I The Trail Calls
II Refreshed Memories
III Tempted Anew
IV A Crowded Day
V A Trimmer Trimmed
VI Friendly Interest
VII Weights and Measures
VIII After Dark
IX A Pleasant Excursion
X Speed and Guile
XI Empty Honors
XII Closer Friendships
XIII Outcheating Cheaters
XIV Tact and Courage
XV A Good Samaritan
XVI Buffalo Creek in the Spotlight
XVII The Rush
XVIII "Here Lies the Road to Rome!"
XIX A Lecture Wasted
XX Plans Awry
XXI An Equal Guilt
XXII The False Trail and the True
*"TEX"*
*CHAPTER I*
*THE TRAIL CALLS*
Memory's curtain rises and shows a scene softened by time and blurred by
forgetfulness, yet the details slowly emerge like the stars at twilight.
There appears a rain-washed, wind-swept range in Montana, a great
pasture level in the center, but rising on its sides like a vast,
shallow saucer, with here and there a crack of more somber hue where a
ravine, or sluggish stream, lead toward the distant river. Green
underfoot, deep blue overhead, with a lavender and purple rim under a
horizon made ragged and sharp by the not too distant mountains and
foothills. An occasional deep blue gash in the rim's darker tones marks
where some pass or canyon cuts through the encircling barriers. A
closer inspection would reveal a half-dozen earthy hollows, the rutting
holes of the once numerous buffalo which paused here on their periodic
migrations. In the foreground a white ranchhouse and its flanking red
buildings, framed by the gray of corral walls, nestles on the southern
slope of a rise and basks in the sunlight. From it three faint trails
grow more and more divergent, leading off to Everywhere. Scattered over
the vast, green pastures are the grazing units of a great herd, placid
and content, moving slowly and jerkily, like spilled water down a
gentle, dusty slope. But in the total movement there is one thread with
definite directness, even though it constantly turns from side to side
in avoiding the grazing cattle. This, as being different and indicating
purpose, takes our instant attention.
A rider slowly makes his way among the cattle, by force of habit
observing everything without being fully conscious of it. His chaps of
soft leather, worn more because of earlier associations than from any
urgent need on this northern range, have the look of long service and
the comfort coming from such. His hat is a dark gray sombrero, worn in
a manner suggesting a cavalier of old. Over an open vest are the
careless folds of a blue kerchief, and at his right hip rubs a holster
with its waiting, deadly tenant. A nearer approach reveals him to be a
man in middle life, lean, scrupulously neat, clean shaven, with lines of
deep humor graven about his eyes and mouth, softening a habitual
expression which otherwise would have been forbiddingly hard and
cynical.
His roving glances reach the purple horizon and are arrested by the
cerulean blue of a pass, and he checks his horse with a gesture
hopelessly inadequate to express the restlessness, the annoying
uncertainty of his mood, a mood fed unceasingly by an inborn yearning to
wander, regardless of any aim or other condition. Here is a prospect
about him which he knows cannot be improved upon; here are duties light
enough practically to make him master of his time, yet heavy enough to
be purposeful; his days are spent in the soothing solitudes of clean,
refreshing surroundings; his evenings with men who give him perfect
fellowship, wordless respect, and repressed friendship, speaking when
the mood urges, or silent in that rare, all-explaining silence of strong
men in perfect accord. His wants are few and automatically supplied:
yet for weeks the longing to leave it all daily had grown stronger--to
leave it for what? Certainly for worse; yet leave it he must.
He sat and pondered, retrospective, critical. The activities of his
earlier days passed before him, with no hypocritical hiding or blunting
of motives. They revealed few redeeming features, for he carelessly had
followed the easy trails through the deceptive lowlands of morality, and
among men and women worse even than himself in overt acts and shameless
planning, yet better because they did not have his intelligence or moral
standards. But he slowly rose above them as a diver rises above
treacherous, lower currents, and the reason was plain to those who knew
him well. First he had a courage sparkling like a jewel, unhesitant,
forthright, precipitate; next he had a rare mixture of humor and
cynicism which better revealed to him things in their right proportions
and values; and last, but hardly least by any means, an intelligence of
high order, buttressed by facts, clarified by systematic study, and
edged by training. In his youth he had aimed at the practice of
medicine, but gave too much attention to more imaginative targets and
found, when too late, that he had hit nothing. His fondness for
drinking, gambling at cards, and other weedy sowings resulted from,
rather than caused, the poor aim. Certain unforgivable episodes,
unforgivable because of their notoriety more than because of the things
themselves, brewed a paternal tempest, upon which he had turned a
scornful back, followed Horace Greeley's famous advice, and sought the
healing and the sanctuary of the unasking West.
