Читать книгу The Thundering Herd - Zane Grey - Страница 4

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ALL during Tom Doan’s boyhood, before and through the stirring years of the Rebellion, he had been slowly yielding to the call that had made so many young men adventurers and pioneers in the Southwest.

His home had not been a happy one, but as long as his mother lived and his sisters remained unmarried he had stayed there, getting what education there was available at the little Kansas village school, and working hard on the farm. When Kansas refused to secede to the South at the beginning of the Rebellion, Tom’s father, who was a rebel, joined Quantrill’s notorious band of guerillas. Tom’s sisters were in sympathy with the South. But Tom and his mother held open leaning toward the North. It was a divided family. Eventually the girls married and left home. Tom’s mother did not long survive her husband, who was shot on one of Quantrill’s raids.

Tom outlived the sadness and bitterness of his youth, but they left their mark upon him. His loyalty to his mother had alone kept him from the wildness of the time, and their poverty had made hard work imperative. After the war he drifted from place to place, always farther and farther toward the unsettled country. He had pioneer blood in him, and in his mind he had settled the future. He meant to be a rancher, a tiller of the soil, a stockman and a breeder of horses, for these things he loved. Yet always there was in him the urge to see the frontier, to be in the thick of wild life while he was hunting and exploring for that wonderful land which would content him. Thus Tom Doan had in him a perfect blending of the dual spirit that burned in the hearts of thousands of men, and which eventually opened up the West to civilization.

Not, however, until the autumn of 1874 did he surrender to the call. The summer of that year had been a momentous one in the Southwest. Even in years of stress this one stood out as remarkable, and the tales drifting up from the frontier had thrilled Tom’s heart.

A horde of buffalo-hunters, lured by the wild life and the development of a commercial market for buffalo hides, had braved the Indians in their haunts and started after the last great herds. This had resulted in an Indian war. The Cheyennes, Kiowas, Arapahoes, and the Comanches had gone on the warpath. A thousand warriors of these tribes had made the memorable siege of a small band of buffalo-hunters and their soldier escort, and after repeated and persistent charges had been repulsed. The tale of this battle was singularly thrilling to Tom Doan. Particularly had the hunting of buffalo appealed to him. Not that he had ever hunted a buffalo, for in fact he had never seen one. But stories told him as a boy had fixed themselves in his mind, never to be effaced.

Early spring found Tom Doan arriving at the outfitting post from which an army of buffalo-hunters were preparing to leave for the long haul to the south.

The atmosphere of this frontier fort and freighting station was new to Tom, and affected him deeply. The stir of youthful love of wild tales was here revived. At a step, almost, he had found himself on the threshold of the frontier. Huge freighting wagons, some with six horses attached, and loaded with piles and bales of green buffalo hides, lumbered in from the level prairie-land. The wide main street of the town presented a continual procession of men and women, mostly in rough garb of travel, and all intent on the mysterious something that seemed to be in the air. There was a plentiful sprinkling of soldiers, and pale-faced, frock-coated gamblers, and many stylishly dressed women who had a too friendly look, Tom thought. There were places of amusement, saloons and dance halls, that Tom found a peep into sufficient. Dust lay inches deep in the street, and the horses passing along continually raised clouds of it.

The camp on the outskirts of this town soon drew Tom. Here, ranged all around, it appeared, were the outfits of the buffalo-hunters, getting ready to travel south. Tom meant to cast his lot with one of them, but the tales he had heard about the character of some of these outfits made him decide to be careful. According to rumor some of them were as bad as the Comanches.

The first man Tom accosted was a tall, rugged, bronzed Westerner, with a stubby red beard on his lean face. He was encamped under a cottonwood, just bursting into green, and on the moment was busy jacking up the hind wheel of his huge canvas-covered wagon.

“I’ll give you a lift,” offered Tom, and with one heave he raised the rear end of the wagon.

“Wal!” ejaculated the Westerner, as he rapidly worked up his jack to meet the discrepancy occasioned by Tom’s lift. “Reckon you’re husky, stranger. Much obliged.”

Tom helped him complete the job of greasing the wagon wheels and then asked him if he were a buffalo-hunter.

“I am thet,” he replied. “An’ what’re you?”

“I’ve come to join one of the outfits. Are there really good wages to be made?”

“Wal, you are new heahaboots,” returned the other, grinning. “My early fall hunt netted me five hundred dollars. Late fall then I made four hundred. An’ this winter I hunted down on the Brazos, cleanin’ up six hundred an’ eighty.”

Tom was amazed and excited over this specific information, direct from the hunting grounds.

