by Zane Grey
“Thar’s the Sage King by Bostil,” replied Brackton. “Blue Roan an’ Peg, by Creech; Whitefoot, by Macomber; Rocks, by Holley; Hoss-shoes, by Blinn; Bay Charley, by Burthwait. Then thar’s the two mustangs entered by Old Hoss an’ Silver—an’ last—Wildfire, by Lucy Bostil.”
“What’s thet last?” queried Bostil.
“Wildfire, by Lucy Bostil,” repeated Brackton.
“Has the girl gone an’ entered a hoss?”
“She sure has. She came in today, regular an’ business-like, writ her name an’ her hoss’s—here ’tis—an’ put up the entrance money.”
“Wal, I’ll be damned!” exclaimed Bostil. He was astonished and pleased. “She said she’d do it. But I didn’t take no stock in her talk.… An’ the hoss’s name?”
“Wildfire.”
“Huh!… Wildfire. Mebbe thet girl can’t think of names for hosses! What’s this hoss she calls Wildfire?”
“She sure didn’t say,” replied Brackton. “Holley an’ Van an’ some more of the boys was here. They joked her a little. You oughter seen the look Lucy give them. But fer once she seemed mum. She jest walked away mysterious like.”
“Lucy’s got a pony off some Indian, I reckon,” returned Bostil, and he laughed. “Then thet makes ten hosses entered so far?”
“Right. An’ there’s sure to be one more. I guess the track’s wide enough for twelve.”
“Wal, Brack, there’ll likely be one hoss out in front an’ some stretched out behind,” replied Bostil, dryly. “The track’s sure wide enough.”
“Won’t thet be a grand race!” exclaimed an enthusiastic rider. “Wisht I had about a million to bet!”
“Bostil, I ’most forgot,” went on Brackton, “Cordts sent word by the Piutes who come today thet he’d be here sure.”
Bostil’s face subtly changed. The light seemed to leave it. He did not reply to Brackton—did not show that he heard the comment on all sides. Public opinion was against Bostil’s permission to allow Cordts and his horse-thieves to attend the races. Bostil appeared grave, regretful. Yet it was known by all that in the strangeness and perversity of his rider’s nature he wanted Cordts to see the King win that race. It was his rider’s vanity and defiance in the teeth of a great horse-thief. But no good would come of Cordts’s presence—that much was manifest.
There was a moment of silence. All these men, if they did not fear Bostil, were sometimes uneasy when near him. Some who were more reckless than discreet liked to irritate him. That, too, was a rider’s weakness.
“When’s Creech’s hosses comin’ over?” asked Colson, with sudden interest.
“Wal, I reckon—soon,” replied Bostil, constrainedly, and he turned away.
By the time he got home all the excitement of the past hour had left him and gloom again abided in his mind. He avoided his daughter and forgot the fact of her entering a horse in the race. He ate supper alone, without speaking to his sister. Then in the dusk he went out to the corrals and called the King to the fence. There was love between master and horse. Bostil talked low, like a woman, to Sage King. And the hard old rider’s heart was full and a lump swelled in his throat, for contact with the King reminded him that other men loved other horses.
Bostil returned to the house and went to his room, where he sat thinking in the dark. By and by all was quiet. Then seemingly with a wrench he bestirred himself and did what for him was a strange action. Removing his boots, he put on a pair of moccasins. He slipped out of the house; he kept to the flagstone of the walk; he took to the sage till out of the village, and then he sheered round to the river trail. With the step and sureness and the eyes of an Indian he went down through that pitch-black canyon to the river and the ford.
The river seemed absolutely the same as during the day. He peered through the dark opaqueness of gloom. It moved there, the river he knew, shadowy, mysterious, murmuring. Bostil went down to the edge of the water, and, sitting there, he listened. Yes—the voices of the stream were the same. But after a long time he imagined there was among them an infinitely low voice, as if from a great distance. He imagined this; he doubted; he made sure; and then all seemed fancy again. His mind held only one idea and was riveted round it. He strained his hearing, so long, so intently, that at last he knew he had heard what he was longing for. Then in the gloom he took to the trail, and returned home as he had left, stealthily, like an Indian.
