The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  The Bishop and his sons tried to persuade Hare next morning to leave the village without seeing Holderness, urging the futility of such a meeting.

  “I will see him,” said Hare. He spent the morning at the cottage, and when it came time to take his leave he smiled into the anxious faces. “If I weren’t able to take care of myself August Naab would never have said so.”

  Had Hare asked himself what he intended to do when he faced Holderness he could not have told. His feelings were pent-in, bound, but at the bottom something rankled. His mind seemed steeped in still thunderous atmosphere.

  How well he remembered the quaint wide street, the gray church! As he rode many persons stopped to gaze at Silvermane. He turned the corner into the main thoroughfare. A new building had been added to the several stores. Mustangs stood, bridles down, before the doors; men lounged along the railings.

  As he dismounted he heard the loungers speak of his horse, and he saw their leisurely manner quicken. He stepped into the store to meet more men, among them August Naab’s friend Abe. Hare might never have been in White Sage for all the recognition he found, but he excited something keener than curiosity. He asked for spurs, a clasp-knife and some other necessaries, and he contrived, when momentarily out of sight behind a pile of boxes, to whisper his identity to Abe. The Mormon was dumbfounded. When he came out of his trance he showed his gladness, and at a question of Hare’s he silently pointed toward the saloon.

  Hare faced the open door. The room had been enlarged; it was now on a level with the store floor, and was blue with smoke, foul with the fumes of rum, and noisy with the voices of dark, rugged men.

  A man in the middle of the room was dancing a jig.

  “Hello, who’s this?” he said, straightening up.

  It might have been the stopping of the dance or the quick spark in Hare’s eyes that suddenly quieted the room. Hare had once vowed to himself that he would never forget the scarred face; it belonged to the outlaw Chance.

  The sight of it flashed into the gulf of Hare’s mind like a meteor into black night. A sudden madness raced through his veins.

  “Hello, Don’t you know me?” he said, with a long step that brought him close to Chance.

  The outlaw stood irresolute. Was this an old friend or an enemy? His beady eyes scintillated and twitched as if they sought to look him over, yet dared not because it was only in the face that intention could be read.

  The stillness of the room broke to a hoarse whisper from someone.

  “Look how he packs his gun.”

  Another man answering whispered: “There’s not six men in Utah who pack a gun thet way.”

  Chance heard these whispers, for his eye shifted downward the merest fraction of a second. The brick color of his face turned a dirty white.

  “Do you know me?” demanded Hare.

  Chance’s answer was a spasmodic jerking of his hand toward his hip. Hare’s arm moved quicker, and Chance’s Colt went spinning to the floor.

  “Too slow,” said Hare. Then he flung Chance backward and struck him blows that sent his head with sodden thuds against the log wall. Chance sank to the floor in a heap.

  Hare kicked the outlaw’s gun out of the way, and wheeled to the crowd. Holderness stood foremost, his tall form leaning against the bar, his clear eyes shining like light on ice.

  “Do you know me?” asked Hare, curtly.

  Holderness started slightly. “I certainly don’t,” he replied.

  “You slapped my face once.” Hare leaned close to the rancher. “Slap it now—you rustler!”

  In the slow, guarded instant when Hare’s gaze held Holderness and the other men, a low murmuring ran through the room.

  “Dene’s spy!” suddenly burst out Holderness.

  Hare slapped his face. Then he backed a few paces with his right arm held before him almost as high as his shoulder, the wrist rigid, the fingers quivering.

  “Don’t try to draw, Holderness. Thet’s August Naab’s trick with a gun,” whispered a man, hurriedly.

  “Holderness, I made a bonfire over at Seeping Springs,” said Hare. “I burned the new corrals your men built, and I tracked them to your ranch. Snood threw up his job when he heard it. He’s an honest man, and no honest man will work for a water-thief, a cattle-rustler, a sheep-killer. You’re shown up, Holderness. Leave the country before someone kills you—understand, before someone kills you!”

  Holderness stood motionless against the bar, his eyes fierce with passionate hate.

  Hare backed step by step to the outside door, his right hand still high, his look holding the crowd bound to the last instant. Then he slipped out, scattered the group round Silvermane, and struck hard with the spurs.

