by Zane Grey
“Wal, in the mawnin’ we’ll ride up this heah side, an’ Sambo an’ I’ll cross the river while yu stay behind,” said Pecos, at supper one evening.
“Like hob I will,” drawled Terrill.
Pecos deliberated a moment. Often difficulties arose in the way of keeping Terrill from sharing real perils. To hint of danger a little too risky for his strength or horsemanship was to invite failure. And it struck Pecos rather strangely that now he should seek to deter the lad from ordeals that months past he had thrust upon him. There had been several narrow escapes for Terrill.
“S’pose yu tackle thet little brake just below where we’ll cross?” suggested Pecos. “It hasn’t been ridden yet an’ there’ll shore be a maverick or two. See what yu can do alone.”
“Ump-umm,” replied Terrill, imitating his vaquero’s laconic expression.
“Gosh! I wish I could make yu mind,” said Pecos, impatiently.
“Make me mind? Mr. Smith, you’re desiring the impossible. You should obey me, and you never do.”
“But, damn it, Terrill, I’m an old hand an’ yu’re a kid. I gotta confess yu’re shore gettin’ good.”
“Who’s a kid?”
“Yu are.”
“I’m—well, you never mind how old I am. You wouldn’t believe it, anyhow. But I’m going wherever you go. Savvy?”
Pecos saw the hopelessness of that tack. So he adopted another.
“Very wal. Course yu’re my boss,” he replied, sadly. “I’ll just give up brandin’ them mavericks across the river. ’Cause I care too much for yu, Terrill, to let yu try things thet might give me an’ Sambo our everlastin’.”
That was tremendously effective. Terrill looked queer and averted his face, as always when embarrassed. Pecos saw a constriction of the round throat.
“Then you do—care something for me, Pecos,” he asked.
“Wal, I should smile I do—when yu’re good.”
“Don’t spoil it by whens and ifs. … I’ll do as you want me to.”
They were stirring long before the red burst of sun glorified the eastern wall. Sambo had the horses up before Mauree called them to breakfast. Soon they rode down to the river, in the flush of dawn, and headed up the shore, where they had worn a trail.
Flocks of ducks got up with a splashing start and winged swift flight up the canyon; the salt-cedar trees were full of singing birds; buzzards soared overhead; and cattle made a great bustle to climb out of sight or disappear in one of the brakes.
At last they arrived at the place Pecos had marked as an easy one to ford the river.
“Wal, bub, heah’s the partin’ of the ways,” announced Pecos, jovially. “Yu can shore keep busy all day. An’ meet us heah aboot sundown.”
“Bub!” ejaculated Terrill, scornfully.
“Huh? … Aw, excuse me, Terrill. I shore do forget.”
“Wal, you shore do forget,” drawled Terrill, tantalizingly. “For instance, you forget Don Felipe and Sawtell are due any day now. Suppose while you’re way across there, chasing mavericks, they trailed me up heah—and nailed me.”
“No, I didn’t forget thet,” denied Pecos, vigorously. “They couldn’t come up this river any distance without me seein’ them.”
“They might. And if they did and caught me—neither you nor anyone else would ever see me again.”
“See heah, boy, what the hell kind of talk’s thet?” demanded Pecos, roused by the singular look and tone of the lad. Terrill knew something that he did not know.
“Have yu been honest with me—about those calf thieves?” went on Terrill.
“Shore. As far as I went. Are yu tryin’ to scare me so’s you can go along with us?”
“No. But I’m scared myself. I’ve become used to being with you, Pecos. It’s so—so comfortable.”
“All right. Stay comfortable an’ come on,” rejoined Pecos, tersely. But he was not satisfied with himself or with Terrill. “Grab yore rifles if it gets deep over there.”
Without more ado Pecos headed Cinco into the river, taking a diagonal course downstream toward the opposite shore. Cinco was a big and powerful horse; moreover he had enjoyed a rest of several days. And he liked water. He crossed without swimming. Pecos got only his feet wet. Sambo dismounted halfway over and waded, to ease his own horse and lead Terrill’s, The pony was small. He broke away from Sambo and lunged back.
“Rake him good!” yelled Pecos. “Yu’re goin’ too low down! … It’s deeper! … Dig him—come on!”
