Knights of the Range Read online

  But all that had only a momentary charm for Britt. With his hawk-eyes he was seeing the deeds of the day at hand. San Marcos would lose the sleepy tenor of its way. The saloon, the dance-hall, the gambling den would soon ring with the revelry attendant upon the pay-day of the cow-hand. Half-nude girls with pretty faces and shadowy eyes and hollow laughs would waylay the range-rider upon his infrequent visit to town. Pale-visaged and thin-lipped gamblers, with their broadcloth frock-coats and wide-brimmed, flat-crowned hats, would shuffle their cards with marvelous dexterity of long, slim, white hands. And groups of dark-garbed, dark-horsed riders, proceeding in close formation, with something inimical about them, would pass up the wide street. The bark of six-shooters would become too common to attract interest, except when the town flocked out to see some gunman forced to draw upon a drunken, notoriety-seeking cowboy, or when the flint and steel of real killers struck sparks face to face.

  Britt saw the raw wildness of Hays City, Dodge and Abilene enacted on a smaller scale, yet with an equal lawlessness. There might not ever be another Wild Bill Hickok, at whose vested star so many desperadoes and outlaws had shot vainly and too late. But there surely would rise to fame emulators of Buck Duane and King Fisher and Wess Hardin and Ben Thompson, those famed and infamous Texas exponents of the draw. And perhaps there might arise one who would dwarf the achievements of any of this quartet. And lastly Britt saw, with something of a grim and sardonic humor, dark slack forms of men, terribly suggestive, swinging from the cottonwoods in the moonlight.

  “Wal, Kurnel,” he said, finally, “I reckon there’s only one way to meet what’s comin’. An’ it is to scour the country fer the damndest ootfit of cowboys thet can possibly be found.”

  “Britt, the outfit you’re runnin’ now are far from bein’ lambs. I could name half a dozen others that are bad. But not one of them could buck such a rustler gang as you expect to develop heah on this range…. I don’t quite grasp what you mean by damndest.”

  “I shore know, boss, an’ the idee grips me. Reckon I’ve pondered over it a good deal. I want riders so hard an’ wild thet they cain’t hold a job fer long. Fact is, Kurnel, I never hired a cowboy thet I couldn’t have kept on, if I’d stood fer his tricks. My idee is to pick my men—I’ve a few in mind now—an’ make this job so attractive thet they’d stick. Shore I’d have to stand fer hell itself. But I could do it.”

  “Britt, I agree you can handle cows and men. Your idea is great. There’s only one drawback. My daughter. Think of that young girl, lovely, like an unfoldin’ rose, innocent, full of fire and joy, as mistress of the hardest outfit of cowboys ever thrown together in the West…. My God, Britt—think of it!”

  “I been thinkin’. It’d been better fer us, an’ Holly, too, if she hadn’t had them nine years in school. But thet cain’t be helped now. If you are keen to have Holly live her life oot heah, keep up the great house of Ripple, thet’s the way to do it—an’ the only way.”

  “Would you risk it, if Holly was your child?” queried the rancher, hoarsely.

  “I shore would. Holly is no ordinary girl. She will rise to the occasion…. Run yore herd an’ yore house—wal, by thunder! I’ll bet on her!”

  “She shall choose,” shot out Colonel Ripple, strung with emotion. “We will tell her the truth and let her decide. I have been tortured between the devil and the deep sea. I want her to live here. Yet if she prefers San Antonio or New Orleans, I shall not let her see my disappointment.”

  “Boss, you’ll shore never be disappointed in Holly. I reckon, seein’ how het up you air, thet we’d better call her oot an’ get it over. But I’d rather face a bunch of ridin’ Comanches.”

  “Holly!” called the Colonel, his rich voice ringing.

  As there was no answer from the house, Britt arose to go in search of the girl. All the rooms in the front of the wonderful old Spanish mansion opened out on the arched porch. Britt went through the wide hall to the patio, where his spurs clinked musically upon the flagstones. But the girl was not to be found near the sunny fountain, or among the roses, or in the hammock under the dense canopy of vines. Britt went into the living-room, and halted a moment in the shadowed light. Then from the porch came a gay contralto voice. He went out, lagging a little.

