The U. P. Trail by Zane Grey (e book reader pc .TXT) 📖

Neale and Larry and Slingerland planned to go into the hills late in the fall, visit Slingerland’s old camp, and then try to locate the gold buried by Horn. For the present Larry meant to return to Benton, and Neale, though vacillating as to his own movements, decided to keep an eye on the cowboy.

The trapper’s last words to Neale were interesting. “Son,” he said, “there’s a feller hyar in Medicine Bow who says as how he thought your pard Larry was a bad cowpuncher from the Pan Handle of Texas.”

“Bad?” queried Neale.

“Wal, he meant a gun-throwin’ bad man, I take it.”

“Don’t let Reddy overhear you say it,” replied Neale, “and advise your informant to be careful. I’ve always had a hunch that Reddy was really somebody.”

“Benton ‘ll work on the cowboy,” continued Slingerland, earnestly. “An’, son, I ain’t so all-fired sure of you.”

“I’ll take what comes,” returned Neale, shortly. “Good-bye, old friend. And if you can use us for buffalo-hunting without the ‘dom’ Sooz,’ as Casey says; why, we’ll come.”

After Slingerland departed Neale carried with him a memory of the trapper’s reluctant and wistful good-bye. It made Neale think—where were he and Larry going? Friendships in this wild West were stronger ties than he had known elsewhere.

The train arrived at Benton after dark. And the darkness seemed a windy gulf out of which roared yellow lights and excited men. The tents, with the dim lights through the canvas, gleamed pale and obscure, like so much of the life they hid. The throngs hurried, the dust blew, the band played, the barkers clamored for their trade.

Neale found the more pretentious hotels overcrowded, and he was compelled to go to his former lodgings, where he and Larry were accommodated.

“Now, we’re here, what ‘ll we do?” queried Neale, more to himself. He felt as if driven. And the mood he hated and feared was impinging upon his mind.

“Shore we’ll eat,” replied Larry.

“Then what?”

“Wal, I reckon we’ll see what’s goin’ on in this heah Benton.”

As a matter of fact, Neale reflected, there was nothing to do that he wanted to do.

“You-all air gettin’ the blues,” said Larry, with solicitude.

“Red, I’m never free of them.”

Larry put his hands on Neale’s shoulder. Demonstration of this kind was rare in the cowboy.

“Pard, are we goin’ to see this heah Benton, an’ then brace, an’ go back to work?”

“No. I can’t hold a job,” replied Neale, bitterly.

“You’re showin’ a yellow streak? You’re done, as you told Slingerland? Nothin’ ain’t no good?... Life’s over, fer all thet’s sweet an’ right? Is thet your stand?”

“Yes, it must be, Reddy,” said Neale, with scorn of himself. “But you—it needn’t apply to you.”

“I reckon I’m sorry,” rejoined Larry, ignoring Neale’s last words. “I always hoped you’d get over Allie’s loss.... You had so much to live fer.”

“Reddy, I wish the bullet that hit Shane to-day had hit me instead.... You needn’t look like that. I mean it. To-day when the Sioux chased us my hair went stiff and my heart was in my mouth. I ran for my life as if I loved it. But that was my miserable cowardice.... I’m sick of the game.”

“Are you in daid earnest?” asked Larry, huskily.

Neale nodded gloomily. He did not even regret the effect of his speech upon the cowboy. He divined that somehow the moment was as critical and fateful for Larry, but he did not care. The black spell was enfolding him. All seemed hard, cold, monstrous within his breast. He could not love anything. He was lost. He realized the magnificent loyalty of this simple Texan, who was his true friend.

“Reddy, for God’s sake don’t make me ashamed to look you in the eyes,” appealed Neale. “I want to go on. You know!”

“Wal, I reckon there ain’t anythin’ to hold me now,” drawled Larry. He had changed as he spoke. He had aged. The dry humor of the cowboy, the amiable ease, were wanting.

“Oh, forgive my utter selfishness!” burst out Neale. “I’m not the man I was. But don’t think I don’t love you.”

They went out together, and the hum of riotous Benton called them; the lights beckoned and the melancholy night engulfed them.

Next morning late, on the way to breakfast, Neale encountered a young man whose rough, bronzed face somehow seemed familiar.

At sight of Neale this young fellow brightened and he lunged forward.

“Neale! Lookin’ for you was like huntin’ for a needle in a haystack.”

Neale could not place him, and he did not try hard for recognition, for that surely would recall his former relations to the railroad.

“I don’t remember you,” replied Neale.

“I’ll bet Larry does,” said the stranger, with a grin at the cowboy.

“Shore. Your name’s Campbell an’ you was a lineman for Baxter,” returned Larry.

“Right you are,” said Campbell, offering his hand to Neale, and then to Larry. He appeared both glad and excited.

“I guess I recall you now,” said Neale, thoughtfully. “You said—you were hunting me?”

“Well, I should smile!” returned Campbell, and handed Neale a letter.

Neale tore it open and hastily perused its contents. It was a brief, urgent request from Baxter that Neale should return to work. The words, almost like an order, made Neale’s heart swell for a moment. He stood there staring at the paper. Larry read the letter over his shoulder.

“Pard, shore I was expectin’ jest thet there, an’ I say go!” exclaimed Larry.

Neale slowly shook his head.

Campbell made a quick, nervous movement. “Neale, I was to say—tell—There’s more ‘n your old job waitin’ for you.”

“What do you mean?” queried Neale.