  The gray, never before spurred, broke down the road into his old wild speed.

  Men were crossing from the corner of the green square. One, a compact little fellow, swarthy, his dark hair long and flowing, with jaunty and alert air, was Dene, the outlaw leader. He stopped, with his companions, to let the horse cross.

  Hare guided the thundering stallion slightly to the left. Silvermane swerved and in two mighty leaps bore down on the outlaw. Dene saved himself by quickly leaping aside, but even as he moved Silvermane struck him with his left fore-leg, sending him into the dust.

  At the street corner Hare glanced back. Yelling men were rushing from the saloon and some of them fired after him. The bullets whistled harmlessly behind Hare. Then the corner house shut off his view.

  Silvermane lengthened out and stretched lower with his white mane flying and his nose pointed level for the desert.

  THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT [Part 2]

  CHAPTER XI

  THE DESERT-HAWK

  Toward the close of the next day Jack Hare arrived at Seeping Springs. A pile of gray ashes marked the spot where the trimmed logs had lain. Round the pool ran a black circle hard packed into the ground by many hoofs. Even the board flume had been burned to a level with the glancing sheet of water. Hare was slipping Silvermane’s bit to let him drink when he heard a halloo. Dave Naab galloped out of the cedars, and presently August Naab and his other sons appeared with a pack-train.

  “Now you’ve played bob!” exclaimed Dave. He swung out of his saddle and gripped Hare with both hands. “I know what you’ve done; I know where you’ve been. Father will be furious, but don’t you care.”

  The other Naabs trotted down the slope and lined their horses before the pool. The sons stared in blank astonishment; the father surveyed the scene slowly, and then fixed wrathful eyes on Hare.

  “What does this mean?” he demanded, with the sonorous roll of his angry voice.

  Hare told all that had happened.

  August Naab’s gloomy face worked, and his eagle-gaze had in it a strange far-seeing light; his mind was dwelling upon his mystic power of revelation.

  “I see—I see,” he said haltingly.

  “Ki—yi-i-i!” yelled Dave Naab with all the power of his lungs. His head was back, his mouth wide open, his face red, his neck corded and swollen with the intensity of his passion.

  “Be still—boy!” ordered his father. “Hare, this was madness—but tell me what you learned.”

  Briefly Hare repeated all that he had been told at the Bishop’s, and concluded with the killing of Martin Cole by Dene.

  August Naab bowed his head and his giant frame shook under the force of his emotion. Martin Cole was the last of his life-long friends.

  “This—this outlaw—you say you ran him down?” asked Naab, rising haggard and shaken out of his grief.

  “Yes. He didn’t recognize me or know what was coming till Silvermane was on him. But he was quick, and fell sidewise. Silvermane’s knee sent him sprawling.”

  “What will it all lead to?” asked August Naab, and in his extremity he appealed to his eldest son.

  “The bars are down,” said Snap Naab, with a click of his long teeth.

  “Father,” began Dave Naab earnestly, “Jack has done a splendid thing. The news
will fly over Utah like wildfire. Mormons are slow. They need a leader. But they can follow and they will. We can’t cure these evils by hoping and praying. We’ve got to fight!”

  “Dave’s right, dad, it means fight,” cried George, with his fist clinched high.

  “You’ve been wrong, father, in holding back,” said Zeke Naab, his lean jaw bulging. “This Holderness will steal the water and meat out of our children’s mouths. We’ve got to fight!”

  “Let’s ride to White Sage,” put in Snap Naab, and the little flecks in his eyes were dancing. “I’ll throw a gun on Dene. I can get to him. We’ve been tolerable friends. He’s wanted me to join his band. I’ll kill him.”

  He laughed as he raised his right hand and swept it down to his left side; the blue Colt lay on his outstretched palm. Dene’s life and Holderness’s, too, hung in the balance between two deadly snaps of this desert-wolf’s teeth. He was one of the Naabs, and yet apart from them, for neither religion, nor friendship, nor life itself mattered to him.

  August Naab’s huge bulk shook again, not this time with grief, but in wrestling effort to withstand the fiery influence of this unholy fighting spirit among his sons.

  “I am forbidden.”