  Holly stood beside her father’s chair. And Britt had a tingling recurrence of the emotion the girl had roused in him when he saw her first after her arrival from New Orleans: a strange yearning to be young again, to be the very flower of fine, noble manhood, handsome, gifted, rich, worthy.

  “Howdy, Holly,” he drawled. “I was oot lookin’ fer you.”

  “You old hawk-nosed, hawk-eyed devil! What have you been putting into Dad’s head?”

  Britt laughed and found himself forthwith. Holly Ripple had a regal air. She looked her aristocratic Spanish lineage. Her great dark eyes and her exquisitely pale skin came to her from the Castilian Valverdes. But Britt had only to hear her to know that she was American, and Lee Ripple’s daughter, and that she belonged to the West.

  “Lass, I reckon it’s been yore Dad puttin’ things into my haid,” replied Britt, and resumed his comfortable seat.

  “You both look like owls,” said the girl, and she slid on to the arm of her father’s chair.

  “Holly, dear, it’s only fair that you learn at once the serious side of your home-comin’,” replied the Colonel.

  “Serious?” she asked, with a puzzled smile.

  “Indeed it is. Back me up, Britt.”

  “Wal, lass, I reckon it’s nothin’ to make you feel bad,” said Britt, feeling his way and meeting squarely those compelling eyes. “You’re oot West now. You’ve been heah three days. An’ it’s just sense to tell you pronto what we air up against.”

  “Ah, I see,” Holly rejoined, soberly. “Very well. Tell me. I left Don Carlos’ Rancho a child and I have come back a woman.”

  “Holly, look down there,” spoke up her father, pointing to the grazing lands below. “All those black dots are cattle. Thousands of cattle. They are mine. And all I have to hold them is a wavy brand from shoulder to flank. A ripple! … Times are changin’. We expect the wildest years this section of the West has ever known. When we came back from Santone by stage, you saw Indians, soldiers, cowboys, pioneers, rough men galore. You saw buffalo by the million, and cattle and horses almost as many. In short, you rode across Texas and you saw wild life…. But nothin’, my daughter, compared to what you will see heah in New Mexico the next decade—if you stay.”

  “If I stay?” she echoed, with a curious intentness.

  “Yes. Because I meant it to be a matter of your own choice,” he went on, swiftly. “Rustlers—that is the western name for cattle-thieves—and a horde of hardened men of differin’ types will ride into New Mexico. There will be fightin’, Holly…. Now, for instance, suppose I happened to be shot. What ——”

  “Oh, Dad!” she cried, poignantly.

  “Holly, the chance is remote, but it might happen. Suppose I were shot by rustlers. What would you do?”

  “Do!—I’d hang every rustler in this country,” exclaimed the girl hotly.

  Britt met the piercing eyes of the rancher. Holly Ripple had answered to the subtle call of the Texan.

  “All right,” went on Ripple, a little huskily. “Now, say for example that I—I didn’t get shot, but just passed—on, you know…. Died…. Holly, listen. That, too, might happen. It’s natural. I’m gettin’ on in years and I’ve led a strenuous life…. Well, suppose that happened…. Would you want to stay on heah at Don Carlos’ Rancho?”

  “Yes, Dad,” she answered quietly.

  “But, listen, child. You will have wealth. You—you could go to your mother’s people. I have no near relatives, but those I have would welcome my daughter…. Holly, the time has come to make your choice.”

  “It was made—long ago. I hate cities. I don’t care for crowds—or relatives, either. I was cooped up in school. I am free now—free! … I was unhappy there—I love it here…. Dad, I wi
ll never, never leave.”

  Britt saw the long, dusky lashes close over tear-filled eyes. Ripple bent over to kiss the lustrous dark hair. Under his tan a pallor showed and his jaw quivered. Britt turned away to gaze down the valley. Holly had seen through her father’s attempt to disguise the truth.

  “Then—that is your choice—Holly?” the rancher resumed, presently.

  “Dad, there never was any choice. There was only—home. My West! I have never forgotten a single thing.”

  “My beloved—I am ashamed,” returned the Colonel, with agitation. “I should have known you would be like Carlotta. I imagined you might…. Well, never mind what, since it can never be…. Holly, in the days to come you will learn how I run my ranch—how I keep open house for all. Never have I turned away anyone from Don Carlos’ Rancho. Indians, outlaws, wanderers, travellers, all have been welcome heah. That is why no white or red hand has ever been against me yet…. When the time comes, Holly, will you preserve my open hand to all?”

