Читать книгу West of the Pecos - Zane Grey - Страница 7

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TO THE cowhands at Healds’ ranch he called himself Pecos Smith. They were not long in discovering that he was the best horseman, the best shot, the best roper that had ever ridden up out of Southwest Texas. But that was about all they ever learned about his past.

Pecos had come up the river with a trail driver named McKeever, who had a contract to deliver cattle at Santa Fé, New Mexico. The Spanish towns of Santa Fé, Taos, Las Vegas, and Albuquerque furnished a growing market for beef. The Government forts added largely to this demand. Cattlemen, believing in future protection against the marauding bands of Indians, had followed the more adventurous settlers into southern New Mexico and western Texas. Most of the cattle at this period came from the Rio Grande.

McKeever, on his return, stopped at Healds’ minus one of his rangy vaqueros, and it was observed that that rider was Smith.

“We left Smith behind at Santa Fé,” explained the trail driver. “He pecosed another man an’, like he always does after a shootin’, he got drunk. We couldn’t wait fer him. But I reckon he’ll be along soon.”

“Quarrelsome cowhand, this Smith?” asked Bill Heald, one of the brother ranchers.

“Not atall. He’s aboot the best-natured boy you’d want to meet,” returned McKeever. “But he gets picked at, seems like, or else he’s everlastin’ bustin’ into somebody’s trouble. An’ he’s shore hell with a gun.”

That was Smith’s introduction to the Healds. Several days after that he dropped in at the ranch, a clean-cut, smiling, devil-may-care Texas boy of the old stock. Bill Heald took a fancy to him, and being in need of riders offered him a job.

“Wal, I’ll shore take ye up,” drawled Smith. “Mac won’t like it. But he was ornery up there at Santa Fé. Cussed me powerful.”

“McKeever told me you shot a man,” rejoined Heald, slowly, watching the rider. “In fact, he said another man.”

“Damn Mac’s pictures, anyhow,” complained the rider, annoyed. “He’s always talkin’ aboot me.”

Heald decided it would be wiser to waive personal inquiries, despite the curiosity Smith aroused. Heald’s experienced eye, however, took in certain details about this rider that prompted one more query. “Ever work for a Mexican?”

“Yeah. Don Felipe Gonzales,” admitted Smith, readily. “My father was killed in the war an’ my family busted up. Don Felipe was an old acquaintance of ours. So I went across the Rio Grande an’ rode his range four or five years. I’m not shore how many. Anyway, till I got chased back over the river.”

Further than that Smith never vouchsafed information about himself, to the Healds or any of the hands.

Upon close scrutiny of Pecos Smith, Heald decided that his appearance belied the boyishness that seemed to be born of his careless, free insouciance. His age must have been between twenty and twenty-five years, which was not very young for a range rider in Texas. He was just above medium height, not so lean and rangy as most horsemen, having wide shoulders and muscular round limbs. He struck Heald as a remarkably able horseman, which opinion was soon more than verified. All the leather trappings about Smith and his horse were ragged and shiny from use, particularly the gun holster which hung low on his left thigh and the saddle sheath. The ivory handle of his gun was yellow with age. What metal showed, and this was also true of his rifle, shone with the bright, almost white luster of worn, polished steel. His saddle, bridle, and spurs, also his black sombrero, were of Spanish make, decorated with silver; and if they had not been so old might have made a thief out of many a vaquero.

“Smith, you’re on,” declared Bill Heald, finally, having been unaccountably slow in decision, for him. “Thet’s a grand hoss you’re forkin’. If he ain’t Arabian I’ll eat him. Have a care for him. What with this outfit an’ the Comanches you’ll have hell keepin’ him.”

“Wal, Cinco cain’t be caught in a race, anyhow,” drawled the rider, patting the tired and dusty horse. “Heald, I’m shore thankin’ you for the job.”

“Not atall. We’re short-handed. An’ you strike me right. But, Smith, if you’ve got thet queer hand-itch fer a gun, won’t you doctor it with axle grease or somethin’?”

“Never no more, boss. I’m a sick hombre. Red likker an’ me air on the oots,” drawled the rider, his flashing smile answering the other’s levity.

“Then you’re set heah,” concluded Bill Heald.

It chanced that Heald’s sister, Mary, had watched this interview from the door, unobserved. She was only sixteen, and with the brothers had been made an orphan not so long ago. She was the pride of their eyes as well as the disturber of their peace.

