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- Herausgeber: DigiCat
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
Ernest Haycox's 'Whispering Range' is a compelling Western novel set in the rugged landscape of the American frontier. The book follows the story of a group of cowboys who find themselves caught in a dangerous conflict between rival ranchers. Haycox's vivid descriptions and tight narrative style bring the harsh beauty of the Wild West to life, immersing readers in a world of gunfights, horseback chases, and daring escapades. The action-packed plot and well-developed characters showcase Haycox's mastery of the Western genre and his ability to capture the adrenaline-fueled spirit of the American frontier. 'Whispering Range' is a must-read for fans of classic Western literature and anyone interested in the mythos of the Old West. With its gripping story and authentic portrayal of the Western landscape, this novel will keep readers on the edge of their seats from start to finish.
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Whispering Range
Table of Contents
I. — SUNDOWN
EVE LEVERAGE came out of the hotel like a boy—swiftly, carelessly, and her lips pursed in the attitude of whistling. Her gray eyes quested along the street with a level expectancy; her tip-tilted nose made a wrinkling gesture against the hot sun. Two gangling punchers who seemed to have collapsed to semi-consciousness on the porch steps gathered themselves together foot by foot and rose before her, muttering, "G'mornin', Miss Eve," in unison. Eve's thoughtful preoccupation vanished before a frank, glinting smile. "Hello, Pete. Hello, Buck. Busy as usual, I see." Then she stopped so abruptly that one of the men threw out his hand, thinking she was about to trip on the steps. Eve never noticed the gesture. Her glance, going on down the street, had reached its mark. David Denver appeared through the crowd and strolled leisurely forward. A coral pink appeared on Eve's cheeks; she looked again at Messrs. Buck Meems and Pete Wango, and she looked into her purse.
"What became of that letter?" she asked these two shiftless sons of the prairie. "I had it in my hands just a moment ago."
The gentlemen flinched, as if accused of stealing it. Wango, having a chew in his mouth, remained stolidly dumb. But Meems was a more versatile man and made a stab at intelligent conversation. "Was it—uh—important, ma'am?"
"You have no idea," said Eve mysteriously. "Now, I've got to find it." She turned to the door, cast a quick look around, and stopped half inside the opening to watch Denver; to her the street, dusty and sprawling and hot, had become suddenly eventful.
David Denver—Black Dave Denver—approached in comfortable idleness. He had his hat tipped back and his face turned toward Cal Steele who walked alongside and told some kind of a story with much gesturing of arm. Denver nodded, the somber gravity of his features lighting up. Rather wistfully the girl wished she knew the kind of a story Cal Steele related, for there were few people who could make Dave Denver smile. Steele, in fact, was almost the only man who had the power of lifting Denver out of those strange and darkly taciturn moods that so often descended upon him.
The two of them stopped. Al Niland came across to join in, and presently Steve Steers emerged from Grogan's Western Star. So the four of them drew together as they inevitably did when in the same neighborhood. Dissimilar in so many respects and sharply varied in personalities, there yet was some common quality that cemented a deep friendship between them. The girl often had wondered about it, and at this moment she puzzled over the problem again. Al Niland was a lawyer who liked to take poor men's cases and fight with an ironical energy. Steve Steers was a roving puncher who, though welcome on any ranch, preferred to ride free and solitary through the hills. Cal Steele owned a small outfit near Dave Denver's D Slash ranch, and of the group this man was the most brilliant, the most volatile, and the most prodigal of his energy and talents. They were all young, and they were all fighters. But the girl, seeking deeper reasons, knew some deeper trait was shared by them. They were restless, nonconforming men; each a strong individualist and without illusions. Dave Denver's streak of clear-sighted grimness could be found likewise in the others.
The girl sighed a little as she saw Denver's smile fade and his bold features settle. The others were grinning amiably at some wild tale told by Steve Steers; but Denver's moment of forgetfulness was past, and he reverted again to the stormy, unsettled side of his nature. The first hot sun of the young year reached nooning and flashed down on the shackling, paint blistered buildings of the town, on the pine false fronts, on the whitewashed 'dobe walls, on the stone turret of the courthouse, on the drawn curtains of the second-story windows. A dinner bell rang. Buck Meems was drawling at his partner.
"'S funny thing, Pete. Ev'body considers Denver a big man. You do, I do, ev'body does. But look at him standin' beside Al Niland, not an inch taller ner a pound heavier. Al ain't more'n five feet eleven, and he don't weigh a hunnerd-seventy on the hocks. See what I mean? Denver ain't rully a big man when yuh git him among others. It's only when he's off by hisself that he looks like a young house movin' down the street. Funny, ain't it, Pete?"
"I could die of laughin'," muttered the drowsing Wango. "Ever have him slap yuh on the back?"
