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THE TEXICAN
* * * * * *
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
HIDDEN WATER. With four illustrations in color by Maynard Dixon.
Crown 8vo. $1.35 net.
A. C. McCLURG & CO., Publishers
CHICAGO
* * * * * *
[Illustration: The calf was like its mother, but she, on account of her
brand and ear-marks, held the entire attention of the Texan
[Chapter IV]]
THE TEXICAN
by
DANE COOLIDGE
Author of "Hidden Water"
With Illustrations in Color by Maynard Dixon
[Illustration: [++] Decorative image.]
Chicago
A. C. Mcclurg & Co.
1911
Copyright
A. C. McClurg & Co.
1911
Published September, 1911
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London, England
Press of the Vail Company
Coshocton, U. S. A.
TO MY OLD FRIEND
DANE COOLIDGE
WHO HAS STAYED WITH ME THROUGH ALL MY TROUBLES
THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED BY
THE AUTHOR
"Oh, out from old Missouri
I set me forth to roam
Indicted by a jury
For toling hawgs from home.
"With faithful Buck and Crowder
I crossed the Western plains
Then turned them loose in the Cow-Country
And waited for my gains.
"And now I'm called a Cattle King
With herds on many a stream—
And all from the natural increase
Of that faithful old ox-team."
_The Song of Good-Eye._
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I VERDE CROSSING 11
II GOOD EYE, THE MAVERICK KING 22
III THE DOUBLE CROSS 32
IV THE SHOW-DOWN 46
V LOST DOG CAÑON 60
VI "THE VOICE OF REASON" 74
VII THE REVOLUTION 90
VIII THE DAY AFTER 105
IX DEATH AND TAXES 123
X STAMPEDED 142
XI THE CATTLE WAR 156
XII MOUNTAIN LAW 173
XIII WELCOME HOME 183
XIV THE KANGAROO COURT 196
XV THE REVOLUTION IN FACT 216
XVI BACK TO NATURE 238
XVII THE POWER OF THE PRESS 255
XVIII THE LAW'S DELAY 278
XIX THE LAST CHANCE 295
XX THE LAW AND THE EVIDENCE 318
XXI NEVER AGAIN 355
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
The calf was like its mother, but she, on
account of her brand and ear-marks, held
the entire attention of the Texan _Frontispiece_
Pecos's ever-ready pistol was out and balanced
in his hand 56
As the rout went by Angy saw Pecos, tied to his
horse, his arms bound tight to his sides 188
"You _will_ turn this jail into a hog-waller,
will you?" he demanded 250
She laid a brown hand against the bars as if in
protest and motioned him nearer the screen 312
THE TEXICAN
CHAPTER I
VERDE CROSSING
The languid quiet of midday lay upon the little road-house that stood
guard by Verde Crossing. Old Crit and his wild Texas cowboys had left
the corral at dawn, riding out mysteriously with their running irons in
their chaps; the dogs had crawled under José Garcia's house and gone
to sleep; to the north the Tonto trail stretched away vacant and only
the brawling of the Verde as it rushed over the rocky ford suggested
the savage struggle that was going on in the land. Within the adobe
fort that served for both store and saloon Angevine Thorne, Old Crit's
roustabout, sat tipped back in his chair breathing thoughtfully through
a mouth-organ while a slender Mexican girl, lingering by the doorway,
listened in childish adoration.
"_Oyez_, Babe," she pleaded, lisping in broken English, "sing 'Work iss
Done' for me, _otra vez_, once more."
"Yore maw will be singin' a different tune if you don't hurry home
with that lard," counselled Babe, but seeing that she was in no mood
to depart he cleared his throat to sing. "You don't know how bad this
makes me feel, Marcelina," he said, rubbing his hand over his bald spot
and smoothing down his lank hair, "but I'll sing you the first verse—it
ain't so bad." He stood up and turned his eyes to heaven; a seraphic
smile came into his face, as if he saw the angels, and in a caressing
tenor voice he began:--
"A jolly group of cowboys, discussing their plans one day
When one says, 'I will tell you something, boys, before
I'm gone away.
I am a cowboy as you see, although I'm dressed in rags.