But Bostil did not sleep nor rest.
Next morning early he rode down to the river. Somers and Shugrue had finished the boat and were waiting. Other men were there, curious and eager. Joel Creech, barefooted and ragged, with hollow eyes and strange actions, paced the sands.
The boat was lying bottom up. Bostil examined the new planking and the seams. Then he straightened his form.
“Turn her over,” he ordered. “Shove her in. An’ let her soak up today.”
The men seemed glad and relieved. Joel Creech heard and he came near to Bostil.
“You’ll—you’ll fetch Dad’s hosses over?” he queried.
“Sure. Tomorrow,” replied Bostil, cheerily.
Joel smiled, and that smile showed what might have been possible for him under kinder conditions of life. “Now, Bostil, I’m sorry fer what I said,” blurted Joel.
“Shut up. Go tell your old man.”
Joel ran down to his skiff and, leaping in, began to row vigorously across. Bostil watched while the workmen turned the boat over and slid it off the sand-bar and tied it securely to the mooring. Bostil observed that not a man there saw anything unusual about the river. But, for that matter, there was nothing to see. The river was the same.
That night when all was quiet in and around the village Bostil emerged from his house and took to his stealthy stalk down toward the river.
The moment he got out into the night oppression left him. How interminable the hours had been! Suspense, doubt, anxiety, fear no longer burdened him. The night was dark, with only a few stars, and the air was cool. A soft wind blew across his heated face. A neighbor’s dog, baying dismally, startled Bostil. He halted to listen, then stole on under the cottonwoods, through the sage, down the trail, into the jet-black canyon. Yet he found his way as if it had been light. In the darkness of his room he had been a slave to his indecision; now in the darkness of the looming cliffs he was free, resolved, immutable.
The distance seemed short. He passed out of the narrow canyon, skirted the gorge over the river, and hurried down into the shadowy amphitheater under the looming walls.
The boat lay at the mooring, one end resting lightly the sand-bar. With strong, nervous clutch Bostil felt the knots of the cables. Then he peered into the opaque gloom of that strange and huge V-shaped split between the great canyon walls. Bostil’s mind had begun to relax from the single idea. Was he alone? Except for the low murmur of the river there was dead silence—a silence like no other—a silence which seemed held under imprisoning walls. Yet Bostil peered long into the shadows. Then he looked up. The ragged ramparts far above frowned bold and black at a few cold stars, and the blue of its sky was without the usual velvety brightness. How far it was up to that corrugated rim! All of a sudden Bostil hated this vast ebony pit.
He strode down to the water and, sitting upon the stone he had occupied so often, he listened. He turned his ear upstream, then downstream, and to the side, and again upstream and listened.
The river seemed the same.
It was slow, heavy, listless, eddying, lingering, moving—the same apparently as for days past. It splashed very softly and murmured low and gurgled faintly. It gave forth fitful little swishes and musical tinkles and lapping sounds. It was flowing water, yet the proof was there of tardiness. Now it was almost still, and then again it moved on. It was a river of mystery telling a lie with its low music. As Bostil listened all those soft, watery sounds merged into w
hat seemed a moaning, and that moaning held a roar so low as to be only distinguishable to the ear trained by years.
No—the river was not the same. For the voice of its soft moaning showed to Bostil its meaning. It called from the far north—the north of great ice-clad peaks beginning to glisten under the nearing sun; of vast snow-filled canyons dripping and melting; of the crystal brooks suddenly colored and roiled and filled bank-full along the mountain meadows; of many brooks plunging down and down, rolling the rocks, to pour their volume into the growing turbid streams on the slopes. It was the voice of all that widely separated water spilled suddenly with magical power into the desert river to make it a mighty, thundering torrent, red and defiled, terrible in its increasing onslaught into the canyon, deep, ponderous, but swift—the Colorado in flood.
And as Bostil heard that voice he trembled. What was the thing he meant to do? A thousand thoughts assailed him in answer and none were clear. A chill passed over him. Suddenly he felt that the cold stole up from his feet. They were both in the water. He pulled them out and, bending down, watched the dim, dark line of water. It moved up and up, inch by inch, swiftly. The river was on the rise!
