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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
Western Novels by
ZANE GREY
Desert Gold The Mysterious Rider
Sunset Pass Twin Sombreros
Forlorn River (The Rainbow Trail
To the Last Man Arizona Ames
Majesty’s Rancho Riders of Spanish Peaks
Riders of the Purple Sage The Border Legion
The Vanishing American The Desert of Wheat
Nevada Stairs of Sand
Wilderness Trek The Drift Fence
Code of the West Wanderer of the Wasteland
The Thundering Herd The Light of Western Stars
Fighting Caravans The UP. Trail
30,000 on the Hoof The Lone Star Ranger
The Hash Knife Outfit Robber’s Roost
Thunder Mountain The Man of the Forest
The Heritage of the Desert The Call of the Canyon
Under the Tonto Rim West of the Pecos
Knights of the Range The Shepherd of Guadaloupe
Western Union The Trail Driver
The Lost Wagon Train Wildfire
Shadow on the Trail Wild Horse Mesa
ZANE GREY BOOKS FOR BOYS
Tappan’s Burro Roping Lions in the Grand Canyon
Ken Ward in the Jungle The Last of the Plainsmen
The Young Pitcher The Shortstop
The Young Lion Hunter The Young Forester
VALLEY
OF
WILD HORSES
By
ZANE GREY
A
GROSSET & DUNLAP . Publishers
NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1927, BY CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY. PRINTED IN THE UNITED
STATES OF AMERICA, ALL RIGHTS IN THIS BOOK ARE RESERVED. IT MAY NOT BE USED
FOR DRAMATIC, MOTION- OR TALKING-PICTURE PURPOSES WITHOUT WRITTEN
AUTHORIZATION FROM THE HOLDER OF THESE RIGHTS. NOR MAY THE BOOK OR PART
THEREOF BE REPRODUCED IN ANY MANNER WHATSOEVER WITHOUT PERMISSION IN
WRITING EXCEPY IN THE CASE OF BRIEF QUOTATIONS EMBODIED IN CRITICAL
ARTICLES AND REVIEWS, FOR INFORMATION ADDRESS: HARPER & BROTHERS, 49 EAST
33RD STREET, NEW YORK 16, N, Y.
BY ARRANGEMENT WITH HARPER & BROTHERS
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
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CHA PTER/ONE
THE Panhandle was a lonely purple range land, unfenced and wind
swept. Bill Smith, cattleman, threw up a cabin and looked at the fu-
ture with hopeful eyes. One day while plowing almost out of sight of his
little home—which that morning he had left apprehensively owing to an
impending event—he espied his wife Margaret coming along the edge
of the plowed field. She had brought his lunch this day, despite his
order to the contrary. Bill dropped the loop of his driving reins over
the plow handle and strode toward her. Presently she halted wearily and
sat down where the dark rich overturned earth met the line of bleached
grass. Bill meant to scold Margaret for bringing his lunch, but it de-
veloped she had brought him something more. A son!
This boy was born on the fragrant fresh soil, out on the open prairie,
under the steely sun and the cool wind from off the Llano Estacado.
He came into the world protesting against this primitive manner of his
birth. Bill often related that the youngster arrived squalling and showed
that his lung capacity fitted his unusual size. Despite the mother’s prot-
estations, Bill insisted on calling the lad Panhandle.
Panhandle’s first memory was of climbing into the big cupboard in
the cabin, falling out upon his head and getting blood all over his white
dress. His next adventurous experience was that of chewing tobacco
he found in his father’s coat. This made him very sick. His mother
thought he was poisoned, and as Bill was away, she ran to the nearest
neighbors for help. By the time she returned with the experienced neigh-
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
bor woman Panhandle had gotten rid of the tobacco and was bent upon
further conquest.
Another day Panhandle manifested a growing tendency toward self-
assertion. He ran away from home. Owing to his short legs and scant
breath he did not get very far down over the slope. His will and in-
tention were tremendous. Did the dim desert call to the child? His
parents had often seen him stand gazing into the purple distance. But
Panhandle on this runaway occasion fell asleep on the dry grassy bot-
tom of an irrigation ditch. Bye and bye he was missed, and father and
mother, and the farm hands ran hither and thither in wild search for
him. No one, however, found him. In the haste of the search some one
left his work at the irrigation dam, and the water running down rudely
awoke the child out of his dreams. Wet and bedraggled, squalling at
the top of his lungs, Panhandle trudged back home to the relief of a
distracted mother.
“Doggone it,” ejaculated Bill to his neighbors. “That kid’s goin’ to be
just like me. I never could stay home.”
A year later Bill Smith sold his farm and moved farther west in Texas,
where he took up a homestead, and divided his time between that and
work on a big irrigating canal which was being constructed.
Panhandle now lived on a ranch and it was far lonelier than his
first home, because his father was away so much of the time. At first
the nearest neighbor was Panhandle’s uncle, who lived two long prairie
miles away. His house was a black dot on the horizon, not unattainable,
it seemed to Panhandle, but very far away. He would have risked the
distance, save for his mother, who was very timid in this country so
new to her. Panhandle would never forget how she was frightened at a
crazy wanderer who happened to come along, and another time by some
drunken Mexican laborers. ;
Panhandle undoubtedly had an adventuring soul. One day he dis-
covered that a skunk had dug a hole under the front porch and had
given birth to her kittens there. Panhandle was not afraid of them, and
[2]
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
neither hurt nor frightened them. After a time he made playmates of
them, and was one day hugely enjoying himself with them when his
mother found him. She was frightened, enraged and horrified all at
once. She entreated Panhandle to let the dirty little skunks alone. Pan-
handle would promise and then forget. His mother punished him, all to
no avail. Then she adopted harsher measures.
Homesteaders had located near by and Mrs. Smith called on them,
in the hope that she could hire a cowboy or ranch hand to come over
and destroy the skunks. It chanced there was no one but a Mrs. Hardman
and her only boy. His name was Dick. He was seven years old, large for
his age, a bold handsome lad with red hair. Mrs. Smith made a bargain
with Dick, and led him back with her.
Here Panhandle took violent exception to having his pets killed or
routed out by this boy he had never before seen. He did not like his
looks anyway. But Dick paid little heed to Panhandle, except once
when Mrs. Smith went into the house, and then he knocked Panhandle
down. For once Panhandle did not squall. He got up, round eyed, pale,
with his hands clenched. He never said a word. Something was born
in the depths of his gentle soul then.
Dick tore a hole in the little wall of rocks that supported the porch,
and with a lighted torch on a stick he wormed his way in to rout out
the skunks.
Panhandle suddenly was thrilled and frightened by a bellowing from
Dick. The boy came hurriedly backing out of the hole. He fetched an
odor with him that nearly suffocated Panhandle, so strange and raw
and terrible was it. Dick’s eyes were shut. For the time being he had
been blinded. He bounced around like a chicken with its head cut off,
bawling wildly.
What had happened Panhandle did not know, but it certainly suited
him. “Goody! Goody!” he shouted, holding his nose, and edging away
from the lad.
Then Panhandle saw smoke issuing from the hole under the porch.
[3]
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
The mother skunk and her kittens scampered out into the weeds. He
heard the crackle of flames. That boy had dropped his torch under the
porch. Screaming, Panhandle ran to alarm his mother. But it was too
late. There were no men near at hand, so nothing could be done. Pan-
handle stood crying beside his mother, watching their little home burn
to the ground. Somehow in his mind the boy, Dick, had been to blame.
Panhandle peered round to find him, but he was gone. Never would
Panhandle forget that boy.
They walked to the uncle’s house and spent the night there. Soon
another home was under construction on the same site. It was more
of a shack than a house, for building materials were scarce, and the
near approach of winter made hasty construction imperative. Winter
came soon, and Panhandle and his mother were alone. It was cold and
they huddled over the little wood fire. They had plenty to eat, but were
very uncomfortable in the one-room shack. Bill Smith came home but
seldom. That fall the valley had been overrun with homesteaders, “nest-
ers,” they were called, and these newcomers passed by often from the
town drunk and rough.
Panhandle used to lie awake a good deal. During these lonely hours
the moan of the prairie wind, the mourn of wolves and yelp of coyotes
became part of his existence. He understood why his mother barred and
blocked the one door, placed the ax by the bed and the gun under her
pillow. Even then he longed for the time when he would be old and big
enough to protect her.
The lonely winter, with its innumerable hours of solitude for Mrs.
Smith and the boy, had incalculable influence upon his character. She
taught him much, ways and things, words and feelings that became an
integral part of his life.
At last the long winter ended. With spring came the gales of wind
which, though no longer cold, were terrible in their violence. Many a
night Panhandle lay awake, shrinking beside his mother, fearing the
shack would blow away over their heads. Many a day the sun was
[4]
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
obscured, and nothing could be cooked, no work done while the dust
storm raged,
As spring advanced, with a lessening of the tornadoes, a new and
fascinating game came into Panhandle’s life. It was to sit at the one
little window and watch the cowboys ride by. How he came to worship
them! They were on their way to the spring roundups. His father had
told him all about them. Panhandle would strain his eyes to get a
first glimpse of them, to count the shaggy prancing horses, the lithe
supple riders with their great sombreros, their bright scarfs, guns and
chaps, and boots and spurs. Their lassos! How they fascinated Pan-
handle! Ropes to whirl and throw at a running steer! That was a game
he resolved to play when he grew up. And his mother, discovering his
interest, made him a little reata and taught him how to throw it, how
to make loops and knots. She told him how her people had owned
horses, thrown lassos, run cattle.
Panhandle was always watching for the cowboys. When they passed
by he would run to the other side of the shack where there was a knot-
hole stuffed with a rag, and through this he would peep until he was
blinded by dust. These were full days for the lad, rousing in him won-
der and awe, eagerness and fear—strange longings for he knew not what.
Then one day his father brought home a black pony with three white
feet and a white spot on his face. Panhandle was in rapture. For him!
He could have burst for very joy, but he could not speak. It developed
that his mother would not let him ride the pony except when she led
it. This roused as great a grief as possession was joy. A beautiful little
pony he could not ride! Ideas formed in his mind, scintillated and grew
into dark purpose.
One day he stole Curly, and led him out of sight behind the barn,
and mounting him rode down to the spring. Panhandle found himself
alone. He was free. He was on the back of a horse. Mighty and incal-
culable fact!
Curly felt the spirit of that occasion. After drinking at the spring
[5]
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
he broke into a lope. Panhandle stuck on somehow and turned the pony
toward the house. Curly loped faster. Panhandle felt the wind in his
hair. He bounced up and down. Squealing with delight he twisted his
hands in the flowing mane and held on. At the top of the hill his joy
became divided by fear. Curly kept on loping down the hill toward the
house. Faster and faster! Panhandle bounced higher and higher, up on
his neck, back on his haunches, until suddenly his hold broke and he
was thrown. Down he went with a thud. It jarred him so he could
hardly get up, and he reeled dizzily. There stood his mother, white of
face, reproachful of eye. “Oh mama—I ain’t hurt!” he cried.
Bill Smith was approached about this and listened, stroking his lean
chin, while the mother eloquently enlarged upon the lad’s guilt.
“Wal, wife, let the boy ride,” he replied. “He’s a nervy kid. I named
him well. He'll make a great cowboy. Panhandle Smith. Pan, for
short!”
Pan heard that and his heart beat high. How he loved his dad then!
“Cowboy” meant one of the great riders of the range. He would be
one. Thereafter he lived on the back of Curly. He learned to ride, to
stick on like a burr, to keep his seat on the bare back of the pony, to
move with him as he moved. One day Pan was riding home from his
uncle’s, and coming to a level stretch of ground he urged Curly to his
topmost speed. The wind stung him, the motion exhilarated him, con-
trolling the pony awoke and fixed some strange feeling in him. He was
a cowboy. Suddenly Curly put a speeding foot into a prairie-dog hole.
Something happened. Pan felt himself jerked loose and shot through
the air. He struck the ground and all went black. When he came to,
he found he had plowed the soft earth with his face, skinned nose and
chin, but was not badly hurt. That was his first great spill. It sobered
him. Curly waited for him a little way farther on and he was lame.
Pan knew he could not hide the evidences of his rashness, so he decided
to tell the truth.
Pan encountered his father at the barn.
[6 ]
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
“Say, you bloody cowpuncher,” demanded his parent, “did he pitch
with you?”
“No, Dad,” replied Pan, with effort. “I runned him fast.”
“Ah—huh, so I see,” went on the father; and after a searching look
over the boy he fell to examining the pony.
Pan emboldened by what his father had called him went straight to
his mother. She screamed at sight of him, and that struck Pan to the
heart. “Aw, mama, it ain’t nuthin’. I’m just a bloody cowpuncher.”
Pan was not quite six years old when he rode to his first roundup,
which occurred that summer early in June. His glory in the experience
was marred by shame because he had to appear before all these cow-
boys without a saddle on his horse. He had feared just exactly what
happened.
“Wal, heah comes the Ridin’ Kid from Loco Range,” said one, edging
near to Pan, with a smile on his shining red face.
“Sonny, yo’re forkin’ a grand hoss, but you forgot to saddle him,”
remarked another, with a twinkle of gray eyes.
“Fellars, this heah is Panhandle Smith, kid of the homesteader, over
by the river. I heerd Pan’s a trick bareback rider.”
These genial fiery young men, lithe and tall and round limbed, breath-
ing the life and spirit of the range, crowded round Pan, proving that
there never was a cowboy who did not like youngsters.
“Say kid, I'll swap saddles with you,” spoke up the one who had
first addressed him.
Pan’s heart was palpitating. How could they know how beautiful
and wonderful they looked to him? If it had not been that he was
riding Curly bareback! They were making fun of him. Tears were not
far from his eyes.
“Young fellar, I’ll bet this nag of yourn can’t run fast enough to
ketch cold,” spoke up another.
“T’ll bet he kin,” added a third.
“Pan, do this to them,” put in the cowboy who appeared to know
bez]
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
him, and suiting act to word he placed his thumb to his nose and twid-
dled his finger. “Do that, Pan. That'll shore shut them up.”
Pan found himself impelled to do as he was bidden, which action
raised a howl of mirth from the cowboys.
And so at that early age Panhandle Smith was initiated into the
hilarity and trickery and spirit common to these carefree riders of the
ranges.
When the roundup began he found that he was far from forgotten
“Come on, Pan,” shouted one. “Ride in heah an’ help me. . . . Turt
’em back, kid.”
Pan rode like the wind, breathless and radiant, beside himself with
bliss.
Then another rider would yell to him: “Charge him, cowboy. Fetch
him back.”
And Pan, scarcely knowing what he was doing, saw with wild eyes
how the yearling or calf would seem to be driven by him. There was
always a cowboy near him, riding fast, yet close, yelling to him, making
him a part of the roundup.
At the noon hour an older man, no doubt the rancher who owned the
cattle, called off the work. A lusty voice from somewhere yelled:
“Come an’ git it!”
The rancher, espying Pan, rode over to him and said: “Stranger, did
you fetch your chuck with you?”
“No—sir,” faltered Pan. “My mama—said for me to hurry back.”
“Wal, you stay an’ eat with me,” replied the man, kindly. “Shore them
varmints might stampede an’ we'd need you powerful bad.”
Pan sat next this big black-eyed man, in the circle of hungry cowboys.
They made no more fun of Pan. He was one of them. Hard indeed was
it for him to sit cross-legged, after the fashion of cowboys, with a steady
plate upon his knees. But he had no trouble disposing of the juicy
beefsteak and boiled potatoes and beans and hot biscuits that Tex, the
boss, piled upon his plate.
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
After dinner the cowboys resumed work.
“Stand heah by the fire, kid,” said Tex.
Then Pan saw a calf being dragged across the ground. A mounted
cowboy held the rope.
“The brand!” he yelled.
Pan stood there trembling while one of the flankers went down the
ight rope to catch the bawling, leaping calf. Its eyes stood out, it foamed
it the mouth. The flanker threw it over his leg on its back with feet
sticking up. A brander with white iron leaped close. The calf bellowed.
There was a sizzling of hair, a white smoke, the odor of burned hide,
all of which sickened Pan.
Then one of the cowboys came to him: “Reckon thet’s yore mammy
come for you.”
He lifted Pan up on Curly and led the pony away from the roundup,
out in the open where Pan espied his mother, eager and anxious with
her big dark eyes strained.
“Beg pardon, lady,” spoke up the cowboy, touching his sombrero. “It’s
our fault yore boy stayed so long. We’re sorry if you worried. Please
don’t blame him. He’s shore a game kid an’ will make a grand cowboy
some day.”
[9]
CHAPTER, TWO
SO this was how Panhandle Smith, at the mature age of five, received
the stimulus that set the current of his life in one strong channel. He
called himself “Tex.” If his mother forgot to use this thrilling name he
was offended. He adopted Tex’s way of walking, riding, talking. And
all the hours of daylight, outdoors or indoors, he played roundup. Stones,
chips, nails—anything served for cattle—and he had a special wooden
image of himself and horse. Much of this time he spent on the back of
Curly, in the corral or the field, rounding up an imaginary herd. At
night his dreams were full of cowboys, chuck wagons, pitching horses
and bawling steers.
Every new sight of a snaky slim cowpuncher on a racy horse intensi-
fied this impression in Pan’s mind, stamped the future more vividly on
his heart. It was what he had been born to.
One by one pioneers came in their covered wagons to this promising
range and took up homesteads of one hundred and sixty acres each.
Some of these men, like Pan’s father, had to work part of the time away
from home, to earn much-needed money.
Jim Blake, the latest of these incoming settlers, had chosen a site
down in a deep swale that Pan always crossed when he went to visit his
uncle. It was a pretty place, with grass and cottonwoods, and a thin
stream of water, a lonesome and hidden spot which other homesteaders
had passed by.
Pan met Jim one day and rode with him. He was a young man, pleas-
i ras
L
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
ant and jolly, a farmer and would-be rancher, without any of the sign:
of cowboy about him. Pan thought this a great detriment, but he man-
aged to like Jim and loftily acquainted him with his achievements
on Curly.
One day Pan saw Jim’s wife, a pretty blonde girl, strong and healthy
and rosy cheeked. Her sleeves were rolled up showing round bare
arms. Her smile won Pan, yet he was too shy to go in and take the cookies
she offered.
Autumn days came, dull and gray, with cold wind sweeping the
plain, and threatening clouds lodging against the mountain peaks. An-
other winter was coming. Pan hated the thought. Snow, ice, piercing
winds would prevent him from riding Curly. With this fact pressing
closer he rode as much as his mother would let him and some more
besides.
His father and mother wanted him to go with them to the settlement
one Saturday. They were taking the wagon in for winter supplies.
Pan’s yearning for adventure almost persuaded him, but he preferred
to stay with Curly. His mother demurred, but his father said he might
remain at home.
“Pan, you can ride over to Uncle George’s with some things. But
be careful not to get caught in a storm.”
Thus it came about that Pan found himself alone for the first time
in his life, master of himself, free to act as he chose. And he did not
choose to go at once to Uncle George’s. His uncle was nice, but did not
accord Pan the freedom that he craved. So what with one and another of
his important cowboy tasks the hours flew and it was late before he got
started across the prairie toward his uncle’s homestead.
Pan never needed an excuse to ride fast, but now he had one that
justified him. The two miles would not take long. He would have to
hurry back, for indeed it looked as if a storm were sweeping down from
the black peaks. Pan realized that he should have gotten his errand
done earlier in the day.
[ 1 ]
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
The cold wind stung his face and made his eyes water. Curly loped
at his easy swift stride over the well-trodden trail. The bleached grass
waved, the tumbleweeds rolled along the brown ground. There was no
sun. All the west was draped in drab clouds. Soon Pan was riding down
into the swale where Blake lived. The cottonwoods were almost bare.
Only a few yellow leaves clung to the branches, and every moment a leaf
fluttered down. Here in this swale Pan caught the autumn smells, dank
and woody.
Once across the swale he put his pony to a gallop and soon reached
Uncle George’s homestead. No one at home! The horse and wagon were
gone. Pan left his package and turned back. As he trotted past the
Blake gate Pan heard a faint call. It startled him. Reining in Curly he
listened and looked. Blake’s cabin stood back out of sight among the
cottonwoods. The barn, however, with its low open-sided shed, stood
just inside the gate. The cows had been brought in for milking. A lusty
calf was trying to steal milk from its mother. Chickens were going to
roost. Pan did not believe that any of these had made the call. He was
about to ride on by when suddenly he again caught a strange cry that
appeared to come from the barn or shed. It excited rather than frightened
him. Sliding off Curly he pushed open the big board gate and ran in.
Under the open shed he found Mrs. Blake lying on some hay which
evidently she had just pulled down from the loft. When she saw Pan
her pale convulsed face changed somehow. “Oh—thank God!” she cried.
“Are you hurted?” asked Pan in hurried sympathy. “Did you fall
out of the haymow?”
“No, but I’m in terrible pain.”
“Aw—you're sick?”
“Yes. And I’m alone. Will you please—go for your mother?”
“Mama an’ Daddy went to town,” replied Pan in distress. “An’ no-
body’s home at Uncle George’s.”
“Then you must be a brave little man and help me.”
[ 12 ]
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
Bill Smith hurrying homeward with his wife and Jim Blake were
belated by the storm. It was midnight when they arrived at Bill’s house.
They found Curly with bridle hanging, standing in the snow beside
the barn. Mrs. Smith was distracted. Bill and Jim, though worried, did
not fear the worst. But with lanterns they set out upon the tracks Curly
had left in the snow. Bill’s wife would not remain behind.
Soon they arrived at Blake’s homestead, though the pony tracks be-
came difficult to follow and found Pan wide awake, huddled beside the
cow, true to the trust that had been given him. Mrs. Blake was not in
bad condition, considering the circumstances, nor was the baby. It was
a girl, whom Jim named Lucy right then and there, after his wife.
The men carried the mother and her babe up to the house, while
Mrs. Smith followed with the now sleepy Pan. They built fires in the
open grate, and in the kitchen stove, and left Mrs. Smith to attend to
the mother. Both women heard the men talking. But Pan never heard,
for he had been put to bed in a corner, rolled in blankets.
“Doggone my hide!” exclaimed Bill. “Never seen the beat of that kid
of mine!”
“Mebbe Pan saved both their lives, God bless him,” replied Blake
with emotion.
“Ouien sabe? It might be.... Wal, strange things happen. Jim,
that kid of mine was born right out on the plowed field. An’ here comes
your kid—born in the cowshed on the hay!”
“It is strange,” mused Blake, “though we ought to look for such
happenin’s out in this great west.”
“Wal, Pan an’ Lucy couldn’t have a better birthright. It ought to settle
them two kids for life.”
“You mean grow up an’ marry some day? Now that would be fine.
Shake on it, Bill.”
Pan asleep in the corner of the other room and Lucy wailing at her
mother’s breast were pledged to each other by their fathers.
Pas |
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
The winter passed for Pan much as had the preceding one, except that
he had more comfort to play his everlasting game of roundup.
“When will Lucy be big enough to play with me?” he often asked.
The strange little baby girl had never passed from his mind, though he
had never seen her. She seemed to form the third link in his memory
of the forging of his life. Curly—the cowboys—and Lucy! He did not
know how to reconcile her with the other two. But those three events
stood out above the blur of the past.
At last the snow melted, the prairie took on a sheen of green, the tree
burst into bud, and birds returned to sing once more. All of this wa
beautiful, but insignificant beside Curly. He was fatter and friskier that
ever.
Pan’s father came home once or twice a month that spring, always
arriving late and leaving at an early hour. How Pan longed for his
father’s coming!
Then there came the fourth epoch in Pan’s life. His father brought
him a saddle. It was far from new, of Mexican make, covered with raw-
hide, and had an enormous shiny horn. Pan loved it almost as much as
he loved Curly; and when it was not on the pony it adorned the fence or
a chair, always with Pan astride it, acting like Tex.
The fifth, and surely the greatest event in Pan’s rapidly developing
career, though he did not know it then, was when his mother took him
over to see his baby, Lucy Blake. It appeared that the parents in both
homesteads playfully called her “Pan’s baby.” That did not displease
Pan, but it made him singularly shy. So it was long before his mother
could get him to make the acquaintance of his protégée.
Pan’s first sight of Lucy was when she crawled over the floor to get
to him. How vastly different she really was from the picture he recalled
of a moving bundle wrapped in a towel! She was quite big and very
wonderful. She was dressed in a little white dress. Her feet and legs were
chubby. She had tiny pink hands. Her face was like a wild rose dotted
with two violets for eyes. And her hair was spun gold. Marvelous as
[ 14 ]
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
were all these things they were as nothing to the light of her smile.
Pan’s shyness vanished, and he sat on the floor to play with her. He
produced little chips and pebbles, and stones, with which he played
roundup. Lucy grew most gratifyingly interested in Pan’s game, but
she made it hard for him to play it, and also embarrassing, by clinging
with most tenacious and unshakable grip to his finger.
Every Sunday that summer the Smiths visited at the homestead of the
Blakes. They became fast friends. Bill and Jim discussed the cattle
business. The mothers sewed and talked hopefully of the future. Pan
never missed one of these Sunday visits, and the time came when he
rode over on his own account. Lucy was the most satisfactory cowgirl
in all the world. She did not object to his being Tex. She tried her best
to call him Tex. And she crawled after him and toddled after him with
unfailing worship. The grown folks looked on and smiled.
Meanwhile the weeks and months passed, the number of homesteaders
increased, more and more cattle dotted the range. When winter came
some of the homesteaders, including Pan and his mother, moved ints
Littleton to send their children to school.
Pan’s first teacher was Emma Jones. He liked her immediately which
was when she called to take him to school. Pan was not used to strangers.
The men in the streets, the grown boys all bothered him. Cowboys were
scarce, and that was a great disappointment to Pan. It lowered Littleton
in his estimation.
It developed that Pan was left handed. Now Miss Jones considered if
wrong for anyone to write with his left hand so she tied Pan’s fast to
the desk, and made him practice letters with his right. What a dreary
unprofitable time Pan had of it! So many little boys and girls confused
him, though he was not backward in making acquaintance. But he
wanted Curly and the prairie. He would rather be with Lucy. Most of
all he wanted the cowboys. 5
Dick Hardman came again into Pan’s life, fatefully, inevitably, as if
the future had settled something inscrutable and sinister, and childhood
[ 15 ]
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
days, school days, days of youth and manhood had been inextricably
planned before they were born. Dick was in a higher grade and made the
fact known to Pan. He had grown into a large boy, handsomer, bolder,
with a mop of red hair that shone like a flame. He called Pan “the
little skunk tamer,” and incited other boys to ridicule. So the buried
resentment in Pan’s depths smoldered and burst into blaze again, and
found fuel to burn it into hate. He told his mother what Dick had got
the boys to call him. Then he was indeed surprised to see his sweet soft-
eyed mother give way to quick-flashing passion. Somehow this leap of
her temper strengthened Pan in his resentment. He had her blood, her
fire, her pride, though he was only a child.
Then the endless school days were over for a while. Summer had come.
Pan moved back to the beloved homestead, to the open ranges, to Curly
and Lucy. Only she had changed. She could stand at his knee and call
him Tex. He resumed his old games with her, and in time graduated
her to a seat on the back of Curly. If she had not already unconsciously
filled his heart that picture of her laughing and unafraid would have
done so.
Another uncle had moved into the country to take up a homestead.
Pan now had a second place to ride to, farther away, over a wilder bit
of range, and much to his liking. He saw cowboys every time he rode
there.
One day while Pan was at this new uncle’s, a dreadful thing happened
—his first real tragedy. Some cowboy left the slide door of the granary
open. Curly got in there at the wheat. Before it became known he ate
enormously and then drank copiously. It foundered him. It killed him.
When Pan came out of his stupefaction to realize his actual loss he
was heartbroken. He could not be consoled. Hours he spent crying
over his saddle. Not for a long time did he go to see little Lucy. His father
could not afford to buy him another horse then and indeed it was a long
time before he did get one.
Days and weeks passed, and fall came, then winter with more school,
[ 16 ]
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
tedious and wearing, and again spring and summer. Cowboys were
plentiful now in the growing range, but Pan avoided them, ashamed and
sick because he could not approach them without Curly. He never got
over grieving for his pony, though he reached a stage where any horse
would have freed him from his melancholy. He played alone, or with
Lucy. She was the one bright spot in all that gray prairie. Lucy was
growing fast now; her golden curly head seemed to spring up at him.
That autumn the homesteaders erected a schoolhouse of their own.
It was scarcely three miles from Pan’s home.
“Pan, can you walk it?” asked Bill Smith with his keen eye on the lad.
“Yes Daddy—but—but,” replied Pan, unable to finish with the thought
so dear to his heart.
“Ah—huh. An’ before long Lucy will be old enough to go too,” added
his father. “Reckon you'll take her?”
“Yes, Daddy.” And for Pan there was real gladness in that promise.
“Wal, you’re a good boy,” declared the father. “An’ you won’t have to
walk to school. I’ve traded for two horses for you.”
“Two!” screamed Pan, wild with joy. “Oh! Oh! Oh!”
In due time the new horses arrived at the Smith homestead. Their
names were Pelter and Pilldarlick. Pelter was a pinto, snappy and pretty,
though he had a wicked eye. Pilldarlick was not showy, but he was
small and strong, easy gaited and gentle. Pan thought he was going to
like Pelter best, although Pilldarlick was surely a cowboy name and
therefore all satisfying. It turned out, however, that Pan could not ride
Pelter. He was locoed. He bucked Pan off every time. Pilldarlick was
really much better than he looked, and soon filled the void in Pan’s
heart.
The first time he rode Pilldarlick to the new school marked another
red-letter day in the life of Panhandle Smith, cowboy. There were many
boys and a few girls who had come to attend the school, only a few of
whom had horses to ride. Pan was the proud cynosure of all eyes as he
rode Pilldarlick round the yard for the edification of his schoolmates.
[eaghi
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
It was the happiest day of Pan’s life—up until Dick Hardman arrived
on a spirited little black mustang.
“Hey, where’d you git that nag?” yelled Dick, when he sighted Pan.
“An’ say, your saddle ain’t nothin’ but rawhide on a stump.”
“You're a liar!” shouted Pan, fiercely tumbling off Pilldarlick.
The red-headed lad pitched out of his saddle and made for Pan.
They began to fight. Instinct was Pan’s guide. He hit and scratched
and kicked. But Dick being the larger began to get the better of the
battle, and soon was beating Pan badly when the new teacher came out
to his rescue.
“Stop it,” she ordered, separating the belligerents. “Only cats and dogs
fight.”
“So—do—cowboys!” panted Pan.
“Not nice ones. Only bad cowboys,” she replied, leading Pan away.
“Tl lick you next time,” yelled Dick, evilly. “You stuck-up little snot!”
[ 18 ]
CHAPTER LYE EE
MISS Amanda Hill, the teacher, rang the bell, calling all her scholars in,
and school began once more.
Dick Hardman sat across the room from Pan and behind the teacher’s
back he made ugly faces at Pan and, more than that, put his nose to his
thumb. Pan understood that, and quick as a flash, he returned the com-
pliment.
Recess came. Before half the scholars were out of the room Dick
and Pan had run to the barn, out of the teacher’s sight, and here they
fell upon each other like wildcats. It did not take Dick long to give Pan
the first real beating of his life. Cut lip, bloody nose, black eye, dirty
face, torn blouse—these things betrayed Pan at least to Miss Hill. She
kept him in after school, and instead of scolding she talked sweetly and
kindly. Pan came out of his sullenness, and felt love for her rouse in
him. But somehow he could not promise not to fight again.
“S’pose Dick Hardman does that all over again!” expostulated Pan in
despair. He did not realize what he felt. He wanted to please and obey
this sweet little woman, but there was a revolt in him. “What’ll my—
my daddy—say when he hears I got licked!” he sobbed.
She compromised finally by accepting Pan’s willing promise not to
pick a fight with Dick.
Despite the unpleasant proximity of Dick Hardman, that winter at
school promised to be happy and helpful to Pan. There were three large
[ 19 ]
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
boys, already cowboys, who attended Miss Hill’s school. Pan gravitated
at once to them, and to his great satisfaction they accepted him.
Later his old cowboy friend of the roundup arrived on the range with
a trail herd of cattle from Texas. Their brand was an O X, a new one
to Pan. He kept a record of all the brands he had seen, and practiced
drawing them on paper. Moore and three of his cowboys came to board
at Pan’s home, and kept their string of horses there. Pan’s cup was full.
The days flew by. Snow and cold were nothing to him. Not even study,
and the ever-malicious Dick Hardman could daunt his spirit. Moore
meant to winter his herd there, and wait for spring before he drove it
farther north.
The cowboys’ nickname for Moore was Pug, and another fellow
whose real name Pan never heard was called Slats. They taught Pan
all the cowboy songs from “Ti yi oop oop ya ya” to “Bury me on the
Lone Prairie.” Every night Pan listened to them sing by the fire in their
bunkhouse, and many times he had to be called to do his chores.
Another of the cowboys was called Hookey. His nose resembled that
of a parrot and he had the disposition of a locoed coyote, according to
Pug and Slats. Hookey took a dislike to Pan, and always sought to arouse
the boy’s temper. These cowboys were always gone in the morning
before Pan got up, but by the time he arrived home from school on
Pilldarlick they were usually there.
Slats, who wanted to be a lady killer, would say: “Wal, Button, what
did your school marm say about me today?” And Hookey would make
fun of Pilldarlick, which ridicule had more power to hurt Pan than any-
thing else. One day Pan gave way to fury, and with flying rocks he
chased Hookey into the cellar, and every time Hookey poked up his head
Pan would fling a stone with menacing accuracy. That time his mother
came to the rescue of the cowboy. After that Hookey bought a new
saddle and gave Pan his old one. That settled hostilities. Pan had a change
of heart. No matter how Hookey teased or tormented him he could
never again make him angry. Pan saw Hookey with different eyes.
[ 20 ]
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
He was unutterably happy now with a horse and saddle too, and
went about singing: “My trade is cinchin’ saddles an’ pullin’ bridle
reins.”
One day two strange men arrived at the Smith homestead. They had
still hard faces, intent gray eyes; they packed guns, and one of them
wore a bright star on his vest. These men took Hookey away with them.
And after they were gone the cowboys told Pan that Hookey was
wanted for horse stealing. Young as Pan was he understood the enormity
of that crime in the eyes of cowboys. He felt terribly hurt and betrayed.
Long indeed was it before he forgot Hookey.
Swiftly that winter passed. Pan had a happy growing time of it. Study
had not seemed so irksome, perhaps owing to the fact that he had a
horse and saddle; he could ride to and fro; he often stopped to see Lucy
who was now big enough to want to go to school herself; and the teacher
had won his love. Pan kept out of fights with Dick Hardman until one
recess when Dick called him “teacher’s pet.” That inflamed Pan, as
much because of the truth of it as the shame. So this time, though he
had hardly picked a fight, he was the first to strike. With surprising
suddenness he hit the big Dick square on the nose. When Dick got up
howling and swearing, his face was hideous with dirt and blood. Then
began a battle that dwarfed the one in the barn. Pan had grown con-
siderably. He was quick and strong, and when once his mother’s fight-
ing blood burned in him he was as fierce as a young savage. But again
Dick whipped him.
Miss Hill, grieved and sorrowful, sent Pan home with a note. It
chanced that both his father and mother were at home when he arrived.
They stood aghast at his appearance.
“You dirty ragged bloody boy!” cried his mother, horrified.
“Huh! You oughta see Dick Hardman!” ejaculated Pan.
The lad thought he had ruined himself forever with Miss Amanda
Hill. But to his amaze and joy he had not. Next day she kept him in
after school, cried over him, kissed him, talked long and earnestly. All
[ 21 ]
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
that Pan remembered was: “Something terrible will come of your hate
for Dick Hardman if you don’t root it out of your heart.”
“Teacher—why don’t you—talk to Dick this way?” faltered Pan,
always won by her tenderness.
“Because Dick is a different kind of a boy,” she replied, but never
explained what she meant.
At Christmas time the parents of the school children gave a party
at the schoolhouse. Every one on the range for miles around was there.
Pan for once had his fill of seeing cowboys. Miss Amanda was an attrac-
tion no cowboys could resist. That night Pan spoke his first piece entitled:
“Sugar-tooth Dick for sweeties was sick.”
To Pan it seemed a silly piece, but he spoke it to please Miss Amanda,
and because it was a hit at Dick Hardman. To his surprise he received
a roar of applause. After the supper, dancing began. Some of the cowboys
got drunk. There were fights, two of which Pan saw, to his thrilling fear
and awe. It was long past midnight when he yielded to the intense
drowsiness that overcame him. When he awoke at dawn they were still
dancing.
Winter passed. Spring came with roundups too numerous for Pan to
keep track of. And a swift happy summer sped by.
That fall a third uncle settled in the valley. He was an older brother
of Pan’s father, whom they called Old Uncle Ike. He was a queer old
bachelor, lived alone, and did not invite friendliness. Pan was told to
stay away from him. Old Uncle Ike was crabby and hard; when a boy,
his heart had been broken by an unfaithful sweetheart; he had shot her
lover and run away to war. After serving through the Civil War he
fought Indians, and had lived an otherwise wild life.
But Pan was only the keener to see and know Old Uncle Ike. He went
boldly to make his acquaintance. He found a sad-faced, gray old man,
sitting alone.
Pan said bravely: “Uncle, I’m Pan Smith, your brother Bill’s boy, an’
I’ve come to see you because I’m sure I'll like you.”
[ 22 ]
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
He did not find the old man unfriendly. Pan was welcome, and soon
they became fast friends. Every Saturday Pan rode over to Uncle Ike’s
place, stealing some of the time he was supposed to be spending with
Lucy. The little girl pouted and cried and railed at Pan for such base
desertion, but he only laughed at her. Any time he wanted he could
have Lucy. She grew sweeter and more lovable as she grew older, facts
Pan took to his heart, but he chose the old man’s stories of war and
Indians in preference to Lucy’s society.
Months passed, and Pan grew tall and supple, with promise of de-
veloping the true horseman’s build. Then the spring when he was twelve
years old arrived and his father consented to let him ride for wages at the
roundup.
He joined a big outfit. There were over fifty cowboys, two bed wagons,
two chuck wagons, and strings of horses too numerous to count. A new
horse to ride twice a day! This work was as near paradise as Pan felt he
had ever been. But for one circumstance, it would have been absolutely
perfect, and that was that he had no boots. A fast-riding cowboy without
boots!
In the heat of action, amid the whirling loop of bawling calves and
cows, when the dry dust rose to stop up Pan’s nostrils and cake on his
hot sweaty face, when the ropes were whistling, the cowboys yelling,
the brand iron sizzling, all he felt was the wild delight of it, the thrill
of the risk, the excitement, the constant stirring life and motion. During
leisure hours, however, he was always confronted with his lack of
rider’s equipment.
“Say, kid, who built them top boots of yourn?” asked one cowboy.
“Shore, I’ll trade spurs with you,” drawled another.
“Whar’s yore fur chaps there, cowboy?” queried a third.
And so it went always and forever. The cowboys could not help that.
It was born in them, born of the atmosphere and spirit of the singular
life they lived. Nevertheless Pan loved them, and they were good to
him.
[ 23 ]
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
His best friends in this outfit were Si and Slick, both horse wranglers, |
whose real names Pan never learned.
That roundup was prolific of wonderful experiences. One night when —
a storm threatened the foreman called to the cowboys not on duty: |
“Talk to ’°em low, boys, fer they’re gettin’ ready.”
He meant that the herd of cattle was likely to stampede. And when the
thunder and rain burst the herd broke away with a trampling roar. Pan
got soaked to the skin and lost in the rain. When he returned to camp
only the cook and wagons were there. Next morning the cowboys
straggled in in bunches, each driving part of the stampeded herd.
At breakfast one morning Pan heard a yell. “Ride him, cowboy!”
“Whoopee! Look at that outlaw comin’ high, wide an’ handsome!”
Pan just had time to see a terribly pitching red horse come tearing into
the circle of cowboys. His rider went shooting over his head to alight
among them. Then what a scattering! That red fiend spoiled the break-
fast and cleaned out the camp. How the cowboys reviled the poor fellow
who had been thrown!
“Huh! Broke yore collar bone?” yelled one. “Why you dod-blasted
son of a sea cook, he oughta hev broke yore neck!”
And Si, the horse wrangler said: “Charlie, I reckon it’s onconsiderate
of you to exercise yore pet hoss on our stummicks.”
One of the amazing things that happened during the winter was the
elopement of Miss Amanda Hill with a cowboy. Pan did not like this
fellow very well, but the incident heightened his already magnificent
opinion of cowboys.
Pan never forgot Lucy’s first day of school when he rode over with
her sitting astride behind him, “ringin’ his neck,” as a cowboy remarked.
Pan had not particularly been aware of that part of the performance for
he was used to having Lucy cling to him. That embarrassed him. He
dropped her off rather unceremoniously at the door, and went to put
his horse in the corral. She was little and he was big, which fact further
bore upon his consciousness, through the giggles of the girls and gibes
[ 24 ]
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
: the boys. But they did not make any change in his attitude toward
ucy. All winter he took her to and from school on his horse. The sum-
er following, he worked for his Uncle Ike.
_ As Pan grew older time seemed so much shorter than when he was
ittle. There was so much to do. And all at once he was fifteen years
1d. His mother gave him a party on that birthday, which was marked
on his memory by the attention his boy friends paid to Lucy. She was
ay far the prettiest girl in the valley. He did not know exactly what
‘o make of his resentment, nor of the queer attitude of proprietorship
he had assumed over her.
He was destined to learn more about his state of mind. It happened
the next day at school during the noon hour. That late November, a
spell of Indian summer weather had lingered, and the pupils ate their
lunches out under the trees.
_ Suddeniy Lucy came running up to Pan, who as usual was having a
re for his horse. Her golden hair was flying, disheveled. She was
weeping. Her big violet eyes streamed with tears. She was wiping her
face with most expressive disgust.
“Pan—you go right off—and thrash Dick Hardman,” she cried, pas-
sionately.
“Lucy!—What’s he done?” queried Pan, after a sudden sense of
inward shock.
“He’s always worrying me—when you're not around. I never told
cause I knew you’d fight. . . . But now he’s done it. He grabbed me and
<issed me! Before all the boys!”
Pan looked steadily at her tear-wet face, seeing Lucy differently. She
was not a baby any more. For some strange reason beyond his under-
tanding he was furious with her. Pushing her aside he strode toward
he group of boys, leering close by.
Dick Hardman, a strapping big lad now, edged back into the crowd.
an violently burst into it, forcing the boys back, until he confronted
is adversary. On Dick’s sallow face the brown freckles stood out
[ 25 ]
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
prominently. Something in the look and advance of Pan had intimidate
him. But he blustered, he snarled.
“You're a skunk,” said Pan fiercely, and struck out with all his migh
One hour from that moment they were still fighting. They had fought
from the grove to the schoolyard, from there down the road and back
again. Bloody, ragged, black, they beat, tore, hit, bit and clawed each
other. The teacher, wringing her hands, called upon the other boys to
separate the belligerents. They had tried, but in vain, and only got
kicked for their pains. The girls, most of them, screamed and cried. But
not Lucy! White faced and with dilated eyes she watched that struggle.
All the spectators, even the youngest, seemed to recognize it as a dif-
ferent kind of a fight from any that had ever occurred before. At last
the teacher sent some of the children for help from the nearest farmhouse.
Dick would lower his head and lunge at Pan, trying to butt him in
the abdomen. Twice he had bowled Pan over, to his distinct advantage.
But the crafty Pan, timing another and last attack of this kind, swung
up his knee with terrific force, square into Dick’s face.
Down Dick plumped, rolled over on his back, yelling loudly. Sud-
denly he ceased, he raised up on one elbow, he spat blood, and some-
thing that rattled on the gravel. A tooth! His grimy hand went trembling
to his blood-stained mouth. He felt of his front teeth. One was gone,
others were loose. Vanity, Dick’s distinguishing characteristic, suffered
a terrible blow. Staggering to his feet, fetching a stone with him, he
glared at Pan: “I’ll—kill—you!”
He flung the stone with deadly intent. But Pan dodged it and leaped
at him. Dick ran hard toward the schoolhouse, stooping to snatch up
stones, and turning to fling them at Pan. The yelling boys scattered,
the frightened girls fled. Pan was not to be outdone at any kind of fight.
He returned stone for stone, the last of which struck Dick low down
in the leg. Like a crippled beast Dick shrieked and plunged into the
schoolhouse, slamming shut the door. But Pan, rushing after, grabbed
[ 26 ]
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
up a rock and flung it so powerfully that it split the door and knocked
it off the hinges.
Pan rushed in to receive full in the face a long, thick teacher’s ruler
thrown by Dick. It knocked him flat. Picking it up Pan brandished it
and charged his enemy. Dick ran along the blackboard, and jerking up
one eraser after another he threw them. His aim was poor. His strength
waning. His courage had gone. As for Pan it was as if the long fight had
only inspired him to renewed ferocity and might. The truth was that a
hot dancing fire in Pan’s blood had burned to white intensity, un-
quenchable and devastating.
Suddenly Dick made for the teacher’s table. An idea, an inspiration
showed in his renewed speed. Pan divined its purpose. Leaping upon
the desks he endeavored to head Dick off. Too late! When Pan sprang
off the last desk to the platform Dick had turned—with the teacher’s
long paper knife in his hand and baleful hate in his prominent eyes.
Later, when the children outside dared to peep into the schoolroom
hey neither saw nor heard anything of the fighters. But fearing they
were just hiding behind the benches, ready for a renewed fusillade, not
one of the pupils dared go in. The teacher had hurried down the road to
neet the men some of the boys had fetched.
And these men were Jim Blake and Bill Smith who had been riding
1ome from the range. When they entered the schoolroom with the
eacher fearfully following, and only Lucy of all the scholars daring to
some too, they found the fight was over.
Dick lay unconscious on the floor with a bloody forehead. Pan sat
rouched on the platform, haggard and sullen, with face, shirt, hands all
sloody.
“Ah-uh! Reckon you've been fightin’ like a cowboy for shore this
ime,” said Pan’s father in his matter of fact way. “Stand up. Let’s look
tt you. . . . Jim, take a look at that lad on the floor.”
While Pan painfully endeavored to get up, Blake knelt beside Dick.
[ 27 ]
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
“Bill, this heah rooster has had a wallop,” said Blake.
“You little cowpunchin’ ruffian,” exploded Smith angrily, reaching a
large arm for Pan. “Now then... . What the hell? . . . Boy, you've
been stabbed!”
“Yes—Dad—he stuck me—with teacher’s knife,” replied Pan faintly,
He tottered on his feet, and his right hand was pressed tight to his left
shoulder, high up, where the broken haft of the paper knife showed
between his red-stained fingers.
Bill Smith’s anger vanished in alarm, and something stern and grim
took its place. Just then Lucy broke away from the teacher and con-
fronted him.
“Oh—please don’t punish him, Mr. Smith,” she burst out poignantly.
“It was all my fault. I—I stuck up my nose at Dick. He said things that
—that weren’t nice. . . . I slapped him. Then he grabbed me, kissed me.
... Tran to Pan—and—and told him. . . . Oh, that made Pan fight.”
Smith looked gravely down into the white little face with the dis-
tended violet eyes, slowly losing their passion. He seemed to be struck
with something that he had never seen before.
“Wal, Lucy, I’ll not punish Pan,” he said, slowly. “I think more of
him for fightin’ for you.”
[ 28 ]
CHAPTER? FOUR
THEY did not meet again during the winter. It was a hard winter. Pan
left school and stayed close to home, working for his mother, and play-
ing less than any time before.
“I heard Dick say he’d kill you someday,” said one cowboy seriously.
“An’ take it from me, kid, he’s a bad hombre.”
“Ah-uh!” was all the reply Pan vouchsafed, as he walked away. He
did not like to be reminded of Dick. It sent an electric spark to the deep-
seated smoldering mine in his breast.
When springtime came Pan joined the roundup in earnest, for part
of the cattle and outfit now belonged to his father. Out on the range
he forty riders waited for the wagons. There were five cowboys from
Big Sandy in Pan’s bunch and several more arrived from the Crow
Roost country. Old Dutch John, a famous range character, was driving
he chuck wagon. At one time he had been a crony of Pan’s father,
ind that attracted Pan to the profane old grizzled cook. He could not
alk without swearing and, if he replied to a question that needed only
res or no, he would supplement it with a string of oaths.
Next day the outfit rode the west side of Dobe Creek, rounding up
serhaps a thousand cattle. Pete Blaine and Hooley roped calves while
an helped hold up.
On the following day the riders circled Blue Lakes, where cattle
warmed. Old John had yelled to the boys: “Hey, punchers, heave at
hem today. You gotta throw an awful mess of ’em heah.”
[ 29 ]
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
These two lakes were always dry, except during the spring; and
now they were full, with green grass blanketing the range as far as
eye could see. By Monday long lines of cattle moved with flying dust
down to the spot chosen for the roundup. As the herds closed in, the
green range itself seemed to be moving. When thrown together all
these cattle formed a sea of red and white, from which roared an inces-
sant bawling. It looked impossible to separate cows and calves from the
others. But dozens of fearless cowboys, riding in here and in there,
soon began to cut out the cows and calves.
It was a spectacle that inspired Pan as never before. The wagons
were lined up near the lake, their big white canvas tops shining in the
afternoon sun, and higher on a bench stood the “hoodelum” or bed
wagon, so stocked with bedrolls that it resembled a haystack. Beyond
the margin of the lake, four hundred fine saddle horses grazed and
kicked and bit at one another. Beyond the saddle horses grazed the day
herd of cattle. And over on the other side dinned the melee over the main
herd, the incessant riding, yelling of the cowboys and the bawling of
the cows.
When all the cows and calves were cut out, a rider of each outfit
owning cattle on that range would go through to claim those belonging
to his brand. Next the herd of bulls and steers, old cows and yearlings,
would be driven back out upon the range.
Fires were started, and as there was no wood on that range, buffalo
chips were used instead. It took many cowboys to collect sufficient for
their needs.
At sunset, when the branding of calves was finished, each cowboy
caught a horse for night duty. Pan got one he called Old Paint.
“Say, kid,” called one of the Crow Nest cowboys, “ain’t you tyin’
up a pretty fancy hoss fer night work?”
“Oh, I guess not,” laughed Pan.
“Come heah, Blowy,” called the cowboy to another. “See what I
found.”
[ 30 }
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
A long lanky red-faced rider detached himself from the others, and
strode with jingling spurs over to look at Pan’s horse.
“Wal, I'll go to hell, Ben Bolt, if it ain’t Ol’ Calico!” he ejaculated, in
amaze and pleasure. “Kid, whar’d you ever git him?”