“Why, that’s wonderful!” he replied. “A fellow can make enough to buy and stock a ranch. Did you have a helper?”

“Shore—my two boys, an’ I paid them wages.”

“How much?” inquired Tom.

“Twenty-five a month. Are you lookin’ fer a job?” rejoined the Westerner, with an appreciative glance at Tom’s broad shoulders.

“Yes, but not for such wages as that. I’d like to go in for myself.”

“It’s the way to do, if you can buy your own outfit.”

Upon inquiry Tom found that outfits were high, and with his small savings he could hardly hope to purchase even an interest in one. It would be necessary for him to hire out to the best advantage, and save his earnings toward buying horses, wagon, and equipment for himself. Nevertheless, opportunity seemed indeed knocking at his door. The rewards of buffalo-hunting, as set forth by the Westerner, were great enough to fire the blood of any young man. Tom experienced a sudden lift of his heart; a new and strong tide surged through him.

At the end of the road Tom came to a small grove of cottonwoods, just beyond the edge of the town; and here he caught the gleam of more canvas-covered vehicles. He found three outfits camped there, apart from one another, and the largest one was composed of several wagons. A camp fire was burning. The smell of wood smoke assailed Tom’s nostrils with more than pleasurable sense. It brought pictures of wild places and camp by lonely streams. A sturdy woman was bending over a washtub. Tom caught a glimpse of a girl’s rather comely face peering out of the front of a wagon. Two young men were engaged at shoeing a horse. Under a cottonwood two men sat on a roll of bedding.

As Tom entered the grove one of the men rose to a lofty stature and showed himself to be built in proportion. He appeared past middle age, but was well preserved and possessed a bearded, jovial face, with frank blue eyes that fastened curiously upon Tom. The other man had remarkable features—sharp, hard, stern, set like a rock. Down his lean brown cheeks ran deep furrows and his eyes seemed narrowed inside wrinkled folds. They were gray eyes, light and singularly piercing.

Tom had an impression that this was a real plainsman. The giant seemed a man of tremendous force. Quick to form his likes or dislikes, Tom lost no time here in declaring himself.

“My name’s Tom Doan,” he said. “I want a job with a buffalo-hunter’s outfit.”

“Glad to meet you. I’m Clark Hudnall, an’ this is my friend, Jude Pilchuck,” replied the giant.

Whereupon both men shook hands with Tom and showed the interest common to the time and place. Hudnall’s glance was a frank consideration of Tom’s stalwart form and beardless face. Pilchuck’s was a keen scrutiny associated with memory.

“Doan. Was your father Bill Doan, who rode with Quantrill?” he inquired.

“Yes—he was,” returned Tom, somewhat disconcerted by this unexpected query.

“I knew your father. You favor him, only you’re lighter complexioned. He was a hard rider and a hard shooter.... You were a boy when he got——”

“I was fifteen,” said Tom, as the other hesitated.

“Were you on your dad’s side?” asked Hudnall, curiously.

“No. I was for the North,” returned Tom.

“Well, well, them days were tough,” sighed Hudnall, as if he remembered trials of his own. Then he quickened with interest. “We need a man an’ I like your looks. Have you any hankerin’ for red liquor?”

“No.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“Ever hunt buffalo?”

“No.”

“Can you shoot well?”

“I was always a good shot. Have hunted deer and small game a good deal.”

“What’s your idea—throwin’ in with a hide-hunter’s outfit?”

Tom hesitated a moment over that query, and then frankly told the truth about his rather complicated longings.

Hudnall laughed, and was impressed to the point of placing a kind hand on Tom’s shoulder.

“Young man, I’m glad you told me that,” he said. “Back of my own reason for riskin’ so much in this hide-huntin’ is my need to make money quick, an’ I’ve got to have a ranch. So we’re two of a kind. You’re welcome to cast in your lot with us. Shake on it.”

Then Tom felt the mighty grip of a calloused hand that had known the plow and the ax. Pilchuck likewise offered to shake hands with Tom, and expressed himself no less forcibly than Hudnall.

“Reckon it’s a good deal on both sides,” he said. “The right kind of men are scarce. I know this buffalo-huntin’. It’s a hard game. An’ if skinnin’ hides isn’t tougher than diggin’ coal, then I was a meathunter on the U. P. an’ the Santa Fe for nothin’.”

Hudnall called the two younger men from their task of shoeing the horse. Both appeared under thirty, stocky fellows, but there the resemblance ended.

“Burn, shake hands with Tom Doan,” said Hudnall, heartily. “An’ you, too, Stronghurl. ... Doan is goin’ to throw in with us.”

