“After the dwindling fur hunters came the Forty-Niners, the gold seekers, streaming across the plains for the bonanzas in California. They, next to our thoughtless government, incurred the hostility of the Pawnees, the Utes, the Comanches, the Arapahoes, the Apaches, of all our Western tribes. And scalps of the white men dried in the sun on the wigwams of the Indians.

  “Next came the freighters and the day of the caravan. The wagon-trains! The canvas-covered prairie-schooners! They hauled supplies to the forts and to Santa Fe, to Taos, to Las Vegas. But Santa Fe was their great objective.

  “Most of you here tonight have seen Buff Belmet, the scout and caravan-leader, who hauls from Las Animas and the end of the advancing railroad. Think, my cowboys, of that trail of steel! You are responsible for that. No Santa Fe line would ever have been built but for cattle. The rails march on. Next spring they reach Raton. In a few years they will reach Santa Fe. That indeed will be the end of the Old Trail.

  “Buff Belmet told me the story of his life. It is marvelous. In 1855 when he was eleven years old he left Independence in a caravan with his father and mother. Before he had travelled half way to Dodge, he had lost his mother, and he was driving one of the great ships of the plains. The romance and adventure of the caravans made Belmet a scout. His father was killed, as were his old friends and comrades; he was wounded countless times, but bore a charmed life. His childhood sweetheart was lost to him for years, and that added to his hatred of the red man. But Buff found his sweetheart a few years ago, in 1869, the year that Carson died—found her still young, beautiful, faithful.

  “Following the freighters with their mile-long caravans came the pioneers, the settlers. The end of the Civil War spilled a horde of ruined Southerners, of rebels, of outcasts from the East, of fugitives, wanderers, criminals, adventurers—and the day of the desperado was at hand.

  “Then, my cowboys—the cattle herds! You all know that story. The Trail Drivers from Texas, with their unparalleled heroism that made my father’s native state an empire. Hundreds of thousands of cattle up from the Rio Grande—herd on the heels of herd—ten miles a day over grass and rock and sand, across the Texas rivers, often in flood, fighting Indians, rustlers, drouth and heat, the icy blizzards, the electric storms, on and on and on to Dodge and Abilene! Oh, my cowboy friends, grasp the truth of that day to your bosoms! It was great. Britt was a Trail Driver. Frayne has ridden the Chisholm Trail. They will tell you as I cannot.

  “1867, ’68, ’69, ’70, ’71, ’72, ’73 and this year of our Lord 1874—and we have a million cattle grazing from the Cimarron to the Pecos. No law! Rustlers raiding every day and more coming. Cowboy outfits betraying their bosses. They are leagued with the rustlers. Many have quit work to take up the profitable stealing. Stock buyers from the East meet the cowboys at the railroad—and ask no questions. There are dishonest officers in the government post. They buy beef for the reservation Indians. They pay five and ten dollars a head—and ask no questions. What do you suppose the government pays them a head?

  “Thus is ushered in the day of the rustler. He flourishes on all ranges, but he will be freest, boldest, bloodiest, richest—and therefore last longest on this New Mexican range. This is Britt’s prophecy. It was my father’s. It is now mine.

  “To conclude now, my cowboys. This then is the situation today along the Old Trail. To meet it Britt has gathered together the wildest outfit possible in the West. You come from all points except further west. I doubt if there is one of you who could not cut a notch on his gun if you were that kind. I’d hate to know all you are guilty of. Some of you are—or think you are—lady killers!—I don’t need to be told that. My state of feeling toward you all is not easy to define. In some way, I think I—I love every single one of you. My grandfather built this home. He had a hundred vaqueros on this hacienda. My father loved his ‘Rowdies of the Saddle.’

  “Once upon a time there was a good King. He gathered an outfit of great fighters and put them to noble tasks—to redressing human wrongs in his dominion, to driving out or killing the robber barons who oppressed the weak. I am bold to hope, to pray that my outfit of fighters will deserve my name for them—Knights of the Range. I beseech you—do not imagine that I ask this for myself. But also for the other ranchers in this beautiful and wild valley, for the poor settlers and their children, for our good neighbors, the Mexicans. But mostly, for the West—our West—and because it is something great to do.