“Dad made a trade,” replied Pan.
“Kid, look a heah. Don’t ever tie that hoss to a stake pin. He’s the best
cow hoss I ever slung a leg over. The puncher who broke him an’
teached him all he knows was my pard, long ago. An’ he’s daid. Kid,
he’d roll over in his grave if he knowed Ol’ Cal was tied to a picket pin.”
“Aw, is that so?” replied Pan. “Fact is, I don’t know much about him.
We called him Old Paint. Haven’t forked him yet. Dad got him from
a lady last winter. She was trying to work him to a cart. But he balked.
She said she poured some hot water on. . . .”
“Lady, hell!” shouted the cowboy, growing redder of face. “She wasn’t
no lady if she treated that grand hoss that way. . . . See heah, kid, I'll
stake you to a good night hoss. Turn Ol’ Cal loose, an’ whenever you
need to do some real fancy separatin’ jest set your frusky on Ol’ Cal.
Better tie to your stirrups if you’re perticler aboot keepin’ your seat,
‘cause ’at ol’ pony can sure git from under a cowhand.”
“All right, I'll turn Old Calico loose,” replied Pan. “And I'll remember
what you said about him.”
Blowy pointed out one of his horses. “Kid, screw your wood to thet
jasper, an’ you'll never be walkin’.”
“Thanks, but I got lots of horses,” said Pan.
“Aw go on—lots of horses. Why bunkie, I got more mean horses than
I can start to keep gentle. I just fetched thet one to stake my friends.”
Pan saddled up the horse indicated, and found him the best he had
ever mounted. That experience led to his acquaintance with Blowy. He
was a ceaseless talker, hence his name, but beloved by all the outfit. Pan
learned something from every cowboy he met and it was not all for
he best.
That roundup was Pan’s real introduction to the raw range. When
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the time came for the outfit to break up, with each unit taking its own
cattle, the boss said to Pan, “Come ride fer me.”
Pan, flushed and pleased, mumbled his thanks, but he had to work
for his father. Then he and the boy with him, Joe Crawley, bade their
comrades good-by, especially loath to part with Old Dutch, and started
home with their cows and calves. They crossed the old Indian battlefield
where Colonel Shivington gave the famous order to his soldiers: “Kill
“em all. Nits make lice!”
Pan and Joe set out from there for Limestone Creek with their small
herd and extra horses. Pan wanted to bring Old Calico, but he had drifted
off to the range.
“Heel flies are workin’, kid,” said Joe, who was older and more
experienced. “We’re shore goin’ to be on the mud fer the next month.”
There was something in the air, storm perhaps, or such conditions
that have strange effect upon beasts. Pan and Joe fought their cattle
and horses all that day, and most of the night. They could not make
them travel. Halting where they were they kept guard till dawn, then
tried to drive their outfit on. But not for several hours could they move
them. At length, however, the stock began to get dry, and string out
and travel.
Late in the afternoon the boys reached Limestone. They found three
old cows stuck in the mud, up to their eyes, with only their horns and
faces showing. It took long hard work to get them out. They made camp
there, turning the cows and calves loose, as this was their range.
The following morning Pan and Joe rode up to the next boghole.
They found seventeen mired cattle.
“Nice an’ deep,” said Joe. “Damn these heah cows, allus pickin’ out
quicksand!”
Tt took until noon to pull them out. Another boghole showed twenty-
four more in deep.
“How many more bogholes on Limestone?” asked Pan.
“Only four an’ the wust ones,” replied Joe, groaning. “If they’re
[ 32 ]
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
boggin’ as good up there in them big holes, your dad will sure have to
ship more cattle in soon.”
There were six thousand cattle watering along that stream. When
the water was low, as it was then, the cattle mired by the hundreds.
“Looks bad, Pan,” remarked the older cowboy. “We're goin’ to need
help.”
They returned to camp, got their supper, took fresh horses, and
worked half the night pulling cows out of the mud.
By sunrise the next morning the boys were at work again. Some of
the mired cattle had died, others had kinks in their necks and had to be
killed. Farther up the creek conditions grew worse, and the biggest
pool on the range looked from a distance like a small lake dotted with
ducks.
“I’m cussin’ the world by sections,” growled Joe. “Wal, kid, you g’on
up the crick, and get as near a count as you can. I’m ridin’ in after men
an’ wagons. We'll move the camp up heah. It’s the wust I ever seen,
an’ we'll lose a heap of stock. There’s a loblolly of blue gumbo mud an’
no bottom. An’ by thunder we’re stuck heah for Lord knows how long.”
That fall Jim Blake sold his farm, and took his family to New Mexico.
He had not been prospering in the valley, and things had gone from
bad to worse. Pan did not get home in time to say good-by to Lucy—
something that hurt in an indefinable way. He had not forgotten Lucy
for in his mind she had become a steadfast factor in his home life. She
left a little note of farewell, simple and loyal, hopeful, yet somehow
stultified. Not so childish as former notes! Time flew by and Lucy might
be growing up.
The Hardmans had also moved away from the valley, where, none of
the neighbors appeared to know. But Pan was assured of two facts con-
cerning them; firstly that Dick had gotten into a serious shooting scrape
in which he had wounded a rancher’s son, and secondly that from some
unexpected and unknown source the Hardmans had acquired or been
left some money.
[ 33 ]
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
Pan promptly forgot his boyhood enemy. This winter was the last
that he spent at home. He rode the Limestone range that summer, and
according to cowboys’ gossip was fast developing all the qualities that
pertained to the best riders of the day.
Upon returning home he found that his father had made unwise deals
and was not getting along very well. Grasping settlers had closed in on
the range. Rustlers had ridden down from the north, raiding the valley.
During Pan’s absence a little sister was born, which was indeed joyful
news for him. And as he played with the baby he was reminded of Lucy.
What had become of her? It occurred to Pan that sooner or later he
must hunt her up.
Pan decided that he could not remain idle during the winter. He could
have had plenty to do at home, working without wages, but that was
no longer to be thought of. So he decided to join two other adventurous
cowboys who had planned to go south, and in the spring come back
with some of the great herds being driven north.
But Pan liked the vast ranges of the Lone Star State, and he rode there
for two years, inevitably drifting into the wild free life of the cowboys.
Sometimes he sent money home to his mother, but that was seldom,
because he was always in debt. She wrote him regularly, which fact
was the only link between him and the old home memories. Thought
of Lucy returned now and then, on the lonely rides on night watches,
and it seemed like a sweet melancholy dream. Never a word did he hear
of her.
Spring had come again when he rode into the Panhandle, and as
luck would have it he fell in with an outfit who were driving cattle to
Montana, a job that would take until late fall. To his chagrin stories
of his wildness had preceded him. Ill rumor travels swiftly. Pan was the
more liked and respected by these riders. But he feared that gossip of
the southern ranges would reach his mother. He would go home that
fall to reassure her of his well-being, and that he was not one of those
“bad, gun-throwing cowboys.”
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
But late fall found him cheated of his long summer’s wages, without
money and job. He would not ride a “grub line” home, so he found a
place with a rancher in Montana. He learned to hate the bleak ranges
of that northern state, the piercing blasts of wind, the ice and snow.
Spring saw him riding south toward his old stamping grounds. But
always he was drifting, with the swift months flying by as fleet as the
mustangs he rode, and he did not reach home. The Cimarron, the
Platte, the Arkansas ranges came to know the tracks of his horses; and
after he had drifted on, to remember him as few cowboys were remem-
bered.
At twenty years of age Panhandle Smith looked older—looked the
hard life, the hard fare, the hard companionship that had been his lot
as an American cowboy. He had absorbed all the virtues of that re-
markable character, and most of the vices. But he had always kept aloof
from women. His comrades gave many forceful and humorous reasons
for his apparent fear of the sex, but they never understood him. Pan
never lost the reverence for women his mother had instilled in him,
nor his first and only love for Lucy Blake.
One summer night Pan was standing night-guard duty for his cow-
boy comrade, who was enamored of the daughter of the rancher for
whom they worked. Jim was terribly in love, and closely pressed by a rival
from another outfit. This night was to be the crucial one.
Pan had to laugh at his friend. He was funny, he was pathetic, so
prone to be cast down one moment and the next raised aloft to the
skies, according to the whim of the capricious young lady. Many times
Pan had ridden and worked with a boy afflicted with a similar malady.
This night, however, Pan had been conscious of encroaching melan-
choly. Perhaps it was a yearning for something he did not know how
to define.
The night was strange, a sultry oppressive one, silent except for the
uneasy lowing of the herd, a rumbie of thunder from the dark rolling
clouds. A weird yellow moon hung just above the horizon. The range
{ 25 |
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
spread away dark, lonely and wild. No wind stirred. The wolves and
coyotes were quiet. All at once to Pan the whole world seemed empty.
It was an unaccountable feeling. The open range, the solitude, the herd
of cattle in his charge, the comrades asleep, the horses grazing round
their pickets—these always sufficient things suddenly lost their magic
potency. He divined at length that he was homesick. And by the time
the lay watch was ended he had determined to quit his job and ride
home.
[ 36 ]
CHAPTER FIVE
ON his way home Panhandle Smith rode across the old Limestone
range that had been the scene of his first cowboy activities. It had not
changed, although the cattle were not so numerous. Familiar as yester-
day were the bogholes, where he and his partner—what was that cow-
puncher’s name?—had spent so many toilsome days and nights.
Pan made camp on the rocky ford where a brook joined the Lime-
stone. It was thirty miles to Littleton, farther to Las Animas, and his
pack horse was tired. He cooked his meager meal, and unrolled his bed,
and as on many a hundred other nights he lay down under the open
sky. But his wakefulness was new. He could not get to sleep for long.
The nearer he got home the stranger and deeper his thoughts.
Moving on next day he kept sharp lookout among the cattle for his
father’s brand. But he saw no sign of it. At length, toward sunset, after
passing thousands of cattle, he concluded in surprise that his father’s
stock no longer ran this range. Too many homesteads and fences! He
reached Littleton at dark. It had grown to be a sizable settlement. Pan
treated himself to a room at the new hotel, and after supper went out
to find somebody he knew. It was Saturday night and the town was
full of riders and ranchers. He expected to meet an old acquaintance any
moment, but to his further surprise he did not. Finally he went to
Campbell’s store, long a fixture in the settlement of that country. John
Campbell, huge of build, with his long beard and ruddy face, appeared
[ 37]
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
exactly the same as when he used to give Pan a stick of candy. It did
seem a long time, now. Campbell did not recognize him.
“Howdy, stranger, reckon you’ve got the best of me,” he replied to
Pan’s question, and he sized up the tall lithe rider with curious and
appreciating eyes.
“Now, John, you used to give me a stick of candy, every time I came
to town,” said Pan, with a laugh.
“Wal, I done that for every Tom, Dick an’ Harry of a kid in this
heah country,” returned the old man, stroking his beard. “But durn
if I recollect you.”
“Panhandle Smith,” announced Pan, with just a little diffidence. Per-
haps if he was not remembered personally he might have the good luck
to be unknown in reputation.
“Wal—Pan, if ’t ain’t you, by gosh!” ejaculated Campbell, cordially,
and there was unmistakable welcome in his grip. “But no one here
will ever recognize you. Say, you’ve sprung up. We’ve heerd a lot
about you—nothin’ of late years, though, now I tax myself . . . Cow-
boy, you’ve seen some range life, if talk is true.”
“You mustn’t believe all you hear, Mr. Campbell,” replied Pan, with
a smile. “I’d like to know about my dad and mother.”
“Wal, haven’t you heerd?” queried Campbell, hesitatingly.
“What?” flashed Pan, noting the other’s sudden change to gravity.
“It’s two years and more since I got a letter from Mother. I wrote a
couple of times, but she never answered.”
“You ought to have come home long ago,” said Campbell. “Your
father lost his cattle. Old deal with Hardman that stood for years.
Mebbe you never knowed about it. There are ranchers around here who
swear Hardman drove sharp deals. Wal, your father sold the homestead
an’ left. Reckon it’s been over a year.”
“Where'd they go?”
“Your pa never told me where, but I heerd afterward that he hit
Hardman’s trail an’ went to western New Mexico. Marco is the name
[ 38 ]
”
!
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
of the place. New country up there. Gold an’ silver minin’, some cattle
outfits goin’ in, an lately I heerd of some big wild-hoss deals on.”
“Well,” exclaimed Pan, in profound amaze and sorrow at this news.
“It’s a wide-open frontier place, all right,” declared Campbell. “Some
cowpuncher rode through here an’ talked about Marco. He said they
stepped high, wide an’ handsome up there.”
“Why did Dad go?” asked Pan in wonder.
“Reckon I couldn’t say fer sure. But he was sore at Hardman, an’ the
funny thing is he wasn’t sore till some time after Hardman left these
parts. Mebbe he learned somethin’, An’ you can learn whatever it was
if you hunt up them ranchers who once got stung by Hardman.”
“Ah-uh!” muttered Pan, thoughtfully. “Don’t know as I care to
learn. Dad will tell me... . Jim Blake, now, what become of him?”
“Jim, a while back, I reckon some years though after you left home,
was foreman for Hardman’s outfit. An’ he went to Marco first. Reckon
Hardman sent him up there to scout around.”
“Did Jim take his family along?” inquired Pan, pondering.
“No. But they left soon after. In fact, now I tax myself, several home-
steaders from hereabouts went. There’s a boom over west, Pan, an’ this
here country is gettin’ crowded.”
“Marco. How do you get there?”
“Wal, it’s on the old road to Californy.”
Pan went to the seclusion of his room, and there in the dark, sleepless,
he knew the pangs of remorse. Without realizing the flight of years,
always meaning to return home, to help father, mother, little sister, to
take up again with his never-forgotten Lucy—he had allowed the wild
life of the range to hold him too long. Excuses were futile. Suppose he
had failed to save money—suppose he had become numbered among
those whom his old schoolteacher had called “bad cowboys”! Pride,
neglect, love of the range and new country, new adventure had kept him
from doing his duty by his parents. That hour was indeed dark and
shameful for Panhandle Smith. Instead of drowning his grief in drink,
[ 39]
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
as would have been natural for a cowboy, he let it work its will upon
him. He deserved the pangs of self-reproach, the futile wondering, the
revived memories that roused longings stronger than that which had
turned him on the homeward trail.
Next day Pan sold his outfit except the few belongings he cherished,
and boarded a west-bound stage. Once on the way he recovered from his
brooding mood and gradually awakened to the fact that he was riding
to a new country, a new adventure—the biggest of his life—in which
he must make amends to his mother, and to Lucy. Quite naturally he
included Lucy in the little circle of beloved ones—Lucy, whom he had
deserted for the open range, for pitching horses and running steers, for
the dust and turmoil of the roundup, for the long day ride and the
lonely night watch, for the gaming table, the bottle, the gun—for all
that made life so thrilling to the American cowboy. ?
Riding by stage was not new to Pan, though he had never before taken
more than a day’s journey. The stage driver, Jim Wells, was an old- »
timer. He had been a pony-express rider, miner, teamster and freighter,
and now, grizzled and scarred he liked to perch upon the driver’s seat
of the stage, chew tobacco and talk. His keen eyes took Pan’s measure
in one glance.
“Pitch your bag up, cowboy, an’ climb aboard,” he said. “An’ what
might your handle be?”
“Panhandle Smith,” replied Pan nonchalantly, “late of Sycamore
Bend.”
“Wal, now, whar’d I hear thet name? I got a plumb good memory
fer names an’ faces. Pears I heerd thet name in Cheyenne, last sum-
mer....IJ got it. Cowpuncher named Panhandle rode down street
draggin’ a bolt of red calico thet unwound an’ stampeded all the hosses.
Might thet lad have happened to be you?”
“I reckon it might,” replied Pan, with a grin. “But if you know any
more about me keep it under your sombrero, old-timer.”
“Haw! Haw!” roared Wells, slapping his knee. “By golly, I will if
[ 40 ]
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
Ican. There’s a funny old lady inside what’s powerful afeerd of bandits,
an’ there’s a gurl. I seen her takin’ in your size an’ spurs, an’ thet gun
you pack sort of comfortable like. An’ there’s a gambler, too, if I ever
seen one. Reckon I’m agoin’ to enjoy this ride.”
After the next stop, where the travelers got dinner, Pan returned to
the stage to find a young lady perched upon the driver’s seat. She had
serious gray eyes and pale cheeks.
“I took your seat,” she said, shyly, “but there’s enough room.”
“Thanks, I'll ride inside,” replied Pan.
“But if you don’t sit here—someone else might—and I—he—” she
faltered, flushing a little.
“Oh, in that case, I’ll be glad to,” interrupted Pan, and climbed to
the seat beside her. He had become aware of the appearance of a flashily
dressed, hawk-eyed individual about to enter the stage. “Are you travel-
ing alone?”
“No, thank you. Father is with me, but he never sees anything. I have
been annoyed,” she replied.
The stage driver arrived, and surveyed the couple on the seat with a
wink and a grin and a knowing look that quite embarrassed the young
Jady.
“Wal, now, this here stage drivin’ is gettin’ to be mighty fine,” he said,
as he clambered up to the seat, and unwound the reins from the brake
handle. “Lady, I reckon I seen you didn’t like ridin’ inside. Wal, you'll
shore be all right ridin’ between me an’ my young friend Panhandle
Smith.”
“I think I will,” replied the girl, dimpling prettily. “My name is
Emily Newman. I’m on my way with my father to visit relatives in
California.”
Pan soon found it needful to make conversation, in order to keep the
loquacious old stage driver from talking too much. He had told Miss
Newman about Pan’s escapade with the red calico, and had launched
upon another story about him, not funny at all to Pan, but one calculated
[ 41 ]
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
to make conquest of a romancing young girl. Pan managed to shut
Wells up, but too late. Miss Newman turned bright eyes upon Pan.
“Oh, of course, I saw you were a cowboy,” she said, dimpling again.
“Those enormous spurs you wear! I wondered how you could walk.”
“These spurs? They’re nothing. I sleep in them,” replied Pan.
“Indeed. You’re not serious. . . . Was that true about your riding
round Cheyenne dragging yards and yards of red calico behind your
horse?”
“Yes. It was silly of me. I fear I had been looking upon something
beside calico that was red.”
“Oh, you mean red liquor? . . . You were—under its influence!”
“A little,” replied Pan laughing, yet not liking the turn of the con-
versation.
“T wouldn’t have guessed that you—” she added, without concluding
what she meant to say. But her tone, her look, and the intimation con-
veyed a subtle flattery to Pan. It seemed that whenever he approached
young women he always received similar impressions. That was seldom,
for his encounters with girls were few and far between. He could not
help feeling pleased, somehow embarrassed, and rather vaguely elated.
He divined danger for him in these potent impressions. Without ever
understanding why he had avoided friendships with girls.
“Miss Newman, cowboys as a rule aren’t worth much,” rejoined Pan,
submerging his annoyance in good humor. “But at that they are not
terrible liars like most of the stage drivers you meet.”
“Haw! Haw!” roared Jim Wells, cracking his long whip, as the stage
bowled over the road. “He’s a modest young fellar, Miss, a most ex-
traordinary kind of a cowboy.”
And so they bandied words and laughs from one to another, while
the long white road stretched ahead, and rolled behind under the wheels.
The girl was plainly curious, interested, fascinated. Old Jim, after the
manner of westerners, was bent on making a conquest for Pan. And
Pan, trying hard to make himself appear only an ordinary and quite
[ 42 ]
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
worthless cowboy, succeeded only in giving an opposite impression.
The little lady rode three whole days on the driver’s seat between Pan
and Wells. She made the hours flee. When the stage reached Las Vegas,
she got off with her father and turned in the crowd to wave good-by.
Her eyes were wistful with what might have been. They haunted Pan
for days, over the mountain uplands and on and on. Pan cherished
the experience. To him it had been just a chance meeting with a nice
girl, but somehow it opened his eyes to what he had missed. The way
of cowboys with girls was the one way in which he had been totally
unfamiliar. What he had missed was not the dancing and flirting and
courting that cowboys loved so well, but something he could not quite
grasp. It belonged to the never-fading influence of his mother; and
likewise it had some inscrutable association with little Lucy Blake.
Little? Surely she could not be little now. She was a grown girl, a
young woman like this Emily Newman, beautiful perhaps, with all the
nameless charms women had for men. Pan grew conscious of a mount-
ing eagerness to see Lucy, and each day during the ride across the
desert the feeling augmented, and with it a bewilderment equally
incomprehensible to him.
New Mexico was strange and new. He saw the desert through eyes
intensified by emotion. He knew the plains from Montana to Texas.
But this was different country, with its stretches of valley, its walls of
red and yellow, its strange shafts of rock, its amber ranges, and far away
on every horizon the dim purple and white of great peaks were mag-
nificent.
The Mormon ranches were scattered along the few green valleys.
Cattle were scarce, only a few herds dotting the endless sweeps of green
sage and bleached grass. As he traveled farther westward, however, the
numbers of wild horses increased until they ran into the thousands.
Horses had meant more to Pan than anything. In his wanderings
up and down the western slope of the prairie land east of the Rockies
he had often encountered wild horses, and had enjoyed many a chase
b43 4
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
after them. Every cowboy was a wild horse hunter, on occasions. If he
had ridden these desert ranges, he would inevitably have become
permanently a hunter and lover of wild horses. Moreover, Pan did not
see why there would not be vastly more money in it than in punching
cows. He grew charmed with the idea.
Western New Mexico at last! It appeared a continuation and a mag-
nifying of all the color and wildness and vastness. Sand dunes and wastes
of black lava, dry lake beds and cone-shaped extinct volcanoes, with the
ragged crater mouths gaping, low ranges of yellow cedar-dotted hills,
valleys of purple, and green forests on the mountain slopes—all these
in endless variety were new to the cowboy of the plains. Water was
conspicuous for its absence, though at long intervals of travel he crossed
a stream. The homesteader, that hopeful and lonely pioneer, was as
scarce as the streams.
One night, hours after dark, the stage rolled into Marco, with Pan
one of five passengers. Sunset had overtaken them miles from their
destination. At that time Pan thought the country wild and beautiful
in the extreme. Darkness had soon blotted out the strange formations
of colored rocks, the endless sweep of valley, the cold white peaks in the
far distance.
Marco! How unusual the swelling of his heart! The long three-week
ride had ended. The stage had rolled down a main street the like of
which Pan had never even imagined. It was crude, rough, garish with
lights and stark board fronts of buildings, and a motley jostling crowd
of men; women, too, were not wanting in the throngs streaming up
and down. Again it was Saturday night. Always it appeared Pan hit
town on this of all nights. Noise and dust filled the air. Pan pulled down
his bag, and mounted the board steps of the hotel the stage driver had
announced.
If Pan had not been keenly strung, after long weeks, with the thought
of soon seeing his mother, father, his little sister and Lucy, he would
yet have been excited over this adventure beyond the Rockies.
L 44 |
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
Contrary to his usual habit of throwing his money to the winds like
most cowboys, he had exercised rigid economy on this trip. Indeed, it
was the first time he had ever done such a thing. He had between four
and five hundred dollars, consisting of wages he had saved and the
proceeds from the sale of his horses and outfit. There was no telling in
what difficulties he might find his father and what need there might be
for his money. So Pan took cheap lodgings, and patronized a restaurant
kept by a Chinaman.
He chose a table at which sat a young man whose face and hands
and clothes told of rough life in the open in contact with elemental
things. Pan could catch such significance as quickly as he could the
points of a horse. He belonged to that fraternity himself.
“Mind if I sit here?” he asked, indicating the vacant chair.
“Help yourself, stranger,” was the reply, accompanied by an apprais-
ing glance from level quiet eyes.
“T’m sure hungry. How’s the chuck here?” went on Pan, seating
himself.
“The Chink is a first rate cook an’ clean. . . . Just come to town?”
“Yes,” replied Pan, and after giving his order to a boy waiter he
turned to his companion across the table and continued. “And it took
a darn long ride to get here. From Texas.”
“That so? Well, I come from western Kansas, just across the Texas
line.”
“Been here long?”
“Reckon a matter of six months.”
“What’s your work, if you'll excuse curiosity. I’m green, you see,
and want to know.”
“I’ve been workin’ a minin’ claim. Gold.”
“Ah-huh!” replied Pan with quickened interest. “Sounds awful good
to me. I never saw any gold but a few gold eagles, and they’ve sure been
scarce enough.”
Pan’s frankness, and that something simple and careless about him,
[ 45 ]
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
combined with his appearance, always created the best of impressions
upon men.
His companion grinned across the table, as if he had shared Pan’s
experience. “Reckon you needn’t tell me you’re a cowpuncher. I heard
you comin’ before I saw you. . . . My name’s Brown.”
“Howdy, glad to meet you,” replied Pan, and then with evident hesita-
tion. “Mine is Smith.”
“Panhandle Smith?” queried the other, quickly.
“Why, sure,” returned Pan with a laugh.
“Shake,” was all the reply Brown made, except to extend a lean strong
hand.
“I’m most as lucky as I am unlucky,” said Pan warmly. “It’s a small
world. . . . Now tell me, Brown, have you seen or heard anything of
my dad, Bill Smith?”
“No, sorry to say. But I haven’t mingled much. Been layin’ pretty
low, because the fact is I think I’ve struck a rich claim. An’ it’s made
me cautious.”
“Ah-uh. Pretty wide open town, I'll bet. I appreciate your confidence
in me.”
“To tell you the truth I’m darn glad to run into some one from near
home. Lord, I wish you could have brought word from my wife an’
baby.”
“Married, and got a kid. That’s fine. Boy or girl?”
“It’s a girl. I never saw her, as she was born after I left home. My
wife wasn’t very well when she wrote last. She wants to come out here,
but I can’t see that yet a while.”
“Well, wish I could have brought you news. It must be tough to be
separated from your family. I’m not married, but I know what a little
girl means. . . . Say, Brown, did you ever run into a man out here
named Jim Blake?”
“No ”
“Or a man named Hardman? Jard Hardman?”
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“Hardman! Now you're talkin’, Panhandle. I should smile I have,”
replied Brown, with a flash of quiet eyes that Pan had learned to
recognize as dangerous in men. His own pulse heightened. It was like
coming suddenly on a track for which he had long been searching. The
one word Hardman had struck fire from this young miner.
“What’s Hardman doing?” asked Pan quietly.
“Everythin’ an’ between you an’ me, he’s doin’ everybody. Jard Hard-
man is in everythin’. Minin’, ranchin’, an’ I’ve heard he’s gone in for
this wild horse chasin’. That’s the newest boom around Marco. But
Hardman has big interests here in town. It’s rumored he’s back of the
Yellow Mine, the biggest saloon an’ gamblin’ hell in town.”
“Well, Pll be doggoned,” ejaculated Pan thoughtfully. “Things turn
out funny. You can show me that place presently. Does Hardman hang
out here in Marco?”
“Part of the time. He travels to Frisco, Salt Lake, an’ St. Louis where
he sells cattle an’ horses. He has a big ranch out here in the valley, an’
stays there some. His son runs the outfit.”
“His son?” queried Pan, suddenly hot with a flash of memory.
“Yes, his son,” declared Brown eyeing Pan earnestly. “Reckon you
must know Dick Hardman?”
“I used to—long ago,” replied Pan, pondering. How far in the past
that seemed! How vivid now in memory!
“Old Hardman makes the money an’ Dick blows it in,’ went on
Brown, with something of contempt in his voice. “Dick plays, an’ they
say he’s a rotten gambler. He drinks like a fish, too. I don’t run around
much in this burg, believe me, but I see Dick often. I heard he’d fetched
a girl here from Frisco.”
“Ah-uh! Well, that’s enough about my old schoolmate, thank you,’
rejoined Pan. “Tell me, Brown, what’s this Marco town anyway?”
“Well, it’s both old an’ new,” replied the other. “That’s about all,
I reckon. Findin’ gold an’ silver out in the hills has made a boom this
last year or so. That’s what fetched me. The town is twice the size it
[ 47 ]
$
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
was when I saw it first, an’ many times more people. There’s a lot
of these people, riffraff, that work these minin’ towns. Gamblers, sharks,
claim jumpers, outlaws, adventurers, tramps, an’ of course the kind
of women that go along with them. A good many cow outfits make
this their headquarters now. An’ last, this horse tradin’, an’ wild horse
catchin’. Sellin’ an’ shippin’ has attracted lots of men. Every day or so
a new fellar, like you, drops in from east of the Rockies. There are
some big mining men investigatin’ the claims. An’ if good mineral is
found Marco will be solid, an’ not just a mushroom town.”
“Any law?” inquired Pan thoughtfully.
“Not so you’d notice it much, especially when you need it,” asserted
Brown grimly. “Matthews is the town marshal. Self-elected so far as I
could see. An’ he’s hand an’ glove with Hardman. He’s mayor, magis-
trate, sheriff, an’ the whole caboodle, includin’ the court. But there are
substantial men here, who sooner or later will organize an’ do things.
They’re too darned busy now workin’, gettin’ on their feet.”
“Ah-uh. I savvy. I reckon you’re giving me a hunch that in your
private opinion Matthews isn’t exactly straight where some interests are
concerned. Hardman’s for instance. I’ve run across that sort of deal in
half a dozen towns.”
“You got me,” replied Brown, soberly. “But please regard that as my
confidential opinion. I couldn’t prove it. This town hasn’t grown up to
political corruption an’ graft. But it’s headed that way.”
“Well, I was lucky to run into you,” said Pan with satisfaction. “T’ll
tell you why some other time. I’m pretty sure to stick here. .. . Now
let’s go out and see the town, especially the Yellow Mine.”
Pan had not strolled the length of the main street before he realized
that there was an atmosphere here strangely unfamiliar to him. Yet
he had visited some fairly wild and wide-open towns. But they had
owed their wildness and excitement and atmosphere to the range and
the omnipresent cowboy. Old-timers had told him stories of Abilene
and Dodge, when they were in their heyday. He had gambled in the
[ 48 ]
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
hells of Juarez, across the Texas border where there was no law. Some
of the Montana cattle towns were far from slow, in cowboy vernacular.
But here he sensed a new element. And soon he grasped it as the fever of
the rush for gold. The excitement of it took hold of him, so that he had
to reason with himself to shake it off.
The town appeared about a mile long, spread out on two sides of the
main street, graduating from the big buildings of stone and wood in
the center to flimsy frame structures and tents along the outskirts. Pan
estimated that he must have passed three thousand people during his
stroll, up one side of the street and down the other. Even if these made
up the whole population it was enough to insure a good-sized town.
There were no street lamps. And the many yellow lights from open
doors and windows fell upon the throngs moving to and fro, in the
street as well as on the sidewalks.
Pan’s guide eventually led him into the Yellow Mine.
He saw a long wide room full of moving figures, thin wreaths of
blue smoke that floated in the glaring yellow lights. A bar ran the whole
length of this room, and drinkers were crowded in front of it. The clink
of glass, the clink of gold, the incessant murmur of hoarse voices almost
drowned faint strains of music from another room that opened from
this one.
The thousand and one saloons and gambling dives that Pan had seen
could not in any sense compare with this one. This was on a big scale
without restraint of law or order. Piles of gold and greenbacks littered
the tables where roulette, faro, poker were in progress. Black garbed,
pale hard-faced gamblers sat with long mobile hands on the tables.
Bearded men, lean-faced youths bent with intent gaze over their cards.
Sloe-eyed Mexicans in their high-peaked sombreros and gaudy trappings
lounged here and there, watching, waiting—for what did not seem
clear to Pan. Drunken miners in their shirt sleeves stamped through the
open door, to or from the bar. An odor of whisky mingled with that of
tobacco smoke. Young women with bare arms and necks and painted
[ 49 ]
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faces were in evidence, some alone, most of them attended by men.
The gambling games attracted Pan. Like all cowboys he had felt
the fascination of games of chance. He watched the roulette wheel,
then the faro games. In one corner of the big room, almost an alcove,
Pan espied a large round table at which were seated six players en-
grossed in a game of poker. He saw thousands of dollars in gold and
notes on that table. A pretty flashy girl with bold eyes and a lazy sleepy
smile hung over the shoulder of one of the gamblers.
Pan’s comrade nudged him in the side.
“What? Where?” whispered Pan answering quickly to the suggestion
and his glance swept everywhere.
Brown was gazing with gleaming eyes at the young card player over
whose shoulder the white-armed girl hung.
Then Pan saw a face that was strangely familiar—a handsome face
of a complexion between red and white, with large sensual mouth, bold
eyes, and a broad low brow. The young gambler was Dick Hardman.
Pan knew him. The recognition meant nothing, yet it gave Pan a start,
a twinge, and then sent a slow heat along his veins. He laughed to find
the boyishness of old still alive in him. After eight years of hard life on
the ranges! By that sudden resurging of long forgotten emotion Pan
judged the nature of what the years had made him. It would be inter-
esting to see how Dick Hardman met him.
But it was the girl who first seemed drawn by Pan’s piercing gaze.
She caught it—then looked a second time. Sliding off the arms of Hard-
man’s chair she moved with undulating motion of her slender form,
and with bright eyes, round the table toward Pan. And at that moment
Dick Hardman looked up from his cards and watched her.
[ 50 ]
CHAPTERS X%
“HELLO, cowboy. How’d I ever miss you?” she queried roguishly,
running her bright eyes from his face down to his spurs and back again.
“Good evening, Lady,” replied Pan, removing his sombrero and
bowing, with his genial smile. “I just come to town.”
She hesitated as if struck by a deference she was not accustomed to.
Then she took his hands in hers and dragged him out a little away from
Brown, whom she gave a curt nod. Again she looked Pan up and down.
“Did you take off that big hat because you know you're mighty good
to look at?” she asked, archly.
“Well, no, hardly,” answered Pan.
“What for then?”
“Tt’s a habit I have when I meet a pretty girl.”
“Thank you. Does she have to be pretty?”
“Reckon not. Any girl, Miss.”
“You are a stranger in Marco. Look out somebody doesn’t shoot a
hole in that hat when you doff it.”
While she smiled up at him, losing something of the hawklike,
possession-taking manner that had at first characterized her, Pan could
see Dick Hardman staring hard across the table. Before Pan could find
a reply for the girl one of the gamesters, an unshaven scowling fellow,
addressed Hardman.
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
“Say, air you playin’ cairds or watchin’ your dame make up to that
big hat an’ high boots?”
Pan grasped the opportunity, though he never would have let that
remark pass under any circumstances. He disengaged his right hand
from the girl’s, and stepping up to the table, drawing her with him, he
bent a glance upon the disgruntled gambler.
“Excuse me, Mister,” he began in the slow easy cool speech of a cow-
boy, “but did you mean me?”
His tone, his presence, drew the attention of all at the table, especially
the one he addressed, and Hardman. The former laid down his cards.
Shrewd eyes took Pan’s measure, surely not missing the gun at his hip.
“Suppose I did mean you?” demanded the gambler, curiously.
“Well, if you did I’d have to break up your game,” replied Pan, apolo-
getically. “You see, Mister, it hurts my feelings to have anyone make fun
of my clothes.”
“All right, cowboy, no offense meant,” returned the other, at which
everyone except Hardman, let out a laugh. “But you'll break up our
game anyhow, if you don’t trot off with Louise there.”
His further remark, dryly sarcastic, mostly directed at Hardman did
not help the situation, so far as Pan was concerned. It was, however,
exactly what Pan wanted. Dick stared insolently and fixedly at Pan.
He appeared as much puzzled as annoyed. Manifestly he was trying
to place Pan, and did not succeed. Pan had hardly expected to be
recognized, though he stood there a moment, head uncovered, under
the light, giving his old enemy eye for eye. In fact his steady gaze dis-
concerted Dick, who turned his glance on the amused girl. Then his
face darkened and he spat out his cigar to utter harshly: “Go on, you
cat! And don’t purr round me any more!”
Insolently she laughed in his face. “You forget I can scratch.” Then
she drew Pan away from the table, beckoning for Brown to come also.
Halting presently near the wide opening into the dance hall she said:
“I’m always starting fights. What might your name be, cowboy?”
[ 52 ]
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“Well, it might be Tinkerdam, but it isn’t,” replied Pan nonchalantly.
“Aren’t you funny?” she queried, half-inclined to be affronted. But she
thought better of it, and turned to Brown. “I know your face.”
“Sure you do, Miss Louise,” said Brown, easily. “I’m a miner. Was here
when you came to town, an’ I often drop in to see the fun.”
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Charley Brown, an’ that’s straight.”
“Thanks, Charley. Now tell me who’s this big good-looking pard
of yours? I just want to know. You can’t fool me about men. He doffs
his hat to me. He talks nice and low, and smiles as no men smile at me.
Then he bluffs the toughest nut in this town. . . . Who is he?”
“All right, I'll introduce you,” drawled Brown. “Meet Panhandle
Smith, from Texas.”
“Well,” she mused, fastening her hands in the lapels of his coat. “I
thought you’d have a high-sounding handle... . Will you dance
with me?”
“Sure, but I’m afraid I step pretty high and wide.”
They entered another garish room, around which a throng of couples
spun and wagged and tramped and romped. Pan danced with the girl,
and despite the jostling of the heavy-footed miners acquitted himself
in a manner he thought was creditable for him. He had not been one of
the dancing cowboys.
“That was a treat after those clodhoppers,” she said, when the dance
ended. “You’re a modest boy, Panhandle. You’ve got me guessing. I’m
not used to your kind—out here. . . . Let’s go have a drink. I’ve got
to have whisky.”
That jarred somewhat upon Pan and, as she led him back to Brown
and then both of them to an empty table, he began to grasp the sig-
nificance of these bare-armed white-faced girls with their dark-hollowed
eyes and scarlet lips.
She drank straight whisky, and it was liquor that burned Pan like
fire. Brown, too, made a wry face.
[ 53 J
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
“Panhandle, are you going to stay here in Marco?” she inquired,
leaning on her white round arms.
“Yes, if I find my folks,” he replied simply. “They lost all they had
—ranch, cattle, horses—and moved out here. I never knew until I went
back home. Makes me feel pretty mean. But Dad was doing well when
I left home.”
“Mother—sister, too?”
“Yes. And my sister Alice must be quite a girl now,” mused Pan.
“And you're going to help them?” she asked softly.
“JT should smile,” said Pan feelingly.
“Then, you mustn’t buy drinks for me—or run after me—as I was
going to make you do.”
Pan was at a loss for a reply to that frank statement. And as he gazed
at her, conscious of a subtle change, someone pounded him on the back
and then fell on his neck.
“My Gawd—if heah ain’t Panhandle!” burst out a husky voice.
Pan got up as best he could, and pulled free from the fellow. The voice
had prepared Pan for an old acquaintance, and when he saw that lean red
face and blue eyes he knew them.
“Well, T’ll be darned. Blinky Moran! You son of a gun! Drunk—the
same as when I saw you last.”
“Aw, Pan, I ain’t jes drunk,” he replied. “Mebbe I was—but shein’
you—ole pard—my Gawd! It’s like cold sweet water on my hot face.”
“Blink, I’m sure glad to see you, drunk or sober,” replied Pan warmly.
“What’re you doing out here?”
Moran braced himself, not without the help of his hold upon Pan,
and it was evident that this meeting had roused him.
“Pan, meet my pard heah,” he began, indicating a stalwart young man
in overalls and high boots. “Gus Hans, puncher of Montana.”
Pan shook hands with the grinning cowboy.
“Pard, yore shakin’ the paw of Panhandle Smith,” announced Moran
in solemn emotion. “This heah’s the boy, frens. You’ve heerd me rave
[ 54 ]
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
many’s the time. He was my pard, my bunkmate, my brother. We rode
the Cimarron together, an’ the Arkansaw, an’ we was the only straight
punchers in the Long Bar C outfit that was drove out of Wyomin’... .
His beat never forked a hoss or coiled a rope. An’ shorer’n hell, pard,
I'd been a rustler but fer Panhandle. More’n onct he throwed his gun fer
me an—”
“Say, Blink, Pll have to choke you,” interrupted Pan, laughing. “Now,
you meet my friends here, Miss Louise—and Charley Brown.”
Pan did not miss the effect the bright-eyed red-lipped girl made upon
the cowboys, especially Moran who, he remembered, had always suc-
cumbed easily to feminine charms,
“Blinky, you’ve been drinking too much to dance with a lady,”
presently remarked Louise.
“Wal, now, Miss, I’m as sober as Panhandle there,” replied Moran
ardently.
She shook her curly head smilingly and, rising from the table, went
round to Pan and leaned up to him with both wistfulness and reckless-
ness in her face.
“Panhandle Smith, I'll leave you to your friends,” she said. “But don’t
you drift in here again—for if you do—I’ll forget my sacrifice for little
Bilice, .°..- There!”
She kissed him square on the lips and ran off without a backward
glance.
Blinky fell into a chair, overcome with some unusual kind of emotion.
He stared comically at Pan. ;
“Say, ole pard, you used to be shy of skirts!” he expostulated.
“Reckon I am yet, for all the evidence,” retorted Pan, half amused and
half angry at the unexpected move of the girl.
Charley Brown joined in the mirth at Pan’s expense.
“Guess the drinks are on me,” he said. “And they'll be the last.”
“Pan, thet there girl is Louie Melliss!” ejaculated Moran.
“Ts it? Well, who in the deuce is she?”
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
“Say, cowboy, quit your foolin’!”
“Honest, I never saw or heard of the young lady till a few minutes
ago. Ask Brown.”
“That’s a fact,” corroborated Brown, thus appealed to. “She’s the
belle of this hell. Sure, Smith, you savvy that?”
“No,” rejoined Pan bluntly. He began to fear he had been rather
thickheaded. “I’ve holed up in a few gambling hells where drinks and
scraps went pretty lively. But this is the first one for me where there
were a lot of half-naked girls.”
“You're west of the Rockies, now,” replied Brown, grimly. “An’ you'll
soon find that out in more ways than one. . . . Louie Melliss is straight
from Frisco, an’ chain-lightnin’ to her fingertips, so they say. Been some
bad messes over her. But they say too, she’s as white an’ square as any
good woman.”
“Aw! ... Reckon I’m pretty much of a tenderfoot,” returned Pan.
His regret was for the pretty audacious girl whose boldness of approach
he had not understood.
“For Gawd’s sake, pard,” began Moran, recovering from his shock.
“Don’t you come ridin’ around heah fer thet little devil to get stuck on
you. She’s shore agoin’ to give young Hardman a bootiful trimmin’. An’
let her do it!”
“Oh. So you don’t care much about young Hardman?” inquired Pan
with interest. He certainly felt that he was falling into news.
“Td like to throw a gun on him an’ onct I damn near done it,” de-
clared Moran.
“What for?”
“He an’ another fellar jumped the only claim I ever struck thet showed
any color,” went on the cowboy with an earnestness that showed excite-
ment had sobered him. “I went back one mawnin’ an’ there was Hard-
man an’ a miner named Purcell. They ran me off, swore it was their
claim. Purcell said he’d worked it before an’ sold it to Jard Hardman.
Thet’s young Hardman’s dad, an’ he wouldn’t fit in any square hole.
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I went to Matthews an’ raised a holler. But I couldn’t prove nothin’.
... An’ by Gawd, Pan, thet claim is a mine now, payin’ well.”
“Tough luck, Blink. You always did have the darndest luck. ...
Say, Brown, is that sort of deal worked often?”
“Common as dirt, in the early days of a find,” replied Brown. “T
haven’t heard of any claim jumpin’ just lately, though. It’s somethin’
like rustlin’ cattle. You know most every cowman now and then picks
up some unbranded stock that he knows isn’t his. But he takes it along.
Now claim jumpin’ is somethin’ like that. If a fellar leaves his claim
for a day or a week he’s liable to come back an’ find some one has
jumped it. I never leave mine in the daytime, an’ I have witnesses to
that.”
“Blinky, I came out here to find my dad,” said Pan. “Have you ever
run across him?”
“Nope. Never heerd of him. I’d shore have asked aboot you.”
“How am I going to find out quick if Dad is here, and where?”
“Easy as pie. Go to the stage office, where they get the mail an’ express.
Matty Smith has been handlin’ thet since this heah burg was a kid in
short dresses.”
“Good. I’ll go the first thing in the morning. .. . Now, you little
knock-kneed, bow-legged two-bit cowpuncher! What’re you doing with
those things on your boots?”
“Huh! What things?” queried Moran.
“Why, those long shiny things that jingle when you walk.”
“Haw! Haw! ... Say, Pan, I might ask you the same. What you
travel with them spurs on your boots fer?”
“I tried traveling without them, but I couldn’t feel that I was
moving.”
“Wal, by gum, I been needin’ mine. Ask Gus there. We’ve been
wranglin’ wild hosses. Broomtails they calls them heah. We've been
doin’ pretty good. Hardman an’ Wiggate pay twelve dollars an’ four
bits a hoss on the hoof. Right heah in Marco. We could get more if
sr
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
we could risk shippin’ to St. Louis. But thet’s a hell of a job. Long ways
to the railroad, an’ say, mebbe drivin’ them broomies isn’t tough! Then
two of us anyhow would have to go on the freight train with the hosses.
Shore we caint figger it thet way now. But later when we ketch a
thousand haid we may try it.”
“A thousand head! Blinky, are you still on the ground? You're talkin’
fifteen thousand dollars.”
“Shore. An’ I’m tellin’ you, Pan, thet we can make it. But ketchin’
these wild hosses in any number hasn’t been done yet. Hardman has an
outfit ridin’. But them fellars couldn’t get away from their own dust.
We're not so blame swift, either. S’pose you throw in with us, Pan.
You've chased wild hosses.”
“Not such an awful lot, Blink. That game depends on the lay of
the land.”
“Shore. An’ it lays bad in these parts. Will you throw in with us?
An’ have you got any money?”
“Yes to both questions, old-timer. But I’ve got to find Dad before I
get careless with my money. Where are you boys staying?”
“We got a camp just out of town. We eat at the Chink’s when we're
heah, an’ thet’s every few days. We got lots of room an’ welcome for you,
but no bedroll.”
“Tl buy an outfit in the morning and throw in with you. .. . Hello,
there’s shooting. Gun play. Let’s get out of this place where there’s
more room and air.”
With that they, and many others, left the hall and joined the moving
crowd in the street. The night was delightfully cool. Stars shone white
in a velvet sky. The dry wind from mountain and desert blew in their
faces. Pan halted at the steps of the hotel.
“Blink, I’m going to turn in. Call for me in the morning. I can’t
tell you how glad I am that I ran into you boys. And you, too, Brown.
I'd like to see more of you.”
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They shook hands and parted. Pan entered the hotel, and sat a while
in the bare smoky lobby, where sharp-eyed men and women passed him
by with one look at his cowboy attire. They were seeking bigger game.
Pan experienced a strange excitation in the hour, in the place.
When he went to his room he was not sleepy. “Lucky to meet those
d0ys,” he soliloquized, as he undressed. “Now to find Dad—Mother—
Alice! Lord, I hope all’s well with them. But I’ve a feeling it isn’t... .
And Lucy! I wonder will she be here too. Will she recognize me? I'll
det a million she does. Funny about Dick Hardman. Never knew me.
Didn’t he look, though? .. . And that girl Louise. She had to laugh
und talk all the time to hide the sadness of her face. . . . At that, she’s
‘oo good for Dick Hardman. ...T’ll bet another million he and I
lash again.”
Pan was up bright and early, enjoying the keen desert air, and the vast
lifference between Marco at night and at dawn. The little spell of
morbid doubt and worry that had settled upon him did not abide in the
lear rosy light of day. Hope and thrill resurged in him.
Blinky and his partner soon appeared, and quarreled over which
hould carry Pan’s baggage out to their quarters. Pan decidedly pre-
erred the locality to that he had just left. The boys had a big tent set
1p on a framework of wood, an open shed which they used as a kitchen,
ind a big corral. The site was up on a gradual slope, somewhat above
he town, and rendered attractive by a small brook and straggling cedars.
They had a Mexican cook who was known everywhere as Lying Juan.
an grasped at once that he would have a lot of fun with Juan.
The boys talked so fast they almost neglected to eat their breakfast.
[hey were full of enthusiasm, which fact Pan could not but see was
ywing to his arrival. It amused him. Moran, like many other cowboys,
ad always attributed to Pan a prowess and character he felt sure were
indeserved. Yet it touched him.
[59 ]
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“Wal, ole-timer, we'll rustle now,” finally said Moran. “We've got
aboot fifty broomies out heah in a canyon. We'll drive ’em in today, an’
also some saddle hosses for you.”
“Tl buy a horse,” interposed Pan.
“You'll do nothin’ of the sort,” declared Blinky stoutly. “Ain’t we got
a string of hosses, an’ there shore might be one of them good enough
even for Panhandle Smith. But you want a saddle. There’s one in Black’s
store. It’s Mexican, an’ a blamed good one. Cheap, too.”
Gus came trotting up on a spirited sorrel, leading two other well-
pointed horses, saddled, champing their bits. Sight of them was good
for Pan’s eyes. He would never long have been happy away from horses,
Moran leaped astride one of them, and then said, hesitatingly:
“Pard, shore hope you hev good luck findin’ your dad.”
Pan watched them ride away down the slope to the road, and around
a bend out of sight. It was wonderful country that faced him, cedar,
pifion and sage, colored hills and flats, walls of yellow rock stretching
away, and dim purple mountains all around. If his keen eyes did not
deceive him there was a bunch of wild horses grazing on top of the
first hill.
“Juan, are there lots of wild horses?” he asked the Mexican cook.
And presently he came into knowledge of the justice of the name “Lying
Juan.” Pan had met some great liars in his life on the range, but if Juan
could do any better than this he would be the champion of them all.
Pan shaved, put on a clean flannel shirt and new scarf, and leaving
his coat behind he strode off toward the town. The business of the
day had begun, and there was considerable bustle. Certainly Marco
showed no similarity to a cattle town. Somebody directed him to the
stage and express office, a plain board building off the main street.
Three men lounged before it, one on the steps, and the others against the
hitching-rail. Pan took them in before they paid any particular atten-
tion to him.
“Morning, gents,” he said, easily. “Is the agent Smith around?”
[ 60 ]
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
“Howdy, stranger,” replied one of them, looking Pan over. “Smith
just stepped over to the bank. He'll be back pronto.”
Another of the group straightened up to run a hard gray eye from
Pan’s spurs to his sombrero, and back for a second glance at his low
hanging gun. He was a tall man, in loose tan garments, trousers stuffed
in his boots. He had a big sandy mustache. He moved to face Pan, and
either by accident or design the flap of his coat fell back to expose
a bright silver shield on his vest.
“Reckon you’re new in these parts?” he queried.
“Yep. Just rode in,” replied Pan cheerfully.
