The Western Romance MEGAPACK ®: 20 Classic Tales

by Zane Grey

  “Lin!… Promise not to—speak to Dad!”

  “No.” His voice rang.

  “Don’t give me away—don’t tell my Dad!”

  “What?” he queried, incredulously.

  Lucy did not understand what. But his amazed voice, his wide-open eyes of bewilderment, seemed to aid her into piercing the maze of her own mind. A hundred thoughts whirled together, and all around them was wrapped the warm, strong feeling of his hand on hers. What did she mean that he would tell her father? There seemed to be a deep, hidden self in her. Up out of these depths came a whisper, like a ray of light, and it said to her that there was more hope for Lin Slone than he had ever had in one of his wildest dreams.

  “Lin, if you tell Dad—then he’ll know—and there won’t be any hope for you!” cried Lucy, honestly.

  If Slone caught the significance of her words he did not believe it.

  “I’m goin’ to Bostil after the race an’ ask him. That’s settled,” declared Slone, stubbornly.

  At this Lucy utterly lost her temper. “Oh! you—you fool!” she cried.

  Slone drew back suddenly as if struck, and a spot of dark blood leaped to his lean face. “No! It seems to me the right way.”

  “Right or wrong there’s no sense in it—because—because. Oh! can’t you see?”

  “I see more than I used to,” he replied. “I was a fool over a horse. An’ now I’m a fool over a girl.… I wish you’d never found me that day!”

  Lucy whirled in the saddle and made Wildfire jump. She quieted him, and, leaping off, threw the bridle to Slone. “I won’t ride your horse in the race!” she declared with sudden passion. She felt herself shaking all over.

  “Lucy Bostil, I wish I was as sure of Heaven as I am you’ll be up on Wildfire in that race,” he said.

  “I won’t ride your horse.”

  “My horse. Oh, I see.… But you’ll ride Wildfire.”

  “I won’t.”

  Slone suddenly turned white, and his eyes flashed dark fire. “You won’t be able to help ridin’ him any more than I could help it.”

  “A lot you know about me, Lin Slone!” returned Lucy, with scorn. “I can be as—as bull-headed as you, any day.”

  Slone evidently controlled his temper, though his face remained white. He even smiled at her.

  “You are Bostil’s daughter,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “You are blood an’ bone, heart an’ soul a rider, if any girl ever was. You’re a wonder with a horse—as good as any man I ever saw. You love Wildfire. An’ look—how strange! That wild stallion—that killer of horses, why he follows you, he whistles for you, he runs like lightnin’ for you; he loves you.”

  Slone had attacked Lucy in her one weak point. She felt a force rending her. She dared not look at Wildfire. Yes—all, that was true Slone had said. How desperately hard to think of forfeiting the great race she knew she could win!

  “Never! I’ll never ride your Wildfire again!” she said, very, low.

  “Mine!… So that’s the trouble. Well, Wildfire won’t be mine when you ride the race.”

  “What do you mean?” demanded Lucy. “You’ll sell him to Bostil.… Bah! you couldn’t…”

  “Sell Wildfire!—after what it cost me to catch an’ break him?… Not for all your father’s lands an’ horses an’ money!”

  Slone’s voice rolled out with deep, ringing scorn. And Lucy, her temper quelled, began to feel the rider’s strength, his mastery of the situation, and something vague, yet splendid about him that hurt her.

  Slone strode toward her. Lucy backed against the cedar-tree and could go no farther. How white he was now! Lucy’s heart gave a great, fearful leap, for she imagined Slone intended to take her in his arms. But he did not.

  “When you ride—Wildfire in that—race he’ll be—yours!” said Slone, huskily.

  “How can that be?” questioned Lucy, in astonishment.

  “I give him to you.”

  “You—give—Wildfire—to me?” gasped Lucy.

  “Yes. Right now.”

  The rider’s white face and dark eyes showed the strain of great and passionate sacrifice.

  “Lin Slone!… I can’t—understand you.”