"Nuh."
"Take a try sometime and see if they's anything humorous about that."
Buck Meems was not a man lightly to cast aside an idea. He pursued this one doggedly, his mind almost audibly creaking from the strain of unaccustomed thinking. "Reason he looms so big alone is because we sorter expect him to be big. Git my idee, Pete? I mean big things is done by big men in a big sorter way. Folla me?"
"I'm limpin' after yuh," admitted Pete.
"He's big," insisted Buck Meems, attempting to wring the last drop of significance from his thought, "because even though he ain't actually big nev'less he's big on account o' the big way he does big—"
"Gawd's sake," groaned Wango, "roll over and get it offen yore chest."
Meems, silenced, brooded darkly. "I bet," he finally announced, "that if somebody put a bullet in yore coco it'd rattle like a nickel in a tin cup. Le's eat."
"Why, thanks fer offerin' to pay my dinner," said Wango and rose instantly.
"Who said anything about—" exploded Meems and became conscious of the girl's presence. The two stalked past her into the hotel, and she heard the murmur of their argument floating back. Denver broke away from his friends and sauntered on, at which the rose color on Eve Leverage's cheeks began to deepen. She moved casually across the porch. Denver turned in and met her with a slow lift of his hat. The girl, who knew this man's temper better than he would ever realize, saw the small crinkling furrows of pleasure spring around his eyes, and because of that signal her chin lifted gayly.
"This is a Thursday," he mused in an even, drawling voice, "and what brings you to town during the middle of the week?"
"Dad had business, so I rode along with him. But," and she assumed a mock deference, "if you don't want me in Sundown I shall of course get right in the wagon and drive home."
"Not a good idea," he decided. "You were meant to be right on this spot at this minute to cheer a dull man on a dull day."
"The king speaks," sighed Eve, "and the poor maid trembles in fear. What is your will, my good and great lord?"
He put his head aside and scowled at her. "That," he reflected, "has all the earmarks of a muffled knock. Little girls ought to have more respect for age."
"Oh, my training has all been wrong, Mister Denver. But don't you think it's almost time for you to throw away the notion I'm still a little girl? You've been thinking that for ten years. People do grow."
He studied her with perfect gravity and over so long a period that she began to lose her cool ease of manner. This man could make a mask of his face, and one seldom knew if he were serious or if behind the ruggedly modeled features there lay a soft laugh.
"You might be surprised," he observed finally, "just how often I change my mind about you, Eve."
"Now that's interesting. Tell me more."
"Just like a woman. Do you ever eat?"
"I have been known to."
"Well, you look hungry right now, and I feel charitable."
"I shall eat a great deal and run up a big bill," she warned him. "And you must order a whole jar of pickles for me. I expect that of gentlemen who take me to dine."
"Pickles for a grown lady," agreed Dave Denver solemnly and followed her into the dining room. They took a table in one corner and watched a hungry Sundown citizenry file through the door. Denver's glance roamed across the room, and Eve, experiencing a queer twinge of feeling that was half pride and half jealousy, saw that one of the waitresses had abandoned the big table and was coming over. Somehow this man had the power of creating loyalty. Men spoke to him in passing by, spoke to him with that soft slurring courtesy of equal to equal. His three strong friends sauntered in; but though there was room at the table for them, they only nodded and passed on to another, giving him the privacy he seemed to desire. Colonel Fear Langdell paused a moment, bowed at Eve, and spoke quietly to Dave Denver. "Meeting of the Association at two, Dave." Denver nodded, and Langdell walked away, a thin, straight ramrod of a man, quite conscious of his power. Eve, eating with the unashamed vigor of youth, knew that it was not every man nor many men for whom Fear Langdell would take extra steps; and this thought brought out another. No matter what company Dave Denver was in, and no matter how quietly he sat back, the effect of his presence would be felt as it was in the dining room.
Remembering Buck Meems's talk, she studied Denver candidly. The puncher was right. Denver was not overly large. Her own father was as tall and as heavy. The comparison somehow surprised her, for she had always thought of Denver as being much the bulkier. The difference, she discovered, lay elsewhere—in Denver's big-boned wrists, in his sweep of shoulders, in the unsymmetrical boldness of his face. A scar shaped like a crescent lay on one dark cheek, black hair ran rebelliously along his head, and his eyes sat deep, violet eyes with flecks of other coloring in them. There lay the difference—there was the seat of that power which stamped him so definitely.
"When you get through with the inquest," he drawled, "I'd like to know the verdict."
She caught herself and looked down. "Apparently you read minds, David."
The shadows left his features; humor flashed from his eyes. "No, but I can read little girls' faces."
"Big girl in this case."
"Big girl it is, then." He leaned forward. "Why are you so all-fired anxious to grow up?"