I used to be a wild one, a-taking on big jags.
I have a home, boys, a good one, you all know,
Although I have not seen it since long ago.
I am going back to Dixie, once for to see them all;
I am going back to Dixie to see my mother when work is done
this Fall.
"'After the round-ups are over, after the shipping is all done,
I am going to see my mother before my money is all gone.
My mother's heart is breaking, breaking for me, and that's all.
And with God's help I will see her when work is done this Fall.'"
A pause followed his last words and the singer limped in behind the
counter. "Well, that's all, now," he said, waving her away, "go on
home, child—can't you see it makes me feel powerful bad?"
The girl smiled with the sweet melancholy of her race. "I like to feel
bad," she said. "Sing about the wind."
Angevine Thorne looked down upon her and shook his head sadly. "Ah,
Marcelina," he said, "you are growing up to be a woman." Then he sighed
and began again:—
"That very same night this poor cowboy went out to stand his guard.
The wind was blowing fiercely and the rain was falling hard.
The cattle they got frightened and ran in a mad stampede.
Poor boy, he tried to head them while riding at full speed.
Riding in the darkness so loudly he did shout,
A-trying to head the cattle, a-trying to turn them about,
When his saddled night-horse stumbled and upon him did fall.
Now the poor boy will not see his mother when work is done
this Fall."
"And now the rest—how he died," breathed Marcelina, and once more the
troubadour smiled.
"We picked him up so gently and laid him on his bed,
A-standing all around the poor cowboy, a-thinking he was dead,
When he opened wide his blue eyes, looked around and said:
'Boys, I think those are the last steers I shall ever head.
So Bill, you take my saddle, and Charley, you take my bed,
And George, you take my six-shooter and be sure that I am dead.
I am going to a new range, for I hear my Master's call,
And will not see my aged mother when work is done this Fall.
"'After the round-ups were over, after the shipping was all done,
I was going to see my mother before my money was all gone.
My mother's heart is breaking, breaking for me and that's all,
And if God had spared my absence I would have seen her
When work was done this Fall.'"
A rapt silence, such as artists love, followed the last wailing cadence
of the song; the stillness of the desert crept in upon them, broken
only by the murmur of the river and an almost subterranean thud of
hoofs; then with a jingle of spurs and the creaking of wet leather a
horseman rode up and halted before the door. The water sloshed in his
boots as he dismounted but he swung into the store with the grace of a
cavalier—a young man, almost a boy, yet broad-shouldered and muscular,
with features moulded to an expression of singular resolution and
courage. A heavy pair of apron chaps—sure sign of Texas—cumbered his
limbs and the wooden handle of a Colts forty-five showed above its
holster in the right leg; for the rest, he wore a new jumper over his
blue shirt, and a broad, high-crowned hat, without frills. As the
stranger headed for the bar with business-like directness Angevine
Thorne felt a sudden sense of awe, almost of fear, and he wondered for
the instant if it was a hold-up; but the Texan simply dropped a quarter
on the counter and motioned to a bottle.
"Two," he corrected, as Babe filled a single glass; and, shoving the
second one towards his host, who eyed it with studied unconcern, the
cowboy tossed off his own and looked around.
"What's the matter?" he inquired, as Babe moved thoughtfully away;
"swore off? All right, you drink the chaser, then," and leaving the
superfluous glass of water on the bar he drank the whiskey himself.
"Ughr! That's the real old tarantula-juice," he observed, as the fiery
liquor made him shudder. "Since when did you swear off?"
"Six weeks," responded Babe, shortly. "How's Texas?"
"All right," replied the cowboy. "Did it git away with you?"
"Yep," returned the bar-keeper. "Don't like to talk about it—say, is
they anybody left in Texas?"
The stranger gazed at him shrewdly for a moment, and a grim light came
into his eye.
"Don't like to talk about it," he said, "but now you speak of it I know
of one feller, for sure—and dam' badly left, too. May be around on
crutches by now." He glanced out at his horse, which had just shaken
itself under the saddle, and let his gaze wander to Marcelina.