  “You’ve got to ride Wildfire in that race. You’ve got to beat the King.… So I give Wildfire to you. An’ now you can’t help but ride him.”

  “Why—why do you give him—to me?” faltered Lucy.

  All her pride and temper had vanished, and she seemed lost in blankness.

  “Because you love Wildfire. An’ Wildfire loves you.… If that isn’t reason enough—then…because I love him—as no rider ever loved a horse.… An’ I love you as no man ever loved a girl!”

  Slone had never before spoken words of love to Lucy. She dropped her head. She knew of his infatuation. But he had always been shy except once when he had been bold, and that had caused a quarrel. With a strange pain at her breast Lucy wondered why Slone had not spoken that way before? It made as great a change in her as if she had been born again. It released something. A bolt shot back in her heart. She knew she was quivering like a leaf, with no power to control her muscles. She knew if she looked up then Slone might see the depths of her soul. Even with her hands shutting out the light she thought the desert around had changed and become all mellow gold and blue and white, radiant as the moonlight of dreams—and that the monuments soared above them grandly, and were beautiful and noble, like the revelations of love and joy to her. And suddenly she found herself sitting at the foot of the cedar, weeping, with tear-wet hands over her face.

  “There’s nothin’ to—to cry about,” Slone was saying. “But I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

  “Will—you—please—fetch Sarch?” asked Lucy, tremulously.

  While Slone went for the horse and saddled him Lucy composed herself outwardly. And she had two very strong desires—one to tell Slone something, and the other to run. She decided she would do both together.

  Slone brought Sarchedon. Lucy put on her gauntlets, and, mounting the horse, she took a moment to arrange her skirts before she looked down at Slone. He was now pale, rather than white, and instead of fire in his eyes there was sadness. Lucy felt the swelling and pounding of her heart—and a long, delicious shuddering thrill that ran over her.

  “Lin, I won’t take Wildfire,” she said.

  “Yes, you will. You can’t refuse. Remember he’s grown to look to you. It wouldn’t be right by the horse.”

  “But he’s all you have in the world,” she protested. Yet she knew any protestations would be in vain.

  “No. I have good old faithful Nagger.”

  “Would you go try to hunt another wild stallion—like Wildfire?” asked Lucy, curiously. She was playing with the wonderful sweet consciousness of her power to render happiness when she chose.

  “No more horse-huntin’ for me,” declared Slone. “An’ as for findin’ one like Wildfire—that’d never be.”

  “Suppose I won’t accept him?”

  “How could you refuse? Not for me but for Wildfire’s sake!… But if you could be mean an’ refuse, why, Wildfire can go back to the desert.”

  “No!” exclaimed Lucy.

  “I reckon so.”

  Lucy paused a moment. How dry her tongue seemed! And her breathing was labored! An unreal shimmering gleam shone on all about her. Even the red stallion appeared enveloped in a glow. And the looming monuments looked down upon her, paternal, old, and wise, bright with the color of happiness.

  “Wildfire ought to have several more days’ training—then a day of rest—and then the race,” said Lucy, turning again to look at Slone.

  A smile was beginning to change the hardness of his face. “Yes, Lucy,” he said.

  “And I’ll h
ave to ride him?”

  “You sure will—if he’s ever to beat the King.”

  Lucy’s eyes flashed blue. She saw the crowd—the curious, friendly Indians—the eager riders—the spirited horses—the face of her father—and last the race itself, such a race as had never been ran, so swift, so fierce, so wonderful.

  “Then Lin,” began Lucy, with a slowly heaving breast, “if I accept Wildfire will you keep him for me—until…and if I accept him, and tell you why, will you promise to say—”

  “Don’t ask me again!” interrupted Slone, hastily. “I will speak to Bostil.”

  “Wait, will you…promise not to say a word—a single word to me—till after the race?”

  “A word—to you! What about?” he queried, wonderingly. Something in his eyes made Lucy think of the dawn.

  “About—the—Because—Why, I’m—I’ll accept your horse.”

