Rainbow Range Read online

  Copyright © 2012 by Golden West Literary Agency

  First Skyhorse Publishing edition published 2016 by arrangement with Golden West Literary Agency

  “Rainbow Range” first appeared as a five-part serial under the title “Wayne of the Whippoorwill” in Street and Smith’s Western Story Magazine (11/1/30–11/29/30). Copyright © 1930 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc. Copyright © renewed 1958 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc. Acknowledgment is made to Condé Nast Publications, Inc., for their co-operation. Copyright © 2012 by Golden West Literary Agency for restored material.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Brian Peterson

  Print ISBN: 978-1-63450-437-9

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-0040-6

  Printed in United States of America

  Chapter One

  They were looking down the street, five of them, standing on the steps of Riverdale’s one hotel. Everyone was looking down the street, for that matter, except those who were running to join the throng down there where the dust was flying in the hot July sun.

  Among those on the steps was Polly Arnold, daughter of Pete Arnold, owner of the big Bar A Ranch. She was by far the prettiest of the five girls. Her hazel eyes were aglow with commingled excitement and concern.

  “It’s Ted Wayne!” she exclaimed to her companions. “I just know it’s him! He didn’t go home after the Fourth and now he’s in another fracas. If it comes to guns …” She bit her lip and ceased speaking while the others sought to allay her fears.

  And it was indeed Ted Wayne. In the center of a ring of spectators he stood, tall and capable, a young man of magnificent build, wavy chestnut hair, cool gray eyes, clear-cut features—son of Ed Wayne, owner of the Whippoorwill, as the great WP Ranch was called.

  On the ground, covered with dust, his jaw clamped shut and his eyes blazing, was another youth, heavier than Wayne, red-haired, with bulldog features. He was leaning on his left elbow in the dust of the cow-town street.

  “Now, listen, Jake,” Wayne was saying sternly, “before you get up, tell me if this fight is ended or not. If it isn’t ended, you’ll have to throw away that gun. No … don’t make a move to touch it. If you want to go on with this, somebody else will take your gun and I’ll hand mine over to somebody.”

  Jake Barry’s lower lip drew back against his teeth. “Come and get it, some of you,” he snarled.

  A man came forward and took the weapon from its holster while Wayne tossed his aside to whomever might catch it. Then Barry got to his feet. He towered a full three inches above Wayne’s six feet of height. His big hands were covered with a thick reddish growth of hair, his big arms were long, his legs were stocky, his chin square. Never did a pair seem more unevenly matched.

  He crouched and in another instant sprang like a tiger at the man before him. It was tactics such as this that were losing the fight for him. He sought to overwhelm Wayne with his strength. He was a wrestler, rather than a boxer. And Ted Wayne knew that, if his opponent ever got him down, he was lost.

  But Wayne had been in fights before—too many of them, almost everyone agreed, including his father and Polly Arnold. These lunges on the part of Jake and his wild, vicious swings were his meat. He had succeeded in knocking Jake down, but it had taken a terrific blow to turn the trick, a blow with every ounce of muscle that Wayne possessed behind it, and it had landed fully on Barry’s jaw. Wayne knew in his heart that he could not knock Barry out. This knowledge made him a more dangerous opponent for the larger man than otherwise would have been the case.

  As Jake hurled his huge bulk at him, Wayne side-stepped and got in a hard left to Jake’s left eye. So great was the force of Jake’s lunge that he staggered forward and fell to his knees.

  Wayne was there when he got up, and no sooner was Barry on his feet than Wayne whipped a hard blow to his opponent’s right eye. These were not taps. They carried everything Wayne could put into a short blow and that was plenty, as the spectators agreed.

  Again Jake charged. His eyes were blazing fire. He was literally insane with rage for the time being. What the fight had started over none knew, but it wasn’t long before the onlookers were aware of Wayne’s strategy. He met this second rush of Jake’s in the same manner as before—leaping lightly aside and driving another blow to Jake’s left eye. He was like a cat on his feet, dancing about the bigger man, taunting him and urging him on, luring him into those wild rushes and planting blows on either eye. It was cruel, but Wayne knew, if Jake ever got him down, he would break his back, or an arm at least, before anyone could interfere.