  “From this night you are free as the wolves out there. You will have no restraint. You can drink, gamble, fight, kill—if you must. Your wages will be doubled, and those of you who are alive and with me after this rustler-war is ended, will be given an interest in my business, or helped to start one of your own.—Only I ask you, I pray you, don’t break out and take undue advantage of your freedom. Try to see your importance in this vast, incomprehensible movement westward. Don Carlos’ Rancho is only a speck on this range. Try to be proud of your place. Try to be serious about it. Oh, I know that what you are now is solely because of the life of the frontier. You may have been bad, but you are not to blame. You could not be good, tame, gentle—all that women like in men—and make this range habitable. Lesser cattle outfits will take their cue from you…. And so I dare to believe you will earn—the name I have—bestowed upon you….”

  Holly’s voice failed at the very end. She sat down in a breathless silence. To her amaze, the cowboys sat like stone images. Then Brazos jumped up with a yell that rang from the rafters, and the others followed suit. For a few moments pandemonium reigned.

  When the noise had died down Britt stood up, to tap lightly on the table. Instantly all the eager taut faces turned his way.

  “Miss Holly, an’ gentlemen,” he began, in the dry drawl that presaged something inimical in motive or word, and he transfixed his men with those bright and twinkling eyes. “We have with us tonight a boy who is in a class by himself. In an ootfit which contains many bad hombres, an’ which hasn’t one thet is not a great rider an’ roper an’ gunner, this boy stands oot conspicuously, not only fer these qualities, but fer many others, prominent among them bein’ his gift of gab. He has been known to talk cowboys deaf an’ dumb. I know of one instance, back in Texas where he talked a sheriff oot of arrestin’ him…. An’ thet, gentlemen, is shore talkin’…. Gawd only knows the misery among girls this boy’s silver tongue has wrought…. Wal, it behooves me on introducin’ this paragon among riders of the range to prepare you, no doubt, fer a speech thet never was made before, an’ never will be again…. Friends…. Brazos Keene!”

  A short, sharp roar rang around the table. Holly punctuated it with her high, sweet trill of delight.

  Holly calculated that everyone present, except herself, had entertained the idea that Britt had Frayne in mind. Certainly Brazos himself was the most surprised cowboy who ever had gotten himself inadvertently or otherwise into an awful predicament. Obviously he had never made that kind of a speech in his life. His comely face turned as red as a beet and then as white as a sheet. He sustained a more violent shock throughout his lithe frame than if someone had shot at him from behind.

  “My—Gawd!” he gulped, his face beginning to work, and he fixed eyes of agony upon Holly. “Cap cain’t—mean me!”

  “Indeed yes, Brazos,” replied Holly, beaming upon him.

  “Aw!—No!” groaned the cowboy, turning to his faithful partner. But before Laigs could betray him, which the devilish grin on his face surely presaged, the other cowboys called with the caustic and trenchant originality and wit characteristic of them.

  “Come mon, you curly-haired darlin’ of the range.”

  “Brazos—who ever heerd of you afeared to talk?”

  “Cowboy, you’re the talker of this ootfit.”

  “We’re shore expectin’ Washington’s Gettysburg speech to be skinned to a frazzle.”

  “Fork yore hoss, pard, an’ rustle.”

  “Brazos, yo sho only gotta be yo own self.”

  “You grande señor.”

  “Brazos, you might as well warm up, ’cause Conchita is here tonight, an’ thet black-eyed little dame is shore layin’ fer you.”

  This from Skylark about finished Brazos, whose expression was that of an innocent cowboy against whom a diabolical plot had been concocted. More cutting remarks were forthcoming, and then Laigs Mason had his say.

  “Pard, the honor of the ootfit is at stake. Who’d ever think thet Brazos Keene had lost his wits…. Wal, if you can’t talk sing ‘Lone Prairee’!”

  Brazos, goaded to desperation, again appealed to Holly.

  “Shore, it’s a low-down trick,” he said, huskily. “Aw, Holly, say yu wasn’t in with them?”

  “No, Brazos,” she replied, earnestly. “I’m absolutely innocent. But now I’m thrilled to death. Show them, Brazos.”