“See you're packin’ hardware,” went on the other, with significant
glance at Pan’s gun.
Pan at once took this man to be Matthews, the town marshal men-
tioned by Charley Brown. He had not needed Brown’s hint; he had
encountered many sheriffs of like stripe. Pan, usually the kindliest and
most genial of cowboys, returned the sheriff’s curious scrutiny with a
cool stare.
“Am I packing a gun?” rejoined Pan, with pretended surprise, as he
looked down at his hip. “Sure, so I am. Clean forgot it, Mister. Habit
of mine.”
“What’s a habit?” snapped the other.
Pan now shot a straight level gaze into the hard gray eyes of the
sheriff. He knew he was going to have dealings with this man, and the
sooner they began the better.
“Why, my packing a gun—when I’m in bad company,” said Pan.
“Pretty strong talk, cowboy, west of the Rockies. . . . I’m Matthews,
the town marshal.”
“T knew that, and I’m right glad to meet you,” rejoined Pan pertly. He
made no move to meet the half-proffered hand, and his steady gaze dis-
concerted the marshal.
Another man came briskly up, carrying papers in his hand.
“Are you the agent, Mr. Smith?” asked Pan.
[ 6r |
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“T am thet air, young fellar.”
“Can I see you a moment, on business?”
“Come right in.” He ushered Pan into his office and shut the door.
“My name’s Smith,” began Pan hurriedly. “I’m hunting for my dad
, . . Bill Smith. Do you know him—if he’s in Marco?”
“Bill Smith’s cowboy! Wal, put her thar,” burst out the other, heartily,
shoving out a big hand. His surprise and pleasure were marked. “Know
Bill? Wal, I should smile. We’re neighbors an’ good friends.”
Pan was so overcome by relief and sudden joy that he could not speak
for a moment, but he wrung the agent’s hand.
“Wal, now, sort of hit you in the gizzard, hey?” he queried, with
humor and sympathy. He released his hand and put it on Pan’s shoulder.
“T’ve heard all about you, cowboy. Bill always talked a lot—until lately.
Reckon he’s deep hurt thet you never wrote.”
“I’ve been pretty low-down,” replied Pan with agitation. “But I
never meant to be. . . . I just drifted along. . . . Always I was going.
back home soon. But I didn’t. And I haven’t written home for two
years.”
“Wal, forget thet now, son,” said the agent kindly. “Boys will be
boys, especially cowboys. You’ve been a wild one, if reports comin’
to Bill was true. . . . But you’ve come home to make up to him. Lord
knows he needs you, boy.”
“Yes—I’ll make it—up,” replied Pan, trying to swallow his emotion.
SLellme.™
“Wal, I wish I had better news to tell,” replied Smith, gravely shaking
his head. “Your dad’s had tough luck. He lost his ranch in Texas,
as I reckon you know, an’ he follered—the man who’d done him out
here to try to make him square up. Bill only got a worse deal. Then
he got started again pretty good an’ lost out because of a dry year.
Now he’s workin’ in Carter’s Wagon Shop. He’s a first-rate carpenter.
But his wages are small, an’ he can’t never get no where. He’s talked
some of wild-hoss wranglin’. But thet takes an outfit, which he ain’t
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got. I'll give you a hunch, son. If you can stake your dad to an outfit an’
throw in with him you might give him another start.”
Pan had on his tongue an enthusiastic reply to that, but the entrance
of the curious Matthews halted him.
“Thank you, Mr. Smith,” he said, eagerly. “Where’ll I find Carter’s
Wagon Shop?”
“Other end of town. Right down Main Street. You can’t miss it.”
Pan hurried out, and through the door he heard Matthews’ loud voice:
“Carter’s Wagon Shop! . . . By thunder, I’ve got the hunch! That cow-
boy is Panhandle Smith!”
Pan smiled grimly to himself, as he passed on out of hearing. The
name and fame that had meant so little to him back on the prairie ranges
might stand him in good stead out here west of the Rockies. He strode
swiftly, his thought reverting to his father. He wanted to run. Remorse
knocked at his heart. Desertion! He had gone off, like so many cowboys,
forgetting home, father, mother, duty. They had suffered. Never a word
of it had come to him.
The way appeared long, and the line of stone houses and board shacks,
never ending. At last he reached the outskirts of Marco and espied the
building and sign he was so eagerly seeking. Resounding hammer strokes
came from the shop. Outward coolness, an achievement habitual with
him when excitement mounted to a certain stage, came with effort and
he paused a moment to gaze at the sweeping country, green and purple,
dotted by gray rocks, rising to hills gold with autumn colors. His long
journey was at an end. In a moment more anxiety would be a thing
of the past. Let him only see his father actually in the flesh!
Pan entered the shop. It was open, like any other wagon shop with
wood scattered about, shavings everywhere, a long bench laden with
tools, a forge. Then he espied a man wielding a hammer on a wheel.
His back was turned. But Pan knew him. Knew that back, that shaggy
head beginning to turn gray, knew even the swing of arm! He ap-
proached leisurely. The moment seemed big, splendid.
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“Howdy, Dad,” he called, at the end of one of the hammer strokes.
His father’s lax figure stiffened. He dropped the wheel, then the
hammer. But not on the instant did he turn. His posture was strained,
doubtful. Then he sprang erect, and whirled. Pan saw his father greatly
changed, but how it was impossible to grasp because his seamed face
was suddenly transformed.
“For the good—Lord’s sake—if it ain’t Pan!” he gasped.
“Tt sure is, Dad. Are you glad to see me?”
“Glad! ... Reckon this'll save your mother’s life!” and to Pan’s
amaze he felt himself crushed in his father’s arms. That sort of thing
had never been Bill Smith’s way. He thrilled to it, and tried again to
beat back the remorse mounting higher. His father released him, and
drew back, as if suddenly ashamed of his emotion. His face, which he
had been trying to control, smoothed out.
“Wal, Pan, you come back now—after long ago I gave up hopin’?”
he queried, haltingly.
“Yes, Dad,” began Pan with swift rush of words. “I’m sorry. I always
meant to come home. But one thing and another prevented. Then I
never heard of your troubles. I never knew you needed me. You didn’t
write. Why didn’t you tel? me? . . . But forget that. I rode the ranges
—drifted with the cowboys—till I got homesick. Now I’ve found you—
and well, I want to make up to you and mother.”
“Ah-huh! Sounds like music to me,” replied Smith, growing slow
and cool. He eyed Pan up and down, walked round him twice. Then he
suddenly burst out, “Wal, you long-legged strappin’ son of a gun! If
sight of you ain’t good for sore eyes! . . . Ah-huh! Look where he packs
that gun!”
With slow strange action he reached down to draw Pan’s gun from
its holster. It was long and heavy, blue, with a deadly look. The father’s
intent gaze moved from it up to the face of the son. Pan realized what
his father knew, what he thought. The moment was sickening for Pan.
A cold shadow, forgotten for long, seemed to pass through his mind.
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“Pan, I’ve kept tab on you for years,” spoke his father slowly, “but
I'd have heard, even if I hadn’t took pains to learn. . . . Panhandle
Smith! You damned hard-ridin’, gun-throwin’ son of mine! . . . Once
my heart broke because you drifted with the wild cowpunchers—but
now—by God, I believe I’m glad.”
“Dad, never mind range talk. You know how cowboys brag and
blow. . . . I’m not ashamed to face you and mother. I’ve come clean,
Dad.”
“But, son, you’ve—you’ve used that gun!” whispered Smith, hoarsely.
“Sure I have. On some two-legged coyotes an’ skunks. ... And
maybe greasers. I forget.”
“Panhandle Smith!” ejaculated his father, refusing to take the matter
in Pan’s light vein. “They know here in Marco... . You’re known,
Pan, here west of the Rockies.”
“Well, what of it?” flashed Pan, suddenly gripped again by that strange
cold emotion in the depths of him. “I should think you’d be glad. Reckon
it was all good practice for what Ill have to do out here.”
“Don’t talk that way. You’ve read my mind,” replied Smith, huskily.
“I’m afraid. I’m almost sorry you came. Yet, right now I feel more of
a man than for years.”
“Dad, you can tell me everything some other time,” rejoined Pan,
throwing off the sinister spell. “Now, I only want to know about Mother
and Alice.”
“They’re well an’ fine, son, though your mother grieves for you. She
never got over that. An’ Alice, she’s a big girl, goin’ to school an’ helpin’
with work. ... An’ Pan, you’ve got a baby brother nearly two years
old.”
“Jumping cowbells!” shouted Pan, in delight. “Where are they?
Tell me quick.”
“We live on a farm a mile or so out. I rent it for most nothin’. Hall,
who owns it, has a big ranch. I’ve got an option on this farm, an’ it
shore is a bargain. Hundred an’ ten acres, most of it cultivated. Good
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
water, pasture, barn, an’ nice little cabin. I work here mornin’s, an’
out there afternoons. You’ll—”
“Stop talking about it. P’'ll buy the farm,” interrupted Pan. “But where
is it?”
“Keep right out this road. Second farmhouse,” said his father, point-
ing to the west. “I’d go with you, but I promised some work. But I'll
be home at noon. . . . Hey, hold on. There’s more to tell. You'll get a—
a jolt. Wait.”
But Pan rushed on out of the shop, and took to the road with the
stride of a giant. To be compelled to walk, when if he had had his horse
he could ride that mile in two minutes! His heart was beating high.
Mother! Grieving for me. Alice a big girl. And a baby boy! This is too
good for a prodigal like me.
All else he had forgotten for the moment. Shadows of memories over-
hung his consciousness, striving for entrance, but he denied them. How
shaken his father had been at sight of him! Poor old Dad! And then
what was the significance of all that talk about his range name, Pan-
handle Smith, and his father’s strange fascinated handling of Pan’s gun?
Would his mother know him at first glance? Oh! no doubt of that! But
Alice would not; she had been a child; and he had grown, changed.
While his thoughts raced he kept gazing near and far. The farm land
showed a fair degree of cultivation. Grassy hills shone in the bright
morning sun; high up, flares of gold spoke eloquently of aspen thickets
tinged by the frost; purple belts crossing the mountains told of forests.
The wall of rock that he had observed from Moran’s camp wound away
over the eastern horizon. A new country it was, a fair and wild country,
rugged and hard on the uplands, suitable for pasture and cultivation
in the lowlands.
Pan passed the first farmhouse. Beyond that he could make out only
a green patch, where he judged lay the home he was hunting. His
buoyant step swallowed up the rods. Cattle and horses grazed in a
pasture. The road turned to the right, round the slope of a low hill. Pan’s
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
quick eye caught a column of curling blue smoke that rose from a grove
of trees. The house would be in there. Pasture, orchard, cornfield, ragged
and uncut, a grove of low trees with thick foliage, barns and corrals he
noted with appreciative enthusiasm. The place did not have the bareness
characteristic of a ranch.
At last Pan reached the wagon gate that led into the farm. It bordered
an orchard of fair-sized trees, the leaves of which were colored. He cut
across the orchard so as to reach the house more quickly. It was still
mostly hidden among the trees. Smell of hay, of fruit, of the barnyard
assailed his nostrils. And then the fragrance of wood smoke and burn-
ing leaves! His heart swelled full high in his breast. He could never meet
his mother with his usual cool easy nonchalance.
Suddenly he espied a woman through the trees. She was quite close.
He almost ran. No, it could not be his mother. This was a girl, lithe,
tall, swift stepping. His mother had been rather short and stout. Could
this girl be his sister Alice? The swift supposition was absurd, because
Alice was only about ten, and this girl was grown. She had a grace of
motion that struck Pan. He hurried around some trees to intercept her,
losing sight of her for a moment.
Suddenly he came out of the shade to confront her, face to face in the
open sunlight. She uttered a cry and dropped something she had been
carrying.
“Don’t be scared, Miss,” he said, happily. “I’m no tramp, though I did
rant in like a trespasser. I want to find Mrs. Bill Smith. ’m—”
But Pan got no farther. The girl had reason to be scared, but should
her hands fly to her bosom like that, and press there as if she had been
hurt. He must have frightened her. And he was about to stammer his
apologies and make himself known, when the expression on her face
struck him mute. Her healthy golden skin turned white. Her lips
quivered, opened. Then her eyes—their color was violet and something
about them seemed to stab Pan. His mind went into a deadlock—
seemed to whirl—and to flash again into magnified thoughts.
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
“Pan! Pan!” she cried, and moved toward him, her eyes widening,
shining with a light he had never seen in another woman’s.
“Pan! Don’t you—know me?”
“Sure—but I don’t know who you are,” Pan muttered in bewilder-
ment.
“T’m Lucy! . . . Oh, Pan—you’ve come back,” she burst out, huskily,
with a deep break in her voice.
She seemed to leap toward him—into the arms he flung wide, as with
tremendous shock he recognized her name, her voice, her eyes. It was
a moment beyond reason. . . . He was crushing her to his breast, kissing
her in a frenzy of sudden realization of love. Lucy! Lucy! Little Lucy
Blake, his baby, his child sweetheart, his schoolmate! And the hunger of
the long lonely years, never realized, leaped to his lips now.
She flung her arms round his neck, and for a few moments gave him
kiss for kiss. Then suddenly she shivered and her head fell forward on
his breast.
Pan held her closely, striving for self-control. And he gazed out into
the trees with blurred eyes. What a homecoming! Lucy, grown into a
tall beautiful girl who had never forgotten him. He was shaken to his
depths by the revelation that now came to him. He had always loved
Lucy! Never anyone else, never knowing until this precious moment!
What a glorious trick for life to play him. He held her, wrapped her
closer, bent his face to her fragrant hair. It was dull gold now. Once
it had been bright, shiny, light as the color of grass on the hill. He kissed
it, conscious of unutterable gratitude and exaltation.
She stirred, put her hands to his breast and broke away from him,
tragic eyed, strange.
“Pan, I—I was beside myself,” she whispered. “Forgive me. . . . Oh,
the joy of seeing you. It was too much. . . . Go to your mother. She—
will—”
“Yes, presently, but Lucy, don’t feel badly about this—about my
not recognizing you at once,” he interrupted, in glad swift eagerness.
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“How you have grown! Changed! .. . Lucy, your hair is gold now.
My little white-headed kid! Oh, I remember. I never forgot you that
way. But you’re so changed—so—so—Lucy, you're beautiful. . . . I’ve
come back to you. I always loved you. I didn’t know it as I do now, but
I’ve been true to you. Lucy, I swear... . I’m Panhandle Smith and as
wild as any of that prairie outfit. But, darling, I’ve been true to you—
true... . And I’ve come back to love you, to make up for absence, to
take care of you—marry you. Oh, darling, I know you've been true to me
—you’ve waited for me.”
Rapture and agony both seemed to be struggling for the mastery over
Lucy. Pan suddenly divined that this was the meaning of her emo-
tion.
“My God!” she whispered, finally, warding him off. “Don’t you know
—haven’t you heard?”
“Nothing. Dad didn’t mention you,” replied Pan hoarsely, fighting an
icy sickening fear. “What’s wrong?”
“Go to your mother. Don’t let her wait. I'll see you later.”
“But Lucy—”
“Go. Give me a little while to—to get hold of myself.”
“Are—are you married?” he faltered.
“No—no—but—”
“Don’t you love me?”
She made no reply, except to cover her face with shaking hands. They
could not hide the betraying scarlet.
“Lucy, you must love me,” he rushed on, almost incoherently. “You
gave yourself away... . It lifted me—changed me. All my life I’ve
loved you, though I never realized it. . . . Your kisses—they made me
know myself. . . . But, my God, say that you love me!”
“Yes Pan, I do love you,” she replied, quietly, lifting her eyes to his.
Again the rich color fled.
“Then, nothing else matters,” cried Pan. “Whatever’s wrong, I'll
make right. Don’t forget that. I’ve much to make up for. . . . Forgive
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me for this—this—whatever has hurt you so. I’'ll go now to Mother and
see you later. You'll stay?”
“TI live here with your people,” replied Lucy and walked away through
the trees.
“Something wrong!” muttered Pan, as he watched her go. But the
black fear of he knew not what could not stand before his consciousness
of finding Lucy, of seeing her betray her love. Doubt lingered, but his
glad heart downed that too. He was home. What surprise and joy to
learn that it was also Lucy’s home! He stifled his intense curiosity and
longing. He composed himself. He walked a little under the trees. He
thought of the happiness he would bring his mother, and Alice. In a
few moments he would make the acquaintance of his baby brother.
Flowers that he recognized as the favorites of his mother bordered the
sandy path around the cabin. The house had been constructed of logs and
later improved with a frame addition, unpainted, weather stained, cov-
ered with vines. A cozy little porch, with wide eaves and a windbreak
of vines, faced the south. A rude homemade rocking chair sat on the
porch; a child’s wooden toys also attested to a carpenter’s skill Pan well
remembered. He heard a child singing, then a woman’s mellow voice,
Pan drew a long breath and took off his sombrero. It had come—the
moment he had long dreamed of. He stepped loudly upon the porch,
so that his spurs jangled musically, and he knocked upon the door
frame.
“Who's there?” called the voice again. It made Pan’s heart beat fast.
In deep husky tones he replied:
“Just a poor starved cowboy, Ma’am, beggin’ a little grub.”
“Gracious me!” she exclaimed, and her footsteps thudded on the floor
inside.
Pan knew his words would fetch her. Then he saw her come to the
door. Years, trouble, pain had wrought their havoc, but he would have
known her at first sight among a thousand women.
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“Mother!” he called, poignantly, and stepped toward her, with his
arms out.
She seemed stricken. The kindly eyes changed, rolled. Her mouth
opened wide. She gasped and fainted in his arms.
A little while later, when she had recovered from the shock and the
rapture of Pan’s return, they sat in the neat little room.
“Bobby, don’t you know your big brother?” Pan was repeating to
the big-eyed boy who regarded him so solemnly. Bobby was fascinated
by this stranger, and at last was induced to approach his knee.
“Mother, I reckon you'll never let Bobby be a cowboy,” teased Pan,
with a smile.
“Never,” she murmured fervently.
“Well, he might do worse,” went on Pan thoughtfully. “But we'll
make a plain rancher of him, with a leaning to horses. How’s
that?”
“T’d like it, but not in a wild country like this,” she replied.
“Reckon we'd do well to figure on a permanent home in Arizona,
where both summers and winters are pleasant. I’ve heard a lot about
Arizona. It’s a land of wonderful grass and sage ranges, fine forests,
canyons. We'll go there, some day.”
“Then, Pan, you’ve come home to stay?” she asked, with agitation.
“Yes, Mother,” he assured her, squeezing the worn hand that kept
reaching to touch him, as if to see if he were real. Then Bobby engaged
his attention. “Hey, you rascal, let go. That’s my gun... . Bad sign,
Mother. Bobby’s as keen about a gun as I was over a horse. . . . There,
Bobby, now it’s safe to play with. . . . Mother, there’s a million things
to talk about. But we’ll let most of them go for the present. You say
Alice is in school. When will she be home?”
“Late this afternoon. Pan,” she went on, hesitatingly, “Lucy Blake
lives with us now.”
“Yes, I met Lucy outside,” replied Pan, drawing a deep breath. “But
[7]
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
first about Dad. I didn’t take time to talk much with him. I wanted to
see you. . . . Is Dad well in health?”
“He’s well enough. Really he does two men’s work. Worry drags him _
down.”
“We'll cheer him up. At Littleton I heard a little about Dad’s bad luck.
Now you tell me everything.”
“There’s little to tell,” she replied, sadly. “Your father made foolish
deals back in Texas, the last and biggest of which was with Jard Hard-
man. There came a bad year—anno seco, the Mexicans call it. Failure
of crops left your father ruined. He lost the farm. He found later that
' Hardman had cheated him out of his cattle. We followed Hardman
out here. Our neighbors, the Blakes had come ahead of us. Hardman
not only wouldn’t be square about the cattle deal but he knocked your
father out again, just as he had another start. In my mind it was worse
than thacattle deal. We bought a homestead from a man named Sprague.
His wife wanted to go home to Missouri. This homestead had water,
good soil, some timber, and an undeveloped mining claim that turned
out well. Then along comes Jard Hardman with claims, papers, wit-
nesses, and law back of him. He claimed to have gotten possession of
the homestead from the original owner. It was all a lie. But they put us
off... . Then your father tried several things that did not pan out.
Now we're here—and he has to work in the wagon shop to pay the rent.”
“Ah-huh!” replied Pan, relieving his oppressed breast with an effort.
“And now about Lucy. How does it come she’s living with you?”
“She had no home, poor girl,” replied his mother, hastily. “She came
out here with her father and uncle. Her mother died soon after you
left us. Jim Blake had interests with Hardman back in Texas. He talked
big—and drank a good deal. He and Hardman quarreled. It was the
same big deal that ruined your father. But Jim came to New Mexico with
Hardman. They were getting along all right when we arrived. But
trouble soon arose—and that over Lucy. . . . Young Dick Hardman—
you certainly ought to remember him, Pan—fell madly in love with
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Lucy. Dick always was a wild boy. Here in Marco he went the pace.
Well, bad as Jard Hardman is he loves that boy and would move heaven
and earth for him. Lucy despised Dick. The more he ran after her the
more she despised him. Also the more she flouted Dick the wilder he
drank and gambled. Now here comes the pitiful part of it. Jim Blake
went utterly to the bad, so your father says, though Lucy hopes and
believes she can save him. I do too. Jim was only weak. Jard Hardman
ruined him. Finally Dick enlisted his father in his cause and they
forced Jim to try to make Lucy marry Dick. She refused. She left her
father’s place and went to live with her Uncle Bill, who was an honest
fine man. But he was shot in the Yellow Mine. By accident, they gave
out, but your father scouts that idea . . . Oh, those dreadful gambling
hells! Life is cheap here. . . . Lucy came to live with us. She taught
the school. But she had to give that up. Dick Hardman and other wild
young fellows made her life wretched. Besides she was never safe. We
persuaded her to give it up. And then the—the worst happened.”
Mrs. Smith paused, wiping her wet eyes, and appeared to dread further
disclosure. She lifted an appealing hand to Pan.
“What—what was it, Mother?” he asked, fearfully.
“Didn’t—she—Lucy tell you anything?” faltered his mother.
“Yes—the greatest thing in the world—that she loved me,” burst out
Pan with exultant passion.
“Oh, how terrible!”
“No, Mother, not that, but beautiful, wonderful, glorious. ... Go
on.”
“Then—then they put Jim Blake in jail,” began Mrs. Smith.
“What for?” flashed Pan. .
“To hold him there, pending action back in Texas. Jim Blake was
a cattle thief. There’s little doubt of that, your father says. You know
there’s law back east, at least now in some districts. Well, Jard Hardman
is holding Jim in jail. It seems Hardman will waive trial, provided—
provided. . . . Oh, how can I tell you!”
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“My God! I see!” cried Pan, leaping in fierce passion. “They will
try to force Lucy to marry Dick to save her father.”
“Yes. That’s it... and Pan, my son . . . she has consented!”
“So that was what made her act so strange! . . . Poor Lucy! Dick
Hardman was a skunk when he was a kid. Now he’s a skunk-bitten
coyote. Oh, but this is a mess!”
“Pan, what can you do?” implored his mother.
“Lucy hasn’t married him yet? Tell me quick,” cried Pan suddenly.
“Oh, no. She has only promised. She doesn’t trust those men. She wants
papers signed to clear her father. They laugh at her. But Lucy is no
fool. When she sacrifices herself it'll not be for nothing.”
Pan slowly sank down into the chair, and his brooding gaze fastened
on the big blue gun with which Bobby was playing. It fascinated Pan.
Sight of it brought the strange cold sensation that seemed like a wind
through his being.
“Mother, how old is Lucy?” he asked, forcing himself to be calm.
“She’s nearly seventeen, but looks older.”
“Not of age yet. Yes, she looks twenty. She’s a woman, Mother.”
“What did Lucy do and say when she saw you?” asked his mother,
with a woman’s intense curiosity.
“Ha! She did and said enough,” replied Pan radiantly. “I didn’t
recognize her. Think of that, Mother.”
“Tell me, son,” implored Mrs. Smith.
“Mother, she ran right into my arms. . . . We just met, Mother, and
the old love leaped.”
“Mercy, what a terrible situation for you both, especially for Lucy.
... Pan, what can you do?”
“Mother, I don’t know, I can’t think. It’s too sudden. But I’ll never
let her marry Dick Hardman. Why, only last night I saw a painted little
hussy hanging over him. Bad as that poor girl must be, she’s too good
for him. . . . He doesn’t worry me, nor his schemes to get Lucy. But
how to save Jim Blake.”
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
“Pan, you think it can be done?”
“My dear Mother, I know it. Only I can’t think now. I’m new here.
And handicapped by concern for you, for Lucy, for Dad... . Lord,
if I was back in the Cimarron—it’d be easy!”
“My boy, don’t be too concerned about Lucy, or me or your dad,”
replied his mother with surprising coolness. “I mean don’t let concern
for us balk you. Thank God you have come home to us. I feel a different
woman. I am frightened, yes. For—for I’ve heard of you. What a name
for my boy!”
“Well, you’re game, Mother,” said Pan, with a laugh, as he embraced
her. “That'll help a lot. If only Lucy will be like you.”
“She has a heart of fire. Only save her father, Pan, and you will be
blessed with such woman’s love as you never dreamed of. It may be
hard, though, for you to change her mind.”
“T won’t try, Mcther.”
“Go to her, then, and fill her with the hope you’ve given me.”
[75]
CHAPTER SEVEN
FROM a thick clump of trees Pan had watched Lucy, spied upon her
with only love, tenderness, pity in his heart. But he did not know her.
It seemed incredible that he could confess to himself he loved her. Had
the love he had cherished for a child suddenly, as if by magic, leaped
into love for a woman? What then was this storm within him, this out-
ward bodily trembling from the tumult within?
Lucy stood like a statue, gazing into nothingness. Then she paced
to and fro, her hands clenched on her breast. This was a secluded nook,
where a bench had been built between two low-branching trees, on
the bank of the stream. Pan stealthily slipped closer, so he could get
clearer sight of her face. Was her love for him the cause of her emotion?
Presently he halted, at a point close to one end of her walk, and
crouched down. It did not occur to him that he was trespassing upon her
privacy. She was a stranger whom he loved because she was Lucy
Blake, grown from child to woman. He was concerned with finding
himself, so that when he faced her again he would know what to do,
to say.
Pan had not encountered a great many girls in the years he had
ridden the ranges. But he had seen enough to recognize beauty when
it was thrust upon him. And Lucy had that. As she paced away from
him the small gold head, the heavy braid of hair, the fine build of her,
not robust, yet strong and full, answered then and there the wondering
query of his admiration. Then she turned to pace back. This would be
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an ordeal for him. She was in trouble, and he could not hide there
much longer. Yet he wanted to watch her, to grasp from this agitation
fuel for his kindling passion. She had been weeping, yet her face was
white. Indeed she did look older than her seventeen years. Closer she
came. Then Pan’s gaze got as far as her eyes and fixed there. Unmasked
now, true to the strife of her soul, they betrayed to Pan the thing he
yearned so to know. Not only her love but her revolt!
That was enough for him. In a few seconds his feelings underwent a
tremendous gamut of change, at last to set with the certainty of 2 man’s
love for his one woman. This conviction seemed consciously backed by
the stern fact of his cool reckless spirit. He was what the cowboys’ range
of that period had made him. Perhaps only such a man could cope with
the lawless circumstances in which Lucy had become enmeshed. By the
time she had paced her beat again and was once more approaching his
covert, he knew what the situation would demand and how he would
meet it. But he would listen to Lucy, to his mother, to his father, in the
hope that they might extricate her from her dilemma. He believed, how-
ever, that only extreme measures would ever free her and her father,
Pan knew men of the Hardman and Matthews stripe.
He stepped out to confront Lucy, smiling and cool.
“Howdy, Lucy,” he drawled, with the cowboy sang-froid she must
know well.
“Oh!” she cried, startled, and drawing back. Then she recovered. But
there was a single instant when Pan saw her unguarded self expressed
in her face.
“I was hiding behind there,” he said, indicating the trees and bushes.
“What for?”
“I wanted to see you really, without you knowing.”
“Well?” she queried, gravely.
“As I remember little Lucy Blake she never had any promise of
growing so—so lovely as you are now.”
“Pan, don’t tease—don’t flatter me now,” she implored.
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“Reckon I was just stating a fact. Let’s sit down on the seat there, and
get acquainted.”
He put her in the corner of the bench so she would have to face him,
and he began to talk as if there were no black trouble between them. He
wanted her to know the story of his life from the time she had seen
him last; and he had two reasons for this, first to bridge that gap in their
acquaintance, and secondly to let her know what the range had made
him. It took him two hours in the telling, surely the sweetest hours he
had ever spent, for he watched her warm to intense interest, forget her-
self, live over with him the lonely days and nights on the range, and
glow radiant at his adventures, and pale and trembling over those bloody
encounters that were as much a part of his experience as any others.
“That’s my story, Lucy,” he said, in conclusion. “I’d have come back
to you and home long ago, if ’'d known. But I was always broke. Then
there was the talk about me. Panhandle Smith! So the years sped by.
It’s over now, and I’ve found you and my people all well, thank God.
Nothing else mattered to me. And your trouble and Dad’s bad luck
do not scare me. . . . Now tell me your story.”
He had reached her. It had been wise for him to go back to the school
days, and spare nothing of his experience. She began at the time she saw
him last—she remembered the day, the date, the clothes he wore, the
horse he rode—and she told the story of those lonely years when his
few letters were epochs, and the effect it had when they ceased. So,
with simple directness, she went on to relate the downfall of her father
and how the disgrace and heartbreak had killed her mother. When she
finished her story she was crying.
“Lucy, don’t cry. Just think—here we are!” he exclaimed, as she ended.
“That’s what—makes me cry,” she replied brokenly.
“Very well. Here. Cry on my shoulder,” he said forcefully, and despite
her resistance he drew her into his arms and her head to his breast. There
he held her, feeling the strain of her muscles slowly relax. She did not
weep violently, but in a heartbroken way that yet seemed relief.
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“Pan, this is—is foolish,” she said, presently stirring. “I mean my
crying here in your arms, as if it were a refuge. But, oh! I—I have
needed someone—something so terribly.”
“I don’t see where it’s foolish. Reckon it’s very sweet and wonderful
for me. . . . Lucy, let’s not rush right into arguments. We’re bound
to disagree. But let’s put that off. . . . I’m so darned glad to see you,
know you, that I’m the foolish one.”
“You're a boy, for all your size. How can we help but talk of my
troubles? . . . Of this horrible fix I’m in! . . . How can I lay my head
on your enlace? ..-I didn’t. You red me to.”
“Well, if you want to B dets me such happiness, you can,’ ecplel Pan.
“Is it happiness for you—knowing it’s wrong—and can never be
again?” she whispered.
“Pure heaven!” he said. “Lucy, don’t say this is wrong. You belong
to me. My mother told me once you’d never have lived but for me.”
“Yes, my mother told me the same thing. . . . Oh, how sad it is!”
“Sad, nothing! It was beautiful. And I tell you that you do belong
to me.”
“My soul does, yes,” she returned, dreamily. And then as if re-
minded of her bodily weakness she moved away from him to the corner
of the bench.
“All right, Lucy. Have it your way now. But you'll only have all
the more to make up to me later,” said Pan, with resigned good nature.
“Pan, you don’t seem to recognize anything but your own will,” she
ap ened, pondering. “I’ve got to save oa father. . . . There’s only one
way.”
“Don’t talk such rot to me,” he flashed, sharply. “I’d hoped you would
let us get acquainted first. But if you won't, all right. . . . You’ve been
‘rightened into a deal that is terrible for you. No ronten But you’re
mly a kid yet. What do you know of men? These Hardmans are
rooked. They pulled out of Texas because they were crooked. Mat-
hews, magistrate or marshal, whatever he calls himself, he’s crooked
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too. I know such men. I’ve met a hundred of them. Slowly they’ve been
forced farther west, beyond the Rockies. And here they work their will.
But it can’t last. Why, Lucy, I’m amazed that some miner or cowboy
or gun-fighter hasn’t stopped them long ago.”
“Pan, you must be wrong,” she declared, earnestly. “Hardman cheated
Dad, yes. But that was only Dad’s fault. His blindness in business. Hard-
man is a power here. And Matthews, too. You talk like a—a wild
cowboy.”
“Sure,” replied Pan, with a grim laugh. “And it'll take just a wild
cowboy to clean up this mess. . . . Now Lucy, don’t go white and sick.
I promise you I'll listen to Dad and you before I make a move. I'll go
to see your father. And I’ll call on Hardman. I'll talk sense and reason,
and business to these men. I know it'll not amount to beans, but I'll
do it just to show you I can be deliberate and sane.”
“Thank you—you frightened me so,” she murmured. “Pan, there
was something terrible about you—then.”
“Listen, Lucy,” he began, more seriously. “I’ve been here in Marco
only a few hours. But this country is no place for us to settle down to
live. It’s mostly a mining country. I’ve heard a lot about Arizona. I’m
going to take you all down there. Dad and Mother will love the idea.
I'll get your father out of jail—”
“Pan, are you dreaming?” she interrupted, in distress. “Dad is a
rustler. He admits it. Back in Texas he can be jailed for years. All Hard-
man has to do is to send for officers to come take Dad. And I've got
to marry Dick Hardman to save him.”
“You poor little girl! ... Now Lucy, let me tell you something
funny. This will stagger you. Because it’s gospel truth, I swear. ...
Rustler you call your dad. What's that? It means a cowman who has
appropriated cattle not his own. He has driven off unbranded stock and
branded it. There’s no difference. Lucy, my dad rustled cattle. So have
all the ranchers I ever rode for.”
“Pan!” she gasped, with dilating eyes. “What are you saying?”
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“T’'m trying to tell you one of the queer facts about the ranges,” replied
Pan. “I’ve known cowmen to shoot rustlers. Cowmen who had them-
selves branded cattle not their own. This was a practice. They didn’t
think it crooked. They all did it. But it was crooked, when you come
down to truth. And though that may not be legally as criminal as the
stealing of branded cattle, to my mind it is just as bad. Your father began
that way, Hardman caught him, and perhaps forced him into worse
practice.”
“Pan, are you trying to give me some hope?”
“Reckon I am. Things are not so bad. My Lord, suppose I’d been a
month later!”
Lucy shook her head despondently. “It’s worse now for me than if you
had come—”
“Why?” interrupted Pan. She would say the things that hurt.
“Because to see you—be with you like this—before ’m—if I have to
be married—is perfectly terrible. . . . Afterward, when it would be too
late and I had lost something—self-respect or more—then I might not
care.”
That not only made Pan lose patience but it also angered him. The
hot blood rushed to his face. He bit his tongue and struggled to control
himself.
“Lucy! Haven’t I told you that you’re not going to marry Dick
Hardman,” he burst out.
“Oh, but I'll have to,” she replied, stubbornly, with a sad little shake
of her head.
“No!”
“I must save Dad. You might indeed get him out of jail some way.
But that would not save him.”
“Certainly it would,” rejoined Pan, curtly. “In another state he
would be perfectly safe.”
“They'll trail him anywhere. No, that won’t do. We haven’t time.
Dick is pressing me hard to marry him at once, or his father will
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
prosecute Dad. I promised. ... And today—this morning—Dick is
coming here to get me to set the day.”
“What?” cried Pan, passionately.
His word, swift as a bullet, made her jump, but she repeated what
she had said almost word for word.
“And your answer?” queried Pan, in hot scorn.
“Sooner the—better,” she replied, mournfully. “I can’t stand—this—
you—oh, anything would be—easier than your hope . . . your—your
love making!”
“Lucy Blake, have you gone down hill like your father?” asked Pan,
hoarsely. “What kind of a woman are you? If you love me, it’s a crime to
marry him. Women do these things, I know—sell themselves. But they
kill their souls. If you could save your father from being hanged, it
would still be wrong. Suppose he did go to jail for a few years. What’s
that compared to hell for you all your life? You’re out of your head.
You’ve lost your sense of proportion. . . . You must care for this damned
skunk Dick Hardman.”
“Care for him!” she cried, shamefaced and furious. “I hate him.”
“Then if you marry him you'll be crooked. To yourself! To mel ..«
Why, in my eyes you’d be worse than that little hussy down at the
Yellow Mine.”
“Pan!” she whispered. “How can you? How dare you?”
“Hard facts deserve hard names. You make me say such things. Why,
you’d drive me mad if I listened—if I believed you. Don’t you dare say
again you'll marry Dick.”
“T will—I must—”
“Lucy!” he thundered. It was no use to reason with this girl. She had
been trapped like a wild thing and could not see any way out. He shot
out a strong hand and clutched her shoulder and with one heave he drew
her to him, so her face was under his. It went pale. The telltale eyes
dilated in sudden fear. She beat at him with weak fluttering hands.
“Say you love me!”
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He shook her roughly, then held her tight. “I don’t maul any other
man’s woman,” he went on, fiercely. “But if you love me—that’s dif-
ferent. You said it a little while ago. Was it true? Are you a liar?”
“No—No—Pan,” she whispered, in distress. “I—I do.”
“Do what?”
“I—I love you,” she said, the scarlet blood mounting to her pale face.
She was weakening—sinking toward him. Her eyes held a sort of dark
spell.
“How do you love me?” he queried relentlessly, with his heart mount-
ing high.
“Always I’ve loved you—since I was a baby.”
“As a brother?”
Les.”
“But we’re man and woman now. This is my one chance for happi-
ness. I don’t want you—I wouldn’t have you unless you love me as I
do you. Be honest with me. Be square. Do you love me now as I do you?”
“God help me—yes,” she replied, almost inaudibly, with eyes of re-
morse and love and agony on his.
Pan could not withstand this. He crushed her to him, and lifted her
arms round his neck, and fell to kissing her with all the starved hunger
of his lonely loveless years on the ranges. She was not proof against
this. It lifted her out of her weakness, of her abasement to a response
that swept away all fears, doubts, troubles. For the moment, at least,
love conquered her.
Pan was wrenched out of the ecstasy of that moment by the pound
of hoofs and the crashing of brush..He could not disengage himself
before a horse and rider were upon them. Nevertheless Pan recognized
the intruder and leaped away from the bench with the instinctive swift-
ness for defense that had been ingrained in him.
Dick Hardman showed the most abject astonishment. His eyes stuck
out, his jaw dropped. No other emotion seemed yet to have dawned in
him. He stared from Lucy to Pan and back again. A slow dull red be-
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gan to creep into his cheeks. He ejaculated something incoherent. His
amaze swiftly grew into horror. He had caught his fiancée in the arms
of another man. Black fury suddenly possessed him.
“You—you—” he yelled stridently, moving to dismount.
“Stay on your horse,” commanded Pan.
“Who the hell are you?” bellowed Hardman, sliding back in the
saddle.
“Howdy, Skunk Hardman,” rejoined Pan, with cool impudence.
“Reckon you ought to know me.”
“Pan Smith!” gasped the other, hoarsely, and he turned lividly white.
“By God, I knew you last night. But I couldn’t place you.”
“Well, Mr. Dick Hardman, I knew you the instant I set eyes on
you—sitting there gambling—with the pretty bare-armed girl on your
chair,” returned Pan, with slow deliberate sarcasm.
“Yes, and you got that little
shouted Hardman.
“Be careful of your language. There’s a lady present,” replied Pan,
menacingly.
“Of all the nerve! You—you damned cowpuncher,” raved Hardman
in a fury. “It didn’t take you long to get to her, either, did it? Now you
make tracks out of here or I’II—T’'ll—it’ll be the worse for you, Pan
Smith. . . . Lucy Blake is as good as married to me.”
“Nope, you’re wrong, Dick,” snapped Pan insolently. “I got here
just in time to save her from that doubtful honor.”
“You'd break her engagement to me?” rasped Hardman huskily,
and he actually shook in his saddle.
“T have broken it.”
“Lucy, tell me he lies!” begged Hardman, turning to her in poignant
distress. If he had any good in him it showed then.
Lucy came out from the shade of the tree into the sunlight. She was
pale, but composed.
“Dick, it’s true,” she said, steadily. “I’ve broken my word. I can’t
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
marry you. ... I love Pan. I’ve loved him always. It would be a sin
to marry you now.”
“Hellsfire!” shrieked Hardman. His face grew frightful to see—
beastly with rage. “You're as bad as that hussy who threw me down
for him. 'll fix you, Lucy Blake. And I'll put your cow-thief father
behind the bars for life.”
Pan leaped at Hardman and struck him a body blow that sent him
tumbling out of his saddle to thud on the ground. The frightened horse
ran down the path toward the gate.
“You dirty-mouthed cur,” said Pan. “Get up, and if you’ve got a gun—
throw it.”
Hardman laboriously got to his feet. The breath had been partly
knocked out of him. Baleful eyes rolled at Pan. Instinctive wrath, how-
ever, had been given a setback. Hardman had been forced to think of
something beside the frustration of his imperious will.
“T’m—not—packing—my gun,” he panted, heavily. “You saw—that
—Pan Smith.”
“Well, you’d better pack it after this,” replied Pan with contempt.
“Because I’m liable to throw on you at sight.”
“Tl have—you—run—out of this country,” replied Dick huskily.
“Bah! don’t waste your breath. Run me out of this country? Mel
Reckon you never heard of Panhandle Smith. You're so thickheaded
you couldn’t take a hunch. Well, I'll give you one, anyway. You and
your crooked father, and your two bit of a sheriff pardner would do
well to leave this country. Savvy that! Now get out of here pronto.”
Hardman gave Pan a ghastly stare and wheeled away to stride down
the path. Once he turned to flash his convulsed face at Lucy. Then he
passed out of sight among the trees in search of his horse.
Pan stood gazing down the green aisle. He had acted true to himself.
How impossible to meet this situation in any other way! It meant the
spilling of blood. He knew it—accepted it—and made no attempt to
change the cold passion deep within him. Lucy—his mother and father
85: ]
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would suffer. But wouldn’t they suffer more if he did not confront
this conflict as his hard training dictated? He was almost afraid to turn
and look at Lucy. Just a little while before he had promised her for-
bearance. So his amaze was great when she faced him, violet eyes
ablaze, to clasp him, and creep close to him, with lingering traces of
fear giving way to woman’s admiration and love.
“Panhandle Smith!” she whispered, gazing up into his face. “I heard
your story. It thrilled me. . . . But I never understood—till you faced
Dick Hardman. . . . Oh, what have you done for me? . . . Oh, Pan,
you have saved me from ruin.”
[ 86 ]
GHA P TERS EIGHT
PAN and Lucy did not realize the passing of time until they were
called to dinner. As they stepped upon the little porch Lucy tried to
withdraw her hand from Pan’s, but did not succeed.
“See here,” said he, very seriously, yielding to an urge he could not
resist. “Wouldn’t it be wise for us to—to get married at once?”
Lucy blushed furiously. “Pan Smith! Are you crazy?”
“Reckon I am,” he replied, ruefully. “But I got to thinking how I'll
be out after wild horses. . . . And I’m afraid something might happen.
Please marry me this afternoon?”
“Pan! You’re—you’re terrible,” cried Lucy, and snatching away her
hand, scarlet of face she rushed into the house ahead of him.
He followed, to find Lucy gone. His father was smiling, and his
mother had wide-open hopeful eyes. A slim young girl, with freckles,
grave sweet eyes and curly hair was standing by a window. She turned
and devoured him with those shy eyes. From that look he knew who
she was.
“Alice! Little sister!” he exclaimed, meeting her. “Well, by golly,
this is great.”
It did not take long for Pan to grasp that a subtle change had come
over his mother and father. Not the excitement of his presence nor the
wonder about Lucy accounted for it, but a difference, a lessening of
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strain, a relief. Pan sensed a reliance upon him that they were not yet
conscious of.
“Son, what was the matter with Lucy?” inquired his father, shrewdly.
“Why nothing to speak of,” replied Pan, nonchalantly. “Reckon she
was a little flustered because I wanted her to marry me this afternoon.”
“Good gracious!” cried his mother. “You are a cowboy. Lucy marry
you when she’s engaged to another man!”
“Mother, dear, that’s broken off. Don’t remind me of it. I want to look
pleasant, so you'll all be glad I’m home.”
“Glad!” his mother laughed, with a catch in her voice. “My prayers
have been answered. . . . Come now to dinner. Remember, Pan, when
you used to yell, ‘Come an’ get it before I throw it out’?”
Bobby left Pan’s knee and made a beeline for the kitchen. Alice raced
after him.
“Pan, I met Dick Hardman on the road. He looked like hell, and was
sure punishin’ his horse. I said when I seen him Id bet he’s run into Pan.
How about it?”
“Reckon he did,” laughed Pan. “It was pretty tough on him, I’m bound
to admit. He rode down the path and caught me—well, the truth is, Dad,
I was kissing the young lady he imagined belonged to him.”
“You range ridin’ son-of-a-gun!” ejaculated his father, in unmitigated
admiration and gladness. “What come off?”
“T'll tell you after dinner. Gee, I smell applesauce! . . . Dad, I never
forgot Mother’s cooking.”
They went into the little whitewashed kitchen, where Pan had to
stoop to avoid the ceiling, and took seats at the table. Pan feasted his
eyes. His mother had not been idle during the hours that he was out in
the orchard with Lucy, nor had she forgotten the things that he.had
always liked. Alice acted as waitress, and Bobby sat in a high chair
beaming upon Pan. At that juncture Lucy came in. She had changed
her gray blouse to one of white, with wide collar that was cut a little
low and showed the golden contour of her superb neck. She had put
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
her hair up. Pan could not take his eyes off her. In hers he saw a danc-
ing subdued light, and a beautiful rose color in her cheeks.
“Well, I’ve got to eat,” said Pan, as if by way of explanation and ex-
cuse for removing his gaze from this radiant picture.
Thus his home coming proved to be a happier event than he had ever
dared to hope for. Lucy was quiet and ate but little. At times Pan caught
her stealing a glimpse at him, and each time she blushed. She could
not meet his eyes again. Alice too stole shy glances at him, wondering,
loving. Bobby was hungry, but he did not forget that Pan sat across from
him. Mrs. Smith watched Pan with an expression that would have
pained him had he allowed remorse to come back then. And his father
was funny. He tried to be natural, to meet Pan on a plane of the old
Western insouciance, but it was impossible. No doubt such happiness
had not reigned in that household for years.
“Dad, let’s go out and have a talk,” proposed Pan, after dinner.
As they walked down toward the corrals Pan’s father was silent, yet
it was clear he labored with suppressed feeling.
“All right, fire away,” he burst out at last, “but first tell me, for Gawd’s
sake, how’d you do it?”
“What?” queried Pan, looking round from his survey of the farm
land.
“Mother! She’s well. She wasn’t well at all,” exclaimed the older man,
breathing hard. “An’ that girl! Did you ever see such eyes?”
“Reckon I never did,” replied Pan, with joyous bluntness.
“This mornin’ I left Lucy crushed. Her eyes were like lead. An’ now!
. . . Pan, I’m thankin’ God for them. But tell me how’d you do it?”
“Dad, I don’t know women very well, but I reckon they live by their
hearts. You can bet that happiness for them means a lot to me. I felt
pretty low down. That’s gone. I could crow like Bobby . . . but, Dad,
I’ve a big job on my hands, and I think I’m equal to it. Are you going
to oppose me?”
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“Hell, no!” spat out his father, losing his pipe in his vehemence. “Son,
I lost my cattle, my ranch. An’ then my nerve. I’m not makin’ excuses.
I just fell down ... but I’m not too old to make another start with
you to steer me.”
“Good!” replied Pan with strong feeling, and he laid a hand on his
father’s shoulder. They halted by the open corral. “Then let’s get right
down to straight poker.”
“Play your game, Pan. I’m sure curious.”
“First off then—we don’t want to settle in this country.”
“Pan, you’ve called me right on the first hand,” declared his father,
cracking his fist on the corral gate. “I know this’s no country for the
Smiths. But I followed Jard Hardman here, I hoped to——”
“Never mind explanations, Dad,” interrupted Pan. “We're looking
to the future. We won’t settle here. We'll go to Arizona. I had a pard
who came from Arizona. All day long and half the night that broncho
buster would rave about Arizona. Well, he won me over. Arizona must
be wonderful.”
“But Pan, isn’t it desert country?”
“Arizona is every kind of country,” replied Pan earnestly. “It’s a big
territory, Dad. Pretty wild yet, too, but not like these mining claim
countries, with their Yellow Mines. Arizona is getting settlers in the
valleys where there’s water and grass. Lots of fine pine timber that will
be valuable some day. I know just where we'll strike for. But we needn’t
waste time talking about that now. If it suits you the thing is settled. We
go to Arizona.”
“Fine, Pan,” said his father rubbing his hands. Pan had struck fire
from him. “When will we go?”
“That’s to decide,” answered Pan, thoughtfully. “I’ve got some money.
Not much. But we could get there and start on it. I believe, though,
that we'd do better to stay here—this fall anyway—and round up a
bunch of these wild horses. Five hundred horses, a thousand at twelve
dollars a head—why, Dad, it would start us in a big way.”
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
“Son, I should smile it would,” returned Smith, with fiery enthusiasm.
“But can you do it?”
“Dad, if these broomies are as thick as I hear they are I sure can make
a stake. Last night I fell in with two cowboys—Blinky Moran and Gus
Hans. They’re chasing wild horses, and want me to throw in with them.
Now with you and maybe a couple of more riders we can make a big
drive. You’ve got to know the tricks. I learned a heap from a Mormon
wild-horse wrangler. If these broomtails are thick here—well, I don’t
want to set your hopes too high. But wait till I show you.”
“Pan, there’s ten thousand wild horses in that one valley across the
mountain there. Hot Springs Valley they call it.”
“Then, by George, we’ve got to take the risk,” declared Pan decisively.
“Risk of what?”
“Trouble with that Hardman outfit. It can’t be avoided. I’d have to
bluff them out or fight them down, right off. Dick is a yellow skunk.
Jard Hardman is a bad man in any pinch. But not on an even break. I
don’t mean that. If that were all. But he’s treacherous. And his hench-
man, this two bit of a sheriff, he’s no man to face you on the square.
I'll swear he can be bluffed. Has he any reputation as a gun thrower?”
“Matthews? I never heard of it, if he had. But he brags a lot. He’s
been in several fracases here, with drunken miners an’ Mexicans. He’s
killed a couple of men since I’ve been here.”
“Ab-huh, just what I thought,” declared Pan, in cool contempt. “I'll
bet a hundred he elected himself town marshal, as he calls it. P’ll bet
he hasn’t any law papers from the territory, or government, either. . . .
