The Western Romance MEGAPACK ®: 20 Classic Tales

by Zane Grey

  “Kut-le friend. We take care Kut-le’s squaw.”

  Rhoda turned wearily on her side.

  “Go away and let me sleep,” she said.

  CHAPTER XII

  THE CROSSING TRAILS

  As Kut-le, with Rhoda in his arms, disappeared into the mesa fissure, John DeWitt threw himself from his horse and was at the opening before the others had more than brought their horses to their haunches.

  He was met by Alchise’s rifle, with Alchise entirely hidden from view. For a moment the four men stood panting and speechless. The encounter had been so sudden, so swift that they could not believe their senses. Then Billy Porter uttered an oath that reverberated from the rocky wall.

  “They will get to the top!” he cried. “Jack, you and DeWitt get up there! Carlos and I will hold this!”

  The two men mounted immediately and galloped along the mesa wall, looking for an ascent. Neither of them spoke but both were breathing hard, and through his blistered skin DeWitt’s cheeks glowed feverishly. For a mile up and down from the fissure the wall was a blank, except for a single wide split which did not come within fifty feet of the ground. After over half an hour of frantic search, DeWitt found, nearly three miles from the fissure, a rough spot where the wall gave back in a few narrow crumbling ledges.

  “We’ll have to leave the horses,” he said, “and try that.”

  Jack nodded tensely. They dismounted, pulled the reins over the horses’ heads and started up the wall, John leading, carefully. One bitter lesson the desert was teaching him: haste in the hot country spells ruin! So, though Rhoda’s voice still rang in his ears, though the sight of the slender boyish figure struggling in Kut-le’s arms still ravished his eyes, he worked carefully.

  The ascent was all but impossible. The few jutting ledges were so narrow that foothold was precarious, so far apart that only the slight backward slant of the wall made it possible for them to flatten their bodies against the crumbling brown rock and thus keep from falling. They toiled desperately, silently. After an hour of utmost effort, they reached the top, and with an exclamation of exultation started in the direction of the fissure. But their exultation was short-lived. The great split that stopped fifty feet from the desert floor cut them off from the main mesa. They ran hastily along its edge but at no point was it to be crossed. Shortly DeWitt left Jack to follow it back and he hastened to the mesa front where he made a perilous descent and returned with the horses to Porter.

  That gentleman forced John to eat some breakfast while Carlos rode hastily to scour the mesa front to the west. Porter and the Mexican had captured two of the horses and the burro that the Indians had left. The other horses had run out into the desert back to the last spring they had camped at, Porter said. To DeWitt’s great disappointment, the horses carried only blankets, and the burro was loaded with bacon and flour. There were none of Rhoda’s personal belongings. The animals were in good condition, however, and the men annexed them to their outfit gladly.

  John was torn betwixt hope and bitter disappointment.

  “Do you think they could climb out of the fissure?” he asked half a dozen times, then without waiting for an answer, “Did you see her face, Billy? I had just a glimpse! Didn’t she look well! Just that one glance has put new life in me! I know we will get her! Even this cursed desert isn’t wide enough to keep me from her! God help that Indian when I get him!”

  Porter kept his eyes on Alchise’s rifle which had never wavered in the past three hours.

  “I’ve a notion to shoot the barrel off that thing just for luck!” he growled. “John, sit down! You will need all the strength you’ve got and then some before you catch that Injun!”

  “What are you going to do?” asked John, seating himself in the sand some few feet from the fissure.

  “The big probability is,” said Billy, “that they are in the crack. It would be just about impossible for a girl to climb out of one of ’em. If they have got out, though, it’s just a matter of finding their trail again. We’ll have ’em! It’s just this chance crack that saved ’em. If you’re rested, ride along the west wall and try for the top again.”

  For the next five hours, Porter guarded the mesa front alone. It was nearing six o’clock when Jack returned, exhausted and disappointed. He had followed the great split back until the mesa top became so cut and striated with mighty fissures that progress was impossible.

