by Zane Grey
First Skyhorse Publishing edition 2016 by arrangement with Golden West Literary Agency
Copyright © 1929, 1930 by The Curtis Publishing Company
This story was published serially under the title of “Rustlers of Silver River.”
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10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
Cover design by Eric Kang
ISBN: 978-1-63450-503-1
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-63450-083-8
Printed in the United States of America
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
CHAPTER ONE
DEEP and dark green, swift and clear, icy cold and as pure as the snows from which it sprang, the river had its source in the mountain under Crater Lake. It was a river at its birth; and it glided away through, the Oregon forest, with hurrying momentum, as if eager to begin the long leap down through the Siskiyous. The giant firs shaded it; the deer drank from it; the little black-backed trout rose greedily to floating flies. And in sunlit glades, where the woods lightened, the wild lilac bloomed in its marvelous profusion of color, white and purple and pink, scenting the warm drowsy air with sweet fragrance.
Then suddenly, with a gurgling roar, the river performed a strange antic. It sank underground to reappear far below, bursting from a great dark hole at the head of a gorge and sliding down in glancing green inclines that ended in silvery cascades. Below Prospect the river tumbled off the mountain in mellow thundering music, to meet its main branch, and proud with added strength and beauty, it raced away between its timbered banks down the miles to the sheltered valley, through Burnham’s Ranch, and by Gold Hill, slowing in a long still reach that ended in Savage Rapids. Then on to Pierce Riffle, and skirting Grant’s Pass, the river twisted and chafed and fought its way through Hell Gate, and rushing over the Alameda rocks, and the ledges of the Argo Mine, it entered the canyoned wilderness of the Coast Range.
Long before the towering crags above Horseshoe Bend looked down upon the hurrying green and white stream it had grown to superb maturity, and flowed on, here with brooding peace and there with eddying poise, yet ever and oftener breaking into fierce rapids, down into the thundering cauldron of Reamy Falls and through the Plowshare, a white furrow in the mighty boulders, and over the constricted Graves Creek Rapid.
Tyee Bar and Russian Bar and China Bar, where the miners had washed away the sand for gold, and shed their blood and left their strange graves, made wide curves for the river. It raced and eddied by turns; it tarried under the high golden meadows that shone like jewels on the black mountain slopes; it glided on in glancing ripples around Winkle Bar, gentle and reluctant and sweetly vagrant, as if to lull and deceive, only to bellow sudden rage at the confines of Blossom Bar, and to prepare itself for a sullen surrender to treacherous Mule Creek Canyon. When it emerged from that narrow black-walled crack it was a subdued and chastened river, yet glad to be free once more, and to receive graciously the amber brook that tumbled off the mossy cliffs, on to the winding beauty of Solitude, where the black firs encroached to the water’s edge, and the sun shone only at midday down upon the ledged and barred river, and the wild ducks played among the reeds, and the weird and lonely water ouzels built their mud nests under the overhanging rocks, and the eagles screamed aloft, and the deer and bear made trails along the shores. But at last the leaps of Clay Hill and Two Mile Rapids released the river from the hundred-mile grip of the mountains.
Here it opened out and slowed down and spread wide over shallow gravelly bars, and ran on merrily, its fury spent, its mood changed, its age realized, on through the pastoral country of the coast, past the picturesque farms of the Indians and the rude shacks of the fishermen, broadening and meandering, smiling from its shiny pebbled bed at the retreating banks and the low colorful hills, and so on down to Gold Beach, assuming a deep, calm majesty when it found its home in the infinite sea.
Outside the mouth of the Rogue lurked a motley swarm of salmon, steelhead, forked-tails and silversides, and the hungry wolf-jawed jacks.
They began to gather early in the spring and every day thereafter the specked ranks grew. A marvelous instinct of nature brought them from out the ocean depths to the river which had given them birth. That same strange instinct actuated them with this restless waiting urge. Sharks and seals moved them to and fro, but never drove them from this inevitable wait at the river’s mouth. In great shadowy shoals they drifted close to the gateway through the breakers and listened for that mysterious call. When it came it was as if an irresistible command had united them. It was the first rise in the river, the freshet from mountain rains, and the water carried a sweet cold scent of the springs and the gravel beds. The run was on. First over the bar were the great brown leather-backed, white-bellied salmon, and the others followed, in a long endless stream, like deer migrating from north to south.
Their next obstacle was a man-made one, the wall of nets stretched across the wide river to intercept and capture and kill. Thousands strangled by the gills in the close meshes, but hundreds got through or around or over. The run was on and only death could end that instinct to survive and to reproduce. All day fish came over the bar into the river, but it was at night when they ran in heavy numbers. The fishermen knew this and cunningly spread their nets across the deep channels.
