by Zane Grey
“I—I’ve brought you—some things,” she said, pointing to the larger pack.
“Grub, you mean?”
“No.”
“That was all I asked you for, miss,” he said, somewhat stiffly.
“Yes, but—I—I thought—” Lucy became unaccountably embarrassed. Suppose this strange rider would be offended. “Your clothes were—so torn.… And no wonder you were thrown—in those boots!… So I thought I’d—”
“You thought I needed clothes as bad as grub,” he said, bitterly. “I reckon that’s so.”
His look, more than his tone, cut Lucy; and involuntarily she touched his arm. “Oh, you won’t refuse to take them! Please don’t!”
At her touch a warmth came into his face. “Take them? I should smile I will.”
He tried to reach down to lift the pack, but as it was obviously painful for him to bend, Lucy intercepted him.
“But you’ve had no breakfast,” she protested. “Why not eat before you open that pack?”
“Nope. I’m not hungry.… Maybe I’ll eat a little, after I dress up.” He started to walk away, then turned. “Miss Bostil, have you been so good to every wanderin’ rider you happened to run across?”
“Good!” she exclaimed, flushing. She dropped her eyes before his. “Nonsense.… Anyway, you’re the first wandering rider I ever met—like this.”
“Well, you’re good,” he replied, with emotion. Then he walked away with slow, stiff steps and disappeared behind the willows in the little hollow.
Lucy uncoiled the rope on her saddle and haltered Sage King on the best grass near at hand. Then she opened the pack of supplies, thinking the while that she must not tarry here long.
“But on the King I can run back like the wind,” she mused.
The pack contained dried fruits and meat and staples, also an assortment of good things to eat that were of a perishable nature, already much the worse for the long ride. She spread all this out in the shade of a cedar. The utensils were few—two cups, two pans, and a tiny pot. She gathered wood, and arranged it for a fire, so that the rider could start as soon as he came back. He seemed long in coming. Lucy waited, yet still he did not return. Finally she thought of the red stallion, and started off down the wash to take a look at him. He was grazing. He had lost some of the dirt and dust and the bedraggled appearance. When he caught sight of her he lifted his head high and whistled. How wild he looked! And his whistle was shrill, clear, strong. Both the other horses answered it. Lucy went on closer to Wildfire. She was fascinated now.
“If he doesn’t know me!” she cried. Never had she been so pleased. She had expected every sign of savageness on his part, and certainly had not intended to go near him. But Wildfire did not show fear or hate in his recognition. Lucy went directly to him and got a hand on him. Wildfire reared a little and shook a little, but this disappeared presently under her touch. He held his head very high and watched her with wonderful eyes. Gradually she drew his head down. Standing before him, she carefully and slowly changed the set of the hackamore, which had made a welt on his nose. It seemed to have been her good fortune that every significant move she had made around this stallion had been to mitigate his pain. Lucy believed he knew this as well as she knew it. Her theory, an often disputed one, was that horses were as intelligent as human beings and had just the same fears, likes, and dislikes. Lucy knew she was safe when she untied the lasso from the strong root where she had fastened it, and led the stallion down the wash to a pool of water. And she stood beside him with a hand on his shoulder while he bent his head to sniff at the water. He tasted it, plainly with disgust. It was stagnant water, full of vermin. But finally he drank. Lucy led him up the wash to another likely place, and tied him securely.
When she got back to the camp in the cedars the rider was there, on his knees, kindling the fire. His clean-shaved face and new apparel made him vastly different. He was young, and, had he not been so gaunt, he would have been fine-looking, Lucy thought.
“Wildfire remembered me,” Lucy burst out. “He wasn’t a bit scary. Let me handle him. Followed me to water.”
“He’s taken to you,” replied the rider, seriously. “I’ve heard of the like, but not so quick. Was he in a bad fix when you got to him yesterday?”
Lucy explained briefly.
“Aha!… If that red devil has any love in him I’ll never get it. I wish I could have done so much for him. But always when he sees me he’ll remember.”