Sambo had to wade up to his neck to make it, and Terrill’s pony had to swim. He was a poor swimmer. There was one moment when Pecos thought he would have to spur Cinco in to go to Terrill’s assistance. But the pony floundered to a foothold and soon gained the bank, with Terrill in high glee.
Pecos had observed in crossing that the water was a little roily. And he thought this had been caused by the disturbance his horse had made in the stream; however, the water was flowing toward him, and a second glance discovered to him that it was slightly discolored as far as he could see. He did not like it, though perhaps cattle had been wading in above.
This side of the Pecos, at least as far up as he could see, differed considerably from the west shore. Rough wooded steps and benches rose to the rim wall, which was insurmountable though only one-tenth the height of the sheer cliff in other places.
They rode up along the edge of the water until halted by the usual barrier. This point was surely a couple of miles above where they had crossed. Pecos did not need to thresh out the brushy terraces to flush mavericks, as had been necessary in the thickets of the brakes below. Here it was possible to see calves, yearlings, two-year steers, and old mossy-horns.
“Build yore fire, boy, an’ red up the irons,” shouted Pecos, almost excited at the prospect. “Million mavericks along these benches. Looks hard to ride an’ rope, but they’ll be easy to corner.”
The work began fast and furiously. Terrill had to run from one spot to another with the red-hot branding-iron. Soon the air grew rank with the odor of burnt hair and hide. Pecos cornered a miscellaneous bunch on a bench where they could not get by him. They were stupid or tame; they had never been chased by a vaquero. Only the old wide-horned steers made any trouble. Pecos branded them all in time and number that was record for him.
“Seventy-eight pesos in less than thet many minutes,” He yelled. “Aw, I don’t know. … Yippy-yip! … Yore fire’s not hot enough, Terrill. If yu wasn’t so slow we’d shore get rich faster.”
Sambo likewise did the best work Pecos had ever seen him do. Terrill was not only supposed to heat and run with the irons, but also keep track of numbers. This he soon failed on. Pecos and Sambo came to the point of dragging calves down off the upper benches, thus saving time. To keep one iron heating all the time and dash hither and yon with the others was about the toughest job Pecos had ever seen Terrill attempt. They not only lost track of numbers, but likewise of time.
“All de whole day long,” sang Sambo. “All de whole day lo-on-ng.”
“Pecos, I’m about ready to drop,” cried Terrill, and he looked it. “Let’s rest and eat.”
“Nope. We shore gonna be hawgs today. ’Cause we don’t want to cross over hyar again till next summer,” replied Pecos. “Stay with us, Terrill, old pard.”
Thus stimulated, Terrill saved his breath and went his limit. They worked downriver, and to Pecos, absorbed and thrilled at this unparalleled day, the hours were as minutes. Most of the time he was back of the trees and brush, out of sight of the river.
The first indication that time was flying appeared to be a darkening of the light. Indeed, the sun had gone behind the western wall, and the day three-fourths spent. Pecos wiped his grimy, sweaty face so that he could see. Terrill was staggering back down off the wide bench with his smoking irons. He had built a score of fires this lucky day.
The river appeared black-streaked gold instead of green. But it struck Pecos that the sinking of the sun over the rim could scarcely accoun
t for the changed color. Suddenly his heart leaped, as his quick eye registered the muddy hue of the water, and his ear caught a low, sullen, chafing murmur. A flood had come down. That explained the roily water in the early morning. Pecos cursed as he spurred Cinco along the brushy bench.
“Jump on an’ ride!” he yelled, piercingly, to Terrill.
Terrill dropped everything to run for his mustang. Leaping astride, he hurried to meet Pecos coming down
“What’s up?”
“The river, by Gawd! Lood at it! … Ride now an’ don’t break yore hoss’s leg.”
Sambo had seen and heard from above. He was dragging a calf by his rope. He got off to release it.
“Rustle, Sambo! If thet river’s up a foot we’re shore stuck.”
Pecos could not tell how much the water had risen. But he was scared. Besides, he had to guide Cinco over the roughest kind of going. They had half a mile to travel to reach the place where they had come over. Cinco sensed danger and his blood was up. He was hard to hold. He crashed through the brush and sent the rocks rolling. In a few minutes of perilous riding Pecos got off the lowest bench to the sandy shore. Already the water had half covered it. Looking back, he saw that Terrill was behind, and that Sambo was in sight. Pecos rode at a gallop the rest of the way to the ford.
