by Zane Grey
A whip cracked. Pinto and rider shot past John and High-Lo, demonstrating the pace they must follow, and though their horses were tired they had to be pushed, for Pete was head of the outfit. He kept close under the promontory wall where they were safest from detection, holding his horse to the lope at which he had started. After a long while he reined in. Then John and High-Lo caught up.
“When dark come we cross valley,” he said as they rode alongside. “Moon come soon. We cross valley before moon come. Camp in mouth of canyon. Nobody see you. Water, too. Maybe little feed.”
It was gratifying to John that Pete had some thought for the horses. According to what he said, they would have to hurry to reach the crossing point before dark, and then, if possible, push right on without a stop. John studied the prospect. He was mistaken about the uplands opposite. They did not meet this mesa. The queer winding of the promontory they had followed had deceived him from a distance. They led five miles on, to the westward, almost parallel to the other mesa. Ten miles at least separated them. The Indian knew his country and would expedite travel for them. They kept their horses moving fast. After a while shadows began to creep upward and outward; the sun was setting. Gold light and red light merged into amber and violet, then faded to gray. Fragrance of sage and cedar freshened on a breeze. The air grew so cold that the heat of a fast-driven horse became desirable.
When they met the valley trail John insisted that they rest their horses a while. However, on the strength of the Indian’s prediction that it took a couple of hours to cross the lonesome expanse of desert, they cut the rest time short.
The moon rose before they reached the mesa, but they escaped its aisle of light in the shadow not yet encroached upon. Before them loomed another wall above which arched the sky with its field of stars.
The shadowy forms of horse and Indian moving ahead beckoned the two white men onward. Suddenly the two were lost to sight. They had gone around an escarpment which John soon realized formed an apron-like turn to the mouth of a canyon. Rounding it, he came onto a bench thick with cedars, and then he saw that there were two levels; below where a narrow ribbon of water glistened was the basin. Pete had dismounted. Manifestly this was to be their camp site.
The Indian gathered wood for a fire while John and High-Lo unpacked and unsaddled the horses. What they needed for comfort was a roaring fire, but for concealment’s sake they built only a small one against the windward wall of a cave. Frugal provisions made necessary a light meal. Luckily the urge to sleep was stronger than the urge to eat. When at last John stretched out, his saddle pillowed under his head, a blanket drawn close around him, he sank quickly into the perfect oblivion of sleep.
With morning came reality. He was on a hunt for Newton to deliver a letter. Yesterday at this time he had thought the mission would be over by nightfall. He felt as if his courage were waning and imagined with melancholy satisfaction that he was as uncertain in purpose as Mary.
They dispatched camp tasks quickly and got an early start. John and High-Lo rode at some distance behind the Indian, who went slowly up the canyon, looking for tracks. As they progressed, the canyon floor widened, the yellow walls rose higher, the notched corners grew denser with sage and cedar.
“If we don’t find them up here,” said High-Lo, “we’ll move right along to the dance. Newton’ll be there, shore.”
John did not feel sure of anything except that he wanted to get the business over as quickly as possible and hurry away. Instinctively he kept studying the sandy trail and the bare patches of ground for tracks. Several times the Indian led down into the deep wash, crossed the thin strip of water with its treacherous quicksand bottom, and up slopes of soft red earth where the horses labored.
They arrived at length at the opening of the canyon, a wide impressive level, where several other canyons intersected with the main one. These great red gates in the walls yawned mysteriously. The soft gray sage flats and the clumps of green-gray cedars on the slopes began to give color and charm to the bare main canyon.
About the center of this oval the Indian ran across a single track, coming from the west. It turned into one of the intersecting canyons. The track was fresh, and the depth of the impression it made in the sand attested to a heavily burdened horse.
This canyon was narrow and deep, high-walled and curving, and it was choked with sections of fallen cliff and patches of oak and cedar groves. A dry stream bed wound tortuously through the canyon; here and there holes in the smooth rock bottom showed the green gleam of water.