  His answer was gentle, but its very gentleness breathed of his battle over himself, of allegiance to something beyond earthly duty. “We’ll drive the cattle to Silver Cup,” he decided, “and then go home. I give up Seeping Springs. Perhaps this valley and water will content Holderness.”

  When they reached the oasis Hare was surprised to find that it was the day before Christmas. The welcome given the long-absent riders was like a celebration. Much to Hare’s disappointment Mescal did not appear; the homecoming was not joyful to him because it lacked her welcoming smile.

  Christmas Day ushered in the short desert winter; ice formed in the ditches and snow fell, but neither long resisted the reflection of the sun from the walls. The early morning hours were devoted to religious services. At midday dinner was served in the big room of August Naab’s cabin. At one end was a stone fireplace where logs blazed and crackled.

  In all his days Hare had never seen such a bountiful board. Yet he was unable to appreciate it, to share in the general thanksgiving. Dominating all other feeling was the fear that Mescal would come in and take a seat by Snap Naab’s side. When Snap seated himself opposite with his pale little wife Hare found himself waiting for Mescal with an intensity that made him dead to all else. The girls, Judith, Esther, Rebecca, came running gayly in, clad in their best dresses, with bright ribbons to honor the occasion. Rebecca took the seat beside Snap, and Hare gulped with a hard contraction of his throat. Mescal was not yet a Mormon’s wife! He seemed to be lifted upward, to grow light-headed with the blessed assurance. Then Mescal entered and took the seat next to him. She smiled and spoke, and the blood beat thick in his ears.

  That moment was happy, but it was as nothing to its successor. Under the table-cover Mescal’s hand found his, and pressed it daringly and gladly. Her hand lingered in his all the time August Naab spent in carving the turkey—lingered there even though Snap Naab’s hawk eyes were never far away. In the warm touch of her hand, in some subtle thing that radiated from her Hare felt a change in the girl he loved. A few months had wrought in her some indefinable difference, even as they had increased his love to its full volume and depth. Had his absence brought her to the realization of her woman’s heart?

  In the afternoon Hare left the house and spent a little while with Silvermane; then he wandered along the wall to the head of the oasis, and found a seat on the fence. The next few weeks presented to him a situation that would be difficult to endure. He would be near Mescal, but only to have the truth forced cruelly home to him every sane moment—that she was not for him. Out on the ranges he had abandoned himself to dreams of her; they had been beautiful; they had made the long hours seem like minutes; but they had forged chains that could not be broken, and now he was hopelessly fettered.

  The clatter of hoofs roused him from a reverie which was half sad, half sweet. Mescal came tearing down the level on Black Bolly. She pulled in the mustang and halted beside Hare to hold out shyly a red scarf embroidered with Navajo symbols in white and red beads.

  “I’ve wanted a chance to give you this,” she said, “a little Christmas present.”

  For a few seconds Hare could find no words.

  “Did you make it for me, Mescal?” he finally asked. “How good of you! I’ll keep it always.”

  “Put it on now—let me tie it—there!”

  “But, child. Suppose he—they saw it?”

  “I don’t care who sees it.”

  She met him with clear, level eyes. Her curt, crisp speech was full of meaning. He looked long at her, with a yearning denied for many a day. Her face was the same, yet wonderfully changed; the same in line and color, but different in soul and spirit. The old sombre shadow lay deep in the eyes, but to it had been added gleam of will and reflection of thought. The whole face had been refined and transformed.

  “Mescal! What’s happened? You’re not the same. You seem almost happy. Have you—has he—given you up?”

  “Don’t you know Mormons better than that? The thing is the same—so far as they’re concerned.”

  “But Mescal—are you going to marry him? For God’s sake, tell me.”

  “Never.” It was a woman’s word, instant, inflexible, desperate. With a deep breath Hare realized where the girl had changed.

  “Still you’re promised, pledged to him! How’ll you get out of it?”

  “I don’t know how. But I’ll cut out my tongue, and be dumb as my poor peon before I’ll speak the word that’ll make me Snap Naab’s wife.”

  There was a long silence. Mescal smoothed out Bolly’s mane, and Hare gazed up at the walls with eyes that did not see them.

  Presently he spoke. “I’m afraid for you. Snap watched us today at dinner.”