When he halted to look at the river his excitement was augmented by dismay. The channel had wholly changed. It had been fairly swift when low, but now it was swollen and fast, with swirls and eddies, and ridges of current. Logs and sticks and patches of debris were floating down. Close at hand the low sullen roar had a growing ominous sound. It reflected a strange black-and-gold sky, where broken clouds were taking on stormy colors of sunset. The whole scene, river, sky, walls, seemed strangely unreal and full of menace.
“Damn yore greaser soul!” yelled Pecos, shaking a fist at the treacherous river.
He deliberated a moment, while Terrill was splashing toward him. To be cut off from the ranch was a serious matter. With meat and water they would scarcely starve, but the prospect of being marooned there for months, probably, was something Pecos could not entertain for a moment. At that season when the river got high it stayed high. Pecos saw the theft of their cattle and the ruin of their hopes, if they were barred from the west side of this river.
Terrill came galloping down to halt the mustang beside Pecos.
“Don’t wait—Pecos!” he panted, pale with excitement.
“Boy, can yu make it?”
“Shore I can—if we start quick. … She’s rising fast—Pecos.”
“—— ——luck! … A foot rise, maybe, wouldn’t been so bad,” ejaculated Pecos. “Keep above me.”
Pecos eyed the river again, to get his bearing, then with a word made Cinco take to the water. Terrill spurred the mustang to a point a few yards above Pecos. Soon they were off the shallow bar. Terrill’s horse had to swim before Pecos’ lost his footing. They breasted that deep channel. But Terrill got behind. Pecos could not hold hold the iron-jawed Cinco, but as it happened, the horse soon found found bottom again. Another plunge took him to shallow water, on the edge of the big bar. Here Pecos held Cinco.
Terrill was in difficulties, and Pecos made about to go to his assistance when the mustang touched the bar. But the water was swift and there appeared a chance of his being swept below the bar. Pecos spurred Cinco, to snatch at Terrill’s bridle just in time to drag the mustang out of danger.
“I’d have—made it, Pecos,” shrilled Terrill.
“Maybe yu would. But thet’s the worst place, unless the damn river’s changed. … Work above me now, so if he founders I can grab yu.”
Pecos turned to see that Sambo had arrived at the point to take to the river. “Haid upstream, Sambo!” he yelled. “Allow for current. Haid upstream!”
To Pecos’ further dismay and increasing alarm he found that the water was fully two feet higher than normal and so swift and thick that the horses could not be kept to the line.
Halfway across the mustang slipped and rolled, dumping Terrill out of the saddle. There was a terrific floundering and splashing before the lad reappeared. Then he floated face up and inactive on the surface. In the struggle, the mustang had bumped or kicked him.
It took tremendous effort of arms and legs to turn Cinco in that current. But Pecos accomplished it in time to stretch a long arm and catch Terrill before he drifted out of reach. The ensuing wrench almost jerked Pecos out of his saddle. Cinco, up to his haunches in the dragging current, kept his feet. He appeared more thoroughly angered than frightened, and once headed right again he made a magnificent struggle to keep to the line Pecos wanted. But that was only possible where he could wade.
Pecos had not attempted to drag Terrill across the saddle, fearing to burden Cinco too greatly. With a powerful grip on Terrill’s coat under his chin Pecos kept the pale face above water.
Then suddenly Cinco plunging into deeper water, went under, and was swept downstream. The water came up to Pecos’ waist. Cinco came up, swimming vigorously.
“Stay with it, old boy!” rasped Pecos, hard as iron, as he pulled the horse a little to the right. “Steady! Nothin’ for yu, Cinco!”
But it was increasingly manifest that the ordeal was a great one, almost too much for the wonderful horse. They were off the bar in deep water sweeping like a mill-race. If Cinco could keep from being carried out of line before they passed a shallow point Pecos was heading for they would be saved.
There was no use to beat him. Seeing that he would probably fail, Pecos slipped out of the saddle and with right hand holding Terrill up he dropped back to seize the tail of the horse with his left. That move relieved Cinco of the weight which had handicapped him. It did not impede him to drag Pecos behind.
