Zane Grey - The Mysterious Rider

Jack Belllounds did not look at them. He threw a bag out of the buckboard and then clambered down slowly, to go toward the porch.

“Wal, Jack—my son—I'm sure glad you're back home,” said the old rancher, striding forward. His voice was deep and full, singularly rich. But that was the only sign of feeling he showed.

“Howdy—dad!” replied the son, not heartily, as he put out his hand to his father's.

Jack Belllounds's form was tail, with a promise of his father's bulk. But he did not walk erect; he slouched a little. His face was pale, showing he had not of late been used to sun and wind. Any stranger would have seen the resemblance of boy to man would have granted the handsome boldness, but denied the strength. The lower part of Jack Belllounds's face was weak.

The constraint of this meeting was manifest mostly in the manner of the son. He looked ashamed, almost sullen. But if he had been under the influence of liquor at Kremmling, as reported the day before, he had entirely recovered.

“Come on in,” said the rancher.

When they got into the big living-room, and Belllounds had closed the doors, the son threw down his baggage and faced his father aggressively.

“Do they all know where I've been?” he asked, bitterly. Broken pride and shame flamed in his face.

“Nobody knows. The secret's been kept.” replied Belllounds.

Amaze and relief transformed the young man. “Aw, now, I'm—glad—“ he exclaimed, and he sat down, half covering his face with shaking hands.

“Jack, we'll start over,” said Belllounds, earnestly, and his big eyes shone with a warm and beautiful light. “Right hyar. We'll never speak of where you've been these three years. Never again!”

Jack gazed up, then, with all the sullenness and shadow gone.

“Father, you were wrong about—doing me good. It's done me harm. But now, if nobody knows—why, I'll try to forget it.”

“Mebbe I blundered,” replied Belllounds, pathetically. “Yet, God knows I meant well. You sure were—But thet's enough palaver.... You'll go to work as foreman of White Slides. An' if you make a success of it I'll be only too glad to have you boss the ranch. I'm gettin' along in years, son. An' the last year has made me poorer. Hyar's a fine range, but I've less stock this year than last. There's been some rustlin' of cattle, an a big loss from wolves an' lions an' poison-weed.... What d'you say, son?”

“I'll run White Slides,” replied Jack, with a wave of his hand. “I hadn't hoped for such a chance. But it's due me. Who's in the outfit I know?”

“Reckon no one, except Wils Moore.”

“Is that cowboy here yet? I don't want him.”

“Wal, I'll put him to chasin' varmints with the hounds. An' say, son, this outfit is bad. You savvy—it's bad. You can't run that bunch. The only way you can handle them is to get up early an' come back late. Sayin' little, but sawin' wood. Hard work.”

Jack Belllounds did not evince any sign of assimilating the seriousness of his father's words.

“I'll show them,” he said. “They'll find out who's boss. Oh, I'm aching to get into boots and ride and tear around.”

Belllounds stroked his grizzled beard and regarded his son with mingled pride and doubt. Not at this moment, most assuredly, could he get away from the wonderful fact that his only son was home.

“Thet's all right, son. But you've been off the range fer three years. You'll need advice. Now listen. Be gentle with hosses. You used to be mean with a hoss. Some cowboys jam their hosses around an' make 'em pitch an' bite. But it ain't the best way. A hoss has got sense. I've some fine stock, an' don't want it spoiled. An' be easy an' quiet with the boys. It's hard to get help these days. I'm short on hands now.... You'd do best, son, to stick to your dad's ways with hosses an' men.”

“Dad, I've seen you kick horses an' shoot at men” replied Jack.

“Right, you have. But them was particular bad cases. I'm not advisin' thet way.... Son, it's close to my heart—this hope I have thet you'll—”

The full voice quavered and broke. It would indeed have been a hardened youth who could not have felt something of the deep and unutterable affection in the old man. Jack Belllounds put an arm around his father's shoulder.

“Dad, I'll make you proud of me yet. Give me a chance. And don't be sore if I can't do wonders right at first.”

“Son, you shall have every chance. An' thet reminds me. Do you remember Columbine?”

“I should say so,” replied Jack, eagerly. “They spoke of her in Kremmling. Where is she?”

“I reckon somewheres about. Jack, you an' Columbine are to marry.”

“Marry! Columbine and me?” he ejaculated.

“Yes. You're my son an' she's my adopted daughter. I won't split my property. An' it's right she had a share. A fine, strong, quiet, pretty lass, Jack, an' she'll make a good wife. I've set my heart on the idee.”

“But Columbine always hated me.”

“Wal, she was a kid then an' you teased her. Now she's a woman, an' willin' to please me. Jack, you'll not buck ag'in' this deal?”

“That depends,” replied Jack. “I'd marry `most any girl you wanted me to. But if Columbine were to flout me as she used to—why, I'd buck sure enough.... Dad, are you sure she knows nothing, suspects nothing of where you—you sent me?”

“Son, I swear she doesn't.”

“Do you mean you'd want us to marry soon?”

“Wal, yes, as soon as Collie would think reasonable. Jack, she's shy an' strange, an' deep, too. If you ever win her heart you'll be richer than if you owned all the gold in the Rockies. I'd say go slow. But contrariwise, it'd mebbe be surer to steady you, keep you home, if you married right off.”

“Married right off!” echoed Jack, with a laugh. “It's like a story. But wait till I see her.”

* * * * *

At that very moment Columbine was sitting on the topmost log of a high corral, deeply interested in the scene before her.

Two cowboys were in the corral with a saddled mustang. One of them carried a canvas sack containing tools and horseshoes. As he dropped it with a metallic clink the mustang snorted and jumped and rolled the whites of his eyes. He knew what that clink meant.

“Miss Collie, air you-all goin' to sit up thar?” inquired the taller cowboy, a lean, supple, and powerful fellow, with a rough, red-blue face, hard as a rock, and steady, bright eyes.

“I sure am, Jim,” she replied, imperturbably.

“But we've gotta hawg-tie him,” protested the cowboy.

“Yes, I know. And you're going to be gentle about it.”

Jim scratched his sandy head and looked at his comrade, a little gnarled fellow, like the bleached root of a tree. He seemed all legs.

“You hear, you Wyomin' galoot,” he said to Jim. “Them shoes goes on Whang right gentle.”

Jim grinned, and turned to speak to his mustang. “Whang, the law's laid down an' we wanta see how much hoss sense you hev.”

The shaggy mustang did not appear to be favorably impressed by this speech. It was a mighty distrustful look he bent upon the speaker.

“Jim, seein' as how this here job's aboot the last Miss Collie will ever boss us on, we gotta do it without Whang turnin' a hair,” drawled the other cowboy.

“Lem, why is this the last job I'll ever boss you boys?” demanded Columbine, quickly.

Jim gazed quizzically at her, and Lem assumed that blank, innocent face Columbine always associated with cowboy deviltry.

“Wal, Miss Collie, we reckon the new boss of White Slides rode in to-day.”

“You mean Jack Belllounds came home,” said Columbine. “Well, I'll boss you boys the same as always.”

“Thet'd be mighty fine for us, but I'm feared it ain't writ in the fatal history of White Slides,” replied Jim.