The jennies obeyed in a flash. At the first alarm they flew around in a whirling vortex, herding their colts into dead center. Meanwhile Brighty turned on the wolf or coyote, driving him off with savage ferocity.
There were man-enemies, too. Indians crept soundlessly on moccasined feet, trying to steal the burros. They were smarter than wolves, coming always when the wind blew their scent away. But Brighty lost only a few foals to them, for his eyes were sharp, and the mares and colts could outrun the fleetest Indian.
Gradually his youthful gaiety gave way to sharp watchfulness. A new Brighty he was, able to size up an opponent, sensing instantly whether to fight or flee, or merely to stand defiant.
Outwardly, too, he changed. He became thinner, shaggier, and the hair over his eyes bushed out, giving him a wild, fierce look. Now, when the wind ruffled his coat, it revealed the scars of many battles won.
The days came and went, winter and summer, cold and heat. For three long years Brighty stayed with his flock. The urge to migrate was stilled. He seemed to forget the world of men—the lion-smell of Uncle Jim, the beaver-smell of Jake Irons, the sugar-candy sweetness of Homer and the children at Wiley’s Camp. There was room in his mind for only his mares and the little foals he had fathered.
And then, in the middle of a sunlit morning, Brighty’s new world came crashing down. He had closed his eyelids to snatch a moment’s sleep. It was a windless day with the sun warm to his back. His family was within easy calling distance and he dozed standing, while the soft sounds of the colts suckling and the mares grinding the sagebrush lulled him deeper to sleep.
At first there was only a far-off speck on the wall above, a speck as still as a winter fly. Then slowly it began crawling down the wall, and as it crawled it quickened pace.
Brighty woke to sigh and to shift his weight. He took time to scan the cliffs above, but just as he did, the oncoming figure passed from sight around a turn. Grunting in contentment he closed his eyes again, feeling safe for the moment and lazy.
So still was the wind and so deep his sleep that he neither smelled nor heard the swift-footed thief approaching. Then all at once his blood curdled to a ringing scream.
Instantly he was sharp awake. A glance told him that here was a foe he had fought before, a young Palomino jack easily defeated.
Brighty filled his lungs and let out a bugle cry that sent his mares into a huddle. Then with ears laced back he rushed at the young stallion.
The air, so peaceful a moment ago, suddenly became a sandstorm with dust rising, and little stones spitting, and hoofs lashing out like forked lightning.
Within the sand cloud Brighty’s breath hurt in his lungs. His nostrils smarted and his eyes burned and watered. He blinked furiously, trying to see which way the hammer blows were coming. But the sand blinded him and he seemed never to duck in time. The young jack caught him blow upon blow, then raked and ripped him with savage teeth. Brighty flailed wildly and missed.
And then in the very heat of the fight he deliberately slowed his hoofs. It was as if he suddenly realized the young jack had grown in bulk and weight while he himself had faded. He knew it was impossible to win; it could only be a fight to the death.
Struggling free of the battering hoofs, he burst out of the sand cloud, running desperately toward the river. Two jennies started after him, but the Palomino drove them back into the bunch as the shrill bray of the conqueror sent cold shivers down Brighty’s spine. With never a backward glance he stumbled his lonely way. His shoulders were streaked with blood, his whole body ached, and defeat hung heavy upon him.
A VOICE FROM THE PAST
BRIGHTY STAGGERED dizzily across the mesa. He could breathe now without swallowing grains of sand, but the freshness seemed gone from the air.
A chain of hoofprints showed him the way ahead, hoofprints made by his own feet and his mares, and lighter tracks made by the little fellows. As he stopped to snuff them he felt a homelessness he had never known before. With downcast eyes he followed the chain along until it veered sharply away in a return circle. There at the lip of the mesa he halted and stared bleakly downward to the yellow river and the threadlike bridge across it.
A small wind rose. It blew cool against the welts on his body and on his neck where a patch of skin was torn. For a long time he stood looking outward into space, a woebegone figure, swaying over the brink. He seemed to be waiting—waiting perhaps for some one of his jennies or colts to see him off. But no one came. Only the wind blowing restless, and a hawk wheeling in an endless circle. He shivered and pressed his eyelids tight together, struggling to stay on his feet.
