Raiders of Spanish Peaks by Zane Grey

Author:Zane Grey
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: e9781634500784
Publisher: Skyhorse Publishing
Published: 2016-01-25T16:00:00+00:00

Laramie awakened next morning with a zest he had not felt for long. Resolutely he set his thoughts on the details he had planned, and smothered the dreaming melancholy under which he had labored for weeks.

“He’s not such a rotten actor,” remarked Tracks, as Lonesome slouched ahead of him and Laramie, on their way down to the ranch. Lonesome had stuck a black bottle in his hip pocket, some of the contents of which he had spilled on his shirt, and he had otherwise assisted nature in the simulation of a cow-puncher under the influence of rum.

“Shore is a hard-lookin’ customer,” agreed Laramie. “I’m ‘most feared he’ll make the best of this job.”

“Watch him! Laramie, when you told him to pick a fight with everybody, I saw an unholy glitter in his eye.”

“Wal, we’re shore in for a spell of natural range happenin’s. An’ I’m glad, ’cause I want to be my old self once more.”

Laramie hardly believed that could ever be. He lagged behind his friends a little. The yellow road wound down to the green level valley floor, that owed its fertility and color to the never-failing brook. Part of his task had been to add to the natural beauty of the place. Riders with little riding to do had been set to cleaning up, planting, building fences, and other such tasks that they hated. Barns, sheds, corrals, cabins, all, in fact, of the valley adjuncts to the ranch, had been built and used by the cattle company preceding Allen. They were picturesquely located in a grove of cottonwoods, through the middle of which ran the brook. Beyond were the big pastures leading out to the open range. It was indeed a ranch to delight the heart of riders, wholly aside from the house above, with its fascinating Lindsay sisters.

Half a dozen saddled horses stood bridles down under the big cottonwood tree in front of the yellow stable. Mexican boys were cleaning out the stalls. Neale Lindsay appeared, leading the bay horse Lonesome had taken a fancy to, after his own had been stolen. A group of riders lounged around in the shade, waiting. Laramie promised himself that they had not waited in vain this morning.

Lonesome halted some paces in front of Tracks, who apparently remonstrated with him.

“Hey, Lindsay, wot’n’hell you doin’ with my hawse?” yelled Lonesome.

“Your horse? Say, cow-puncher, this horse is mine, I’ll have you know,” replied Neale, getting red through his sunburn. Two months of range life had toned him down considerably, but he was still a tenderfoot, still vain and pompous enough to be a thorn in the flesh of the riders. Innumerable tricks perpetrated upon him, and sundry hard falls and knocks, and a couple of minor scuffles, had not cured Neale to the extent desired by Laramie.

“Ump-umm! Fade away, tenderfoot, before I blow on you.”

Lonesome slouched over to snatch the bridle from Neale, whose face turned as red as a beet.

“Mulhall, you’re drunk!” he burst out, angrily.

“Who’s drunk?” roared Lonesome.

“You are. If you weren’t I—I’d crack your ugly mug….

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