Jard Hardman will be the hard nut to crack. Now, Dad, back in Littleton
I learned what he did to you. And Lucy’s story gave me another angle
on that. It’s pretty hard to overlook. I’m not swearing I can do so. But
I'd like to know how you feel about it.”
“Son, I’d be scared to tell you,” replied Smith in husky voice, drop-
ping his head.
“You needn’t, Dad. We'll stay here till we catch and sell a bunch of
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horses,” said Pan curtly. “Can you quit your job at the wagon shop?”
“Any time—an’ Lord, won't I be glad to do it,” returned Smith
fervently.
“Well, you quit just then,” remarked Pan dryly. “So much is settled.
.. . Dad, I’ve got to get Jim Blake out of that jail.”
“I reckon so. It might be a job an’ then again it mightn’t. Depends on
Jim. An’ between you an’ me, Pan, I’ve no confidence in Jim.”
“That doesn’t make any difference. I’ve got to get him out and send
him away. Head him for Arizona where we're going. .. . Is it a real
jail?”
“Dobe mud an’ stones,” replied his father. “An Indian or a real man
could break out of there any night. There are three guards, who change
off every eight hours. One of them is a tough customer. Name’s Hill.
He used to be an outlaw. The other two are lazy loafers round town.”
“Anybody but Jim in just now?”
“I don’t know. Matthews jailed a woman not long ago. He arrests
somebody every day or so.”
“Where is this calaboose belonging to Mr. Matthews?”
“You passed it on the way out, Pan. Off the road. Gray flat buildin’.
Let’s see. It’s the third place from the wagon shop, same side.”
“All right, Dad,” said Pan with cheerful finality. “Let’s go back to
the house and talk Arizona to Lucy and Mother for a little. Then I'll
rustle along toward town. Tomorrow you come oyer to the boys’ camp.
It’s on the other side of town, in a cedar flat, up that slope. We’ve got
horses to try out and saddles to buy.”
[ 92 J
GiAP TER NINE
AS Pan strode back along the road toward Marco the whole world
seemed to have changed.
For a few moments he indulged his old joy in range and mountain,
stretching, rising on his right, away into the purple distance. Some-
thing had heightened its beauty. How softly gray the rolling range
Jand—how black the timbered slopes! The town before him sat like a
hideous blotch on a fair landscape. It forced his gaze over and beyond
toward the west, where the late afternoon sun had begun to mellow
and redden, edging the clouds with exquisite light. To the southward
lay Arizona, land of painted mesas and storied canyon walls, of thun-
dering streams and wild pine forests, of purple-saged valleys and grassy
parks, set like mosaics between the stark desert mountains.
But his mind soon reverted to the business at hand. It was much to
his liking. Many a time he had gone to extremes, reckless and fun lov-
ing, in the interest of some cowboy who had gotten into durance vile.
It was the way of his class. A few were strong and many were weak,
but all of them held a constancy of purpose as to their calling. As they
hated wire fences so they hated notoriety-seeking sheriffs and unlicensed
jails. No doubt Jard Hardman, who backed the Yellow Mine, was also
behind the jail. At least Matthews pocketed the ill-gotten gains from
offenders of the peace as constituted by himself.
Pan felt that now for the first time in his life he had a mighty in-
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
centive, something tremendous and calling, to bring out that spirit of fire
common to the daredevils of the range. He had touched only the last
fringe of the cowboy regime. Dodge and Abilene, the old Chisholm
Trail, the hard-drinking hard-shooting days of an earlier Cimarron
had gone. Life then had been but the chance of a card, the wink of
an eye, the flip of a quirt. But Pan had ridden and slept with men who
had seen those days. He had absorbed from them, and to him had come
a later period, not comparable in any sense, yet rough, free, untamed
and still bloody. He knew how to play his cards against such men as
these. The more boldly he faced them, the more menacingly he went
out of his way to meet them, the greater would be his advantage. If
Matthews were another Hickok the situation would have been vastly
different. If there were any real fighting men on Hardman’s side Pan
would recognize them in a single glance. He was an unknown quantity
to them, that most irritating of newcomers to a wild place, the man with
a name preceding him.
Pan came abreast of the building that he was seeking. It was part stone
and part adobe, heavily and crudely built, with no windows on the side
facing him. Approaching it, and turning the corner, he saw a wide-
arched door leading into a small stone-floored room. He heard voices.
In a couple of long strides Pan crossed the flat threshold. Two men
were playing cards with a greasy deck, a bottle of liquor and small
glasses on the table between them. The one whose back was turned to
Pan did not see him, but the other man jerked up from his bench, then
sagged back with strangely altering expression. He was young, dark,
coarse, and he had a bullet hole in his chin.
Pan’s recognition did not lag behind the other’s. This was Handy
Mac New, late of Montana, a cowboy who had drifted beyond the pale.
He was one of that innumerable band whom Pan had helped in some
way or other. Handy had become a horse thief and a suspected murderer
in the year following Pan’s acquaintance with him,
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
“Howdy, men,” Pan greeted them, giving no sign that he had recog-
nized Mac New. “Which one of you is on guard here?”
“Me,” replied Mac New, choking over the word. Slowly he got to
his feet.
“You've got a prisoner in there named Blake,” went on Pan. “I once
lived near him. He used to play horse with me and ride me on his back.
Will you let me talk to him?”
“Why, shore, stranger,” replied Mac New, with nervous haste, and
producing a key, he inserted it in the lock of a heavy whitewashed door.
Pan found himself ushered into a large room with small iron-barred
windows on the west side. His experience of frontier jails had been
limited, but those he had seen had been bare, empty, squalid cells. This,
however, was evidently a luxurious kind of a prison house. There were
Indian blankets and rugs on the floor, an open fireplace with cheerful
blaze, a table littered with books and papers, a washstand, a com-
fortable bed upon which reclined a man smoking and reading.
“Somebody to see you, Blake,” called the guard, and he went out,
shutting the door behind him.
Blake sat up. As he did so, moving his bootless feet, Pan’s keen eye
espied a bottle on the floor.
Pan approached leisurely, his swift thoughts revolving around a situ-
ation that looked peculiar to him. Blake was very much better cared
for there than could have been expected. Why?
“Howdy, Blake. Do you remember me?” asked Pan halting beside
the table.
He did not in the least remember Lucy’s father in this heavy blond
man, lax of body and sodden of face.
“Somethin’ familiar aboot you,” replied Blake, studying Pan in-
tently. “But I reckon you’ve got the best of me.”
“Pan Smith,” said Pan shortly.
“Wal!” he ejaculated, as if shocked into memory, and slowly he rose
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
to hold out a shaking hand. “Bill’s kid—the little boy who stuck by my
wife—when Lucy was born.”
“Same boy, and he’s damn sorry to find you in this fix,” responded
Pan, forcefully. “And he’s here to get you out.”
Blake sagged back as slowly as he had arisen. His face changed like
that of a man suddenly stabbed. And he dropped his head. In that mo-
ment Pan saw enough to make him glad. Manifestly the good in him
had not been wholly killed by evil. Jim Blake might yet be reclaimed
or at least led away from evil life.
“Mr. Blake, I’ve been to see Lucy,” went on Pan, and swiftly he
talked of the girl, her unhappiness, and the faith she still held in her
father. “I’ve come to get you out of here, for Lucy’s sake. We’re all
going to Arizona. You and Dad can make a new start in life.”
“My God, if I only could,” groaned the man.
Pan reached out with quick hand and shook him. “Listen,” he said,
low and eagerly. “How long is this guard Mac New on duty?”
“Mac New? The fellow outside is called Hurd. He’s on till mid-
night.”
“All right, my mistake,” went on Pan, swiftly. “I'll be here tonight
about eleven. I'll have a horse for you, blanket, grub, gun, and money.
Pll hold up this guard Hurd—get you out some way or other. You're
to ride away. Take the road south. There are other mining camps.
You'll not be followed. Make for Siccane, Arizona.”
“Siccane, Arizona,” echoed Blake, as a man in a dream of freedom.
“Yes, Siccane. Don’t forget it. Stay there till we all come.”
Pan straightened up, with deep expulsion of breath, and tingling
nerves. He had reached Blake. Whatever his doubts of the man, and
they had been many, Pan divined that he could stir him, rouse him out
of the lethargy of sordid indifference and forgetfulness. He would free
him from this jail, and the shackles of Hardman in any case, but to
find that it was possible to influence him gladdened Pan’s heart. What
would this not mean to Lucy!
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
The door opened behind Pan.
“Wal, stranger, reckon yore time’s up,” called the jailer.
Pan gave the stunned Blake a meaning look, and then without a
word, he left the room. The guard closed and locked the door. Then
he looked up, with cunning, yet not wholly without pleasure. His com-
panion at the card game had gone.
“Panhandle Smith!” whispered the guard, half stretching out his
hand, then withdrawing it.
“Shake, Mac,” said Pan in a low voice. “It’s a small world.”
“By Gord, it shore is,” replied Mac New, wringing Pan’s hand. “I’m
known here as Hurd.”
“Ab-huh. . .. Well, Hurd, I’m not a talking man. But I want to
remind you that you owe me a good turn.”
“You shore don’t have to remind me of thet,” returned the other.
“Tt pays to do good turns. . . . I’m lucky, old timer.”
“T savvy, Panhandle Smith,” said Hurd, with gleaming eyes, and he
crooked a stubby thumb toward the door of Blake’s jail.
“All right, cowboy,” returned Pan, with a meaning smile. “I’ll drop
around tonight about eleven.”
Pan slowed up in his stride when he reached the business section of the
town, and strolled along as if he were looking for someone. He was.
He meant to have eyes in the back of his head henceforth. But he did
not meet anyone he knew or see anyone who glanced twice at him.
He went into Black’s general merchandise store to look at the saddle
Moran had recommended. It was a bargain and Pan purchased it on
sight. Proof indeed was this that there were not many cowboys in and
around Marco. While he was there, Pan bought a Winchester carbine
and a saddle sheath for it. Thus burdened he walked out to the camp.
Lying Juan had supper about ready and the boys were noisy up at the
corral. Some of their language was indicative of trouble and mean
horses. Pan found a seat by the fire very welcome. Emotion had power
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
to exhaust him far beyond physical exertion. Darkness had just about
merged from dusk when the boys dragged themselves in, smelling of
dust and horses. They went into the water basins like ducks. Pan
lighted the lantern and put it on the table. Then the boys came strad-
dling the bench like cowboys mounting horses. Their faces were red
and shiny, their wet hair was pasted down.
“Wal, if heah ain’t ole Pan Smith,” announced Blinky, vociferously.
“Gus, take a peep at him. I’ll bet he’s got hold of a grand hoss. Nothin’
else could make him look like thet.”
“No. I just got back my girl,” replied Pan gaily.
“Gurl! Say, cowboy,” began Blinky, in consternation. “You didn’t run
foul of thet little Yellow Mine kid?”
“Eat your supper, you hungry-looking galoot,” replied Pan. “And
you too, Gus . . . Because if I begin to shoot off my chin now you'll
forget the grub.”
Thus admonished, and with curious glances at Pan, the cowboys
took his advice and attacked the generous meal Juan had set before
them. Their appetites further attested to a strenuous day. Pan did not
seem to be hungry, which fact caused Juan much concern.
“Ahuh! It’s the way a fellar gets when he’s in love with a gurl,” ob-
served the keen Blinky. “I been there.”
After supper they got together before the stove and rolled their cig-
arettes. The cold night wind, with its tang of mountain heights, made
the fire most agreeable. Pan spread his palms to the heat.
“Wal, pard, throw it off your chest before you bust,” advised Blinky
shrewdly.
“What kind of a day did you boys have?” countered Pan with a laugh.
“Good an’ bad,” replied Gus, while Blinky shook his head. “Some
hoss thieves have been runnin’ off our stock. We had some fine hosses,
not broke yet. Some we wanted to keep.”
“What’s the good news?” queried Pan, as Hans hesitated.
[ 98 J
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
“Pan, I'll be doggoned if we didn’t see a million broomies today,”
burst out Blinky.
“No. Now, Blink, talk sense,” remonstrated Pan. “You mean you
saw a thousand?”
“Wal, shore a million is stretchin’ it some,” acknowledged the cowboy.
“But ten thousand wouldn’t be nothin’. We tracked some of our hosses
twenty miles an’ more over heah, farther’n we'd been yet. An’ climbed
a high ridge we looked down into the purtiest valley I ever seen. Twice
as big as Hot Springs Valley. Gee, it lay there gray an’ green with
hosses as thick as greasewood bushes on the desert. Thet valley hasn’t
been drove yet. It’s purty rough gettin’ up to where you can see. An’
there’s lots of hosses closer to town. Thet accounts.”
“Blinky, is this talk of yours a leaf out of Lying Juan’s book?” asked
Pan incredulously. “It’s too good to be true.”
“Pan, I'll swear it on a stack of Bibles,” protested Blinky. “Ask Gus,
He seen them.”
“For onct Blinky ain’t out of his haid,” corroborated Hans. “Never
saw so many wild hosses. An’ if we can find a way to ketch some of
them we'll be rich.”
“Boys, you told me you’d been trapping horses at the water holes,”
said Pan.
“Shore, we’ve been moonshinin’ them,” replied Blinky. “We build
a corral round a water hole. Make a wide gate we can shut quick. Then
we lay out on moonlight nights waitin’ for em to come in to drink.
We've done purty darn good at it, too.”
“That’s fun, but it’s a two-bit way to catch wild horses,” rejoined Pan.
“Wal, they’re all doin’ it thet way. Hardman’s outfit, an’ a couple
more besides us. I figgered myself it was purty slow, but no better way
come to me. Do you know one?”
“Do I? Well, I should smile. I know more than one that'll beat your
moonshining. Back on the prairie where it’s all wide and bare there’s
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
no chance for a small outfit. But this is high country, valleys, canyons,
cedars. Boys, we can make one big stake before the other outfits get on
to us.”
“By gosh, one’s enough for us,” declared Blinky. “Then we can shake
this gold-claim country where they steal your empty tin cans an’ broken
shovels.”
“One haul will do me, too,” agreed Pan. “Then Arizona for me.”
“Ah-uh! ... Pan, how aboot this gurl?”
Briefly then Pan told his story, and the situation as it looked to him
at the moment. The response of these cowboys was what he had ex-
pected. He knew them. Warmhearted, simple, elemental, they responded
in different ways, but with the same fire. Gus Hans looked his cham-
pionship while Blinky raved and swore.
“Then you're both with me?” asked Pan, tersely. “Mind, it’s no fair
deal, my getting your support here for helping you with a wild horse
drive.”
“Fair, hell!” returned Blinky, forcibly. “It ain’t like you to insult
cowboys.”
“I’m begging your pardon,” replied Pan, hastily. “But we’d never
been pardners and I hesitated to draw you into a scrap that'll almost sure
go to gun throwing.”
“Wal, we’re your pardners now, an’ damn proud of it, Panhandle
Smith.”
Silently and grimly they all shook hands on it. Not half a dozen
times in his range life had Pan been party to a compact like that.
“This Blake fellar, now,” began Blinky, as he lighted another cig-
arette. “What’s your idea of gettin’ him out?”
“I want a horse, a blanket, some grub and a gun. I’m to take them
down to the jail at eleven o’clock.”
“Huh! Goin’ to hold up the guard?” queried Blinky.
“That was my intention,” replied Pan, “but I know that fellow Hurd,
who'll be on guard then. Pll not have to hold him up.”
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“Hurd? I know him. Hard nut, but I think he’s square.”
“Reckon Hurd will lose his job,” said Pan reflectively. “If he does,
let’s take him with us on the wild horse deal.”
“Suits me. An’ he’ll shore love thet job. Hurd hasn’t any use for
Matthews.”
“Blinky, do you know another man we can hire or get to throw in
with us? We’ve got five now counting my dad, and we'll need at least
=x.
“Why so many? It'll cut out profits.”
“No, it'll increase them. One good rider means a great deal to us.”
“Then let’s get thet miner, Charley Brown.”
“But he’s working a gold claim.”
“Wal, if I know anythin’ he’ll not be workin’ it any longer than
findin’ blue dirt. Gus an’ me seen Jard Hardman with two men ridin’
99
out thet way this mawnin’.
“Ah! ... So Hardman is here now.—We'’ll hunt up Brown and see
what he says. Suppose we walk downtown now.”
“All right, but let me get a hoss up for Blake,” replied Blinky. “Gus,
you find thet old saddle of mine, an’ a blanket. There’s an old canvas
saddlebag an’ water bottle heah somewheres. Ask Juan. An’ get him
to pack the grub.”
The night of the sabbath was no barrier to the habitués of the Yel-
low Mine. But early in the evening it was not yet in full swing. The
dance was on with a few heavy-footed miners and their gaudy partners,
and several of the gambling tables were surrounded.
Pan stalked about alone. His new-found cowboy friends had been
instructed to follow him unobtrusively. Pan did not wish to give an
impression that he had taken up with allies. He was looking for Charley
Brown, but he had a keen roving eye for every man in sight. It was
doubtful if Hardman or Matthews could have espied Pan first, unless
they were hidden somewhere. He took up a position, presently, behind
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
one of the poker games, with his back to the wall, so that he had com-
mand of the room. A stiff game was in progress, which Pan watched
casually. Blinky and Gus lounged around, with apparently no more
aim than other idle drinking visitors of the place.
Gradually more men came in, the gaming tables filled up, and the
white-armed girls appeared to mingle with the guests.
Pan espied the girl Louise before she had become aware of his pres-
ence. She appeared to be more decently clad, a circumstance that greatly
added to her charm, in his opinion. Curiously he studied her. Women
represented more to Pan than to most men he had had opportunity to
meet or observe. He never forgot that they belonged to the same sex
as his mother. So it was natural he had compassion for this unsexed
dance-hall, gambling-lure girl. She was pretty in a wild sort of way,
dissolute, abandoned, yet not in any sense weak. A terrible havoc showed
in her face for anyone with eyes to see beneath the surface. Pan noted
a strange restlessness in her that at first he imagined was the seeking
instinct of women of her class. But it was only that she could not sit or
stand still. Her hawklike eyes did not miss anyone there, and finally
they located him. She came around the tables up to Pan, and took hold
of his arm.
“Howdy, Handsome,” she said, smiling up at him.
Pan doffed his sombrero and bade her good evening.
“Don’t do that,” she said. “It irritates me.”
“But, Louise, I can’t break a habit just to please you,” he replied,
smiling.
“You could stay out of here. Didn’t I warn you not to come back?”
“Yes, but I thought you were only fooling. Besides I Aad to come.”
“Why? You don’t fit here. You’ve got too clean a look.”
Pan gazed down at her, feeling in her words and presence some-
thing that prompted him to more than kindliness and good nature.
“Louise, I can return the compliment. You don’t fit here.”
“Damn you!” she flashed. “T’ll fall in love with you.”
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“Well, if you did, I'd sure drag you out of this hell,” replied Pan,
bluntly.
“Come away from these gamblers,” she demanded, and drew him
from behind the circle to seats at an empty table. “I won’t ask you to
drink or dance. But I’m curious. I’ve been hearing about you.”
“That so? Who told you?”
“I overheard Dick Hardman tonight, just before supper. He has a
room next to mine in the hotel here, when he stays in town. He was
telling his father about you. Such cussing I never heard. I’m giving you
a hunch. They'll do away with you.”
“Thanks. Reckon it’s pretty fine of you to put me on my guard.”
“T only meant behind your back—What has Dick against you?”
“We were kids together back in Texas. Just natural rivals and en-
emies. But I hadn’t seen him for years till last night. Then he didn’t
know me.”
“He knows you now all right. He ran into you today?”
“T reckon he did,” replied Pan, with a grim laugh.
“Panhandle, this is getting sort of warm,” she said, leaning across
the table to him. “I’m not prying into your affairs. But I could be your
friend. God knows I like a man.”
“That’s the second compliment you’ve paid me tonight. What’re you
up to, Louise?”
“See here, cowboy, when I pay any two-legged hombre compliments
you can gamble they are sincere.”
“All right, no offense meant.”
“Do you resent my curiosity?”
“No.”
“T’ve got you figured right when I say you’re in trouble. You're looking
for someone?”
Yes
“I knew it,” she retorted, snapping her fingers. “And that’s Hardman
and his outfit... I didn’t hear all Dick said. When he talked loud
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
he cussed. But I heard enough to tie up Panhandle Smith with this girl
Lucy and the Hardman outfit.”
Pan eyed her steadily. She was enroaching upon sacred ground. But
her feeling was genuine, and undoubtedly she had some connection
with a situation which began to look complex. The same instinct that »
operated so often with Pan in his relation to men of the open now
subtly prompted him. Regardless of circumstances he knew when to
grasp an opportunity.
“Louise, you show that you’d risk taking a chance on me—a stranger,”
he replied, with quick decision. “I return that compliment.”
The smile she gave him was really a reward. It gave him a glimpse
of the depths of her.
“Who’s this girl, Lucy?” she queried.
“She’s my sweetheart, ever since we were kids,” returned Pan with
emotion. “I went to riding the ranges, and well, like so many cowboys,
I didn’t go back home. When I did go Lucy was gone, my family was
gone. I trailed them here—to find that Dick Hardman was about to
force Lucy to marry him.”
“The !” she burst out. Then after her excitement
cooled: “How’d he aim to force her?”
Quickly Pan explained the situation as related to Jim Blake.
“Aha! Easy to savvy. That’s where Jard Hardman and Matthews
come in.... Panhandle, they’re a dirty outfit—and the dirtiest of
them is Dick Hardman!”
“What’s he to you, Louise?” inquired Pan gravely. “You'll excuse
me if I say I can’t see you in love with him.”
“In love with Dick Hardman?” she whispered, hotly. “My God! I
wouldn’t soil even my hands on him—if I didn’t have to. . . . He met
me in Frisco. He brought me to this damned stinking rough hole. He
made me promises he never kept. Not to marry me. Don’t get the wrong
hunch. He has double-crossed me. And I: had to sink to this! ...
Drunk? Yes, sure I was drunk. Don’t you understand I have to be
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
drunk to stand this life? I’m not drunk now because you got here early.
..- Something deep must be behind my meeting you, Panhandle
Smith.”
“I hope to heaven it will be to your good—as I know meeting you
will be to mine,” replied Pan fervently.
“We're off the track,” she broke in, and Pan imagined he saw a
deeper red under her artificial color. “I despise Dick Hardman. He’s
stingy, conceited, selfish. He’s low down, and he’s sinking to worse.”
“His father ruined mine,” Pan told her. “That’s what brought Dad
out here—to try to get something back from Jard Hardman. No use.
He only got another hard deal.”
“That cowboy who was in here with you last night—Blinky Moran.
His claim was jumped by Hardman.”
“Louise, how’d you know that?” asked Pan in surprise.
“Don’t give me away. Blinky told me. He’s one of my friends and
he’s a white man if I ever saw one. . . . He has been in love with me.
Wanted me to marry him! Poor crazy boy! I sure had to fight—and get
drunker—to keep from more than liking him. He spent all his money
on me and I had to make him quit.”
“Well, that little bow-legged cowboy liar! He’s as deep as the sea.”
“Keep it secret, Panhandle,” she responded seriously. “I don’t want
to hurt his feelings. . . . To get back to the Hardmans. They’ve taken
strong hold here. The old man owns half of Marco. He’s in everything.
But it’s my hunch I’m giving you—that he’s in the straight deals only
to cover the crooked ones. That’s where the money is.”
“Yet Jard Hardman will not square up with Dad!” exclaimed Pan.
“Now tell me why you come into the Yellow Mine. Is it to court trou-
ble? You're taking an awful chance. Every night or so some tipsy miner
gets robbed or knifed, or shot.”
“Louise, in dealing with men of really dangerous quality your only
chance is to face them with precisely the same thing. As for the four-
flushers like Matthews and men of the Hardman stamp, the one thing
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
they can’t stand is nerve. They haven’t got it. They don’t understand
it. They fear it. It works on their consciousness. They begin to figure
on what the nervy man means to do before they do anything. . . . IfI
did not show myself in the street, and here, the Hardman outfit would
soon run true to their deals. So by appearing to invite and seek a fight
I really avoid one.”
“So that’s why they call you Panhandle Smith?” queried the girl,
meditatively. “I mean with the tone old man Hardman used. They call
me Angel. But that doesn’t mean what it sounds, does it?”
“T can’t figure ‘you, Louise,” replied Pan dubiously.
“I’m glad you can’t.... Hello, there’s Blinky and his pard Gus.
What’re they up to?”
“They are looking pretty hard, but it can’t be for you and me. They
saw us long ago.”
“There! Hardman and Matthews, coming from behind the bar.
There’s a private office in behind. You can see the door. . . . Panhandle,
let me tell you Hardman seldom shows up here.”
Pan leisurely got to his feet. His eye quickly caught Matthews’ black
sombrero, then the big ham of a face, with its drooping mustache. Pan
could not see anyone with him until they got out from behind the
crowded bar. Then Pan perceived that Matthews’ companion was a
stout man, bearded, dressed like a prosperous rancher.
“Louise, is that man with Matthews the gentleman we have been
discussing?” asked Pan.
“That’s the rich fat bloated ,” replied the girl,
with eyes like a hawk. “You don’t talk straight, Panhandle.”
“I’m not quite so free as you are with bad language,” replied Pan,
smiling down on her. Then with deft movement he hitched his belt
round farther forward on his hip. It was careless, it might have been
accidental, but it was neither. And the girl grasped its meaning. She
turned white under her paint, and the eyes that searched Pan were just
then like any other woman’s.
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“Cowboy, what’re you going to do?” she whispered, reaching for him.
“T don’t know exactly. You can never tell how actions are going to
be taken. But I mean well.”
“Stop!” she called low after him. “You smiling devil!”
Pan moved leisurely in among the tables toward the bar and the two
men standing rather apart from the crowd. He maneuvered so that
Matthews’ roving glance fell upon him. Then Pan advanced straight.
He saw the sheriff start, then speak hurriedly to Hardman.
Pan halted within six feet of both men. He might never have seen
Jard Hardman so far as any recognition was concerned. He faced a man
of about fifty years of age, rather florid of complexion, well fed and
used to strong drink.
“Excuse me,” spoke Pan, with most consummate coolness, addressing
the shorter man. Apparently he did not see Matthews. “Are you Jard
Hardman?”
“Reckon I am, if that’s any of your business,” came a gruff reply.
Light, hard, speculative eyes took Pan in from head to feet.
“Do you recognize me?” asked Pan, in the same tone.
“No, Sir, I never saw you in my life,” retorted Hardman, his bearded
chin working up and down with the vehemence of his speech. And he
turned away.
Pan made a step. His long arm shot out, and his hand, striking hard
on Hardman’s shoulder, whirled him round.
“My name’s Smith,” called Pan, in vibrant loud voice that stilled the
room. “Panhandle Smith!”
“I don’t know you, Sir,” replied Hardman, aghast and amazed. He
began to redden. He turned to Matthews, as if in wonder that this in-
dividual permitted him to be thus affronted.
“Well, you knew my dad—to his loss,” declared Pan. “And that’s my
business with you.”
“You’ve no business with me,” fumed Hardman.
“Reckon you’re mistaken,” went on Pan, slowly and easily. “I’m Bill
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Smith’s boy. And I mean to have an accounting with you on that Texas
cattle deal.”
These deliberate words, heard by all within earshot, caused little less
than a deadlock throughout the room. The bartenders quit, the drinkers
poised glasses in the air, the voices suddenly hushed. Pan had an open
space behind him, a fact he was responsible for. He faced Matthews,
Hardman, and then the length of the bar. He left the gamblers behind
to Blinky and Gus, who stood to one side. Pan had invited an argument
with the owner of the Yellow Mine and his sheriff ally. Every westerner
in the room understood its meaning.
“You upstart cowpuncher!” presently shouted Hardman. “Get out of
here or I'll have you arrested.”
“Arrest me! What for? I’m only asking you for an honest deal. I
can prove you cheated my father out of cattle. You can’t arrest me for
that.”
Hardman guffawed boisterously. “Get out of here with your insolent
talk about cattle deals.”
“I won’t get out. You can’t put me out, even if you do own the
place.”
“VI—TM—” choked Hardman, his body leaping with rage, his face
growing purple under his beard. Then he turned to Matthews. “Throw
this drunken cowboy out.”
That focused attention upon the sheriff. Pan read in Matthews’ eyes
the very things he had suspected. And as he relaxed the mental and
muscular strain under which he had waited, he laughed in Matthews’
face.
“Bah! Hardman, you're backed by the wrong man. And at last you’ve
run into the wrong man. Haven’t you sense enough to see that? ...
You cheated my father. Now you’re going to make it good.”
Hardman, furious and imperious, never grasped the significance
that had frozen Matthews. He was thick, arrogant. He had long been
a power wherever he went. Yielding to rage he yelled at Pan.
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“Bill Smith sicked his cowpuncher on me, hey? Like father, like son!
You're a rustler breed. I'll drive you—”
Pan leaped like a tiger and struck Hardman a terrible blow in the
face. Like something thrown from a catapult he went into the crowd
next the bar, and despite this barrier and the hands grasping at his
flying arms he crashed to the floor. But before he fell Pan had leaped
back in the same position he had held in front of Matthews.
“He lied,” cried Pan. “My dad, Bill Smith, was as honest a cattleman
as ever lived. . . . Mr. Sheriff, do you share that slur cast on him?”
“I don’t know Bill Smith,” replied Matthews hastily. “Reckon I’m
not talkin’ agin men I don’t know. ... An’ as I’m not armed I can’t
argue with a gun-packin’ cowboy.”
Thus he saved his face with the majority of those present. But he
did have a gun. Pan knew that as well as if he had seen it. Matthews
was not the “even break” stripe of sheriff.
“Ah-huh!” ejaculated Pan sardonically. “All right. Then Ill be look-
ing for you to arrest me next time we meet.”
“T'll arrest you, Panhandle Smith, you can gamble on thet,” declared
Matthews harshly.
“Arrest nothing,” replied Pan with ringing scorn. “You're a four-flush
sheriff. I’ll gamble you elected yourself. I know your kind, Matthews.
And Ill gamble some more that you don’t last long in Marco.”
This was, as Pan deliberately intended, raw talk that any man not a
coward could not swallow. But Matthews was a coward. That appeared
patent to all onlookers, in their whispers and nodding heads. Whatever
prestige he had held there in that rough mining community was gone,
until he came out to face this fiery cowboy with a gun. White and
shaking he turned to the group of men who had gotten Hardman to
his feet. They led him out the open door and Matthews followed.
Pan strode back to the table where Louise sat tense and wide eyed.
The hum of voices began again, the clatter of glasses, the clink of coin.
_ The incident had passed.
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
“Well, little girl, I had them figured, didn’t I?” asked Pan, calling a
smile to break his tight cold face.
“I don’t—know what—ails me,” she said, breathlessly. “I see fights
every night. And I’ve seen men killed—dragged out. But this got my
nerve.”
“It wasn’t much to be excited about. I didn’t expect any fight.”
“Your idea was to show up Hardman and Matthews before the
crowd. You sure did. The crowd was with you. And so am I, Panhandle
Smith.” She held out a slim hand. “I’ve got to dance. Good night.”
[ 110 ]
CHAP TERSLEN
PAN’S exit from the Yellow Mine was remarkable for the generous
space accorded him by its occupants.
Outside he laughed a little, as he stood under the flare of yellow
light and rolled a cigarette. Knots of men stood on the corners of the
street. But the area in front of the saloon was significantly vacant.
“Now if Dad had only been there,” soliloquized Pan. “That might
have put some life in him.”
He sauntered down into the street, and as he went he heard the jangle
of spurs behind him. Blinky and Gus covering his rear! Presently, be-
yond the circle of yellow light, they joined him, one on each side.
“Wal, Pan, I was shore in on thet,” said Blink, gripping Pan’s arm.
“Say, you called ’em flat. Made ’em swaller a hell of a lot,” added Gus,
with a hard note in his voice. “When it come down to hard pan they
wasn’t there.”
“Pan, you remember me tellin’ you aboot Purcell, who jumped my
claim with young Hardman?” queried Blinky. “Wal, Purcell was there,
settin’ some tables back of where you made your stand. I seen him when
we first went in. Course everybody quit playin’ cards when you called
old Hardman. An’ I made it my particular biz to get close to Purcell.
He was pullin’ his gun under the table when I kicked him. An’ when
he looked up he seen somethin’, you can bet on thet. . . . Wal, Purcell
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
is one man in Hardman’s outfit we'll have to kill. . . . Gus will back
me up on thet.”
“I shore will. Purcell’s a Nevada claim jumper, accordin’ to talk.
Somebody hinted he belonged to thet Plummer gang thet was cleaned
out at Bannock years ago. He’s no spring chicken, thet’s shore.”
“Point Purcell out to me the first chance you get,” replied Pan. “Don’t
figure I expect to bluff everybody. It can’t be done. Somebody will try
me out—if only to see what I can do. That’s the game, you know.”
“Hell, yes. An’ all you got to do, Pan, is to be there first.”
“Reckon tomorrow will be shore interestin’,” remarked Gus.
“That girl Louise gave me a hunch,” said Pan thoughtfully. “Struck
me she was square.—Blink, you’ve talked to her, of course?”
“Me? ... Aw!—Couple of times. I reckon. Bought her drinks. ...
She won’t look at me unless she’s drunk,” replied Blink, both confused
and gloomy.
“You've got Louise figured wrong, cowboy,” returned Pan. “I'll prove
it to you sometime. . . . Now let’s get down to business, and plan
Blake’s release from jail. I want to lead the horse round about, so I
won't be seen by anybody.”
“Shore, thet’ll be easy,” replied Blinky. “I'll go with you. We can keep
to the slope a ways an’ then go down an’ come up on the other side of
town. No roads an’ no houses.”
They returned to camp, and replenishing the fire sat around it talking
of the wild-horse drive.
About ten o’clock Blinky went to the corral, saddled a horse, and led
him back to the tent. There they put on the blanket and saddlebags.
Blinky produced a gun he could spare, and then thoughtfully added
a small bag of grain for the horse.
“It’s darker’n the milltail of Hades,” announced Blinky, “an’ thet’s
good fer this kind of work. I'll go ahaid, pickin’ out the way, an’ you
lead the hoss.”
So they set out into the black night, working along the base of the
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slope. No stars showed, and the raw wind hinted of rain or snow. The
lights of the town shone dimly. Keen on the breeze floated the dis-
cordant music and revelry, from the Yellow Mine and other like dives,
in full blast.
Descending the slope required careful slow work. The incline was
steep, of soft earth and loose shale. But Blinky knew where to feel his
way, and eventually they reached the flat, to find easier progress. Blinky
made a detour, and finally, as they gradually approached several lamp-
lights, far apart, he whispered: “You wait heah. I ain’t so darn shore
which one of them lights comes from the jail.”
Pan waited what seemed a long while. At last he heard steps, then
made out an object blacker than the black background.
“Found the jail easy, but got off comin’ back. Pronto now. Must
be near eleven.”
Pan kept the dark silent moving form in sight. The dim light grew
larger. Then the low flat building loomed up faintly in the dense gloom.
“Go ahead,” whispered Blinky. “I'll hold the hoss.”
Pan went swiftly up to the wall, and thence along it to the corner.
The light came from an open door. He listened. There was no sound.
Luckily Hurd was alone. Pan slipped round the corner and entered.
Hurd sat at the table in the flare of a lamp, turned down low.
“Ha! Was waitin’ fer you, an’ beginnin’ to worry,” he said, in hoarse
whisper.
“Plenty of time, if Blake’s all ready,” replied Pan.
“I’m givin’ you a hunch. He’s damn queer fer a fellar who expects
to break jail.”
“No matter. Let’s get at it, pronto.”
Hurd got up, and laid his gun on the table. Then he turned over
the bench, threw papers on the floor. “Thar’s the key, an’ heah’s a rope.
Hawg-tie me.”
With that he turned his back. Swiftly Pan bound him securely, and
let him down upon the floor. Then he unlocked the door, opened it.
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
Pitch darkness inside and no sound! He called in low voice. Blake did
not reply. Muttering in surprise, Pan took the lamp and went into the
room. He found Blake asleep, though fully dressed. Pan jerked him
roughly out of that indifferent slumber.
“It’s Smith,” he said, bluntly. “You sure must want to get out....
Damn you, Blake, this whole deal looks fishy to me! . . . Come on.”
Leaving the lamp there, Pan dragged the man out, through the dark
entrance room, into the night. In another moment they had reached the
horse and Blinky.
“Here’s money and a gun,” whispered Pan, swiftly. “You'll find grub,
blanket, grain on your saddle. Get on!” Pan had to half lift Blake upon
the horse. He felt of the stirrups. “They’re all right . . . The road is
that way, about fifty yards. Turn to the left and ride. Remember,
Siccane.”
Blake rode away into the darkness without a word. Pan watched
and listened. Presently he heard the hard clip-clop of hoofs on the road,
making to the left.
“Good! He'll ride past where Lucy’s sleeping. I wish she could know,”
muttered Pan.
“Was he drunk?” queried Blinky, in a hoarse whisper. “Shore acted
funny fer a sober man.”
“He didn’t breathe like he was drunk,” replied Pan. “But he flabber-
gasted me. Found him asleep! And he never said a darned word...
Blink, it sticks in my craw. Reckon he didn’t want to leave that nice
warm bed.”
“Ahuh! Wal, let’s rustle back to our warm beds,” said the cowboy
gruffly.
Pan awakened during the latter part of the night. Rain was pattering
on the tent. The wind moaned. He thought of Blake, not clad for bad
weather and in unfit condition for a long ride, facing the storm. Even
then a vague doubt penetrated his drowsy mind.
[114]
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
Morning dawned bright and sparkling after the rain. The air was keen
and crisp. The cedars glistened as if decked with diamonds. Pan felt
the sweet scent of the damp dust, and it gave him a thrill and a longing
for the saddle and the open country.
“Wal, reckon this heah’ll be our busy day,” drawled Blinky, after
making a hearty breakfast of bacon and flapjacks. “Pan, what’s first
on the ticket?”
“Show me a horse, you bow-legged grub destroyer,” replied Pan
eagerly.
“Come out to the corral. We got a sorrel as is a real shore enough
hoss if you can ride him.”
There were a dozen or more horses in the corral. Pan, glancing over
them with appraising eye, decided the cowboys had not spoken of them
with the degree of satisfaction that they really merited.
“Fine string, Blinky,” said Pan, with glistening eyes. “Is that sorrel
the one I can’t ride?”
“Yep, thet’s him. Ain’t he a real hoss?”
“Best of the bunch, at first sight. Blinky, are you sure you’re not giving
me your own horse?”
“Me? I don’t care nothin’ aboot him,” declared Blinky, lying glibly.
“Shore he’s the orfullest pitchin’ son-of-a-gun I ever forked. But mebbe
you can ride him.”
It developed presently that Pan could ride the sorrel, and that Blinky
had done the horse a great injustice. How good to be back in the saddle!
Pan wanted to ride down at once to show Lucy his first mount west of
the Rockies. Indeed he was possessed of a strong yearning desire to
hurry to see Lucy, a feeling that he had to dispel. If all went well he
could go to his mother’s for dinner. Meanwhile he must meet the
exigencies here in Marco.
“Wal, what’s next on the ticket?” queried Blinky, who appeared to
be rather jerky this morning.
“I’m going downtown,” replied Pan.
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
“Ahuh! I want to trail along with you.”
“No, I'll go alone. I’ll make my bluff strong, Blinky, or draw Mat-
thews out. Honest, I don’t think he’ll show.”
“Thet yellow dawg? He won’t face you, Pan. But he’s in thet Hard-
man outfit, an’ one of them—mebbe Purcell—might take a shot at you
from a winder. It’s been done heah. Let me go with you.”
“Well, if they’re that low down your being with me wouldn’t help
much,” replied Pan, pondering the matter. “T’ll tell you, Blink. Here’s
how I figure. Marco is a pretty big place. It’s full of men. And western
men are much alike anywhere. Matthews is no fool. He couldn’t risk
murdering me in broad daylight, from ambush.”
“T’m not trustin’ him,” said Blinky, somberly. “But I admit the chances
are he won't do thet.”
“You and Gus pack up for the wild-horse drive,” went on.Pan briskly.
“We ought to get off in the morning. One of you ride out to see if
Charley Brown will throw in with us. Pll see Dad at dinner. He’ll need
horse and outfit. It may turn out we can get our jailer friend, Hurd.
Wonder if he lost his job... . Ha! Ha! Well, boys, I'll know more
when I see you again.”
Pan strolled down toward the town. A familiar unpleasant mental
strain dominated his consciousness. His slow, cool, easy nonchalance
was all outward. He had done this thing before, but that seemed long
ago. His father, Lucy, his mother, somehow made an immense dif-
ference between the cowboy reactions of long ago and this stern duty
he had set himself today. He hated what his actions meant, what might
well ensue from them, yet he was glad it was in him to meet the issue
in this way of the West.
By the time he had reached a point opposite the stage office all reflec-
tions had passed out of his mind to give place to something sinister.
His alert faculties of observation belied the leisurely manner of his
approach to the main street. He was a keen-strung, watching, listening
[ 116 |
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
machine. The lighting and smoking of a cigarette was mechanical pre-
tense—he did not want to smoke.
Two men stood in front of the stage office. One was Smith, the agent.
Pan approached them, leaned on the hitching rail. But he favored his
right side and he faced the street.
“Mornin’, cowboy,” Smith greeted him, not without nervousness. “See
you're down early to git arrested.”
“Howdy, Smith. Can you give me a drink?” returned Pan.
“Sorry, but I haven’t a drop.”
The other man was an old fellow, though evidently he was still
active, for his boots and clothes showed the stain and wear of mining,
“Tell you, cowboy,” he spoke up, dryly, “you might buy a bottle at the
Yellow Mine.”
Pan made no reply, and presently the old man shambled away while
Smith entered his office. Pan kept his vigil there, watching, waiting.
He was seen by dozens of passing men, but none of them crossed to-
ward the stage office. Down the street straggling pedestrians halted to
form little groups. In an hour the business of Marco had apparently
halted.
Its citizens, the miners who had started to work, the teamsters, Mexi-
cans, cowboys who happened upon the street, suddenly struck attitudes
of curious attention, with faces turned toward Pan. They too were
waiting, watching.
The porch of the Yellow Mine was in plain sight, standing out on a
corner, scarcely more than a hundred yards down the street. Pan saw
Hardman and Matthews come out of the hotel. They could not fail to
observe the quiet, the absence of movement, the waiting knots of men.
This was the climax of strain for Pan. Leisurely he strolled away
from the hitching rail, out into the middle of the street, and down. The
closer groups of watchers vanished.
Hardman could be seen gesticulating, stamping as if in rage; and
then he went into the hotel, leaving Matthews standing alone. Other
[ x17 ]
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
men, in the background disappeared. The sheriff stood a moment
irresolute, sagging, with his pale hamlike face gleaming. Then he
wheeled to enter the hotel.
He had damned himself. He had refused the even break, the man-to-
man, the unwritten edict of westerners.
Pan saw this evasion with grim relief. The next move was one easier
to perform, though fraught with great peril. Every man in Marco now
knew that Pan had come out to meet the men he had denounced. They
had been aware of his intention. They had seen him sauntering down
the middle of the street. And they had showed what the West called
yellow. But they had not showed their claws, if they had any. Pan could
well have ended his quest then and there. But to follow it up, to beard
the jackals in their den—that was the last word.
As Pan proceeded slowly down the middle of the street the little
groups of spectators disintegrated, and slipped out of sight into the stores
and saloons. Those farthest from him moved on to halt again. And when
any neared the Yellow Mine, they scurried completely out of sight. Pan
had the main street to himself. For a few moments not a single man
showed himself. Then they began to reappear behind him out of range,
slowly following him.
At the entrance to the Yellow Mine, Pan threw away his cigarette, and
mounted the steps. He was gambling his life on the code of the west-
erners. The big hall-like saloon was vacant except for the two bartenders
behind the bar, and a Mexican sweeping out the sawdust. Pan had heard
subdued voices, the shuffle of feet, the closing of doors. Every muscle
in his body was cramped with tension, ready to leap like lightning into
action. Advancing to the bar he called for a drink.
“On the house this mawnin’,” replied the nearest bartender, smiling.
He showed a little nervousness with his hands, otherwise he was com-
posed, and his offer to treat expressed his sentiment. Pan took the
bottle with his left hand, poured out some liquor, set the bottle down,
and lifted the glass. He had his drink. His tension relaxed.
Bice
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
“Sort of quiet this morning,” he said.
“Reckon it is, just now,” tepid the bartender, Suibebde
“Ts this Sunday?” went on Pan casually.
“No. Yestiddy was Sunday, so this must be Monday.”
“Reckon I might as well move along,” remarked Pan, but he did
not stir. The bartender went on cleaning glasses. Sounds of footsteps
came from outside. Presently Pan walked back through the open door,
then halted a moment, to light another cigarette. His back was turned
to the bar and the doors. That seemed the climax of his effrontery. It
was deliberate, the utter recklessness of the cowboy who had been trained
in a hard school. But all that happened was the silence breaking to a
gay wild sweet voice: “Call again, cowboy, when there’s somebody
home!”
Louise had been watching him through some secret peephole. That
had been her tribute to him and her scorn of his opponents. It about
closed the incident, Pan concluded. Men were now coming along the
street in both directions, though not yet close. Some wag yelled from
a distance: “Thar ain’t no sheriff, Panhandle.”
Pan retraced his steps up the street, finding, as before, a clear passage.
Men hailed him from doorways, from windows, from behind obstruc-
tions. He did not need to be told that they were with him. Marco had
been treated to precisely what it wanted. Pan was quick to grasp the
mood of these residents who had been so keen about his endeavor to
draw out Hardman and Matthews. That hour saw the beginning of
the end for these dominant factors in the evil doings of Marco. What
deep gratification it afforded Pan! They might thrive for a time, but
their heyday had passed. Matthews would be the laughing stock of the
town. He could never retrieve. He had been proclaimed only another in
the long list of self-appointed officers of the law.
By the time Pan got back to camp his mood actually harmonized with
his leisurely, free and careless movements. Still he was hiding some-
thing, for he wanted to yell. Blinky saw him coming and yelled for him.
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
The cowboy was beside himself with a frenzy of delight. It had been
hard for him to stay there in camp. He cursed radiantly.
“How’s the pack job? All done?” queried Pan, when he could get a
word in.
“Pack hell! We plumb forgot,” replied Blinky. “What you think—
you—you—”
Blinky failed to find adequate words to express his sentiments. Gus
was quiet as usual, but he too showed relaxation from a severe ordeal.
“Well, let’s get at it now,” suggested Pan. “I'll start you boys on it,
then ride down to Mother’s.”
In the succeeding hour, leading to noon, what with sundry trips down
to the store, the trio learned some news that afforded much satisfaction.
Jim Blake had assaulted a guard and broken jail. No doubt he must have
had outside assistance. According to rumor Matthews accused Hurd,
the guard, of being party to the escape, and had discharged him. Senti-
ment in town was not equally divided. Most everybody, according to
the informers, was glad Blake had escaped. It developed that the jail
was not a civic institution. Already there had been talk of the permanent
citizens getting together.
All this was exceedingly welcome to Pan. He could hardly wait till
noon to saddle the sorrel, to ride over to his mother’s.
“Aw, cowboy, hug thet gurl fer me!” sang Blinky, with ecstatic up-
ward gaze. “Shore she’s put the devil in you. An’ this heah outfit is
steppin’ high!”
On the way out to the farm, halfway beyond the outskirts of town,
Pan met his father rushing up the road. At sight of Pan he almost
collapsed.
“Just—heard—the news,” he panted, as Pan reined in the sorrel.
“What news, Dad?” queried Pan, gazing down with both thrill and
anxiety at that haggard face, slowly warming out of its havoc.
“Bill Dolan an’ his—boys—stopped at the ranch to—tell me,” replied
?
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
Smith, wiping his clammy face. “They just left town. ... . Bill saw
you take that walk down main street.”
“Well, what’s that to be all set up about?”
“Reckon I was scared wild . . . Bill says to me, ‘Bill, you oughtn’t
show yellow like thet. You shore don’t savvy thet boy of yours.’ ... I
thought I did, son, but when it come to a showdown I was chicken-
hearted. Your comin’ home was a Godsend to Mother an’ Lucy. An
more to me! Then to think you might get shot right off... . Wal, it
was too much for my stomach.”
“Dad, I bluffed them—that’s all. I braced them quick and hard, before
they could figure. It worked, and I believe I got most of the town with
me.”
“Pan, is it true that you accused Jard Hardman of robbin’ me—
an’ you knocked him flat?”
“Sure it’s true.”
“Lord, but I'd like to have seen that,” declared Smith vehemently.
“An’ son, you got Jim Blake out of jail. Bill didn’t hint you had anythin’
to do with that. But I knew. It was sure great. If only Jim does his part!”
“You doubt that, Dad?”
“Shore do. But I'll tell you, Pan. If we could be with Jim all the time
we could pull him up.”
“Let’s hope he’s far on the way to Siccane by now. . . . Does Lucy
know? I hope you didn’t tell her about my meeting with Hardman
and Matthews?”
“I didn’t. But Bill shore did,” replied his father. “Reckon I would have
squealed, though. Mother an’ Lucy have a lot more nerve than me. Fact
is, though, Bill didn’t give em time to go to pieces. He just busted out
with news of Blake’s escape. Say, boy, you should have seen Lucy.”
“I will see her pronto,” replied Pan eagerly. “Come on. What’re you
holding me up for, anyhow?”
Pan walked the horse while his father kept pace alongside.
Loan, |
>
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
“Some more news I most forgot,” Smith went on. “Bill told about a
shootin’ scrape out in Cedar Gulch. Them claim jumpers drove a miner
named Brown off his claim. They had to fight for it. Brown said he
wounded one of ’em. They chased him clean to Satlee’s ranch. Shore
wanted to kill him or scare him off for good.”
“I know Brown,” replied Pan. “And from what he told me I’ve a
hunch I know the claim jumpers.”
“Wal, that’d be hard to prove. In the early days of a minin’ boom
there’s a lot of trouble. A miner is a crazy fellar often. He'll dig a hole,
then move on to dig another. Then if some other prospector comes along
to find gold on his last diggin’s he yells claim jumpin’. As a matter of
fact most of them haven’t a real claim till they find gold. An’ all that
makes the trouble.”
“Tl hunt Brown up and persuade him to make the wild-horse drive
with us. He’s—”
“By George, I forgot some more,” interrupted Smith, slapping his leg.
“Bill said Wiggate broke with Jard Hardman. Wiggate started this
wild-hoss buyin’ an’ shippin’ east. Hardman had to get his finger in the
pie. Now Wiggate is a big man an’ he has plenty of money. I always
heard him well spoken of. Now I'll gamble your callin’ Jard Hardman
the way you did had a lot to do with Wiggate’s break with him.”