  “I will, Dad.”

  Ripple clasped her in a close embrace, then turned a working visage and beaming eye upon his foreman.

  “Britt, you old rebel, you know my child. And I’m thankin’ God that when I have to go you will look after her…. There, Holly. Our serious talk is over.”

  “Not yet, Dad,” she murmured. “I have my turn. There are some questions I want to ask you.”

  “Ah!—Fire away, daughter,” he replied, gayly, but it was easy for Britt to see his perturbation.

  “Dad, I know hardly a word of Spanish,” said Holly, softly, with her eyes downcast. “It was forbidden me at school. I did not realize until I got home. Your Mexicans speak Spanish to me. The living-room I remembered so well has all been done over, refurnished. The beautiful rooms you have given me—the same. Everything new, beautiful, costly. But not a trace of Spanish color or design.”

  “Holly, that is easy to explain,” returned her father, frankly. “I wanted you to be American. That is why I kept you away at school so many years. If I had brought you up heah, in the Spanish environment which pertained until recently, you would have been all Valverde. I had the greatest respect for your mother. You know that. But I wanted you to grow up as a true American in education, speech and spirit.”

  “Dad, was that any reflection upon Don Carlos Valverde?” queried Holly, with proud, dark eyes upon him. There was something passionate and alien in her that could never be wholly eradicated. And Britt, who loved her as his own, felt glad this was so.

  “No. I had a high regard for Don Carlos, and these early Spanish families. Both Kit Carson and Lucien Maxwell married into them.”

  “Were you ashamed of my—mother?”

  “Absolutely no, my child. I was proud of her beauty and quality.”

  “Did you love her?”

  “Holly, I think I may say yes with an honest heart. But, dear, when I met Carlotta I was a wild young Texan, a gay blade in love with every pretty face I saw. It is hard to confess to you that when I became infatuated with your mother, I did not go to Don Carlos honorably and ask for her hand. I knew only too well that he would have raged and thrown me out. Carlotta was hardly more than fifteen…. I—I ran off with her. But I married her in San Antonio. As I grew to love her more I regretted havin’ been the cause of estrangement between Carlotta and Don Carlos. She was an only child. In time he forgave her. You were born soon after that. Then followed the happiest years of our lives. Don Carlos left Carlotta this ranch. After the war I drove a cattle herd up from Texas, and have prospered ever since.”

  Britt liked that frank confession of the Colonel’s, and when he saw Holly’s reaction he thought it was well. If there had ever been any brooding doubts in the girl’s mind, they were dispelled then and forever. She embraced her father.

  “Thank you, Dad,” she whispered. “It’s all right now—except you mustn’t frighten me again.”

  The moment seemed sweet and far-reaching for Britt. All was well that ended well. This home-coming of Holly Ripple had been fraught with dismay as well as dread. She had been an unknown factor. But now the old ranger revelled in the faith he had doggedly held in the girl he himself had named.

  “Lass, I never told you how I come to call you Holly,” he said, as the girl sat up again, to smile with wet eyes. “I had a sweetheart once an’ thet was her name.”

  “Sweetheart?—Cappy, you used to call me that when I was little. I’m horribly jealous. What was she like? Did you—run off with her as Dad did with my mother? Please tell me.”

  “Some day,” replied Britt, rising, and he patted the glossy head. “Kurnel, I’ve seen a few happier days than this, far away an’ long ago. But not many. Shore you will be long heah with us. What fun you’ll have teachin’ this big-eyed lass to handle hawses, to shoot an’ rope, to run the cowboy ootfits ragged, to be mistress of this great house an’ do honor to yore name! An’ I—wal, I’ll go ahaid with my plans.”

  “Plans! What plans, Cappy?” queried the girl. “You began that speech sadly. You grew really eloquent. Then you end with that hawk-eye glinting and with news of plans. If I am to become mistress of Don Carlos’ Rancho, I shall be your boss. Oh, what a dance I’ll lead you! … But come, tell me. Do your plans include a party to celebrate my return?”

  “Holly, that shall be my job,” interrupted her father. “I will give such a party as was never seen heah in New Mexico. And every year thereafter, on the anniversary of that date, you must repeat it.”

