by Zane Grey
Upon the sixth morning of his stay at Bostil’s Slone rose with something of his former will reasserting itself. He could not remain in Bostil’s home any longer unless he accepted Bostil’s offer, and this was not to be thought of. With a wrench Slone threw off the softening indecision and hurried out to find Bostil while the determination was hot.
Bostil was in the corral with Wildfire. This was the second time Slone had found him there. Wildfire appeared to regard Bostil with a much better favor than he did his master. As Slone noted this a little heat stole along his veins. That was gall to a rider.
“I like your hoss,” said Bostil, with gruff frankness. But a tinge of red showed under his beard.
“Bostil, I’m sorry I can’t take you up on the job,” rejoined Slone, swiftly. “It’s been hard for me to decide. You’ve been good to me. I’m grateful. But it’s time I was tellin’ you.”
“Why can’t you?” demanded Bostil, straightening up with a glint in his big eyes. It was the first time he had asked Slone that.
“I can’t ride for you,” replied Slone, briefly.
“Anythin’ to do with Lucy?” queried Bostil.
“How so?” returned Slone, conscious of more heat.
“Wal, you was sweet on her an’ she wouldn’t have you,” replied Bostil.
Slone felt the blood swell and boil in his veins. This Bostil could say as harsh and hard things as repute gave him credit for.
“Yes, I am sweet on Lucy, an’ she won’t have me,” said Slone, steadily. “I asked her to let me come to you an’ tell you I wanted to marry her. But she wouldn’t.”
“Wal, it’s just as good you didn’t come, because I might.…” Bostil broke off his speech and began again. “You don’t lack nerve, Slone. What’d you have to offer Lucy?”
“Nothin’ except—But that doesn’t matter,” replied Slone, cut to the quick by Bostil’s scorn. “I’m glad you know, an’ so much for that.”
Bostil turned to look at Wildfire once more, and he looked long. When he faced around again he was another man. Slone felt the powerful driving passion of this old horse-trader.
“Slone, I’ll give you pick of a hundred mustangs an’ a thousand dollars for Wildfire!”
So he unmasked his power in the face of a beggarly rider! Though it struck Slone like a thunderbolt, he felt amused. But he did not show that. Bostil had only one possession, among all his uncounted wealth, that could win Wildfire from his owner.
“No,” said Slone, briefly.
“I’ll double it,” returned Bostil, just as briefly.
“No!”
“I’ll—”
“Save your breath, Bostil,” flashed Slone. “You don’t know me. But let me tell you—you can’t buy my horse!”
The great veins swelled and churned in Bostil’s bull neck; a thick and ugly contortion worked in his face; his eyes reflected a sick rage.
Slone saw that two passions shook Bostil—one, a bitter, terrible disappointment, and the other, the passion of a man who could not brook being crossed. It appeared to Slone that the best thing he could do was to get away quickly, and to this end he led Wildfire out of the corral to the stable courtyard, and there quickly saddled him. Then he went into another corral for his other horse, Nagger, and, bringing him out, returned to find Bostil had followed as far as the court. The old man’s rage apparently had passed or had been smothered.
“See here,” he began, in thick voice, “don’t be a d— fool an’ ruin your chance in life. I’ll—”
“Bostil, my one chance was ruined—an’ you know who did it,” replied Slone, as he gathered Nagger’s rope and Wildfire’s bridle together. “I’ve no hard feelin’s.… But I can’t sell you my horse. An’ I can’t ride for you—because—well, because it would breed trouble.”
“An’ what kind?” queried Bostil.
Holley and Farlane and Van, with several other riders, had come up and were standing open-mouthed. Slone gathered from their manner and expression that anything might happen with Bostil in such a mood.
“We’d be racin’ the King an’ Wildfire, wouldn’t we?” replied Slone.
“An’ supposin’ we would?” returned Bostil, ominously. His huge frame vibrated with a slight start.
“Wildfire would run off with your favorite—an’ you wouldn’t like that,” answered Slone. It was his rider’s hot blood that prompted him to launch this taunt. He could not help it.
“You wild-hoss chaser,” roared Bostil, “your Wildfire may be a bloody killer, but he can’t beat the King in a race!”
“Excuse me, Bostil, but Wildfire did beat the King!”
This was only adding fuel to the fire. Slone saw Holley making signs that must have meant silence would be best. But Slone’s blood was up. Bostil had rubbed him the wrong way.
“You’re a lair!” declared Bostil, with a tremendous stride forward. Slone saw then how dangerous the man really was. “It was no race. Your wild hoss knocked the King off the track.”
“Sage King had the lead, didn’t he? Why didn’t he keep it?”
Bostil was like a furious, intractable child whose favorite precious treasure had been broken; and he burst out into a torrent of incoherent speech, apparently reasons why this and that were so. Slone did not make out what Bostil meant and he did not care. When Bostil got out of breath Slone said:
“We’re both wastin’ talk. An’ I’m not wantin’ you to call me a liar twice.… Put your rider up on the King an’ come on, right now. I’ll—”
“Slone, shut up an’ chase yourself,” interrupted Holley.