  “Isn’t it the devil’s own luck,” he growled to Porter as he ate, “that we should have let him get into that one crack! What next! Unless they are still in there, we’ve lost them and are just losing time squatting here.”

  As he spoke, there was a sound of voices in the fissure. The two men cocked their rifles as John and Carlos emerged from the opening. John was scowling and breathless.

  “Lost ’em as usual, by our infernal stupidity,” he panted, while Carlos dropped his empty canteen and lifted Porter’s to his lips. “I rode round to the south of the mesa. There are a couple of possible ascents there. I found Carlos making one. We followed a dozen fissures before we located this one. We got into it about a mile back from here. Here’s a basket we found at the bottom in a burlap bag.”

  He tossed one of Cesca’s pitch baskets at Billy, then threw himself in the sand.

  “They were down off the mesa, I bet,” he went on, “before we fools found the way up, and it was easy for the chap they left guarding the entrance to avoid us. The mesa is covered with big rocks.”

  “He got away within the last half-hour then,” said Billy, “for I didn’t stir from this spot until the burro started to eat the grub pack, and I naturally had to wrestle with him. And no human being could a got out the front even then.”

  “God! What a country!” groaned DeWitt. “The Indians outwit us at every step!”

  “Well,” Jack answered dejectedly, “tell us what we could have done differently.”

  “I’m not blaming any one,” replied John.

  Billy Porter rose briskly.

  “You boys quit your kicking. The scent is still warm. You fellows get a couple of hours’ sleep while I take the horses back to Coyote Hole for water. By daylight we got to be on the south side of the mesa to pick up the trail.”

  Billy’s businesslike manner heartened Jack and John DeWitt. They turned in beside Carlos, who already was sleeping.

  Dawn found them examining the ascents on the south side of the mesa but they found no traces and as the sun came well up they followed the only possible way toward the mountains. At noon they found a low spring in a pocket between mesa and mountain. Kut-le was growing either defiant or careless, for he had left a heap of ashes and a pile of half-eaten desert mice. Very much cheered they allowed the horses a fair rest. They found no further traces of camp or trail that day and made camp that night in the open desert.

  At dawn they were crossing a heavily wooded mountain. The sun had not yet risen when they heard a sound of singing.

  “What’s that?” asked DeWitt sharply, as the four pulled up their horses.

  “A medicine cry,” answered Jack. “We must be near some medicine-man’s campos.”

  “Come on,” cried DeWitt, “we’ll quiz them!”

  “Hold up, you chump!” exclaimed Billy. “If you rush in on a cry that way you are apt not to come back again. You’ve got to go at ’em careful. Let me do the talking.”

  They rode toward the sound of the chant and shortly a dingy campos came into view. An Indian buck made his way from the doorway toward them.

  “Who is sick, friend?” asked Billy.

  “Old buck,” said the Indian.

  “Apache?” said Billy.

  The Indian nodded.

  “You sabe Apache named Kut-le?”

  The buck shook his head, but Billy went on patiently.

  “Yes, you sabe him. He o
ld Ke-say’s son. Apache chief’s son. He run off with white squaw. We want squaw, we no hurt him. Squaw sick, no good for Injun. You tell, have money.” Billy displayed a silver dollar.

  The Indian brightened.

  “Long time ’go, some Injun say he sabe Kut-le. Some Injun say he all same white man. Some Injun say he heap smart.” He looked at Billy inquiringly, and Billy nodded approval. DeWitt swallowed nervously. “Come two, three day ’go,” the buck went on, his eyes on the silver dollar, “big Injun, carry white squaw, go by here very fast. He go that way all heap fast.” The buck pointed south.

  “Did he speak to you? What did he say?” cried DeWitt.

  But the Indian lapsed into silence and refused to speak more. Porter felt well rewarded for his efforts and tossed the dollar to the Indian.

  “Gee!” said Billy, as they started elated down the mountain. “I wish we could overtake him before he outfits again. That poverty-stricken lot couldn’t have had any horses here for him to use. I’ll bet he makes for the nearest ranch where he could steal a good bunch. That would be at Kelly’s, sixty miles south of here. We’ll hike for Kelly’s!”