When the dizziness was over, he started down the steep wall. Once he had bounded up this very cliff in sharp ecstasy. Now, slowly, he let himself down, step by step, ears drooping, tail tucked in.
It was shadowy night when at last he reached the river. Ring-tailed cats made a glow with their eyes as they danced around, facing up at him. The moon was rising big over the rim and it shone full on Brighty, on his dark, sad eyes and the cross on his back. He looked up at the moon, and it was as if he had held back too long. He let his head fall forward, and from deep in his throat came the dry sobbing of a soul wrenched by loneliness.
But no one heard. The moon only climbed higher, and the river roared its way to the sea.
• • •
Sun on the river, moon on the river, wind and rain on the river. Brighty detested the mad muddy thing. Day on day he ran wildly along the shore. He seemed now to remember the other side, and it called to him as home. He longed to leap the river, to find Bright Angel Creek, to wade and wallow in it; then to climb the long trail to Uncle Jim and the green mountain meadow.
If only some hand would help him cross the bridge again! And while he ran frantic one day, a voice shouted above the river, “Nice Brighty! Nice Brighty!”
He spun around to see a shaggy-haired man with pin eyes squinting and gold teeth grinning. The man stood only a dozen feet away, his pots and pans and a string of pelts on the ground beside him.
“Nice Brighty! Nice Brighty!” he kept repeating. Suddenly the man began digging a hole in the sand. Then moving swiftly he gathered dead grass and twigs and laid a fire in it. With one eye on the burro, he took a jar of sour dough from his pack and began making biscuits.
Brighty sat down at a safe distance away. He recognized the voice and smell of Jake Irons even with the added years and change of clothes. He followed every move of the familiar man-actions, and his nostrils gathered in the pleasant smell of burning mesquite. He felt a little less forlorn; he even dozed a bit, waiting for the biscuits to bake. When he awakened, they were done and cooling in the wind.
Cautiously he footed his way toward them, watching as the man’s hand broke one off and held it outstretched. At the instant when Brighty’s jaws clamped down on it, the man’s other hand came sneaking from behind his back. With a quick movement he coiled a rope around Brighty’s neck.
The bearded face was a smirk of triumph and the rusty voice croaked, “Who said lightning don’t strike twice! Eh, broomtail?”
With a laugh Jake Irons tied a second rope to Brighty’s collar. Knotting the free end, he wedged it between two boulders. Now that the burro was fast, his hands were free. He scooped up a few pebbles into an old tomato can and pressed the lid in place. Next he tied one end of a cord around the can.
“How’d you like this against your rump?” he asked, spinning the tin can and letting it thwack against a rock.
Brighty shied in panic. He jerked up until the halter rope snapped him back.
Now Irons came toward him, his grease-stained mackinaw almost touching the burro’s nose. “That Old Timer of yours!” he shouted. “He was a bigger jackass than you. What good’s a rich vein if you can’t sell the ore! Do y’ever see a miner down here get rich? Do you?” he yelled. “No! They dig and they dig and they die!”
He crouched down over Brighty, working himself into a fury. “It’d take a thousand jacks a thousand y
ears to pack the stuff out. Listen, low-life!” He grabbed a firmer hold on the lead rope and pulled Brighty’s head up. “Where you think I been all these years? I been diggin’ and dodgin’ and hidin’ until my belly’s sick.
“And you know what you’re going to do about it?” His hand spun the tin can in a threat. “You’re going to lead me to Utah; that’s what! Old Timer said you know the way up to the North Rim. I’ll hit a new state and find a new way of thievin’.”
Brighty made no movement or cry. The rattling tin can filled him with dread. He let the man swing a pack over his back, and the pelts across the pack.
Now Irons released the halter rope from the boulders and pulled it over his own shoulder, drawing up the slack. He leaned forward and tried moving toward the bridge, fully expecting Brighty to balk. To his surprise, the burro stepped on his heels, almost sending him sprawling.
Brighty was going his way!
At the apron to the bridge, however, the burro came to a firm halt. He waited to have one foreleg lifted up, then the other, remembering how he had crossed before.