Lucy saw that the rider was in difficulties. He could not bend his back, and evidently it pained him to try. His brow was moist.
“Let me do that,” she said.
“Thanks. It took about all my strength to get into this new outfit,” he said, relinquishing, his place to Lucy.
When she looked up from her task, presently, he was sitting in the shade of the cedar, watching her. He had the expression of a man who hardly believed what he saw.
“Did you have any trouble gettin’ away, without tellin’—about me?” he asked.
“No. But I sure had a job with those packs,” she replied.
“You must be a wonder with a horse.”
As far as vanity was concerned Lucy had only one weakness—and he had touched upon it.
“Well, Dad and Holley and Farlane argue much about me. Still, I guess they all agree I can ride.”
“Holley an’ Farlane are riders?” he questioned.
“Yes, Dad’s right-hand men.”
“Your dad hires many riders, I supposed?”
“Sure I never heard of him turning any rider down, at least not without a try.”
“I wonder if he would give me a job?”
Lucy glanced up quickly. The idea surprised her—pleased her. “In a minute,” she replied. “And he’d be grand to you. You see, he’d have an eye for Wildfire.”
The rider nodded his head as if he understood how that would be.
“And of course you’d never sell nor trade Wildfire?” went on Lucy.
The rider’s smile was sad, but it was conclusive.
“Then you’d better stay away from Bostil,” returned Lucy, shortly.
He remained silent, and Lucy, busy about the campfire, did not speak again till the simple fare was ready. Then she spread a tarpaulin in the shade.
“I’m pretty hungry myself,” she said. “But I don’t suppose I know what hunger is.”
“After a while a fellow loses the feelin’ of hunger,” he replied. “I reckon it’ll come back quick.… This all looks good.”
So they began to eat. Lucy’s excitement, her sense of the unreality of this adventure, in no wise impaired her appetite. She seemed acutely sensitive to the perceptions of the moment. The shade of the cedars was cool. And out on the desert she could see the dark smoky veils of heat lifting. The breeze carried a dry odor of sand and grass. She heard bees humming by. And all around the great isolated monuments stood up, red tops against the blue sky. It was a silent, dreaming, impressive place, where she felt unlike herself.
“I mustn’t stay long,” she said, suddenly remembering.
“Will you come back—again?” he asked.
The question startled Lucy. “Why—I—I don’t know.… Won’t you ride in to the Ford just as soon as you’re able?”
“I reckon not.”
“But it’s the only place where there’s people in hundreds of miles. Surely you won’t try to go back the way you came?”
“When Wildfire left that country I left it. We can’t back.”
“Then you’ve no people—no one you care for?” she asked, in sweet seriousness.
“There’s no one. I’m an orphan. My people were lost in an Indian massacre—with a wagon-train crossin’ Wyomin’. A few escaped, an’ I was one of the youngsters. I had a tough time, like a
stray dog, till I grew up. An’ then I took to the desert.”
“Oh, I see. I—I’m sorry,” replied Lucy. “But that’s not very different from my dad’s story, of his early years.… What will you do now?”
“I’ll stay here till my back straightens out.… Will you ride out again?”
“Yes,” replied Lucy, without looking at him; and she wondered if it were really she who was speaking.
Then he asked her about the Ford, and Bostil, and the ranches and villages north, and the riders and horses. Lucy told him everything she knew and could think of, and, lastly, after waxing eloquent on the horses of the uplands, particularly Bostil’s, she gave him a graphic account of Cordts and Dick Sears.
“Horse-thieves!” exclaimed the rider, darkly. There was a grimness as well as fear in his tone. “I’ve heard of Sears, but not Cordts. Where does this band hang out?”
“No one knows. Holley says they hide up in the canyon country. None of the riders have ever tried to track them far. It would be useless. Holley says there are plateaus of rich grass and great forests. The Ute Indians say that much, too. But we know little about the wild country.”