"I have already grown up. I am twenty and as old and wise as I ever shall be. You ought to know that about women."
"Yeah? Where would I be getting my information?"
"I have been told you were rather successful with women," said Eve looking squarely at him. The shot struck him dead on. The deeply set eyes turned stormy and then swiftly cleared.
"Believe nothing you hear and only half of what you see," he replied enigmatically. "And that doesn't sound good, coming from you, Eve."
"Oh, fiddlesticks!" exclaimed the girl. "Do you think I am a little dummy wrapped up in five yards of cloth? But I suppose I must be meek or get sent away from the table."
He chuckled. "I reckon you have grown up, for you've learned the trick of drawing a man off the trail. I asked you what was your all-fired hurry to blossom out as a lady. Ain't there grief enough in this world without hurryin' to meet it?"
"I think," said Eve, far more sober than she had been thus far, "I shall not tell you. Someday possibly you may learn for yourself."
"After I get more education?" he countered grimly.
Eve's father, Jake Leverage, came into the dining room and walked over to them. "One o' you two is in bad company," he observed amiably, "but I wouldn't swear which." He sat down and reached for a platter. "Goin' to beef much stuff this spring, Dave?"
"No. Market's too shot. Hold over until later."
"When a man talks that independent I reco'nize he ain't got any mortgages to worry about," grunted Leverage, parting his whiskers.
"I let the bankers do that worryin'," was Denver's dry response. "They seem to thrive and get rich doin' it, so why not let 'em?"
"You allus was a hand to run your own show," agreed Leverage. "But the more immediate question is, have you lost any stock through strange disappearance?"
"Rustlers don't seem to like my beef, Jake."
"Yeah? Well, yore lucky. I don't know what this country's comin' to. Somethin's got to be done to somebody. I ain't mentionin' any names but—"
"Do you happen to know of any names you might mention?"
Leverage looked a little uncomfortable, and Eve watched Denver with a wrinkle of thought on her forehead.
"Folks can do some pretty close guessin'," grunted Leverage. "And when fifteen-twenty people guess the same I'd say there must be a foundation o' fact. You goin' to the Association meetin'?"
"I'll listen in," assented Denver idly.
"There's got to be more'n just listenin' this time. You know as well as I do that this sort of horseplay can't go on. It comes right down to a proposition of who is goin' to run this country, the roughs and the toughs or the ranchers. It is a fine state of affairs when honest men raise beef for crooks to steal. I ain't in business for my health, ner I don't propose to play Santy Claus for Mister—" He checked himself from indiscretion and reddened.
"I see you have a particular gentleman in mind," suggested Denver.
"And his whole damned ring," added Leverage stoutly. "It's up to us to play a little game of root, hawg, or die."
"Takes three things to hang a man," opined Denver. "You've got to catch him, convict him, and find a big enough rope to hold him."
"The second item can be allowed as done right now. A good- sized posse can do the other two. I'll go so far as to furnish the rope myself. But you don't seem totally sold on the idee, Dave. Don't it mean nothin' to you? It had oughta. Yore eatin' pie from the same dish as the rest of us ranchers. It ain't no time to back and fill."
Denver looked at Eve, once more displaying the old temper of somber disbelief. "I believe in playin' my game and lettin' the other man play his. If the time comes when I've got a chore to do against a rustler I'll do it alone without askin' for help. Half of the big cattlemen in this county got their start by means of a quick rope and a careless brandin' iron. Now that these same dudes have got rich and turned honest they send up a tinhorn squawk every time they lose a calf. Let 'em haze their own rustlers instead of puttin' the chore on others."
"Wouldn't you hang a proved rustler?" demanded Leverage.
"I'd have to think about it," was Denver's slow reply. "A man would have to be considerably smaller and meaner than me—which is sayin' considerable—before I'd want to haul him out on a limb."
Leverage shook his head. "Hate to hear you say that. It's worse than a case of some fellow nibblin' a few head here and a few head there. It's organized outlawry we're goin' to have to fight. Root, hawg, or die. We run our business or they run us. I ain't able to get very soft-hearted over a crook under them circumstances."
"I guess I'll have to be pinched before I shout," drawled Denver, eyes following across the dining room. A man came in with a printed broadside and tacked it to the wall; black type announced to Sundown city the following entertainment:
LOLA MONTEREY! AND THE WESTERN OPERA COMPANY WILL PRESENT AT OUR OPERA HOUSE THIS EVENING AN OLD FAVORITE CAVALIER OF SPAIN! LOLA, SUNDOWN'S OWN SINGING BEAUTY, COMES BACK TO HER BIRTHPLACE AFTER A TRIUMPHAL TOUR OF EUROPE TO PLEASE THE FOLKS OF THE OLD HOMETOWN TONIGHT!