Bostil leaped up. He seemed possessed of devils. A rippling hot gash of blood fired his every vein and tremor after tremor shook him.
“By G—d! I had it right—she’s risin’!” he exclaimed, hoarsely.
He stared in fascinated certainty at the river. All about it and pertaining to it had changed. The murmur and moan changed to a low, sullen roar. The music was gone. The current chafed at its rock-bound confines. Here was an uneasy, tormented, driven river! The light from the stars shone on dark, glancing, restless waters, uneven and strange. And while Bostil watched, whether it was a short time or long, the remorseless, destructive nature of the river showed itself.
Bostil began to pace the sands. He thought of those beautiful race-horses across the river.
“It’s not too late!” he muttered. “I can get the boat over an’ back—yet!”
He knew that on the morrow the Colorado in flood would bar those horses, imprison them in a barren canyon, shut them in to starve.
“It’d be hellish!… Bostil, you can’t do it. You ain’t thet kind of a man.… Bostil poison a water-hole where hosses loved to drink, or burn over grass!… What would Lucy think of you?… No, Bostil, you’ve let spite rule bad. Hurry now and save them hosses!”
He strode down to the boat. It swung clear now, and there was water between it and the shore. Bostil laid hold of the cables. As he did so he thought of Creech and a blackness enfolded him. He forgot Creech’s horses. Something gripped him, burned him—some hard and bitter feeling which he thought was hate of Creech. Again the wave of fire ran over him, and his huge hands strained on the cables. The fiend of that fiendish river had entered his soul. He meant ruin to a man. He meant more than ruin. He meant to destroy what his enemy, his rival loved. The darkness all about him, the gloom and sinister shadow of the canyon, the sullen increasing roar of the’ river—these lent their influence to the deed, encouraged him, drove him onward, fought and strangled the resistance in his heart. As he brooded all the motives for the deed grew like that remorseless river. Had not his enemy’s son shot at him from ambush? Was not his very life at stake? A terrible blow must be dealt Creech, one that would crush him or else lend him manhood enough to come forth with a gun. Bostil, in his torment, divined that Creech would know who had ruined him. They would meet then, as Bostil had tried more than once to bring about a meeting. Bostil saw into his soul, and it was a gulf like this canyon pit where the dark and sullen river raged. He shrank at what he saw, but the furies of passion held him fast. His hands tore at the cables. Then he fell to pacing to and fro in the gloom. Every moment the river changed its voice. In an hour flood would be down. Too late, then! Bostil again remembered the sleek, slim, racy thoroughbreds—Blue Roan, a wild horse he had longed to own, and Peg, a mare that had no equal in the uplands. Where did Bostil’s hate of a man stand in comparison with love of a horse? He began to sweat and the sweat burned him.
“How soon’ll Creech hear the river an’ know what’s comin’?” muttered Bostil, darkly. And that question showed him how he was lost. All this strife of doubt and fear and horror were of no use. He meant to doom Creech’s horses. The thing had been unalterable from the inception of the insidious, hateful idea. It was irresistible. He grew strong, hard, fierce, and implacable. He found himself. He strode back to the cables. The knots, having dragged in the water, were soaking wet and swollen. He could not untie them. Then he cut one strand after another. The boat swung out beyond his reach.
Instinctively Bostil reached to pull it back.
“My God!… It’s goin’!” he whispered. “What have I done?”
He—Bostil—who had made this Crossing of the Fathers more famous as Bostil’s Ford—he—to cut the boat adrift! The thing was inconceivable.
The roar of the river rose weird and mournful and incessant, with few breaks, and these were marked by strange ripping and splashing sounds made as the bulges of water broke on the surface. Twenty feet out the boat floated, turning a little as it drifted. It seemed loath to leave. It held on the shore eddy. Hungrily, spitefully the little, heavy waves lapped it. Bostil watched it with dilating eyes. There! the current caught one end and the water rose in a hollow splash over the corner. An invisible hand, like a mighty giant’s, seemed to swing the boat out. It had been dark; now it was opaque, now shadowy, now dim. How swift this cursed river! Was there any way in which Bostil could recover his boat? The river answered him with hollow, deep mockery. Despair seized upon him. And the vague shape of the boat, spectral and instinct with meaning, passed from Bostil’s strained gaze.
