The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  Hare cried aloud in welcome.

  The canyon widened; there was a clear demarcation where the red walls gave place to yellow; the brook showed no outlet from its subterranean channel. Sheer exhaustion made Hare almost forget his mission; the strength of his resolve had gone into mechanical toil; he kept on, conscious only of the smart of bruised hands and feet and the ache of laboring lungs.

  Time went on and the sun hung in the midst of the broadening belt of blue sky. A long slant of yellow slope led down to a sage-covered level, which Hare crossed, pleased to see blooming cacti and wondering at their slender lofty green stems shining with gold flowers. He descended into a ravine which became precipitous. Here he made only slow advance. At the bottom he found himself in a wonderful lane with an almost level floor; here flowed a shallow stream bordered by green willows. Wolf took the direction of the flowing water. Hare’s thoughts were all of Mescal, and his hopes began to mount, his heart to beat high.

  He gazed ahead with straining eyes. Presently there was not a break in the walls. A drowsy hum of falling water came to Hare, strange reminder of the oasis, the dull roar of the Colorado, and of Mescal.

  His flagging energies leaped into life with the canyon suddenly opening to bright light and blue sky and beautiful valley, white and gold in blossom, green with grass and cottonwood. On a flower-scented wind rushed that muffled roar again, like distant thunder.

  Wolf dashed into the cottonwoods. Silvermane whistled with satisfaction and reached for the long grass.

  For Hare the light held something more than beauty, the breeze something more than sweet scent of water and blossom. Both were charged with meaning—with suspense.

  Wolf appeared in the open leaping upon a slender brown-garbed form.

  “Mescal!” cried Hare.

  With a cry she ran to him, her arms outstretched, her hair flying in the wind, her dark eyes wild with joy.

  CHAPTER XVI

  THUNDER RIVER

  For an instant Hare’s brain reeled, and Mescal’s broken murmurings were meaningless. Then his faculties grew steady and acute; he held the girl as if he intended never to let her go. Mescal clung to him with a wildness that gave him anxiety for her reason; there was something almost fierce in the tension of her arms, in the blind groping for his face.

  “Mescal! It’s Jack, safe and well,” he said. “Let me look at you.”

  At the sound of his voice all her rigid strength changed to a yielding weakness; she leaned back supported by his arms and looked at him. Hare trembled before the dusky level glance he remembered so well, and as tears began to flow he drew her head to his shoulder. He had forgotten to prepare himself for a different Mescal. Despite the quivering smile of happiness, her eyes were strained with pain. The oval contour, the rich bloom of her face had gone; beauty was there still, but it was the ghost of the old beauty.

  “Jack—is it—really you?” she asked.

  He answered with a kiss.

  She slipped out of his arms breathless and scarlet. “Tell me all—”

  “There’s much to tell, but not before you kiss me. It has been more than a year.”

  “Only a year! Have I been gone only a year?”

  “Yes, a year. But it’s past now. Kiss me, Mescal. One kiss will pay for that long year, though it broke my heart.”

  Shyly she raised her hands to his shoulders and put her lips to his. “Yes, you’ve found me, Jack, thank God! just in time!”

  “Mescal! What’s wrong? Aren’t you well?”

  “Pretty well. But if you had not come soon I should have starved.”

  “Starved? Let me get my saddle-bags—I have bread and meat.”

  “Wait. I’m not so hungry now. I mean very soon I should not have had any food at all.”

  “But your peon—the dumb Indian? Surely he could find something to eat. What of him? Where is he?”

  “My peon is dead. He has been dead for months, I don’t know how many.”

  “Dead! What was the matter with him?”

  “I never knew. I found him dead one morning and I buried him in the sand.”

  Mescal led Hare under the cottonwoods and pointed to the Indian’s grave, now green with grass. Farther on in a circle of trees stood a little hogan skilfully constructed out of brush; the edge of a red blanket peeped from the door; a burnt-out fire smoked on a stone fireplace, and blackened earthen vessels lay near. The white seeds of the cottonwoods were flying light as feathers; plum-trees were pink in blossom; there were vines twining all about; through the openings in the foliage shone the blue of sky and red of cliff. Patches of blossoming Bowers were here and there lit to brilliance by golden shafts of sunlight. The twitter of birds and hum of bees were almost drowned in the soft roar of water.