  This idea did not meet with enthusiastic approval from the other three but as no one had a better suggestion to make, the trail to Kelly’s was taken. It seemed to John Dewitt that Billy relied little on science and much on intuition in trailing the Indians. At first, considering Porter’s early boasts about his skill, DeWitt was much disappointed by the old-timer’s haphazard methods. But after a few weeks’ testing of the terrible hardships of the desert, after a few demonstrations of the Apache’s cleverness, John had concluded that intuition was the most reliable weapon that the whites could hope to discover with which to offset the Indian’s appalling skill and knowledge.

  It was an exhausted quartet with its string of horses that drew up at Kelly’s dusty corral. Dick Kelly, a stocky Irishman, greeted the strangers pleasantly. When, however, he learned their names he rose to the occasion as only an Irishman can.

  “You gentlemen are at the end of your rope, wid the end frayed at that!” he said. “Now come in for a few hours’ rest and the Chinaman will cook you the best meal he knows how.”

  “Lord, no!” cried Billy. “We’re so close on the track now that we can hang on to the end. If you’ve had no trace here we’ll just double back and start from the mountains again!”

  By this time a dozen cowboys and ranch hands were gathered about the newcomers. Every one knew about Rhoda’s disappearance. Every one knew about every man in the little search party. In the flicker of the lanterns the men looked pityingly at DeWitt’s haggard face.

  “Say,” said a tall, lank cowman, “if you’ll go in and sleep till daylight, usn’ll scour this part of the desert with a fine-tooth comb. So you all won’t lose a minute by taking a little rest. An’ if we find the Injun we’ll string him up and save you the trouble.”

  DeWitt spoke for the first time.

  “If you find the Indian,” he said succinctly, “he’s mine!”

  There was a moment’s silence in the crowd. These men were familiar with elemental passion. DeWitt’s feeling was perfectly correct in their eyes. The pause came as each pictured himself in DeWitt’s place with the image of the delicate Eastern girl suffering who knew what torments constantly before him.

  “If Mr. Kelly can arrange for that,” said Jack, “I guess it will about save our lives. I’d like a chance to write a letter to my wife.”

  “You ought to go back to the ditch, Jack,” said DeWitt, “Porter and I will manage somehow.”

  Jack gave DeWitt a strange look.

  “Rhoda’s a lifelong friend of mine. She was stolen from my home by my friend whom I told her she could trust. Katherine and the foreman can run the ranch.”

  By the time that the four had washed themselves, Kelly had his men dotted over the surrounding desert. For the first time in weeks, the searchers sat down at a table. DeWitt, Porter and Newman were in astonishing contrast to the three who had dined at the Newman ranch the night of Cartwell’s introduction to Porter. Their khaki clothes had gradually been replaced by nondescript garments picked up at various ranches. DeWitt and Porter boasted of corduroy trousers, while Jack wore overalls. On the other hand, Jack wore a good blue flannel shirt, while the other two displayed only faded gingham garments that might have answered to almost any name. All of them were a deep mahogany color, with chapped, split lips and bleached hair, while DeWitt’s eyes were badly inflamed from sun-glare and sand-storm.

  They ate silently. Dick Kelly, sitting at the head of the table, plied them with food and asked few questions. DeWitt’s shaking hands told him that questions were torture to the poor fellow. After the meal Kelly led them to bed at once, and they slept without stirring until four o’clock in the morning, when the Chinaman called them. Breakfast was steaming on the table.

  “Now,” said Kelly, as his guests ate, “the boys didn’t get a smell for ye, but we’ve a suggestion. Have you been through the Pueblo country yet?”

  “No,” said Porter.

  “Well,” the host went on, “Chira is the only place round here except my ranch where he could get a new outfit. He’s part Pueblo, you know, too. I’d start for there if I was you.”

  Carlos entered to hear this suggestion.