Jake Leverage scanned the notice. "They sure got the country plastered with them notices. I see 'em on every juniper shrub along the road. Been three years since we saw Lola in a play, ain't it, Eve? What's she want to come back to this sun-cooked scope of alkali-crusted land for, anyhow? I got no admiration for foreign places like Yurrup, but if I was a gal with Lola's talents I sure wouldn't waste no time around here. I'd go away and stay away."
Eve tried to catch her father's attention, but he went on blandly. "A great girl. I'm no hand for this fa-so-la music as a rule, but it was a genuine pleasure to sit back in the old Palace and hear her sing. Yes, sir. Well, I reckon you got to go to that, uh, Eve?"
He turned to his daughter and received in full measure the impact of her warning glance. She shook her head slightly, at which the old man muttered under his breath and combed back his mustache to drink the rest of his coffee. Eve's clear face seemed sharp and troubled as she watched Dave Denver. He had turned to the notice and was staring at it, all features caught up in a brooding, stormy expression. For a time he appeared to forget all others in the room, to forget that there were people around who might be interested in observing his reaction to Lola Monterey's name. Eve lowered her eyes to the table, knowing very well how many quick and covert glances were thrown toward Dave Denver. Lola was back, bringing with her a breath of the old story and the old gossip.
Denver squared himself to the table and reached for his cigarette papers. "Yeah," he observed casually, "she always had a fine voice. The outside world was her place."
"Then why should she come back?" Leverage wanted to know and received a kick on his booted leg under the table.
"I couldn't say," mused Denver. "Probably Lola doesn't know herself. That's the way she does things."
"All wimmen's alike," grunted Leverage and scowled on his daughter. His leg hurt.
Outside was the jangle and clatter of the Ysabel Junction stage making the right-angle turn from Prairie Street to Main. By common consent the people in the dining room adjourned dinner and headed for the door. Denver walked behind Leverage and Eve; the girl, never knowing why she should let herself say such a thing, spoke over her shoulder.
"Old times for you, David. Aren't you glad?"
She was instantly sorry, and a little ashamed when she heard Denver's slow answer come gently forward.
"You've convinced me you're no longer a little girl, Eve. I'm not sure I like the change."
"And why?"
"Little girls are more charitable minded than big ones."
They were on the porch. The stages—there were three of them this trip instead of one—veered up to the hotel porch and stopped. Some courteous citizen opened the door of the front coach and lifted his hat. A woman stepped daintily down, and there was a flash of even teeth as she smiled on the crowd. Eve's small fists tightened; she threw a glance behind her, but Dave Denver had disappeared from the porch and was not to be seen. Eve thought Lola Monterey's eyes went through the ranks of the assembled Sundowners with more than passing interest, but if the woman was disappointed she was too accomplished an actress to reveal it. Old man Leverage muttered, "By Jodey, the girl's pretty, Eve. She's got beyond Sundown."
Eve nodded, a small ache in her heart. The tempestuous, flamboyant dance-hall girl of three years ago had returned from her conquests with the veneer of fine manners and proud self- confidence. Her jet-black hair bobbed in the sun, and the slim, pointed face, showing the satin smoothness of Spanish blood, had the stirring dignity of actual beauty. Moving up the steps with the same lithe grace that had brought her out of poverty and mean surroundings, she paused, swung around, and smiled again on Sundown. Soft and husky words fell into the silence with a queer vitality.
"I am home—and glad."
Then she passed into the hotel, the rest of the opera company following after. A traveling salesman, calling heartily to his friends, swept past. And at the end of the procession strolled an extremely tall man with the jaw and the nose and the eye of England. He seemed weary, bored, puzzled. At the door he paused to ask a plaintive question of a bystander, and those nearest him caught the full fragrance of a broad and richly blurred speech freshly blown from Albion's misty shores.
"I say, my friend, one of my bally braces has burst a stitching. Can you direct me to the local haberdashery?"
The crowd was dissolving. Leverage turned on his daughter. "I reckon you'll be wantin' to see the show tonight, uh?"
"I do," said Eve, "but why in the world did you mention it in front of David? It made me feel as small as—"
"Good grief, why?" demanded the astonished Leverage. "It ain't a crime."
"Do you think I want him to believe I was fishing for an invitation? And you shouldn't have mentioned Lola around him, Dad."
Leverage shook his head. "Wimmen beat me. Danged if they don't. Now a kid like you has got to go and join the ranks. Well, we'll stay over then."
"We'll go right home," said Eve, "so I can get into some clothes. Folks don't go to shows in gingham dresses, and there's Mother."
"Imagine that," grinned Leverage. "Well, don't forget that the most important ceremony you been through so far, which was bein' born, didn't call for no clothes at all. And I have et with three Senators and a governor with nothin' better than overalls on which had a red flannel patch in the seat. But you can go home and come back, though Ma won't want to come. I know better'n to argue. Wait till I get Joe Peake to take you in a rig. I got to stay over for the Association meetin'."
