The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

The eastern rise of ground, a sage and juniper slope, was in plain sight. Hare saw a white flash; then Silvermane broke out of the cedars into the sage. One of the brothers raced him half the length of the slope, and then the other coming out headed him off down toward the forest. Soon the pounding of hoofs sounded through the trees nearer and nearer. Silvermane came out straight ahead on the open level. He was running easily.

  “He hasn’t opened up yet,” said August.

  Hare watched the stallion with sheer fascination; He ran seemingly without effort. What a stride he had. How beautifully his silver mane waved in the wind! He veered off to the left, out of sight in the brush, while Dave and Billy galloped up to the spot where August had tied the first three mustangs. Here they dismounted, changed saddles to fresh horses, and were off again.

  The chase now was close and all downhill for the watchers. Silvermane twinkled in and out among the cedars, and suddenly stopped short on the rim. He wheeled and coursed away toward the crags, and vanished. But soon he reappeared, for Billy had cut across and faced him about. Again he struck the level stretch. Dave was there in front of him. He shot away to the left, and flashed through the glades beyond. The brothers saved their steeds, content to keep him cornered in that end of the plateau. Then August spurred his roan into the scene of action. Silvermane came out on the one piece of rising ground beyond the level, and stood looking backward toward the brothers. When the great roan crashed through the thickets into his sight he leaped as if he had been stung, and plunged away.

  The Naabs had hemmed him in a triangle, Dave and Billy at the broad end, August at the apex, and now the real race began. August chased him up and down, along the rim, across to the long line of cedars, always in the end heading him for the open stretch. Down this he fled with flying mane, only to be checked by the relentless brothers. To cover this broad end of the open required riding the like of which Hare had never dreamed of. The brothers, taking advantage of the brief periods when the stallion was going toward August, changed their tired mustangs for fresh ones.

  “Ho! Mescal!” rolled out August’s voice. That was the call for Mescal to put Black Bolly after Silvermane. Her fleetness made the other mustangs seem slow. All in a flash she was round the corral, with Silvermane between her and the long fence of cedars. Uttering a piercing snort of terror the gray stallion lunged out, for the first time panic-stricken, and lengthened his stride in a wonderful way. He raced down the stretch with his head over his shoulder watching the little black. Seeing her gaining, he burst into desperate headlong flight. He saved nothing; he had found his match; he won that first race down the level but it had cost him his best. If he had been fresh he might have left Black Bolly far behind, but now he could not elude her.

  August Naab let him run this time, and Silvermane, keeping close to the fence, passed the gate, ran down to the rim, and wheeled. The black mustang was on him again, holding him in close to the fence, driving him back down the stretch.

  The brothers remorselessly turned him, and now Mescal, forcing the running, caught him, lashed his haunches with her whip, and drove him into the gate of the corral.

  August and his two sons were close behind, and blocked the gate. Silvermane’s race was nearly run.

  “Hold here, boys,” said August. “I’ll go in and drive him round and round till he’s done, then, when I yell, you stand aside and rope him as he comes out.”

  Silvermane ran round the corral, tore at the steep scaly walls, fell back and began his weary round again and yet again. Then as sense and courage yielded gradually to unreasoning terror, he ran blindly; every time he passed the guarded gateway his eyes were wilder, and his stride more labored.

  “Now!” yelled August Naab.

  Mescal drew out of the opening, and Dave and Billy pulled away, one on each side, their lassoes swinging loosely.

  Silvermane sprang for the opening with something of his old speed. As he went through, yellow loops flashed in the sun, circling, narrowing, and he seemed to run straight into them. One loop whipped close round his glossy neck; the other caught his head. Dave’s mustang staggered under the violent shock, went to his knees, struggled up and held firmly. Bill’s mount slid on his haunches and spilled his rider from the saddle. Silvermane seemed to be climbing into the air. Then August Naab, darting through the gate in a cloud of dust, shot his lasso, catching the right foreleg. Silvermane landed hard, his hoofs striking fire from the stones; and for an instant strained in convulsive struggle; then fell heaving and groaning. In a twinkling Billy loosened his lasso over a knot, making of it a halter, and tied the end to a cedar stump.