  “Gawd help this heah ootfit from now on,” replied Brazos, as if he were destiny itself.

  Chapter Seven

  BRAZOS’ escape from his chair and rise to his lofty height were as remarkable as they were funny. There might have been a rope around his neck, tight over one of the rough-hewn rafters above, and hauled upon by some of these grinning imps who revelled in his anguish. He came away so heavily that he might have been glued to his seat.

  Once upon his feet he had to look at his hostess, and then upon his gleeful and expectant comrades. It was Holly’s conjecture that he did not see any of them clearly. Brazos’ remarkable eyes were round, bewildered, starting from his head, and his face baffled description.

  He bowed low to Holly, then jerkily to the others.

  “Our—Lady,” he began, in a hoarse whisper, “an’ yu—fellars … Yu—we—I … Yu-all join—me-all join yu … this orful occasion—I mean grand—in honor of pack of hound-dawgs … yu—we … er, my….”

  As Brazos floundered hopelessly for more words there came suddenly from under the table a solid cracking thud. Holly did not need to be told that Laigs had kicked Brazos on the shin. She nearly choked trying to contain her dignity. Brazos’ breath puffed. His expression of fright and distress changed to a physical distortion of acute pain.

  “Aggh!” he yelled.

  “Fer Gawd’s sake, pard, be yoreself,” burst out Laigs, with a passion of loyalty. His love for and pride in Brazos had transcended even the cowboy passion for fun.

  His importunity reacted with subtle and incredible power upon Brazos.

  “Aw!” groaned Brazos, “shore yu had to pick oot my bum laig.” Then he stood erect to face them all differently. Holly sustained a deep and poignant thrill in the surety that Brazos would find himself.

  “Fun is fun, boys, an’ yu’ve had it at my expense. But I savvy thet Miss Holly gave us this supper fer more’n a good time. It must hev took lots of study to read up all thet aboot the Spaniards, an’ those thet come after…. Fer me, pards, the Old Trail will hev a different meanin’. An’ range-ridin’ a bigger job. An’ belongin’ to Holly Ripple’s ootfit aboot as close to heaven as I ever expect to get.

  “Pards, my folks was fine old Texas stock. I never had much schoolin’—yu know how hard it is fer me to write my name—an’ I run away from home ’cause I was jest no good. All thet a cowboy can do except gettin’ himself killed I’ve done. But, so help me Gawd, never since I run away till this heah minnit, hev I had any thought of a cowboy havin’ respect fer his callin’. It sort of seeped through my thick haid—the real an’ strong reason why Our Lady is callin’ to us so sweet an’ earnest. An’ it dug deep into me, boys. Heaven knows we air an ignorant lot, ’cept in case of Frayne, an’ mebbe Skylark, who shows human intelligence sometimes. But to find oot—an’ ’specially from Holly Ripple, daughter of a great Southerner, and the great Don Valverde, thet what we air is what the range made us an’ what she needs—why, fellars, there ain’t words enough, leastways not in my dictionary, to tell how savin’ an’ upliftin’ thet is.

  “An’ so, cowboys, heah’s where Brazos Keene lays his cairds down as never before in no game. My pards of Texas Pan Handle days air daid. Since then I never had one ’cept Laigs heah. Yu all know why I took on Renn Frayne…. Wal, heah’s where I take yu-all on. My pards! When a Texan makes a pard of a nigger somethin’ big has happened. I’m sinkin’ race prejudice an’ all thet other damn selfish rot. We’ve got a common cause, men…. I never was in an ootfit thet didn’t hev a disorganizer, an’ a rustler or two, an’ a mean gun-toter who ached to try you oot.

  “Wal, if I’ve been any one of these things, after tonight I’ll never be no more. Yu-all know yore inside thoughts an’ feelin’s. Yu shore can see Miss Holly’s wonderful offer to yu. An’ none of yu is such an ignoramus as not to see now the wuth of the cowboy to the West. But if any one of yu—or two of yu—or three should double-cross Our Lady an’ disgrace her ootfit—they’ll have to draw on me—an’ Laigs heah—an’ shore our latest pard, Renn Frayne.”