Instead, Irons whiplashed the tin can against his hips. With a cry of terror, Brighty leaped onto the bridge. The sudden weight rocked it up and down and the wind tossed it until his stomach churned with the double motion. He tried to plant his feet, but again the tin can crashed against his hindquarters and shot him forward.
He staggered along the plank floor, trying to balance, but his legs were boneless as rags. He felt his shoulders striking the wire fencing, first one shoulder, then the other, and his knees buckling, and the rope jerking him up. He tottered forward, reeling, slipping, crumpling, straightening, then staggering onward again, while the man laughed crazily and jumped up and down to make the bridge sway the more.
Sweat oozed out of Brighty’s skin and the river roared in his ears. And just when he could stand the noise and the seasickness no longer, he felt a mighty poke which landed him on the solid footing of the other shore.
For a long moment he stood there, his sides heaving and the air going into him. The man stood, too, using his sleeve to wipe the sweat glistening on his forehead. Then his eyes moved greedily upward, ledge on ledge, precipice on precipice, to the rimtop, to the sky beyond. “Utah! Utah!” he shouted. “Across the line I’ll be safe!”
ON TO UTAH!
BRIGHTY FELT a pulsing of strength. His legs began to hold him without trembling. And all at once he gave a snort of glee. He had crossed the river! This was his world, his own world—the solid little delta on which he stood, and Bright Angel Creek chattering up at him.
He tore loose from Jake Irons and, braying in joy, ran to the creek. He let it wash his feet and foam and bubble around his knees. He kicked and sudsed it onto his belly. His pack was no weight at all. Home! The beautiful creek, his! The whole north wall, his! The meadow waiting, his!
Eagerly, as if to make up for lost time, he began racing upward. He was unmindful of the man’s desperate attempt to follow. “How long it has been!” Brighty’s happiness seemed to say. Even the gravel and shale of the path were friendly to his feet. The willow branches had not forgotten him, either; they scratched his back and roughed his ears.
Again and again he crossed the creek, sometimes ducking his muzzle to let the water flow cool between his bridle teeth, and sometimes he just stood looking around, splay-legged as any colt. Once, far behind, he caught a glimpse of Jake Irons wading across the creek, holding his shoes on high.
Whenever Brighty stopped for a breather, he flattened himself against a bush of silver sage or a grayed rock. Irons, meanwhile, afraid the burro had made off with his pack, came running and puffing to find him. Often he stopped to mop his brow quite near the hiding place. Then Brighty would dart ahead, hee-hawing in laughter.
Another mile of trail and another, and now when Brighty looked back, he saw the man face down in the creek, half sobbing with thirst and exhaustion. He swiveled his ear. That sound! It was the nearest thing to a bray he had heard since leaving the mesa. He answered it full steam. But the man did not reply. He had drunk too freely of the icy water and was bent double with cramps.
It was no fun playing hide-and-seek alone, so Brighty took a short nap. When he awoke, Jake Irons was up and hovering over a fire in a half-tunnel of rock nearby. Brighty sniffed the air. Fire meant food and perhaps riddance of his pack. He edged toward it.
“You beast! You broomtail!” the man shouted, remembering the tricks played on him. “If I didn’t need you for a guide, I’d—I’d slit your throat and leave your body to the ravens.” He broke off his shouting to remove Brighty’s pack.
A cold wind blew over the shoulder of rock. It made a plaintive sound as it spiraled down Brighty’s ears. He turned tail and drew closer to the fire.
“Low on grub,” Irons muttered darkly, “and me having to waste half on a burro!”
Somewhere a coyote howled and the canyon answered him.
Brighty stood waiting for his food, and as he waited a speck of snow fell on his nose. A few flakes touched the fire, made little hisses, and were gone. But away from the fire, on bushes and junipers, they hung like tiny white stars. Brighty walked to the very edge of the cliff and thrust his head out into space. He caught a few flakes and tasted them on his tongue. They were something new and delicious.
In silence the burro and the man ate their meager lunch. The wind rose and a whirl of snow swooped into the shelter, powdering the man hunched over his coffee. He leaped to his feet in panic. He had never climbed the north wall before. In a snowstorm he would need the burro more than ever.