“Oh, Billy!” she exclaimed, her black eyes shining roguishly. “That’s the handsomest rider I’ve seen since I came West.”

“Thunder an’ blazes!” ejaculated Heald. “If I’d seen thet I’d never hev hired him....Mary, if you make eyes at him ranchin’ will shore stop heah.”

The next time Heald saw Smith he remembered Mary’s tribute and took keener note of the stranger. Smith was not an unusual type for a Texan, though he appeared to have Texas characteristics magnified. Many Texans were sandy-haired or tow-headed, and possessed either blue or gray eyes. This rider had flaxen hair and he wore it so long that it curled from under his sombrero. His face was like a bronze mask, except when he talked or smiled, and then it lightened. In profile it was sharply cut, cold as stone, singularly more handsome than the full face. His eyes assumed dominance over all other features, being a strange-flecked, pale gray, of exceeding power of penetration. His lips, in repose, were sternly chiseled, almost bitter, but as they were mostly open in gay, careless talk or flashing a smile over white teeth, this last feature was seldom noticed.

The remudo filed in that night, enlivening the ranch again, and next day Bill Heald asked his brother what he thought of the new cowhand.

“Strikes me fine. Likable cuss, I’ll gamble,” replied John Heald. “Real Texas stuff in thet fellar.”

“Mary has fallen in love with him already.”

“O Lord! What’ll we do, Bill? Send her back to Auntie Heald?”

“Hell no! She stays if she puts the outfit up a tree. Mebbe this Pecos hombre can win her.”

“I don’t know aboot thet,” replied John, soberly. “Mary’s tryin’ an’ thet’s no joke. I want her to settle out heah an’ marry some good fellar. But this Pecos has a gun record, Bill. Did you know thet?”

“McKeever told me Smith had killed another man,” admitted the elder brother, thoughtfully.

“Sandy told me more than thet,” went on John, impressively. “Sandy says he sneaked a peep at this Pecos fellar’s gun. It had six notches on the handle an’ one of them was cut fresh.”

“Six....I reckoned it might be more. Let’s not borrow trouble, John. Anyway, it’s a shootin’ country an’ we might be most damn glad to have thet kind of a Texan among us.”

“Shore. An’ it ain’t likely Mary will capitulate to a blood-spiller. She’s squeamish for a Heald. But she might flirt with the fellar. Mary’s the dod-blastedest flirt I ever seen.”

“Flirtin’ might be as bad as a real case,” rejoined Bill. “What concerns me is the effect thet’d have on our outfit. You know, John, every last man Jack of them thinks he’s goin’ to wed with Mary.”

Pecos Smith gave opportunity for various discussion among the brothers and their cowhands. It was a lonesome country, and strangers, that were not to be avoided, were few and far between. Their opinions, however, fell far wide of the mark, except as they had to do with Smith as a vaquero. The horse Cinco lived up to his looks and his rider’s pride. Pecos was a whole outfit in himself. He never knew when work was done. His riding and roping might have been that of the famous vaquero, Rodiriquez. Every cowhand in the outfit had his sombrero full of bullet holes, proofs of Pecos’ marksmanship. Pecos was most obliging and he could not resist any kind of a bet. He seldom missed a sombrero tossed into the air, and as often as not he put two bullets through it before it dropped. He would never let anyone handle his gun, which shared with Cinco in his affections. Pecos proved to be a round peg fitting snugly into a round hole. Riders were scarce, cattle growing plentiful, likewise rustlers, and always the horse-stealing Comanches.

Long before McKeever drove north again with a herd of steers Pecos had won the regard of the X Bar outfit, which was run by an adjoining rancher, as well as that of the HH outfit, belonging to the Healds.

The singular thing about Pecos, remarkable in view of the universal esteem in which he was held, was that he avoided contact with people, save the riders with whom he worked or those of the neighboring ranch. Mary Heald gave a party one night to which all the people in that part of the country were invited. Somebody had to be out with the cattle on that particular night, and Pecos took the job for another rider. Mary Heald was furious with him, and snubbed him on the following day when he happened to run into her at the corrals.

“Wal, I just cain’t please the ladies, nohow,” he drawled to Sandy McClain.

“Huh! Say, you mysterious cuss—you could have ’em eatin’ out of your hand if you’d give ’em a chance.”

“Sandy, yore what them Colorado chaps call loco.”

“Am I? What’s thet?”

“Wal, it’s a kind of weed thet hosses eat an’ go off their haids.”

“Pecos, air you hitched to some gurl?—Married, I mean?”