John saw several old horse tracks, of different sizes, made at varying times. They had been made by Indian horses. John thought it best to hold their Indian guide with them and to proceed cautiously. The nature of the trail was such that hoofs made no noise. It would be best to surprise Hanley and Newton, and even then he did not anticipate a cordial welcome. They had selected one of the wildest canyons John had ever seen — something quite unexpected, considering its entrance to the main canyon.
They rode for another mile, under beetling walls, through thick green groves, around sharp corners of the canyon wall, along the brink of a deep sandy wash. Once the Indian raised a quick hand implying he had detected something. But he rode on without comment. Soon after that John’s keen nose caught a hint of cedar smoke in the dry air of the canyon. Then they rode round a corner of the wall into a small beautiful glade, backed by a precipitous cliff, under a shelf of which showed camp and fire, horses in the shade, and two men suddenly transfixed in an attitude of surprise.
Hanley had been in the act of opening a bottle of liquor. He bristled. He glared. Newton turned as white as a sheet, and edged behind Hanley, toward the horses.
“That’ll be about close enough,” called Hanley, harshly, when John and his companions reached the center of the small glade. “What’n hell do you want?”
“I want to see Newton, and I’ve got a little straight talk for you,” replied John, bluntly, as his quick gaze took in the evidence of the damning guilt of the hidden camp.
“Wal, he doesn’t want to see you, an’ I’m not hearin’ any kind of your talk,” returned Hanley, sullenly.
“You’ll both have to,” said John calmly.
“Get out of here!” bellowed Hanley, savagely.
John rode ahead of his companions, finding it hard to comply with the rigid rules he had set for himself. This was decidedly not the way to meet a man like Hanley. But Newton, slinking still farther toward the horses, roused only his contempt.
“Hold on, Newton,” called Curry, his voice hard and cutting from the restraint he was putting upon himself. And as he halted, and swung his leg around to dismount, he saw Hanley furiously level a gun and yell. John dodged even before he saw the spurt of flame. The heavy bullet hit him, high in the shoulder, staggering him so that, as his horse plunged and wheeled, he could not regain his stirrup. The horse leaped into a run, carrying John while he swayed out of the saddle. Then he fell heavily to the ground.
He sat up in time to see the Indian disappear frantically down into the wash. Heavy shots drew John’s attention toward the camp. High-Lo’s horse was running into the brush, while High-Lo stood out in the open, a smoking gun in his hand. The shooting had ceased. John got to his feet, putting an instinctive hand on the hot wet wound in his shoulder. Then he saw Hanley stagger out from the shelter of the cliff and fall face forward on the sand.
High-Lo strode forward, looked down on Hanley a moment, then turned to run toward John. Manifestly he was overjoyed to see him on his feet.
“John! Lordy, I hope you ain’t hurt bad,” he exclaimed, and began to tear John’s shirt from his shoulder. He ran a finger into the wound. “Not deep. Didn’t get the bone. You’re lucky. That damn skunk. He let you walk right up to him.... John, I told you what Hanley was.... Wal, whatever he was, he ain’t now!”
“Did you kill him?” asked John.
“I shore did. An’ I’m sorry I didn’t before he plugged you.... John, let’s go up by the
camp an’ I’ll wash an’ tie up this bullet hole, best I can. But you ought to get back to the post pronto an’ have it dressed proper.”
“Newton beat it, didn’t he!”
“Guess he’s miles away buryin’ himself in dust. The yellow dog!”
“And I’m stuck with that letter,” said John. Using his left hand he drew it out to satisfy himself of its presence.
“Blood on it now,” remarked High-Lo.
John’s thumbprint showed in red.
“I can’t deliver it in person, that’s sure,” John declared. “Newton’ll never let me get within talking distance. Say, what became of the Indian?”
A rustle in the brush answered John’s question. Pete slipped through, looking about cautiously.
“You say no gun!” he protested.
“Well, I wasn’t figuring very good,” said John. “I guess you’re the hombre with the sense in this outfit, High-Lo. I must be getting softening of the brain.”
“You’ll have worse if we don’t get out of here.”