  Jake’s eyes were swelling terribly. Blood was flowing from cuts on his face. He kept spitting into the dust that swirled about them. But he was game to the core. And his great strength would enable him to keep up his aggressive tactics for some time. The fact that he couldn’t get to Wayne, who was a boxer above the average, maddened him and robbed him of all judgment.

  Time and again Wayne drew him about in a circle and got in a blow as the giant crouched for another spring. Once he clipped the bigger man behind the left ear with such force that he spun him around. Then came his chance. Once again he drove his right to that protruding, square jaw. Behind that blow was everything that Wayne ever could hope to have.

  Barry staggered back, unsteady on his feet, then braced himself and looked out of his fast-closing eyes for his opponent. At that moment Wayne could probably have driven another terrific blow for a knockout. The crowd expected it and waited breathlessly. Wayne expected it himself, but for some inexplicable reason he could not bring himself to plant the blow.

  His indecision nearly cost him the fight. Jake had recovered more quickly than anyone could have suspected. He dived suddenly at Wayne, striking out at the same time, and Wayne took a glancing blow on the jaw that nearly sent him to the ground.

  This blow made Wayne a charging demon. Heretofore he had been cool, his face frozen in stern lines, his eyes hard and calculating. Now his eyes flashed and narrowed and he renewed the battle with such fury that it seemed to those looking on that he would tear Jake’s face to pieces.

  In his attacks he was inexorable. It was he who now was on the aggressive. Barry was merely staggering about in the choking dust. It was brutal—a fearful thing to look upon. There were murmurs among the spectators. It ought to be stopped. But none made a move to stop it. It was whispered about that Jake had brought it upon himself. He had called Wayne a forbidden name in the Blue Grouse resort and had invited him into the street. Wayne had followed him out to what everyone thought would be a massacre. It was going the other way. It was Jake’s own fault. Thus none moved forward to interfere.

  Back and forth and around the contestants battled. But now it really wasn’t a battle. It was the massacre that many had expected, but it was ending as they had not expected. Blow after blow—on the eyes, the nose, the ja
w, in the midriff—and then the crowd suddenly cried out and Wayne stepped back.

  Big Jake Barry stood helpless, his eyes so swollen they were completely closed. He was shaking and choking in the dust. One fierce blow to the proper spot would put him down and out for a long, long count.

  “I guess we’re through, eh, Barry?” said Wayne.

  “Go ahead and finish it,” said Barry thickly.

  “I wouldn’t hit you again for love or money,” said Wayne. “You started it and I’ve finished it. I’m satisfied. I’m not even going to ask you to take back what you said … which I expect you wouldn’t do. I don’t care about it. I’m satisfied, as I said. And I know just what’s in your head. You’re thinking that, if there’s a next time, it’ll be gun play. Just remember, I’ll be expecting that.”

  He turned away and retrieved his weapon from a spectator. Several advanced to help Barry. The fight was over, but the memory of it would live in Riverdale and the Teton range for many years to come.

  Wayne slapped the dust from his hat that someone had handed to him, and brushed his clothes as best he could. Then he pushed his way through the crowd and came face to face with Polly Arnold. For half a minute they stood there, looking into each other’s eyes. Polly’s were cool and accusing; Wayne’s were surprised and a bit bewildered.

  “Why … hello, Polly,” he stammered. “I thought you’d gone home.”

  “Ted Wayne, you’re a brute!” exclaimed the girl.

  “We’ve discussed that before, Polly,” said Wayne. “This had to be. If you knew what had started it, or, if I could tell you, you wouldn’t be so hard on me.”

  “That’s what you always say,” returned Polly with a toss of her head. “You’ve always got an excuse.”