  The Naabs stood back and gazed at their prize.

  Silvermane was badly spent; he was wet with foam, but no fleck of blood marred his mane; his superb coat showed scratches, but none cut into the flesh. After a while he rose, panting heavily, and trembling in every muscle. He was a beaten horse; the noble head was bowed; yet he showed no viciousness, only the fear of a trapped animal. He eyed Black Bolly and then the halter, as though he had divined the fatal connection between them.

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE BREAKER OF WILD MUSTANGS

  For a few days after the capture of Silvermane, a time full to the brim of excitement for Hare, he had no word with Mescal, save for morning and evening greetings. When he did come to seek her, with a purpose which had grown more impelling since August Naab’s arrival, he learned to his bewilderment that she avoided him. She gave him no chance to speak with her alone; her accustomed resting-place on the rim at sunset knew her no more; early after supper she retired to her tent.

  Hare nursed a grievance for forty-eight hours, and then, taking advantage of Piute’s absence on an errand down to the farm, and of the Naabs’ strenuous day with four vicious wild horses in the corral at one time, he walked out to the pasture where Mescal shepherded the flock.

  “Mescal, why are you avoiding me?” he asked. “What has happened?”

  She looked tired and unhappy, and her gaze, instead of meeting his, wandered to the crags.

  “Nothing,” she replied.

  “But there must be something. You have given me no chance to talk to you, and I wanted to know if you’d let me speak to Father Naab.”

  “To Father Naab? Why—what about?”

  “About you, of course—and me—that I love you and want to marry you.”

  She turned white. “No—no!”

  Hare paused blankly, not so much at her refusal as at the unmistakable fear in her face.

  “Why—not?” he asked presently, with an odd sense of trouble. There was more here than Mescal’s habitual shyness.

  “Because he’ll be terribly angry.”

  “Angry—I don’t understand. Why angry?”

  The girl did not answer, and looked so forlorn that Hare attempted to take her in his arms. She resisted and broke from him.

  “You must never—never do that again.”

  Hare drew back sharply.

  “Why not? What’s wrong? You must tell me, Mescal.”

  “I remembered.” She hung her head.

  “Remembered—what?”

  “I am pledged to marry Father Naab’s eldest son.”

  For a moment Hare did not understand. He stared at her unbelievingly.

  “What did you say?” he asked, slowly.

  Mescal repeated her words in a whisper.

  “But—but Mescal—I love you. You let me kiss you,” said Hare stupidly, as if he did not grasp her meaning. “You let me kiss you,” he repeated.

  “Oh, Jack, I forgot,” she wailed. “It was so new, so strange, to have you up here. It was like a kind of dream. And after—after you kissed me I—I found out—”

  “What, Mescal?”

  Her silence answered him.

  “But, Mescal, if you really love me you can’t marry any one else,” said Hare. It was the simple persistence of a simple swain.

  “Oh, you don’t know, you don’t know. It’s impossible!”

  “I
mpossible!” Hare’s anger flared up. “You let me believe I had won you. What kind of a girl are you? You were not true. Your actions were lies.”

  “Not lies,” she faltered, and turned her face from him.

  With no gentle hand he grasped her arm and forced her to look at him. But the misery in her eyes overcame him, and he roughly threw his arms around her and held her close.

  “It can’t be a lie. You do care for me—love me. Look at me.” He drew her head back from his breast. Her face was pale and drawn; her eyes closed tight, with tears forcing a way out under the long lashes; her lips were parted. He bowed to their sweet nearness; he kissed them again and again, while the shade of the cedars seemed to whirl about him. “I love you, Mescal. You are mine—I will have you—I will keep you—I will not let him have you!”

  She vibrated to that like a keen strung wire under a strong touch. All in a flash the trembling, shame-stricken girl was transformed. She leaned back in his arms, supple, pliant with quivering life, and for the first time gave him wide-open level eyes, in which there were now no tears, no shyness, no fear, but a dark smouldering fire.

  “You do love me, Mescal?”

  “I—I couldn’t help it.”

  There was a pause, tense with feeling.

  “Mescal, tell me—about your being pledged,” he said, at last.