“So help me God, I’ve done it!” he groaned, hoarsely. And he staggered back and sat down. Mind and heart and soul were suddenly and exquisitely acute to the shame of his act. Remorse seized upon his vitals. He suffered physical agony, as if a wolf gnawed him internally.
“To hell with Creech an’ his hosses, but where do I come in as a man?” he whispered. And he sat there, arms tight around his knees, locked both mentally and physically into inaction.
The rising water broke the spell and drove him back. The river was creeping no longer. It swelled. And the roar likewise swelled. Bostil hurried across the flat to get to the rocky trail before he was cut off, and the last few rods he waded in water up to his knees.
“I’ll leave no trail there,” he muttered, with a hard laugh. It sounded ghastly to him, like the laugh of the river.
And there at the foot of the rocky trail he halted to watch and listen. The old memorable boom came to his ears. The flood was coming. For twenty-three years he had heard the vanguard boom of the Colorado in flood. But never like this, for in the sound he heard the strife and passion of his blood, and realized himself a human counterpart of that remorseless river. The moments passed and each one saw a swelling of the volume of sound. The sullen roar just below him was gradually lost in a distant roar. A steady wind now blew through the canyon. The great walls seemed to gape wider to prepare for the torrent. Bostil backed slowly up the trail as foot by foot the water rose. The floor of the amphitheater was now a lake of choppy, angry waves. The willows bent and seethed in the edge of the current. Beyond ran an uneven, bulging mass that resembled some gray, heavy moving monster. In the gloom Bostil could see how the river turned a corner of wall and slanted away from it toward the center, where it rose higher. Black objects that must have been driftwood appeared on this crest. They showed an instant, then flashed out of sight. The boom grew steadier, closer, louder, and the reverberations, like low detonations of thunder, were less noticeable because all sounds were being swallowed up.
A harder breeze puffed into Bostil’s face. It brought a tremendous thunder, as if all the colossal walls were falling in avalanche. Bostil knew the crest of the flood had turned th
e corner above and would soon reach him. He watched. He listened, but sound had ceased. His ears seemed ringing and they hurt. All his body felt cold, and he backed up and up, with dead feet.
The shadows of the canyon lightened. A river-wide froth, like a curtain, moved down, spreading mushroom-wise before it, a rolling, heaving maelstrom. Bostil ran to escape the great wave that surged into the amphitheater, up and up the rocky trail. When he turned again he seemed to look down into hell. Murky depths, streaked by pale gleams, and black, sinister, changing forms yawned beneath them. He watched with fixed eyes until once more the feeling of filled ears left him and an awful thundering boom assured him of actualities. It was only the Colorado in flood.
CHAPTER XII
Bostil slept that night, but his sleep was troubled, and a strange, dreadful roar seemed to run through it, like a mournful wind over a dark desert. He was awakened early by a voice at his window. He listened. There came a rap on the wood.
“Bostil!… Bostil!” It was Holley’s voice.
Bostil rolled off the bed. He had slept without removing any apparel except his boots.
“Wal, Hawk, what d’ye mean wakin’ a man at this unholy hour?” growled Bostil.
Holley’s face appeared above the rude sill. It was pale and grave, with the hawk eyes like glass. “It ain’t so awful early,” he said. “Listen, boss.”
Bostil halted in the act of pulling on a boot. He looked at his man while he listened. The still air outside seemed filled with low boom, like thunder at a distance. Bostil tried to look astounded.
“Hell!… It’s the Colorado! She’s boomin’!”
“Reckon it’s hell all right—for Creech,” replied Holley. “Boss, why didn’t you fetch them hosses over?”
Bostil’s face darkened. He was a bad man to oppose—to question at times. “Holley, you’re sure powerful anxious about Creech. Are you his friend?”
