Nevada (1995) (23 page)

"Dead or alive, I want my name cleared!" exclaimed the cowboy.

"Of what?"

"Of the stealin' an' lyin' I'll have to do."

"Man, I have power to make you a deputy sheriff right here and now.

And I'd do it."

"No. Shore I'll never be an officer of the law. What I want i
s
this. Your word of honor to keep my secret, an', if I come bac
k
alive, to clear my name."

"Jack, are you going to persist in this mad plan?" demanded th
e
judge.

"Reckon I shore will, whether you stand by me or not," returned th
e
other, grimly. "It's too late now. I've got a reason, Judge. Bu
t
it'd only be fair for you to uphold me--to tell in court, i
f
necessary, that you an' Tom Day were parties to the job I
u
ndertook."

"Jack you misunderstand," replied Franklidge, hastily. "Don't mak
e
me ashamed. I will give you any support and authority right her
e
and now. In writing, if you want."

"Only your word, Judge."

"There! You have it. And here's my hand."

Texas Jack broke from the strong, earnest handclasp to make th
e
same proffer to the other rancher.

"Tom, will you stand by me--when I come back?"

"Hell, yes," boomed Day as he pumped the cowboy's arm up and down.

Abruptly, then, with sharp husky expulsion of breath, Jack wrenche
d
clear of the vigorous grasp and wheeled to a post of the porch
,
against which he leaned and clutched hard. Something long burie
d
was being resurrected. Ignominy loomed out of the past to stain a
n
honest name. There was sacrifice here, far greater than appeare
d
plain to the two grave and expectant onlookers. Whatever th
e
strife was, it passed as swiftly as it had come. Then the cowbo
y
turned again, somehow different, so that the judge and Day had aw
e
added to their surprise.

"Gentlemen, I shore hate to give myself away," he drawled. A smil
e
outshone the strange, steely light in his eyes. "But I reckon it'
s
got to be done."

"Wal now, who'n hell are you, anyhow?" queried Day as the othe
r
paused.

"Tom Day, the starved cowboy you once took pity on, happens to b
e
Jim Lacy!"

Chapter
eleven.

It was Sunday, and that hour of the afternoon when all the men of
f
duty at the Franklidge Ranch would be anywhere except round th
e
bunkhouse. The cowboy, Texas Jack, striding in, was relieved t
o
find himself alone. He made for his bunk for the purpose o
f
hurriedly packing his few belongings. An old pair of black chap
s
worn thin hung at the head of his bed, with a belt and gun. A
n
instinct prompted him to throw out his hand. There, as if b
y
magic, the gun whirled in the air.

"Reckon it was fate," he muttered as he sheathed the gun.

"Somethin' never let me stop practicin' that old draw. Wal, wal!"

In a few moments he had tied his belongings into a small roll t
o
fit behind a saddle. His movements were swift, but made as if h
e
were in a trance. He rose from his knees to gaze around; the
n
strode out into the rude yet comfortable living room. Somethin
g
prompted him to step before the mirror.

"Wal, so long, Texas Jack," he said to the image reflected there.

"Reckon I been almost happy with you. A shave an' hair-cut wil
l
shore say adios to you forever. . . . An' then there'll be me
n
who'll recognize you as Jim Lacy."

A quarter of an hour later he rode briskly down a trail that le
d
into the cedars. He had taken his own saddle, but the horse h
e
bestrode was one long discarded by the boys at the ranch. Onc
e
under cover of the cedars, the rider pulled his mount to a walk.

It was nineteen miles to Sunshine, and he wanted to reach tha
t
station after dark and board a night train without being seen.

A melancholy resignation had no power to cramp the slow-mountin
g
exaltation in Jim Lacy's breast. Once free of the need to hurry
,
his mind reverted to the cause of this extraordinary adventure h
e
had voluntarily accepted. Facts were cold, hard things. He ha
d
hidden his real identity; he had buried the past; he had risen o
n
stepping-stones of his dead self to honest useful service; he ha
d
earned peace and victory, if not real happiness; and then, like
a
thunderbolt from heaven, an inevitable, irresistible fate ha
d
confronted him. What he had suffered during the moments when To
m
Day had talked to Judge Franklidge about Ben and Hettie Ide! Th
e
old wound had not healed. The old love lived in his heart
,
stronger for the years of denial and repression. Jim Lacy rocke
d
in his saddle. No eyes but those of hawks and prairie-dogs an
d
perhaps a skulking coyote could see him surrender to his emotion.

The old horse walked slowly down the trail; the west wind blew ho
t
desert fragrance in the rider's face; the dust arose and the hea
t
beat down.

"Aw, I shore knew it--all these weeks I knew," whispered Jim
,
huskily. "Ben come to Arizona to find me! . . . Didn't he com
b
California--didn't he send men to all the ranges in the West? . . .