  “I gave him my promise because there was nothing else to do. I was pledged to—to him in the church at White Sage. It can’t be changed. I’ve got to marry—Father Naab’s eldest son.”

  “Eldest son?” echoed Jack, suddenly mindful of the implication. “Why! that’s Snap Naab. Ah! I begin to see light. That—Mescal—”

  “I hate him.”

  “You hate him and you’re pledged to marry him!… God! Mescal, I’d utterly forgotten Snap Naab already has a wife.”

  “You’ve also forgotten that we’re Mormons.”

  “Are you a Mormon?” he queried bluntly.

  “I’ve been raised as one.”

  “That’s not an answer. Are you one? Do you believe any man under God’s sky ought to have more than one wife at a time?”

  “No. But I’ve been taught that it gave woman greater glory in heaven. There have been men here before you, men who talked to me, and I doubted before I ever saw you. And afterward—I knew.”

  “Would not Father Naab release you?”

  “Release me? Why, he would have taken me as a wife for himself but for Mother Mary. She hates me. So he pledged me to Snap.”

  “Does August Naab love you?”

  “Love me? No. Not in the way you mean—perhaps as a daughter. But Mormons teach duty to church first, and say such love comes—to the wives—afterward. But it doesn’t—not in the women I’ve seen. There’s Mother Ruth—her heart is broken. She loves me, and I can tell.”

  “When was this—this marriage to be?”

  “I don’t know. Father Naab promised me to his son when he came home from the Navajo range. It would be soon if they found out that you and I—Jack, Snap Naab would kill you!”

  The sudden thought startled the girl. Her eyes betrayed her terror.

  “I mightn’t be so easy to kill,” said Hare, darkly. The words came unbidden, his first answer to the wild influences about him. “Mescal, I’m sorry—maybe I’ve brought you unhappiness.”

  “No. No. To be with you has been like sitting there on the rim watching the desert, the greatest happiness I have ever known. I used to love to be with the children, but Mother Mary forbade. When I am down there, which is seldom, I’m not allowed to play with the children any more.”

  “What can I do?” asked Hare, passionately.

  “Don’t speak to Father Naab. Don’t let him guess. Don’t leave me here alone,” she answered low. It was not the Navajo speaking in her now. Love had sounded depths hitherto unplumbed; a quick, soft impulsiveness made the contrast sharp and vivid.

  “How can I help but leave you if he wants me on the cattle ranges?”

  “I don’t know. You must think. He has been so pleased with what you’ve done. He’s had Mormons up here, and two men not of his Church, and they did nothing. You’ve been ill, besides you’re different. He will keep me with the sheep as long as he can, for two reasons—because I drive them best, he says, and because Snap Naab’s wife must be persuaded to welcome me in her home.”

  “I’ll stay, if I have to get a relapse and go down on my back again,” declared Jack. “I hate to deceive him, but Mescal, pledged or not—I love you, and I won’t give up hope.”

  Her hands flew to her face again and tried to hide the dark blush.

  “Mescal, there’s one question I wish you’d answer. Does August Naab think he’ll make a Mormon of me? Is that the secret of his wonderful kindness?”

  “Of course he believes he’ll make a Mormon of you. That’s his religion. He’s felt that way over all the strangers who ever came out here. But he’d be the same to them without his hopes. I don’t know the secret of his kindness, but I think he loves everybody and everything. And Jack, he’s so good. I owe him all my life. He would not let the Navajos take me; he raised me, kept me, taught me. I can’t break my promise to him. He’s been a father to me, and I love him.”

  “I think I love him, too,” replied Hare, simply.

  With an effort he left her at last and mounted the grassy slope and climbed high up among the tottering yellow crags; and there he battled with himself. Whatever the charm of Mescal’s surrender, and the insistence of his love, stern hammer-strokes of fairness, duty, honor, beat into his brain his debt to the man who had saved him. It was a long-drawn-out battle not to be won merely by saying right was right. He loved Mescal, she loved him; and something born in him with his new health, with the breath of this sage and juniper forest, with the sight of purple canyons and silent beckoning desert, made him fiercely tenacious of all that life had come to mean for him. He could not give her up—and yet—

  Twilight forced Hare from his lofty retreat, and he trod his way campward, weary and jaded, but victorious over himself. He thought he had renounced his hope of Mescal; he returned with a resolve to be true to August, and to himself; bitterness he would not allow himself to feel. And yet he feared the rising in him of a new spirit akin to that of the desert itself, intractable and free.