  “Is that the Colorado I hear?” asked Hare.

  “No, that’s Thunder River. The Colorado is farther down in the Grand Canyon.”

  “Farther down! Mescal, I must have come a mile from the rim. Where are we?”

  “We are almost at the Colorado, and directly under the head of Coconina. We can see the mountain from the break in the valley below.”

  “Come sit by me here under this tree. Tell me—how did you ever get here?”

  Then Mescal told him how the peon had led her on a long trail from Bitter Seeps, how they had camped at desert waterholes, and on the fourth day descended to Thunder River.

  “I was quite happy at first. It’s always summer down here. There were rabbits, birds, beaver, and fruit—we had enough to eat. I explored the valley with Wolf or rode Noddle up and down the canyon. Then my peon died, and I had to shift for myself. There came a time when the beaver left the valley, and Wolf and I had to make a rabbit serve for days. I knew then I’d have to get across the desert to the Navajos or starve in the canyon. I hesitated about climbing out into the desert, for I wasn’t sure of the trail to the waterholes. Noddle wandered off up the canyon and never came back. After he was gone and I knew I couldn’t get out I grew homesick. The days weren’t so bad because I was always hunting for something to eat, but the nights were lonely. I couldn’t sleep. I lay awake listening to the river, and at last I could hear whispering and singing and music, and strange sounds, and low thunder, always low thunder. I wasn’t really frightened, only lonely, and the canyon was so black and full of mutterings. Sometimes I’d dream I was back on the plateau with you, Jack, and Bolly and the sheep, and when I’d awake in the loneliness I’d cry right out—”

  “Mescal, I heard those cries,” said Hare.

  “It was strange—the way I felt. I believe if I’d never known and—and loved you, Jack, I’d have forgotten home. After I’d been here a while, I seemed to be drifting, drifting. It was as if I had lived in the canyon long before, and was remembering. The feeling was strong, but always thoughts of you, and of the big world, brought me back to the present with its loneliness and fear of starvation. Then I wanted you, and I’d cry out. I knew I must send Wolf home. How hard it was to make him go! But at last he trotted off, looking backward, and I—waited and waited.”

  She leaned against him. The hand which had plucked at his sleeve dropped to his fingers and clung there. Hare knew how her story had slighted the perils and privations of that long year. She had grown lonely in the canyon darkness; she had sent Wolf away and had waited—all was said in that. But more than any speech, the look of her, and the story told in the thin brown hands touched his heart. Not for an instant since his arrival had she altogether let loose of his fingers, or coat, or arm. She had lived so long alone in this weird world of silence and moving shadows and murmuring water, that she needed to feel the substance of her hopes, to assure herself of the reality of the man she loved.

  “My mustang—Bolly—tell me of her,” said Mescal.

  “Bolly’s fine. Sleek and fat and lazy! She’s been in the fields ever since you left. Not a bridle on her. Many times have I seen her poke her black muzzle over the fence and look down the lane. She’d never forget you, Mescal.”
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  “Oh! how I want to see her! Tell me—everything.”

  “Wait a little. Let me fetch Silvermane and we’ll make a fire and eat. Then—”

  “Tell me now.”

  “Well, Mescal, it’s soon told.” Then came the story of events growing out of her flight. When he told of the shooting at Silver Cup, Mescal rose with heaving bosom and blazing eyes.

  “It was nothing—I wasn’t hurt much. Only the intention was bad. We saw no more of Snap or Holderness. The worst of it all was that Snap’s wife died.”

  “Oh, I am sorry—sorry. Poor Father Naab! How he must hate me, the cause of it all! But I couldn’t stay—I couldn’t marry Snap.”

  “Don’t blame yourself, Mescal. What Snap might have done if you had married him is guesswork. He might have left drink alone a while longer. But he was bad clean through. I heard Dave Naab tell him that. Snap would have gone over to Holderness sooner or later. And now he’s a rustler, if not worse.”