Eve smiled at her father and strolled down the street, leaving the porch deserted except for two lackadaisical gentlemen who somehow had witnessed all the recent excitement from the comfortable vantage point of the porch rockers.
"Buck," said Wango, "whut's that brace business which the Englishman was cryin' over?"
"I heard somewhere that those fellas called suspenders braces," replied Meems.
"Hell, ain't that peculiar? And whut's a habadashery, anyhow?"
"Your turn to guess," drawled Meems. "I done my share."
"Well," growled Wango, "he ain't a-gunta git by with no foreign hooch-a-ma-cooch like that around here."
"Lola sure has got pritty," reflected Meems.
"Yeah. Reckon Denver figgers so."
"Shut up," admonished Meems without heat. "Don't drag in dead cats."
"Ain't you a moral son of a gun? Pardon me for chewin' tobacco in yore presence. But what I'm wonderin' is how the stage got through without excitement today. Yuh know, they's supposed to be money in the Wells-Fargo box this trip."
"Don't be mellerdramatic, Wango. Who'd bring money into a joint like Sundown?"
"I heard," said Meems lazily. "Well, mebbe Lou Redmain was asleep at the switch."
Buck Meems rose from the depths of the rocker and stared at his partner with a penetrating eye and said very coldly, "Was I you, Pete, I'd git me some packthread and sew up that four- cornered thing yuh call a mouth."
"Well—"
"Shut up," stated Meems succinctly. "It's too hard to git partners, an' I don't want yuh shot down until I git back what yuh owe me. As for the gent whose name yuh was so careless as to mention out loud—don't do it no more. You don't know him. You never heard of him, see? Let yore betters worry about that business. You and me is humble folks with an itch to keep on breathin'."
"Trouble's comin', nev'less," maintained Wango.
"Comin' hell a-riot," agreed Meems. "That's what the Association is meetin' for. That's why yuh see Dave Denver stalkin' around the streets lookin' about as hard as I ever saw him. But you and me is out of it, see? Or have I got to spell the words?"
"Oh, well," breathed Wango and cast a sidewise glance at his partner. "How about a drink?"
"Thanks for the invite," said Meems, and rose instantly.
"I never said nothin' about an invite—"
"And it was nice of yuh to offer to pay my way," broke in Meems firmly. "Come on."
II. — STORM WARNING
DAVE DENVER and Al Niland stood at one corner of Grogan's hundred-foot bar and downed an after-dinner whisky neat, as was the custom. The men of Sundown drifted in, took their liquor, and swapped unhurried talk. Denver looked around the room, nodding here and there at ranchers he hadn't seen during the winter. Niland leaned closer.
"Did you see the same fellow I happened to see get off the third stage?"
"Stinger Dann?"
"The same," grunted Niland. "Since when's he taken to payin' fare?"
"Maybe he's run all his good horses to death," suggested Denver.
"Somebody's doin' a lot of night ridin', that's certain," mused Niland. "It's a funny thing how this county reacts to the hint of trouble. All winter we've been quiet. Nothing's happened much. All of a sudden folks get a little skittish and quit talkin' out loud. The underground telegraph starts workin'. Look around the room and see how many men are swappin' conversation real close together and tryin' to appear aboveboard. I never saw the signs fail. Pretty soon something will break loose."
"Which brings us back to Stinger Dann," drawled Denver. "He's enterin' for his liquor. Where's he been the last few weeks?"
Niland spared a short, quick glance at a man with a burly frame and raw-red cheeks cruising toward the bar; Stinger Dann was scowling straight ahead and paying heed to nobody, as was his characteristic way of moving through life.
"Looks nowhere and sees everything," muttered Niland. "I don't know where he's been holin' up, Dave. You tell me where Redmain's been, and I'll tell you where Dann's been. Same place. He's probably here to cover the interests of his beloved chief in the Association meeting."
Dave Denver chuckled. "That would be just the nervy thing Lou Redmain might think of."
"There was some trouble over beyond Sky Peak a week ago. Will Wire's men ran into lead one night when they was crosscuttin' their range for home."
Denver considered the news thoughtfully. "That's gettin' a little closer to Sundown, ain't it? Usually the boys do their stealin' farther off."
"The time may come when we'll have to do some shootin' on our own account," prophesied Niland.
"Let's wait till the wolf howls first. All I seem to hear at present is a lot of bear talk. Enter Mister Steers, looking very sad. Which foot did the horse step on, Steve?"
"Aw, hell," grunted Steve and reached for a bottle.
"Expressive but vague," was Niland's ironic comment. "Somebody must of hurt your feelin's to the extent of offerin' you a job."
