Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  Abe had just come down from the rim, and stood leaning on his rifle talking to George and Grant. In buckskins, compared to the blue-jeaned, high-booted garb of his brothers, he appeared shorter, but the fact was that he equalled them in lithe six-foot manhood.

  “Dad, here’s good news,” spoke up’ George, his intent eyes alight. “Abe trailed that bunch of wild horses down into the head of Three Spring Draw.”

  “Ahuh. Well, he’s always trailing something,” replied Huett, with a laugh. “But what of it?”

  “We can drive them down into the canyon.”

  “Trap them,” added Grant, eagerly.

  “It could be done, if they’re in that draw. I reckon, though, during the night they’ll work out.”

  Abe said he did not think so. Below the brakes of that ravine it opened out into a sunny park where the snow melted off early, and the young shoots of grass had come up rich and green. Abe recalled that once before he had seen wild horses down there.

  “How many of them?” asked Huett, becoming fired with possibilities.

  “Big drove. I saw a hundred head. Some fine stock. There’s a blue roan stallion in that bunch I’d like to catch.”

  “Well, I reckon if we trapped them we’d have a hell of a time catching them.”

  “But, Dad, they could never climb out of the canyon. And it’ll be a long time before our herd grows so big as to need all the grass.”

  “Dad, it’s sure a windfall of luck,” put in George. “We need horses. We could cut out some of the best, catch them, break them. Breed them, too.”

  “What’s your plan, Abe?” asked Huett, convinced.

  “You go down the canyon in the morning, at daybreak, and tear down that pole fence half-way up the draw. We’ll ride on top, spread out and roll rocks off the rim. Then we’ll pile down the several trails, yelling and shooting. I’ll bet the whole bunch will break for the canyon.”

  “Supper’s waiting, father,” called Barbara, who stood by the table listening.

  “All right, Barbara, I’ll be there pronto,” he called gaily. “Fetch me a little hot water. I’ve got axle-grease on my hands.”

  She brought it and stood by while he washed his hands. “Father, that’s great — Abe’s tracking wild horses into the draw, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Barbara, it sure is. I reckon our luck has changed. A bunch of fine horses, all at once — almost too good to be true.”

  “Buck is old and lame now,” went on Barbara. “He ought to be turned loose for good.”

  “He’s sure earned it...Barbara, I reckon what makes your eyes so bright is the chance for a new horse for you, eh?”

  “Oh, yes, I’d love to have one of my own,” replied Barbara.

  Her earnest feeling touched Huett in that old sore spot — the poignant fact of his failure to give his loved ones the comforts, the pleasures, the rare luxuries which made life so much easier and happier. He had known some of these when a boy. Lucinda had never been without them until she came to him. And he had always shared her conviction that Barbara had come of fine stock, whatever the fatality and tragedy of her childhood.

  “Abe, this girl Barbara is raving about a wild mustang broken for her,” he said, a little huskily.

  “Barbara, you shall have two and take your pick,” replied Abe, with a warm, soft glow in his grey eyes.

  “Oh, grand!” she cried, ecstatically. “May I go with you to drive the wild horses down?”

  “Aw now, ask me an easy one,” said Abe, regretfully. “Babs, you’re good on a horse, but this drive will take awful hard riding. Suppose you go with Dad. You can help him tear down the fence, then, get back out of the way and watch those wild horses pile by out into the canyon. Watch for that blue roan stallion!”

  “Come to supper,” called Lucinda, impatiently. “It’s get; Ling cold.”

  Logan straddled the crude deerskin-covered bench and sat down to the table that was likewise the work of his hands, It was laden with good wholesome food. He and his sons were too hungry to talk. The shades of the spring dusk fell upon them there.

  Before daylight the next morning Logan arose, scraped the red coals out of the ashes and started a fire. He put the kettle on. Then he called Barbara.

  “I’ll be right down,” she replied. “I heard you get up.”

  “Boil some coffee. And butter sow biscuits. We might not get back in time for breakfast. I’ll go milk — then saddle up.”