“But the letter!” John persisted. Then after a moment’s rumination he said, “Pete can take it. It’s the letter, Pete, that will send Newton away from Sage Springs to Taho where he belongs. There’s ten dollars in it for you when you get back to your hogan. Call for it at Black Mesa. I’ll leave it with Weston. Newton’s got to be back in Taho before you get it. Sabe?”
“No gun!” said Pete.
High-Lo laughed. “Gun? Didn’t you see Newton bolt like a scared calf? Run him down till he’s tired. Then he’ll stand still and moo at you. Take Hanley’s gun. See it there? An’ throw it away if you find you don’t need it.”
“Pete go now. Maybe quick catch him.”
He picked up the gun, kicked the soles of Hanley’s boots with a grunt of satisfaction, then mounted and rode away.
It took only a cursory study of the camp to show why the men had been struck with fear. The seat from which Newton had sprung in such haste was a partly opened case of liquor. Hanley had laid out an array of bottles. It began to dawn on John that they had diluted and rebottled the stuff, thus cheating the Indians two ways.
“All ready for the dance,” said John.
High-Lo relieved himself of a few extravagant expletives as he set about to wash John’s wound.
The shoulder burned with a savage heat, and John winced under the treatment. As soon as that duty was done, High-Lo ripped open the case of liquor and smashed the bottles.
“I’m sure cured of the stuff if I can do this,” he said with a sheepish grin. “No Indians goin’ to get the d.t.’s on this. Let the layout explain Mr. Hanley’s finish if anyone gets too curious. Bet the Indians won’t go talkin’ none.”
John’s mind was wandering from the scene. “She’ll never know about this,” he was thinking. “Pete’ll get him. He’ll go back. It’s all over. Now for Black Mesa. Then Mexico.”
* * * * *
They were back at Black Mesa again with a story of a scuffle with Newton and assurance for Weston that the Sage Springs trade would no longer corrupt his. They made light of the shooting incident, mentioning a pal of Newton’s but giving no name.
Thirty-six hours of pain and mental stress conspired to make John hopelessly wretched. He was hungry, yet when he touched food it nauseated him. His wound throbbed, yet he pretended it bothered him very little. Everyone wanted to do something for him. He was ashamed that he resented their interest. His irritation was greater than his will to resist it. His blood boiled without relief.
High-Lo, he noticed, would not let him out of his sight. With an effort to appear as well as he claimed to be, John sat in the living room with a book open before him. Pete, Newton, Mary were living and moving on the black spotted page.... Newton had the letter.... Mary was bringing him back. ... A couple of days and he’d be there. Suppose she already had regretted sending for him? He scoffed at the idea and fell to thinking about Mexico. Desert, cactus, heat. That’s all Mexico meant while his wound throbbed so. “God!” he ejaculated to himself trying to conquer a strange dizziness.
He heard Mrs. Weston. “Magdaline left a letter for you, John. Better give it to you before I forget.”
The letter was near at hand in the table drawer. “There!” she said, tossing it on his book. “Magdaline always worshiped you, John. Poor child! Nobody can do anything with her. I tried my best. The way she went smack back to being Indian was a caution. But that didn’t last. Now she wants the cities again. She’ll never be satisfied.”
Magdaline! He thought of the felicitousness of the name. Then contrary to an impulse not to bother with the letter at the moment, he slashed it open. Her writing to him irritated him. Then he remembered that he had asked her for her address. This was more than an address; it was a lengthy letter. He scanned it. She reminded him of their talk, particularly of his comparison of life to a canyon, saying she could feel her way to the light if only someone strong like John could help her. He was so wise and brave. She was so foolish and cowardly. She had faith, she confessed, in nothing but him. Would he who believed in God pray for her who believed only in him? Maybe then the power she could not comprehend would help her.
She gave no address.