“Shouldn’t wonder,” rejoined Pan. “And it’s darned good luck for
us. The boys ran across a valley full of wild horses over here about
twenty miles. Dad, I believe I can trap several thousand wild horses.”
“No!” ejaculated his father, incredulously.
“If the boys aren’t loco, I sure can,” declared Pan positively.
“I can vouch for numbers myself,” replied Smith. “An’ I’ve not a doubt
in the world but that there valley’s not yet hunted. But to ketch the
darned scooters, that’s the hell of it! Pan, even a thousand head would
give me a new start somewhere.”
“It’s as good as done. Before the snow flies we will be on the way south
to Siccane.”
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“Lord! I’m a younger man than I was a few days ago. Before the snow
flies? That’s hardly another month. Pan, how’ll we travel?”
“Wagons and horseback. We can buy wagon outfits for next to
nothing. There’s a corral full of them at Black’s. Second hand, but good
enough.”
“Mother an’ Lucy will be glad. They hate this country. I don’t mind
wind if it’s not too cold.”
“There! Isn’t that Lucy at the gate now?” suddenly queried Pan, with
piercing gaze ahead.
“Reckon it is,” replied his father. “Ride ahead, son. I’ll take my time.”
Pan urged the sorrel into a lope, then a gallop, and from that to a
run. In just a few rods Pan took the measure of this splendid horse.
Swift, strong, sure footed and easy gaited, and betraying no sign of a
mean spirit, the sorrel won Pan. What a liar Blinky was! He had lied
to be generous.
Lucy waved to Pan as he came clattering down the road. Then she
disappeared in the green foliage. Arriving at the gate he dismounted
and went in. He expected to see her. But she had disappeared. Leading
his horse he hurried in toward the house, looking everywhere. The girl,
however, was not to be seen.
Bobby was occupied with little wooden playthings on the porch.
Pan’s gay shout to him brought forth his mother, but no Lucy.
He dropped his bridle, and mounted the porch to embrace his
mother, who met him with suppressed emotions. Her hands were more
expressive than her words.
“Oh, I’m all here, Moher he Gacted: “Where’s Lucy? She was at
the gate. Waved to me.”
“Lucy ran through the house like a whirlwind,” replied his mother,
with a smile. “The truth is, my son, she has been quite beside herself
since she heard of her father’s release from jail. She knew you got him
out. She stared at me with her eyes black and wide. ‘Mother, he laughed
at me—at my fears. He said it’d be easy to free Dad.’ . . . So she knows,
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Pan, and I rather think she didn’t want us to see her when she meets
you. You'll find her in the orchard or down by the brook.”
“All right, Mother, I'll find her,” replied Pan happily. “We'll be in
to dinner pronto. There’s a lot to talk about. Dad will tell you.”
Pan did not seek Lucy in the orchard. Leaping upon the sorrel he
loped down the sandy hard-packed path toward the brook and the shady
tree with its bench. Pan knew she would be there. Dodging the over-
hanging branches he kept peering through the aisles of green for a
glimpse of white or a golden head. Suddenly he was rewarded. Lucy
stood in the middle of the sunny glade.
Pan rode to her side and leaped from the saddle. Her face was pale,
and wet with tears. But her eyes were now dry, wide and purple, radiant
with unutterable gladness. She rushed into his arms.
Dinner that day appeared to be something only Bobby and Pan had
thought or need of. Mrs. Smith and Lucy, learning they might have to
leave in two weeks, surely in four, became so deeply involved in discus-
sion of practical details of preparation, of food supplies for a long wagon
trip, of sewing and packing, that they did not indulge in the expression
of their joy.
“Dad is hopeless,” said Pan, with a grin. “He’s worse than a kid.
I'll have to pack his outfit, if he has anything. What he hasn’t got, we'll
buy. So, Mother, you trot out his clothes, boots, some bedding, a gun,
chaps, spurs, everything there is, and let me pick what’s worth taking.”
It was indeed a scant and sad array of articles that Pan had to choose
from.
“No saddle, no tarp, no chaps, no spurs, no gun!” ejaculated Pan,
scratching his head. “Poor Dad! I begin to have a hunch how he felt.”
It developed that all his father possessed made a small bundle that
Pan could easily carry into town on his saddle.
“We'll buy Dad’s outfit,” said Pan briskly. “Mother, here’s some
money. Use it for what you need. Work now, you and Lucy. You see
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‘ve want to get out of Marco pronto. The very day Dad and I get back
with the horses. Maybe we can sell the horses out there. I’d take less
money. It’ll be a big job driving a bunch of wild horses in to Marco.
Anyway, we'll leave here pronto.”
To Lucy he bade a fond but not anxious good-by. “We won’t be away
Jong. And you'll be busy. Don’t go into town! Not on any account. Send
Alice. Or Mother can go when necessary. But you stay home.”
“Very well, boss, I promise,” replied Lucy roguishly.
[ 125 ]
CHAPTER ELEVEN
BEFORE dark that night Pan had most of his preparations made, so
that next morning there would be nothing to do but eat, pack the horses,
saddle up and ride.
At suppertime Charley Brown and Mac New, alias Hurd, called at
the camp. The latter was a little the worse for the bottle. Charley was
sober, hard, gloomy.
“Howdy, boys. Help yourself to chuck. Then we'll talk,” said Pan.
The outcome of that visit was the hiring of both men to go on the
wild-horse drive. Brown’s claim had been jumped by strangers. It could
not be gotten back without a fight. Brown had two horses and a complete
outfit; Mac New had only the clothes on his back.
“Fired me ’thout payin’ my wages,” he said, sullenly.
“Who fired you, Mac?” inquired Pan.
“Hardman, the !” replied Mac New.
“Well! That’s strange. Does he own the jail?”
“Huh! Hardman owns this heah whole damn burg.”
“Nix,” spoke up Blinky. “Don’t fool yourself there, pardner. Jard
Hardman has a long string on Marco, I'll admit, but somebody’s goin’
to cut it.”
Brown had an interesting account to give of his meeting with Dick
Hardman down at Yellow Mine. The young scion of the would-be
dictator of Marco fortunes had been drunk enough to rave about what
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he would do to Panhandle Smith. Some of his maudlin threats, as
related by Brown, caused a good deal of merriment in camp, except to
Blinky, who grew perfectly furious.
“Hey, cowboy, are you goin’ to stand fer thet?” he queried, bel-
ligerently.
Pan tried to laugh it off, but Blinky manifestly had seen red at the
mention of Dick Hardman’s name. He was going over to the Yellow
Mine and pick a fight. Pan, finding Blinky stubborn and strange, adopted
other tactics. Drawing the irate cowboy aside he inquired kindly and
firmly: “It’s because of Louise?”
“What’s because?” returned Blinky, blusteringly.
“That you want to pick a fight with Dick?”
“Naw,” replied Blinky, averting his face.
“Don’t you lie to me, Blinky,” went on Pan earnestly, shaking the
cowboy. “I’ve guessed your trouble and I’m your friend.”
“Wal, Pan, I’m darn glad an’ lucky if you’re my friend,” said Blinky,
won out of his sullenness. “But what trouble are you hintin’ aboot?”
Pan whispered: “You're in love with Louise.”
“What if Iam?” hissed Blinky, in fierce shame. “Are you holdin’ thet
agin me?”
“No, I’m damned if I don’t like you better for it.”
That was too much for Blinky. He gazed mutely up at Pan, as a dog
at his master. Pan never saw such eyes of misery.
“Blinky, that girl is wicked,” went on Pan. “She’s full of hellfire. But
that’s only the drink. She couldn’t carry on that life without being drunk.
She told me so. There’s something great about that little girl. I felt it,
Blink. I liked her. I told her she didn’t belong there. I believe she could
be made a good woman. Why don’t you try it? I'll help you. She likes
you. She told me that, too.”
“But Louise won’t ever see me unless she’s drunk,” protested Blinky
sorrowfully.
“That’s proof. She doesn’t want you wasting your time and money at
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the Yellow Mine. She thinks you’re too good for that—when she’s sober.
... Talk straight now, Blink. You do love her, bad as she is?”
“So help me I do!” burst out the cowboy abjectly. “It’s purty near
killed me. The more I see of her the more I care. I’m so sorry fer her I
cain’t stand it... . Dick Hardman fetched her out heah from Frisco.
Aw! She must have been bad before thet, I know. But she wasn’t low
down. Thet dive has done it. Wal, he never cared nothin’ fer her an’ she
hates him. She swears she’ll cut his heart out. An’ I’m afraid she'll do it.
Thet’s why I'd like to stick a gun into his belly.”
“Marry Louise. Take her away. Come south with us to Arizona,”
replied Pan persuasively.
“My Gawd, pardner, you’re too swift fer me,” whispered Blinky
huskily, and he clutched Pan. “Would you let us go with you?”
“Sure. Why not? Lucy and my mother know nothing about Louise.
Even if they did they wouldn’t despise a poor girl you and I believe is
good at heart and has been unfortunate. I’d rather not tell them, but I
wouldn’t be afraid to.”
“But Louise won’t marry me.”
“If we can’t talk her into it when she’s sober, by heaven we'll get her
drunk. . . . Now Blink, it’s settled. Let’s stay away from there tonight.
Forget it. We'll go out and do the hard riding stunt of our lives. We'll
sell horses. With some money we can figure on homes far from this bitter
country—homes, cowboy, do you savvy that? With cattle and horses—
some fine open grassy rolling country—where nobody ever heard of
Blinky Moran and Panhandle Smith.”
“Pard, it ain’t—my—right name, either,” mumbled Blinky, leaning
against Pan. He was crying.
“No difference,” replied Pan, holding the boy tight a moment. “Brace
up, now, Blink. It’s all settled. Go to bed now, I'll help Gus with the
horses.” |
Pan left the cowboy there in the darkness, and returned to camp.
His conscience questioned him, but he had only satisfaction, even glad-
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ness in reply. Blinky had been one of the wild cowboys, and had been
going from bad to worse. If an overpowering love gripped him, a yield-
ing to it in a right way might make a better man of him. Pan could
not see anything else. He had known more than one good-for-nothing
cowboy, drinking and gambling himself straight to hell, who had fooled
his detractors and had taken the narrow trail for a woman others deemed
worthless. There was something about this kind of fight that appealed to
Pan. As for the girl, Louise Melliss, and her reaction to such a desperate
climax, Pan had only his strange faith that it might create a revolution
in her soul. At least he was. absolutely sure she would never return to
such a life, and she was young.
Pan sought his blankets very late, and it seemed he scarcely had closed
his eyes when Juan called him. It was pitch dark outside. The boys
were stirring, the horses pounding, the campfire crackling. He pulled on
his boots with a will. Glad he was to return to the life of camps, horses,
cold dawns, hard fare and hard riding. He smelled the frying ham,
the steaming coffee.
“Mawnin’, pardner,” drawled Blinky. “Shore thought you was daid.
Grab a pan of grub heah. . . . An’ say, cowboy, from now on you can
call me Somers—Frank Somers. I’m proud of the name, but I reckon it
was ashamed of me.”
“Ah-huh! All right, Blink Somers,” replied Pan cheerfully. “You'll
always be Blink to me.”
They ate standing and sitting before the campfire, in the chill black-
ness just beginning to turn gray. Then swift hands and lean strong arms
went at beds and packs, horses and saddles. When dawn broke the
hunters were on their way, far up the cedar slope.
Pan gazed back and down upon Marco, a ragged one-street town of
motley appearance, its white tents, its adobe huts, its stone buildings, and
high board fronts, mute and still in the morning grayness. What greed,
what raw wild life slept there!
Far beyond the town he saw the green-patched farm, the little gray
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cabin where his mother and Lucy slept, no doubt dreaming of the hopes
he had fostered in them. Some doubt, some fear, intangible and inex-
plicable, passed over him as he looked. Would all be well with Lucy?
There was indeed much to be feared, and he could never give happiness
full rein until he had her safe away from Marco.
Once out of sight of the town Pan forced himself to the job ahead.
And as always, to ride a good-gaited horse with open country ahead
lulled his mind into content.
Blinky was first, leading a pack horse. Pan followed next, and the
other four men strung out behind, with bobbing pack horses between.
This ridge was the high ground between Marco Valley and Hot Springs
Valley. Soon the trail led down, and it was dusty. The rising sun killed
the chill in the air, and by the time the hunters had reached level
ground again it was hot. There was alkali dust to breathe, always an
abomination. From above, Pan had espied a green spot fifteen miles or
more down the valley. A number of dust devils were whirling around it.
“What’s that, Blink?” Pan had asked, pointing.
“Thet’s Hot Springs, an’ the dust comes from wild hosses comin’ in
to drink.”
They rode across the valley, which appeared to be five or six miles
wide, to begin ascending another slope. The pack horses lagged and had
to be driven. Up and up the hunters climbed, once more into the cedars.
Pan had another view of Hot Springs and the droves of wild horses. He
was surprised at their numbers.
“Blink, there must be lots of horses water there.”
“Yep. Three thousand or more at this time of year. Many more later,
when the droves get run out of the high country by man. An’ you see
Hardman’s outfit has been chasin’ them hosses fer two months. They’re
shore purty well boggered.”
“Are many of them branded?”
“Darn few,” replied Blinky. “Not more’n five or six in a hundred. The
Mexicans call them Arenajos. These wild hosses haven’t been worth
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ketchin’ until lately. Most all broomtails. But now an’ then you shore
see a bunch of dandy mustangs, with a high-steppin’ stallion.”
“Ah, now, cowboy, you're talking,” declared Pan. “You’re singing
to me. It’ll be darn hard for me to sell horses like that.”
“Pard, I reckon we won’t sell ’em,” replied Blinky. “Cain’t we use a
few strings of real hosses down there in Arizonie?”
“T should smile,” replied Pan.
They climbed and crossed that ridge, which could have been called
a foothill if there had been any mountains near. Another valley, narrow
and rough, not so low as the last, lay between this ridge and the next one,
a cedared rise of rock and yellow earth that promised hard going.
Beyond it rose the range of mountains, black and purple, and higher
still, white peaked into the blue. They called to Pan. This was wild
country, and even to see it in the distance was all satisfying.
This narrow valley also showed some wild-horse bands, but not many,
for there appeared to be scant grass and water. These horses were
going or coming, all on a trot, but when they sighted the hunters they
would halt stock-still. Soon a stallion trotted out a hundred paces or
more, snorted and whistled, then taking to his heels he led his band
away in a cloud of dust. Some of these bands would run a long way;
others would halt soon to look back.
The water which they had come to drink was not very good, accord-
ing to Pan’s taste. His sorrel did not like it. This was Pan’s first experi-
ence with hot alkali water. It came out almost boiling, too hot to drink,
but a few rods from the spring it cooled off.
The spring was surrounded by low trees still green, though many of
the leaves had turned yellow. While the hunters watered there, Pan
espied another herd of wild horses that trooped in below, and drank
from the stream. He counted ten horses, mostly blacks and bays. The
leader was a buckskin, and Pan would not have minded owning him.
The others were not bad looking, of fair size, weighing around a thou-
sand pounds, but they showed inbreeding. After they had drunk their
[brgrt]
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
fill they pawed the mud and rolled in the water, to come up most
unsightly beasts. Pan let out a loud yell. Swift as antelopes the horses
swept away.
“Shore they left there!” drawled Blinky. Then talking to his own
horse, which he slapped with his sombrero, he said: “Now you smelled
them broomies, didn’t you? Want to run right off an’ turn wild, huh?
Wal, I'll shore keep a durn sharp eye on you, an’ hobble you too.”
All the saddle horses, and even some of the pack animals, were
affected by the scent of the wild herd. Freedom still lived deep down
in their hearts. That was why a broken horse, no matter how gentle,
became the wildest of the wild when he got free.
Pan had been right in his judgment of the lay of the land on the next
ridge. Climbing it was difficult.
“When we ketch the wild hosses we can drive them down the valley
an’ round to the road,” said Blinky, evidently by way of excuse. “It'll
be longer, but easy travelin’, Shore we couldn’t drive any broomtails
heah.”
The summit of this ridge was covered with pifions and cedars, grow-
ing in heavy clumps around outcropping of ledges. Pan espied the blue
flash of deer, through the gray and green. Deer sign was plentiful, a fact
he observed with pleasure, for he liked venison better than beef.
It was rather a wide-topped ridge, and not until Pan had reached an
open break on the far side could he see what kind of country lay
beyond.
“Wal, there she is, my wild hoss valley,” said Blinky, who sat his
horse alongside of Pan. “An’ by golly, thet’s the name for her—Wild
Hoss Valley. Hey, pard?”
Pan nodded his acquiescence. In truth he had been rendered quite
speechless by the wildness and beauty of the scene below and beyond
him. A valley that had some of the characteristics of a canyon yawned
beneath, so deep and wide that it appeared like a blue lake, so long that
he could only see the north end, which notched under a rugged mountain
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slope, green and black and golden and white according to the successive
steps toward the heights.
The height upon which he stood was the last of the ridges, for the
elevation that lay directly across was a noble range of foothills, timbered,
canyoned, apparently insurmountable for horses. Gray cliffs stood out
of the green, crags of yellow rock mounted like castles.
But it was the blue floor of the valley that longest held Pan’s enrap-
tured gaze. It looked level, though to an experienced eye that was
deceitful. Grass and sage! What were the innumerable colored rocks
or bushes or dots that covered the whole floor of the valley? Pan
wondered. Then he did not need to ask. They were wild horses!
“Aw, Blink! This’ll be hard to leave!” he expostulated, as if his friend
were to blame for this unexpected and bewildering spectacle.
“You bet your sweet life it will,” agreed Blinky. “But we cain’t hang
up heah, moon eyed an’ ravin’. We're holdin’ up the outfit an’ it’s a
long way down to water.”
“Have you picked out a place where we'll be away—out of sight?”
queried Pan quickly.
“Wal, pard, I’m no wild hoss wrangler like you say you are, but I’ve
got hoss sense,” drawled Blinky, as he urged his animal back into the
yellow trail.
Pan dismounted to walk, a habit he had always conformed to on
steep trails, when his horse needed freeing of a burden, and his own legs
were the better for action. At times he got a glimpse of the valley through
a hole in the trees, but for the most part he could not see downward at all.
Then he gazed across the open gulf to the mountains. These were not
like the Rockies he knew so well by sight, the great white-crowned sky-
piercing peaks of Montana. These belonged more to the desert, were
wilder, with more color, not so lofty, and as ragged as jagged rock and
fringed timber could make them. Gradually, as he descended the trail,
this range dropped back out of his sight.
At near the sunset hour, when the journey was ended, Pan had to
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compliment Blinky on the beautiful place to which he had guided them.
It was isolated, and singularly fitted to their requirements. The slope
they had descended ran out into an immense buttress jutting far into
the valley. A low brushy arm of the incline extended out a half mile to
turn toward the main slope and to break off short, leaving a narrow
opening out into the valley. The place was not only ideal for a hidden
camp site, with plenty of water, grass, wood, but also for such a wild-
horse trap as Pan had in mind. What astonished Pan was that manifestly
Blinky had not seen the possibilities of this peculiar formation of slope
as a trap into which wild horses could be chased.
“How wide is that gap?” asked Pan.
“Reckon it cain’t be more’n the length of two lassoes,” replied Blinky.
“Rope it off high, boys, and turn the stock loose. This corral was
made for us,” said Pan, enthusiastically.
They set to work, each with self-assumed tasks that soon accom-
plished the whole business of pitching camp. Suppertime found them
a cheerful, hungry, hopeful little band. Pan’s optimism dominated them.
He believed in his luck, and they believed in him.
Dusk settled down into this neck of the great valley. Coyotes barked
out in the open. From the heights pealed down the mournful blood-
curdling, yet beautiful, bay of a wolf. The rosy afterglow of sunset
lingered a long time. The place was shut in, closed about by brushy
steeps, redolent of sage. A tiny stream of swift water sang faintly down
over rocks. And before darkness had time to enfold hollow and slope
and horizon, the moon slid up to defeat the encroaching night and
blanch the hills with silvery light.
Interrogation by Pan brought out the fact that Blinky had never
been down this trail at all. It was only a wild horse trail anyway. Blinky
had viewed the country from the heights above, and this marvelously
secluded arm of the valley had been as unknown to him as to Pan.
“Luck!” burst out Pan when the circumstance became clear. “Say,
Blink, if your horse would jump you off a cliff you’d come up with
Queen Victoria on your arm!”
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Lying Juan sometimes broke into the conversation, very often by reason
of his defective hearing and his appalling habit of falsehood, bringing
his companions to the verge of bysterics.
“Yes, yes, I was over to her place two, tree times,” began Juan,
brightening with each word. “I drive en to many horse to her ranch. You
bet I sell some damn good horse to Queen Victorie. I can tell you myself
Queen Victorie is a fine little woman I ever seen on my life. She make
big a dance for me when I never seen so much supper on my life. I dance
with her myself an’ she ata me an’ say, ‘Juanie, I never dance lika this
en my life till I dance with you,’ yes, that’s sure what she tell me to my
own face an’ eyes.”
Pan was the only one of Juan’s listeners who had power of speech
left, and he asked: “Juan, did you play any monte or poker with the
queen?”
“You bet. She playa best game of poker I ever seen on my life an’ she
won tree hunred dollars from me.”
Whereupon Pan succumbed to the riotous mirth. This laughter tickled
Lying Juan’s supreme vanity. He was a veritable child in mentality,
though he spoke English better than most Mexican laborers. Blinky was
the only one who ever tried to match wits with Lying Juan.
“Juan thet shore reminds me of somethin’,” began Blinky impressively.
“Yea, hit shore does. Onct I almost got hitched up with Victorie. I was
sort of figgerin’ on marryin’ her, but she got leary o’ my little desert
farm back in Missourie. She got sorter skeered 0’ coyotes an’ Injins.
Now, | ain’t got no use fer a woman like her an’ thet’s why me an’
Queen Victorie ain’t no longer friends.”
Most of the talk, however, invariably switched back to the burning
question of the hour—wild horses. Pan had to attempt to answer a
hundred queries, many of which were not explicit to his companions or
satisfactory to himself. Finally he lost patience.
“Say, you long-eared jackasses,” he exploded. “T tell you it all depends
on the lay of the land. I mean the success of a big drive. If round the
corner here there’s good running ground—well, it'll be great for us.
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We'll look the ground over and size up the valley for horses. Find
where they water and graze. If we decide to use this place as a trap to
drive into we'll throw up two blind corrals just inside that gateway out
there. Then we’ll throw a fence of cedars as far across the valley as we
can drag cedars. The farther the better. It’ll have to be a fence too thick
and high for horses to break through or jump over. That means work,
my buckaroos, work! When that’s done we'll go up the valley, get
behind the wild horses and drive them down.”
Loud indeed were the commendations showered upon Pan’s plan.
Blinky, who alone had not voiced his approval, cast an admiring eye
upon Pan.
“Shore I’ve got dobe mud in my haid fer brains,” he said, with
disgust. “Simple as apple pie, an’ I never onct thought of ketchin’ wild
hosses thet a way.”
“Blink, that’s because you never figured on a wholesale catch,” replied
Pan. “Moonshining wild horses, as you called it, and roping, and
creasing with a rifle bullet, never answered for numbers. It wouldn’t
pay us to try those methods. We want at least a thousand head in one
drive.”
“Aw! Aw! Pan, don’t work my hopes to believin’ thet,” implored
Blinky, throwing up his hands.
“Son, I’m cryin’ for mercy too,” added Pan’s father. “An’ I’m goin’ to
turn in on that one.”
Lying Juan, either from design or accident, found this an admirable
opening.
“My father was big Don in Mexico. He hada tree tousand vacqueros
on our rancho. We chase wild horse many days, more horse than I
ever see on my life. I helpa lass more horse than I ever see on my life. I
make tree tousand peso by my father’s rancho.”
“Juan, I pass,” declared Pan. “You’ve got: my hand beat. Boys, let’s
unroll the tarps. It has been a sure enough riding day.”
[ 136 |
GHAPTERaTWELYV E
PAN’S father was an early riser, and next morning he routed everybody
out before the clear white morning star had gone down in the velvet
blue sky.
Before breakfast, while the others were wrangling horses, packing
wood and water, he climbed the steep end of the bluff between camp
and the valley. Upon his return he was so excited over the number of
wild horses which he claimed to have seen that Pan feared he had fallen
victim to Lying Juan’s malady.
“I hope Dad’s not loco,” said Pan. “But our luck is running heavy.
Let’s play it for all we’re worth. I'll climb that bluff, too, and see for
myself. Then we'll ride out into the valley, get the lay of the land,
and find the best place for our trap.”
Blinky accompanied Pan to the ridge which they climbed at a point
opposite camp. Probably it was four or five hundred feet high, and
provided a splendid prospect of the valley. Pan could scarcely believe
his eyes. He saw wild horses—so many that for the time being he forgot
the other important details. He counted thirty bands in a section of the
valley no more than fifteen miles long and less than half as wide. These
were individual bands, keeping to themselves, each undoubtedly having
a leader.
Blinky swore lustily in his enthusiasm, evidently thinking of the
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
money thus represented. “ who'd ever think of these
heah broomies turnin’ into a gold mine?” he ended his tribute to the
scene.
But to Pan it meant much more than fortune; indeed at first he had
no mercenary thought whatsoever. Horses had been the passion of his
life. Cattle had been only beef, hoofs, horns to him. Horses he loved.
Naturally then wild horses would appeal to him with more thrill and
transport than those that acknowledged the mastery of man.
Cowboys were of an infinite variety of types, yet they all fell under
two classes: Those who were brutal with horses and those who were
gentle. The bronco, the outlaw, the wild horse had to be broken to be
ridden. Many of them hated the saddle, the bit, the rider, and would not
tolerate them except when mastered. These horses had to be hurt to be
subdued. Then there were cowboys, great horsemen, who never wanted
any kind of a horse save one that would kick, bite, pitch. It was a kind
of cowboy vanity. Panhandle Smith did not have it. He had broken
bad horses and he had ridden outlaws, but because of his humanity
he was not so great a horseman as he might have been. In almost every
outfit where Pan had worked there had always been one cowboy, some-
times more, who could beat him riding.
Because of this genuine love for horses, the beautiful wild-horse
panorama beneath Pan swelled his heart. He gazed and gazed. From
near to far the bands dotted the green-gray valley. Far away this valley
floor shaded into blue. Near at hand the colors were easily distinguish-
able. Blacks and bays, whites and chestnuts, pintos that resembled
zebras dotted this wild pasture land. The closest band to where Pan and
Blinky stood could not have been more than a mile distant, in a straight
line. A shiny black stallion was the leader of this herd. He was acting
strangely, too, trotting forward and halting, tossing his head and long
black mane. .
“Stallion!” exclaimed Pan, pointing. “What a jim-dandy horse! Blink,
he has spotted us, sure as you’re born. Talk about eyesight!”
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“Wal, the broomtailed son-of-a-bronc!” drawled Blinky, tapping a
cigarette against his palm. “Reckon, by gosh, you’re correct.”
“Blink, that’s a wild stallion—a wonderful horse. I’ll bet he’s game
and fast,” protested Pan.
“Wal, you're safe to gamble on his bein’ fast, anyways.”
“Didn’t you ever really care for a horse?” queried Pan.
“Me? Hell no! I’ve been kicked in the stummick—bit on the ear—
piled onto the mud—drug in the dust too darn often.”
“You'll admit, though, that there are some fine horses among these?”
asked Pan earnestly.
“Wal, Pan, to stop kiddin’ you, now an’ then a fellar sees a real hoss
among them broomies. But shore them boys are the hard ones to
ketch.”
The last of Blinky’s remark forced Pan’s observation upon the car-
dinally important point—the lay of the land. A million wild horses in
sight would be of no marketable value if they could not be trapped. So
he bent his keen gaze here and there, up and down the valley, across
to the far side, and upon the steep wall near by.
“Blink, see that deep wash running down the valley? It looks a good
deal closer to the far side. That’s a break in the valley floor all right.
It may be a wonderful help to us, and it may ruin our chances.”
“Reckon we cain’t tell much from heah. Thet’s where the water runs,
when there is any. Bet it’s plumb dry now.”
“We'll ride out presently and see. But I’m almost sure it’s a deep wide
wash, with steep walls. Impassable! And by golly, if that’s so—you’re
a rich cowboy.”
“Haw! Haw! Gosh, the way you sling words around.”
“Now let’s work along this ridge, down to the point where Dad went.
Wasn't he funny?”
“He’s shore full of ginger. Wal, I reckon he’s perked up since you
come.”
Brush and cactus, jumbles of sharp rocks, thickets of scrub oak and
clumps of dwarf cedars, all matted along the narrow hog-back, as
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Blinky called it, made progress slow and tedious. No cowboy ever
climbed and walked so well as he rode. At length, however, Pan and
Blinky arrived at the extreme end of the capelike bluff. It stood higher
than their first lookout.
Pan, who arrived at a vantage point ahead of Blinky, let out a sten-
torian yell. Whereupon his companion came running.
“Hey, what’s eatin’ you?” he panted. “Rattlesnakes or wild hosses?”
“Look!” exclaimed Pan, waving his hand impressively.
The steep yellow slope opposite them, very close at the point where
the bluff curved in, stretched away almost to the other side of the valley.
Indeed it constituted the southern wall of the valley, and was broken
only by the narrow pass below where the cowboys stood, and another
wider break at the far end. From this point the wash that had puzzled
Pan proved to be almost a canyon in dimensions. It kept to the lowest
part of the valley floor and turned to run parallel with the slope.
“Blink, suppose we run a fence of cedars from the slope straight out
to the wash. Reckon that’s two miles and more. Then close up any
gaps along this side of the valley. What would happen?” suggested Pan,
with bright eyes on his comrade.
Blinky spat out his cigarette, a sign of unusual emotion for him.
“You doggone wild-hoss wrangler!” he ejaculated, with starting eyes
and healthy grin. “Shore I begin to get your hunch. Honest, I never till
this heah minnit thought so damn much of your idee. You shore gotta
excuse me. A blind man could figger this deal heah. . . . Big corrals hid
behind the gate under us—long fence out there to the wash—close up
any holes on this side of valley—then make a humdinger of a drive. . . .
Cowboy, shore’s you’re born I’m seein’ my Arizona ranch right this
minnit!”
“Reckon I’m seeing things too,” agreed Pan in suppressed excitement.
“I said once before it’s too good to be true. Dad wasn’t loco. No wonder
he raved. . . . Blink, is there any mistake?”
“What about?”
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“The market for wild horses.”
“Absolutely, no,” declared Blinky vehemently. “It’s new. Only started
last summer. Wiggate made money. He said so. Thet’s what fetched
the Hardmans nosin’ into the game. Mebbe this summer will kill the
bizness, but right now we're safe. We can sell all the hosses we can
ketch, right heah on the hoof, without breakin’ or drivin’. It’s only a
day’s ride from Marco, less than thet over the hills the way we come.
We can sell at Marco or we can drive to the railroad. I’d say sell at ten
dollars a haid right heah an’ whoop.”
“I should smile,” replied Pan. “It’ll take us ten days or more, working
like beavers to cut and drag the cedars to build that fence. More time
if there are gaps to close along this side. Then all we’ve got to do is
drive the valley. One day will do it. Why, I never saw or heard of such
a trap. You can bet it will be driven only once. The wild horses we don’t
catch will steer clear of this valley. But breaking a big drove, or
driving them to Marco—that’d be a job I'd rather dodge. It’d take a
month, even with a small herd.”
“Hardman an’ Wiggate have several outfits working, mebbe fifty
riders all told. They’ve been handlin’ hosses. Reckon Wiggate would
jump at buyin’ up a thousand haid, all he could get. He’s from St. Louis
an’ what he knows aboot wild hosses ain’t a hell of a lot. I’ve talked
with him.”
“Blinky, old-timer, we’ve got the broomies sold. Now let’s figure on
catching them,” replied Pan boy hully, “And we'll cut out a few of the
best for ourselves.”
“An’ a couple fer our lady friends, hey, pard!” added Blinky, with
violence of gesture and speech.
Down the steep slope, through brush and thickets, they slid like a
couple of youngsters on a lark. Pan found the gateway between bluff and
slope even more adaptable to his purposes than it had appeared from
a distance. The whole lay of the land was miraculously advantageous
to the drive and the proposed trap.
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“Oh, it’s too darn good,” cried Pan, incredulously. “It'll be too easy.
It makes me afraid.”
“Thet somethin’ unforeseen will happen, huh?” queried Blinky,
shrewdly. “I had the same idee.” °
“But what could happen?” asked Pan, darkly speculative.
“Wal, to figger the way things run fer me an’ Gus out heah I'd say
this,” replied Blinky, with profound seriousness. “We'll do all the
cuttin’ an’ draggin’ an’ buildin’. We close up any gaps. We'll work our-
selves till we're daid in our boots. Then we'll drive—drive them wild
hosses as hosses was never drove before.”
“Well, what then?” queried Pan sharply.
“Drive ’em right in heah where Hardman’s outfit will be waitin’!”
“My God, man,” flashed Pan hotly. “Such a thing couldn’t happen.”
“Wal, it just could,” drawled Blinky, “an’ we couldn’t do a damn
thing but fight.”
“Fight?” repeated Pan passionately. The very thought of a contingency
such as Blinky had suggested made the hot red blood film his eyes.
“Thet’s what I said, pard,” replied his comrade coolly. “An’ it would
be one hell of a fight, with all the best of numbers an’ guns on Hardman’s
side. We've got only three rifles besides our guns, an’ not much ammuni-
tion. I fetched all we had an’ sent Gus for more. But Black didn’t send
thet over an’ I forgot to go after it.”
“We can send somebody back to Marco,” said Pan broodingly. “Say,
you've given me a shock. I never thought of such a possibility. I see
now it could happen, but the chances are a thousand to one against it.”
“Shore. It’s hardly worth guessin’ aboot. But there’s thet one chance.
An’ we’re both afeared of somethin’ strange. All we can do, Pan, is
gamble.”
On the way back to camp, Pan, pondering very gravely over the ques-
tion, at last decided that such a bold raid was a remote possibility, and
that his and Blinky’s subtle reaction to the thought came from their
highly excited imaginations. The days of rustling cattle and stealing
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horses on a grand scale were gone into the past. Hardman’s machina-
tions back there in Marco were those of a crooked man who played safe.
There was nothing big or bold about him, none of the earmarks of the
old frontier rustler. Matthews was still less of a character to fear. Dick
Hardman was a dissolute and depraved youth, scarcely to be considered.
Purcell, perhaps, or others of like ilk, might have to be drawn upon
sooner or later, but that being a personal encounter caused Pan no
anxiety. Thus he allayed the doubts and misgivings that had been
roused over Blinky’s supposition.
“Let’s see,” he asked when he reached camp. “How many horses have
we, all told?”
“Thirty-one, countin’ the pack hosses, an’ thet outlaw sorrel of yours,”
‘eplied Blinky.
“Reckon we'll have to ride them all. Dragging cedars pulls a horse
lown.”
“Some of ’em we cain’t ride, leastways I cain’t.”
“Grab some ropes and nose bags, everybody, and we'll fetch the
tring into camp,” ordered Pan.
In due time all the horses were ridden and driven back to camp,
where a temporary corral had been roped off in a niche of the slope.
“Wal, fellars, it’s find a hoss you haven’t rid before,” sang out Blinky,
‘an’ everyone fer himself.”
There was a stout, round-barreled buckskin that Pan’s father had
lis eye on.
‘Don’t like his looks, Dad,” warned Pan. “Say, Blink, how about this
vormy-looking buck?”
“Wal, he’s hell to get on, but there never was a better hoss wrapped
ip in thet much hide.”
Pan caught him and led him out of the corral. Just as the horse stepped
ver the rope fence, which Pan held down, he plunged and made a
reak to get lose, dragging Pan at the end of a thirty-foot lasso. There
yas a lively tussle, which Pan finally won.
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“Whoa, you bean-headed jasper,” he yelled. “I'll ride you myself.”
His father caught a brown bald-faced horse, nothing much to look
at, that acted gentle enough until he was mounted. Then!—He arched
his back, jumped up stiff legged, and began to pitch. Evidently Smith
had been a horseman in his day. He stayed on.
“Hang on, Dad,” yelled Pan in delight.
“Ride him, cowboy,” shrieked Blinky.
Fortunately for Smith, the horse was not one of the fiery devilish
species that would not be ridden. He straightened out presently and
calmed down.
“He was goin’ to pile me—shore,” declared Smith.
Charley Brown caught a blue-gray, fine-looking horse, whose appear-
‘ance, no doubt had attracted the miner; but he turned out to be a
counterfeit, and Charley “bit the dust,” as Blinky called it. Whereupon
Charley had recourse to the animal he had ridden from Marco. Hurd
showed he was a judge of horses and could ride. Blinky evidently was
laboring under the urge that caused so much disaster among riders—
he wanted to try a new horse. So he caught a jug-headed bay that did
not look as if he could move out of his own way.
“Blink, you must be figuring on sleeping some?” inquired Pan.
“Humph! he'll walk back,” snorted Gus. “I tried thet pack animal.
He’s hell fer breakfast.”
“Gus, if I was goin’ to walk I’d leave my saddle heah in camp,”
drawled Blinky.
“Blink, Pll let you ride in behind me,” added Pan.
As a matter of fact, Pan was not having much luck propitiating the
horse he had selected. Every time Pan would reach under for the cinch
the horse would kick at him and throw off the saddle.
“Hey, Blink, come here,” called Pan impatiently. “Hold this nice
kind horse. What'd you call him?”
“Dunny,” replied Blink. “An’ he’s a right shore enough good hoss.
... Pll hold him.”
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Blinky grasped the ears of the horse but that did not work, so Pan
roped his front feet. Blinky held the beast while Pan put the saddle on,
but when he gave the cinch a pull Dunny stood up with a wild shriek
and fell over backwards. He would have struck square on the saddle
if Blinky had not pulled him sideways. Fortunately for Pan the horse
rolled over to the right.
“Pan, turn that thing loose an’ catch a horse you can get on,” called
his father.
“Don’t worry, Dad. I’m ararin’ to ride this bird.”
“Pard, Dunny will be nice after you buckle down thet saddle an’ get
forked on him good,” drawled Blinky, with his deceitful grin. “He’s
shore a broomie-chasin’ devil.”
Pan said: “Blink, [ll fool you in a minute . . . Hold him down now.
Step on his nose.” Pulling the right stirrup out from under the horse
Pan drew the cinch a couple of holes tighter, and then straddled
him.
“Let him up, Blink.”
“All right, pard. Tell us where you want to be buried,” replied Blinky,
loosing the lasso and jumping free.
With a blast of rage Dunny got up. But he cunningly got up with his
back first, head down between his legs, and stiff as a poker. He scattered
the horses and whooping men, bucked over the campfire and the beds;
then with long high leaps, he tore for the open.
“High, wide an’ handsome,” yelled Blinky, in a spasm of glee. “Ride
him, you Texas cowpunchin’ galoot! You'll shore be the first one who
ever forked him fer keeps.”
“Blink—if he—piles me—I’ll lick you!” yelled back Pan.
“Lick nothin’,” bawled Blinky, “you'll need a doctor.”
But Pan stayed on that horse, which turned out to be the meanest
and most violent bucker he had ever bestrode. Less powerful horses
had thrown him. Eventually the plunging animal stopped, and Pan
turned him back to camp.
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“Wal, you son-of-a-gun!” ejaculated Blinky, in genuine admiration.
“How’d you ever keep company with him?”
“Grin, you idiot,” panted Pan, good humoredly. “Now men—we’re
ready to look the valley over. I'll take Dad with me. Blink, you and Gus
turn the corner here and keep close under the slope all the way up the
valley. Look out for places where the wild horses might climb out.
Charley, you and Mac New cross to the other side of the valley, if you
can. Look the ground over along that western wall. And everybody
keep eyes peeled for wild horses, so we can get a line on numbers.”
They rode out through the gateway into the valley, where they
separated into pairs. Pan, with his father, headed south along the slope.
He found distances somewhat greater than he had estimated from the
bluff, and obstacles that he had not noted at all. But by traveling farther
down he discovered a low ledge of rock, quite a wall in places, that
zigzagged out from the slope for a goodly distance. It had breaks here
and there which could easily be closed up with brush. This wall would
serve very well for part of the fence, and from the end of it out to the
wash there was comparatively level ground. Half a mile up the slope
the cedars grew thickly, so that the material for the fence was easily
accessible.
The wash proved to be a perpendicularly walled gorge fifty or more
feet deep with a sandy dry floor. It wound somewhat west by north up
the valley, and as far as he could see did not greatly differ in proportion
from the point where the fence was to touch.
“Dad, there are likely to be side washes, or cuts up toward the head,
where horses could get down,” said Pan. “We'll fence right across here.
So if we do chase any horses into the wash we'll stop them here. Sure,
this long hole would make a great trap.”
From that point they rode up the wash and gradually out into the
middle of the valley. Bands of wild horses trooped away in the distance.
Clouds of moving dust beyond the rolling ridges of the valley told of
others in motion. They were pretty wild, considering that they had
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
never been chased. At length Pan decided that many of these herds
had come into this valley from other points nearer to Marco. Some
bands stood on ridge tops, with heads erect, manes flying, wild and
ragged, watching the two riders move along the wash.
Pan did not observe any evidence of water, but he hardly expected
to find any in that wash. A very perceptible ascent in that direction
explained the greater number of horses. The sage was stubby and rather
scant near at hand, yet it lent the beautiful color that was so appreciable
from a distance.
Intersecting washes were few and so deep and steep-walled that there
need be no fear of horses going down them into the main wash. Out-
croppings of rock were rare; the zone of cactus failed as the valley
floor lost its desert properties; jack rabbits bounded away before the
approach of the horses; a few lean gray coyotes trotted up to rises of
ground, there to watch the intruders.
Pan had been deceived in his estimate of the size of the valley. They
rode ten miles west before they began to get into rougher ground, scaly
with broken rock, and gradually failing in vegetation. The notch of the
west end loomed up, ragged and brushy, evidently a wild jumble
of cliffs, ledges, timber and brush. The green patch at the foot meant
water and willows. Pan left his father to watch from a high point while
he rode on five miles farther. The ascent of the valley was like a bowl.
The time came when he gazed back and down over the whole valley.
Before him lines and dots of green, widely scattered, told of more places
where water ran. Strings of horses moved to and fro, so far away that
they were scarcely distinguishable. Beyond these points no horses could
be seen. The wash wound like a black ribbon out of sight. The vast
sloping lines of valley swept majestically down from the wooded bluff—
like sides. It was an austere, gray hollow of the earth, with all depressions
and ridges blending beautifully into the soft gray-green dotted surface.
Pan rode back to join his father.
“Tt’s a big place, and we’ve got a big job on our hands,” he remarked.
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“While you was gone a band of two hundred or more run right under
me, comin’ from this side,” replied Smith with beaming face. “Broom-
tails an’ willowtails they may be, as those boys call them, but I'll tell you,
son, some of them are mighty fine stock. The leader of this bunch had
a brand on his flank. He was white an’ I saw it plain. I'd shore like to
own him.”
“Dad, I’ll bet we catch some good ones to take with us to Arizona. If
we only had more time!”
“Pan, it’d pay us to work here all winter.”
“You bet. But Dad, I—I want to take Lucy away from Marco,” re-
plied Pan hesitatingly. “When I let myself think, I’m worried. She’s
only a kid, and she might be scared or driven.”
“Right, son,” said Smith, soberly. “Those Hardmans would try any-
thin
“We'll stick to the original plan, and that’s to make a quick hard
drive—then rustle out of New Mexico.”
When they rode into the gateway the day was far spent, and the west
was darkly ablaze with subdued fire.
Pan’s father showed his unfamiliarity with long horseback rides and
he made sundry remarks, mirth provoking to his son.
“Tl make a cowboy and horse wrangler of you again,” threatened Pan.
By the time Lying Juan had supper ready Blinky and Gus rode into
camp.
“Hungrier’n a wolf,” said Blinky.
“Well, what’s the verdict?” asked Pan with a smile.
“Wuss an’ more of it,” drawled Blinky. “We seen most five thousand
hosses, an’ I'll be doggoned if I don’t believe we'll ketch them all.”
“You found this side of the valley a ae hole-proof wing for our
trap, I'll bet,” asserted Pan.
“Wal, there’s places where hosses could climb out easy, but they won’t
try it,” replied Blinky. “The valley slopes up long an’ easy to the wall.
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
But when we drive them hosses they'll keep down in the center, between
the risin’ ground an’ thet wash. They’fl run far past them places where
they could climb out. I shore lose my breath whenever I think of what’s
comin’ off. I reckon the valley is a made-to-order corral.”
“Blink, you have some intelligence after all,” replied Pan, chaffingly.
“Did you see any sign of Brown and Mac New?”
“Not after we separated this mawnin’,” returned Blinky. “An’ thet
reminds me, pard, I’ve got somethin’ to tell you. This fellar Hurd—
or Mac New as you call him—has a pocketful of gold coin.”
“How do you know?” queried Pan bluntly.
“Gus kicked his coat this mawnin’, over there where Mac New had his
bed, an’ a pile of gold eagles rolled out. Just by accident. Gus wanted
somethin’ or other. He was plumb surprised, an’ he said Mac New was
plumb flustered. Now what you make of thet?”
“By golly, Blink, I don’t know. There’s no reason why he shouldn’t
have some money, yet it strikes me queer. How much gold?”
“Aw, two or three hundred easy,” rejoined Blinky. “It struck me
sort of queer, too. I recollected thet he told us he’d only been doin’ guard
duty at the jail fer a couple of months. An’ Gus recollected how not long
before Mac New went to work he’d been a regular grub-line runner.
We fed him heah, or Juan did. Now, pard, it may be all right an’ then
again it mayn’t. Are you shore aboot him?”
“Blink, you make me see how I answer to some feeling that’s not prac-
tical,” returned Pan, much perturbed. “Mac was an outlaw in Montana.
Maybe worse. Anyway I saved him one day from being strung up. That
was on the Powder River, when I was riding for Hurley’s X Y Z outfit.
They were a hard lot. And Mac’s guilt wasn’t clear to me. Anyway, I got
him out of a bad mess, on condition he’d leave the country.”
“Ahuh! Wal, I see. But it’s a shore gamble he’s one of Hardman’s
outfit now, same as Purcell.”
“Reckon he was. But he got fired.”
“Thet’s what he says.”
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“Blink, you advise me not to trust Mac New?” queried Pan dubiously.
“T ain’t advisin’ nobody. If you want my opinion, I'd say, now I know
what you done fer Mac New, thet he wouldn’t double-cross you. When
it comes down under the skin there ain’t much difference between out-
laws an’ other range men in a deal like thet.”
“Well, Pll trust him just because of that feeling I can’t explain,”
returned Pan.
He did not, however, forget the possible implication, and it hovered
in his mind. It was after dark when Mac New and Brown rode into
camp. Pan and the others were eating their supper.
“We had to ride clean to the end of the valley to cross that wash,” said
Brown. “It’s rough country. Horses all down low. Didn’t see so many,
at that, until we rimmed around way up on this side.”
“Fine. You couldn’t have pleased me more,” declared Pan. “Now Mac,
what do you say?”
“About this heah hoss huntin’?” queried Mac New.
“Yes. Our prospects, I mean. You’ve chased wild horses.”
“It'll be most as bad as stealin’ hosses,” replied the outlaw, laconically.
“Easy work an’ easy money.”
“Say, you won’t think it’s easy work when you get to dragging cedars
down that hill in the hot sun all day. I don’t know anything harder.”
Early next morning the labor began and proceeded with the utmost
dispatch. The slope resounded with the ring of axes. Pan’s father was
a capital hand at chopping down trees, and he kept two horsemen drag-
ging cedars at a lively rate. The work progressed rapidly, but the fence
did not seem to grow in proportion.
As Pan dragged trees out to the sloping valley floor, raising a cloud
of dust, he espied a stallion standing on the nearest ridge, half a mile
away. How wild and curious!
“You better look sharp, you raw-boned sage eater!” called Pan.
Twice more this same horse evinced intelligent curiosity. Pan could
not see any signs of a band with him. But other wild horses showed at
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different points, none however so close as this gray black-spotted stallion.
Blinky was sure this horse had not always been wild. Manifestly he knew
the ways of his archenemy, man.
With three cutters and three riders dragging cedars, allowing for a
rest of an hour at noon the fence grew to a length of a quarter of a mile
from the slope.
“Not so good,” declared Pan, when they left off work for the day.
“But that fence is high and thick. It will take an old stallion like that
gray to break through it.”
“Wal, my idee is thet we did grand,” replied Blinky, wiping his sweaty
face. “Besides all the choppin’ and haulin’ Gus found time to kill a deer.”
It was a tired, sweaty and dust-begrimed party of hunters that de-
scended upon Lying Juan for supper. After their hearty meal they
gathered round the campfire to smoke and talk. This night Mac New
joined the group, and though he had nothing to say he listened atten-
tively and appeared to fit in more. Pan was aware of how the former out-
law watched him. The conversation, of course, centered round the plan
and execution of work, and especidtly the wonderful drive they expected
to make. If they could have at once started the drive, it would have been
over and done with before their interest had time to grow intense. But
the tremendous task of preparation ahead augmented the anticipation
and thrill of that one day when they must ride like the wind.
Next day they did not go back to the fence, but worked at the gate-
way on the blind corrals. Pan constructed the opening to resemble a
narrow aisle of scrub oak. Material for this they cut from the bluff and
slid it down to the level. By sunset one corral had been almost com-
pleted. It was large enough to hold a thousand horses. One third of it
was fenced by the bluff.
Two more days were required to build the second blind corral, which
was larger, and though it opened from the first it did not run along the
sluff. As this one was intended for chasing and roping horses, as well
1s simply holding them, the fence was made an almost impenetrable
Bd
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
mass of thick foliaged cedars reinforced, where necessary, with stuffings
of scrub-oak brush. Pan was so particular that he tried to construct a
barrier which did not have sharp projecting spikes of dead branches
sticking out to cut a horse.
“By gum, I shore don’t believe you ever was a regular cowpuncher,”
declared Blinky testily, after having been ordered to do additional labor
on a portion of the fence.
“Blink, we’re dealing with horses, not cows,” answered Pan.
“But, good Lord, man, a cow is as feelin’ as a hoss any day,” pro-
tested Blinky.
“You'll be swearing you love cows next,” laughed Pan. “Nope. We'll
do our work well. Then the chances are we won't spike any of those
thoroughbreds we want to break for Arizona.”
