Zane Grey The_Rustlers_Of_Pecos

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herd.
"What I want you to steer me on is a good, square rancher. Or maybe a
couple of ranchers if there happen to be two honest ones in Pecos. Eh?
No deals with ranchers who ride in the dark with rustlers! I've a hunch
Linrock's full of them.
"Now, Jim, you've been here for years. So you must know a couple of men
above suspicion."
"Thank God I do, Russ," he replied feelingly. "Frank Morton an' Si
Zimmer, my friends an' neighbors all my prosperous days. An' friends
still. You can gamble on Frank and Si. But Russ, if you want advice from
me, don't invest money in stock now."
"Why?"
"Because any new feller buyin' stock in Pecos these days will be
rustled quicker'n he can say Jack Robinson. The pioneers, the new
cattlemen--these are easy pickin'. But the new fellers have to learn the
ropes. They don't know anythin' or anybody. An' the old ranchers are
wise an' sore. They'd fight if they...."
"What?" I put in as he paused. "If they knew who was rustling the stock?"
"Nope."
"If they had the nerve?"
"Not thet so much."
"What then? What'd make them fight?"
"A leader!"
I went out of Hoden's with that word ringing in my ears. A leader! In my
mind's eye I saw a horde of dark faced, dusty-booted cattlemen riding
grim and armed behind Vaughn Steele.
More thoughtful than usual, I walked on, passing some of my old haunts,
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and was about to turn in front of a feed and grain store when a hearty
slap on my back disturbed my reflection.
"Howdy thar, cowboy," boomed a big voice.
It was Morton, the rancher whom Jim had mentioned, and whose
acquaintance I had made. He was a man of great bulk, with a ruddy,
merry face.
"Hello, Morton. Let's have a drink," I replied.
"Gotta rustle home," he said. "Young feller, I've a ranch to work."
"Sell it to me, Morton."
He laughed and said he wished he could. His buckboard stood at the rail,
the horses stamping impatiently.
"Cards must be runnin' lucky," he went on, with another hearty laugh.
"Can't kick on the luck. But I'm afraid it will change. Morton, my
friend Hoden gave me a hunch you'd be a good man to tie to. Now, I've
a little money, and before I lose it I'd like to invest it in stock."
He smiled broadly, but for all his doubt of me he took definite
interest.
"I'm not drunk, and I'm on the square," I said bluntly. "You've taken me
for a no-good cow puncher without any brains. Wake up, Morton. If you
never size up your neighbors any better than you have me--well, you
won't get any richer."
It was sheer enjoyment for me to make my remarks to these men, pregnant
with meaning. Morton showed his pleasure, his interest, but his faith
held aloof.
"I've got some money. I had some. Then the cards have run lucky. Will
you let me in on some kind of deal? Will you start me up as a stockman,
with a little herd all my own?"
"Russ, this's durn strange, comin' from Sampson's cowboy," he said.
"I'm not in his outfit. My job's with Miss Sampson. She's fine, but the
old man? Nit! He's been after me for weeks. I won't last long. That's
one reason why I want to start up for myself."
"Hoden sent you to me, did he? Poor ol' Jim. Wal, Russ, to come out
flat-footed, you'd be foolish to buy cattle now. I don't want to take
your money an' see you lose out. Better go back across the Pecos where
the rustlers ain't so strong. I haven't had more'n twenty-five-hundred
head of stock for ten years. The rustlers let me hang on to a breedin'
herd. Kind of them, ain't it?"
"Sort of kind. All I hear is rustlers." I replied with impatience. "You
see, I haven't ever lived long in a rustler-run county. Who heads the
gang anyway?"
Frank Morton looked at me with a curiously-amused smile.
"I hear lots about Jack Blome and Snecker. Everybody calls them out and
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out bad. Do they head this mysterious gang?"
"Russ, I opine Blome an' Snecker parade themselves off boss rustlers
same as gun throwers. But thet's the love such men have for bein'
thought hell. That's brains headin' the rustler gang hereabouts."
"Maybe Blome and Snecker are blinds. Savvy what I mean, Morton? Maybe
there's more in the parade than just the fame of it."
Morton snapped his big jaw as if to shut in impulsive words.
"Look here, Morton. I'm not so young in years even if I am young west of
the Pecos. I can figure ahead. It stands to reason, no matter how damn
strong these rustlers are, how hidden their work, however involved with
supposedly honest men--they can't last."
"They come with the pioneers an' they'll last as long as thar's a single
steer left," he declared.
"Well, if you take that view of circumstances I just figure you as one
of the rustlers!"
Morton looked as if he were about to brain me with the butt of his whip.
His anger flashed by then as unworthy of him, and, something striking
him as funny, he boomed out a laugh.
"It's not so funny," I went on. "If you're going to pretend a yellow
streak, what else will I think?"
"Pretend?" he repeated.
"Sure. You can't fool me, Morton. I know men of nerve. And here in Pecos
they're not any different from those in other places. I say if you show
anything like a lack of sand it's all bluff.
"By nature you've got nerve. There are a lot of men round Linrock who're
afraid of their shadows, afraid to be out after dark, afraid to open
their mouths. But you're not one.
"So, I say, if you claim these rustlers will last, you're pretending
lack of nerve just to help the popular idea along. For they can't last.
"Morton, I don't want to be a hard-riding cowboy all my days. Do you
think I'd let fear of a gang of rustlers stop me from going in business
with a rancher? Nit! What you need out here in Pecos is some new
blood--a few youngsters like me to get you old guys started. Savvy what
I mean?"
"Wal, I reckon I do," he replied, looking as if a storm had blown over
him.
I gauged the hold the rustler gang had on Linrock by the difficult job
it was to stir this really courageous old cattleman. He had grown up
with the evil. To him it must have been a necessary one, the same as dry
seasons and cyclones.
"Russ, I'll look you up the next time I come to town," he said soberly.
We parted, and I, more than content with the meeting, retraced my steps
down street to the Hope So saloon.
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Here I entered, bent on tasks as sincere as the ones just finished, but
displeasing, because I had to mix with a low, profane set, to cultivate
them, to drink occasionally despite my deftness at emptying glasses on
the floor, to gamble with them and strangers, always playing the part of
a flush and flashy cowboy, half drunk, ready to laugh or fight. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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