“Aren’t there any hunters at Bostil’s Ford?”
“Wild-horse hunters, you mean?”
“No. Bear an’ deer hunters.”
“There’s none. And I suppose that’s why we’re not familiar with the wild canyon country. I’d like to ride in there sometime and camp. But our people don’t go in for that. They love the open ranges. No one I know, except a half-witted boy, ever rode down among these monuments. And how wonderful a place! It can’t be more than twenty miles from home.… I must be going soon. I’m forgetting Sage King. Did I tell you I was training him for the races?”
“No, you didn’t. What races? Tell me,” he replied, with keen interest.
Then Lucy told him about the great passion of her father—about the long, time-honored custom of free-for-all races, and the great races that had been run in the past; about the Creeches and their swift horses; about the rivalry and speculation and betting; and lastly about the races to be run in a few weeks—races so wonderful in prospect that even the horse-thief, Cordts, had begged to be allowed to attend.
“I’m going to see the King beat Creech’s roan,” shouted the rider, with red in his cheeks and a flash in his eye.
His enthusiasm warmed Lucy’s interest, yet it made her thoughtful. Ideas flashed into her mind. If the rider attended the races he would have that fleet stallion with him. He could not be separated from the horse that had cost him so dearly. What would Bostil and Holley and Farlane say at sight of Wildfire? Suppose Wildfire was to enter the races! It was probable that he could run away from the whole field—even beat the King. Lucy thrilled and thrilled. What a surprise it would be! She had the rider’s true love of seeing the unheralded horse win over the favorite. She had for years wanted to see a horse—and ride a horse—out in front of Sage King. Then suddenly all these flashing ideas coruscated seemingly into a gleam—a leaping, radiant, wonderful thought. Irresistibly it burst from her.
“Let me ride your Wildfire in the great race?” she cried, breathlessly.
His response was instantaneous—a smile that was keen and sweet and strong, and a proffered hand. Impulsively Lucy clasped that hand with both hers.
“You don’t mean it,” she said. “Oh, it’s what Auntie would call one of my wild dreams!… And I’m growing up—they say.… But— Oh, if I could ride Wildfire against the field in that race.… If I only could!”
She was on fire with the hope, flushing, tingling. She was unconscious of her effect upon the rider, who gazed at her with a new-born light in his eyes.
“You can ride him. I reckon I’d like to see that race just as much as Bostil or Cordts or any man.… An’ see here, girl, Wildfire can beat this gray racer of your father’s.”
“Oh!” cried Lucy.
“Wildfire can beat the King,” repeated the rider, intensely. “The tame horse doesn’t step on this earth that can run with Wildfire. He’s a stallion. He has been a killer of horses. It’s in him to kill. If he ran a race it would be that instinct in him.”
“How can we plan it?” went on Lucy, impulsively. She had forgotten to withdraw her hands from his. “It must be a surprise—a complete surprise. If you came to the Ford we couldn’t keep it secret. And Dad or Farlane would prevent me, somehow.”
“It’s easy. Ride out here as often as you can. Bring a light saddle an’ let me put you up on Wildfire. You’ll run him, train him, get him in shape. Then the day of the races or the night before I’ll go in an’ hide out in the sage till you come or send for Wildfire.”
“Oh, it’ll be glorious,” she cried, with eyes like stars. “I know just where to have you hide. A pile of rocks near the racecourse. There’s a spring and good grass. I could ride out to you just before the big race, and we’d come back, with me on Wildfire. The crowd always stays down at the end of the racecourse. Only the starters stay out there.… Oh, I can see Bostil when that red stallion runs into sight!”
“Well, is it settled?” queried the rider, strangely.
Lucy was startled into self-consciousness by his tone.
How strangely he must have felt. And his eyes were piercing.
“You mean—that I ride Wildfire?” she replied, shyly. “Yes, if you’ll let me.”
“I’ll be proud.”
“You’re very good.… And do you think Wildfire can beat the King?”