In his new surroundings he soon made a name for himself, in both
meanings, and quickly dominated those whose companionship he either
craved or needed. An inherent propensity for sleight of hand provided
him an easy living at cards; and his deftness and certainty with a
six-gun gave him a pleasing security. However, all things have an end.
There came a time when he nearly had reached the lowest depths of moral
submersion when he met and fought a character as strong as his own, but
in few other ways resembling him; and from that time on he swam on the
surface. It would be foolish to say that the depths ceased to lure him,
for they did, and at times so powerfully that he scarcely could resist
them. For this he had to thank to no small degree one of the bitterest
experiences of his life: his disastrous marriage. Giving blind love and
unquestioning loyalty, he had lost both by the unclean evidence
unexpectedly presented to his eyes. In that crisis, after the first
madness, his actions had been worthy of a nature softer than his own and
he had gone, by devious ways, back to his West and started anew with a
burning cynicism. But for the steadying influence of his one-time
enemy, and the danger and the interest in the task which Hopalong
Cassidy had set before him, the domestic tragedy certainly would have
sent him plunging down to his former level or below it.
Time passed and finally brought him news of the tragic death of his
faithless wife, and he found that it did not touch him. He had felt
neither pity, sorrow, nor relief. It is doubtful if he ever had given a
thought to the question of his freedom, for with his mental attitude it
meant nothing at all to him. He had put among his belongings the letter
from his former employer, who had known all about the affair and the
names and addresses of several of his western friends, telling him that
he was free; and hardly gave it a second thought.
Turning from his careless scrutiny of the distant pass he rode on again
and soon became aware of the sound of hoofbeats rapidly nearing him. As
he looked up a rider topped a rise, descried him, and waved a sombrero.
The newcomer dashed recklessly down the slope and drew rein sharply at
his side, a cheerful grin wreathing his homely, honest face. Pete was
slow-witted, but his sterling qualities masked this defect even in the
eyes of a man as sharp as his companion, who felt for him a strong, warm
friendship.
"Hello, Tex!" said the newcomer. "What's eatin' you? You shore look
glum."
Tex thought if it was plain enough for Pete Wilson to notice it, it must
be plain, indeed. "Mental worms an' moral cancer, Pete," replied the
cynic, smiling in spite of himself at the cogitation started in his
friend by the words.
"Whatever that means," replied Pete, cautiously. "However, if it's what
I reckon it is, there's just two cures." Pete was dogmatic by nature.
"An' that's likker, or a new range."
"Somethin's th' matter with you today, Pete," rejoined Tex. "Yo're as
quick as a reflex." He studied a moment, and added: "An' yo're dead
right, too."
"There ain't no reflection needed," retorted Pete; "an' there ain't
nothin' th' matter with me a-tall. I'm tellin' you common sense; but
it's shore a devil of a choice. If it's likker, then you lose; if it's
driftin' off som'ers, then we lose. Tell you what: Go down to Twin
River an' clean 'em out at stud, if you can find anybody that ain't
played you before," he suggested hopefully. "Mebby there's a stranger
in town. You'll shore feel a whole lot better, then." He grinned
suddenly. "You might find a travelin' man: they're so cussed smart they
don't think anybody can learn 'em anythin'. Go ahead--try it!"
Tex laughed. "Where you goin'?" he abruptly demanded. He could not
afford to have any temptations thrown in his way just then.
"Over Cyclone way, for Buck. Comin' along?"
Tex slowly shook his head. "I'm goin' th' other way. Wonder why we
haven't got word from Hoppy or Red or Johnny?" he asked, and the
question acted like alum in muddy water, clearing away his doubts and
waverings, which swiftly precipitated and left the clear fluid of
decision.
"Huh!" snorted Pete in frank disgust. "You wait till any of them
fellers write an' there'll be a white stone over yore head with nice
letterin' on it to tell lies forever. You know 'em. Comin' along with
me?" he asked, wheeling, and was answered by an almost imperceptible
shake of his friend's head.
"I'll shake hands with you, Pete," said Tex, holding out his deft but
sinewy hand. "In case I don't see you again," he explained in answer to
his friend's look of surprise. "I'm mebby driftin' before you get
back."
"Cuss it!" exploded Pete. "I'm allus talkin' too blamed much. Now I've
gone an' done it!"
"You've only hastened it a little," assured Tex, gripping the
outstretched hand spasmodically. "Cheer up; I don't aim to stay away
forever!" He spurred his mount and shot away up the incline, Pete
looking after him and slowly shaking his head.