Didn't Tom Day tell me no more'n a month ago--how Ben Ide wanted t
o
know if he'd ever met a cowboy called Nevada? . . . That was it--
t
he name Ben gave me--NEVADA! . . . He never forgot. An' at las
t
he come to this wild land. He's married an' got a baby, they say.

Old Amos Ide must have died an' left Ben rich. Shore it was Ina h
e
married. Yet all that didn't hold him back."

How terribly sweet and soul-satisfying that knowledge, and ye
t
somehow bitter! In one tremendous moment of decision it had flun
g
him back into the past, once more to own an infamous name. It ha
d
destroyed all he had built up. Only through the power of hi
s
dreaded name could he ever bring to successful issue the task h
e
had set himself. What irony of fate that the fame he hated must b
e
his open sesame to the rendezvous of the rustlers who were ruinin
g
Ben Ide!

"Like as not in the long-run I'll stop a bullet," he muttered
,
harsh in his agitation. "But hardly before I get the job 'mos
t
done. . . . An' shore that'd be better so. Ben would never know I
a
m Jim Lacy. An' Hettie--SHE would never know. . . . But I recko
n
that's not my kind of luck. Like as not I'll run plumb into Be
n
before it's over. An' Hettie, too! . . . O my God! How sweet an'
t
errible!"

He rode on through the hot waning afternoon, absorbed with th
e
strife of his soul. A storm, passing in gray-black pall at
a
distance, cooled and cleared the atmosphere. Sunset came,
a
glorious gold and purple pageant in the west, where it vied wit
h
the wonder of a rainbow, receding with the storm. But Jim Lac
y
scarcely took note of these physical manifestations around him.

When darkness fell he had reached the outskirts of Sunshine, and h
e
halted under a clump of cottonwoods. Here, removing saddle an
d
bridle from the horse, he turned it loose. That act seemed t
o
sever the last thread which bound him to the ranching life he ha
d
followed for long. It had, too, a singular effect upon th
e
emotions which had beset him. The hour had come when he must pla
n
his return to the old life. Wherefore he sat down beside hi
s
saddle and pack, and with bowed head and rending of his spirit, h
e
slipped, as into a long-unused garment, back into the ol
d
personality. And it seemed that the instant this transformatio
n
was consummated his plan for the perilous adventure at hand wa
s
simple and complete. He had only to be Jim Lacy.

The whistle of an approaching freight train inspired him with a
n
idea more satisfactory than the one of waiting for the passenge
r
train. He would steal a ride on the freight, thus obviating an
y
risk of being recognized at the station. To this end he shouldere
d
his pack and saddle and, hurrying to the railroad track, which wa
s
only a few hundred paces away, he waited beside the slowly haltin
g
train, peering through the gloom for an empty car. At length i
t
reached him, just as the train stopped. Jim threw pack and saddl
e
aboard and climbed in.

Daylight found him across the Territory line, in New Mexico. Whe
n
the train stopped outside of a town at a water tank, he threw hi
s
baggage out, down over a grassy embankment, and got off. He ha
d
some money, beside the considerable sum Judge Franklidge had force
d
him to take. And it was with something of an old familiar zes
t
that he strolled into the town.

Before encountering any riders or cattlemen Jim entered a barbe
r
shop, from which he emerged a changed man. Next he purchased
a
complete new outfit of rider's apparel, the costliest he coul
d
find. Jim Lacy, he remembered, had once affected something near t
o
dandyism. He retained only his gun and chaps, which were thing
s
more intimate than clothes and were not to be discarded.

His next move was to buy a good horse. This turned out to b
e
easier than he had anticipated, and was accomplished withou
t
exciting any particular attention. Lastly he led the horse out o
f
town, found his saddle and pack, and soon he was riding back acros
s
the line into Arizona.

Traveling leisurely, and stopping at ranches and station
s
convenient to the day's travel, Jim Lacy in due time arrived i
n
Winthrop.

The day was a Friday, toward the close of afternoon. He made hi
s
way to Beacham's corrals, where over-night visitors to town usuall
y
left their horses to be cared for. The first corral appeared to b
e
a little too crowded for Jim, so he led his animal out to anothe
r
and smaller one. Several rangy, dusty-garbed riders had jus
t
ridden in, evidently behind a dilapidated old wagon drawn by
a
shaggy gaunt team. The driver, a lanky man, dark of face an
d
bearded, clambered down with the cramped movements of one more a
t
home in the saddle. Jim had seen him before, but could not plac
e
him. There was a young girl sitting on the driver's seat, and sh
e
appeared quite pretty, in a wild-rose way. Jim's quick eye als
o
took in the stock of a rifle projecting from the side of the seat.

Jim led his horse somewhat closer to the wagon, and choosing one o
f
the covered stalls adjoining the fence, he leisurely began t
o
remove the saddle, while his eyes roved elsewhere. He note
d
presently, when the girl jumped down, that her slim brown legs wer
e
bare, that she wore beaded moccasins, and the rest of her appare
l
showed further indications of the backwoods. As she passed out o
f
the corral with the bearded man, Jim had a closer scrutiny.