“I know it.”
“How do you?”
“I’ve seen both horses.”
“But it will be a grand race.”
“I reckon so. It’s likely to be the grandest ever seen. But Wildfire will win because he’s run wild all his life—an’ run to kill other horses.… The only question is—can you ride him?”
“Yes. I never saw the horse I couldn’t ride. Bostil says there are some I can’t ride. Farlane says not. Only two horses have thrown me, the King and Sarchedon. But that was before they knew me. And I was sort of wild. I can make your Wildfire love me.”
“That’s the last part of it I’d ever doubt,” replied the rider. “It’s settled, then. I’ll camp here. I’ll be well in a few days. Then I’ll take Wildfire in hand. You will ride out whenever you have a chance, without bein’ seen. An’ the two of us will train the stallion to upset that race.”
“Yes—then—it’s settled.”
Lucy’s gaze was impelled and held by the rider’s. Why was he so pale? But then he had been injured—weakened. This compact between them had somehow changed their relation. She seemed to have known him long.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Lin Slone,” replied the rider.
Then she released her hands. “I must ride in now. If this isn’t a dream I’ll come back soon.” She led Sage King to a rock and mounted him.
“It’s good to see you up there,” said Slone. “An’ that splendid horse!… He knows what he is. It’ll break Bostil’s heart to see that horse beat.”
“Dad’ll feel bad, but it’ll do him good,” replied Lucy.
That was the old rider’s ruthless spirit speaking out of his daughter’s lips.
Slone went close to the King and, putting a hand on the pommel, he looked up at Lucy. “Maybe—it is—a dream—an’ you won’t come back,” he said, with unsteady voice.
“Then I’ll come in dreams,” she flashed. “Be careful of yourself.… Good-by.”
And at a touch the impatient King was off. From far up the slope near a monument Lucy looked back. Slone was watching her. She waved a gauntleted hand—and then looked back no more.
CHAPTER X
Two weeks slipped by on the wings of time and opportunity and achievement, all colored so wonderfully for Lucy, all spelling tha
t adventure for which she had yearned.
Lucy was riding down into the sage toward the monuments with a whole day before her. Bostil kept more and more to himself, a circumstance that worried her, though she thought little about it. Van had taken up the training of the King; and Lucy had deliberately quarreled with him so that she would be free to ride where she listed. Farlane nagged her occasionally about her rides into the sage, insisting that she must not go so far and stay so long. And after Van’s return to work he made her ride Sarchedon.
Things had happened at the Ford which would have concerned Lucy greatly had she not been over-excited about her own affairs. Some one had ambushed Bostil in the cottonwoods near his house and had shot at him, narrowly missing him. Bostil had sworn he recognized the shot as having come from a rifle, and that he knew to whom it belonged. The riders did not believe this, and said some boy, shooting at a rabbit or coyote, had been afraid to confess he had nearly hit Bostil. The riders all said Bostil was not wholly himself of late. The river was still low. The boat had not been repaired. And Creech’s horses were still on the other side.
These things concerned Lucy, yet they only came and went swiftly through her mind. She was obsessed by things intimately concerning herself.
“Oh, I oughtn’t to go,” she said, aloud. But she did not even check Sarchedon’s long swing, his rocking-chair lope. She had said a hundred times that she ought not go again out to the monuments. For Lin Slone had fallen despairingly, terribly in love with her.
It was not this, she averred, but the monuments and the beautiful Wildfire that had woven a spell round her she could not break. She had ridden Wildfire all through that strange region of monuments and now they claimed something of her. Just as wonderful was Wildfire’s love for her. The great stallion hated Slone and loved Lucy. Of all the remarkable circumstances she had seen or heard about a horse, this fact was the most striking. She could do anything with him. All that savageness and wildness disappeared when she approached him. He came at her call. He whistled at sight of her. He sent out a ringing blast of disapproval when she rode away. Every day he tried to bite or kick Slone, but he was meek under Lucy’s touch.