“Say, I'll bet two bits you won't let us sell a single gosh-darned
broomie,” added Blinky.
“Go to bed, Blink,” rejoined Pan, in pretended compassion. “You're
all in. This isn’t moonshining wild horses.”
In the succeeding days Pan paced up the work, from dawn until dark.
A week more saw the long fence completed. It was an obstacle few
horses could leap. Pan thought he would love to see the stallion that
could do it,
Following the completion of the fence, they built a barrier across the
wash. And then to make doubly sure Pan divided his party into three
couples, each with instructions to close all possible exits along the
branches of the wash, and the sides of the slope.
During the latter part of this work, the bands of wild horses moved
farther westward. But as far as Pan could tell, none left the valley. They
had appeared curious and wary, then had moved out of sight over the
ridges in the center of the great oval.
The night that they finished, with two weeks of unremitting toil in
dust and heat behind them, was one for explosive satisfaction.
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“Fellars, my pard Panhandle is one to tie to,” declared Blinky, “but
excoose me from ridin’ any range where he was foreman.”
“Blink, you'll soon be cowboy, foreman, boss—the whole outfit on your
own Arizona ranch.”
“Pard, Dll shore drink to thet, if anybody’s got any licker.”
If there were any other bottles in the camp, Mac New’s was the only
one that came to light. It was passed around.
“Now, men, listen,” began Pan when they had found comfortable
eats around the campfire. “It’s all over but the shouting—and the riding.
You listen too, Juan, for you’ve got to fork a horse and drive with us.
As soon as it’s light enough to see, we'll take the fresh horses we’ve been
saving and ride across the valley. It’s pretty long around, but I want to
ome up behind all these bands of wild horses. Pack your guns and all
he shells you’ve got. We'll take stands at the best place, which we'll
lecide from the location of the horses. Reckon that'll be about ten miles
west. You'll all see when we get there how the neck of the valley nar-
ows down till it’s not very wide. Maybe a matter of two miles of level
rround, with breaks running toward each slope. We'll string across this,
qual distances apart and begin our drive. If we start well and don’t
et any horses break our line, we’ll soon get them going and then each
and will drive with us. Ride like hell, shoot and yell your head off
o turn back any horses that charge to get between us. Soon as we get
few hundred moving, whistling, trampling and raising the dust,
hat’ll frighten the bands ahead. They'll begin to move before they
ee us. Naturally as the valley widens we’ve got to spread. But if we
nce get a wide scattering string of horses running ahead of us we
eedn’t worry about being separated. When we get them going strong,
rere’ll be a stampede. Sure a lot of horses will fool us one way or
nother, but we ought to chase half the number on this side of the
alley clear to our fence. That'll turn them toward the gate to the blind
srrals. We'll close in there, and that’ll take riding, my buckaroos!”
Blinky was the most obstreperously responsive to Pan’s long harangue.
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Pan thought he understood the secret of the cowboy’s strange elation.
After all, what did Blinky care for horses or money? He had been a
nomeless wandering range rider, a hard-drinking reckless fellow with
few friends, and those only for the hour of the length of a job. The suc-
cess of this venture, if it turned out so, meant that Blinky would do the
one big act of his life. He would take the girl Louise from her surround-
ings, give her a name that was honest and a love that was great, and
rise or fall with her. Pan had belief in human nature. In endless ways
his little acts of faith had borne fruit.
The hunters stayed up later than usual, and had to be reminded twice
by Pan of the strenuous morrow.
When Pan made for his own bed Mac New followed him in the
darkness.
“Smith, I’d like a word with you,” said the outlaw, under his breath.
His eyes gleamed out of his dark face.
“Sure, Mac, glad to hear you,” replied Pan, not without a little shock.
“T’ve stuck on heah, haven’t I?” queried Mac New.
“You sure have. I wouldn’t ask a better worker. And if the drive is all
I hope for, Pll double your money.”
“Wal, I didn’t come with you on my own hook,” rejoined the other,
hurriedly. “Leastways it wasn’t my idee. Hardman got wind of your
hoss-trappin’ scheme. Thet was after he’d fired me without my wages.
Then he sent fer me, an’ he offered me gold to get a job with you an’
keep him posted if you ketched any big bunch of hosses.”
Here the outlaw clinked the gold coin in his coat pocket.
“IT took the gold, an’ said I’d do it,” went on Mac New deliberately.
“But I never meant to double-cross you, an’ I haven’t. Reckon I might
have told you before. It jest didn’t come, though, till tonight.”
“Thanks, Mac,” returned Pan, extending his hand to the outlaw. “I
wasn’t afraid to trust you . . . Hardman’s playing a high hand, then?”
“Reckon he is, an’ thet’s a hunch.”
“All right, Mac. I’m thinking you’re square with me,” replied Pan.
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After the outlaw left, Pan sat on his bed pondering this latest aspect
of the situation. Mac New’s revelation was what Pan would have ex-
pected of such a character. Bad as he was, he seemed a white man com-
pared with this underhanded greedy Hardman. Even granting Hard-
man’s gradual degeneration, Pan could not bring himself to believe the
man would attempt any open crooked deal. Still this attempt to bribe
Mac New had a dubious look. Pan did not like it. If his wild horse expedi-
‘ion had not reached the last day he would have sent Blinky back to
Marco or have gone himself to see if Hardman’s riders could be located.
But it was too late. Pan would not postpone the drive, come what might.
[ 155 |
CHAPTER .THIKRTEEN
AT last the cold night wind reminded Pan that he had not yet rolled
in his blankets, which he had intended to do until Mac New’s significant
statement had roused somber misgiving. He went to bed, yet despite
the exertions of the long day, slumber was a contrary thing that he
could not woo.
He lay under the transparent roof of a makeshift shelter of boughs
through which the stars showed white and brilliant. For ten years and
more he had lain out on most nights under the open sky, with wind and
rain and snow working their will on him, and the bright stars, like
strange eyes, watching him. During the early years of his range life he
used to watch the stars in return and wonder what was their message.
And now, since his return home, he seemed so much closer to his be-
loved boyhood. Tonight the stars haunted him. Over the ridge tops a
few miles, they were shining in the window of Lucy’s tiny room, per-
haps lighting her fair face. It seemed that these stars were telling him
all was not well in Lucy’s mind and heart. He could not shake the
insidious vague haunting thought, and longed for dawn, so that in the
sunlight he could dispel all morbid doubts and the shadows that came in
the night.
So for hours he lay there, absorbed in mind. It was not so silent a
night as usual. The horses were restless, as if some animal were prowling
about. He could hear the sudden trampling of hoofs as a number of
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
horses swiftly changed their location. The coyotes were in full chorus
out in the valley. A cold wind fitfully stirred the branches, whipped
across his face. One of his comrades, Blinky he thought, was snoring
heavily.
Pan grew unaccountably full of dread of unknown things. His sensi-
tive mind had magnified the menace hinted at by Mac New. It was a
matter of feeling which no intelligent reasoning could dispel. Midnight
came before he finally dropped into restless slumber.
At four o’clock Lying Juan called the men to get up. He had breakfast
almost ready. With groans and grunts and curses the hunters rolled
out, heavy with sleep, stiff of joints, vacant of mind. Blinky required
two calls.
They ate in the cold gray dawn, silent and glum. A hot breakfast acted
favorably upon their mental and physical make-ups, and some brisk
action in catching and saddling horses brought them back to normal.
Still there was not much time for talk.
The morning star was going down in an intense dark blue sky when
the seven men rode out upon their long-planned drive. The valley was
a great obscure void, gray, silent, betraying nothing of its treasure to the
hunters. They crossed the wash below the fence, where they had dug
entrance and exit, and turned west at a brisk trot. Daylight came linger-
ingly. The valley cleared of opaque light. Like a gentle rolling sea it
swept away to west and north, divided by its thin dark line, and faintly
dotted by bands of wild horses.
In the eastern sky, over the far low gap where the valley failed, the
pink light deepened to rose, and then to red. A disk of golden fire
tipped the bleak horizon. The whole country became transformed as
if with life. The sun had risen on this memorable day for Pan Smith
and his father, and for Blinky Somers. Nothing of the black shadows
and doubts and fears of night! Pan could have laughed at himself in
scorn. Here was the sunrise. How beautiful the valley! There were the
wild horses grazing near and far, innumerable hundreds and thousands
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
of them. The thought of the wonderful drive gripped Pan in thrilling
fascination. Horses! Horses! Horses! The time, the scene, the impend-
ing ride called to him as nothing ever had. The thrilling capture of
wild horses would alone have raised him to the heights. How much
more tremendous, then, an issue that meant a chance of happiness for
all his loved ones.
It was seven o'clock when Pan and his men reached the western
elevation of the valley, something over a dozen miles from their fence
and trap. From this vantage point Pan could sweep the whole country
with far-sighted eyes. What he saw made them glisten.
Wild horses everywhere, like dots of brush on a bare green rolling
prairie!
“Boys, we'll ride down the valley now and pick a place where we
split to begin the drive,” said Pan.
“Hosses way down there look to me like they was movin’ this way,”
observed Blinky, who had eyes like a hawk.
Pan had keen eyes, too, but he did not believe his could compare with
Blinky’s. That worthy had the finest of all instruments of human vision
—clear light-gray eyes, like that of an eagle. Dark eyes were not as far-
seeing on range and desert as the gray or blue. And it was a fact that Pan
had to ride down the valley a mile or more before he could detect a
movement of wild horses toward him.
“Wal, reckon mebbe thet don’t mean nothin’,” said Blinky. “An’ then
agin mebbe it does. Hosses run around a lot of their own accord. An’
agin they get scared of somethin’. If we run into some bunches haidin’
this way we'll turn them back an’ thet’s work for us.”
Pan called a halt there, and after sweeping his gaze over all the valley
ahead, he said: “We split here. . . . Mac, you and Brown ride straight
toward the slope. Mac take a stand a half mile or so out. Brown, you
go clear to the slope and build a fire so we can see your smoke. Give us
five minutes, say, to see your smoke, and then start the drive. Reckon
we'll hold our line all right till they get to charging us. And when we
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close in down there by the gate it'll be every man for himself. I'll bet
it ll be a stampede.”
Pan sent Lying Juan to take up a stand a mile or more outside of
Mac New. Gus and Blinky were instructed to place equal distances be-
tween themselves and Juan. Pan’s father left with them and rode to a
ridge top in plain sight a mile away. Pan remained where he had reined
his horse.
“Sort of work for them, even to Dad,” soliloquized Pan, half amused
at his own tremendous boyish eagerness. All his life he had dreamed of
some such great experience with horses.
He could see about half of the valley floor which was to be driven. The
other half lay over the rolling ridges and obscured by the haze and
yellow clouds of dust rising here and there. Those dust clouds had not
appeared until the last quarter of an hour or so, and they caused Pan
curiosity that almost amounted to anxiety. Surely bands of horses were
running.
Suddenly a shot rang out over to Pan’s left. His father was waving
hat and gun. Far over against the green background of slope curled up
a thin column of blue smoke. Brown’s signal! In a few moments the
drive would be on.
Pan got off to tighten cinches.
“Well, Sorrel, old boy, you look fit for the drive,” said Pan, patting the
glossy neck. “But I'll bet you'll not be so slick and fat tonight.”
When he got astride again he saw his father and the next driver head-
ing their horses south. So he started Sorrel and the drive had begun.
He waved his sombrero at his father. And he waved it in the direction
of home, with a message to Lucy.
Pan rode at a trot. It was not easy to hold in Sorrel. He wanted to go.
He scented the wild horses. He knew there was something afoot, and
he had been given a long rest. Soon Pan was riding down into one
of the shallow depressions, the hollows that gave the valley its resem-
blance to a ridged sea. Thus he lost sight of the foreground. When, half
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a mile below, he reached a wave crest of ground he saw bands of wild
horses, enough to make a broken line half across the valley, traveling
toward him. They had their heads north, and were moving prettily,
probably a couple of miles distant. Beyond them other bands scattered
and indistinct, but all in motion, convinced Pan that something had
startled the horses, or they had sensed the drive.
“No difference now,” shouted Pan aloud. “We’re going to run your
legs off, and catch a lot of you.”
The long black line of horses did not keep intact. It broke into
sections, and then into bands, most of which sheered to the left. But one
herd of about twenty kept on toward Pan. He halted Sorrel. They came
within a hundred yards before they stopped as if frozen. How plump and
shiny they were! The lean wild heads and ears all stood up.
A mouse-colored mare was leading this bunch. She whistled shrilly,
and then a big roan stallion trotted out from behind. He jumped as if
he had been struck, and taking the lead swung to Pan’s left, manifestly
to get by him. But they had to run up hill while Pan had only to keep
to a level. He turned them before they got halfway to a point even with
the next driver. Away they swept, running wild, a beautiful sight, the
roan and mare leading, with the others massed behind, manes and tails
flying, dust rolling from under their clattering hoofs.
Then Pan turned ahead again, working back toward his place in the
driving line. He had a better view here. He saw his father and Gus and
Blinky ride toward each other to head off a scattered string of horses.
The leaders were too swift for the drivers and got through the line,
but most of the several herds were headed and turned. Gun shots helped
to send them scurrying down the valley.
Two small bands of horses appeared coming west along the wash. Pan
loped Sorrel across to intercept them. They were ragged and motley,
altogether a score or more of the broomtails that had earned that un-
flattering epithet. They had no leader and showed it in their indecision.
They were as wild as jack rabbits, and upon sighting Pan they wheeled
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in their tracks and fled like the wind, down the valley. Pan saw them
turn a larger darker-colored herd. This feature was what he had mainly
relied upon. Wonderful luck of this kind might attend the drive: even
a broken line running the right way would sweep the valley from wash
to slope. But that was too much for even Pan’s most extravagant hopes.
Again he lost sight of the horses and his comrades, as he rode down
a long swell of the valley sea. The slope ahead was long and gradual,
and it mounted fairly high. Pan was keen to see the field from that
vantage point. Still he did not hurry. Any moment a band of horses
might appear, and he wanted always to have plenty of spare room to
ride across to left or right. Once they got the lead of him or even with
him it would be almost impossible to turn them.
Not, however, until he had surmounted the next ridge did he catch
sight of any more wild horses. Then he faced several miles of almost
level valley, with the only perceptible slope toward the left. For the first
time he saw all the drivers. They were holding a fairly straight line.
As Pan had anticipated, the drive was slowly leading away from the
wash, diagonally toward the great basin that constituted the bottom of
the valley floor. Bands of horses were running south, bobbing under
the dust clouds. There were none within a mile of Pan. The other men,
beyond the position of Pan’s father, would soon be called upon to do
some riding.
As Pan kept on at a fast trot, he watched in all directions, expecting
to see horses come up out of a hollow or over a ridge; also he took a
quick glance every now and then in the direction of his comrades. They
were working ahead of him, more and more to the left. Therefore a wide
gap soon separated Pan from his father.
This occasioned him uneasiness because they would soon be down on
a level, where palls of dust threatened to close over the whole valley,
and it would be impossible to see any considerable distance. If the wild
horses then took a notion to wheel and run back up the valley the drive
would yield great results.
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Suddenly, way over close to the wash Pan espied a string of horses
emerging from the thin haze of dust. He galloped down and across to
intercept them. As he drew closer he was surprised to see they were in
a dead run. These horses were unusually wild, as if they had been fright-
ened. They appeared bent on running Pan down, and he had to resort
to firing his gun to turn them. It was a heavy forty-five caliber, the report
of which was loud. Then after they had veered, he had to race back
across a good deal more than his territory to keep them from going
round him.
At last they headed back into the dusty-curtained, black-streaked zone
which constituted the bowl of the valley. This little race had warmed
Sorrel. He had entered into the spirit of the drive. Pan found that the
horse sighted wild horses more quickly than he, and wanted to chase
them all.
Pan rode a mile to the left, somewhat up hill and also forward. He
caught sight of his father, and two other riders, rather far ahead, riding,
shooting either behind or in front of a waving pall of dust. The ground
down there was dry, and though covered with grass and sage, it had
equally as much bare surface, from which the plunging hoofs kicked
up the yellow smoke.
Pan had a front of two miles and more to guard, and the distance was
increasing every moment. The drive swept down to the left, massing
toward the apex where the fence and slope met. This was still miles
away. Pan could see landmarks he recognized, high up on the horizon.
Many bands of horses were now in motion. They streaked to and fro
across lighter places in the dust cloud. Pan wanted to stay out in the
clear, so that he could see distinctly, but he was already behind his
comrades. No horses were running up the wash. So he worked over to-
ward where he had last observed his father, and gave up any attempt
at further orderly driving.
It was plain that his comrades had soon broken the line. Probably in
such a case, where so many horses were running, it was not possible to
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
keep a uniform front. But Pan thought they could have done better.
He saw strings of horses passing him to the left. They had broken
through. This was to be expected. No doubt the main solid mass was
now on a stampede toward the south.
Pan let stragglers and small bunches go by him. There were, however,
no large bands of horses running back, at least that he could see. He
rode to and fro, at a fast clip, across this dust-clouded basin, heading
what horses happened to come near him. The melee of dust and animals
thickened. He now heard the clip-clop of hoofs, here, there, everywhere,
with the mass of sound to the fore. Presently he appeared surrounded
by circles of dust and stringing horses. It was like a huge corral full of
frightened animals running wild through dust so thick that they could
not be seen a hundred feet distant. Pan turned horses back, but he
could not tell how quickly they would wheel again and elude him.
Once he thought he saw a rider on a white mount, yet could not be
sure. Then he decided he was mistaken, for none of Blinky’s horses were
white.
This melee down in the dusty basin was bad. Driving was hampered
by the obscurity. Pan could only hope the main line of wild horses was
sweeping on as it had started.
After a long patrol in the dust and heat of that valley flat, Pan emerged,
it seemed, into clearer atmosphere. He was working up. Horses were
everywhere, and it was ridiculous to try to drive all those he encountered.
At length there were none running back. All were heading across, to
and fro, or down the valley. And when Pan reached the long ascent of
that bowl he saw a magnificent spectacle.
A long black mass of horses was sweeping onward toward the gate-
way to the corrals, and to the fence. Dust columns, like smoke, curled
up from behind them and swung low on the breeze. Pan saw riders be-
hind them, and to the left. He had perhaps been the only one to go
through that valley bowl. The many bands of horses, now converged into
one great herd, had no doubt crossed it. They were fully four miles dis-
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
tant. Pan saw his opportunity to cut across and down to the right toward
where the fence met the wash. If the horses swerved, as surely some or
all of them would do, he could head them off. To that end he gave
Sorrel free rein and had a splendid run of several miles to the point
halfway between the fence and the wash.
Here from a high point of ground he observed the moving pace of dust
and saw the black wheel-shaped mass of horses sweep down the valley
like a storm. The spectacle was worth all the toil and time he had given,
even if not one beast was captured. But Pan, with swelling heart and
beaming eye, felt assured of greater success than he had hoped for. There
were five thousand horses in that band, more by ten times than he had
ever before seen driven. They could not all get through that narrow
gateway to the corrals. Pan wondered how his few riders could have
done so well. Luck! The topography of the valley! The wild horses
took the lanes of least resistance; and the level or downhill ground
favored a broad direct line toward the fence trap Pan and his men had
contrived.
“Looks like Dad and all the rest of them have swung round on this
side,” soliloquized Pan, straining his eyes.
That was good, but Pan could not understand how they had ever
accomplished it. Perhaps they had been keen enough to see that the wild
horses would now have to go through the gateway or turn south along
the fence.
Pan watched eagerly. Whatever was going to happen must come very
soon, as swiftly as those fast wild horses could run another mile. He saw
them sweep down on the bluff and round it, and then begin to spread,
to disintegrate. Again dust clouds settled over one place. It was in the
apex. What a vortex of furious horses must be there! Pan lost sight of
them for some moments. Then out of the yellow curtain streaked black
strings, traveling down the fence toward Pan, across the valley, back
up the way they had come. Pan let out a stentorian yell of victory. He
knew the action indicated that the horses had poured in a mass into
the apex between bluff and fence.
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“Whoopee!” yelled Pan, to relieve his surcharged emotions. “It’s a
sure bet we’ve got a bunch!”
Then he spurred Sorrel to meet the horses fleeing down along the
fence. They came in bunches, in lines, stringing for a mile or more along
the barrier of cedars.
Pan met them with yells and shouts. Frantic now, the animals wheeled
back. But few of them ran up out of the winding shallow ground along
which the fence had been cunningly built. He drove them back, up
over the slow ascent, toward the great dusty swarm of horses that ran
helter-skelter under the dust haze.
Suddenly Pan espied a black stallion racing toward him. He remem-
bered the horse. And the desire to capture this individual took strong
hold upon him. The advantage lay all with Pan. So he held back to
stop this stallion.
At the most favorable moment Pan spurred Sorrel to intercept the
stallion. But the black, maddened with terror and instinct to rage, would
not swerve out of Pan’s way. On he came, swift as the wind, lean black
head out, mane flying, a wild creature at once beautiful and fearful. Pan
had to jerk Sorrel out of his way. Then Pan, having the black between
himself and the fence, turned Sorrel loose. The race began—with Pan
still holding the advantage. It did not, however, last long that way.
The black ran away from Pan. He wanted to shoot but thought it best
not to use his last shells. What a stride! He was a big horse, too, ragged,
rangy, with action and power that delighted Pan. Knowing he could
not catch the black Pan cut across toward the wash. Then the stallion,
seeing the yawning gulf ahead, turned toward the fence, and quickening
that marvelous stride he made a magnificent leap right at the top of the
obstruction. He cleared the heavy wood and crashed through the
branches to freedom.
“You black son-of-a-gun!” yelled Pan in sheer admiration, and halting
the sorrel he watched the stallion disappear.
Dust begrimed and wet, Pan once more headed toward the goal. His
horse was tired and so was he. Far as he could view in a fan-shaped
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
spread, wild horses were running back up the valley. Pan estimated he
saw thousands, but there were no heavy black masses, no sweeping
stormlike clouds of horses, such as had borne down on that corner of
the valley.
He was weary, but he could have sung for very joy. Happily his
thoughts reverted to Lucy and the future. He would pick out a couple
of beautiful ponies for her, and break them gently. He would find some
swift sturdy horses for himself. Then, as many thousands of times, he
thought of his first horse Curly. None could ever take his place. But
how he would have loved to own the black stallion!
“T’m just as glad, though, he got away,” mused Pan.
The afternoon was half gone and hazy, owing to the drifting clouds
of dust that had risen from the valley. As Pan neared the end of the
fence, which was still a goodly distance from the gateway, he was sur-
prised that he did not see any horses or men. The wide brush gates had
been closed. Beyond them and over the bluff he saw clouds of dust, like
smoke, rising lazily, as if just stirred.
“Horses in the corrals!” he exclaimed. “T’ll bet they’re full. . . . Geel
now comes the problem. But we could hold a thousand head there
for a week—maybe ten days. There’s water and grass. Reckon, though,
I'll sell tomorrow.”
He would have hurried on but for the fact that Sorrel had begun to
limp. Pan remembered going over a steep soft bank where the horse had
stumbled. Dismounting, Pan walked the rest of the way to the bluff,
beginning to think it strange he did not see or hear any of his comrades.
No doubt they were back revelling in the corrals full of wild horses.
“It’s been a great day. If only I could get word to Lucy!”
Pan opened the small gate, and led Sorrel into the lane. Still he did
not see anything of the men. He did hear, however, a snorting, trampling
of many horses, over in the direction of the farther corral.
At the end of the bluff, where the line of slope curved in deep, Pan
suddenly saw a number of saddled horses, without riders.
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With a violent start he halted.
There were men, strange men, standing in groups, lounging on the
rocks, sitting down, all as if waiting.
A little to the left of these Pan’s lightning swift gaze took in another
group. His men! Not lounging, not conversing, but aloof from each
other, lax and abject, or strung motionless!
Bewildered, shocked, Pan swept his eyes back upon the strangers.
“Hardman! Purcell!” he gasped, starting back as if struck.
Then his mind leaped to conclusions. He did not need to see Blinky
approach him with hard sullen face. Hardman and outfit had timed
the wild-horse drive. No doubt they had participated in it, and meant to
profit by that, or worse, they meant to claim the drive, and by superior
numbers force that issue.
Such a terrible fury possessed Pan that he burned and shook all over.
He dropped his bridle and made a dragging step to meet Blinky. But so
great was his emotion that he had no physical control. He waited. After
that bursting of his heart, he slowly changed. This then was the strange
untoward thing that had haunted him. All the time fate had held this
horrible crisis in abeyance, waiting to crush at the last moment his
marvelous good fortune. That had been the doubt, the misgiving, the
inscrutable something which had opposed all Pan’s optimism, his hope,
his love. An icy sickening misery convulsed him for a moment. But
that could not exist in the white heat of his wrath.
Blinky did not stride up to Pan. He hated this necessity. His will was
forcing his steps, and they were slow.
“Blink—Blink,” whispered Pan, hoarsely. “It’s come! That damned
hunch we feared, but wouldn’t believe!”
“By Gawd, I—I couldn’t hev told you,” replied Blinky, just as
hoarsely. “An’ it couldn’t be worse.”
“Blink—then we made a good haul?”
“Cowboy, nobody ever heerd of such a haul. We could moonshine
wild hosses fer a hundred years an’ never ketch as many.”
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“How—many?” queried Pan, sharply, his voice breaking clear.
“Reckon we don’t agree on figgerin’ thet. I say fifteen hundred haid.
Your dad, who’s aboot crazy, reckons two thousand. An’ the other fel-
lars come in between.”
“Fifteen hundred horses!” ejaculated Pan intensely. “Heavens, but
it’s great!”
“Pan, I wish to Gawd we hadn’t ketched any,” declared Blinky, in
hard fierce voice.
That brought Pan back to earth.
“What’s their game?” he asked swiftly, indicating the watching whis-
pering group.
“T had only a few words with Hardman. Your dad went out of his
haid. Reckon he’d have done fer Hardman with his bare hands, if
Purcell hadn’t knocked him down with the butt of a gun.”
Again there was a violent leap of Pan’s blood. It jerked his whole
frame.
“Blink, did that big brute?—” asked Pan hoarsely, suddenly breaking
off.
“He shore did. Your dad’s got a nasty knock over the eye. . . . No,
I hadn’t any chance to talk to Hardman. But his game’s as plain as that
big nose of his.”
“Well, what is it?” snapped Pan.
“Shore he’ll grab our hosses, or most of them,” returned Blinky.
“You mean straight horse stealing?”
“Shore, thet’s what it'll be. But the hell of it is, Hardman’s outfit
helped make the drive.”
“No!”
“You bet they did. Thet’s what galls me. Either they was layin’ fer
the day or just happened to ride up on us, an’ figgered it out. Mebbe
thet’s where Mac New comes in.”
“Blink, I don’t believe he’s double-crossed us,” declared Pan stoutly.
“Wal, he’s an outlaw.”
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“No difference. I just don’t believe it. But we'll find out. . . . So you
think Hardman will claim most of our horses or take them all?”
“T shore do.”
“Blink, if he gets one of our horses it’ll be over my dead body. You
fellows sure showed yellow clear through—to let them ride in here
without a fight.”
“Hellsfire!” cried Blinky, as if stung. “What you think? ... There
wasn’t a one of us thet had a single lead left fer our guns. Thet’s where
the rub comes in. We played their game. Wasted a lot of shells on them
damn broomies! So how could we fight?”
“Ah-huh!” groaned Pan, appalled at the fatality of the whole incident.
“Pan, I reckon you'd better swaller the dose, bitter as it is, an’ bluff
Hardman into leavin’ us a share of the hosses.”
“Say, man, are you drunk or loco?” flashed Pan scornfully.
With that he whirled on his heel and strode toward where Hard-
man, Purcell, and another man stood somewhat apart from the loung-
ing riders.
Slowly Blinky followed in Pan’s footsteps, and then Mac New left
the group in the shade of the wall, and shuffled out into the sunlight.
His action was that of a forceful man, dangerous to encounter.
In the dozen rods or more that Pan traversed to get to Hardman he
had reverted to the old wild spirit of the Cimarron. That cold dark
wind which had at times swept his soul returned with his realization
of the only recourse here. When he had walked the streets of Marco
waiting for Matthews to prove his mettle or show his cowardice, he had
gambled on the latter. He had an uncanny certainty that he had only to
bluff the sheriff. Here was a different proposition. It would take blood-
shed to halt this gang.
As Pan approached, Purcell swung around square with his hands low,
a significant posture. Hardman evinced signs of extreme nervous ten-
sion. The third man walked apart from them. All the others suddenly
abandoned their lounging attitude.
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“Hardman, what’s your game?” queried Pan bluntly, as he halted.
The words, the pause manifestly relieved Hardman, for he swallowed
hard and braced himself.
“Game?” he parried gruffly. “There’s no game about drivin’ a million
wild hosses through the dust. It was work.”
“Don’t try to twist words with me,” replied Pan fiercely. “What’s
your game? Do you mean a straight out and out horse-thief deal? Or a
share and share divvy on the strength of your riding in where you
weren’t asked?”
“Young man, I’m warnin’ you not to call me a hoss thief,” shouted
Hardman, growing red under his beard.
“Tl call you one, damn quick, if you don’t tell your game.”
“We made the drive, Smith,” returned Hardman. “You’d never made
it without us. An’ that gives us the biggest share. Say two-thirds, an’
V'll buy your third at ten dollars a head.”
“Hardman, that’s a rotten deal,” burst out Pan. “Haven’t you any
sense? If you could make it, you’d be outlawed in this country. Men
won't stand for such things. You may be strong in Marco but I tell you
even there you can’t go too far. We planned this trap. We worked like
dogs. And we made the drive. You might account for more horses
trapped, but no difference. You had no business here. We can prove
in”
“Wal, if I’ve got the hosses I don’t care what you say,” retorted
Hardman, finding bravado as the interview progressed.
It was no use to try to appeal to any sense of fairness in this man. Pan
saw that and his passionate eloquence died in his throat. Coldly he eyed
Hardman and then the greasy dust-caked face of Purcell. He could
catch only the steely speculation in Purcell’s evil eyes. He read there
that, if the man had possessed the nerve, he would have drawn on
him at the first.
Meanwhile Blinky had come up beside Pan and a moment later Mac
New. Neither had anything to say but their actions, especially Mac
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New’s, were not to be misunderstood. The situation became intense.
Hardman suddenly showed the strain.
Pan’s demeanor, however, might have been deceiving, except to the
keenest of men, long versed in such encounters.
“Jard Hardman, you're a low-down horse thief,” said Pan deliberately.
The taunt, thrown in Hardman’s face, added to the tension of the
moment. He had lost the ruddy color under his beard. His eyes stood
out. He recognized at last something beyond his power to change or
stop.
“Smith, reckon you’ve cause for temper,” he said, huskily. “I'll take
half the hosses—an’ buy your half.”
“No! Not one damn broomtail do you get,” returned Pan in a voice
that cut. “Look out, Hardman! I can prove you hatched up this deal
to rob me.”
“How, I'd like to know?” blustered the rancher, relaxing again.
“Mac New can prove it.”
“Who's he?”
“Hurd here. His real name is Mac New. You hired him to get in with
me—to keep you posted on my movements.”
Again Hardman showed his kind of fiber under extreme provocation:
“Yes, I hired him—an’ he’s double-crossed you as well as me.”
“Did he? Well, now you prove that,” flashed Pan who had read the
furious falseness of the man.
“Purcell here,” replied Hardman hoarsely, “he’s been camped below.
Hurd met him at night—kept him posted on your work. Then, when
all was ready for the drive Purcell sent for me. Ask him yourself.”
Pan did not answer to the suggestion. “Mac, what do you say to
that?” he queried, sharply, but he never took his eyes off Purcell.
“Hardman, you're a liar!” roared Mac New, sonorously. If ever Pan
heard menace in a voice, it was then.
“Take it back!” went on the outlaw, now with a hiss. “Square me
with Panhandle Smith!”
Bois
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
“Mac, he doesn’t have to square you. Anyone could see he’s a liar,” _
called Pan derisively.
“Hurd, I—I’ll have you shot—I’'ll shoot you myself,” burst out Hard-
man, wrestling his arm toward his hip.
A thundering report close beside Pan almost deafened him. Hard-
man uttered a loud gasp. His eyes rolled—fixed in awful stony stare.
Then like a flung sack he fell heavily.
“Thar, Jard Hardman,” declared the outlaw, “I had one bullet left.”
And he threw his empty gun with violence at the prostrate body.
Purcell’s long taut body jerked into swift action. His gun spurted
red as it leaped out. Pan, quick as he drew and shot, was too late to save
Mac New. Both men fell without a cry, their heads almost meeting.
“Blink, grab their guns!” yelled Pan piercingly, and leaping over the
bodies he confronted the stricken group of men with leveled weapon.
“Hands up! Quick, damn you!” he ordered, fiercely.
His swiftness, his tremendous passion, following instantly upon the
tragedy, had shocked Hardman’s men. Up went their hands.
Then Blinky ran in with a gun in each hand, and his wild aspect most
powerfully supplemented Pan’s furious energy and menace.
“Fork them hosses, you !” yelled Blinky. Death
for more of them quivered in the balance. As one man, Hardman’s
riders rushed with thudding boots and tinkling spurs to mount their
horses. Several did not wait for further orders, but plunged away down
the lane toward the outlet.
“Rustle, hoss thieves,” added Blinky, with something of the old
drawl in his voice, that yet seemed the more deadly for it. With quick
strides he had gotten behind most of the riders. “Get out of heah!”
With shuffling, creaking of leather, and suddenly cracking hoofs the
order was obeyed. The riders soon disappeared around the corner of
the bluff.
[ 172 ]
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE two horses left, belonging to Hardman and Purcell, neighed
loudly at being left behind, and pulled on their halters.
Pan’s quick eye caught sight of a rifle in a sheath on one of the
saddles. He ran to get it, but had to halt and approach the horse warily.
But he secured the rifle—a Winchester—fully loaded.
Blinky, observing Pan’s act, repeated it with the other horse.
“Pard, I ain’t figgerin’ they'll fight, even from cover,” said Blinky. “By
gosh, this hoss must have been Purcell’s. Shore. Stirrups too long for
Hardman. An’ the saddle bag is full of shells.”
“Slip along the fence and see where they went,” replied Pan.
“Aw, I can lick the whole outfit now,” declared Blinky, recklessly.
“You keep out of sight,” ordered Pan.
Whereupon Blinky, growling something, crashed a way through the
cedar fence and disappeared.
Pan hurriedly sheathed his gun, and with the rifle in hand, ran back
to the overhanging bluff, where he began to climb through the brush.
Fierce action was necessary to him then. He did not spare himself.
Morever he half-expected some kind of attack from the men who had
been driven away. Soon he had reached a point where he could work
round to the side of the bluff. When he looked out upon the valley he
espied Hardman’s outfit two miles down the slope, beyond the cedar
fence. They had set fire to the cedars. A column of yellow smoke rolled
away across the valley.
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
“Ah-huh! They’re rustling—all right,” panted Pan. “Wonder what—
kind of a story—they’ll tell. Looks to me—like they’d better keep clear of
Marco.”
Then a reaction set in upon Pan. He crawled into the shade of some
brush and stretched out, letting his tight muscles relax. The terrible
something released its hold on mind and heart. He was sick. He fought
with himself until the spasm passed.
When he got back to his men, Blinky had just returned.
“Did you see them shakin’ up the dust?” queried Blinky.
“Yes, they’re gone. Reckon we’ve no more to fear from them.”
“Huh! We never had nothin’. Shore was a yellow outfit. They set fire
to our fence, the hi
It took some effort for Pan to approach his father. The feeling deep
within him was inexplicable. But, then, he had never before been com-
pelled to face his father after a fight. Pan’s relation to him seemed of
long ago.
“How are you, Dad?” he asked with constraint.
“Little shaky—I guess—son,” came the husky reply. But Smith got
up and removed his hand from the bloody wound on his forehead. It
was more of a bruise than a cut, but the flesh was broken and swollen.
“Nasty bump, Dad. I'll bet you'll have a headache. Go to camp and
bathe it in cold water. Then get Juan to bandage it.”
“All right,” replied his father. He forced himself to look up at Pan.
His eyes were warming out of deep strange shadows of pain, of horror.
“Son, I—I was kind of dazed when—when you—the fight come off.
. .. [heard the shots, but I didn’t see . . . Was it you who—who killed
Jard Hardman?”
“No, Dad,” replied Pan, placing a steady hand on his father’s shoulder.
Indeed he seemed more than physically shaken. “But I meant to.”
“Then how—who?—” choked Smith.
“Mac New shot him,” replied Pan, hurriedly. “Hardman accused Mac
of double-crossing me. Mac called him. I think Hardman tried to
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>
draw. But Mac killed him... .I got Purcell too late to save Mac.’
“Awful!” replied Smith, hoarsely.
“Pan, I seen Purcell’s eyes,” spoke up Blinky. “Shore he meant to
drop Mac an’ you in two shots. But he wasn’t quite previous enough.”
“I was—too slow myself,” rejoined Pan haltingly. “Mac New was an
outlaw, but he was white compared to Hardman.”
“Wal, it’s all over. Let’s kinda get set back in our saddles,” drawled
Blinky. “What’ll we do with them stiffs?”
“By George, that’s a stumper,” replied Pan, sitting down in the shade.
“Huh! Reckon you figger we ought to pack them back to Marco an’
give them church services,” said Blinky, in disgust. “Jest a couple of
two-bit rustlers!”
“Somebody will come out here after their bodies, surely. Dick Hard-
man would want to—”
“Mebbe someone will, but not thet hombre,” declared Blinky. “But
I’m gamblin’ Hardman’s outfit won’t break their necks tellin’ aboot
this. Now you jest see.”
“Well, let’s wait, then,” replied Pan. “Wrap them up in tarps and lay
them here in the shade.”
The trapped wild horses, cracking their hoofs and whistling in the
huge corrals, did not at the moment attract Pan or wean him away from
the deep unsettled condition of mind. As he passed the corral on the way
to the camp the horses moved with a trampling roar. The sound helped
him toward gaining a hold on his normal self.
The hour now was near sunset and the heat of day had passed. A cool
light breeze made soft low sound in the trees.
Pan found his father sitting with bandaged head beside the campfire,
apparently recovering somewhat.
“Did you take a peep at our hosses?” he asked.
“No, not yet,” replied Pan. “I reckon I will, though, before it gets
dark.”
“We've got a big job ahead.”
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
“That depends, Dad. If we can sell them here we haven’t any job
to speak of. How about it, Blink?”
“How aboot what?” inquired the cowboy, who had just come up.
“Dad’s worrying over what he thinks will be a big job. Handling
the horses we’ve caught.”
“Shore thet all depends. If we sell heah, fine an’ dandy. The other
fellar will have the hell. Reckon, though, we want to cut out a string of
the best hosses fer ourselves. Thet’s work, when you’ve got a big drove
millin’ round. Shore is lucky we built thet mile-round corral. There’s
water an’ feed enough to last them broomies a week, or longer on a
pinch.”
While they were talking Gus and Charley Brown returned to camp.
They were leading the horses that had been ridden by Hardman and
Purcell.
“Turn them loose, boys,” directed Pan, to whom they looked for
instructions.
Presently Gus handed Pan a heavy leather wallet and a huge roll of
greenbacks.
“Found the wallet on Purcell an’ the roll on Hardman,” said Gus.
“Wal, they shore was well heeled,” drawled Blinky.
“But what'll I do with all this?” queried Pan blankly.
“Pan, as you seem to forget, Hardman owed your dad money, reckon
you might rustle an’ hunt up Dick Hardman an’ give it to him. Say,
Dick’ll own the Yellow Mine now. Gee! He could spend all this in his
own joint.”
“Dad, you never told me how much Hardman did you out of,” said
Pan.
“Ten thousand in cash, an’ Lord only knows how many cattle.”
“So much! I'd imagined. . . . Say, Dad, will you take this money?”
“Yes, if it’s honest an’ regular for me to do so,” replied Smith stoutly.
“Regular? There’s no law in Marco. We’ve got to make our own laws.
Let it be a matter of conscience. Boys, this man Hardman ruined my
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
father. I heard that from a reliable source at Littleton before I ever got
here. Don’t you think it honest for Dad to take this money?”
“Shore, it’s more than thet,” replied Blinky. “I’d call it justice. If you
turned thet money over to law in Marco it’d go to Matthews. An’ you
can bet your socks he’d keep it.”
The consensus of opinion did not differ materially from Blinky’s.
“Dad, it’s a long trail that has no turning,” said Pan, tossing both wallet
and roll to his father. “Here’s to your new ranch in Arizona!”
Lying Juan soon called them to supper. It was not the usual cheery
meal, though Juan told an unusually atrocious lie, and Blinky made
several attempts to be funny. The sudden terrible catastrophe of the
day did not quickly release its somber grip.
After supper, however, there seemed to be a lessening of restraint,
with the conversation turning to the corrals full of wild horses.
“Wal, let’s go an’ look ’em over,” proposed Blinky.
Pan was glad to see his father able and eager to accompany them,
but he did not go himself.
“Come on, you wild-hoss trapper,” called Blinky. “We want to bet
on how rich we are.”
“T’'ll come, presently,” replied Pan.
He did not join them, however, but made his way along the north
slope to a high point where he could look down into the second corral.
It was indeed a sight to fill his heart—that wide mile-round grassy
pasture so colorful with its droves of wild horses. Black predominated,
but there were countless whites, reds, bays, grays, pintos. He saw a blue
roan that shone among the duller horses, too far away to enable Pan to
judge of his other points. Pan gazed with stern restraint, trying to
estimate the numbers without wild guess of enthusiasm.
“More than fifteen hundred,” he soliloquized at last, breathing hard.
“Too good to be true! Yet there they are... . If only that .. . well,
no matter. I didn’t force it. J wasn’t to blame . . . Maybe we can keep
it from mother and Lucy.”
[zy]
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
Pan did not start back to camp until after nightfall, when he heard
Blinky call.
“Say, you make a fellar nervous,” declared Blinky, in relief, as Pan
approached the bright campfire. “Wal, did you take a peep at em?”
“Yes. It’s sure a roundup,” replied Pan. “I’d say between fifteen and
sixteen hundred head.”
“Aw, you're just as locoed as any of us.”
Whereupon they fell into a great argument about the number of
horses; and though Pan had little part in it he gradually conceived an
idea that he had underestimated them.
“Say, fellows,” he said, breaking up the discussion, “if Hardman’s
gang raises a row in Marco we'll know tomorrow.”
“Shore, but I tell you they won’t,” returned Blinky doggedly.
“We'll look for trouble anyway. And meanwhile we'll go right on
with our job. That'll be roping and hobbling the horses we want to
keep. We'll turn them loose here, or build another corral. Hey, Blink ?—
How about a string for your ranch in Arizona?”
“Whoopee!” yelled the cowboy. Pan had heard Blinky yell that way
before. He clapped his hands over his ears, for no more mighty pealing
human sound than Blinky’s famous yell ever rose to the skies. When Pan
took his hands away from his ears he caught the clapping echoes, ring-
ing, prolonged, back from bluff to slope, winding away, to mellow, to
soften, to die in beautiful concatenation far up in the wild breaks of
the hills.
Pan lay awake in his blankets. He had retired early leaving his com-
panions continuing their arguments, their conjectures and speculations.
The campfire flared up and died down, according to the addition of
new fuel. The light flickered on the trees in fantastic and weird shadows.
At length there was only a dull red glow left, and quiet reigned. The
men had sought their beds.
Then the solemn wilderness shut down on Pan, with the loneliness
and solitude and silence that he loved. But this night there were burdens.
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
He could not sleep. He could not keep his eyes shut. What question
shone down in the pitiless stars? Something strange and inscrutable
weighed upon him. Was it a regurgitation of his early moods, when
first he became victim to the wildness of the ranges? Was it new-born
conscience, stirred by his return to his mother, by his love for Lucy?
He seemed to be haunted. Reason told him that it was well he had
come to fight for his father. He could not be blamed for the machina-
tions of evil men. He suffered no regret, no remorse. Yet there was some-
thing that he could not understand. It was a physical sensation that gave
him a chill creeping of his flesh. It was also a spiritual shrinking, a with-
drawing from what he knew not. He had to succumb to a power of
the unseen.
Other times he had felt the encroachment of this insidious thing, but
vague and raw. Whisky had been a cure. Temptation was now strong
upon him to seek his companions and dull his faculties with strong drink.
But he could not yield to that. Not now, with Lucy’s face like a wraith
floating in the starlight! He was conscious of a larger growth. He had
accepted responsibilities that long ago he should have taken up. He now
dreamed of love, home, children. Yet beautiful as was that dream it
could not be realized in these days without the deadly spirit and violence
to which he had just answered. That was the bitter anomaly.
Next morning, in the sweet cedar-tanged air and the rosy-gold of the
sunrise, Pan was himself again, keen for the day.
“Pard, you get first pick of the wild hosses,” announced Blinky.
“No, we'll share even,” declared Pan.
“Say, boy, reckon we’d not had any hosses this mawnin’ but fer you,”
rejoined his comrade. “An’ some of us might not hev been so lively an’
full of joy. Look at your dad! Shore you’d never think thet yestiddy he
had his haid broke an’ his heart, too. Now just would you?”
“Well, Blink, now you call my attention to it, Dad does look quite
chipper,” observed Pan calmly. But he felt a deep gladness for this fact
he so lightly mentioned.
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Blinky bent to his ear: “Pard, it was the money thet perked him up,”
whispered the cowboy.
Pan reflected that his father’s loss and continued poverty had cer-
tainly weakened him, dragged him down.
“Listen, Blink,” said Pan earnestly. “I don’t want to be a kill-joy.
Things do look wonderful for us. But I haven’t dared yet to let myself
go. You're a happy-go-lucky devil and Dad is past the age of fight. It
won't stay before his mind. But I feel fight. And I can’t be gay because
something tells me the fight isn’t over.”
“Wal, pard,” drawled Blinky, with his rare grin, “the way I feel
aboot fight is thet I ain’t worryin’ none if you’re around. . . . All the
same, old pard, I'll take your hunch, an’ you can bet your life Pll be
watchin’ like a hawk till we shake the dirty dust of Marco.”
“Good, Blinky, that will help me. We'll both keep our eyes open
today so we can’t be surprised by anybody.”
Pan’s father approached briskly, his face shining. He was indeed a
different man. “Boys, are we goin’ to loaf round camp all day?”
“No, Dad, we’re going to rope the best of the broomtails. Pll get a
chance to see you sling a lasso.”
“Say, I'd tackle it at that,” laughed his father.
“Blinky, trapping these wild horses and handling them are two dif-
ferent things,” remarked Pan thoughtfully. “Reckon I'll have to pass the
buck to you.”
“Wal, pard, I’m shore there. We'll chase all the hosses into the big
corral. Then we'll pick out one at a time, an’ if we cain’t rope him
without scarin’ the bunch too bad we'll chase him into the small corral.”
“Ah-uh! All right. But I'll miss my guess if we don’t have a hot
dusty old time,” replied Pan.
“Fellars,” called Blinky, “come ararin’ now, an’ don’t any of you
fergit your guns.”
“How about hobbles?” inquired Pan.
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
“T’ve got a lot of soft rope, an’ some burlap strips.”
Gus and Brown brought in the saddle horses, and soon the men were
riding down to the corrals. This was a most satisfactory incident for all
concerned, and there were none not keen and excited to see the wild
horses, to pick and choose, and begin the day’s work.
Upon their entrance to the first and smaller corral a string of lean,
ragged, wild-eyed mustangs trooped with a clattering roar back into
the larger corral.
“Wal, boys, the show begins,” drawled Blinky. “Mr. Smith, you an’
Charley take your stands by the gate, to open it when you see us comin’
with a broomie we want to rope. An’ Pan, you an’ me an’ Gus will ride
around easy like, not pushin’ the herd at all. They’ll scatter an’ mill
around till they’re tired. Then they’ll bunch. When we see one we want
we'll cut him out, an’ shore rope him if we get close enough. But I
reckon it’d be better to drive the one we want into the small corral,
rope an’ hobbie him, an’ turn him out into the pasture.”
The larger corral was not by any means round or level, and it was so
big that the mass of horses in a far corner did not appear to cover a
hundredth part of the whole space. There were horses all over the
corral, along the fences especially, but the main bunch were as far away
as they could get from their captors, and all faced forward, wild and
expectant.
It was a magnificent sight. Whether or not there was much fine stock
among them or even any, the fact remained that hundreds of wild
horses together in one drove, captive and knowing it, were collected in
this great trap. The intense vitality. of them, the vivid coloring, the
beautiful action of many and the statuesque immobility of the majority,
were thrilling and all satisfying to the hearts of the captors.
Pan and Blinky and Gus spread out to trot their mounts across the
intervening space. The wild horses moved away along the fence, and
halted to face about again. They let the riders approach to a hundred
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yards, then, with a trampling roar, they burst into action. Wild pointed
noses, ears, heads, manes and flying hoofs and tails seemed to spread
from a dark compact mass.
They ran to the other side of the corral, where the horsemen leisurely
followed them. Again they broke into mighty concerted action and into
thunder of hoofs. They performed this maneuver several times before
the riders succeeded in scattering them all over the pasture. Then with
wild horses running, trotting, walking, standing everywhere it was
easy to distinguish one from another.
“Regular lot of broomtails,” yelled Blinky to Pan. “Ain’t seen any yet
I'd give two bits fer. Reckon, as always, the good hosses got away.”
But Pan inclined to the opinion that among so many there were surely
a few fine animals. And so it proved. Pan’s first choice was a blue roan, a
rare combination of color, build and speed. The horse was a mare and
had a good head. She had a brand on her left flank. Pan rode around
after her, here, there, all over the field, but without help he could not
turn her where he wished.
He had to watch her closely to keep from losing sight of her among
so many moving horses, and he expected any moment that the boys
would come to his assistance. But they did not. Whereupon Pan faced
about, just in time to see a wonderful-looking animal shoot through
the open gate into the smaller corral. Blinky and Gus rode after him.
The gate was closed, and then began a chase round the corral. The
wild horse was at a disadvantage. He could not break through the solid
fence or leap over it, and presently two lassoes caught him at once, one
round his neck, the other his feet. As he went down, Pan heard the
piercing shrick. The two cowboys were out of their saddles in a
twinkling, and while Gus held the horse down Blinky hobbled his front
feet. Then they let him get up. Charley Brown ran to open another gate,
that led out into the unfenced pasture. This animal was a big chestnut,
with tawny mane. He leaped prodigiously, though fettered by the
hobbles. Then he plunged and fell and rolled over. He got up to try
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again. He was savage, grotesque, awkward. The boys drove him through
the gate.