“You go to hell!” returned Slone, coolly.
There was a moment’s silence, in which Slone took Holley’s measure. The hawk-eyed old rider may have been square, but he was then thinking only of Bostil.
“What am I up, against here?” demanded Slone. “Am I goin’ to be shot because I’m takin’ my own part? Holley, you an’ the rest of your pards are all afraid of this old devil. But I’m not—an’ you stay out of this.”
“Wal, son, you needn’t git riled,” replied Holley, placatingly. “I was only tryin’ to stave off talk you might be sorry for.”
“Sorry for nothin’! I’m goin’ to make this great horse-trader, this rich an’ mighty rancher, this judge of grand horses, this Bostil!… I’m goin’ to make him race the King or take water!” Then Slone turned to Bostil. That worthy evidently had been stunned by the rider who dared call him to his face. “Come on! Fetch the King! Let your own riders judge the race!”
Bostil struggled both to control himself and to speak. “Naw! I ain’t goin’ to see thet red hoss-killer jump the King again!”
“Bah! you’re afraid. You know there’d be no girl on his back. You know he can outrun the King an’ that’s why you want to buy him.”
Slone caught his breath then. He realized suddenly, at Bostil’s paling face, that perhaps he had dared too much. Yet, maybe the truth flung into this hard old rider’s teeth was what he needed more than anything else. Slone divined, rather than saw, that he had done an unprecedented thing.
“I’ll go now, Bostil.”
Slone nodded a good-by to the riders, and, turning away, he led the two horses down the lane toward the house. It scarcely needed sight of Lucy under the cottonwoods to still his anger and rouse his regret. Lucy saw him coming, and, as usual, started to avoid meeting him, when sight of the horses, or something else, caused her to come toward him instead.
Slone halted. Both Wildfire and Nagger whinnied at sight of the girl. Lucy took one flashing glance at them, at Slone, and then she evidently guessed what was amiss.
“Lucy, I’ve done it now—played hob, sure,” said Slone.
“What?” she cried.
“I called your dad—called him good an’ hard—an’
he—he—”
“Lin! Oh, don’t say Dad.” Lucy’s face whitened and she put a swift hand upon his arm—a touch that thrilled him. “Lin! there’s blood—on your face. Don’t—don’t tell me Dad hit you?”
“I should say not,” declared Slone, quickly lifting his hand to his face. “Must be from my cut, that blood. I barked my hand holdin’ Wildfire.”
“Oh! I—I was sick with—with—” Lucy faltered and broke off, and then drew back quickly, as if suddenly conscious of her actions and words.
Then Slone began to relate everything that had been said, and before he concluded his story his heart gave a wild throb at the telltale face and eyes of the girl.
“You said that to Dad!” she cried, in amaze and fear and admiration. “Oh, Dad richly deserved it! But I wish you hadn’t. Oh, I wish you hadn’t!”
“Why?” asked Slone.
But she did not answer that. “Where are you going?” she questioned.
“Come to think of that, I don’t know,” replied Slone, blankly. “I started back to fetch my things out of my room. That’s as far as my muddled thoughts got.”
“Your things?… Oh!” Suddenly she grew intensely white. The little freckles that had been so indistinct stood out markedly, and it was as if she had never had any tan. One brown hand went to her breast, the other fluttered to his arm again. “You mean to—to go away—for good.”
“Sure. What else can I do?”
“Lin!… Oh, there comes Dad! He mustn’t see me. I must run.… Lin, don’t leave Bostil’s Ford—don’t go—don’t!”
Then she flew round the corner of the house, to disappear. Slone stood there transfixed and thrilling. Even Bostil’s heavy tread did not break the trance, and a meeting would have been unavoidable had not Bostil turned down the path that led to the back of the house. Slone, with a start collecting his thoughts, hurried into the little room that had been his and gathered up his few belongings. He was careful to leave behind the gifts of guns, blankets, gloves, and other rider’s belongings which Bostil had presented to him. Thus laden, he went outside and, tingling with emotions utterly sweet and bewildering, he led the horses down into the village.
Slone went down to Brackton’s, and put the horses into a large, high-fenced pasture adjoining Brackton’s house. Slone felt reasonably sure his horses would be safe there, but he meant to keep a mighty close watch on them. And old Brackton, as if he read Slone’s mind, said this: “Keep your eye on thet daffy boy, Joel Creech. He hangs round my place, sleeps out somewheres, an’ he’s crazy about hosses.”
Slone did not need any warning like that, nor any information to make him curious regarding young Creech. Lucy had seen to that, and, in fact, Slone was anxious to meet this half-witted fellow who had so grievously offended and threatened Lucy. That morning, however, Creech did not put in an appearance. The village had nearly returned to its normal state now, and the sleepy tenor of its way. The Indians, had been the last to go, but now none remained. The days were hot while the sun stayed high, and only the riders braved its heat.