  “Well, Jack, we rode down the last of Silvermane’s band,” said August, at supper. “The Navajos came up and helped us out. Tomorrow you’ll see some fun, when we start to break Silvermane. As soon as that’s done I’ll go, leaving the Indians to bring the horses down when they’re broken.”

  “Are you going to leave Silvermane with me?” asked Jack.

  “Surely. Why, in three days, if I don’t lose my guess, he’ll be like a lamb. Those desert stallions can be made into the finest kind of saddle-horses. I’ve seen one or two. I want you to stay up here with the sheep. You’re getting well, you’ll soon be a strapping big fellow. Then when we drive the sheep down in the fall you can begin life on the cattle ranges, driving wild steers. There’s where you’ll grow lean and hard, like an iron bar. You’ll need that horse, too, my lad.”

  “Why—because he’s fast?” queried Jack, quickly answering to the implied suggestion.

  August nodded gloomily. “I haven’t the gift of revelation, but I’ve come to believe Martin Cole. Holderness is building an outpost for his riders close to Seeping Springs. He has no water. If he tries to pipe my water—” The pause was not a threat; it implied the Mormon’s doubt of himself. “Then Dene is on the march this way. He’s driven some of Marshall’s cattle from the range next to mine. Dene got away with about a hundred head. The barefaced robber sold them in Lund to a buying company from Salt Lake.”

  “Is he openly an outlaw, a rustler?” inquired Hare.

  “Everybody knows it, and he’s finding White Sage and vicinity warmer than it was. Every time he comes in he and his band shoot up things pretty lively. Now the Mormons are slow to wrath. But they are awakening. All the way from Salt
Lake to the border outlaws have come in. They’ll never get the power on this desert that they had in the places from which they’ve been driven. Men of the Holderness type are more to be dreaded. He’s a rancher, greedy, unscrupulous, but hard to corner in dishonesty. Dene is only a bad man, a gun-fighter. He and all his ilk will get run out of Utah. Did you ever hear of Plummer, John Slade, Boone Helm, any of those bad men?”

  “No.”

  “Well, they were men to fear. Plummer was a sheriff in Idaho, a man high in the estimation of his townspeople, but he was the leader of the most desperate band of criminals ever known in the West; and he instigated the murder of, or killed outright, more than one hundred men. Slade was a bad man, fatal on the draw. Helm was a killing machine. These men all tried Utah, and had to get out. So will Dene have to get out. But I’m afraid there’ll be warm times before that happens. When you get in the thick of it you’ll appreciate Silvermane.”

  “I surely will. But I can’t see that wild stallion with a saddle and a bridle, eating oats like any common horse, and being led to water.”

  “Well, he’ll come to your whistle, presently, if I’m not greatly mistaken. You must make him love you, Jack. It can be done with any wild creature. Be gentle, but firm. Teach him to obey the slightest touch of rein, to stand when you throw your bridle on the ground, to come at your whistle. Always remember this. He’s a desert-bred horse; he can live on scant browse and little water. Never break him of those best virtues in a horse. Never feed him grain if you can find a little patch of browse; never give him a drink till he needs it. That’s one-tenth as often as a tame horse. Some day you’ll be caught in the desert, and with these qualities of endurance Silvermane will carry you out.”

  Silvermane snorted defiance from the cedar corral next morning when the Naabs, and Indians, and Hare appeared. A half-naked sinewy Navajo with a face as changeless as a bronze mask sat astride August’s blindfolded roan, Charger. He rode bareback except for a blanket strapped upon the horse; he carried only a long, thick halter, with a loop and a knot. When August opened the improvised gate, with its sharp bayonet-like branches of cedar, the Indian rode into the corral. The watchers climbed to the knoll. Silvermane snorted a blast of fear and anger. August’s huge roan showed uneasiness; he stamped, and shook his head, as if to rid himself of the blinders.