Both men greeted Tom with the cordial good will and curiosity natural to an event of importance to them. It was evident that Burn, from his resemblance to Hudnall, was a son. Stronghurl had as remarkable a physiognomy as his name, and somehow they fitted each other.

“Burn, you’ll take Doan with your wagon,” said Hudnall. “That fills our outfit, an’ we’ll be pullin’ to-morrow for the Panhandle.... Hey, you women folks,” he called toward the wagons, “come out an’ meet my new man.”

The stout woman left off washing at the tub and came forward, wiping her red hands on her apron. She had a serious face that lighted with a smile.

“Wife, this is Tom Doan,” went on Hudnall, and next in order he presented Tom to Burn’s wife, whom Tom recognized as the young woman he had seen in the wagon. Last to emerge was a girl of eighteen or thereabouts, sister of Burn and manifestly Hudnall’s pride. She was of large frame, pleasant faced, and she had roguish eyes that took instant stock of Tom.

Thus almost before he could realize his good fortune, Tom found himself settled with people of his own kind, whom he liked on sight. Moreover, Hudnall had the same pioneer urge which possessed Tom; and the fact that Pilchuck, an old buffalo-hunter, was to accompany them down into Texas, just about made the deal perfect. To be sure, Tom had not mentioned wages or shares, but he felt that he could safely trust Hudnall.

“Where’s your pack?” inquired Burn. “An’ what have you got in the way of outfit?”

“I left it at the station,” replied Tom. “Not much of an outfit. A bag of clothes and a valise.”

“Nary horse or gun. Have you any money?” went on Burn, with cheerful interest.

“I’ve got two hundred dollars.”

“Good. Soon as we get this horse shod I’ll go uptown with you.”

“Well, son,” spoke up Hudnall, “I reckon Tom had better let Pilchuck buy gun an’ horse an’ what else he needs.”

“Humph!” ejaculated Mrs. Hudnall. “If I know men you’ll all have a say about horses an’ guns.”

“Mr. Doan, wouldn’t you like me to help you pick out that horse?” inquired Burn’s sister, mischievously.

“Why, yes,” replied Tom, joining in the laugh. “I’d like you all to help—so long as I get one I can ride.”

The women returned to their tasks while Hudnall went off with Pilchuck toward the town. Left to his own devices, Tom presently joined Burn and Stronghurl, who were not having any easy job shoeing the horse. It was a spirited animal.

“Doan, would you mind fetchin’ that bay horse back?” asked Burn, presently pointing toward the other side of the grove, where several canvas-covered wagons gleamed among the trees.

Tom picked up a halter and strode away under the trees, at once pleasantly preoccupied with thought of the most satisfying nature. He came up with the bay horse, which he found eating out of a girl’s hand. Tom saw and heard other people close by, but he did not notice them particularly. Intent on the horse, he did not take a second glance at the girl, until she spoke.

“I’ve caught your horse twice to-day,” she said.

“Much obliged. But he’s not mine,” replied Tom, and as he put the halter over the neck of the animal he looked at the girl.

Her eyes met his. They were large, black as midnight, and they gazed up from a face almost as dark as an Indian’s. Her hair was brown and appeared to have a sheen or light upon it.

Tom’s glance became what hers was—steady, almost a stare without consciousness, a look of depth and gravity for which neither was responsible.

Then Tom withdrew his glance and attended to knotting the halter. Yet he could see her still. She was of medium height, neither robust nor heavy, yet giving an impression of unusual strength and suppleness for a girl. She was young. Her dress of homespun material looked the worse for wear.

“He’s a pretty horse,” she said, patting the sleek nose.

“Yes, he is. I hope the horse I’ve got to buy will be like him,” replied Tom.

“Are you a buffalo-killer, too?” she inquired, in quicker tone.

“I expect to be.”

“Milly,” called a gruff voice, “you’re not a hoss thief and you’re not makin’ up with strangers.”

Tom turned hastily to see a big man looming across the camp fire. He wore a leather apron and carried a hammer in his brawny hand. It was impossible that this blond giant could be the girl’s father. Even in that moment of surprise and annoyance Tom felt glad of this conviction. The man’s face bore a thin yellow beard that could not hide its coarseness and brutality. He had bright, hard blue eyes.

“Excuse me,” said Tom, stiffly. “I had to come after Mr. Hudnall’s horse.” Then turning to the girl, he thanked her. This time her eyes were cast down. Tom abruptly started off, leading the animal.

It did not occur to him that there was anything significant about the incident, except a little irritation at the coarse speech and appearance of the blond man. Nevertheless, that part of it slipped from his mind, and the vague, somehow pleasurable impression of the girl persisted until the serious and thrilling business of choosing horse and gun precluded all else.