The morning, however, did not pass without an interesting incident. Brackton approached Slone with an offer that he take charge of the freighting between the Ford and Durango. “What would I do with Wildfire?” was Slone’s questioning reply, and Brackton held up his hands. A later incident earned more of Slone’s attention. He had observed a man in Brackton’s store, and it chanced that this man heard Slone’s reply to Brackton’s offer, and he said: “You’ll sure need to corral thet red stallion. Grandest hoss I ever seen!”
That praise won Slone, and he engaged in conversation with the man, who said his name was Vorhees. It developed soon that Vorhees owned a little house, a corral, and a patch of ground on a likely site up under the bluff, and he was anxious to sell cheap because he had a fine opportunity at Durango, where his people lived. What interested Slone most was the man’s remark that he had a corral which could not be broken into. The price he asked was ridiculously low if the property was worth anything. An idea flashed across Slone’s mind. He went up to Vorhees’s place and was much pleased with everything, especially the corral, which had been built by a man who feared horse-thieves as much as Bostil. The view from the door of the little cabin was magnificent beyond compare. Slone remembered Lucy’s last words. They rang like bells in his ears. “Don’t go—don’t!” They were enough to chain him to Bostil’s Ford until the crack of doom. He dared not dream of what they meant. He only listened to their music as they pealed over and over in his ears.
“Vorhees, are you serious?” he asked. “The money you ask is little enough.”
“It’s enough an’ to spare,” replied the man. “An’ I’d take it as a favor of you.”
“Well, I’ll go you,” said Slone, and he laughed a little irrationally. “Only you needn’t tell right away that I bought you out.”
The deal was consummated, leaving Slone still with half of the money that had been his prize in the race. He felt elated. He was rich. He owned two horses—one the grandest in all the uplands, the other the faithfulest—and he owned a neat little cabin where it was a joy to sit and look out, and a corral which would let him sleep at night, and he had money to put into supplies and furnishings, and a garden. After he drank out of the spring that bubbled from under the bluff he told himself it alone was worth the money.
“Looks right down on Bostil’s place,” Slone soliloquized, with glee. “Won’t he just be mad! An’ Lucy!… Whatever’s she goin’ to think?”
The more Slone looked around and thought, the more he became convinced that good fortune had knocked at his door at last. And when he returned to Brackton’s he was in an exultant mood. The old storekeeper gave him a nudge and pointed underhand to a young man of ragged aspect sitting gloomily on a box. Slone recognized Joel Creech. The fellow surely made a pathetic sight, and Slone pitied him. He looked needy and hungry.
“Say,” said Slone, impulsively, “want to help me carry some grub an’ stuff?”
“Howdy!” replied Creech, raising his head. “Sure do.”
Slone sustained the queerest shock of his life when he met the gaze of those contrasting eyes. Yet he did not believe that his strange feeling came from sight of different-colored eyes. There was an instinct or portent in that meeting.
He purchased a bill of goods from Brackton, and, with Creech helping, carried it up to the cabin under the bluff. Three trips were needed to pack up all the supplies, and meanwhile Creech had but few words to say, and these of no moment. Slone offered him money, which he refused.
“I’ll help you fix up, an’ eat a bite,” he said. “Nice up hyar.”
He seemed rational enough and certainly responded to kindness. Slone found that Vorhees had left the cabin so clean there was little cleaning to do. An open fireplace of stone required some repair and there was wood to cut.
“Joel, you start a fire while I go down after my horses,” said Slone.
Young Creech nodded and Slone left him there. It was not easy to catch Wildfire, nor any easier to get him into the new corral; but at last Slone saw him safely there. And the bars and locks on the gate might have defied any effort to open or break them quickly. Creech was standing in the doorway, watching the horses, and somehow Slone saw, or imagined he saw, that Creech wore a different aspect.
“Grand wild hoss! He did what Blue was a-goin’ to do—beat thet there damned Bostil’s King!”
Creech wagged his head. He was gloomy and strange. His eyes were unpleasant to look into. His face changed. And he mumbled. Slone pitied him the more, but wished to see the last of him. Creech stayed on, however, and grew stranger and more talkative during the meal. He repeated things often—talked disconnectedly, and gave other indications that he was not wholly right in his mind. Yet Slone suspected that Creech’s want of balance consisted only in what concerned horses and the Bosti
ls. And Slone, wanting to learn all he could, encouraged Creech to talk about his father and the racers and the river and boat, and finally Bostil.
Slone became convinced that, whether young Creech was half crazy or not, he knew his father’s horses were doomed, and that the boat at the ferry had been cut adrift. Slone could not understand why he was convinced, but he was. Finally Creech told how he had gone down to the river only a day before; how he had found the flood still raging, but much lower; how he had worked round the cliffs and had pulled up the rope cables to find they had been cut.
“You see, Bostil cut them when he didn’t need to,” continued Creech, shrewdly. “But he didn’t know the flood was comin’ down so quick. He was afeared we’d come across an’ git the boat thet night. An’ he meant to take away them cut cables. But he hadn’t no time.”
“Bostil?” queried Slone, as he gazed hard at Creech. The fellow had told that rationally enough. Slone wondered if Bostil could have been so base. No! and yet—when it came to horses Bostil was scarcely human.
