Out of the blue

Once upon a time, as the old tales used to begin, a young man came riding down the main street of Fort Worth in the sovereign State of Texas. He was mounted on a bright sorrel horse, which stepped daintily in the dust of the thoroughfare, for Fort Worth had not yet come to the high estate of asphalt paving and such civic ornamentation as followed in the wake of petroleum and cotton. The longhorn was still king of the plains, a source of wealth in his unnumbered thousands. The cattle kings and their followers were like the ancient Romans; they made their own roads--made them into far places, in a spirit of high emprise. They did not mind a little dust here and there.

This rider, who looked out from under a gray Stetson hat, holding his reins in a buckskin-gloved hand, while he scanned the windows of the various establishments that fronted on the street, was plainly of the range. He was young and deeply tanned. He was armed, as men commonly were in those times. His saddle, bridle, and spurs were beautifully made, and the silver-inlaid steel clinked faintly, as his horse moved. The coiled-rawhide reata at his saddle fork was limber with much use. He might have been considered picturesque. That idea would never have occurred to him or his fellows. The seed of romance indubitably lay in the stout hearts of Rock Holloway and his like, living and moving and having their being on the fringes of an encroaching civilization, but they were practical in their activities, which had to do with a major industry, wherein there was doubtless romance, but also a considerable portion of hard work and long chances which the range man accepted as incidental to his calling. This long-limbed youth, with the keen eyes and pleasant face, could probably have told why he preferred the range to a university campus; but he was merely the occasional exception. And he may have had glimpses of the future, apart from cattle and trail herds and the wide pastures that were in process of reclamation from the bison and the Indian. But he would never have embodied such dreams in words. And he was not steeping his soul in the color and aspect of a little cow town when he rode along that street. He was looking for a certain place. Presently, and without very much trouble, he found it.

He pulled up before a one-story adobe building. On the paneled door, across the plate-glass windows, ran a legend in gilt lettering:

“The Trinity Bank.”

Rock dismounted and left his sorrel standing on dropped bridle reins, as securely anchored in the utilitarian fashion of the plains as if he had been tied to a post. He paused a moment at the door to grin. On this piece of plain oak some wag had lately scrawled in red chalk the word “Holy” between “The” and “Trinity.” It was not inappropriate, Rock knew. The Trinity Bank of Fort Worth was owned and operated by three men who were old and wise and upright, as near to a state of holiness as bankers in the cow country ever got. That is to say, “Uncle Bill” Sayre, who was president, manager, and chief stockholder, and Marcus Proud, and Abel Stewart were square men, whose word was as good and, indeed, sometimes went farther than an explicit bond.

Rock thrust his face at the first wicket in a low grille along a counter.

“Is Mr. Sayre in?”

“Did you want to see him?” The teller looked up from his work.

“If he isn’t too busy. Tell him it’s Rock Holloway.”

The man walked back a few steps and put his head inside a doorway. He beckoned Rock and indicated an opening in the counter through which Rock could enter.

When Rock reached the inner office, a tall, thin-faced man of sixty rose to greet him, shook hands, shoved forward a chair, and closed the door. Then he seated himself, smiling benignantly.

“Well, well,” said he. “Yo’ young fellows change fast. Le’s see. It’s nigh two years since I saw yo’, Rock. Yo’ favor yo’ ol’ dad mo’ and mo’ all the time. How’s yo’ mammy and Cecilia?”

“Fine,” Rock replied. “Mother says Austin suits her right down to the ground to live in. Cissy’s going to be married this fall.”

“Yo’ don’t say! Why, she ain’t but seventeen. Who to?”

“Nobody I know personally,” Rock answered. “But I know of his family. He’s a Brett. Son of the Brett that runs the B X over toward El Paso. Mother says he’s a nice boy.”

“I know the Bretts. Pretty good people, take ’em all around. Still, pretty young, pretty young, for marryin’. Kinda sudden after yo’-all fixin’ it so she could get whatever advantages lie in an education.”