When the restless puncher stopped again it was at the kitchen door of
the white ranchhouse. As he swung from the saddle something stung him
where his trousers were tight and he stopped his own jump to grab the
horse, which had been stung in turn. A snicker and a quick rustle
sounded under the summer kitchen and Tex took the coiled rope from his
saddle, deftly unfastening the restraining knot. The rustling sounded
again, frantic and sustained, followed by a half-defiant,
half-supplicating jeer.
"You can't do it, under here!" said Pickles, reloading the bean-shooter
from a bulging cheek. "I can shoot yore liver out before you can whirl
it!" Pickles was quite a big boy now, but threatened never to grow
dignified; and besides, he had been badly spoiled by everybody on the
ranch.
"Whirling livers never appealed to me," rejoined Tex, putting the rope
back. "Never," he affirmed decidedly; "but I'm goin' to whirl yourn
some of these days, an' you with it!"
"Those he loves, he annoys," said a low, sweet voice, its timbre
stimulating the puncher like a draught of wine. His sombrero sweeping
off as he turned, he bowed to the French Rose, wife of the big-hearted
half-owner of the ranch. If only he had chosen a woman like this one!
"I seem to remember him annoyin' Dave Owens, at near half a mile, with
Hoppy's Sharps," he slowly replied. "Nobody ever told me that he loved
Dave a whole lot." At the momentary cloud the name brought to her face
he shook his head and growled to himself. "I'm a fool, ma'am, these
days," he apologized; "but it strikes me that you ought to smile at that
name--it shore played its unwilling part in giving you a good husband;
an' Buck a mighty fine wife. Where is Buck?"
"Inside the house, walking rings around the table--he seems so, so--"
she shrugged her shoulders hopelessly and stepped aside to let Tex
enter.
"I don't know what he seems," muttered Tex as he passed in; "but I know
what he is--an' that's just a plain, ornery fool." He shook his head at
such behavior by any man who was loved by the French Rose.
Buck stopped his pacing and regarded him curiously, motioning toward an
easy chair.
"Standin's good enough for me, for I'm itchin' with th' same disease
that you imagine is stalkin' you," said Tex, looking at his old friend
with level, disapproving gaze. "It don't matter with me, but it's plain
criminal with you. I'm free to go; yo're not. An' I'm tellin' you
frank that if I had th' picket stake that's holdin' you, all h--l
couldn't tempt me. Yo're a plain, d--d fool--an' you know it!"
Buck leaned back against the edge of the table and thoughtfully regarded
his companion. "It ain't so much that, as it is Hoppy, an' Red, an'
Johnny," he replied, spreading out his hands in an eloquent gesture.
"They could write, anyhow, couldn't they?" he demanded.
"Shore," affirmed Tex, grinning. "How long ago was it that you answered
their last letters?" He leaned back and laughed outright at the guilty
expression on his friend's face. "I thought so! Strong on words, but
cussed poor on example."
"I reckon yo're right," muttered Buck. "But that south range shore
calls me strong, Tex."
"'Whither thou goest, I go' was said by a woman," retorted Tex. "'Yore
people are my people; yore God, my God.' I'm sayin' it works both ways.
You ought to go down on yore knees for what's come to you. An' you
will, one of these days. Think of Hoppy's loss--an' you'll do it before
mornin'. But I didn't come in to preach common sense to a lunatic--I
come to get my time, an' to say good-bye."
Buck nodded. Vaguely disturbed by some unnamed, intermittent fever, he
had been quick to read the symptoms of restlessness in another,
especially in one who had been as close to him as Tex had been. He went
over to an old desk, slowly opened a drawer and took out a roll of bills
and a memorandum.
"Here," he said, holding both out. "Far as I know it's th' same as when
you gave it to me. Ought to be seven hundred, even. Count it, to make
shore." While Tex took it and shoved it into his pocket uncounted and
crumpled the memorandum, Buck also was reaching into a pocket, and
counted off several bills from the roll it gave up. These he gravely
handed to his companion, smiling to hide the ache of losing another
friend.
"I shore haven't earned it all," mused Tex, looking down at the wages in
his hand. "I reckon I'm doin' this ranch a favor by leavin', for there
ain't no real job up here no more for any man as expensive as I am. You
got th' whole country eatin' out of yore hand, an' th' first thing you
know th' cows will catch th' habit an' brand an' count 'emselves to save
you th' trouble of doin' it."
"You'll be doin' us a bigger favor when you come back, one of these
days," grinned Buck. "You shore did yore share in trainin' it to eat
out of my hand. For a while it looked like it would eat th' hand--an'
it would 'a', too. Aimin' to ride down?"