The fact that Hudnall and his men left off work, and Pilchuck insisted on being the arbiter of these selections, attested to the prime importance with which they regarded the matter. Hudnall argued with Pilchuck that he knew the merits of horses as well as the latter knew guns.

So they journeyed into town, up the dusty motley-crowded street, rubbing elbows with Indians, soldiers, hunters, scouts, teamsters, men who bore the stamp of evil life upon their lean faces, and women with the eyes of hawks. Pilchuck knew almost everybody, it seemed. He pointed out many border celebrities to Tom’s keen interest. One was Colonel Jones, a noted plainsman, who in the near future was to earn the sobriquet “Buffalo Jones,” not like his contemporary, Buffalo Bill, for destroying buffalo, but for preserving calves to form the nucleus of a herd. Another, and the most striking figure of a man Tom had ever seen, was Wild Bill, perhaps the most noted of all frontiersmen. He was a superb giant of a man, picturesquely clad, straight as an Indian, with a handsome face, still, intense, wonderful in its expression of the wild spirit that had made him great. Tom thought he had never before seen such penetrating, alert eyes. Pilchuck mentioned casually that not long since, Wild Bill had fought and killed twelve men in a dugout cabin on the plains. Bill got shot and cut to pieces, but recovered. Tom was far from being a tenderfoot, yet he gaped at these strange, heroic men, and thrilled to his depths. Seeing them face to face stimulated and liberated something deep in him.

The supply store where Pilchuck conducted Tom and the others was full of purchasers, and except for absence of liquors in bottles it resembled a border barroom. It smelled of tobacco in bulk; and Tom saw shelves and stacks of plug tobacco in such enormous quantity that he marveled to Hudnall.

“Golly! man, we gotta have chaw tobacco,” replied that worthy.

A counter littered with a formidable array of guns and knives appeared to be Pilchuck’s objective point.

“We want a big fifty,” he said to the clerk.

“There’s only one left an’ it ain’t new,” replied this individual, as he picked up a heavy gun. It was a fifty-caliber Sharps rifle. Pilchuck examined it and then handed it over to Tom. “I’ve seen better big fifties, but it’ll do for a while. ... Next you want a belt an’ all the cartridges you can lug, an’ both rippin’ an’ skinnin’ knives.”

When these purchases were made Tom had indeed about all he could carry. Hudnall then ordered the supplies needed for his outfit, and when that was accomplished Pilchuck led them down the street to the outskirts of town, where there was a corral full of dusty, vicious, kicking horses. It took an hour for Pilchuck and Hudnall to agree on a horse that Tom could ride. Having been a farm hand all his days, Tom was a good horseman, but he was not a bronco-buster. Finally the selection was made of horse, saddle, bridle, blanket, and spurs. When this purchase was paid for Tom laughed at the little money he had left.

“Things come high, an’ they ain’t worth it,” complained Pilchuck. “But we haven’t any choice. That’s a good horse—young enough, strong, easy gait, but he never saw a buffalo.”

“What of that?” asked Tom, with a little check to his elation.

“Nothin’. Only the first buffalo he sees will decide a lot.”

Tom regarded this rather ambiguous remark with considerable misgiving and made a mental note of it, so he would not forget.

What with their purchases, and Tom’s baggage, which they got at the station, the party had about all they could take back to camp. The afternoon then was a busy one for all concerned. Tom donned rough garb and heavy boots, suitable to life in the open. The change was not made without perception of an indefinable shifting in his spirit. He was about to face the perils of the frontier, and serious and thoughtful as he endeavored to make himself, he could not repress an eager, wild response. He tried out his horse, which he named Dusty, because at that time nothing but a bath could have removed the dust from him. Dusty gave a creditable performance and won the approval of all save Pilchuck. Hudnall, and his daughter Sally, particularly liked the horse. Tom saw that he could sell or trade at his discretion, and so for the time was well pleased.

The rest of the afternoon he spent helping Burn Hudnall arrange and pack the big wagon that was to transport their precious outfit, and later, out on the plains, haul the hides they expected to get.

“I was tellin’ father I’d like to pick up a boy somewhere,” said Burn.

“What for?” inquired Tom. “We can take care of this outfit.”

“Sure, for the present. But when we get out among the buffalo we’ll need some one to drive the wagon an’ keep camp while we chase an’ kill an’ skin buffalo.”

“I see. Then the idea will be a main camp kept by your father, and the rest of us in pairs with wagons and outfits will range all over?”

“I reckon that’s Pilchuck’s idea. From what I can gather there’ll be a lot of hustlin’ an’ movin’ when we strike the herds of buffalo.”