  “I’ve got a friend at Chira,” he said, “who might help us. He’s a half-breed.”

  The tired men took eagerly to this forlorn hope. With all the population of the ranch, including the cook, gathered to wish them Godspeed, the four started off before the sun had more than tinted the east. Kelly had offered them anything on the ranch, from himself, his cook and his cowboys, to the choice of his horses. His guests left as much heartened by his cheerfulness and good will as they were by the actual physical comforts he had given them.

  The trail to Chira was long and hard. They reached the little town at dusk and Carlos set out at once in search of his friend, Philip. He found him easily. He was half Mexican, half Pueblo. He and Carlos chatted briskly in hybrid Spanish while the Americans watched the horses wade in the little river. Visitors were so common in Chira that the newcomers attracted little or no attention.

  Carlos finally turned from his friend.

  “Philip does not know anything about it. He says for us to come to his house while he finds out anything. His wife is a good cook.”

  The thought of a hot meal was pleasant to the Americans. They followed gladly to Philip’s adobe rooms. Here the half-breed left them to his wife and disappeared. He was gone perhaps an hour when he returned with a bit of cloth in his hand, which he handed to Carlos with a few rapid sentences. Carlos gave the scrap of cloth to DeWitt, who looked at it eagerly then gave a cry of joy. It was Rhoda’s handkerchief.

  “He found a little girl washing her doll with it at the river,” said Carlos. “She said she found it blowing along the street this morning.”

  “Come on!” cried Jack, making for the door.

  “Come on where?” said Billy. “If they are in the village, you don’t want to get away very far. And if they ain’t, which way are you going?”

  “Ask Philip where to go, Carlos,” said DeWitt.

  He held the little moist handkerchief in his hand tightly while his heart beat heavily. Once more hope was soaring high.

  Philip thought deeply, then he and Carlos talked rapidly together.

  “Philip says,” reported Carlos, “that you must go out and watch along the river front so that if they have not gone you can catch them if they try. He and I will go visit every family as if I wanted to buy an outfit.”

  Darkness had settled on the little town when the three Americans took up their vigil opposite the open face of the Pueblo along the river. All that night they stood on guard but not a human being crossed their line of patrol.

  CHAPTER XIII

&nbs
p; AN INTERLUDE

  Late in the afternoon, Rhoda woke. Kut-le stood beside her. His expression was half eager, half tender.

  “How do you feel now?” he asked.

  “Quite well,” answered Rhoda. “Will you call Marie? I want to dress.”

  “You must rest in bed today,” replied the Indian. “Tomorrow will be soon enough for you to get up.”

  Rhoda looked at the young man with irritation.

  “Can’t you learn that I am not a squaw? That it maddens me to be ordered about? That every time you do you alienate me more, if possible?”

  “You do foolish stunts,” said Kut-le calmly, “and I have to put you right.”

  Rhoda moaned.

  “Oh, how long, how long must I endure this! How could they be so stupid as to let you slip through their fingers so!”

  Kut-le’s mouth became a narrow seam.

  “As soon as I can get you into the Sierra Madre, I shall marry you. You are practically a well woman now. But I am not going to hurry overmuch. You are going to love me first and you are going to love this life first. Then we will go to Paris until the storm has passed.”

  Rhoda did not seem to hear him. She tossed her arms restlessly.

  “Please send Marie to me,” she said finally. “You will permit me to eat something perhaps?”

  Kut-le left the room at once. In a short time he returned with Marie, who bore a steaming bowl which he himself flanked with a dish of luscious melon. The woman propped Rhoda adroitly to a sitting position and Kut-le gravely balanced the bowl against the girl’s knees. The stew which the bowl contained was delicious, and Rhoda ate it to the last drop. She ate in silence, while Kut-le watched her with unspeakable longing in his eyes. The room was almost dark when the simple meal was finished. Marie brightened the fire and smoothed Rhoda’s blankets.

  “Kut-le go now,” said the Pueblo woman. “You rest. In morning, Marie bring white squaw some clothes.”