"Pretty girls you have in this country," he remarked, turning a little
sidewise to Babe, but watching her from beneath his hat. "Don't speak
any English, I suppose?"
"Nope," replied Babe, sullenly, "her mother don't like cowboys. _Oyez,
Marcelina, vaya se a su madre, chiquita!_" But though her mother was
calling, the wilful Marcelina did not move. Like an Aztec princess she
stood silent and impassive, gazing out from beneath her dark lashes
and waiting to catch some further word of praise from this dashing
stranger. Undoubtedly, Marcelina was growing to be a woman.
"Name's Marcelina, eh?" soliloquized the cowboy, innocently. "Pity she
can't savvy English—she's right pretty, for a Mex."
At that last unconscious word of derogation the regal beauty of
Marcelina changed to a regal scorn and flashing her black eyes she
strode towards the door like a tragic queen.
"_Gr-ringo!_" she hissed, turning upon him in the doorway, and seizing
upon her pail of lard she scampered up the trail.
"Hell's fire!" exclaimed the _Tehanno_. "Did she understand what I
said?"
"That's what," replied Babe, ungraciously, "you done queered yourself
with her for life. She won't stand for nothin' aginst her people."
"Huh!" grumbled the newcomer, "that's what comes from drinkin' yore
pisen whiskey. I begin to savvy now, Pardner, why you passed up that
sheep-herder dope and took water."
He grinned sardonically, making a motion as of a pin-wheel twirling in
his head, but the bar-keeper did not fall in with his jest. "Nothin'
of the kind," he retorted. "W'y, boy, I could drink that whole bottle
and walk a tight rope. I guess you don't know me—I'm Angevine Thorne,
sometimes known as 'Babe'!" He threw out his chest, but the cowboy
still looked puzzled.
"Did you come through Geronimo," inquired Babe, returning to the
attack, "and never heard of me? Well then, Pardner, I'll have to put
you wise—I'm Angevine Thorne, the Champion Booze-fighter of Arizona!"
He dropped back to his pose and the cowboy contemplated him with grave
curiosity.
"Mr. Thorne," he said, holding out his hand, "my name is Dalhart—Pecos
Dalhart, from Texas—and I'm proud to make your acquaintance. Won't you
have a drink on the strength of it?"
"Thank you just as much," replied Mr. Thorne, affably, "but I've sworn
off. I've been the greatest booze-fighter of Arizona for twenty years,
but I've sworn off. Never, never, will I let another drop of liquor
pass my lips! I have been sentenced to the Geronimo jail for life for
conspicuous drunkenness; I have passed my days in riotous living and my
nights in the county jail, but the love of a good mother has followed
me through it all and now I am going to quit! I'm saving up money to go
home."
"Good for you," commented Pecos Dalhart, with the good-natured
credulity which men confer upon drunkards, "stay with it! But say, not
to change the subject at all, where can I git something to eat around
here? I'm ganted down to a shadder."
"You're talkin' to the right man, son," returned Babe, hustling out
from behind the bar. "I'm one of the best round-up cooks that ever
mixed the sour-dough—in fact, I'm supposed to be cookin' for Crit's
outfit right now and he just saws this bar-keep job off on me between
times, so's to tempt me and git my money—when I git drunk, you savvy.
He's a great feller, Old Crit—one of the boys up the river has got a
penny Crit passed off on him in the dark for a dime and he swears to
God that pore Injun's head is mashed flat, jest from bein' pinched so
hard. Pinch? W'y, he's like a pet eagle I had one time—every time he
lit on my arm he'd throw the hooks into me—couldn't help it—feet built
that way. An' holler! He'd yell _Cree_ so you c'd hear him a mile if
anybody tried to steal his meat. Same way with Crit. Old Man Upton over
here on the Tonto happened to brand one of his calves once and he's
been hollerin' about that maverick ever since. You've heard of this war
goin' on up here, hain't you? Well that's just Old Crit tryin' to git
his revenge. If he's burnt one U calf he's burnt a thousand and they
ain't cowboys enough in Texas to hold up his end, if it ever comes to
fightin'. This here is the cow-camp—throw yore horse in the corral over
there and I'll cook up a little chuck—jest about to eat, myse'f."