  “Oh, glorious!” she cried, rapturously. “My first party.”

  “Britt, bring on your wild outfits!” sang the Colonel, keen and glad-eyed. “Bring on your riders, rangers, cowboys, outlaws, desperadoes, gunmen, and killers! Don Carlos’ Rancho shall flourish many a year!”

  “Wild outfits!—Cowboys—desperadoes—killers?” echoed Holly, mystified, her great eyes like dark, glowing stars.

  “Holly, it is Britt’s plan to surround you with the wildest and most dangerous outfit of men ever gathered on a western ranch,” announced the Colonel.

  “Oh-h!—But why?”

  “Wal, lass, the idee is to save you an’ yore cattle when the times grow bad,” interposed Britt.

  “How perfectly wonderful! … Don Carlos’ Rancho! Holly Ripple’s outfit! … Dad, I shall fall in love with every single one of them. That is the penalty you must suffer for penning me up with books. Nine long years! And I was born on the range! … Cappy Britt, henceforth Old Hawk-eye, you will need your keen sight. Bring on your wild cowboys!”

  Britt paced his slow, clinking way down the flowered path toward the bunk-house. Hard upon his excitation followed a pensive sadness. Only he realized what lay in store for Holly Ripple. Let her enjoy the girlish freedom she had been denied. Let her ride and laugh while her father was with her and the days burned with all the glamour of a New Mexican summer. For the shadow on the horizon would soon loom into dark groups of horsemen, strange, silent, formidable; and the languorous serenity of Don Carlos’ Rancho would be gone.

  Chapter Two

  Two eventful and fast-flying years later, almost to the day, Cap Britt sat his horse on the high slope above the mouth of Paso del Muerte, and with grim, bitter revolt in his heart, forced himself to admit that the evil times of his prophecy had come.

  “They been comin’ ever since the Kurnel died,” he muttered darkly. “Slow but shore! … Wal, by Gawd, I didn’t get my hard ootfit none too soon.”

  Britt gazed down across the eight miles of rolling gray rangeland, and on up the long slope to Don Carlos’ Rancho, standing like a picturesque fort, red and green on the high divide between the two great valleys. Holly Ripple was there on the porch, no doubt at this very moment with glass levelled upon him. It was that powerful glass which had brought about the present critical situation. He had a string of several hundred horses ranging up Paso del Muerte, among which were a number of the fine blooded Ripple stock. And the day before Britt had sent three of his riders over there to report on this dr
ove of horses. They had not returned. For riders to lie out a night or several nights was nothing for the foreman to concern himself about. But early that morning Britt had taken a sweep of the range with the glass. And he had picked out one of those dark compact bunches of horsemen that were no longer rare on the range. They had disappeared up the pass. If they were not rustlers they were horse-thieves, a distinction with a difference. Holly Ripple had been unconcerned about the increasing loss of cattle, but highly indignant at the stealing of some of her thoroughbreds. Britt’s big outfit of cowboys was scattered all over the range for that day on various jobs. When he rode down at Holly’s order he expected to pick up some of the cowboys at White Pool; at least Stinger, Beef Talman, and Jim, who should have been there. But they were not there. Whereupon Britt had climbed the slope to the pass alone.

  Dobe Cabin, in a grove of green and white aspen trees, lay beneath Britt in the mouth of the wide canyon. A substantial fence of peeled poles stretched from slope to slope. That bunch of riders who had roused the foreman’s suspicions had left the big gate open. Presently Britt espied dust clouds far up the winding pass, and soon after that a line of horses coming at a jogtrot. Britt waited until a number of dark riders on dark horses appeared; and then he dated the war on the Ripple range from that moment.

  “Wal, it had to come, so why not right now?” he soliloquized, sombrely, and headed his mount down the slope. Arriving at the fence he got off his horse and closing the big gate he awaited developments with watchful vigilance and active mind. Britt scanned the slopes for some of his riders. He was going to need them presently. Horses and cattle grazed below, and under the mesa a few shaggy black buffalo had strayed up from the south. Britt was hard put to it to decide whether to ambush the raiders or meet them out in the open. In the former case he was pretty sure to be shot in a brush with eight or ten desperate men, but in the latter there was a chance that wit and nerve might serve him better. The question of letting these riders go unchallenged did not occur to the old Texas Ranger.