  It was dark outside and coyotes were wailing over the ridge. The lofty pines stood up black and still. Logan heard the boys coming in with the horses. He went out, to find Buck and his steed saddled and haltered to the corral fence. Faint streaks of grey shone in the east, while the morning air was cold and raw. He could hear wild turkeys calling sleepily from their roost up in the forest. Returning, Logan found the boys had preceded him to the cabin. Barbara, clad in overalls and boots, looking like a lithe, sturdy boy with a pretty brown face, was serving them with coffee and biscuits.

  “Good! I reckoned you’d better have a snack of grub,” said Logan, as they greeted him. “What’s the deal, sons?”

  “Dad, you’d better rustle,” replied Abe. “We’ll be at the head of Three Springs by sunrise.”

  “Don’t worry, Abraham. We’ll have a hole in that fence.”

  It was grey dawn when Logan set out riding down the canyon with Barbara. Five miles down the walled valley spread widest and then began to close in again. The walls grew more rugged and opened up with intersecting canyons’ — or draws, the boys called them. The gorge called Three’ Springs Draw was as deceiving as any ramification of this strange valley. Its opening appeared like a shallow cove in the east wall, but the inside soon spread out into a large area of grassy parks, groves of pine and maple, and thickets of oak. The fence of poles crossed the narrow neck between the open oval valley and the rough-timbered, rock-strewn gorge beyond.

  “Reckon this is a good place,” said Logan, dismounting. “Barbara, pile off and tie Buck back-a-ways. Wild horses have a peculiar effect upon tame horses. Abe says a tame horse gone wild is almost impossible to catch...You climb on that fiat rock. You can see everything from there and be safe.”

  “All right, that’ll be jake,” returned Barbara. “But can’t I help you take down the fence?”

  “Sure, and let’s rustle. Abe will be letting out that Indian yell of his pronto. That’ll be their signal.”

  Barbara did not have her, wide shoulders and strong arms for nothing. She had done her share of the Huett labours. Logan found a strong satisfaction in watching her. How well he remembered Lucinda’s pride in Barbara’s good looks, which some time got the better of Lucinda’s need of help. Barbara always wore gloves for heavy work, and Lucinda worried too much about sun and dirt. Logan was always amused at these evidences of Lucinda’s lingering vanity. For his part he thought Barbara a pretty girl, and what was better, good, obedient, and lovable, who would make some settler as wonderful a wife as was Lucinda. But that last thought always worried Logan. He did not want to lose Barbara.

  The pole fence was a makeshift affair, strong enough, but neither nailed nor wired, and it was so easily pushed over that Logan quickly saw the need of a new one.

  “Oh — listen!” cried Barbara, suddenly, dropping the pole she had carried to one side.

  On the instant a piercing yell rang down from the heights. It was Abe’s call which he always used when they were hunting the canyons. In the early, still morning, with the air cold and clear, the prolonged bugle note pealed down, to rebound with a clapping sound from wall to wall, to wind across the canyon and die in hollow echo.

  “Wonderful!” cried Barbara. “Hasn’t Abe a voice?”

  “Yells like an Indian,” replied Logan, with enthusiasm. “Get up on your rock now. I’ll answer. Then you’ll hear some thunder.”

  Logan cupped his hands round his mouth, drew a deer breath, and expelled it in a stentorian: “Wa — hoo-o!”

  His yell let loose a thousand weird
and hollow echoes. Logan went back to have another look at the haltered horses; then he returned to mount the rock beside Barbara. He had scarcely sat down when from high up and far away a rock crashed from the rim, to start a rattling slide. It had scarcely ceased when a like sound came from the other side of the canyon.

  “If I remember right there’s a rocky weathered wall just at the head of Three Springs,” said Logan. “A big rock rolled there will start an avalanche. The boys do that when they hunt bears. You bet if there are any bears below they come piling out...By golly! I forgot my rifle. It wouldn’t be so much fun if an old grizzly got routed out up there and came rumbling down here.”

  “I’ll shinny up that tree,” replied Barbara, gaily.

  “Daughter, I’m a little heavy to run or shinny up trees...There!”

  “Oh my!” shrilled Barbara.

  Thunder had burst under the rim. A sliding rattle soon drowned heavy crashes and thuds, until it swelled into a deep booming roar that filled the canyon. It was a tremendous sound that took moments to lose its power to lessen and end in rattling slides and cracking rocks.

  “Golly! Wasn’t that a noise!!” ejaculated Logan.