“Whoopee!” pealed out Blinky’s yell.
“Reckon those boys know their business,” soliloquized Pan, and then
he yelled for them to come and help him.
It took some time for Pan to find his roan, but when he espied her,
and pointed her out to Blinky and Gus the chase began. It was a
leisurely performance. Pan did not run Sorrel once. They headed the
roan off, hedged her in a triangle, cut her out from the other horses,
and toward the open gate. When the mare saw this avenue of escape
she bolted through it.
Pan, being the farthest from the gate, was the last to follow. And when
he rode in, to head off the furiously running roan, Gus made a beautiful
throw with his lasso, a whirling wide loop that seemed to shoot per-
pendicularly across in front of her. She ran into it, and the violent
check brought her down. Blinky was almost waiting to kneel on her
head. And Gus, leaping off, hobbled her front feet. Snorting wildly she
got up and tried to leap. But she only fell. The boys roped her again and
dragged her out into the pasture.
“Aw, I don’t know,” sang Blinky, happily, “Two horses in two min-
utes! We ain’t so bad, fer cowboys out of a job.”
Warming to the work they went back among the circling animals.
But it was an hour before they cut out the next choice, a dark bay
horse, inconspicuous among so many, but one that proved on close
inspection to be the best yet. Gus had the credit of first espying this
one. ;
After that the picked horses came faster, until by noon they had ten
hobbled in the open pasture. Two of these were Pan’s. He had been hard
to please.
“Wal, we'll rest the hosses an’ go get some chuck,” suggested Blinky.
Early afternoon found them again hard at their task. The wild horses
had not only grown tired from trooping around the corral, but also
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somewhat used to the riders. That made choosing and driving and cut-
ting out considerably easier. Pan helped the boys with their choices, but
he had bad luck with his own. He had espied several beautiful horses
only to lose them in the throng of moving beasts. Sometimes, among a
large bunch of galloping horses, the dust made vision difficult. But at
length, more by good luck than management, Pan found one of those
he wanted badly. It was a black stallion, medium size, with white face,
and splendid proportions. Then he had to chase him, and do some hard
riding to keep track of him. No doubt about his speed! Without heading
him off or tricking him, not one of the riders could stay near him.
“Aw, I’m sick eatin’ his dust,” shouted Blinky, savagely.
Whereupon both Pan and Gus, inspired by Blinky, cut loose in dead
earnest. They drove him, they relayed him, they cornered him, and then
as he bolted to get between Gus and Pan, Blinky wheeled his horse and
by a mighty effort headed him with a lasso. That time both wild stallion
and lassoer bit the dust. Gus was on the spot in a twinkling, and as the
animal heaved to his feet, it was only to fall into another loop. Then the
relentless cowboys stretched him out and hobbled him.
“Heah, now, you fire-eyed—air-pawin’ hoss—go an’ get gentle,” panted
Blinky.
By the time the hunters had caught three others, which achievement
was more a matter of patience than violence, the herd had become pretty
well wearied and tamed. They crowded into a mass and moved in a
mass. It took some clever riding at considerable risk to spread them.
Fine horses were few and far between.
“Let’s call it off,” shouted Pan. “I’m satisfied if you are.”
“Aw, just one more, pard,” implored Blinky. “I’ve had my eye on a
little bay mare with four white feet. She’s got a V bar brand, and she’s
not so wild.”
They had to break up the bunch a dozen times before they could
locate the horse Blinky desired. And when Pan espied the bay he did
not blame Blinky, and from that moment, as the chase went on, he grew
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more and more covetous. What a horse for Lucy! Pan had been satisfied
with the blue roan for her but after he saw the little bay he changed
his mind.
The little animal was cunning. She relied more on crowding in among
the other horses than in running free, and therefore she was hard to
get out into the open. Blinky’s mount went lame; Gus’s grew so weary
that he could not keep up; but Pan’s Sorrel showed wonderful powers
of endurance. In fact he got better all the time. It began to dawn upon
Pan what a treasure he had in Sorrel.
“Aw, let the darn little smart filly go,” exclaimed Blinky, giving up in
disgust. “I never wanted her nohow.”
“Cowboy, she’s been my horse ever since you showed her to me,”
replied Pan. “But you didn’t know it.”
“Wal, you hoss-stealin’ son-of-a-gun!” ejaculated Blinky with pleasure.
“If you want her, we shore will run her legs off.”
In the end they got Little Bay—as Pan had already named her—into
the roping corral, along with two other horses that ran in with her.
And there Pan chased her into a corner and threw a noose round her
neck. She reared and snorted, but did not bolt.
“Hey, pard,” called Blinky, who was close behind. “Shore as you’re
born she knows what a rope is. See! She ain’t fightin’ it. I'll bet you my
shirt she’s not been loose long. Thet bar V brand now. New outfit on
me. Get off an’ haul up to her.”
Pan did not need a second suggestion. He was enraptured with the
beauty of the little bay. She was glossy in spite of long hair and dust
and sweat. Her nostrils were distended, her eyes wild, but she did not
impress Pan as being ready to kill him. He took time. He talked to her.
With infinite patience he closed up on her, inch by inch. And at last he
got a hand on her neck. She flinched, she appeared about to plunge, but
Pan’s gentle hand, his soothing voice kept her still. The brand on her
flank was old. Pan had no way to guess how long she had been free, but
he concluded not a great while, because she was not wild. He loosened.
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the noose of his lasso on her neck. It required more patience and dex-
terity to hobble her.
“Pard, this little bay is fer your gurl, huh?” queried Blinky, leaning in
his saddle.
“You guessed right, Blink,” answered Pan. “Little Bay! that’s her
name.”
“Wal, now you got thet off your chest s’pose you climb on your hoss
an’ look heah,” added Blinky.
The tone of his voice, the way he pointed over the cedar fence to the
slope, caused Pan to leap into his saddle. In a moment his sweeping
gaze caught horsemen and pack animals zigzagging down the trail.
“Tf it's Hardman’s outfit, by Gawd, they’re comin’ back with nerve,”
said Blinky. “But I never figgered they’d come.”
Pan cursed under his breath. How maddening to have his happy
thoughts so rudely broken! In a flash he was hard and stern.
“Ride, Blink,” he replied briefly.
They called the others and hurriedly got out of the corral into the
open.
“Reckon camp’s the best place to meet thet outfit, if they’re goin’
to meet us,” declared Blinky.
Pan’s father exploded in amazed fury.
“Cool off, Dad,” advised Pan. “No good to cuss. We’re in for some-
thing. And whatever it is, let’s be ready.”
They made their way back to camp with eyes ever on the zigzag trail,
where in openings among the cedars the horsemen could occasionally be
seen.
“Looks like a long string,” muttered Pan.
“Shore, but they’re stretched out,” added Gus. “’Pears to me if they
meant bad for us they wouldn’t come pilin’ right down thet way.”
“Depends on how many in the outfit and what they know,” said
Pan. “Hardman’s men sure knew we weren’t well heeled for a shooting
scrape.”
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“Pard, are you goin’ to let them ride right into camp?” queried Blinky,
hard faced and keen.
“I guess not,” replied Pan bluntly. “Rifle shot is near enough. They
might pretend to be friendly till they got to us. But we'll sure fool
them.”
Not much more was spoken until the approaching horsemen emerged
from the cedars at the foot of the slope. They rode straight toward the
camp.
“How many?” asked Pan. “I count six riders.”
“Seven fer me, an’ aboot as many pack horses... . Wal, I'll be
damned! Thet’s all of them.”
“Mebbe there’s a bunch up on the slope,” suggested Charley Brown.
After a long interval fraught with anxiety and suspense, during which
the horsemen approached steadily, growing more distinct, Blinky sud-
denly burst out: “Fellars, shore as you’re born it’s Wiggate.”
“The horse dealer from St. Louis!” ejaculated Pan in tremendous re-
lief. “Blink, I believe you’re right. I never saw one of those men before,
or the horses either.”
“It’s Wiggate, son,” corroborated Pan’s father. “I met him once. He’s
a broad heavy man with a thin gray chin beard. That’s him.”
“Aw, hell!” exclaimed Blinky, regretfully. “There won't be any fight
after all.”
_ The approaching horsemen halted within earshot.
“Hi, there, camp,” called the leader, whose appearance tallied with
Smith’s description.
“Hello,” replied Pan, striding out. -
“Who’s boss here?”
“Reckon I am.”
“My name’s Wiggate,” replied the other loudly.
“All right, Mr. Wiggate,” returned Pan just as loud voiced. “What’s
your business?”
“Friendly. Give my word. I want to talk horses.”
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“Come on up, then.”
Whereupon the group of horsemen advanced, and presently rode in
under the trees into camp. The foremost was a large man, rather florid,
with deep-set eyes and scant gray beard. His skin, sunburned red instead
of brown, did not suggest the westerner.
“Are you the younger Smith?” he asked, rather nervously eyeing Pan.
“Yesrer.”
“And you're in charge here?”
Pan nodded shortly. He sensed antagonism at least, in this man’s bluff
front, but it might not have been animosity.
“Word come to me this morning that you’d trapped a large number
of horses,” went on Wiggate. “I see that’s a fact. It’s a wonderful sight.
Of course you expect to make a deal for them?”
“Yes. No trading. No percentage. I want cash. They’re a shade better
stock than you’ve been buying around Marco. Better grass here, and
they’ve not been chased lean.”
“How many?”
“T don’t know. We disagree as to numbers. But I say close to fifteen
hundred head.”
“Good Lord!” boomed the big man. “It’s a haul indeed. . . . I'll give
you our regular price, twelve fifty, delivered in Marco.”
“No, thanks,” replied Pan.
“Thirteen.”
Pan shook his head.
“Well, young man, that’s the best offer made so far. What do you
want?”
“Tl sell for ten dollars a head, cash, and count and deliver them here
tomorrow.”
“Sold!” snapped out Wiggate. “I can pay you tomorrow, but it’ll take
another day to get my men out here.”
“Thank you—Mr. Wiggate,” replied Pan, suddenly rather halting in
speech. “That'll suit us.”
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“May we pitch camp here?”
“Sure. Get down and come in. Plenty of water and wood. Turn your
horses loose. They can’t get out.”
Pan had to get away then for a while from his father and the exuberant
Blinky. How could they forget the dead men over there still unburied?
Pan had read in Wiggate’s look and speech and in the faces of his men,
that they had been told of the killing, and surely to the discredit of Pan
and his followers. Pan vowed he would put Wiggate in possession of
the facts. He gave himself some tasks, all the while trying to realize the
truth. Fortune had smiled upon him and Blinky. Rich in one drive—
at one fell swoop! It was unbelievable. The retrieving of his father’s
losses, the new ranches in sunny Arizona, comfort and happiness for
his mother, for Bobby and Alice—and for Lucy all that any reasonable
woman could desire—these beautiful and sweet dreams had become
possibilities. All the loneliness and privation of his hard life on the
ranges had been made up for in a few short days. Pan’s eyes dimmed,
and for a moment he was not quite sure of himself.
Later he mingled again with the men round the campfire. Some of
he restraint had disappeared, at least in regard to Wiggate and his men
oward everybody except Pan. That nettled him and at an opportune
noment he confronted the horse buyer.
“How’d you learn about this drive of ours?” he asked, briefly.
“Fardman’s men rode in to Marco this morning,” replied Wiggate,
‘oldly.
“Ah-uh! And they told a cock-and-bull story about what happened out
rere!” flashed Pan hotly.
“It placed you in a bad light, young man.”
“I reckon. Well, if you or any of your outfit or anybody else calls me
horse thief he wants to go for his gun. Do you understand that?”
“It’s pretty plain English,” replied Wiggate, manifestly concerned.
“And here’s some more. Jard Hardman was a horse thief,” went on
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Pan in rising passion. “He was a low-down yellow horse thief. He hired
men to steal for him. And by God, he wasn’t half as white as the outlaw
who killed him!”
“Outlaw? I declare—we—I—Do you mean you’re an—” floundered
Wiggate. “We understood you killed Hardman.”
“Hell, no!” shouted Blinky, aflame with fury, bursting into the argu-
ment. “We was all there. We saw—”
“Blink, you keep out of this till I ask you to talk,” ordered Pan.
“Smith, I’d like to hear what he has to say.”
“Wiggate, you listen to me first,” rejoined Pan, with no lessening of
his intensity. “There are three dead men across the field, not yet buried.
Hardman, his man Purcell, and the outlaw Mac New. He called himself
Hurd. He was one of Hardman’s jailers there in Marco. But I knew
Hurd as Mac New, back in Montana. I saved him from being hanged.”
Pan moistened lips too dry and too hot for his swift utterance, and
then he told in stern brevity the true details of that triple killing. After
concluding, with white face and sharp gesture, he indicated to his men
that they were to corroborate his statement.
“Mr. Wiggate, it’s God’s truth,” spoke up Pan’s father, earnestly. “It
was just retribution. Hardman robbed me years ago.”
“Wal, Mr. Wiggate, my say is thet itll be damned onhealthy fer any-
body who doesn’t believe my pard,” added Blinky, in slow dark menace.
Gus stepped forward without any show of the excitement that char-
acterized the others.
“Tf you need evidence other than our word, it’s easy to find,” he said.
“Mac New’s gun was not the same caliber as Pan’s. An’ as the bullet
thet killed Hardman is still in his body it can be found.”
“Gentlemen, that isn’t necessary,” replied Wiggate, hastily, with a
shudder. “Not for me. But my men can substantiate it. That might
sound well in Marco. For I believe that your young leader—Panhandle
Smith, they call him—is not so black as he has been painted.”
[ 190 ]
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE following morning, while Pan was away for a few hours deer
hunting, Wiggate’s men, accompanied by Blinky, attended to the grue-
some detail of burying the dead men.
Upon Pan’s return he learned of this and experienced relief that
Wiggate had taken the responsibility. Wiggate had addressed him
several times, civilly enough, but there was a restraint that Pan sensed
often in his encounter with men. They were usually men who did not
understand westerners like himself.
Wiggate had all his men, except the one he had sent back to Marco,
with several of Pan’s engaged in counting the captured wild horses. It
was a difficult task and could hardly be accurate in short time.
“Anxious to get back to Marco?” queried Wiggate, not unkindly as
he saw Pan’s restlessness.
“Yes, I am, now the job’s done,” replied Pan heartily.
“Well, I wouldn’t be in any hurry, if I were you,” said the horse
dealer, bluntly.
“What do you mean?” queried Pan.
“Young Hardman is to be reckoned with.”
“Bah!” burst out Pan in a scorn that was rude, though he meant it
for Hardman. “That pop-eyed skunk! What do I care for him?”
“Excuse me, I would not presume to advise you,” returned Wiggate
stiffly.
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“Aw, I beg your pardon, Mr. Wiggate,” apologized Pan. “I know you
mean well. And I sure thank you.”
Wiggate did not answer, but he took something from his vest pocket.
It was a lead bullet, slightly flattened.
“Let me see your gun?” he asked.
Pan handed the weapon to him, butt first. Wiggate took it gingerly,
and tried to fit the bullet in a chamber of the cylinder, and then in the
barrel. It was too large to go in.
“This is the bullet that killed Hardman,” said Wiggate gravely. “It was
never fired from your gun, I shall take pains to make this evident in
Marco.”
“JT don’t know that it matters but I’m sure much obliged,” returned Pan
with warmth.
“Well, Pll do it anyhow. I’ve been fooled by Hardman and, if you
want to know it, cheated too. That’s why I broke with him.”
“Hope you didn’t have any other association with him—besides this
horse buying.”
“No, but I’m lucky I didn’t.”
“Hardman had his finger in a lot of things in Marco. I wonder who'll
take them up. Say, for instance some of the gold claims he jumped.”
“Well! I knew Hardman had mining interests, but I thought they
were legitimate. It’s such a queer mixed-up business, this locating, work-
ing, and selling claims. I want none of it.”
“Hardman’s men, either at his instigation or Dick’s, deliberately ran
two of my men out of their claims. They'll tell you so.”
“I’m astonished. I certainly am astonished,” replied Wiggate, and he
looked it.
“Marco is the hardest town I ever rode into,” declared Pan. “And I
thought some of the prairie towns were bad. But I see now that a few
wild cowboys, going on a spree, and shooting up a saloon, or shooting
each other occasionally, was tame beside Marco.”
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“You're right. Marco is a hard place, and getting worse. There’s con-
siderable gold. The new Eldorado idea, you know. It draws lawless men
and women from places that are beginning to wake up. And they prey
upon honest men.”
“Did the Yellow Mine belong to Hardman?” asked Pan curiously.
“Him and Matthews. Young Hardman claims it. He’s already clashed
with Matthews, so I heard.”
“He'll do more than clash with Matthews, if he isn’t careful. He'll
cash!” declared Pan grimly. “Matthews is a four-flush sheriff. He
wouldn’t face a dangerous man. But he’d make short work of Dick
Hardman.”
“If I’m not inquisitive in asking—would you mind telling me, do you
mean to meet Matthews and young Hardman?” inquired Wiggate,
hesitatingly.
“Tl avoid them if possible,” rejoined Pan. “Dad and I will get out of
Marco pretty pronto. We’re going to Arizona and homestead.”
“That’s sensible. You'll have money enough to start ranching. I wish
you luck. I shall make this my last horse deal out here. It’s profitable,
but Marco is a little too—too raw for my blood.”
According to figures that the counters agreed upon there were four-
teen hundred and eighty-six wild horses in the trap.
Wiggate paid cash upon the spot. He had some bills of large denomina-
tion, but most of the money was in rather small bills. Pan made haste
to get rid of all except his share. He doubled the wages of those who had
been hired. Then he divided what was left with Blinky.
“My—Gawd!” gasped that worthy, gazing with distended eyes at the
enormous roll of bills. “My Gawd! . . . How much heah?”
“Count it, you wild-eyed cowpuncher,” replied Pan happily. “It’s
your half.”
“But, pard, it’s too much,” appealed Blinky. “Shore I’m robbin’ you.
This was your drive.”
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“Yes, and it was your outfit,” returned Pan. “You furnished the packs,
horses, location, and I furnished the execution. Looks like a square deal,
share and share alike.”
“All right, pard,” replied Blinky, swallowing hard. “If you reckon
thet way... . But will you keep this heah roll fer me?”
“Keep it yourself, you Indian.”
“But, pard, I’ll get drunk an’ go on a tear. An’ you know how bad
I am when I get lickered up.”
“Blink, you’re not going to drink, unless in that one deal I hinted
about,” said Pan meaningly. “Hope we can avoid it.”
“Aw, we're turnin’ over a new leaf, huh?” queried the cowboy in the
strangest voice.
“You are, Blink,” replied Pan with a frank, serious smile. “I’ve been
a respectable sober cowboy for some time. You've been terrible bad.”
“Who said so?” retorted Blinky, aggressively.
“T heard it at the Yellow Mine.”
That name, and the implication conveyed by Pan made Blinky drop
his head. But his somber shame quickly fled.
“Wal, pard, I'll stay sober as long as you. Shake on it.”
Pan made his plans to leave next morning as early as the wild horses
they had hobbled could be gotten into shape to travel. Wiggate expected
the riders he had sent for to arrive before noon the next day; and it was
his opinion that he would have all the horses he had purchased out
of there in a week. Pan and Blinky did not share this opinion.
Wiggate and his men were invited to try one of Lying Juan’s suppers,
which was so good that Juan had the offer of a new job. Upon being
urged by Pan to accept it, he did so.
“I can recommend Lying Juan as the best cook and most truthful man
I ever knew,” remarked Pan.
Blinky rolled on the ground.
“Haw! Haw! Wait till Lyin’ Juan tells you one of his whoppers.”
“Lying Juan! I see. | was wondering about such a queer name for a
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
most honest man,” replied Wiggate. “I know he’s a capital cook. And I
guess I can risk the rest.”
After supper Pan and Blinky took great pains cutting and fixing the
ropes which they intended to use on the wild horses that were to be taken
along with them.
“Wal, now thet’s done, an’ I reckon I'd write to my sweetheart, only
I don’t know nothin’ to write aboot,” said Blinky.
“Go to bed,” ordered Pan. “We've got to be up and at those horses
by daylight. You ought to know that tieing the feet of wild horses is
sure enough work.”
Next morning it was not yet daylight when Blinky drawled: “Wal,
cowboys, we've rolled out. wrangled the i hi swallered some chuck,
an’ now fer the hell!”
In the gray of dawn when the kindling east had begun to dwarf
the glory of the morning star, the cowboys drove all the hobbled horses
into the smaller corral. There they roped off a corner and hung a white
tarpaulin over the rope. This was an improvised second corral where
they would put the horses, one by one, as they tied up their feet.
Blinky and Gus made one unit to work together, and Pan, his father,
and Brown constituted another.
Blinky, as usual, got in the first throw, and the hungry loop of his
lasso circled the front feet of the plunging roan. He stood on his head,
fell on his side, and struggled vainly to get up. But he was in the iron
hands of masters of horses. Every time the roan half rose, Blinky would
jerk him down. Presently Gus flopped down on his head and, while
the horse gave up for a moment, Blinky slipped the noose off one foot
and tied the other foot up with it. They let the roan rise. On three feet
he gave a wonderful exhibition of bucking. When he slowed down they
drove him behind the rope corral.
“The night’s gone, the day’s come, the work’s begun,” sang out Blinky.
“Eat dust, you buckaroos.”
Pan chose the little bay to tie up first. But after he had roped her and
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got up to her there did not appear to be any urgent reason for such
stringent measure. Little Bay was spirited, frightened, but not wild.
“T'll risk it,” said Pan, and led her to the rope corral.
The sun rose hot and, likewise, the dust. The cowboys did not
slacken their pace! It took two hours of exceedingly strenuous labor to
tie up all the wild horses. Each horse had presented a new fight. Then
came the quick job of packing their outfits, which Juan had gotten
together. Everyone of the men had been kicked, pulled, knocked down,
and so coated with sweat and dust that they now resembled Negroes.
Their hands were fairly cooked from the hot ropes’ sizzling when the
horses plunged. And at nine o’clock they were ready for the momentous
twenty-five mile drive to Marco.
“All ready for the parade!” yelled Blinky. “Go ahaid, you fellars. Open
the gate, an’ leave it fer me to close.”
Pan and the others were to ride in front, while Blinky drove the
horses. The need for men was in front, not behind. As they started down
the wing of the trap to open the gate the roped wild horses began a
terrific plunging, kicking, bucking and falling down. Some of them
bit the rope on their feet. But little by little Blinky drove them out
into the open. Pan and his father dropped back to each side, keeping
the horses in a close bunch. That left Gus and Brown in front to run
down those that tried to escape. The white-footed stallion was the first
to make a break. He ran almost as well on three feet as on four, and
it took hard riding to catch him, turn him and get him back in the
bunch. The next was Pan’s roan. He gave a great deal of trouble.
“Haw! Haw! Thet’s Pan’s hoss. Kill him! I guess mebbe Pan cain’t
pick out the runners.”
When the wild horses got out of the narrow gateway between bluff
and slope they tried to scatter. The riders had their hands full. Riding,
shooting, yelling, swinging their ropes, they moved the horses forward
and kept them together. They were learning to run on three feet and
tried hard to escape. Just when the melee grew worst they reached the
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
cedar fence, only half of which had been burned by the resentful
Hardman outfit, and this obstruction was of signal help to the riders.
Once more in a compact bunch, the wild horses grew less difficult to
handle.
As Pan rode up the ridge leading out of the valley he turned to have a
last look at this memorable place. To his amaze and delight he saw
almost as many wild horses as before the drive.
“Gee, I’m greedy,” he muttered. “Lucky as I’ve been, I want to stay
and make another drive.”
“Wal, pard, I’m readin’ your mind,” drawled Blinky. “But don’t
feel bad. If we tried thet drive again we might ketch a few. But you
cain’t fool them broomies twice the same way.”
Another difficulty soon presented itself. Several of the wild horses
could not learn to travel well on three feet.
“Reckon they’ve had long enough trial. We gotta cut them loose,”
said Blinky.
“We'll lose them sure,” complained Pan.
“Mebbe so. But we cain’t do nothin’ else. It’s mighty strange, the dif-
ference in hosses. Same as people, come to think aboot it. Some hosses
learn quick, an’ now an’ then there’s one like thet stallion. He can run
like hell. Most wild hosses fight an’ worry themselves, an’ quick as they
learn to get along on three feet they make the best of it. Some have to
be cut loose. Fact is, pard, we’ve got a mighty fine bunch, an’ we’re
comin’ along better’n I expected. . . . Loose your lasso now, cowboy,
for you'll shore need it.”
The need of that scarcely had to be dwelt on, for the instant Gus and
Blinky cut loose a poor traveler, he made a wild dash for liberty. But he
ran right into a hateful lasso. This one let out a piercing whistle.
All the time the riders were moving the bunch forward down into
flat country between gray brushy hills. Evidently this wide pass opened
into a larger valley. The travel was mostly over level ground, which
facilitated the progress.
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It took two men to lasso a horse, hold his ears, cut the rope round
his legs, release the noose on his neck and let him go. They could not
afford to lose any precious second over this job. Time was too badly
needed.
The parade, as Blinky had called it, made only a few miles an hour,
and sometimes this advance was not wholly in the right direction.
Nevertheless the hours seemed to fly. There was no rest for horses or
men. The afternoon had begun to wane before the horses had all made
up their minds that fighting and plunging was of no avail. Weary, ex-
hausted, suffering from the bound up legs, they at last surrendered.
Whereupon Blinky and Gus cut their feet loose. Sometimes the whole
bunch would have to be held up for one horse that, upon release, could
not use his freed foot. Pan had an idea the horses did not want that
tried on them twice. They showed intelligence. This method was not
breeding the horses for saddle and bridle, which was of course the main
consideration to come, but it certainly tamed them. It was a little too
cruel for Pan to favor.
“Wal, we'll shore be lucky if we make Snyder’s pasture tonight,”
remarked Blinky. “No hope of makin’ Marco.”
Pan had never expected to do so, and therefore was not disappointed.
His heart seemed so full and buoyant that he would not have minded
more delay. Indeed he rode in the clouds.
The pass proved to be longer than it looked, but at last the drove of
horses was headed into the wide flat country toward the west. And soon
trail grew into road. The sunset dusk mantled the sweeping prairielike
valley, and soon night fell, cool and windy. The wild horses slowed to
a walk and had to be driven to do that. Pan felt that he shared their
thirst.
When at about ten o’clock, Blinky espied through the gloom land-
marks that indicated the pasture he was seeking, it was none too soon
for Pan.
“Water an’ grass heah, but no firewood handy,” announced Blinky,
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as they turned the horses into the pasture. “Fellar named Snyder used
to ranch heah. It didn’t pay. This little pasture is lucky fer us. I was
heah not long ago. Good fence, an’ we can round up the bunch easy in
the mawnin’.”
The weary riders unpacked the outfit, took a long deep drink of the
cold water, and unrolling their tarps went supperless to bed. Pan’s eyes
closed as if with glue and his thoughts wavered, faded.
Pan’s father was the first to get up, but already the sun was before
him. Pan saw him limp around, and leave the pasture to return with
an armful of fire wood.
“Pile out!” he yelled. “It’s Siccane, Arizona, or bust!”
One by one the boys rolled from their beds. Pan was the only one
who had to pull on his boots. Somebody found soap and towel, which
they fought over. The towel had not been clean before this onslaught.
Afterward it was unrecognizable. Gus cooked breakfast which, judged
from the attack upon it, was creditable to him.
“Wal, our hosses are heah,” said Blinky, cheerfully. “Reckon I was
afeared they’d jump the fence. We may have a little hell on the start.”
“Blink, you don’t aim to tie up their feet again, do you?” inquired
Pan anxiously.
“Nope. They had all they wanted of thet. Mebbe they’ll try to bust
away first off. But our hosses are fresh, too. I’m gamblin’ in three hours
we'll have them in your dad’s corral.”
“Then we don’t have to drive through Marco?”
“Shore not. We’re on the main road thet passes your dad’s. Reckon it’s
aboot eight miles or so.” ;
“Say, Blink, do we take this road on our way south to Siccane?”
“Yep. It’s the only road. You come in on it by stage. It runs north
and south. Not very good road this way out of Marco.”
“Then, by golly, we can leave our new horses here,” exclaimed Pan
gladly.
“Wal, I'll be goldarned. Where’s my haid? Shore we can. It’s a first-
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rate pasture, plenty of water, an’ fair grass. But I'll have to go in town,
thet’s damn shore, you know. An’ we cain’t leave these hosses heah
unguarded.”
“Gus, will you and Brown stay here? We'll leave grub and outfit.”
Brown had to refuse, and explained that he was keen to get back to
his mining claim, which he believed now he would be able to work.
“T’ll stay,” said Gus. “It’s a good idee. Workin’ with these hosses a
day or two will get ’em fit to travel. An’ I reckon I’d like a job with you,
far as Siccane anyway.”
“You've got it, and after we reach Siccane, too, if you want one,”
replied Pan quickly.
The deal was settled to the satisfaction of all concerned.
“How aboot our pack hosses?” asked Blinky. “Course Charley will
have to take his, but will we need ours? I mean will we have to pack them
from heah?”
“No, all that stuff can go in the wagons,” replied Pan. “We'll need
three wagons, anyhow. Maybe more. Dad, how much of an outfit have
you at home?”
“You saw it, son,” said Smith, with a laugh. “Mine would go in a
saddlebag. But I reckon the women folks will have a wagon load.”
“Rustle. Pm ararin’ to go,” yelled Pan, striding out into the pasture
to catch his horse. In the exuberance of the moment Pan would have
liked to try conclusions with the white-footed stallion or the blue roan,
but he could not spare the time. He led Sorrel back to camp and saddled
him. Blinky and Pan’s father were also saddling their mounts.
“Tl take it easy,” explained Charley Brown, who had made no move.
“My claim is over here in the hills not very far.”
“Brown, I’m sorry you won’t go south with us,” said Pan warmly,
as he shook hands with the miner. “You've sure been a help. And I’m
glad we’ve—well, had something to do with removing the claim
jumpers.”
As Pan rode out that morning on the sorrel, to face north on the road
by
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to Marco, he found it hard to contain himself. This hour was the very
first in which he could let himself think of the glorious fulfillment of
his dream.
His father was too lame to ride fast and Pan, much as he longed to
rush, did not want to leave him behind. But it was utterly impossible for
Pan to enter into the animated conversation carried on by his father
and Blinky. They were talking wagons, teams, harness, grain, home-
steads and what not. Pan rode alone, a little ahead of them.
Almost, he loved this wild and rugged land. But that was the ecstasy
of the moment. This iron country was too cut up by mountains, with
valleys too bare and waterless, to suit Pan. Not to include the rough
and violent element of men attracted by gold!
Nevertheless on this bright autumn morning there was a glamour
over valley and ridge, black slope and snowy peak, and the dim distant
ranges. The sky was as blue as the inside of a columbine, a rich and
beautiful light of gold gilded the wall of rock that boldly cropped out
of the mountainside; and the wide sweeping expanse of sage lost itself
in a deep purple horizon. Ravens and magpies crossed Pan’s glad eye-
sight. Jack rabbits bounded down the aisles between the sage bushes.
Far out on the plain he descried antelope, moving away with their tell-
tale white rumps. The air was sweet, intoxicating, full of cedar fragrance
and the cool breath from off the heights.
While he saw and felt all this his mind scintillated with thoughts of
Lucy Blake. He would see her presently, have the joy of surprising her
into betrayal of love. He fancied her wide eyes of changing dark blue,
and the swift flame of scarlet that so readily stained her neck and
cheek.
He would tell her about the great good fortune that had befallen him;
and about the beautiful mare, Little Bay, he had captured for her; and
now they could talk and plan endlessly, all the way down to Siccane.
When would Lucy marry him? That was a staggering question. His
heart swelled to bursting. Had he the courage to ask her at once? He
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tried to see the matter from Lucy’s point of view, but without much
success.
Dreaming thus, Pan rode along without being aware of the time or
distance.
“Hey, pard,” called Blinky, in loud banter. “Are you goin’ to ride past
where your gurl lives?”
With a violent start Pan wheeled his horse. He saw that he had indeed
ridden beyond the entrance to a farm, which upon second look he rec-
ognized. It was, however, an angle with which he had not been familiar.
The corrals and barn and house were hidden in trees.
“T’m loco, all right,” he replied with a little laugh.
Through gate and lane they galloped, on to the corral, and round that
to the barn. This was only a short distance to the house. Pan leaped from
his horse and ran.
With an uplift of his heart that was almost pain, he rushed round the
corner of the house to the vine-covered porch.
The door was shut. Stealthily he tiptoed across the porch to knock.
No answer! He tried the door. Locked! A quiver ran through him.
“Strange,” he muttered, “not home this early.”
He peered through the window, to see on floor and table ample
evidence of recent packing. That gave check to a creeping blankness
which was benumbing Pan. He went on to look into his mother’s bed-
room. The bed looked as if it had been used during the night and had
not been made up. Perhaps his mother and Lucy had gone into Marco
to purchase necessities.
“But—didn’t I tell Lucy not to go?” he queried, in bewilderment.
Resolutely he cast out doubtful speculations. There could hardly be
anything wrong. Hurriedly he returned to the barn.
“Wal, I'll tell you,” Blinky was holding forth blandly, “this heah grub-
bin’ around without a home an’ a woman ain’t no good. I’m shore ~
through. I’m agoin’-—”
“Nobody home,” interrupted Pan.
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“Well, that’s nothin’ to make you pale round the gills,” returned his
father. “They’re gone to town. Mother had a lot of buyin’ to do.”
“But I particularly told Lucy to stay here.”
“S’pose you did,” interposed Blinky. “Thet’s nothin’. You don’t expect
this heah gurl to mind you.”
“No time for joking, Blink,” said Pan curtly. “It just doesn’t set right
on my chest. I’ve got to find Lucy pronto. But where to go!”
With a single step he reached his stirrup and swung into his saddle.
“Pan, Lucy an’ the wife will be in one of the stores. Don’t worry about
them. Why, they did all our buyin’.”
“T tell you I don’t like it,” snapped Pan. “It’s not what I think, but
what I feel. All the same, wherever they are it doesn’t change our plans.
I'll sure find them, and tell them we’re packing to leave pronto... .
Now, Dad, buy three wagons and teams, grain, grub, and whatever else
we need for two weeks or more on the road. Soon as J find Lucy and
Mother I'll meet you and help you with the buying.”
“T ought to talk it over with Ma before I buy grub,” replied his father,
perplexedly scratching his head. “I wish they was home.”
“Come on, Blink,” called Pan, as he rode out.
Blinky joined him out in the road.
“Pard, I don’t get your hunch, but I can see you’re oneasy.”
“T’m just loco, that’s all,” returned Pan, forcing himself. “It’s—such—
such a disappointment not to see—her. . . . Made me nervous. Makes
me think how anything might happen. I never trusted Jim Blake. And
Lucy is only a kid in years.”
“Ahuh,” said Blinky, quietly. “Reckon I savvy. You wouldn’t feel
thet way fer nothin’.”
“Blink, I’m damn glad you’re with me,” rejoined Pan feelingly, turn-
ing to face his comrade. “No use to bluff with you. I wish to heaven I
could say otherwise, but I’m afraid there’s something wrong.”
“Shore. Wal, we'll find out pronto,” replied Blinky, with his cool hard
spirit, “an’ if there is, we'll damn soon make it right.”
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They rode rapidly until they reached the outskirts of town, when
Blinky called Pan to a halt.
“Reckon you'd better not ride through Main Street,” he said sig-
nificantly.
They tied their horses behind a clump of trees between two deserted
shacks. Pan removed his ragged chaps, more however to be freer of
movement than because they were disreputable.
“Now, Blink, we’ll know pronto if the town is friendly to us,” he said
seriously.
“Huh! I ain’t carin’ a whoop, but I'll gamble we could own the town.
This fake minin’, ranchin’, hoss-dealin’ Hardman was a hunk of bad
cheese. Pard, are you goin’ to deny you killed him? Fer shore they’ve
been told thet.”
“No. Wiggate can do the telling. All I want is to find Lucy and send
her back home, then buy our outfit and rustle.”
“Sounds pretty. But I begin to feel hunchy myself. Let’s have a drink,
Pan.”
“We're not drinking, cowboy,” retorted Pan.
“Ain’t we? Excuse me. Shore I figgered a good stiff drink would help
some. I tell you I’ve begun to get hunches.”
“What kind?”
“No kind at all. Just feel that all’s not goin’ the way we hope. But
it’s your fault. It’s the look you got. I’d hate to see you hurt deep,
pard.”
They passed the wagon shop where Pan’s father had been employed,
then a vacant lot on one side of the street and framed tents on the other.
Presently they could see down the whole of Main Street. It presented
the usual morning atmosphere and color, though Pan fancied there was
more activity than usual. That might have been owing to the fact that
both the incoming and outgoing stages were visible far up at the end of
the street.
Pan strained his eyes at people near and far, seeking first some sign of
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Lucy, and secondly someone he could interrogate. Soon he would reach
the first store. But before he got there he saw his mother emerge, drag-
ging Bobby, who evidently wanted to stay. Then Alice followed. Both
she and her mother were carrying bundles. Pan’s heart made ready for
a second and greater leap—in anticipation of Lucy’s appearance. But
she did not come.
“Hello, heah’s your folks, pard, figgerin’ from looks,” said Blinky.
“What a cute kid! . . . Look there!”
Pan, striding ahead of Blinky saw his mother turn white and reel as
if about to faint. Pan got to her in time.
“Mother! Why, Mother,” he cried, in mingled gladness and distress.
“Tt’s me. I’m all right. What'd you think? . . . Hello, Bobby, old dirty
face .. . Alice, don’t stare at me. I’m here in the flesh.”
His mother clung to him with hands like steel. Her face and eyes were
both terrible and wonderful to see. “Pan! Pan! You’re alive? Oh, thank
God! They told us you’d been shot.”
“Me? Well, I guess not. I’m better than ever, and full of good news,”
went on Pan hurriedly. “Brace up, Mother. People are looking. There
... Dad is out home. We’ve got a lot to do. Where’s Lucy?”
“Oh, God—my son, my son!” cried Mrs. Smith, her eyes rolling.
“Hush!” burst out Pan, with a shock as if a blade had pierced his
heart. He shook her not gently. “Where is Lucy?”
His mother seemed impelled by his spirit, and she wheeled to point
up the street.
“Lucy! There—in that stage—leaving Marco!”
“For God’s—sake!” gasped Pan. “What’s this? Lucy! Where’s she
going?”
“Ask her yourself,” she cried passionately.
Something terrible seemed to crash inside Pan. Catastrophe! It was
here. His mother’s dark eyes held love, pity, and passion, which last was
not for him.
“Mother, go home at once,” he said swiftly. “Tell Dad to rush buying
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those wagons. You and Alice pack. We shake the dust of this damned
town. Don’t worry. Lucy will leave with us!”
Then Pan broke into long springy strides, almost a run. Indeed Blinky
had to run to keep up with him. “I told you, pard,” said his comrade,
huskily. “Hell to pay! the luck!”
Pan had only one conscious thought—to see Lucy. All else seemed
damming behind flood gates.
People rushed into the street to get out of the way of the cowboys.
Others stared and made gestures. Booted men on the porch of the Yellow
Mine stamped noisily as they trooped to get inside. Voices of alarm and
mirth rang out. Pan took only a fleeting glance into the wide doorway.
He saw nothing, thought nothing. His stride quickened as he passed
Black’s store, where more men crowded to get inside.
“Save your—wind, pard,” warned Blinky. “You might—need it.”
They reached the end of the street and across the wide square stood
the outgoing stage, before the express office. There was no driver on the
front seat. Smith, the agent, was emerging from the office with mailbags.
“Slow up, pard,” whispered Blinky, at Pan’s elbow.
Pan did as he was advised, though his stride still retained speed.
Impossible to go slowly! There were passengers in the stagecoach. When
Pan reached the middle of the street he saw the gleam of golden hair
that he knew. Lucy! Her back was turned to him. And as he recognized
her, realized he had found her, there burst forth in his mind a thunder-
ing clamor of questioning voices.
A few more strides took him round the stage. Men backed away from
him. The door was open.
“Lucy!” he called, and his voice seemed to come piercingly from a
far-off place.
She turned a strange face, but he knew her eyes, saw the swift transi-
tion, the darkening, widening. How white she turned! What was this?
Agony in recognition! A swift unuttered blaze of joy that changed to
terror. He saw her lips frame his name, but no sound came.
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“Lucy!” he cried. “What does this mean? Where are you going?”
She could not speak. But under her pallor the red of shame began to
burn. Pan saw it, and he recognized it. Mutely he gazed at the girl as
her head slowly sank. Then he asked hoarsely: “What’s it mean?”
“Pard, take a peep round heah,” drawled Blinky in slow cool speech
that seemed somehow to carry menace.
Pan wheeled. He had the shock of his life. He received it before his
whirling thoughts recorded the reason. It was as if he had to look
twice. Dick Hardman! Fashionably and wonderfully attired! Pan got
no farther than sight of the frock coat, elaborate vest, flowing tie, and
high hat. Then for a second he went blind.
When the red film cleared he saw Hardman pass him, saw the pallor
of his cheek, the quivering of muscle, the strained protruding of his eye.
He got one foot on the stage step when Pan found release for his voice.
“Hardman!”
That halted the youth, as if it had been a rope, but he never turned
his head. The shuffling of feet inside the coach hinted of more than rest-
lessness. There was a scattering of men from behind Pan.
He leaped at Hardman and spun him round.
“Where are you going?”
“Frisco, if it’s—any of your business,” replied Hardman incoherently.
“Looks like I'll make it my business,” returned Pan menacingly. He
could not be himself here. The shock had been too great. His mind
seemed stultified.
“Hardman—do you mean—do you think—you’re taking her—away?”
queried Pan, as if strangling.
“Ha!” returned Hardman with an upfling of head, arrogant, vain for
all his fear. “I know it. . . . She’s my wife!”
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CHAPTER SIXTEEN
DESTRUCTION, death itself seemed to overthrow Panhandle Smith’s
intensity of life. He reeled on his feet. For a moment all seemed opaque,
with blurred images. There was a crash, crash, crash of something beat-
ing at his ears.
How long this terrible oblivion possessed Pan he did not know. But
at Hardman’s move to enter the stage, he came back a million times
more alive than ever he had been—possessed of devils.
With one powerful lunge he jerked Hardman back and flung him
sprawling into the dust.
“There! Once more! ...” cried Pan, panting. “Remember—the
schoolhouse? That fight over Lucy Blake! Damn your skunk soul! ...
Get up, zf you’ve got a gun!”
Hardman leaned on his hand. His high hat had rolled away. His
broadcloth suit was covered with dust. But he did not note these details
of his abasement. Like a craven thing fascinated by a snake he had his
starting eyes fixed upon Pan, and his face was something no man could
bear to see.
“Get up—if you’ve got a gun!” ordered Pan.
“T’ve no—gun—” he replied, in husky accents.
“Talk, then. Maybe I can keep from killing you.”
“For God’s sake—don’t shoot me. Ill tell you anything.”
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“Hardman, you say you—you married my—this girl?” rasped out Pan,
choking over his words as if they were poison, unable to speak of Lucy
as he had thought of her all his life.
“Yes—I married her.”
“Who married you?”
“A parson from Salt Lake. Matthews got him here.”
“Ah-uh!—Matthews. How did you force her?”
“I swear to God she was willing,” went on Hardman. “Her father
wanted her to.”
“What? Jim Blake left here for Arizona. I sent him away.”
“But he never went—I—I mean he got caught—put in jail again.
Matthews sent for the officers. They came. And they said they’d put
Blake away for ten years. But I got him off . . . Then Lucy was willing
to marry me—and she did. There’s no help for it now .. . too late.”
“Liar!” hissed Pan. “You frightened her—tortured her.”
“No, I—I didn’t do anything. It was her father. He persuaded her.”
“Drove her, you mean. And you paid him. Admit it or I’ll—” Pan’s
move was threatening.
“Yes—yes, I did,” jerked out Hardman in a hoarser, lower voice. Some-
thing about his lifelong foe appalled him. He was abject. No confession
of his guilt was needed.
“Go get yourself a gun. You'll have to kill me before you start out on
your honeymoon. Reckon I think you're going to hell... . Get up... .
Go get yourself a gun... .”
Hardman staggered to his feet, brushing the dirt from his person while
he gazed strickenly at Pan.
“My God, I can’t fight you,” he said. “You won’t murder me in cold
blood . . . Smith, I’m Lucy’s husband . . . She’s my wife.”
“And what is Louise Melliss?” whipped out Pan. “What does she
say about your marriage? You ruined her. You brought her here to
Marco. You tired of her. You abandoned her to that hellhole owned by
your father. He got his just deserts and you'll get yours.”
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Hardman had no answer. Like a dog under the lash he cringed at
Pan’s words.
“Get out of my sight,” cried Pan, at the end of his endurance. “And
remember the next time I see you, I’ll begin to shoot.”
Pan struck him, shoved him out into the street. Hardman staggered
on, forgetting his high hat that lay in the dust. He got to going faster
until he broke into an uneven half-run. He kept to the middle of the
street until he reached the Yellow Mine, where he ran up the steps and
disappeared.
Pan backed slowly, step by step. He was coming out of his clamped
obsession. His movement was now that of a man gripped by terror. In
reality Pan could have faced any peril, any horror, any physical rending
of flesh far more easily than this girl who had ruined him.
She had left the stage and she stood alone. She spoke his name. In
the single low word he divined fear. How long had she been that dog’s
wife? When had she married him? Yesterday, or the day before—a
week, what did it matter?
“You—you!” he burst out helplessly in the grip of deadly hate and
agony. He hated her then—hated her beauty—and the betrayal of her fear
for him. What was life to him now? Oh, the insupportable bitterness!
“Go back to my mother,” he ordered harshly, and averted his face.
Then he seemed to forget her. He saw Blinky close to him, deeply
shaken, yet composed and grim. He heard the movement of many feet,
the stamping of hoofs.
“All aboard for Salt Lake,” called the stage driver. Smith the agent
passed Pan with more mailbags. The strain all about him had broken.
“Pard,” Pan said, laying a hand on Blinky. “Go with her—take her to
my mother. . . . And leave me alone.”
“No, by Gawd!” replied Blinky sullenly. “You forget this heah is my
deal too. There’s Louise. . . . An’ Lucy took her bag an’ hurried away.
There, she’s runnin’ past the Yellow Mine.”
“Blink, did she hear what I said to Hardman about Louise?” asked
Pan bitterly.
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“Reckon not. She’d keeled over aboot then. I shore kept my eye on
her. An’ I tell you, pard—”
“Never mind,” interrupted Pan. “What’s the difference? Hellsfire!
Whisky! Let’s get a drink. It’s whisky I want.”
“Shore. I told you thet a while back. Come on, pard. It’s red-eye fer
us!”
They crossed to the corner saloon, a low dive kept by a Chinaman
and frequented by Mexicans and Indians. These poured out pellmell as
the cowboys jangled up to the bar. Jard Hardman’s outfit coming to
town had prepared the way for this.
“Howdy,” was Blinky’s greeting to the black bottle that was thumped
upon the counter. “You look mighty natural . . . heah’s to Panhandle
Smith!”
Pan drank. The fiery liquor burned down to meet and coalesce round
that gnawing knot in his internals. It augmented while it soothed. It
burned as it cooled. It inflamed, but did not intoxicate.
“Pard, heah’s to the old Cimarron,” said Blinky, as they drank
again.
Pan had no response. Memory of the Cimarron only guided his flying
mind over the ranges to Las Animas. They drank and drank. Blinky’s
tongue grew looser.
“Hold your tongue, damn you,” said Pan.
“Imposshiblity. Lesh have another.”
“One more then. You're drunk, cowboy.”
“Me drunk? No shir, pard. I’m just tongue-tied. . . . Now, by Gawd,
heah’s to Louise Melliss!”
“I drink to that,” flashed Pan, as he drained his glass.
The afternoon had waned. Matthews lay dead in the street. He lay
in front of the Yellow Mine, from which he had been driven by men who
would no longer stand the strain.
The street was deserted except for that black figure, lying face down
with a gun in his right hand. His black sombrero lay flat. The wind had
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
blown a high hat down the street until it had stopped near the sombrero.
Those who peeped out from behind doors or from windows espied these
sinister objects.
Pan had patrolled the street. He had made a house-to-house canvass,
searching for Jim Blake. He had entered every place except the Yellow
Mine. That he reserved for the last. But he did not find Blake. He
encountered, however, a slight pale man in clerical garb.
“Are you the parson Matthews brought to Marco?” demanded Pan
harshly.
“Yes, Sir,” came the reply.
“Did you marry young Hardman to—to—” Pan could not end the
query.
The minister likewise found speech difficult, but his affirmative was
not necessary.
“Man, you may be innocent of evil intent. But you’ve ruined my—
girl . . . and me! You’ve sent me to hell. I ought to kill you.”
“Pard, shore we mushn’t kill thish heah parson just yet,” drawled
Blinky, thickly. “He'll come in handy.”
“Ahuh! Right you are, Blinky,” returned Pan, with a ghastly pretense
of gaiety. “Parson, stay right here till we come for you.—Maybe you can
make up a little for the wrong you did one girl.”
The Yellow Mine stood with glass uplifted and card unplayed.
Pan had entered from the dance hall entrance. Blinky, unsteady on his
feet, came in from the street. After a tense moment the poker players
went on with their game, and the drinkers emptied their glasses. But
voices were low, glances were furtive.
Pan had seen every man there before he had been seen himself. Only
one interested him—that was Jim Blake. What to do to this man or with
him Pan found it hard to decide. Blake had indeed fallen low. But Pan
gave him the benefit of one doubt—that he had been wholly dominated
by Hardman. Yet there was the matter of accepting money for his part
in forcing Lucy to marry Dick.
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The nearer end of the bar had almost imperceptibly been vacated by
drinkers sliding down toward the other rear end. Pan took the foremost
end of the vacated position. He called for drink. As fast as he had drunk,
the fiery effects had as swiftly passed away. Yet each drink for the mo-
ment kept up that unnatural stimulus. |
Pan beckoned for Blinky. That worthy caused a stir, then a silence,
by going round about the tables, so as not to come between Pan and
any men there.
“Blink, do you know where Louise’s room is?” queried Pan.
“Shore. Down thish hall—third door on left,” replied Blinky.
“Well, you go over there to Blake and tell him I want to talk to him.
Then you go to Louise’s room. I’ll follow directly.”