Those fish that escaped went up the river, steadily while the high water was on, sooner or later, when it fell again, to be halted by shallow bars over which they could not swim, or by rapids which they could not mount. Here in deep pools and where cool springs bubbled out of the ferny banks they waited again for another rise in the river, and ever their number grew. Days, sometimes weeks, passed before they could resume their journey. But most years nature provided the means by which the fish could move on upstream. At last they climbed above the region of obstructing shallows, and from then on the progress depended on strength and endurance. They shot the rapids and leaped the falls.
Gradually their number thinned out. The long two-hundred-mile climb was beset by perils and obstacles. The forked-tails and steelhead had no such battle for life that faced the salmon. They were smaller and nature had endowed them with endurance to get back to the sea. But the great scar-sided salmon sacrificed life in this struggle. Many weakened on the way, only to drop back;
others, leaping high to get over the falls, sometimes hit rocks and crippled themselves; all rested longer and longer in the still pools above the rapids; none ever reached the spawning beds without the wounds of battle.
Upon the shallow gravel bars of the upper reaches of the river the surviving salmon made their spawning beds. When the sun shone brightly they could be seen almost motionless, huge brown-and-silver shapes, heroically absorbed in their task of procreation. And below them, wavering in deeper water, like wolves on the edge of a flock, hung the predatory jacks. They were salmon, too, but the cannibals of the species. Often one of these would glide forward, suddenly to shoot head on into the plump side of a spawning salmon, to burst from her eggs that floated down. And the wolf would drop back to fight his fellows for these floating eggs.
Nevertheless the spawning proceeded, perhaps inscrutably benefited by this cruel preying of nature. Salmon eggs were laid and fertilized and hatched—a procedure which ended in death for the progenitors. Out of millions of tiny little salmon, almost too small to be seen, some survived. And this survival was a monstrous and marvelous thing, in that the little fish lived off the rotting carcasses of their parents. As if by magic they grew.
When the time came the same mysterious call that had brought their parents up the river drew them instinctively down toward the sea. In shiny schools they glittered on the surface, sometimes leaping like a swarm of silver minnows. And they went on down the river to be swallowed up by the fertile salty sea, into which they vanished until maturity roused the same urge that had given them existence, when, strong with life and immutable to extend it forever, they sought the rolling Rogue to fulfill their part in the cycle.
CHAPTER TWO
KEVEN BELL, returning home to Grant’s Pass after two terrible years in an army training-camp hospital, seemed to see all things strange and unfamiliar except the beloved river of his boyhood—the errant and boisterous Rogue.
He had not gone home at once, but wandered about the town, finally lingering at the river bridge. It troubled him that he could not remember well. But he knew his mother had died during his four-year absence from home, and his father’s last letter had acquainted him with more misfortune. Watching the green gliding, rolling river brought a break in his thought and feeling. A poignant spasm gripped his breast. His jaw quivered, and his eyes smarted and dimmed with tears. How long had it been since he had cared for anything?
Surely still for Rosamond Brandeth, whom he had loved before he left home to train for war! Long since her letters had ceased—so long that he could not recall when. He knew what to expect and had no bitterness then. Indeed he meant to release her from a claim that honor, at least, held binding. The river brought back memories of Rosamond.
At length he turned away. He had to ask a man, who peered strangely at him, how to find his father’s house. It looked old and dilapidated. He sat down on the porch, slowly realizing. Yes, he knew the rose vine, just budding green, and the flagstones in the walk.
The day was a Sunday in May. He had arrived from Seattle on the morning train. The streets appeared deserted. New houses across the common hid the banks of the river. Finally, hearing steps within, he knocked on the door. It opened.
There stood his father, greatly changed, now slight of build and stoop-shouldered, his hair gray, with amazed and slow recognition dawning in his mild blue eyes.
“Dad, don’t you know me? It’s Kev.”
“My son!” replied the older man, and reached for him. “I—I didn’t know you…. Come in.”
When Keven saw the sitting room, with its open grate, where a fire burned, he suffered another pang. That empty armchair by the table told him of the vacancy in this home. His father clasped his hands hard and gazed up, puzzled and anxious.
“Son, you’re not the same,” he said. “Taller…. Thin. You used to be big…. And your face—”
“I couldn’t write,” replied Keven, a hand going to his father’s shoulder. “But you heard of my accident?”
“I think I did. Long ago, wasn’t it? But I forget what. Once we thought you’d died. Then it was in the paper about your being in the army hospital. That was before your mother went…. What happened to you, Kev?”
“A lot. Cannon blew up. I stopped the breechblock with my face,” replied Keven. “I was pretty badly mussed up. But I didn’t know anything about it for months. They thought I’d die. I was in hospitals for two years. Then I pulled through. But my mind is bad. I notice it most in not being able to remember. Can’t see well out of one eye…. And look here—at my iron jaw.”