  “Yes,” he replied, swiftly.

  Lucy settled herself in the saddle and, shortening the bridle, she got ready to spur Sarchedon into a bolt.

  “Lin, I’ll accept Wildfire because I love you.”

  Sarchedon leaped forward. Lucy did not see Slone’s face nor hear him speak. Then she was tearing through the sage, out past the whistling Wildfire, with the wind sweet in her face. She did not look back.

  CHAPTER XI

  All through May there was an idea, dark and sinister, growing in Bostil’s mind. Fiercely at first he had rejected it as utterly unworthy of the man he was. But it returned. It would not be denied. It was fostered by singular and unforeseen circumstances. The meetings with Creech, the strange, sneaking actions of young Joel Creech, and especially the gossip of riders about the improvement in Creech’s swift horse—these things appeared to loom larger and larger and to augment in Bostil’s mind the monstrous idea which he could not shake off. So he became brooding and gloomy.

  It appeared to be an indication of his intense preoccupation of mind that he seemed unaware of Lucy’s long trips down into the sage. But Bostil had observed them long before Holley and other riders had approached him with the information.

  “Let her alone,” he growled to his men. “I gave her orders to train the King. An’ after Van got well mebbe Lucy just had a habit of ridin’ down there. She can take care of herself.”

  To himself, when alone, Bostil muttered: “Wonder what the kid has looked up now? Some mischief, I’ll bet!”

  Nevertheless, he did not speak to her on the subject. Deep in his heart he knew he feared his keen-eyed daughter, and during these days he was glad she was not in evidence at the hours when he could not very well keep entirely to himself. Bostil was afraid Lucy might divine what he had on his mind. There was no one else he cared for. Holley, that old hawk-eyed rider, might see through him, but Bostil knew Holley would be loyal, whatever he saw.

  Toward the end of the month, when Somers returned from horse-hunting, Bostil put him and Shugrue to work upon the big flatboat down at the crossing. Bostil himself went down, and he walked—a fact apt to be considered unusual if it had been noticed.

  “Put in new planks,” was his order to the men. “An’ pour hot tar in the cracks. Then when the tar dries shove her in…but I’ll tell you when.”

  Every morning young Creech rowed over to see if the boat was ready to take the trip across to bring his father’s horses back. The third morning of work on the boat Bostil met Joel down there. Joel seemed eager to speak to Bostil. He certainly was a wild-looking youth.

  “Bostil, my ole man is losin’ sleep waitin’ to git the hosses over,” he said, frankly. “Feed’s almost gone.”

  “That’ll be all right, Joel,” replied Bostil. “You see, the river ain’t begun to raise yet.… How’re the hosses comin’ on?”

  “Grand, sir—grand!” exclaimed the simple Joel. “Peg is runnin’ faster than last year, but Blue Roan is leavin’ her a mile. Dad’s goin’ to bet all he has. The roan can’t lose this year.”

  Bostil felt like a bull bayed at by a hound. Blue Roan was a young horse, and every season he had grown bigger and faster. The King had reached the limit of his speed. That was great, Bostil knew, and enough to win over any horse in the uplands, providing the luck of the race fell even. Luck, however, was a fickle thing.

  “I was advisin’ Dad to swim the hosses over,” declared Joel, deliberately.

  “A-huh! You was?… An’ why?” rejoined Bostil.

  Joel’s simplicity and frankness vanished, and with them his rationality. He looked queer. His contrasting eyes shot little malignant gleams. He muttered incoherently, and moved back toward the skiff, making violent gestures, and his muttering grew to shouting, though still incoherent. He got in the boat and started to row back over the river.

  “Sure he’s got a screw loose,” observed Somers. Shugrue tapped his grizzled head significantly.

  Bostil made no comment. He strode away from his men down to the river shore, and, finding a seat on a stone, he studied the slow eddying red current of the river and he listened. If any man knew the strange and remorseless Colorado, that man was Bostil. He never made any mistakes in anticipating what the river was going to do.