The compact, sandy-haired Steve Steers drank his potion and shuddered. "I don't never seem to get a break, men. Consider this item. I shore want to take in the show tonight, just for old time's sake. But Debbie's off up in Mogul country with her folks on a visit so I can't take her. And if I dared go to see Lola Monterey alone I never would hear the last of it. Nossir, I never seem to get a break."
"Wear false whiskers," suggested Niland.
"They'd fall off," mournfully remarked Steve Steers. "That's my luck. And somebody like Miz Jim Coldfoot would see me and go tell Debbie."
"Love," reflected Niland judicially, "is a mighty purifier of mortal man."
Denver, standing slightly aside and watching Steve out of grave eyes, drawled idly, "Depends on the man, Al. I reckon love would have to be some stronger than hydrochloric acid to purify Steve."
"Love," said Mister Steers. "Ha-ha."
Niland winked discreetly at Denver. "After you're married, Steve, it'll be better."
"Or worse," groaned Steve. "Let's have another drink of this here panther spit."
Stinger Dann was walking flat-footedly away from the bar. In the center of the room he threw a quick glance back to where Dave Denver stood, and his rude, cold eyes seemed to contain a definite challenge. So marked was the gesture that a lull came to Grogan's saloon, and two men standing beyond Dann moved out of range. Denver never stirred. A flare of stronger light flickered up to meet the gunman's challenge, and the rugged features hardened perceptibly. Dann moved on and left the saloon.
"That had all the earmarks of an opening play," said Niland quietly. "Didn't I tell you things was smokin' up hereabouts?"
"Let 'em smoke," mused Denver. "I'm mindin' my own business and having a good time doing it. Maybe I won't always be doin' that, but we'll wait and see."
Cal Steele rolled into the saloon. He marched up to his partners with a flashing, nervous smile. "Well, congratulate me."
"Where yuh been?" demanded Steve Steers.
"Reviving some very pleasant memories," said Steele. He poured himself a drink and tipped the glass to the rest, standing quite erect; undeniably he had a carriage and a polish to him the others lacked. Somewhere along an unknown and carefully concealed past he had lived in gentle and scholarly surroundings, and the reflection of it was on his manners, his acts, and on the features that so easily shifted from high gayety to most bitter cynicism. "I drink, boys, to beauty, to talent, to the eternal flame that is woman—to Lola Monterey!"
Both Niland and Steers looked a little anxiously at the unsmiling Denver. But he nodded his head. "As usual, Cal, you get closer to the actual truth than any man I ever knew. You have described Lola. She is just that."
Cal put down his glass and laid an arm on Denver's shoulder. "And what good does truth do pie, or fine talk? You spoil the game for all of us, Dave. She sent me here. She wants to see you."
Denver's eyes smiled. "And that is a command."
"Association meetin' in a few minutes," grumbled Niland, frowning at Steele.
"I'll see you there," said Denver and went out. Niland spoke his mind to Steele. "Been better if you hadn't brought such a message. Dave ain't the man to cool his feet in Lola's string. They ain't the same kind of people at all."
But Cal Steele shook his head thoughtfully. "I know Lola. She's my kind. Up in the clouds, down in the mud, never still, never happy, easy angered, easy hurt. And"—he looked up—"though she is the most selfish woman in the world, she would give her life for a man she wanted to love. Sounds a little odd, doesn't it, boys? I know. She's my kind. And I happen to know she wants Dave."
"Get out," snorted Steve.
"She told you?" asked Niland skeptically.
"I'm not blind," murmured Cal Steele, face darkly shadowed. "Though I wish I were sometimes. I want her myself. Damned funny, isn't it? Let's drink to Dave and Lola."
Some of the more impatient ranchers were already aiming for the opera house, which had been designated as the meeting place for the Association, when David Denver swung toward the hotel. He heard one of them say rather angrily, "I don't give a damn who it is or how strong his wild bunch may be, we've got to stop it. There's too many people riding around in the dark. If they ain't disposed to sleep at night, then, by the eternal, we'd better give 'em somethin' that'll induce a permanent sleep." But this party seemed the only talkative one; the others were moodily silent, saving their words for formal delivery. Denver's glance swept Sundown slowly and deliberately as he advanced, and his mind registered this and that detail with a photographic distinctness that would, in moments of leisure, serve to help him build up his shrewd judgment of people and events. Stinger Dann had taken post against a wall of the Palace, shaded by the overhanging gallery. By the stable the Ysabel Junction stage was making up for a return trip. Eve Leverage stepped boyishly out of a dry-goods store and smiled at the world. Denver went into the hotel and climbed the stairs with a cloudy restlessness on his cheeks. Swinging down the hall he paused at Number One—the best room of the house—and heard Lola humming huskily inside. For one long interval he stared at the floor; then knocked. The humming stopped, the girl's voice rose with an eager, throaty "come in." Denver pushed the door before him, stepped through, and closed it.
