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WITH
HOOPS OF STEEL
BY
FLORENCE FINCH KELLY
ILLUSTRATED BY
DAN SMITH
"_The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel._"
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
Made in the United States of America
COPYRIGHT 1900
THE BOWEN-MERRILL COMPANY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
[Illustration: "ON AND ON THROUGH THE NIGHT THEY GALLOPED, NECK TO
NECK AND HEEL TO HEEL."--_p. 63_]
PUBLISHERS' NOTE
Owen Wister's THE VIRGINIAN and Florence Finch Kelly's WITH
HOOPS OF STEEL were the first of the modern cow-boy novels. Twenty-five
years have passed since Mrs. Kelly's enthralling story first
appeared--September, 1900. Most of the novels published then and
since, are dead and forgotten. Not so WITH HOOPS OF STEEL. It
was in continuous demand from its first friendly welcome by the critics
until the World War turned public attention to Europe. Even so its
vitality persisted, justified this new edition, and seems to warrant
the belief that the present generation will find its story interest as
vivid and as exciting as did the past, and its value even greater, for
it presents an authentic portrait of the old southwestern cattlemen
and a fascinating picture of a phase of national development now passed
into history.
THE PUBLISHERS.
WITH HOOPS OF STEEL
CHAPTER I
The soft, muffling dusk settled slowly downward from the darkening
blue sky and little by little smothered the weird gleam that rose from
the gray-white plain. Away toward the east a range of mountains
gloomed faintly, rimming the distance. Another towered against the
western horizon. Cactus clumps and bunches of mesquite and greasewood
blotted the whitely gleaming earth. In and out among these dark spots
a man was slowly riding. Now and then he leaned forward and looked
keenly through the growing darkness as though searching for some
familiar landmark. The horse lagged across the heavy sand, with
drooping head and ears. The rider patted its neck with a buckskin
gloved hand and spoke cheerily to the tired animal:
"Hot and tired, ain't you, old fellow? You want your supper and a big
drink of water. Well, you oughtn't to have wandered off the road while
I was asleep. Now, I sure reckon we've got to bunk on a sand heap
to-night and wait till daylight to find out where we are."
Again he peered through the dusk, and a little ray of light came
glimmering from far away toward the right. He knew that it must come
from either a ranch house or a camp-fire.
"I don't remember any ranch as far up toward the White Sands as that
seems to be," he thought. "It must be a camp-fire. We don't know whose
it is, old pard, but we're goin' to take chances on it."
He rode on in silence, the bridle lying loosely on the horse's neck.
All the senses of the plainsman were on the alert, his ears were
strained to catch the faintest sound that might come from the
direction of the fire, while his eyes alternately swept the darkened
plain and fastened themselves on the light. His horse pricked up its
ears and gave a loud whinny, which was answered in kind from the
direction of the fire. Presently the man shouted a loud "hello," but
there was no reply. "That's queer!" he thought. "My voice ought to
carry that far, sure!" He waited a few moments, listening intently,
then, drawing in a deep breath, he sent out another long, loud call
that bellowed across the plain and sank into the far darkness. Still
there was no reply, but when his horse neighed again there was instant
response. The animal had quickened its pace and with head up and ears
bent forward was rapidly lessening the distance between them and the
light. The rider could see that it was a camp-fire, and soon could
distinguish the flickering of the flames, but, in the illuminated
circle around it there was no sign of human beings nor shadow of
moving life. He drew rein and again sent a full lunged, far-reaching
"hello-o-o" across the distance. The moon, just showing a silver edge
above the mountain tops, threw a faint glimmer of light across the
plain, making visible the nearest clumps of bushes.
"I guess that would mighty near wake a dead man. If there's anybody
alive around that camp they sure heard me this time," he thought, as
he looked and listened with straining eyes and ears. But there was no
movement about the fire, and another whinny was the only sound that
came from its direction. "Mighty queer!" was his inward comment, as
his hand sought the revolver which hung by his side, while a light
pressure of spurs started his horse forward again. Suddenly there was
a swift rustle of the bushes beside him.