  “Have you ever investigated any of them?” Wayne inquired.

  “Of course not,” she said indignantly. “Why should I?”

  “Well … well, come to think of it, why should you?” said Wayne, remembering to take off his hat. “It’s tough, Polly, that you should be around so many times when I … when there’s trouble.”

  “It isn’t that, Ted. It doesn’t make any difference when I’m around. It seems there’s always trouble.”

  “It’s my bad luck,” he said, frowning. “I’ve got to blame it on something and I’ll blame it on that.”

  “You’re always seeking a way out,” said Polly seriously. “What will your father think? You know he has threatened more than once that if you got in another fight …”

  “I know, I know,” Wayne broke in. “I’ll blame that on my bad luck, too. No, I won’t. I’ll take the blame for everything without a word and face the music.”

  Polly was nonplussed at this. She looked up at Wayne, but he was looking away from her as if he were seeing something at a great distance. Her thoughts began to jump about. Then: “Ted … do you … remember what you asked me not so long ago?”

  “How could I forget it?” he said quickly, looking at her in surprise.

  “Well … if I did marry you, would it help any?” she asked seriously.

  His eyes lighted. “You mean …?” His eyes clouded. “It wouldn’t be fair, Polly, honestly. It wouldn’t be fair to you. I just don’t know. Maybe the devil is in me to stay. That’s a hard question, because I love you.”

  “Well,” said the girl softly, “you think it over, Ted.”

  He watched her as she walked rapidly up the street to rejoin her companions at the hotel. She had had to find out what the trouble was about. Wayne’s brain was whirling. A word and he could have Polly! It was incredible, unreal, but it made his heart leap with joy and then with pain. He could have Polly if … The thing for you to do is get something to eat, go back to the ranch, and face the music, he told himself.

  He started for a restaurant, knowing full well that the news of the fight would beat him to the ranch. Such had always been the case, and he saw no reason for an exception now. Suddenly he realized that he didn’t care.

  Chapter Two

  Wayne scarcely remembered riding back to the ranch that afternoon. He had not come out of the fight with Jake Barry unscathed. The cuts on his face smarted and his knuckles were nearly raw. It was of Polly Arnold that he thought as he rode in the hot sun across the golden expanse of plain. Polly was so utterly desirable, such a sweet girl, a good rider, fun-loving, full of life, glowing with health, and he loved her. Such was the trend of his thoughts as he covered the miles homeward.

  He arrived at the ranch at sunset. Almost the first man he met after he had put up his horse was Jack McCurdy, the foreman.

  “’Lo, Mac,” he greeted. “Anybody been along this afternoon?”

  “Not a soul,” replied the foreman, looking at Ted’s face and hands. “Who was it this time, Ted?”

  “Well, I’m in luck for once,” said Wayne with relief. “For once I’ll be able to break the news to the Old Man without his having heard about things beforehand. I’ll have to wash up and sort of patch my face and hands. C’mon to the bunkhouse, Mac.”

  They went on to the bunkhouse where McCurdy, who was an expert in such emergencies, began to cleanse Wayne’s cuts and make him presentable before he went into the ranch house.

  “It was Jake Barry,” said Wayne simply.

  McCurdy whistled softly. “You didn’t pick out any soft spot,” he said. “How’d you make out with that big bruiser?”

  “Gave him everything I had in the right place and couldn’t knock him out. He’s heavy on his feet, though, and I closed both his eyes. I could have knocked him cold then but didn’t. Last I saw of him they were leading him away.”

  “How’d it start?” McCurdy asked.

  “He picked it,” replied Wayne with a frown. “Picked it out of thin air. You know I never had anything to do with him. Made out like he was soused and bumped into me. Then he said things, called me a few choice names, and invited me outside. Reckon he figured I would come.”

  “That was a frame-up,” McCurdy decided.

  “Looks that way to me, Mac. But I can’t see why he would want to do it to me. I hardly know him except by sight. Never even had a drink with him or sat in on a game where he was playing.”