“Poor girl! Poor Magdaline!” he said to himself. “She thinks I’m wise and brave. I was really preaching to myself when I talked to her. She gave no address! What is she going to do? She’s an exile, too. Both of us are exiles. Wonder where she is? Wonder why she didn’t leave her address. Who’ll take care of her? God! The men who will lay in wait! Nothing but an Indian, that’s what they’ll think. Maggots! She needs affection. She needs protection. I’m the only one she believes in. Why can’t I help her? Why am I looking around for something to do to distract me when the job’s right here — here riding the same saddle. She’s an exile, too. I could take her away. Marry her, of course. Who cares in Mexico? Squaw man? What of it? Intelligent, educated woman. Nothing compared to Mary Newton’s sacrifice. So she was going right on out leaving no address, was she?”
His head throbbed. His blood beat through fevered veins. He got up and went out and High-Lo followed him.
“You look like the devil. Why don’t you go to bed?” High-Lo protested.
“I will presently. Got to get some sleep. We’re off tomorrow.”
“You’re off all right now — in the head!”
“I’ve got to get to Flaggerston and find Magdaline.”
John felt High-Lo’s arm gently embracing his left shoulder.
“You’re right plucky, John. But a little fever’s got you an’ you ought to give in to it. You forget we’re goin’ to Mexico, old man. A feller’d think you had gurgled some of that stuff we found yesterday.”
Feeling High-Lo turning him, John resisted forcefully.
“Hold on a bit. Let me tell you what’s on my mind. Then I’ll go to bed.... When we came through here a few days ago Magdaline told me she was in trouble. A baby. See? She’s desperate. It would break your heart to hear her. I might have done more to help her when she was here last summer if I wasn’t so set on my own affairs. I was the one person she poured her heart out to. I saw her walking right straight for trouble and never stopped her. She didn’t understand herself. But I understood her and I should have been more kind. I feel sort of to blame. I was short, I remember. She said she loved me. Told me straight. She writes that she still loves me. I’m going to look her up in Flaggerston and marry her. There will be three of us going to Mexico.”
High-Lo’s arm fell away. “I’ve had crazy ideas in my time,” he said, “but none like that. You’re more than sittin’ in my place, I’ll say! You’re not goin’ to marry Magdaline! You’re plumb crazy!”
Dizziness returned to John. “Oh, yes, I am,” he said in a voice more weak than calm.
He felt his way unsteadily back into the living room. Mrs. Weston looked up as he entered. “Bed for mine,” he said, summoning a little cheeriness to his voice. “Good night, folks.”
Hearing High
-Lo’s footsteps behind him he quickened his pace down the hall. Once in his room he quickly shut the door and turned the key to lock it. The handle was shaken ferociously and there followed a bang on the door.
“Let me in,” called High-Lo. “I want to dress that wound.”
“It was dressed an hour ago,” John returned.
“Three hours ago! It needs another. Let me in.”
John sank down on a chair wearily. “No use to bang, High-Lo. I want to be left alone. Go to bed yourself. See you in the morning.”
The more High-Lo swore, coaxed, pleaded, the more John’s determination against letting him in grew. High-Lo was carrying his role of guardian too far. After all, he was only a kid.
By the time John had struggled out of his clothes, High-Lo’s arguments and patience were exhausted. His good night was a rain of blows on the door followed by the sound of retreating footsteps. Satisfied that the boy had given up, John got into bed.
He awakened before dawn with the memory of interrupted sleep, of the ride of the day before, of High-Lo’s dismay last night. What was it about? Events returned in order. Magdaline! Strange he had forgotten! Why, he had decided to marry her! At first he was alarmed at the thought. Three of them going to Mexico — two of them exiled! Three not going if High-Lo knew it! Well, he must not know. The only way to outwit him was to go to Flaggerston without him.
John was out of bed in a flash. Pain drummed in his shoulder. He dressed stealthily, using his one free hand. Once he was dressed, he brought up a chair to the high window to enable him to climb out. He struck his wound in his descent, which brought an involuntary cry to his lips. Dogs barked. Fortunately for him, they had barked once before during the night and even more violently.
Supported by his knees and one arm he crawled below the windows to the front of the house. There he straightened and strode swiftly away. The dogs came to him, tails wagging. They followed him to the corral where he saddled one of Mr. Weston’s horses, downing the voice that reminded him that such a taken-for-granted loan came close to horse-stealing. His own horse was worn. He could not make the trip. John planned to ride hard.