  Amid stamping and vociferous applause Brazos sat down, white and rapt of face. When the uproar subsided Holly leaned to Brazos.

  “Oh, Brazos,” she whispered, with agitation. “I knew you would not fail. You were splendid.”

  Suddenly Holly became aware that Frayne had touched her hand. She turned, quick and vibrant.

  “May I speak?” he asked, with his slight smile.

  “Oh!—I would be delighted….”

  Frayne stood up, striking of form and face, piercing-eyed and stern. There would be no humor from this outlaw. He bowed to Holly.

  “Miss Ripple, our gracious and lovely hostess, Our Lady, as Brazos so truly said, on behalf of all of us I thank you for this hospitality, and particularly for your magnificent and generous spirit.”

  Then he bent his gaze on the uplifted tense faces, down one side of the table, to the absorbed Britt, and up the other side to Brazos.

  “The rest of my few remarks will be addressed to you, as man to man. To you Britt, you old leather-backed Texan trail-hound, to you Jackson, you black-faced, nose-biting horse-driver, to you Cherry, you Indian buckaroo, to you half-breeds, to each and every one of you rowdy cowboys! If what I say pinches your foot in its high-heeled boot, grin and say you like it.

  “But before I make implications which at any other time and place would hurt your feelings I shall tell a little about myself. I am an Easterner. I have been on the frontier fourteen years, since I was twenty. Many ignominies have been fastened upon the name of Renn Frayne, which is my own. But that one which made me a fugitive from justice was false. As a boy and young man I hated cities, crowds, work. I wanted adventure. The West called me. I landed at Independence in 1860. From buffalo hunting I drifted from one thing to another. I shot a cheating gambler on a steamboat—and that started me on the career some men unfortunately must be intended for. During the Civil War I was a soldier for a while. I killed an officer at one of the army-posts—over a woman—and I deserted to hide out with trappers in the mountains. After the war I became a cowboy and rode the eastern ranges for years. The Pan Handle, Nebraska, Wyoming, eastern Colorado, but mostly Kansas. The time came when I couldn’t ride into Old Dodge, or Hays City, or Abilene, or Newton, without smelling smoke of my own gun. Finally I shot Sutherland, a big cattleman. It was the most justifiable killing of all. He was one of those cattlemen who operated in two ways, one open and honest, the other hidden and crooked. There are many such rustler-developing cattle kings. There are two right here in New Mexico. Sutherland had powerful friends, and they egged on the gun-fighters, the two-faced sheriffs, and the tough cowboys to put me out of the way. I became an outlaw, with a price on my head. When some clique exposed Sutherland, laying bare his crooked dealings, they forgot to remove the price from my head. It has never been removed and if I went back to Kansas I’d have to shoot my way out. That’s the bad thing about being a marked man who is quick on the draw…. Lastly I’ve trained with some hard gangs, of which Heaver’s wasn’t a marker to others…. Rustler! I’m bound to admit it. But, men, you all know the status of cattle on the range. It is hard to define the line between branding and stealing. To appropriate beef wherever you found it has been a universal custom. To round up a bunch of cattle, not your own, drive them off their range, sell them for a fourth of their hoof value—that is cattle-stealing. In weak defense of all of us who have transgressed thus I can only say that the easy custom, the unfailing fact of cattlemen all accepting small losses, have been to blame. The cowboy hasn’t had a fair chance to be honest.

  “But horse-stealing is another matter. A rancher will stand to lose some cattle; he raises Cain when he loses horses. My one offense, which I am ashamed to confess, was the Heaver deal in which we drove some two score of Miss Ripple’s thoroughbreds. Britt blocked that drive. I never felt right after Heaver double-crossed me about that deal. He didn’t say we were after horses, and I was into it before I realized. Then I hated him…. Well, he got shot for his deceit, and that saw the beginning and end of my career as a horse-thief.

  “When I threw in with your outfit I promised Miss Ripple that I would be honest. That promise I shall keep…. Boys, I wonder if you can appreciate it when I tell you that I sleep at nights, that I no longer hear steps upon my trail, that I know, absolutely, I will never dangle by my neck from a cottonwood. It will not be many years now before the noose will supersede the gun—in execution of rustlers.