Blake received the message, but he did not act promptly. Pan caught
his suspicious eye, baleful, gleaming. Possibly the man was worse than
weak. Presently he left the poker game which he had been watching
and shuffled up to Pan. He appeared to be enough under the influence of
liquor to be leeringly bold.
“Howdy,” he said.
“Blake, today I got from Hardman the truth about the deal you gave
me and Lucy,” returned Pan, and then in cold deliberate tones he called
the man every infamous name known to the ranges. Under this on-
slaught, Blake sank into something akin to abasement.
“Reckon you think,” concluded Pan, “that because you’re Lucy’s
father I can’t take a shot at you. Don’t fool yourself. You've killed her
soul—and mine. So why shouldn’t I kill you? . . . Well, there isn’t any
reason except that away from Hardman’s influence you might brace up.
I'll take the chance. You’re done in Marco. Jard Hardman is dead and
Dick’s chances of seeing the sun rise are damn thin... . Now you
rustle out that door and out of Marco. When you make a man of your-
self come to Siccane, Arizona.”
Blake lurched himself erect, and met Pan’s glance with astonished
bewildered eyes; then he wheeled to march out of the saloon.
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Pan turned into the hallway leading into the hotel part of the build-
ing, and soon encountered Blinky leaning against the wall.
“Blink, isn’t she in?” asked Pan, low voiced and eager.
“Shore, but she won’t open the door,” replied Blinky dejectedly.
Pan knocked and called low: “Louise, let us in.”
There was a long wait, then came a low voice: “No
“Please, it’s very important.”
“Who are you?”
“It’s Panhandle Smith,” replied Pan.
“That cowboy’s drunk and I—no—I’m sorry.”
“Louise I’m not drunk, but I am in bad temper. I ask as a friend. Don’t
cross me here. I can easy shove in this door.”
He heard soft steps, a breathless exclamation, then a key turned in the
lock, and the door opened. The lamplight was not bright, Louise stood
there half dressed, her bare arms and bosom gleaming. Pan entered,
dragging Blinky with him, and closed the door all but tight.
“Louise, it wasn’t kind of you to do that,” said Pan reproachfully.
“Have you any better friends than Blinky or me?”
“God knows—I haven’t,” faltered the girl. “But I’ve been ill—in bed
—and am just getting out. J—I—heard about you—today—and Blink
being with you—drunk.”
Pan stepped to the red-shaded lamp on a small table beside the bed,
and turned up the light. The room had more comfort and color than any
Pan had seen for many a day.
He bent searching eyes upon Louise. She did look ill—white, with
great dark shadows under her eyes, but she seemed really beautiful.
What a tragic face it was, betrayed now by lack of paint! Pan had never
seen her like this. If he had needed it, this would have warmed his
heart to her.
“What do you want of me?” she asked, with a nervous twisting of
hands she tried to hide.
”
.
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Pan took her hands and pulled her a little toward him.
“Louise, you like me, don’t you, as a friend or brother?” he asked
gently.
“Yes, when I’m sober,” she replied wanly.
“And you like Blinky, here, don’t you—like him a lot?”
“I did. I couldn’t help it, the damn faithful little cowboy,” she re-
turned. “But I hate him when he’s drunk, and he hates me when I’m
drunk.” .
“Blink, go out and fetch back a bottle—presently. We'll all get drunk.”
The cowboy stared like a solemn owl, then very quietly went out.
“Louise, put something over your shoulders. You'll catch cold. Here,”
said Pan and he picked a robe off the bed and wrapped it round her.
“T didn’t know you were so pretty. No wonder poor Blink warships
you.”
She drew away from him and sat upon the bed, dark eyes questioning,
suspicious. Yet she seemed fascinated. Pan caught a slight quivering of
her frame. Where was the audacity, the boldness of this girl? But he
did not know her, and he had her word that drink alone enabled her
to carry on. He had surprised her. Yet could that account for some-
thing different, something quite beyond his power to grasp? Surely
this girl could not fear him. Suddenly he remembered that Hardman
had fled to this house—was hidden there now. Pan’s nerves tautened.
“Louise,” he began, taking her hand again, and launching directly
into the reason for this interview he had sought, “we’ve had a great
drive. Blink and I have had luck. Oh, such luck! We sold over fifteen
hundred horses. . . . Well, we’re going to Arizona, to a sunny open
country, not like this. . . . Now Blink and I want you to go with us.”
“What! Go away with you? How, in God’s name?” she gasped in
utter amaze.
“Why, as Blink’s wife, of course. And I'll be your big brother,” re-
plied Pan, not without agitation. It was a pregnant moment. She stared
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a second, white and still, with great solemn searching eyes on his. Pan
felt strangely embarrassed, yet somehow happy that he had dared to
approach her with such a proposition.
Suddenly she kissed him, she clung to him, she buried her face on
his shoulder and he heard her murmur incoherently something about
“honest-to-God men.”
“What do you say, little girl?” he went on. “It’s a chance for you to
be good again. It'll save that wild cowboy, who never had a decent
ambition till he met you. He loves you. He worships you. He hates
what you have to suffer here. He—”
“So this is Panhandle Smith?” she interrupted, looking up at him with
eyes like dark stars. “No! No! No! I wouldn’t degrade even a worthless
cowboy.”
“You're wrong. He'll not be worthless, if you repay his faith. Louise,
don’t turn your back on hope, on love, on a home.”
“No!” she flashed, passionately.
“Why?” he returned, in sharp appeal.
“Because he’s too good for me. Because I don’t deserve your friend-
ship. But so help me God I'll love you both all the rest of my miserable
life—which won’t be long.”
He took her in his arms, as if to add force to argument. “But, you
poor child, this is no place for you. You'll only go to hell—commiit suicide
or be killed in a drunken brawl.”
“Panhandle, I may end even worse,” she replied, in bitter mockery. “I
might marry Dick Hardman. He talks of it—when he’s drunk.”
Pan released her, and leaned back to see her face. “Marry you! Dick
Hardman talks of that?” he burst out incredulously.
“Yes, he does. And I might let him when I’m drunk. I’d do anything
then.”
At that moment the door opened noiselessly and Blinky entered
carrying a bottle and glasses.
“Good, Blink, old pard,” said Pan, breathing heavily. “Louise and I
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have just made up our minds to get drunk together. Blink, you stay
sober.”
“T cain’t stay what I ain’t,” retorted Blinky. “An’ I won’t stay heah,
either, to see her drink. I hate her then.”
She poured the dark red liquor out into the glasses. “Boy, I want
you to hate me. I'll make you hate me . . . Here’s to Panhandle Smith!”
While she drank Blinky moved backwards to the door, eyes glinting
brightly into Pan’s and then he was gone.
In the mood under which Pan labored, liquor had no effect upon him
but to act as fire to body and mind. The girl, however, was transformed
into another creature. Bright red spots glowed in her cheeks, her eyes
danced and dilated, her whole body answered to the stimulus. One
drink led to another. She could not resist the insidious appetite thus
created. She did not see whether Pan drank or not. She grew funny, then
sentimental, and finally lost herself in that stage of unnatural abandon
for which, when sober, she frankly confessed she drank.
Pan decided that presently he would wrap a blanket around her, pick
her up and pack her out. Blinky would shoot out the lights in the saloon,
and the rest would be easy. If she knew that Hardman was in the house,
as Pan had suspected, she had now no memory of it.
“You big handsome devil,” she called Pan. “I told you—to keep away
from me.”
“Louise, don’t make love to me,” replied Pan.
“Why not? Men are all alike.”
“No, you’re wrong. You forget what you said a little while ago. I’ve
lost my sweetheart, and my heart is broken.”
She leered at him, and offered him another drink. Pan took the glass
away from her. It was possible he might overdo his part.
“So you're liable to marry young Hardman?” he asked deliberately.
The question, the name, gave her pause, as if they had startled her
memory.
“Sure I am.”
[.2iy]
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
“But, Louise, how can you marry Hardman when he already has a
wife?” asked Pan.
She grasped that import only slowly, by degrees.
“You lie, you gun-slinging cowboy!” she cried.
“No, Louise. He told me so himself.”
“He did! . . . When?” she whispered, very low.
“Today. He was at the stage office. He meant to leave today. He was
all togged up, frock coat, high hat. . . . Oh, God—Louise, I know, I
know, because it—was—my—sweetheart—he married.”
Pan ended gaspingly. What agony to speak that aloud—to make his
own soul hear that aloud!
“Your sweetheart? ... Little Lucy—of your boyhood—you told me
about?”
Pan was confronted now by something terrible. He had sought to
make this girl betray herself, if she had anything to betray. But this
Medusa face! Those awful eyes!
“Yes, Lucy, I told you,” he said, reaching for her. “He forced her to
marry him. They had Lucy’s father in jail. Dick got him out. Oh, it
was all a scheme to work on the poor girl. She thought it was to save
her father. . . . Why, Dick paid her father. I made him tell me..
yes, Dick Hardman in his frock coat and high hat! But when I drove
him out to get his gun, he forgot that high hat.”
“Ah! His high hat!”
“Yes, it’s out in the street now. The wind blew it over where I killed
Matthews. Funny! .. . And Louise, I’m going to kill Dick Hardman,
too.”
“Like hell you are!” she hissed, and leaped swiftly to snatch some-
thing from under the pillow.
Pan started back, thinking that she meant to attack him. How tiger-
ishly she bounded! Her white arm swept aside red curtains. They hid a
shallow closet. It seemed her white shape flashed in and out. A hard
choking gasp! Could that have come from her? Pan did not see her
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drawn lips move. Something hard dropped to the floor with metallic
sound.
The hall door opened with a single sweep. Blinky stood framed there,
wild eyed. And the next instant Dick Hardman staggered from that
closet. He had both hands pressed to his abdomen. Blood poured out
in a stream. Pan heard strange watery sounds. Hardman reeled out
into the hall, groaning. He slipped along the wall. Pan leaped, to see him
slide down into a widening pool of blood.
It was a paralyzing moment. But Pan recovered first. The girl swayed
with naked arms outstretched against the wall. On her white wrist
showed a crimson blot. Pan looked no more. Snatching a blanket off
the bed he threw it round her, wrapped it tight, and lifted her in his arms.
“Blink, go ahead,” he whispered, as he went into the hall. “Hurry!
Shoot out the lights! Go through the dance hall!”
The cowboy seemed galvanized into action. He leaped over Hard-
man’s body, huddled and lax, and down the hall, pulling his guns.
Pan edged round the body on the floor. He saw a ghastly face—pro-
truding eyes. And on the instant, like lightning, came the thought that
Lucy was free. Almost immediately thundering shots filled the saloon.
Crash! Crash! Crash! The lights faded, darkened, went out. Yells and
scraping chairs and overturned tables, breaking glass, pounding boots
merged in a pandemonium of sound.
Pan hurried through the dance hall, where the windows gave dim
light, found the doorway, gained the side entrance to the street. Blinky
waited there, smoking guns in his hands.
“Heah—this—way,” he directed in a panting whisper, as he sheathed
the guns, and took the lead. Pan followed in the shadow of the houses.
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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE street down that way was dark, with but few lights showing.
Blinky kept looking back in the direction of the slowly subsiding tumult.
Pan carried Louise at rapid pace, as if she made no burden at all. In
the middle of the next block Blinky slowed up, carefully scrutinizing
the entrances to the buildings. They came to an open hallway, dimly
lighted. Pan read a sign he remembered. This was the lodging house.
“Go in, Blink,” directed Pan quickly. “If you find our parson chase
everybody but him and call me pronto.”
Blinky ran into the place. Pan let Louise down on her feet. She could
not stand alone.
“Cowboy—smozzer me,” she giggled, pulling at the fold of blanket
round her face.
Pan rearranged the blanket over her bare shoulders, and folded it
round more like a coat. He feared she might collapse before they could
accomplish their design. The plight of this girl struck deeply into his
heart.
“Whaz—mazzer, cowboy?” she asked. “Somebody’s raid us?”
“Hush, Louie,” whispered Pan shaking her. “There'll be a gang after
”
us.
“Hell with gang. . . . Shay, Pan, whaz become of Dick?”
She was so drunk she did not remember. Pan thanked God for that.
How white the tragic face! Her big eyes resembled bottomless gulfs.
Her hair hung disheveled round her.
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A low whistle made Pan jump. Blinky stood inside in a flare of light
from an open door. He beckoned. Pan lifted the girl and carried her in.
Five minutes later they came out, one on each side of Louise, trying
to keep her quiet. She was gay, maudlin. But once outside again, the
rush of cold mountain air aided them. They hurried down the dark
street, almost carrying the girl between them. A few people passed,
fortunately on the other side. These pedestrians were hurrying in the
other direction. Some excitement uptown, Pan thought grimly! Soon
they passed the outskirts of Marco and gained the open country. Pan cast
off what seemed a weight of responsibility for Blinky and Louise. Once
he got them out of town they were safe.
Suddenly Blinky reached behind the girl and gave Pan a punch. Turn-
ing, Pan saw his comrade point back. A dull red flare lighted up the sky.
Fire! Pan’s heart gave a leap. The Yellow Mine was burning. The crowd
of drinkers and gamblers had fled before Blinky’s guns. Pan was hoping
that only he and Blinky would ever know who had killed Dick Hard-
man.
From time to time Pan glanced back over his shoulder. The flare of
red light grew brighter and higher. One corner of Marco would surely
be wiped out.
The road curved. Soon a dark patch of trees, and a flickering light, told
Pan they had reached his father’s place. It gave him a shock. He had for-
gotten his parents. They entered the lane and cut off through the dew-
wet grass of the orchard to the barn. Pan caught the round pale gleam
of canvas-covered wagons.
“Good! Dad sure rustled,” said Pan with satisfaction. “If he got the
horses, too, we can leave tomorrow.”
“Shore, we will anyhow,” replied Blinky, who was now sober and
serious.
They found three large wagons and one smaller, with a square canvas
top.
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“Blink, hold her, till I get some hay,” said Pan.
He hurried into the open side of the barn. It was fairly dark but he
knew where to go. He heard horses munching grain. That meant his
father had bought the teams. Pan got an armful of hay, and carrying it
out to the wagon, he threw it in, and spread it out for a bed.
“Reckon we'd better put Louise here,” said Pan, stepping down off the
wheel. “T’'ll get some blankets from Dad.”
Blinky was standing there in the starlight holding the girl in his
arms. His head was bowed over her wan face.
They lifted Louise into the wagon and laid her down upon the hay.
“Whish you—gennelmanz my hushband?” she asked thickly.
Pan had to laugh at that, but Blinky stood gazing intently down upon
the pale gleam of face. Pan left him there and strode toward the house.
Though the distance was short, he ran the whole gamut of emotions
before he stopped at a lighted window. He heard his father’s voice.
“Dad,” he called, tapping on the window. Then he saw his mother
and Alice. They had started up from packing. One glance at the suffering
expressed in his mother’s face was enough to steady Pan. The door
opened with a jerk.
“That you—Pan?” called his father, with agitation.
“Nobody else, Dad,” replied Pan, trying to calm his voice. “Tell
Mother I’m here safe and sound.”
His mother heard and answered with a low cry of relief.
“Dad, come out... . Shut the door,” returned Pan sharply.
Once outside his father saw the great flare of light above the town.
“Look! What’s that? Must be fire!” he burst out.
“Reckon it is fire,” returned Pan shortly. “Blinky shot out the lamps
in the Yellow Mine. Fire must have caught from that.”
“Yellow Mine!” echoed Smith, staring in momentary stupefaction.
Pan laid a heavy hand on him. It was involuntary, an expression of a
sudden passion rising in Pan. He had a question to put that almost
stifled him.
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“Lucy! . . . Did she—come home?” he forced out.
“Sure. Didn’t you know? She was home when I got here at noon.
Son, I bought all our outfit in no time.”
“What did Lucy tell you?”
“Nothin’ much,” replied his father, in earnest wonder. “She was in
an awful state. Said she couldn’t go because you were not dead...
poor girl! She had hysterics. But mother got her quieted down by
suppertime.”
“Where is she now?”
“In bed, I reckon. Leastways she’s in her room.”
“Dad, does she know? But of course she couldn’t . . . nor could you
“Son, I know aplenty,” replied his father, solemnly. “Lucy told mother
when she saw you come to the stagecoach that it nearly killed her. They
believed you dead—mother an’ Lucy. ...She told how you threw
Hardman out of the stage on to the street. Said she almost fainted then.
But she came to in time to see you kick him—drive him off.”
“Ts that all she knows?” queried Pan.
“Reckon it is. I know more, but I didn’t tell her,” replied Smith,
lowering his voice to a whisper. “I heard about them drivin’ Matthews
out to meet you. . . . McCormick told me you hadn’t lost any friends.”
“Ah-huh!” ejaculated Pan somberly. “Well, better tell Lucy at once.
. . . Reckon that’s best—the sooner the better.”
“Tell Lucy what?” asked Smith anxiously.
“That she’s a widow.”
“It—is Dick Hardman dead—too?” gasped out Smith.
EY és.”
“My God! Son—did—did you—”
“Dad, I didn’t kill him,” interrupted Pan. “Dick Hardman was—was
knocked out—just before Blinky shot out the lights. Reckon it’s a good
bet no one will ever know. He sure was burned up in that fire.”
“Alive?” whispered Smith.
“He might still have been alive, but he was far gone—unconscious
ihe
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when I passed him in the hall. You needn’t tell Lucy that. Just tell her
Hardman is dead and that J didn’t kill him.”
“All right, P’'ll go right an’ do it,” replied his father huskily.
“Before you do it fetch me a roll of blankets. We haven’t any beds.
And Blinky’s wife is with us.”
“Wife? I didn’t know Blinky had one. Fetch her in. We'll make room
somewhere.”
“No, we’ve already fixed a place for her in that wagon with the square
top,” went on Pan. “She’s been sick. Rustle, Dad. Fetch me the blankets.”
“Got them right inside. We bought new ones,” said Smith, opening the
door to hurry in.
“Mother,” called Pan, “everything’s all right. We'll be leaving early
tomorrow.”
Then his father reappeared with a roll of blankets. Pan found Blinky
exactly as he had left him, leaning over the wagon.
“Blink, put a couple of these blankets over her,” directed Pan.
“She went right off, asleep, like she was daid,” whispered the cowboy,
and he took the blankets and stepped up on the wheel hub to lay the
blankets softly over the quiet form Pan saw dimly in the starlight.
“Come here, cowboy,” called Pan.
And when Blinky got down and approached, Pan laid hold of him
with powerful hand.
“Listen, pard,” he began, in low voice. “We're playing a deep game,
and by God, it’s an honest game, even though we have to lie. . . . Louise
will never remember she cut that traitor’s heart out. She was too crazy.
If it half returns to her we'll lie—you understand—Jie. . . . Nobody
will ever know who did kill Hardman, I'll gamble. I intended to, and
all Marco must have known that. If he burned up they can’t ever be
sure. Anyway, that doesn’t matter. It’s our women folks we’ve got to
think of. I told Dad you’d brought your wife—that she’d been sick.
He'll tell Mother and Lucy. They don’t know, and they never will know
what kind of a girl Louise has been. . . . Savvy, pard?”
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“Reckon I do,” replied Blinky, in hoarse trembling accents. “But won’t
we have hell with Louise—when she wakes up sober?”
“Cowboy, you bet we will,” returned Pan grimly. “But we'll be far,
on our way when she wakes up. You can drive this wagon. We'll keep
watch on her. And, well—leave it to me, Blink.”
“Pan, we feel the same aboot Louie? Shore I don’t mean thet you love
her. Reckon it’s hard fer me to find words.”
“I understand, Blink,” replied Pan, earnestly, hoping to dispel the
groping and doubt of his comrade’s soul. “For you and me Louie’s past
is dead. We’re gambling on life. And whatever way you put it, whatever
the future brings, we’re better for what happened tonight.”
Pan strode off in the starlight, across the orchard, down along the
murmuring stream to the cottonwood tree with the bench.
It was useless for him to try to sleep. To and fro he paced in the star-
light. Alone now, with the urgent activities past for the time, he reverted
to the grim and hateful introspection that had haunted his mind.
This once, however, the sinister strife in his soul, that strange icy
clutch on his senses—the aftermath of instinctive horror following the
death of a man by his hand—wore away before the mounting of a passion
that had only waited.
It did not leap upon him unawares, like an enemy out of ambush.
It grew as he walked, as his whirling thoughts straightened in a single
line to—Lucy. She had betrayed him. She had broken his heart. What if
she had thought him dead—sacrificed herself to save her father? —She
had given herself to that dog Hardman. The thought was insupportable.
“J hate her,” he whispered. “She’s made me hate her.”
The hours passed, the stars moved across the heavens, the night wind
ceased, the crickets grew silent, and the murmuring stream flowed on
at Pan’s feet. Spent and beaten he sat upon the bench. His love for Lucy
had not been killed. It lived, it had grown, it was tremendous—and
both pity and reason clamored that he be above jealousy and hate. After
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all there was excuse for Lucy. She was young, she had been driven by
grief over his supposed death and fear for her father. But oh! The pity
of it—of this hard truth against the sweetness and purity of his dream!
Life and love were not what he had dreamed them as he had ridden the
lonely ranges. He must suffer because he had left Lucy to fight her
battles.
“Tl try to forget,” he whispered huskily. “I've got to. But not yet. I
can’t do it yet. . . . We'll leave this country far behind. And some day
we can go on with—with all we planned.”
Pan went back to the barn and threw himself upon the hay, where
exhausted brain and body sank to sleep and rest. It seemed that a voice
and a rude hand tore away the sweet oblivion.
“Pard, are you daid?” came Blinky’s voice, keen and full with newer
note. “Sunup an’ time to rustle. Your dad’s heah an’ he says breakfast
is waitin’.”
Pan rose and stretched. His muscles ached as though he had been
beaten. How bright the sun! Night was gone and with it something
dreadful.
“Pan, shore you're a tough lookin’ cowboy this mawnin’,” said Blinky.
“Wash an’ shave yourself like I did. Heah’s my razor. There’s a basin an’
water up under the kitchen porch.”
“Howdy, bridegroom,” returned Pan with appreciative eyes on
Blinky’s shiny face and slick hair. “How’s your wife?”
“Daid to the world,” whispered Blinky, blushing red as a rose. “I took
a peep. Gee! Pard, I hope she sleeps all day an’ all night. Shore I’m
scared fer her to wake.”
“T don’t blame you, cowboy. It’ll be funny when she finds out-she’s
got a boss.”
“Pard, if we was away from this heah town I’d be happy, I swear.
Wouldn’t you?” returned Blinky shyly.
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“Why, Blink, I believe I would,” said Pan, and strode off toward the
house.
He made himself presentable before anyone saw him. Then he waited
for his father and Blinky, whom he heard talking. When they came up
he joined them. Wild horses could not have dragged him into the house
alone. As they entered the kitchen Bobby let out a yell and made for him.
That loosened a strain for Pan and he picked up the lad. When he faced
his mother it was with composure that belied the state of his feelings.
She appeared to be in a blaze of excitement, and at once he realized that
all she had needed was his return, safe and sound. Then he heard Alice’s
voice and Lucy’s in reply. As he set Bobby down, thrilling all over, the
girls entered the kitchen. Alice’s reply to his greeting was at once bright
and shy. Lucy halted in the doorway, with a hand on her breast. Her
smile, slow and wistful, seemed to blot out traces of havoc in her face.
But her eyes were dark purple, a sign of strong emotion. Pan’s slight
inclination, unaccompanied by word of greeting, was as black a pretense
as he had ever been guilty of. Sight of her had shot him through and
through with pangs of bitter mocking joy. But he gave no sign. During
the meal he did not look at her again.
“Dad, have you got everything we'll need?” queried Pan presently.
“T guess so,” replied Smith. “You can start loadin’ the wagons. An’ by
the time two of them are done we'll have everythin’ packed.”
“Blink can drive one wagon, you another, and I'll take the third till
we get out to Snyder’s. Then we'll need another driver, for it'll take twa
of us to handle the wild horses.”
“No, we won't,” replied his father. “Your mother an’ Lucy can drive
as well as I. Son, I reckon we don’t want anybody except our own
outfit.”
“I’d like that myself,” admitted Pan thoughtfully. “If you’ve got good
gentle teams maybe Mother an’ Lucy can take turns. We'll try it,
anyhow.”
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“T’ll help you hitch up,” said Smith, following Pan out. “Son, do you
look for any trouble this mornin’ ?”
“Lord no. I’m not looking for trouble,” replied Pan. “I’ve sure had
enough.”
“Huh!” ejaculated Blinky. “Your dad means any backfire from Marco.
Wal, I say there'll be nothin’. All the same we want to move
pronto.” .
“T’d like to hear what happened after we left,” said Pan.
“Somebody will tell us,” returned Smith.
They had reached the end of the arbor when Lucy’s voice called after
them: “Pan—please wait.”
He turned to see her coming, twisting her apron in nervous hands.
Pan’s father and Blinky kept on toward the barn. Lucy came hurriedly,
unevenly, pale, with parted lips, and eyes that held him.
“Mother said you knew but—I must tell you—myself,” she said
brokenly, as she halted close to him. “Day before yesterday—those men
brought word you’d been—killed in a fight over wild horses. It broke
my heart. . . . I’d have taken my own life but for my father. I didn’t
care what happened. . . . Dick pressed me hard. Father begged me to
save him from prison. . . . So I—I married Dick.”
“Yes, I know—I figured it out that way,” returned Pan in strange thick
utterance. “You didn’t need to tell me.”
“Why, Pan, you—you seem different,” she said, as if bewildered.
“Your look—your voice . . . oh, dear. I know yesterday was awful. It
must have driven you mad.”
“By heaven, it did!” muttered Pan under his breath.
“But you—you forgive me?” she faltered, reaching to touch him with
a shaking hand. The gesture, so supplicating, so tender, the dark soft
hunger of her eyes, the sweetness of her then roused a tumult in him.
How could she look at him like that? How dared she have such love
light in her eyes?
“Forgive you for?—” he cried in fierce passion. But he could not put
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into words what she had done. “I meant to kill that dog, Dick Hardman.
But I didn’t. . . . Forgive you—” he broke off, unable to go on.
She was slow to grasp his intimation, though not his fury. Suddenly
her eyes dilated in horror. Then a great wave of scarlet blood swept over
her white neck and face. Pan saw in it the emblem of her shame. With
a rending of his heart he swung away and left her.
He plunged into the work at hand, and during the next couple of
hours recovered from the shock of resisting Lucy’s appeal. He hated
himself for the passion he could not subdue. When, however, it had slunk
away for the time being, he began to wonder at her innocence and sim-
plicity. He could not understand her.
Presently his father and Blinky hunted him up with news of strong
purport plain in their faces.
“Son, Marco is with you to a man!”
“Pard, I guess mebbe I didn’t hev them hombres figgered ?”
“What happened? Out with it,” replied Pan sharply.
“Evans drove out bringin’ stuff I bought yesterday,” returned his
father. “He was full as a tick of news. By some miracle, only the Yellow
Mine burned. It was gutted, but the bucket brigade saved the houses on
each side. . . . Hardman’s body was found burned to a crisp. It was
identified by a ring. An’ his dance-hall girl was found dead too, burned
most as bad as he. . . . Accordin’ to Evans most everybody in Marco
wants to shake hands with Panhandle Smith.”
The covered wagons wound slowly down the hill toward Snyder’s
pasture. Pan, leading Blink’s horse, held to the rear. The day, in some
respects, had been as torturing to him as yesterday—but with Marco far
behind and the open road ahead, calling, beckoning, the strain began to
lessen.
At the pasture gate the drivers halted the wagon teams, waiting for
Pan to come up. Gus had opened the wide-barred gate, and now stood
there with a grin of relief and gladness.
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“Drive in,” shouted Pan from behind. “We'll camp here tonight.”
“Howdy thar, you ole wild-hoss night wrangler,” yelled Blinky to
Gus.
“Howdy, yourself,” was the reply. “You can bet your roll that I never
expected to see you agin. What’d you do to Marco?”
They drove in along the west fence, where a row of trees shaded the
still hot sun.
“Gus, I see our wild horses are still keeping you company,” remarked
Pan, as he loosened the cinch of his saddle.
“Shore. But they ain’t so wild no more. I’ve fooled around with them
for two days now,” replied Gus.
Pan smacked Sorrel on the flank: “There! Go take a look at your rival,
Whitefoot.” But the sorrel hung around camp. He had been spoiled by
an occasional nose bag of grain. Pan lent a hand all around, and took note
of the fact that Blinky lingered long around his wagon. Pan peeped over
the wagon side. Louise lay on her side with face exposed. It was pale,
with eyelids tight. In sleep her features betrayed how life had wronged
her.
“Reckon you're wise, Blink, to keep your wagon away from the others
like this,” said Pan. “Because when your wife wakes up there’s liable
to be hell. Call me pronto.”
“Pard, you're shore she ain’t in a stupor or somethin’ ?” queried Blinky,
apprehensively.
“Blink, you know she was ill for ten days. Then she drank a lot.
Reckon she’s knocked out. But there’s nothing to worry about, except
she'll jump the traces when she comes to.”
“You mean when she finds out—I—she—we’re married?”
“That’s what, Pard Blink. I wish you didn’t have to tell her.”
“Me? My Gawd, I cain’t tell her,” replied Blinky, in consternation.
“Shore you gotta do that.”
“All right, Blink. I'll save what little hair you have left,” returned Pan,
good humoredly.
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He walked out to take a look at the horses, which were scattered on the
far side of the pasture. They could not be closely approached, yet were
not nearly so wild as he had expected them to be. The saddle and wagon
horses grazed among them. The blue roan looked vastly better for two
days’ rest. Whitefoot was a noble stallion. Sight of Little Bay brought
keen pain to Pan. What boundless difference between his state of mind
when he had caught that beautiful little horse and what it was now!
Pan went back to the campfire. Supper was in progress, with the
capable Mrs. Smith bustling about. Lucy and Alice were assisting. Pan
stole a glance at Lucy. Her face was flushed from the wind and sun; she
wore a white apron; her sleeves were rolled up to show round strong
arms. Bobby and his two puppies were much in the way.
“Pan, how is Mrs. Somers?” inquired his mother solicitously,
“Who?” queried Pan, puzzled.
“Why, your partner’s wife.”
“Oh, Blinky! . . . Gee, I’d clean forgot his right name,” laughed Pan,
mentally kicking himself. “She’s still sound asleep. I told Blinky not to
wake her. She looked white and worn out.”
“But she'll starve,” interposed Lucy, with questioning eyes on Pan.
Indeed their meaning had no relation to her words. “You men don’t
know anything. Won’t you let me wake her?”
“Thanks. Better let her alone till tomorrow,” replied Pan briefly.
Presently there came the call to supper, which had been laid upon a new
tarpaulin spread on the ground. The men flopped down, and sat cross-
legged, each with silent or vociferous appreciation of that generous
repast.
“Shades of the grub line!” ejaculated Blinky. “Am I ridin’ or
dreamin’?”
“Mother, this is heaven for a cowboy. And think, we’ll be three weeks
on the road,” added Pan.
“But, son, our good things to eat won’t last that long,” she replied,
much gratified by his compliment.
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“Aw, the good Lord shore remembered me when he throwed me in
with this outfit,” declared the usually reticent Gus.
Pan observed that both Alice and his mother strictly avoided serving
him with those things that had to be carried hot from the campfire. They
let Lucy do it. Pan did not look up at her, and murmured his thanks in
monosyllables. Once her hand touched his and the contact was like a
galvanizing current. For the moment he could not go on eating.
During the sunset hour Pan helped grease the wagon wheels, some-
thing that had been neglected, and had retarded their progress. Other
tasks used up the time until dark. Bobby got himself spanked by falling
out of the wagon after he had been put to bed.
It was after nightfall when Pan heard Blinky’s call. He hurried over
to the wagon, where he found his comrade tremendously excited.
“Pard, she’s waked up,” he whispered.
Pan strode to the wagon. There was enough light for him to see the
girl sitting up, with hands pressed to her head.
“Hello, Louie,” he said gently.
“Where the hell am I?” she replied huskily, dropping her hands to
stare at him.
“On the way to Arizona.”
“Well, if it isn’t handsome Panhandle .. . and Blinky!”
“Howdy—Louie,” said Blinky fearfully.
“T’ve been drunk?” she queried.
“Reckon you have—a little,” replied Pan.
“And you boys have kidnapped me?” she went on.
“T’m afraid that’s so, Louie.”
“Get me a drink. Not water! My head’s bursting. And help me out of
this haymow.”
She threw aside the blanket that partially covered her and got to her
knees. Pan lifted her out of the wagon. Then he ran off toward camp to
get a flask. Upon returning he found Blinky trying to put a blanket
round Louise’s shoulders. She threw it off.
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“Wait till I cool off,” she said. “Panhandle, did you get it?—I’m shaky,
all right. . . . Thanks. Some day I'll take my last drink.”
“Louie, I hope that will be soon,” rejoined Pan.
“You know I hate whisky. ... Oh, my head!—And my legs are
cramped. Let me walk a little.”
Pan drew Blinky aside in the gloom. “She hasn’t begun to think yet.
Reckon you'd better stay away from her. Let her come back to the
wagon.”
“Pard, shore she took our kidnappin’ her all right,” whispered Blinky,
hopefully.
“Blink, Pll bet a million she’ll be glad—after it all comes out,” re-
sponded Pan.
Presently Louise interrupted their whispered colloquy. “Help me up.
I’m sick—and weak.”
They lifted her back into the wagon and covered her. In the pale star-
light her eyes looked unnaturally big and black.
“No use--to lie,” she said drowsily, her head rolling. “I’m glad to leave
—Marco. . . . Take me anywhere.”
Then her eyes closed. Again Pan drew Blinky away into the gloom.
“It’s the way I figured,” whispered Pan swiftly. “She'll never remem-
ber what happened.”
“Thank Gawd fer thet,” breathed Blinky.
They found the campfire deserted except for Gus and Pan’s father.
Evidently Pan’s advent interrupted a story that had been most exciting
to Gus. .
“Son, I—I was just tellin’ Gus all I know about what come off yester-
day,” explained Smith, frankly, though with some haste. “But there are
some points I’d sure like cleared up for myself.”
Pan had expected this, and had fortified himself against the inevitable.
“Well, get it over then once and for all,” he replied, not too civilly.
“You come damn near buttin’ right into the weddin’!” ejaculated
Smith, with a sense of what dramatic possibility had just been missed.
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Pan, whose back had been turned to the campfire light, suddenly
whirled as if on a pivot.
“What?” he cried. Then there seemed to be a cessation of all his
faculties.
“Why, son, you needn’t jump out of your boots,” returned the father,
somewhat offended. “Lucy was married to Hardman in the stage office
just before you got there. Fact was, she’d just walked out to get in the
stage when you came. . . . Now, I was only sayin’ how funny it’d been
if you had got there sooner.”
“Who—told—you—that?”
“Lucy told me. An’ she said tonight she didn’t believe you knew,”
returned his father.
There was a blank silence. Pan slowly turned away from the light.
“No. I had an idea—she’d been married—days,” replied Pan in queer
strangled voice.
“You should have asked some questions,” said Smith bluntly. “It was
a damn unfortunate affair, but it mustn’t be made worse for Lucy than
it actually was. . . . She was Dick Hardman’s wife for less than five
minutes before you arrived.”
Without another word Pan stalked away into the darkness. He heard
his father say: “Bet that’s what ailed him—the darned idiot!”
Pan gained the pasture fence under the dark trees, and he grasped it
tightly as if his hold on life had been shaken. The shock of incredulous
amaze passed away, leaving him in the grip of joy and gratitude and
remorse. How vastly different was this vigil under the stars!
[ 234 ]
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
IT was Pan who routed out the campers next morning when the first
rose of dawn flushed the clear-cut horizon line.
He had the firewood collected, and the saddle horses in for their grain
before Blinky presented himself. Wild eyed, indeed, was the cowboy.
“Pard,” he whispered, huskily, dragging Pan aside some paces, “the
cyclone’s busted.”
“Yes?” queried Pan in both mirth and concern.
“I was pullin’ on my boots when Louise pokes her head above the
wagon an’ says: “Hey, you bow-legged gurl snatcher, where’s my clothes?’
“What clothes?’ I answers. An’ she snaps out, ‘Mine. Didn’t you
fetch my clothes?’
““Louie,’ I says, ‘we shore forgot them an’ they burned up with all
the rest of the Yellow Mine. An’ if you want to know, my dear, I’m
darn glad of it.’
“Then, Pan, she began to cuss me, an’ I jumps up mad, but right
dignified an’ says, ‘Mrs. Somers, I’ll require you to stop usin’ profanity.’
““Mrs. Somers!’ she whispers, her eyes poppin’. ‘Are you crazy?’ An’
I told her I shore wasn’t crazy an’ I shore was sober. An’ thet my name
wasn’t Moran, but Somers.
“She gave a gasp an’ fell back in the wagon. An’ you bet I run fer you.
Now, pard, for Gawd’s sake, what'll I do?” finished Blinky with a groan.
“Cowboy, you’ve done noble,” replied Pan in great satisfaction.
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“Wha-at!—Say, Pan, you look queer this mawnin’. Sort of shiny
eyed an’ light-footed. You don’t look drunk or loco. So what ails you?”
“Blink, I’m as crazy as you,” responded Pan, almost hugging his
friend. “But don’t worry another minute. I swear I can fix it up with
Louise. I swear I can fix anything.”
With that, Pan strode across the dew-wet grass to the trees under
which stood Blinky’s wagon. There was no sign of the girl. Pan breasted
the wagon side to look down. She was there, wide-eyed, with arms under
her head, staring at the colored leaves.
“Morning, Louie, how are you?” he began cheerfully, smiling down
upon her.
“T don’t know,” she replied.
“Well, you look better, that’s sure.”
“Pan, am I that cowboy’s wife?” she queried, gravely.
“Yes,” he replied, just as gravely.
“Did he force me to marry him when I was drunk?”
“No. Blink is innocent of all except loving you, Louie,” answered
Pan, deliberately choosing his words. He had planned all he meant to |
say. Last night under the trees, in the dark, many truths had come to
him. “It was J who forced you to marry him.”
She covered her eyes with her hands and pressed hard as if to make
clear her bewildering thoughts. “Oh, I—I can’t remember.”
“Louie, don’t distress yourself,” he said, soothingly. “You bet J can
remember, and I'll tell you.”
“Wait. I want to get up. But you forgot my clothes. I can’t go round
in a blanket.”
“By golly, I never thought of that. But we didn’t have much time.
. . . See here, Louise, I can fix it. You're about the same height as Lucy.
I'll borrow some of her clothes for you.”
“Lucy?” she echoed, staring at him.
“Yes, Lucy,” he replied, easily. “And while I’m at it, I'll fetch a basin
of hot water—and everything.”
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Whereupon he hurried over to the campfire, where he found Mrs,
Smith busy and cheerful. “Lucy up yet?” he asked briskly.
“Yes, Pan,” she replied with hurried glad smile. “She’s brushing her
hair there, by the wagon.”
Pan strode up to Lucy where she stood before the wagon, a mass of
golden hair hanging down her back, to which she was vigorously apply-
ing a brush.
“Hello, Lucy,” he said coolly.
“Oh—how you startled—me!” she exclaimed, turning with a blush.
“Say, won’t you help us out?” he went on, not so coolly. “The other
night, in the excitement we forgot to fetch Louise’s clothes. . . . Fact
is, we grabbed her up out of a sick bed, with only a dressing gown anda
blanket. Won’t you lend her some clothes, shoes, stockings—and—
everything?”
“Indeed I will,” responded Lucy and with alacrity she climbed into the
covered wagon.
Pan waited, and presently began to pace to and fro. He was restless,
eager, buoyant. He could not stand still. His thoughts whirled away
from the issue at hand, back to Lucy and the glory that had been
restored to him.
“Here, Pan,” called Lucy, reappearing with a large bundle. “Here’s
all she’ll need, I think. Lucky I bought some new things. Alice and I
can get along with one mirror, brush and comb.”
“Thanks,” he said. “It was lucky. . . . Sure our luck has changed.”
“Don’t forget some warm water,” added Lucy practically, calling
after him.
Thus burdened, Pan hurried back to Louise’s wagon and deposited
the basin on the seat, and the bundle beside her. “There you are, pioneer
girl,” he said cheerily, and with swift hands he let down the canvas
curtains of the wagon, shutting her in.
“Come on, Blink,” he called to the cowboy watching from behind
the trees. “Let’s wrangle the teams.”
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“Gus an’ your dad are comin’ in with them now,” replied Blinky,
joining him and presently, when they got away from the wagon he
whispered: “How aboot it?”
“Blink, I swear it’ll go through fine,” declared Pan earnestly. “She
knows she’s your wife—that I got her drunk and forced her into it.
She doesn’t remember. I’m hoping she'll not remember anything, but
even if she does I'll fix it.”
“Shore—you’re Panhandle Smith—all right,” returned Blinky un-
steadily.
At this juncture they were called to breakfast. Pan needed only one
glance at his father, his mother and Lucy to gather that bewilderment
and worry had vanished. They knew that he knew. It seemed to Pan
that the bursting sun knew the dark world had been transformed to a
shining one. Yet he played with his happiness like a cat with a mouse.
“Mrs. Smith,” begged Blinky presently, “please fix me up some break-
fast fer Louise. She’s better this mawnin’ an’ I reckon in a day or so
will be helpin’ you an’ Lucy.”
Pan set himself some camp tasks for the moment, and annoyed his
mother and embarrassed Lucy by plunging into duties they considered
theirs.
“Mother, don’t you and Lucy realize we are going to a far country?” he
queried. “We must rustle. . . . There’s the open road. Ho for Siccane
—for sunny Arizonaland!”
When he presented himself before Louise he scarcely recognized her
in the prim, comely change of apparel. The atmosphere of the Yellow
Mine had vanished. She had managed to eat some breakfast. Blinky
discreetly found a task that took him away.
“We've a little time to talk now, Louie,” said Pan. “They'll be pack-
ing the wagons.”
He led her under the cottonwoods to the pasture fence where he found
a seat for her.
“Pan, why did you do this thing?” she asked.
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
That was the very question he had hoped she would put first.
“Because my friend loves you and you told me you tried to keep him
away from you—that if you didn’t you would like him too well,” an-
swered Pan. “Blink had never been any good in the past. Just a wild
reckless hard-drinking cowpuncher. But his heart was big. Then you
were going straight to hell. You’d have been knifed or shot in some
brawl, or have killed yourself with drink. A few more months of the
Yellow Mine would have been your end. . . . Well, I thought, here’s an
opportunity to make a man out of my friend, and save the soul of a girl
who hasn’t had a chance. I never hesitated about taking advantage of
you. That was only a means to an end. So J planned it and did it.”
“But, Pan—how impossible!” she replied brokenly.
“Why, I'd like to know?”
“T am—degraded.”
“No! I’ve a different notion. You were not when you were sober. But
even so, that is past.”
“Blink might have been what you said, but still I—I’m no fit wife
for him.”
“You can be,” went on Pan with strong feeling. “Just blot out the past.
Begin now. Blink will make a good man, a successful rancher. He has
money enough to start with. He'll never drink again. No matter what
you call yourself, you’re the only girl he ever loved. You're the only one
who can make him earnest. Blink saw as well as I the pity of it—your
miserable existence there in that gambling hell.”
“Pan, you talk—like—oh, you make me think of what might have
been,” she cried. “But I'll not consent. Ill not give men the right to
point their fingers at Blink. ... Ill run away—or—or kill myself.”
“Louie, that is silly talk,” censured Pan sharply. “Don’t make me regret
my interest in you—my affection. You are judging this thing with your
mind on the past. You’re not considering the rough wild raw life we
cowboys have lived. We must make way for the pioneers and become
pioneers ourselves. In fifty years, when the West is settled, who will ever
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recall such as you and Blinky? These are hard days. You can do as
much for the future of the West as any woman, Louise Melliss!”
“Pan, I understand—I—I could—I know, if I dared to bury it all. But
I want to play square.”
“Could you come to love my friend—in time—I mean? That’s the
great thing.”
“T believe I love him now,” she murmured. “That’s why I can’t risk it.
—Someone who knew me would turn up. To disgrace my husband—and
—and children, if I had any.”
“Not one chance in a million,” flashed Pan, feeling that she could not
withstand him. “We’re going far—into another country. . . . Besides,
everyone in Marco believes you lost your life in the fire.”
“What—fire?”
“The Yellow Mine burned. It must have caught—when we shot out
the lamps .. . Dick Hardman was burned, and a girl they took for
”
you.
Suddenly Louise leaped up, ghastly pale.
“I remember now . . . Blink came to my room,” she said hoarsely.
“T wouldn’t let him in. Then you came . . . oh, I remember now. I let
you in when all the time Dick Hardman was hiding in my closet.”
“T knew you had him hidden,” rejoined Pan.
“You meant to kill him! The yellow dog! . . . He came to me when I
was sick in bed. He begged me to hide him. And I did. . . . Then you
talked to me, as you’re talking now .. . Blink came with the whisky.
Oh, I see it all now!”
“Sure. And Louie—what did I tell you about Hardman?” returned
Pan, sure of his ground now and stern in his forcefulness.
“I don’t remember.”
“You told me Hardman said he’d marry you, and that some day when
you were drunk you'd do it.”
“Yes, he said that, and I might have agreed, but I don’t remember
telling you.”
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
“Well, you did. And then I told you Hardman had forced my sweet-
heart, Lucy, to marry him.”
“What? He did that?”
“Reckon he did. I got there too late. But I drove him off to get a gun.
Then he hid there with you.”
“So that was why?” she pondered, as if trying to penetrate the cloudi-
ness of her mind. “Something comes like a horrible dream.”
“Sure,” he hurried on. “Let me get it over. . . . I told you he couldr’t
marry you when he already had a wife. You went crazy then. You
betrayed Hardman. . . . Hecame rushing out of the closet. Pretty nasty,
he was, Louie . . . well, I left him lying in the hall! I grabbed you—
wrapped you in a blanket—and ran out. Blink was waiting. He shot out
the lights in the saloon. We got away. The place burned up, with some
girl they took for you—and Hardman—”
“My God! Burned alive?”
“No,” replied Pan hoarsely.
“Pan—you—you avenged me—and your Lucy—you?—”
she whis-
pered, clinging to him.
“Hush! Don’t speak it! Don’t ever think it again,” he said sternly.
“That’s our secret. Rumor has it he fled from me to hide with you, and
you were both burned up.”
“But Lucy—your mother!” she cried.
“They know nothing except that you’re my friend’s wife—that you’ve
been ill,” he replied. “They’re all kindness and sympathy. Dad never
saw you, and Gus will keep his mouth shut. Play your part now, Louise.
You and Blink make up your past. Just a few simple statements. .. .
Then bury the past forever.”
“Oh—I’m slipping—slipping—
“Help me—back to the wagon.”
She walked a few rods with Pan’s arm supporting her. Then she col-
lapsed. He had to carry her to the wagon, where he deposited her,
sobbing and limp behind the canvas curtains. Pan pitied her with all
”
she whispered, bursting into tears.
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VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
his heart, yet he was glad indeed she had broken down. It had been easier
than he had anticipated.
Then he espied Blinky coming in manifest concern.
“Pard,” said Pan in his ear, “you’ve a pat hand. Play it for all you’re
worth.”
The wagons rolled down the long winding open road.
For the shortest, fullest eight hours Pan had ever experienced he
matched his wits against the wild horses that he and Gus had to drive.
It was a down grade and the wagons rolled thirty miles before Pan
picked a camp site in the mouth of a little grassy canyon where the wild
horses could be corralled. Jack rabbits, deer, coyotes ranged away from
the noisy invasion of their solitude. It was wild country. Marco was
distant forty miles up the sweeping ridges—far behind—gone into the
past.
As the wagons rolled one by one up to the camping place, Pan ob-
served that Blinky, the last to arrive, had a companion on the driver’s
seat beside him. Pan waved a glad hand. It was Louise who waved in
return. Wind and sun had warmed the pallor out of her face.
Four days on the way to Siccane! The wild horses were no longer
wild. The travelers to the far country had become like one big family.
They all had their tasks. Even Bobby sat on his father’s knee and drove
the team down the open road toward the homestead where he was to
grow into a pioneer lad.
So far Pan had carried on his pretense of aloofness from Lucy, ap-
parently blind to the wondering appeal in her eyes. Long ago he had
forgiven her. Yet he waited, divining surely that some day or night when
an opportune moment came, she would voice the question in her eyes.
He thought he could hold out longer than she could.
That very evening when he went to fetch water she waylaid him,
surprised him.
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“Panhandle Smith, you are killing me!” she said, with great eyes of
accusation.
“How so?” he asked weakly.
“You know,” she retorted. “And I won't stand it longer.”
“What is it you won't stand?” teased Pan.
But suddenly Lucy broke down. “Don’t. Don’t keep it up,” she
cried desperately. “I know it was a terrible thing to do. But I told yor
why. .. . I couldn’t have gone away with him—after I’d seen you.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear that. I was mad enough to think you might—
even care for him.”
“Pan, I love only you. All my life it’s been only you.”
“Lucy! . . . Tomorrow we ride into Green River. Will you marry me
there?”
“Yes—if you—love me,” she whispered, going close to him.
Pan dropped both of the buckets, splashing water everywhere.
Arizonaland!
It was not only a far country attained, but another, strange and beauti-
ful. Siccane lay a white and green dot far over the purple sage. The
golden-walled mesas stood up, black fringed against the blue. In the
bold notches burned the red of autumn foliage. Valleys spread between
the tablelands. There was room for a hundred homesteads. Pan’s keen
eye sighted only a few and they were farther on, green squares in the
gray. Down toward Siccane cattle made tiny specks on the vast expanse.
Square miles of bleached grass contended with the surrounding slopes
of sage, sweeping with slow graceful rise up to the bases of the walls
and mesas.
“Water! Grass! No fences!” exclaimed Pan’s father, with a glad note
of renewed youth.
“Dad. Lucy. Look,” replied Pan, pointing across the valley. “See that
first big notch in the wall? Thick with bright green? There’s water. And
see the open canyon with the cedars scattered? What a place for a
[ 243 ]
VALLEY OF WILD HORSES
ranch! It has been waiting for us all these years . . . That’s where we'll
homestead.”
“Wal, pard, an’ you, Louie—look over heah aways,” drawled Blinky,
with long arm outstretched. “See the red circle wall, with the brook
shinin’ down like a ribbon. Lookin’ to the south! Warm in winter—
cool in summer. Shore’s I was born in the West thet’s the homestead
fer me.”
‘Lhe wagons rolled on behind wild horses that needed little driving.
Down the long winding open road across the valley! And so on into the
rich grass where no wheel track showed—on into the sage toward the
lonely beckoning walls.
[ 244 ]
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