“Me?—Santa Maria!”

“Air you a woman-hater then? Had yore heart broke?...Honest, Pecos, yore laughin’ an’ whistlin’ an’ makin’ fun don’t fool this heah chicken none. You’re a sad hombre.”

“No, Sandy, my heart’s shore not broke yet, but dog-gone me, it wouldn’t take much.”

Bill Heald and his brother satisfied themselves finally as to Pecos’ peculiar aloofness.

“First off I figured Pecos was one of them Texas-Ranger-dodgin’ hombres,” said Bill. “But I’ve changed my mind. Thet fellar never did a shady thing in his life. He comes of a good family, you can tell thet, an’ he’s had trouble.”

“Bill, I agree with you. More’n thet I’d say if there was a sheriff or a ranger huntin’ Pecos he’d never dodge him. I’d shore hate to be the sheriff that tried to arrest him, provided it was an even break.”

“He fooled us aboot Mary, didn’t he? Darn good lesson fer thet little lady. Only I hope she doesn’t fall daid in love with Pecos.”

“Wal, if she did it wouldn’t last....No, Pecos is just one of them driftin’, fascinatin’ vaqueros. I’ve met as many as I have fingers. Texas is the only country thet could produce such a breed.”

McKeever, on his return from Santa Fé spent a night at the Heald ranch and not only inquired about his lost vaquero, but wanted to see him. Pecos was not to be located.

“Reckon he likes it hyar an’ wants to hang aboot,” concluded the trail driver, with a sly look at Mary, which made her blush flamingly.

“I’m shore nobody hyar wants him hangin’ aboot,” she retorted, her chin tilting.

“My loss is your gain, folks,” returned McKeever, resignedly. “They don’t come any finer than Smith.”

If there were any doubts at the HH ranch as to the status of Pecos Smith, that recommendation definitely dispersed them.

The time came when Pecos Smith justified the prefix to his name, if he had not already done so. Like an Indian, it was second nature for him to remember any trail, any thicket, any creek bottom, or canyon that he had ever seen. His brain instinctively photographed places.

The Rio Pecos from Castle Gap Canyon to the New Mexico border became his intimate possession. The Healds did not know whether they were running twenty thousand head of stock or thirty thousand. Pecos Smith had a more accurate estimate of their cattle than anyone, and his reports of unbranded calves and yearlings and steers hiding in the thickets of the creek bottoms or the brakes of the Pecos ran into the thousands.

Bill Heald took this with a grain of salt, while his brother pondered over it seriously. Like all ranchers of the period, they were careless branders. That was to say they did not have the hands nor the time to comb the range for unbranded stock. Cattle had begun to demand a price and the future looked promising. But money was scarce. Texas was in her first stage of recovery after the ruin left by the war. The Healds were doing about all that was possible for them.

Rustlers appeared on the Pecos range. The long-horns had come originally from south of the Rio Grande; so had the cattle thieves. Nowhere had there ever been such wholesale and tremendous thefts of cattle as along the Mexican border. That was one reason why Texans like the Healds had moved to isolated ranges.

But up to this period the X Bar, the HH, and other outfits had not suffered much from rustling. At least they had not been aware of it. Every rancher lost stock, the same as he appropriated a little that really did not belong to him. There had not been, however, any appreciable inroads upon the herds.

It was through the trail driver, McKeever, that the Healds found the opportunity they had planned and waited for, and this was a considerable market for their product. McKeever bought cattle from them in large numbers and drove them to the Spanish settlements in New Mexico and the Government headquarters. Extensive military operations against the Indians were already under way. Rumors of railroads through New Mexico and Texas were rife. Altogether the Healds looked forward to huge markets, to advancing prices, and trail herds of their own.

To this end Pecos Smith was promoted to be their outside man. He accepted the job with reluctance, and upon being asked why he was not keen about it he replied rather evasively that it held too much responsibility. His duty was to ride all over the country, to the farthest outlying ranges, not only to keep track of the Heald cattle, but to gauge general conditions, study the methods of other ranchers, and watch their round-ups. Thus Pecos Smith added to his already wide knowledge of the country.

Upon his return from one of these trips, in the autumn of his second year’s service to the Healds, he ran into the inevitable trouble that had always hounded his trail.