  “Terrible. But oh, so thrilling!”

  “Barbara, every four-legged animal up that draw will run wild down here. The boys won’t need to waste their ammunition shooting or their voices either...Look! Deer coming.”

  “Oh! How strangely they bound! As if on springs. But so graceful...There’s a fawn...”

  “Barbara, I hear the trample of hoofs. Stampede! That’s the sound to thrill me. Horses or cattle it’s all the same.”

  “Look, Dad! — Flashing through the brush — under the trees — white, red, brown, black!...Look! Wild horses!”

  Logan saw them burst out of the timber and yelled his delight. A wild, shaggy drove of mustangs, long manes and tails flying, poured out of the draw like a flood. The vanguard passed Logan and Barbara in a cloud of dust, so swiftly as to be obscured from clear view, but this body was followed by strings of horses and then stragglers that could be seen distinctly. Logan discerned many a clean-limbed, racy mustang that if well-broken would sell at a good price. His thrifty, eager mind grasped at that. But Barbara was squealing over the beauty of this sorrel and that bay or buckskin. Suddenly Ale tugged at Logan.

  “Look, Dad, look! Abe’s blue stallion!...Did you ever see such a beautiful horse. ‘Wild! Oh, he could never be tamed.”

  “Gosh, but he’s a thoroughbred,” returned Logan. “Lamed himself a little. Reckon that accounts for him being behind...Bab, I’m afraid there’s a horse Abe wouldn’t give you.”

  “Abe would give me anything in the world,” cried Barbara, her voice rich and sweet. “They’re gone, Dad, out into the canyon. How many altogether?”

  “Eighty or a hundred head. And I’ll bet half of them good for something. This is not a bad morning’s work!”

  “Isn’t that a bear?” queried Barbara, pointing up “On the ledge — above the clump of firs...Yes, it’s a nice big shiny black bear.”

  “Sure is. Wish I had my gun.”

  “I don’t. Dad, I never forgot my bear cubs. Oh, why did they have to grow up, to be nuisances to you? Never to me!”

  “Bab, your bears got too big. But it sure was interesting — the way they refused at first to go back to the wild and kept coming home...That fellow, though, never belonged to you. He’s part cinnamon. See the red shine on him in the sun...Wow! the boys are shooting at him. Listen to the bullets crack on the rocks. Must be shooting at long range.”

  “Oh, I hope he gets away,” cried Barbara.

  “There he piles off the ledge, out of sight in the brush. When a bear runs downhill like that he’s safe, Bab, even from as wonderful a shot as Abe.”

  Logan got off the rock to begin putting up the fence. While he was at this task George and Grant rode out of the draw, and came trotting up to Barbara, gay and excited over their successful venture.

  “Hello, Babs,” called Grant, as he leaped off, to brush the pine needles and bits of wood from his person. “Did you hear the rocks rolling? Wasn’t that slide Abe started a humdinger of a roar? — Did you see the wild horses?”

  “Grant, it was all wonderful,” replied Barbara, her eyes fixed eagerly upon the draw.

  The boys set to work helping Logan with the fence. By the time Abe rode out of the timber they had completed the job, at least to Logan’s satisfaction.

  “Paw, it’s not high enough,” said Abe. “Some of those wild horses would jump it. We’ll cut some more poles and snake out some stumps. Build up the low places. Then we’ll have them corralled.”

  “Abe, it was a slick job,” said Logan, admiringly. “Talk about a windfall!”

  “Funny how I hated to start that big slide. Guess I got soft-hearted at the last...Barbara, what do you think?”

  “Abe, those wild horses will be safer, happier, shut up in our canyon...And I picked out two...Oh, we saw your blue stallion. He was a little lame. Prettiest horse I ever saw, Abe.”

  “Do you want him?” asked Abe, his eyes shining on her.

  “I wouldn’t be mean enough to take him,” she replied.

  George rode into the timber to drag out stumps. Grant walked off with the axe. Abe sat his horse watching Barbara with that slight pensive smile upon his tanned face. Logan found a seat to rest upon while the boys fetched more materials to raise the fence. He felt unusually exhilarated. Abe had solved the horse problem for some time to come. Nearer and nearer crept the actuality of that vision of years.