He could not realize as he paused there, studying her with half a frown, rebellious hair tousled on his head, and a somber flare of emotion in the deep wells of his eyes, that he was the exact and unchanged picture of the man she had carried with her for three years; nor could he know that his blunt, "Here I am, Lola," was the exact phrase she felt David Denver would greet her with. But he did know that the old-time belle of the Palace had become a mature beauty. She stood in the center of the room, fine lacework clinging to her breast, jet hair tied severely back, and her lips pursed upon a smile or a cry. A mature beauty, yet still the same vital Lola Monterey, still with a queer, unfathomed glow in those eyes dusted with velvet coloring. She tipped her chin, laughed softly, and then caught her lip between her teeth.
"Here you are, David. You were scowling when I went away. You are scowling now. Is that all you have for me?"
"I suppose other men have told you that you're beautiful, Lola?"
"I suppose. But I have never listened to men as I listen to you. You know that."
"Then I'll say it. Something's rounded you out. There's something inside that body of yours—"
"Misery, maybe. They say it is good for people." She came over to him, brushed her finger tips across her own mouth and placed them on Denver's cheeks. "From me to you. That is my welcome—as I think you know it would always be. I have heard a thousand gallant speeches from men whose gallantry I doubted. It is good to know one man I never have to doubt—and wouldn't doubt even if I had reason. Come, sit down." She put an arm through his elbow and led him to a chair, then crossed and sat facing him.
"You have not changed," she went on swiftly. "And I'm glad—and sorry."
His face cleared and a piece of a smile came to his eyes. "That sounds just like you."
"Well, isn't it nice to come home and find the same landmarks? That makes me happy. But you are still stormy, still unhappy, still savage with yourself. That makes me sad."
"Let's talk about you for a change, Lola."
She shook her slim head so vigorously that the jade earrings danced against the satin of her skin. "Let other men talk about me. You and I—we will talk about you. You know about me—all about me. There is nothing to add for these three years. I am still that hungry little girl of the Palace whose body never grew up to her temper. You have prospered, David?"
"The ranch has grown," he admitted.
"You have a big ranch house now, facing down Starlight Canyon—and you sit on the porch at night and look across the prairie, alone."
"Who told you that?" demanded Denver.
"I made Cal Steele tell me everything that had happened to you in three years. I know about that scar on your cheek, I know about the arm you broke, the battles you have fought. So I have the history of David Denver, cattleman, gentleman. From poor Cal, who wanted to talk of himself and me."
"Cal," said Denver, "is the best friend I ever hope to have. He's in love with you, Lola. You couldn't find a better man—"
Her swift smile interrupted him. "You will not get rid of me that easy, David!"
Suddenly the old temper returned to him. His big hands closed. "Why did you run away, Lola?"
The answer came swift and straight. "Because I loved you too much!"
"Then why in God's name have you returned?"
"Because," said she just above a whisper, "because I loved you too much."
"We were better off apart. All the struggle and misery—"
Instantly she was fire and flame. "Don't I know? You were born to hurt me. You always will. And I will always try to find a smile in your unhappy eyes! Always, even when you have cut my pride to pieces! I am just a beggar, asking for something I think I never will get! Lola Monterey doing that! David, my dear, there's no woman born who will ever be able to hold you. No woman will ever be able to smooth away that sadness and bitterness. But—"
She caught her breath and watched him. He said nothing; only looked steadily back to her.
"—but I have been able to make you forget yourself and think of me, just for little spells of time. I can lift you to me, make you smile. That is enough for me—it is more than another woman has done. You see—I still hope."
He rose, speaking gently. "I reckon I'd cut off my arm rather than hear you say that. You've got beyond Sundown now, Lola. Tonight you'll play for us. Tomorrow you'll be gone. And that will be the end, for us. I'll not be seeing you again. I remember Lola Monterey of the Palace, and I don't think I want to see Lola Monterey of—"
"You will be there tonight, David," she broke in softly. "I know you better."
"If so, I'll not be near enough to say goodbye. So I'll say it now."
But she shook her head. "No. Tonight I sing. Tomorrow the company goes on without me. I am staying here, David. I have thought about it for a year. It is arranged. I think I might go higher still in my work. I love it. But I love something else better, and so Sundown is home for me again."
"You are making a mistake."
She came toward the door and touched his arm with the tip of her fingers. "I am always making them, David. I always will. Didn't I say I was a beggar? Beggars cannot be choosers. When I am hurt, which is so often, I must smile and think that I came from nothing and should be glad. Who wants to see Lola Monterey crying? But I often wonder what happiness is like. Perhaps some day I shall know, perhaps not. Now go along. And, tonight, when you hear me sing, remember that I sing to you."