  “That’s just it. Some reason for it, unless he really was drunk.”

  “Drunk your eye,” scoffed Wayne. “He was no more drunk than you are. There must be something behind it.”

  “You know the gang he travels with, I suppose,” said McCurdy casually.

  “Worst set of bums in Riverdale and you can’t call ’em anything else,” Wayne answered in contempt.

  “But he don’t stay long in Riverdale and he isn’t there often, Ted. His range is over east in the Rainbow Butte country. Rainbow is his headquarters. He’d be sure to pick the toughest town on the range. He runs with the Darling outfit.”

  “No!” Wayne exploded. “Is he in with that bunch of cutthroats?”

  “He sure is,” McCurdy affirmed. “And that’s why I don’t like the looks of this lay. You’ve got to step easy, Ted. Jake won’t forget this … not in a million years.”

  “I made him throw away his gun in the fight,” Wayne mused. “And when it was over, and he was standing there like a store dummy, I told him I knew what he was thinking about. He was thinking the next time, if there was a next time, it would be with guns. I told him that and said I’d be expecting it.”

  McCurdy stood back, surveying his handiwork with approval. “You can do it, Ted. You can get in more messes quicker and easier than any man I ever saw. But I’m with you thick or thin.”

  “I know that, Mac,” said Wayne. “Do I look pretty enough to go into the house?”

  “You’ll pass.” McCurdy nodded. “But don’t get in a strong light.”

  * * * * *

  Ed Wayne was a big man, not merely in a physical sense, but from the standpoint of influence in the vast domain of range that he dominated. Probably the only person in the Teton country who did not fear him was his son Ted. As an only son—Ed Wayne ha
d no other children and had lost his wife when Ted was ten years old—it could be assumed that Ed thought a great deal of Ted, which was true. If Ted had been more or less of a mystery to his father when a boy, he was many times more a mystery as a man. Ed Wayne knew nothing of the handling of children. He had allowed his son to have his own way and to do as he pleased. Despite this lax attitude on the part of his parent, Ted had mixed with the men, worked cattle, tamed broncos, until he possessed all the knowledge and skill of a first-class cowpuncher. Also, he tolerated many of the vices. If he was wild, it could not be said that he was bad, intentionally or otherwise.

  Conflicting emotions assailed Ted as he entered the house. It was not trepidation in expectation of having to explain to his father what had taken place in town, for he knew he would have to do that, and his explanation would be terse but thorough, but for once, having to do the explaining himself, he was curious as to the result. Moreover, it wasn’t going to be so easy on his part, for it would be the first time he had played the role. A vague uncertainty made him uneasy. For once in his tempestuous life he confessed to himself that he didn’t know where he stood. It was a feeling he didn’t relish. Anyway, he wanted it over with as soon as possible.

  He strode through the kitchen with a nod at Mary, the colored cook and housekeeper. But Mary called him back.

  “Your father said when you come and had your supper to go out on the porch.” She nodded. “He wants to see you. I got your supper all ready. It won’t take a minute.”

  “Oh, all right,” said Ted in a tone of relief, hanging up his hat and dropping into a chair in the dining room. “Sling it on, Mary, and I’ll do what I can to it.”

  His father was waiting for him on the porch and wanted to see him. Then somebody had been along with the news. Fair enough. He could acknowledge what he wished of the story and supply any details his father required. He could answer questions better than he could make explanations. It would be the same as it had always been before. Give and take, and damn the consequences.

  When Mary had his supper on the table, he did full justice to it. Trouble never affected his appetite. If his father threw him out, he would take the long trail of adventure. He had long nourished a wish to do this. Yet, the Whippoorwill was his home, and … He put down his coffee cup with a bang. Was he getting sentimental? But there was Polly Arnold to be considered. He rose and walked rapidly to the porch, his lips firm, his eyes slightly narrowed. It still was light enough for his features to be clearly distinguished.