“Pshaw, Uncle Bill,” Rock said. “As a matter of fact, I didn’t give up anything. There was only so much money to go around, and I’m certainly able to rustle for myself. I had all the show I needed, when I needed it. I don’t know as I would have stayed back East long enough to take a degree, anyhow, only to please the old man. It’s lots of fun to make a hand on the range, and I don’t figure to be a cow hand forever, nohow. But, say, how did you know I was passing this way? Of course I would have come in to say hello, anyhow, but you beat me to it, sending out word you wanted to see me.”

“Oh, I keep tab on lots of things, son.” Old Sayre’s eyes twinkled. “There’s a lot of cowmen an’ cow business passes through this bank. Su’prise yo’, how well they keep me posted on who’s who, and what’s what. Now, I didn’t send fo’ yo’, Rock, just to ask after yo’ health, this time. Yo’ goin’ No’th with a Seventy Seven trail herd?”

“Right through to Montana,” Rock nodded.

“What do yo’-all aim to do after yo’ get there?” Sayre inquired. “Stay on with the Seventy Seven?”

“Don’t think so.” Rock frowned slightly. “I’d as soon work right along, but I don’t know as I like this outfit well enough to tie to.”

“Yo’ mean yo’ don’t cotton much to yo’ boss?” the old man supplied.

“Well, perhaps. Know him?”

“A Duffy, ain’t he?”

Rock nodded.

“I know the tribe. They’s four boys--all big--all inclined to be high-handed. Le’s see. There’s Joe, Elmer, Ed, an’ Mark. Elmer’s handlin’ this herd yo’-all are with?”

Again Rock nodded.

“Elmer ain’t bad. Joe’s noisy, but harmless. Ed is real tough. Mark’s both noisy and mean. He always aimed to be bad, unless he’s changed a heap lately. He’s big as a house. Overbearin’ accordin’ to his size.”

“Mark’s trail hand with this Seventy Seven herd,” Rock said.

“Huh? If Elmer’s startin’ No’th with that handicap, he’ll have trouble on the trail, I reckon. Ought to have more sense than have that disturber in his outfit. I don’t expect yo’ and Mark love each other, eh? No, I shouldn’t imagine yo’d want to stay with the Seventy Seven after the drive’s over, not if yo’ got to rub elbows with Mark. He sure is the wrong kind.”

“Maybe not even all the way,” Rock said casually. “Mark’s inclined to ride me. No particular reason. Just don’t like me, I expect.”

“Better quit the Seventy Seven, son,” Sayre counseled after a moment’s silence. “There’s other herds drivin’ No’th that need good men.”

Rock shook his head. A little smile flitted across his face.

“Would you?” he challenged. “Just to get away from a man that don’t like the shape of your head, or something? Would you, Uncle Bill, after you’d promised a trail boss you’d go?”

“Well, no, I reckon I wouldn’t, come to think it over,” the old man answered dryly. “At least, when I was twenty-five I sho’ wouldn’t. At my age, now, I c’n see the wisdom of side-steppin’ trouble. Still, yo’ better quit the Seventy Seven soon as yo’ get to yo’ destination, providin’ yo’ and Mark both do get there all right.”

“I certainly aim to do both.” Rock smiled. “Mark’s welcome to flourish, so long as he don’t step on my corns too frequent. I want to get into this North country. I hear there’s chances there for a fellow with a little money. Time I’ve worked another year I’ll have a couple of thousand dollars. I might find a place where I could start in with a hundred cows or so, and grow up with the country.”

“When yo’ get around to that, let me know,” the banker said. “I hear good reports of that Montana country. I might put in some money if yo’ locate a range. Texas is full up. She’ll spill a heap of stock and men into the Northwest in the next five years. Cattle grow into money tol’able fast.”

That was an indubitable fact. Sayre, as Rock knew, was a cattle owner as well as a banker. And Texas was getting crowded. That was why the longhorns were swarming North and West to free grass and plentiful water, like droves of horned locusts. They were grazing year by year farther afield into regions dotted by the bones of the buffalo, bleaching where they but lately fell before the rifles of the hide hunters. Rock promised that he would remember the suggestion. They talked a while longer desultorily. Then a clerk asked if Mr. Sayre was busy. A man wanted to see him. Rock rose to his feet.

“Sit still,” Sayre told him. To the clerk he said: “Tell him to come back in half an hour, and I’ll see him.”

And when the door closed again he put both feet up on his desk, looked Rock over with an appraising eye, and said: