn't really mine, so I gave in. When I threw off the saddle, which was mine, Jack began to roar. He said he was foreman and he'd have me discharged. But I said I'd quit already. We both kept getting sorer and I called him Buster Jack.... He hit me first. Then we fought. I reckon I was getting the best of him when he made a dive for Bludsoe's gun. And that's all.”

“Boss, as sure as I'm a born cowman,” put in Bludsoe, “he'd hev plugged Wils if he'd got my gun. At thet he damn near got it!”

The old man stroked his scant gray beard with his huge, steady hand, apparently not greatly concerned by the disclosure.

“Montana, what do you say?” he queried, as if he held strong store by that quiet cowboy's opinion.

“Wal, boss,” replied Jim, reluctantly, “Buster Jack's temper was bad onct, but now it's plumb wuss.”

Whereupon Belllounds turned to Moore with a gesture and a look of a man who, in justice to something in himself, had to speak.

“Wils, it's onlucky you clashed with Jack right off,” he said. “But thet was to be expected. I reckon Jack was in the wrong. Thet hoss was yours by all a cowboy holds right an' square. Mebbe by law Spottie belonged to White Slides Ranch—to me. But he's yours now, fer I give him to you.”

“Much obliged, Belllounds. I sure do appreciate that,” replied Moore, warmly. “It's what anybody'd gamble Bill Belllounds would do.”

“Ahuh! An' I'd take it as a favor if you'd stay on to-day an' get thet brandin' done:”

“All right, I'll do that for you,” replied Moore. “Lem, I guess you won't get your sleep till to-night. Come on.”

“Awl” sighed Lem, as he picked up his bridle.

* * * * *

Late that afternoon Columbine sat upon the porch, watching the sunset. It had been a quiet day for her, mostly indoors. Once only had she seen Jack, and then he was riding by toward the pasture, whirling a lasso round his head. Jack could ride like one born to the range, but he was not an adept in the use of a rope. Nor had Columbine seen the old rancher since breakfast. She had heard his footsteps, however, pacing slowly up and down his room.

She was watching the last rays of the setting sun rimming with gold the ramparts of the mountain eastward, and burning a crown for Old White Slides peak. A distant bawl and bellow of cattle had died away. The branding was over for that fall. How glad she felt! The wind, beginning to grow cold as the sun declined, cooled her hot face. In the solitude of her room Columbine had cried enough that day to scald her cheeks.

Presently, down the lane between the pastures, she saw a cowboy ride into view. Very slowly he came, leading another horse. Columbine recognized Lem a second before she saw that he was leading Pronto. That struck her as strange. Another glance showed Pronto to be limping. Apparently he could just get along, and that was all. Columbine ran out in dismay, reaching the corral gate before Lem did. At first she had eyes only for her beloved mustang.

“Oh, Lem—Pronto's hurt!” she cried.

“Wal, I should smile he is,” replied Lem.

But Lem was not smiling. And when he wore a serious face for Columbine something had indeed happened. The cowboy was the color of dust and so tired that he reeled.

“Lem, he's all bloody!” exclaimed Columbine, as she ran toward Pronto.

“Hyar, you jest wait,” ordered Lem, testily. “Pronto's all cut up, an' you gotta hustle some linen an' salve.”

Columbine flew away to do his bidding, and so quick and violent was she that when she got back to the corral she was out of breath. Pronto whinnied as she fell, panting, on her knees beside Lem, who was examining bloody gashes on the legs of the mustang.

“Wal, I reckon no great harm did,” said Lem, with relief. “But he shore hed a close shave. Now you help me doctor him up.”

“Yes—I'll help,” panted Columbine. “I've done this kind—of thing often—but never—to Pronto.... Oh, I was afraid—he'd been gored by a steer.”

“Wal, he come damn near bein',” replied Lem, grimly. “An' if it hedn't been fer ridin' you don't see every day, why thet ornery Texas steer'd hev got him.”

“Who was riding? Lem, was it you? Oh, I'll never be able to do enough for you!”

“Wuss luck, it weren't me,” said Lem.

“No? Who, then?”

“Wal, it was Wils, an' he made me swear to tell you nuthin'—leastways about him.”

“Wils! Did he save Pronto?... And didn't want you to tell me? Lem, something has happened. You're not like yourself.”

“Miss Collie, I reckon I'm nigh all in,” replied Lem, wearily. “When I git this bandagin' done I'll fall right off my hoss.”

“But you're on the ground now, Lem,” said Columbine, with a nervous laugh. “What happened?”