  “Then those men think Snap killed you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s going to happen when you meet Snap, or any of them?”

  “Somebody will be surprised,” replied Hare, with a laugh.

  “Jack, it’s no laughing matter.” She fastened her hands in the lapels of his coat and her eyes grew sad. “You can never hang up your gun again.”

  “No. But perhaps I can keep out of their way, especially Snap’s. Mescal, you’ve forgotten Silvermane, and how he can run.”

  “I haven’t forgotten. He can run, but he can’t beat Bolly.” She said this with a hint of her old spirit. “Jack—you want to take me back home?”

  “Of course. What did you expect when you sent Wolf?”

  “I didn’t expect. I just wanted to see you, or somebody, and I thought of the Navajos. Couldn’t I live with them? Why can’t we stay here or in a canyon across the Colorado where there’s plenty of game?”

  “I’m going to take you home and Father Naab shall marry you—to—to me.”

  Startled, Mescal fell back upon his shoulder and did not stir nor speak for a long time. “Did—did you tell him?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he say? Was he angry? Tell me.”

  “He was kind and good as he always is. He said if I found you, then the issue would be between Snap and me, as man to man. You are still pledged to Snap in the Mormon Church and that can’t be changed. I don’t suppose even if he’s outlawed that it could be changed.”

  “Snap will not let any grass grow in the trails to the oasis,” said Mescal. “Once he finds I’ve come back to life he’ll have me. You don’t know him, Jack. I’m afraid to go home.”

  “My dear, there’s no other place for us to go. We can’t live the life of Indians.”

  “But Jack, think of me watching you ride out from home! Think of me always looking for Snap! I couldn’t endure it. I’ve grown weak in this year of absence.”

  “Mescal, look at me.” His voice rang as he held her face to face. “We must decide everything. Now—say you love me!”

  “Yes—yes.”

  “Say it.”

  “I—love you—Jack.”

  “Say you’ll marry me!”

  “I will marry you.”

  “Then listen. I’ll get you out of this canyon and take you home. You are mine and I’ll keep you.” He held her tightly with strong arms; his face paled, his eyes darkened. “I don’t want to meet Snap Naab. I shall try to keep out of his way. I hope I can. But Mescal, I’m yours now. Your happiness—perhaps your life—depends on me. That makes a difference. Understand!”

  Silvermane walked into the glade with a saddle-girth so tight that his master unbuckled it only by dint of repeated effort. Evidently the rich grass of Thunder River Canyon appealed strongly to the desert stallion.

  “Here, Silver, how do you expect to carry us out if you eat and drink like that?” Hare removed the saddle and tethered the gray to one of the cottonwoods. Wolf came trotting into camp proudly carrying a rabbit.

  “Mescal, can we get across the Colorado and find a way up over Coconina?” asked Hare.

  “Yes, I’m sure we can. My peon never made a mistake about directions. There’s no trail, but Navajos have crossed the river at this season, and worked up a canyon.”

  The shadows had gathered under the cliffs, and the rosy light high up on the ramparts had chilled and waned when Hare and Mescal sat down to their meal. Wolf lay close to the girl and begged for morsels. Then in the twilight they sat together content to be silent, listening to the low thunder of the river. Long after Mescal had retired into her hogan Hare lay awake before her door with his head in his saddle and listened to the low roll, the dull burr, the dreamy hum of the tumbling waters. The place was like the oasis, only infinitely more hidden under the cliffs. A few stars twinkled out of the dark blue, and one hung, beaconlike, on the crest of a noble crag. There were times when he imagined the valley was as silent as the desert night, and other times when he imagined he heard the thundering roll of avalanches and the tramp of armies. Then the voices of Mescal’s solitude spoke to him—glorious laughter and low sad wails of woe, sweet songs and whispers and murmurs. His last waking thoughts were of the haunting sound of Thunder River, and that he had come to bear Mescal away from its loneliness.