"Stop! Throw up your hands!"
A man had sprung from a tall clump of mesquite, and the traveler saw
the faint light reflected from a gun barrel pointed straight at his
breast. He stopped his horse, but did not respond to the other
summons; instead, his fingers closed quickly over the butt of his
revolver.
"Throw up your hands, or I'll blow a hole through you!"
"Well, the drop's yours, stranger, so here goes," and the traveler's
hands went straight above his head.
"That's better! Now, what do you want here?"
"I saw your camp-fire and I reckoned I might get some water for my
horse and some supper for myself."
"Who are you?"
"My name is Thomson Tuttle."
"What are you doing here?"
"Attendin' to my own affairs and lettin' other people's alone."
"You allowed just now it was my drop." There was a note of warning in
the man's voice. The traveler hesitated a moment. The click of a
trigger quickened his discretion.
"I am on my way from Muletown to Las Plumas, but I lost the road this
afternoon and I've no idea where I am now. As soon as I saw your
camp-fire I came straight for it, for my horse needs water mighty
bad."
There was a moment of silence. The moon was well above the mountains,
and in its brightening light the form of the traveler stood out in
ridiculous silhouette, his hands held high above his head. He could
see plainly the figure of the man and the gun leveled at his breast.
"How long had you been in Muletown?"
"I got in this forenoon, and I guess I stopped an hour. I left about
noon."
"Where from?"
"I started yesterday morning from Millbank. I had been there two days.
I went there from Santa Fe. I've been in New Mexico about ten years,
and I was born--"
"Never mind about that. You can have some supper. Unfasten your belt
with your left hand, and be sure to keep your right hand where it is."
Tuttle's left hand fumbled a moment with his cartridge belt, and
revolver and belt dropped to the ground.
"Anything else?"
"No."
"Put up your hands again until I fix these things."
Again the traveler lifted his hands above his head, while the other
buckled the belt around his own body, which it circled above another
already heavy with cartridges and revolver. This latter weapon he drew
from his holster, and, coming close beside Tuttle, held it at cock
while he passed his hand lightly over the rider's person.
"I guess you spoke the truth," he said, returning the pistol to his
belt, and again leveling the shot-gun. "Now, Mr. Thomson Tuttle,
you've been a gentleman so far, and as long as you keep up that play
you'll be all right. You won't be hurt if you don't make any breaks.
Take down your hands and we'll go into camp and have some supper."
Tuttle held his hands motionless in the air a moment longer as he
said:
"Any objection to my askin' who you are?"
"You said yourself that the drop's mine."
"All right, pard."
As they neared the camp, the man called to him to dismount, walk
forward and sit down in a wagon seat near the fire. Tuttle could see
the wagon from which the seat had been taken, a small, light affair,
standing back in the shadow, and near it two horses feeding. Another
man stood a little way off with leveled gun, apparently relieving
guard for the first. He was in the shade of a tall mesquite bush, but
Tuttle could see that he was of medium height and build and was
dressed in a Mexican suit of closely fitting, braided trousers and
jacket. The wide brim of his Mexican sombrero was pulled low over his
eyes, so that only the lower part of his face could be seen, and that
dimly. But it was evidently dark-skinned, and the mouth was shaded by
a black mustache. "Some Greaser scalawag," was Tuttle's immediate
decision. The other unsaddled, watered and fed the horse, and then
returned to the fire and began making coffee.
"We haven't much to eat," he said apologetically, "but you're welcome
to a share of whatever we've got."