“I should think it’d be a chase with no time for camp,” said Tom.

“Reckon so. Anyways we’re bound to know soon,” replied Burn, grimly.

At sunset Tom heard the cheery call of the women folk to supper; and he was not far behind Burn in getting to the table, which was a canvas spread on the ground. They all appeared hungry. Hudnall loaded his tin plate, filled his cup, and then repaired to the wagon, and set his supper upon the seat. He was too big to squat on the ground, cross-legged and Indian fashion, but his stature enabled him to stand and eat from the wagon seat. Pilchuck, too, had his peculiar habit. He set his plate down, and knelt on one knee to eat.

They were all excited, except Pilchuck, and though this in no wise distracted from a satisfying of hunger, it lent a sparkle and jollity to the occasion. Tom was not alone in having cut away from the humdrum of settled communities and in cherishing dreams of untrammeled country and future home and prosperity.

After supper he again walked into the town, purposely going alone. He did not pry into his reason. This third visit to the main street did not satisfy his vague longing, whatever it was, and he retraced his steps campward.

When he reached the end of the street passersby became scarce, and for that reason more noticeable. But Tom did not pay attention to any one until he heard a girl’s voice. It came from behind him and had a note of annoyance, even anger. A man’s reply, too low and husky for coherence, made Tom turn quickly.

A young woman carrying a heavy parcel was approaching, a step or two in advance of a man. It required only a glance to see that she was trying to get away from him.

Tom strode to meet her, and recognized the girl with whom he had exchanged words at the camp adjoining Hudnall’s.

“Is that fellow bothering you?” demanded Tom.

“He insulted me,” she replied.

Tom broke into swift strides toward the offender.

“Say, you!” he called, forcibly. But the man hurried away, at a pace that would have necessitated running to catch him.

“Never mind. Let him go,” said the girl, with a little laugh of relief.

“This town is full of ruffians. You should not have come in alone,” was Tom’s reply.

“I know. It’s happened before. I wasn’t afraid—but I’m glad you came along.”

“That package looks heavy. Let me carry it,” offered Tom.

“Thank you, I can manage very well,” she returned.

But he took it away from her, and in so doing touched her hand. The effect on Tom was sudden and profound. For the moment it destroyed his naturalness.

“Well—I—it is heavy—for a girl,” he said, awkwardly.

“Oh, I’m very strong,” she rejoined.

Then their eyes met again, as they had when Tom had reached for the horse and looked at her. Only this time it seemed vastly different. She looked away, across the open toward the grove where fires gleamed in the gathering twilight. Then she moved. Tom fell into step beside her. He wanted to talk, but seemed unable to think of anything to say. This meeting was not an ordinary incident. He could not understand himself. He wanted to ask her about who she was, where she was going, what relation she bore to the rude man who had called her Milly. Yet not a word could he utter. He could have spoken surely, if he had not been concentrating on the vagueness and uncertainty of himself.

Before they had quite reached the edge of the grove she stopped and confronted him.

“Thank you,” she said, softly. “I’ll carry it now.”

“No. We’re still a long distance from your camp.”

“Yes—that’s why,” she returned, haltingly. “You must not go with me.... He—my stepfather, you heard him. I—I can’t tell you more.”

Tom did not yield up the parcel with very good grace. “I may never see you again!” he burst out.

She did not answer, but as she relieved him of the package she looked up, straight and clear into his face. Her eyes held him. In them he read the same thought he had just exclaimed aloud. Then she bade him good night, and turning away, vanished in the gloom of the grove.

Not until she was gone did Tom awake to a realization that this chance meeting, apparently so natural on her part and kindly on his, just an incident of travel, two strangers exchanging a few civilities, was the most significant and appealing and thought-provoking experience of his life. Why had he not detained her, just a moment, to ask for the privilege of seeing her again? Still, he could see her to-morrow. That last look of her big black eyes—what did it mean? His mind revolved many useless questions. He found a seat at the edge of the grove and there he pondered. Night came, dark and cool. The stars shone. Behind him sounded the crackle of camp fires and the voices of men and the munch of horses at their grain.

A strange thing had happened to him, but what was it? A girl’s eyes, a few words, a touch of hands! Had they been the cause of this sudden melancholy one moment and inexplicable exaltation the next, and his curiosity about her, and this delving into himself? But he did not call it silly or foolish. Tom was twenty-four years old, yet this condition of mind was new. Perhaps the thrill, the excitement of the prospects ahead, had communicated themselves to an otherwise ordinary incident. The thought, however, he ridiculed. Every moment of his musing tended toward consciousness of a strange, dreamy sweetness inspired by this girl.