  He bestirred himself at the first glimpse of day, and when the gray mists had lifted to wreathe the crags it was light enough to begin the journey. Mescal shed tears at the grave of the faithful peon. “He loved this canyon,” she said, softly. Hare lifted her upon Silvermane. He walked beside the horse and Wolf trotted on before. They travelled awhile under the flowering cottonwoods on a trail bordered with green tufts of grass and great star-shaped lilies. The river was still hidden, but it filled the grove with its soft thunder. Gradually the trees thinned out, hard stony ground encroached upon the sand, bowlders appeared in the way; and presently, when Silvermane stepped out of the shade of the cottonwoods, Hare saw the lower end of the valley with its ragged vent.

  “Look back!” said Mescal.

  Hare saw the river bursting from the base of the wall in two white streams which soon united below, and leaped down in a continuous cascade. Step by step the stream plunged through the deep gorge, a broken, foaming raceway, and at the lower end of the valley it took its final leap into a blue abyss, and then found its way to the Colorado, hidden underground.

  The flower-scented breeze and the rumbling of the river persisted long after the valley lay behind and above, but these failed at length in the close air of the huge abutting walls. The light grew thick, the stones cracked like deep bell-strokes; the voices of man and girl had a hollow sound and echo. Silvermane clattered down the easy trail at a gait which urged Hare now and then from walk to run. Soon the gully opened out upon a plateau through the centre of which, in a black gulf, wound the red Colorado, sullen-voiced, booming, never silent nor restful. Here were distances by which Hare could begin to comprehend the immensity of the canyon, and he felt lost among the great terraces leading up to mesas that dwarfed the Echo Cliffs. All was bare rock of many hues burning under the sun.

  “Jack, this is mescal,” said the girl, pointing to some towering plants.

  All over the sunny slopes cacti lifted slender shafts, unfolding in spiral leaves as they shot upward and bursting at the top into plumes of yellow flowers. The blossoming stalks waved in the wind, and black bees circled round them.

  “Mescal, I’ve always wanted to see the Flower of the Desert from which you’re named. It’s beautiful.”

  Hare broke a dead stalk of the cactus and was put to instant flight by a stream of bees pouring with angry buzz from the hollow centre. Two big fellows were so persistent that he had to beat them off with his hat.

  “You shouldn’t despoil their homes,” said Mescal, with a peal of laughter.

  “I’ll break another stalk and get stung, if you’ll laugh again,” replied Hare.

  They traversed the remaining slope of the plateau, and enteri
ng the head of a ravine, descended a steep cleft of flinty rock, rock so hard that Silvermane’s iron hoofs not so much as scratched it. Then reaching a level, they passed out to rounded sand and the river.

  “It’s a little high,” said Hare dubiously. “Mescal, I don’t like the looks of those rapids.”

  Only a few hundred rods of the river could be seen. In front of Hare the current was swift but not broken. Above, where the canyon turned, the river sheered out with a majestic roll and falling in a wide smooth curve suddenly narrowed into a leaping crest of reddish waves. Below Hare was a smaller rapid where the broken water turned toward the nearer side of the river, but with an accompaniment of twisting swirls and vicious waves.

  “I guess we’d better risk it,” said Hare, grimly recalling the hot rock, the sand, and lava of the desert.

  “It’s safe, if Silvermane is a good swimmer,” replied Mescal. “We can take the river above and cut across so the current will help.”

  “Silvermane loves the water. He’ll make this crossing easily. But he can’t carry us both, and it’s impossible to make two trips. I’ll have to swim.”

  Without wasting more words and time over a task which would only grow more formidable with every look and thought, Hare led Silvermane up the sand-bar to its limit. He removed his coat and strapped it behind the saddle; his belt and revolver and boots he hung over the pommel.

  “How about Wolf? I’d forgotten him.”

  “Never fear for him! He’ll stick close to me.”

  “Now, Mescal, there’s the point we want to make, that bar; see it?”

  “Surely we can land above that.”

  “I’ll be satisfied if we get even there. You guide him for it. And, Mescal, here’s my gun. Try to keep it from getting wet. Balance it on the pommel—so. Come, Silver; come, Wolf.”