Pecos had extreme difficulty in keeping Terrill above water. Already the lad’s head had been under too often and too long.
Suddenly something jarred Cinco. He snorted and lunged. The yellow current roared in seething foam around him. He had struck the rocky shore. He lunged again, sending the water in flying sheets. Then his black shoulders heaved up. At this juncture, Pecos let go to find he was about waist-deep. As he gathered Terrill up in his arms he looked back to see that Sambo had fared better. He had started farther upstream and had kept to the bar.
Pecos carried Terrill up on the bank and laid him on the grass. Bareheaded, white, motionless, with eyes closed, the lad looked dead.
Pecos tore at the loose coat buttoned up to the neck.
“Damn this heah coat!” flashed Pecos, passionately. “No wonder you cain’t swim. … Terrill! … Oh, lad, yore not daid!”
Frantically Pecos ripped open the wet shirt to feel for Terrill’s heart. It beat. Terrill was still alive. A cold, sick horror left Pecos. But what was this?
With shaking hands he spread wide the lad’s shirt, suddenly to be transfixed. His staring gaze fell upon round marble-white swelling breasts.
“My Gawd! … A woman!”
At that instant Terrill’s beautiful breast heaved. There followed a gasping intake of breath. Consciousness was returning. Then Pecos awoke from his stupefaction. Emotion such as he had never known flooded over him. With wildly swift hands he closed and buttoned the shirt over that betraying breast, and likewise the coat.
Then he waited, on his knees, calling on all his faculties to keep Terrill’s secret inviolate. He could meet that, as he had met so many desperate situations. But what of this strange and tumultuous rapture of his heart?
Terrill stirred. The long eyelashes quivered on the pale wet cheeks. Pecos fortified himself to look into eyes that must somehow be different. They opened. But he was scarcely prepared for the dark humid mystery of the reviving mind and soul—for the purple depths of beauty and of passion.
“Pecos,” Terrill whispered, faintly.
“Heah,” drawled the vaquero.
“The river—the flood! … I went under. … There was a gurgling roar. … All went black. … Oh, where are we?”
“Wal, Terrill, yu ’pear to be lyin’ heah on the goldenrod, an’ comin’ out of yore faint,” drawled Pecos. “But I ain’t so damn shore whether I’m in heaven or not.”
“Sambo!”
Pecos had forgotten the negro. But Sambo appeared, wading, his horse ashore some distance above.
“Good! Sambo made it fine, Terrill. … An’ shore there’s yore pony climbin’ the bank below.”
Terrill sat up dizzily, with an instinctive hand going to her breast, where her fingers fastened between the lapels.
“Pecos, I shore owe yu heaps,” murmured Terrill, dreamily. “First at Eagle’s Nest, from I—I don’t know what. … Then at home—the black nights—the terrible loneliness … and now from this awful river. … I—I don’t know how to ——”
“Wal, what’s a pardner for?” interrupted Pecos, once more his cool drawling self. “I’ll fetch yore hoss an’ we’ll meander home… All in the day’s ride, lad, it’s all in the day’s ride.”
Chapter XI
IT WAS mid-November. Early frost had severed yellow willow leaves from the branches, and seared the goldenrod and killed the scarlet of the vines on the rocks. The melancholy days had come. Birds and ducks had long bade farewell to Lambeth Canyon; and the coyotes were sneaking down off the bleak range. Wary of the watchful Sambo, they kept to the thickets and rocks until night, when they pierced the solitude with their wild barks.
A norther was blowing, the first of the season, and the wind moaned up on the rims. Drab clouds scudded low toward the south and scattering rain pattered on the cabin roof.
Terrill stood in the doorway, watching as always when she was alone, for Pecos. He was in the canyon somewhere. Sambo often rode or hunted out of reach of call, but Pecos, since the flooded river had ended branding operations for the season, worked around the ranch. It was time for vaqueros to ride in from Eagle’s Nest or the several ranches below. And so long as Terrill could remember they had made use of the trail down the gulch. Her father had complied with the hospitable custom of the Southwest, even in case of vaqueros whom he suspected of stealing from him. It was safer not to appear suspicious.