The gentle pressure of her fingers put him in the hall. He had a glimpse of her velvet eyes, round and shining, and then the door closed, and he walked heavily down the stairs to the street. Somebody spoke to him. Colonel Fear Langdell dropped in step, talking crisply. "Let's get the ball rolling. I have been waiting around for you. Expect you to influence a great many of the weak hearted, Dave. In fact, I expect you to take the leadership in a disagreeable chore. Men will ride for you who wouldn't ride for anybody else."
The two passed into the opera house, and thus engaged Denver failed to see Eve Leverage pass in a rig driven by Joe Peake. But Eve had seen him come out of the hotel just as she had seen him go in previously. And she knew where he had spent the intervening minutes. Sitting very straight and sober beside Peake, she stared bleakly across the sloping hills, saying to herself over and over again, "That old story about them is true. It is true, all of it. But what difference does it make? I don't care—I don't care! I can't find fault with David!"
There were about sixty men in the opera house, part of them owners, part of them foremen, and a few belonging to the more responsible trading element of Sundown. Niland and Steele and Steers were sitting together, and as Denver took a seat beside them Niland bent a rather ironic glance at him. "The vested interests of this county," he whispered cynically, "are on their ears. Bet you ten dollars Langdell mentions the sacred rights of the Constitution and the sanctity of property." Dave Denver nodded and swept the assembled men gravely. They were not talking much; they were sitting rather stiffly upright, jaws set and arms folded. This was the attitude of people who already had settled their minds and arrived at conclusions. Denver knew that no matter what argument developed and no matter what minority opposition rose, the Association would come to but one decision. That thought caused him to frown stubbornly. It was a part of his lonely, rebellious nature to despise mass action. He hated the manner in which the big cattlemen had so cannily and insistently pressed their will on the rank and file, had brought pressure to bear upon the smaller owners, had circulated rumors and hair- raising tales about outlawry until the whole region, from Sky Peak to the Rim and from Ysabel Flats to the Mogul Hills was astir with fear and excitement. His dominant individualism detested all this, and he stared unfavorably at Colonel Fear Langdell as the latter rose on the stage and lifted a rather imperious hand.
"This being a special meeting of the Association," said Langdell in a cold clipped voice, "I suggest we dispense with roll call and minutes."
The motion was put and passed. Al Niland moved restlessly and grunted. He had crossed swords with Langdell, also a lawyer, in court many times, and he had little love for the man. Langdell, involved in all kinds of land deals and commercial enterprises, never failed to represent the close conservatism of the county and seldom let an opportunity pass to call Niland a firebrand. Standing on the stage, stiff and spare and confident, Langdell turned his sharp, shrewd face around the hall to build up an expectant silence. Into this silence he placed his words like sharp javelins.
"Perhaps as presiding officer I ought not assume the right of expressing the purpose of this meeting. But I feel we are all conscious that the sense of the meeting is to come immediately to one question and settle it for once and all. And I shall take the liberty of saying that question is—what are we going to do about the damnable and increasingly arrogant banditry of the crooked elements that infest Yellow Hill County? For two years we have sat still and let outlawry grow under the false sentiment that every man is entitled to his fling before settlin' down. I say false sentiment because those kind of men never settle down. Property is property whether fixed in a building or moving on hoof. The owner's right is absolute and never should be violated. What is the record for the past two years? Four men shot down, approximately a thousand head of stock lost, banditry organized, and every trail and stage road in the county made unsafe for peaceable riders. There have been three stage hold-ups and one driver murdered because he had the guts to resist, and I say we ought to build a monument to that kind of a fellow. Instead of that, what do we do? We catch a few isolated rustlers, a sentimental jury tries them and lets them out to rustle again. Well, what are we going to do about it?"
"He forgot the Constitution," whispered Niland humorously. Cal Steele slumped in his seat with closed eyes and a faint boredom on his face. Fleabite Wilgus, enormously wealthy operator of the Gate ranch, was on his feet and talking in a whining voice few could hear. Threadbare and dirty, he appeared to worse advantage than the most shiftless rider around Sundown. One of his phrases reached through the room.
"I'm a kindly man, as everybody knows. But if I had my way I'd give no shrift to a caught rustler, and I wouldn't waste the time of bringin' him to jail. That's me."
Steve Steers leaned indignantly forward and muttered. "Kindly, is he? Say, I worked on his spread a week and I wouldn't repeat for all the money on God's footstool. Actually, he counted out the sugar for the table and fired one cook for cookin' three slices extra bacon."
"My boy," said Niland sardonically, "you don't understand the humble duty of a wealthy man toward his wealth. It's a sacred trust."