He drew down his lower lip, to expose the hideous thing that served for his lower maxillary.
“What’s that?” queried his father, nonplussed.
“I lost most of my lower jaw. The dentist patched it up with iron. I can chew with it. But I hate the taste. They said I could get a gold-and-platinum jaw someday, with teeth in it. Ha! Ha! When I strike gold along the Rogue!”
“Well! Well! … Sit down, son. So you never got to France?”
“No, worse luck. Four years! My health shattered—my eyesight impaired—my brain injured somehow. I’d been better if I’d gotten to the front. Four years for nothing.”
“My God!” replied his father huskily. “It seems hard…. And now you’re only twenty-six. Ruined! … What a miserable farce! All that patriotic hokum! That wonderful training camp. What did they do for my son?”
“Worse than killed me, Dad,” replied Keven sadly. “I suffer pain all my waking hours. And I don’t sleep well. In the Army I learned a lot of rotten things. But you get so you don’t care. They wanted you not to care—to revert to savagery. Yet they fed us on saltpeter bread…. Whisky gives me relief, though…. I’m sorry to tell you this, Dad. Better from me, though, than from anyone else. I had to come home. I’m a wreck. No money. Nothing but this uniform on my back. That’s all.”
“God has failed us,” replied the older Bell bitterly.
“I don’t remember where I stood in regard to God once. But sure He didn’t linger around that camp.”
“Son, if we lose faith we’re lost,” said his father, poignantly regretting his momentary confession. “It could have been worse. You might have been killed—or have been sent to an asylum. While there’s life there’s hope. Kev, I implore you to have hope.”
“For what, Dad?”
“That you’ve something left to live for,” was the earnest reply. “Find it—make it! They have failed you. Your country—your sweetheart! And you’ll find no friends now. But I say—by God, as long as you can wag, rise above it all! The damned sordid, rotten part of the world that seems in power. The destructive forces! … Don’t let them kill your soul.”
“I understand, Dad…. Thanks. I know there’ll always be a bond between us. It’s something—it’s enough. I’ll try…. Tell me about Mother.”
“Kev, she just gradually went downhill,” returned Bell. “You should remember she was a sick woman before you left. She had a long, lingering illness. She was glad to go. Before she died she told me to get you back home here by the Rogue—that the river would cure you. She loved that river…. Well, I had to take more and more time away from the store, until gradually my business failed. I lost it…. Since then I’ve been carpentering. You know I was always handy with tools. They were my hobby. And now that hobby stands by me. You can never tell.”
“If only I had learned a trade!” sighed Keven. “I’m not so weak. I could work—I could stick at something that didn’t require thinking. But I never learned anything, except how to fish. I spent more time fishing than in school.”
“Kev, you can go back to the river,” said Bell thoughtfully.
“What? You don’t mean fishing?”
“Yes, I do. For a living. The market fishermen do well now. Some of them own their homes. Brandeth has gotten control of the canning factory at Gold Beach. He pays big wages. It’s an established business now. He got rich during the war.”
“Brandeth
. You mean Rosamond’s father?”
“Yes, no one else than John Brandeth. Of course he never was poor. But now he’s rich. Built a magnificent new house. Has a big fruit ranch down on the river. He’s in everything. And, by the way, he got my store.”
“Straight or crooked, Dad?” queried Keven.
“All business is straight, since the war,” replied his father evasively. “But John Brandeth could have saved me from failing.”
“Business must be like war…. Dad, how about Rosamond?” returned Keven, averting his eyes.
“Grown into a beautiful young woman. Fine feathers make fine birds. She sure flies high. Drives her own car. Drinks and dances. Engaged to this high-stepper from Frisco and then some fellow round here—so the gossip runs. She never speaks to me, though it’s not so long since she begged candy from me at my store…. But, Kev, you haven’t any hopes, have you—about Rosamond?”
“No, indeed, Dad…. But she never broke our engagement. At least I never had word of it…. Was—that reported about town?”
“Lord, no, son. You’ve been long forgotten.”
“Ah, I see.”
“Forget all that, too, my son…. Let’s talk of other things. We’ll fix up your old room. And come out to the shed. I’ve built a new river boat. The same old model, Kev. I sell one now and then to a market fisherman. This one is spruce, twenty-one feet long, deep gunwales, sharp fore and aft, with watertight compartments. It’s a dandy.”
Sight of that Rogue River boat seemed to open a door in Keven’s heart to let memory in. For he had known every stone in the river from Savage Rapids to Blossom Bar, and beyond. To run the rapids, to drift with the still current, to listen to the singing waters, to fish the pools—these had been his joy from boyhood up. And sight of this long deep boat, sharp fore and aft, with its beautiful lines and its strong frame, brought that old forgotten joy surging back.
“Dad, it’s sure a dandy. Better than you used to build,” Keven said heartily.