Pecos had ridden into the ranch early in the morning, and after cleaning up was enjoying a much-needed rest and a smoke when Sandy McClain came hurrying over from the ranch-house. Pecos divined there was something up before Sandy drew near enough to distinguish his features. He could tell by that hurried yet suspensive stride. So that when Sandy arrived at the porch of the cabin, his hazel eyes full of fire and his lips hard, Pecos cursed under his breath.

“Pecos, thar’s shore—hell to pay,” declared Sandy.

“Who’s payin’ it?” queried Pecos, in his cool, lazy drawl.

“Nobody yit, but you’ll have to. An’ I’m gittin’ this off my chest first. If it comes to a fight I’m with you.”

“Thanks, Sandy, I shore appreciate thet. But usually I can tend to my own fights. Suppose you tell me aboot what’s up?”

“You know thet Sawtell, foreman fer Beckman?” rushed on Sandy.

“Shore. I was at Marber’s Crossin’ not two months ago,” replied Pecos, his boots coming down from a bench. “They had a round-up. I was there, you bet, an’ I stayed, in spite of the cold shoulder from Sawtell.”

“Pecos, it ain’t so good. Sawtell is hyar, with three of his outfit. An’ he’s been hittin’ the bottle, Pecos. He’s loud an’ nasty.”

“What’s it all aboot?”

“I didn’t heah. But I can guess. Bill is all upset, an’ madder’n hell under his hat, as I could see. He sent me to fetch you.”

Pecos sat silent a moment with slowly contracting brows. His eyes were downcast. Presently he drew his gun, and flipping it open he extracted an extra cartridge from his vest pocket and inserted it in the one empty chamber. Then he arose to his feet, sheathing the gun. Without another word he strode off toward the ranch-house, with Sandy beside him, talking wildly.

Presently Pecos espied four saddled horses standing, bridles down, across the open space in front of the house. He sheered a little to the left so that he would not go abruptly around the corner.

“Keep out of this, Sandy,” he ordered.

“But they’re four to one, Pecos,” expostulated Sandy. “An’ thet red-faced Sawtell doesn’t talk like he savvied you. I’ve got a hunch, Pecos. It won’t do no harm to let them see you got a pard.”

Pecos answered with a gesture that needed no speech. Sandy sheered widely to the right. Pecos heard a loud voice. Next moment he came into the open, where he had a clear view. Mary Heald was the first person he saw.

“Go in the house,” Bill Heald ordered her.

“Oh, your grandmother!” retorted Mary. She was flushed and excited, and upon espying Pecos gave a violent start.

“Bill!...Hyar he is,” she called.

Pecos took in the prospect. Sawtell, a tall cattleman wearing a bandana as red as his face, stood out before three cowhands whose posture was not easy. Bill Heald, turning from Mary, called to his brother: “This ain’t no mix fer her. Drag her inside.”

“Let her stay. Mebbe she’ll hyar somethin’,” declared John.

“I did hyar somethin’ and it’s a confounded lie,” flashed Mary, hotly.

Upon seeing Pecos approaching, Bill Heald showed a subtle change of manner.

“Sawtell, hyar’s Pecos now, to speak fer himself. We think you’re on a wrong track. An’ if you’ll listen to reason, you’ll go mighty slow.”

“Hell!—Air you threatenin’ me, Bill Heald?” returned the visitor, harshly.

“Not atall. I’m just advisin’ you.”

“Wal, I don’t need any advice. I was ridin’ these ranges long before you.”

“Shore. But you don’t know Pecos Smith.”

“Pecos! Whar’d he git thet handle?”

“I don’t know. He had it when he come.”

Pecos halted some paces out.

“Boss, what’s up heah?”

“I’m ashamed to tell you, Pecos, an’ I swear I’d never done it if I could have persuaded Sawtell to ride off.”

“Thanks, Heald....Get back an’ leave this to me.”

Bill promptly acted upon that suggestion, and it was equally noticeable that the three cowhands behind Sawtell moved out of line with him.

Pecos eyed the cattleman and read him through. There would be no equivocation here. The matter had been settled in Sawtell’s mind before he arrived at Healds’ ranch, and he had fortified it with drink.

“You know me, Smith?” demanded Sawtell. He was loud, authoritative, but not of the braggart breed.

“I haven’t the honor, Señor,” replied Pecos, coldly. “When I called on you at Marber’s Crossin’ not long since you didn’t give me the chance. An’ I reckoned I didn’t miss much.”

“Wal, you might have missed hyarin’ aboot the maverick-brandin’ thet’s goin’ on.”

“No. I didn’t have to heah thet.”

Bill Heald could not keep out of the colloquy.