  “Sons,” said Logan Huett, to his boys, “our hay is cut and stored. The corn and beans can wait. We’ve a hundred sacks of potatoes to haul to town. That leaves us the big job. Driving cattle in to sell! — The first time in twenty years I — By God, I can’t believe it!”

  “Dad, we could have sold quite a bunch last year, but you wouldn’t,” rejoined George.

  “I hadn’t the nerve...Boys, we’ll cut out all our old cows that haven’t calved, and the steers, and throw them into the pasture to-night...Your mother and Barbara will go with me on the wagon. We’ll leave at daybreak. I’ll wait for you at Turkey Flat. Next day we’ll camp from there.”

  Two hours later the boys had Huett’s herd bunched under the wall in the west side of the canyon. Those several hundred head of cattle, that had appeared so few down on the wide range, now, When bunched and milling, raising the dust and bawling, appeared to Huett an imposing and all-satisfying spectacle. They were the beginning of a great herd.

  He rode out to meet the boys and have his share in the roundup. Lucinda came out to watch. Barbara, astride her spirited little buckskin mustang, flashed here and there to drive stragglers back into the bunch.

  “Logan Huett, you’re holding a round-up,” soliloquized the rancher. “Kick yourself and wake up. The most important move on a cattleman’s range is about to take place for the first time in Sycamore Canyon.”

  He reined his horse beside the corral fence upon which Lucinda had climbed to see.

  “Luce, look at your sons. Cowboys!” he exclaimed, with a thrill that was communicated to his voice. “Isn’t that a grand sight?”

  “Dear, I — I can’t see very well,” faltered his wife.

  “What you crying for, Luce? Didn’t I always tell you the day would come?...Look at Barbara ride!”

  “She’ll kill herself on that wild pony...Oh, Logan, need she be like the boys?”

  “Lucinda, she can’t be anything but what you made her — the finest girl west of the Rockies.”

  “Logan!” He saw her eyes shine through her tears. “Do you really mean that?”

  “I sure do, wife. Let her ride.”

  He joined his sons and lent his big voice and his tireless energy to this task — the happiest and most important that had ever been undertaken on his range.

  Yet, buoyant as they all were, they addressed themselves to that task with intense seriousness.

  The herd was not by any
means tame. Crowded into the triangle under the wall, with one corral fence preventing escape from the other side, they milled around like a maelstrom, bawling loudly, knocking heads and horns together. Barbara had the swiftest riding to do, as her job was to overtake those that ran out of the circle, and drive them inside the pasture gate. Logan helped Abe cut out the cows and steers designated by George, whose job of selection was the one of great responsibility. Grant had to rope the cattle that could not be cut out of the herd, and drag them from the melee. He was left-handed, but extraordinarily unerring with a lasso. He could pitch a small loop over the horns of a steer that was fenced all about by a forest of horns, as well as throw clear across the herd and fasten it to a steer plunging out on the opposite side.

  Logan revelled in the round-up. The sharp calls of the boys, Barbara’s high-pitched cry, the pound of hoofs and grind of horns, the coarse bawls of the steers, the swaying, straining mill of the whole herd, the dry, acrid smell of rising dust, and the swift horses, running in, halting on a pivot, to wheel and hold hard — these were music and sweetness and incense to the longing ambition of Logan Huett.

  At length George called the count.

  “Eighty-seven — and that’s aplenty,” he announced. “Dad, cattle were selling at thirty dollars on the hoof last spring. They’ll fetch more now. What’ll you do with all that money?”

  “Lord — son,” panted Logan, wiping his grimy face, “after I square myself with your mother and you all, not forgetting Barbara, I’ll not have enough left to pay my debts...But, by thunder, once in our lives we’ll ride high and handsome.”

  “Whoopee!” yelled George and Grant in unison. Abe bent thoughtful eyes upon the glowing Barbara.

  “Luce, now supper and to bed,” shouted Logan. “We’ll be on our way before sun-up.”

  The snail’s-pace drive was not too slow for Logan. It could have been slower and yet have given him joy. Every windfall along the dusty road, every big pine and rock, swale and flat, in fact every landmark so well known to him that he could locate them in the dark, each and all seemed to greet him. “Wal, old timer, drivin’ to the railroad at last!”