Soon he put beside Tuttle a supper of hot coffee, fried bacon, canned
baked beans, and a loaf of bread. Then he sat on the ground near by
and talked cheerfully while Tuttle ate, now and then urging him, in
hospitable fashion, to eat heartily. But all the time he held his
revolver in his hand, and the other man stood in the shadow with his
Winchester ready to fire at a second's notice. Tuttle and his captor
talked on in a friendly way for half an hour after supper, while the
other still kept guard from the shadow of the mesquite bush. At last
the first man got up leisurely, took a flask from his pocket and
handed it to Tuttle with the request, "Drink hearty, pard." With a
little flourish and a kindly "Here's luck," he took a long pull
himself, then, telling Tuttle he could use his saddle for a pillow and
lie down near the fire, he picked up his shot-gun and sat down on the
wagon seat and the man who had stood beside the mesquite walked away
into the bushes.
"Now," said the man with the shot-gun, "you can sleep just as sound as
a baby in its cradle, for I'm going to watch here and see that the
coyotes don't bite you. You'll be safe," and the note of warning
filled his voice again, "as long as you don't make any breaks."
"I'm not a fool," responded Tuttle, stretching out on the ground and
resting his head against the saddle. Whenever he awoke during the
night he saw his guard keeping alert watch, gun in hand and revolver
by his side. Just before daybreak the other man returned and held
guard while the first watered and saddled Tuttle's horse and prepared
breakfast. The captive was dimly conscious of the change, and then
slept again until he was awakened at sunrise.
"I had a mind to wake you by shooting a button off your coat, just to
see if that would do the business," said his host, smiling pleasantly,
as he handed Tuttle the flask which had done duty the night before. "I
reckon you're about the soundest sleeper I ever saw."
By daylight Tuttle saw that the man was well along in middle life and
that his face was smoothly shaven. Tuttle himself looked to be less
than thirty years old. He was tall, broad of shoulder and big of
girth, with large hands and great, round, well-muscled wrists that
told of arms like limbs of oak and of legs like iron pillars.
The young man ate his breakfast alone, his captor standing near by and
talking pleasantly with him, but holding alertly a shot-gun at half
cock, while crouching behind a bunch of greasewood was the Mexican
with a drawn pistol in his hands. As Tuttle mounted, the tall man
called out sternly:
"Hold up your hands!"
Tuttle hesitated for a moment, looking at him in surprise.
"I mean it!" and the trigger of his shot-gun clicked to full cock.
Tuttle's hands went up quickly. The man came beside him and buckled on
his cartridge belt, with the revolver in its holster. Then he backed
to his own horse, mounted it, and leveled his shot-gun at Tuttle's
breast.
"Now you can take down your hands and go," he said. "But remember that
I'm ridin' behind you, ready to bang a hole through your head if you
make the first motion toward your gun, or anything happens that ain't
straight. I'll put you on the road to Plumas, and then I want you to
make tracks, for we've got no time to waste."
As they rode away, Tuttle could hear the hoof beats of two horses and
knew that both men were following. After a few miles the tall man
called to Tuttle to halt and said, pointing to a road that wound a
white line across the distance:
"That's your road over there, and you can go on, now alone. But I want
you to remember that I'm here watchin' you, with two loads of buckshot
and six of lead, and every one of them is goin' plumb through you if
you ain't square. You've been a gentleman so far, and dead game, and
I'm proud to've met you, Mr. Thomson Tuttle. If it ever comes my way
to treat you whiter than I have this time, I'll be glad to do it.
Good-bye, sir."
As Tuttle rode away, he saw, from the corner of his eye, the tall man,
shot-gun in hand, sitting motionless on his horse, and the other,
watchful, holding a rifle, a little distance behind him. The young man
put spurs to his horse and rode several miles with his eyes steadily
in front of him, discreetly holding curiosity in check. He did not
look back until he reached the highroad, and then he saw his two
captors galloping across the plain toward their camp. He took out his
pistol and examined it carefully. It was just as he had left it the
night before.
"They might have put every bullet into my head," was his mental
comment, "but they didn't, and they might have emptied 'em all out and
left me in a box. But they didn't do that, either. I guess they played
as square as they could."