  And now he listened, as if indeed the sullen, low roar, the murmuring hollow gurgle, the sudden strange splash, were spoken words meant for his ears alone. The river was low. It seemed tired out. It was a dirty red in color, and it swirled and flowed along lingeringly. At times the current was almost imperceptible; and then again it moved at varying speed. It seemed a petulant, waiting, yet inevitable stream, with some remorseless end before it. It had a thousand voices, but not the one Bostil listened to hear.

  He plodded gloomily up the trail, resting in the quiet, dark places of the canyon, loath to climb out into the clear light of day. And once in the village, Bostil shook himself as if to cast off an evil, ever-present, pressing spell.

  The races were now only a few days off. Piutes and Navajos were camped out on the sage, and hourly the number grew as more came in. They were building cedar sunshades. Columns of blue smoke curled up here and there. Mustangs and ponies grazed everywhere, and a line of Indians extended along the racecourse, where trials were being held. The village was full of riders, horse-traders and hunters, and ranchers. Work on the ranges had practically stopped for the time being, and in another day or so every inhabitant of the country would be in Bostil’s Ford.

  Bostil walked into the village, grimly conscious that the presence of the Indians and riders and horses, the action and color and bustle, the near approach of the great race-day—these things that in former years had brought him keen delight and speculation—had somehow lost their tang. He had changed. Something was wrong in him. But he must go among these visitors and welcome them as of old; he who had always been the life of these racing-days must be outwardly the same. And the task was all the harder because of the pleasure shown by old friends among the Indians and the riders at meeting him. Bostil knew he had been a cunning horse-trader, but he had likewise been a good friend. Many were the riders and Indians who owed much to him. So everywhere he was hailed and besieged, until finally the old excitement of betting and bantering took hold of him and he forgot his brooding.

  Brackton’s place, as always, was a headquarters for all visitors. Macomber had just come in full of enthusiasm and pride over the horse he had entered, and he had money to wager. Two Navajo chiefs, called by white men Old Horse and Silver, were there for the first time in years. They were ready to gamble horse against horse. Cal Blinn and his riders of Durango had arrived; likewise Colson, Sticks, and Burthwait, old friends and rivals of Bostil’s.

  For a while Brackton’s was merry. There was some drinking and much betting. It was characteristic of Bostil that he would give any odds asked on the King in a race; and, furthermore, he would take any end of wagers on other horses. As far as his own horses were concerned he bet sh
rewdly, but in races where his horses did not figure he seemed to find fun in the betting, whether or not he won.

  The fact remained, however, that there were only two wagers against the King, and both were put up by Indians. Macomber was betting on second or third place for his horse in the big race. No odds of Bostil’s tempted him.

  “Say, where’s Wetherby?” rolled out Bostil. “He’ll back his hoss.”

  “Wetherby’s ridin’ over tomorrow,” replied Macomber. “But you gotta bet him two to one.”

  “See hyar, Bostil,” spoke up old Cal Blinn, “you jest wait till I git an eye on the King’s runnin’. Mebbe I’ll go you even money.”

  “An’ as fer me, Bostil,” said Colson, “I ain’t set up yit which hoss I’ll race.”

  Burthwait, an old rider, came forward to Brackton’s desk and entered a wager against the field that made all the men gasp.

  “By George! pard, you ain’t a-limpin’ along!” ejaculated Bostil, admiringly, and he put a hand on the other’s shoulder.

  “Bostil, I’ve a grand hoss,” replied Burthwait. “He’s four years old, I guess, fer he was born wild, an’ you never seen him.”

  “Wild hoss?… Huh!” growled Bostil. “You must think he can run.”

  “Why, Bostil, a streak of lightnin’ ain’t anywheres with him.”

  “Wal, I’m glad to hear it,” said Bostil, gruffly. “Brack, how many hosses entered now for the big race?”

  The lean, gray Brackton bent earnestly over his soiled ledger, while the riders and horsemen round him grew silent to listen.