  “He’s jealous.”

  “Suppose he sees this scarf?”

  Mescal laughed defiantly. It was bewildering for Hare to hear her.

  “He’ll—Mescal, I may yet come to this.” Hare’s laugh echoed Mescal’s as he pointed to the enclosure under the wall, where the graves showed bare and rough.

  Her warm color fled, but it flooded back, rich, mantling brow and cheek and neck.

  “Snap Naab will never kill you,” she said impulsively.

  “Mescal.”

  She swiftly turned her face away as his hand closed on hers.

  “Mescal, do you love me?”

  The trembling of her fingers and the heaving of her bosom lent his hope conviction. “Mescal,” he went on, “these past months have been years, years of toiling, thinking, changing, but always loving. I’m not the man you knew. I’m wild— I’m starved for a sight of you. I love you! Mescal, my desert flower!”

  She raised her free hand to his shoulder and swayed toward him. He held her a moment, clasped tight, and then released her.

  “I’m quite mad!” he exclaimed, in a passion of self-reproach. “What a risk I’m putting on you! But I couldn’t help it. Look at me— Just once—please— Mescal, just one look.… Now go.”

  The drama of the succeeding days was of absorbing interest. Hare had liberty; there was little work for him to do save to care for Silvermane. He tried to hunt foxes in the caves and clefts; he rode up and down the broad space under the walls; he sought the open desert only to be driven in by the bitter, biting winds. Then he would return to the big living-room of the Naabs and sit before the burning logs. This spacious room was warm, light, pleasant, and was used by every one in leisure hours. Mescal spent most of her time there. She was engaged upon a new frock of buckskin, and over this she bent with her needle and beads. When there was a chance Hare talked with her, speaking one language with his tongue, a far different one with his eyes. When she was not present he looked into the glowing red fire and dreamed of her.

  In the evenings when Snap came in to his wooing and d
rew Mescal into a corner, Hare watched with covert glance and smouldering jealousy. Somehow he had come to see all things and all people in the desert glass, and his symbol for Snap Naab was the desert-hawk. Snap’s eyes were as wild and piercing as those of a hawk; his nose and mouth were as the beak of a hawk; his hands resembled the claws of a hawk; and the spurs he wore, always bloody, were still more significant of his ruthless nature. Then Snap’s courting of the girl, the cool assurance, the unhastening ease, were like the slow rise, the sail, and the poise of a desert-hawk before the downward lightning-swift swoop on his quarry.

  It was intolerable for Hare to sit there in the evenings, to try to play with the children who loved him, to talk to August Naab when his eye seemed ever drawn to the quiet couple in the corner, and his ear was unconsciously strained to catch a passing word. That hour was a miserable one for him, yet he could not bring himself to leave the room. He never saw Snap touch her; he never heard Mescal’s voice; he believed that she spoke very little. When the hour was over and Mescal rose to pass to her room, then his doubt, his fear, his misery, were as though they had never been, for as Mescal said good-night she would give him one look, swift as a flash, and in it were womanliness and purity, and something beyond his comprehension. Her Indian serenity and mysticism veiled yet suggested some secret, some power by which she might yet escape the iron band of this Mormon rule. Hare could not fathom it. In that good-night glance was a meaning for him alone, if meaning ever shone in woman’s eyes, and it said: “I will be true to you and to myself!”

  Once the idea struck him that as soon as spring returned it would be an easy matter, and probably wise, for him to leave the oasis and go up into Utah, far from the desert-canyon country. But the thought refused to stay before his consciousness a moment. New life had flushed his veins here. He loved the dreamy, sleepy oasis with its mellow sunshine always at rest on the glistening walls; he loved the cedar-scented plateau where hope had dawned, and the wind-swept sand-strips, where hard out-of-door life and work had renewed his wasting youth; he loved the canyon winding away toward Coconina, opening into wide abyss; and always, more than all, he loved the Painted Desert, with its ever-changing pictures, printed in sweeping dust and bare peaks and purple haze. He loved the beauty of these places, and the wildness in them had an affinity with something strange and untamed in him. He would never leave them. When his blood had cooled, when this tumultuous thrill and swell had worn themselves out, happiness would come again.