“Pecos reported to me. The HH is losin’ a dribble of mavericks.”

“Is thet so?” sneered Sawtell. He was ugly and could not be conciliated.

“See hyar, Sawtell,” retorted Heald, sharply, at last out of patience. “You come shore set to make trouble. An’ by Gawd, you’re liable to run into more’n you bargained fer.”

“Air you defendin’ maverick-brandin’?” demanded Sawtell, sarcastically.

“Boss, would you mind leavin’ this deal to me?” interposed Pecos.

“All right, Sawtell. You’re makin’ your own bed. I’ve no more to say,” concluded Heald, and he backed away.

Pecos made two strides which brought him within ten feet of the irate cattleman. Everyone present except Sawtell must have sensed the singular, cold menace of the vaquero. Only the false stimulus of whisky could have blinded a matured Texan to imminent peril. And at that Sawtell seemed confronted with an obstructing thought.

“Sawtell, you gave me a cold shoulder up at Marber’s Crossin’.”

“You bet I did.”

“If it hadn’t been fer my boss, I’d have called you then, in yore own back yard. I took thet as an insult.”

“Wal, you took it proper. An’ if it hadn’t been fer the Healds hyar I’d run you off my ranch.”

That was definite and it settled all but the conclusion of this meeting, which the cattleman was evidently too obtuse or bull-headed to sense. One of his men made a movement as if to intercede, but was restrained by a second. They edged nervously to one side, as if wary to get out of line with Pecos’ piercing eyes. But they would have had to dissolve in thin air to accomplish that.

Pecos’ silence, his strained intensity, the suspense of the moment penetrated Sawtell’s befogged brain. But it was too late.

“Mr. Pecos Smith,” Sawtell blustered, “you know them X Bar cowhands, Curt Williams an’ Wess Adams?”

“Reckon I do.”

“They rode fer thet greaser Felipe, down on the Big Bend.”

“So did I.”

“Wal, thet ain’t any recommend fer them or you.”

“Beggars cain’t be choosers. I had to ride to live.... Yore beatin’ aboot the bush. Come on!”

“I had Williams an’ Adams fired off the X Bar.”

“No news to me.”

“They was seen brandin’ mavericks on my range.”

“Sawtell, it’s not beyond the bounds of reason thet them mavericks wasn’t yore’n,” replied Pecos, coldly.

“No, it ain’t. But I’m choosin’ to claim them.”

“Thet’s yore affair. Tolerable unhealthy, I’d say—on the Pecos.”

Sawtell’s hurried speech apparently augmented his anger, but did not relieve the cramping effect of Pecos’ front.

“I’m down hyar to have you fired off the HH,” shouted the cattleman.

“Cain’t be done. I quit.”

“Ahuh. When?”

“Aboot two minutes ago.”

“You’re a slick hombre, Mr. Smith,” retorted Sawtell, exasperated to derision. “Wal, then, I’ll drive you off the Pecos range.”

Pecos made a singular movement, too swift to discern, though it left him as if in the act of leaping. From his whole being suddenly emanated terrible suspense.

“You —— idiot! Drive me off the Pecos?... What’s all yore gab aboot?”

Sawtell had again gone too far. There was no retreat. The red of his face receded in a marked line, leaving it a leaden gray.

“You was thick with them maverick-branders.”

“Who accuses me?” cried Pecos, piercingly.

Sawtell let out an incoherent roar—rage at himself as well as at Pecos—at the realization that he had misjudged his man. His arm moved stiffly. His hand jerked at his gun.

The single, whipping throw of Pecos’ gun discharged it. Sawtell’s body lost its vibrant tension. It slumped. His head dropped forward. Then he swayed.

Pecos leaped like a tiger past the falling man to face the cowhands, his gun high, quivering to flash down with the force that would fire it.

“Any of you back him up?” he yelled, stridently.

“Smith, it weren’t our mistake,” hoarsely replied the one who would have importuned Sawtell. “Honest to Gawd—we wanted him—to go slow.”

Pecos waved them off, and watched them go hurriedly toward their horses. When he turned, Bill Heald was kneeling beside Sawtell. Sandy was running over and John Heald was trying to drag the white-faced girl away.

“Daid! ... Shot through the heart!...Pecos, this is shore bad bizness,” ejaculated Bill.

“You heah him!” Pecos’ voice cracked like steel on ice.

“Shore. But my Gawd, man, I didn’t expect you to kill him,” returned Heald, suddenly rising.