“I dreamt this blizzard last night!” he called out in alarm. “I dreamt the law was after me. They trailed my footprints. I got to go on!”
Quickly he shook the blanket free of snow, wrapped his skillet and coffeepot and the beaver pelts inside, stuffed cold biscuits in his pocket. He threw the pack on Brighty and jerked the ropes around his belly.
Then he turned to pick up the tin can with the pebbles, but there was no need to use it. Brighty was already out of reach. He had set the compass in his mind for the North Rim. Up ahead in the snow clouds there would be another kind of man, a gentle man, waiting to welcome him.
He bent his head to the climb, and at first the snow was pleasant to his face and he went with steady stride. But as they climbed higher, a wild mass of white billowed into the canyon. It closed in on the figures toiling up the wall and muffled all sound until the dead stillness threw terror into the man. He cried out, and the words he cried were, “Bright Angel! Bright Angel!”
Brighty had no ears for the rasping voice. He was completely baffled by his first snow. One moment it was a frosted star to taste on the tongue, and the next, a whipsnap of lightning trying to blind him.
Gruntingly, he defied the stinging lashes. He groped with his feet and used the pack as a feeler, scraping it along the walls. He gained a dozen yards and stopped to catch his breath, and another dozen yards while the snow sifted down into his ears and through his coat to the skin.
On turns of the trail his head took the full fury of the storm. But his feet were sure, testing the slippery rocks for toeholds, and inch by inch, ledge by ledge, moving him on.
At a stopping place Jake Irons caught up and clutched Brighty’s ropelike tail to pull himself along. Before, it had been the man’s desperate urge to top out. Now it was the burro’s. He moved steadily upward, letting his tail be a towrope, letting it pull the man as if he were a dead thing—a sled or a log. Hoofprints and footprints were interlocking now, and relentlessly the wind and the snow were erasing them both.
The way steepened into rocky steps, and Brighty knew that he had come to the Devil’s Backyard. The storm had muffled the noise of Ribbon Falls and Roaring Springs. He had gone right by without hearing their din. He stumbled on a tree root and almost fell to the rocks below, but the tree itself caught him.
Again the man cried out, “Bright Angel! Bright Angel!”
But only the wind replied.
The sky darkened with fast-moving clouds, and the wind spiraled upward into the clouds. It sucked out more snow and blew it over the rocks until they had no shape at all. It buried the trail, too, as if it had never been.
And still Brighty trudged on in his own peculiar way, sometimes almost crawling on his knees, sometimes taking the steps at a leap.
The man groaned, “Whoa! Whoa! I can’t breathe!”
But Brighty was a creature homing, a creature who must go on in spite of ice and snow. He could no longer see the way in front of him, but the pattern was fixed in his mind. The snowflakes melted on his eyelashes and stung hotly when he blinked, then froze into tiny icicles. Ice formed too on the feathers of his legs and cut his pasterns as he walked.
And still he kept on, slipping, struggling, feet and muscles aching, lungs burning. When he stopped to blow, he heard the hollow voice crying, “Food! Food! I’m starving!”
He glanced behind and saw Irons huddled into his coat, gnawing on a frozen biscuit. Deliberately he ran away from the man.
In panic at being left alone, Irons dropped his biscuit, scrambled after Brighty, groped for the tail, caught it, pulled himself up. And now hoofprints and footprints interlocking again, and the two creatures all shrouded in snow.
As Brighty climbed onward he was aware that the trail had begun to widen out. He no longer needed to hug the wall. There were trees on both sides now and the slope was gentler. The struggle was almost over.
With Irons hanging on, he jog-trotted the homestretch. And when at last he topped the rim, he seemed to rout the storm. The snow thinned, ending abruptly, and a soft mist rolled in over the forest. Suddenly a burst of sun pierced the mist and flung a rainbow, like a triumphant arch of victory, across the sky.
A delicious home-feeling welled up in Brighty. He wanted to run, to bray. In spite of his weariness he was conscious of an old remembered joy. He saw ahead the trees that Uncle Jimmy had marked with a notch and a slit. He, Brighty, had packed the hatchet to mark these very trees! He had completed the journey.
Brighty of the Grand Canyon (Marguerite Henry Horseshoe Library) Page 9