“You believe——”

“No, Pecos! Not fer a second,” protested Heald, hastily, lifting a hand. “An’ thet’s straight. John an’ I think you’re as clean an’ fine as they come. McKeever swore by you. This damn fool Sawtell must have been drunk. I told him....Pecos, don’t hold any of it against the HH.”

Pecos lowered the gun, but he kept up his pacing to and fro, his strange eyes pivoting like the oscillations of a compass needle. All his cold poise was gone. He had the lunge, the standing hair, the savageness of a wild animal. Sandy approached him, to halt in hesitation.

“Pecos, you had to bore him,” he ejaculated. “You jest had to. We’ll all stick up fer you. Sawtell brought it on himself.”

One of the retreating cowhands, now mounted on their horses, called to Heald: “We’ll send a wagon back fer him.”

“All right. Make it pronto,” Heald replied.

Pecos sheathed his gun, and with that motion appeared to sag. He ceased his cat-like stride. Freckles no one had ever seen stood out on his clammy face. His hair was wet. He stooped to pick up his sombrero, which had fallen when he leaped to confront Sawtell’s men.

“Bill, didn’t I tell you not to give me thet outside job?” he queried.

“You shore did, Pecos. I’m sorry. But I don’t see what difference thet could have made.”

“I seen too much, Bill. An’ I tried to—wal, never mind aboot thet....I’m shore thankin’ you an’ John fer keepin’ me heah so long an’ fer defendin’ me to thet white-livered liar.”

His implication must have been clear to Heald. At least he looked as if he had grasped at the truth—Pecos had come upon these roistering cowhands at some shady deal. He had tried to show them the error of their ways and had kept his mouth shut about it.

“Pecos, listen hyar. Sawtell must have had a showdown on Williams an’ Adams. He was aimin’ to bluff you into squealin’—shore he didn’t know you.”

“You heah somethin’ aboot Curt an’ Wess?”

“Yes. More’n once, an’ I have my doubts, Pecos.”

The vaquero threw up his hands. “—— the fools!”

At this juncture Mary Heald broke away from her brother and ran out to confront Pecos. She was still white, sick, trembling, but she was brave.

“Pecos, I know you’re not a thief,” she burst out.

His somber face lightened beautifully.

“Wal, Miss Mary, thet’s shore good fer me to heah.... I’ve no home, no family, no friends, an’ when I go out on the long trail again, it’ll be good to remember you an’ yore brothers believed in me.”

“We do, Pecos. Oh, we do,” she replied, brokenly. “Don’t say you’ve no friends—no home....Do not leave us, Pecos.”

“I cain’t stay. It might do yore brothers harm. Those cowhands will tell how Bill stuck up fer me. An’ they’ll add to it. If I stayed on——”

“Mary, he’s right,” interposed Bill. “Much as I regret it, Pecos will have to leave the HH.”

“Shore. An’ I may as wal have the game as the blame,” added Pecos, bitterly.

“Don’t say thet, boy,” entreated Heald who heard in this resignation the spirit and the hopelessness that had sent so many fine Texas boys down the wrong trail. It was cruel, because in that great state, depleted by wars and overrun with ruined boys and men, there seemed so slight a line of demarcation between the right trail and the wrong.

“Oh, you wild vaquero!” burst out Mary, passionately. “That is wrong—to yourself—to us....to me!... Pecos, you’re such a—a wonderful boy. Don’t let the horror of—of killin’ another man drive you to—to... He deserved it. He was mean. I—I could have shot him myself....Bill—John—say somethin’——”

The girl failed of utterance there. She had much excuse for agitation, but neither her youth nor the shock of seeing a man killed could wholly account for all she betrayed.

“Pecos, I reckon you’d better stay on,” said Bill, huskily. “I’ll ride up to Marber’s an’ prove your innocence—explain how Sawtell was drunk an’ forced this shootin’.”

“No. Bill, you cain’t do thet,” returned Pecos. “I’ve riled up bad blood before an’ I shore don’t want to do it heah.”

“Pecos!” whispered the girl.

The vaquero turned to her in a realizing amazement that almost hid his gratitude. “Miss Mary, I shore thank you....An’ I promise you—thet if anythin’ can make me go straight from now on—it’ll be you—yore faith—yore goodness. Adios.”

He reached as if to take her hand, drew back, and wheeled away. Sandy McClain ran to stride beside him.

“Adios, Pecos!” called the girl. “Go straight—an’ come—back—some—day.”