The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  Next day I had my first sight of real mountains. And the Pennsylvania hills, that all my life had appeared so high, dwindled to nothing. At Trinidad, where we stopped for breakfast, I walked out on the platform sniffing at the keen thin air. When we crossed the Raton Mountains into New Mexico the sick boy got off at the first station, and I waved good-bye to him as the train pulled out. Then the mountains and the funny little adobe huts and the Pueblo Indians along the line made me forget everything else.

  The big man with the heavy watch-chain was still on the train, and after he had read his newspaper he began to talk to me.

  “This road follows the old trail that the goldseekers took in forty-nine,” he said. “We’re comin’ soon to a place, Apache Pass, where the Apaches used to ambush the wagon-trains, It’s somewheres along here.”

  Presently the train wound into a narrow yellow ravine, the walls of which grew higher and higher.

  “Them Apaches was the worst redskins ever in the West. They used to hide on top of this pass an’ shoot down on the wagon-trains.”

  Later in the day he drew my attention to a mountain standing all by itself. It was shaped like a cone, green with trees almost to the summit, and ending in a bare stone peak that had a flat top.

  “Starvation Peak,” he said. “That name’s three hundred years old, dates back to the time the Spaniards owned this land. There’s a story about it that’s likely true enough. Some Spaniards were attacked by Indians an’ climbed to the peak, expectin’ to be better able to defend themselves up there. The Indians camped below the peak an’ starved the Spaniards. Stuck there till they starved to death! That’s where it got its name.”

  “Those times you tell of must have been great,” I said, regretfully. “I’d like to have been here then. But isn’t the country all settled now? Aren’t the Indians dead? There’s no more fighting?”

  “It’s not like it used to be, but there’s still warm places in the West. Not that the Indians break out often any more. But bad men are almost as bad, if not so plentiful, as when Billy the Kid run these parts. I saw two men shot an’ another knifed jest before I went East to St. Louis.”

  “Where?”

  “In Arizona. Holston is the station where I get off, an’ it happened near there.”

  “Holston is where I’m going.”

  “You don’t say. Well, I’m glad to meet you, young man. My name’s Buell, an’ I’m some known in Holston. What’s your name?”

  He eyed me in a sharp but not unfriendly manner, and seemed pleased to learn of my destination.

  “Ward. Kenneth Ward. I’m from Pennsylvania.”

  “You haven’t got the bugs. Any one can see that,” he said, and as I looked puzzled he went on with a smile, and a sounding rap on his chest: “Most young fellers as come out here have consumption. They call it bugs. I reckon you’re seekin’ your fortune.”

  “Yes, in a way.”

  “There’s opportunities for husky youngsters out here. What’re you goin’ to rustle for, if I may ask?”

  “I’m going in for forestry.”

  “Forestry? Do you mean lumberin’?”

  “No. Forestry is rather the opposite of lumbering. I’m going in for Government forestry—to save the timber, not cut it.”

  It seemed to me he gave a little start of surprise; he certainly straightened up and looked at me hard.

  “What’s Government forestry?”

  I told him to the best of my ability. He listened attentively enough, but thereafter he had not another word for me, and presently he went into the next car. I took his manner to be the Western abruptness that I had heard of, and presently forgot him in the scenery along the line. At Albuquerque I got off for a trip to a lunch-counter, and happened to take a seat next to him.

  “Know anybody in Holston?” he asked.

  As I could not speak because of a mouthful of sandwich I shook my head. For the moment I had forgotten about Dick Leslie, and when it did occur to me some Indians offering to sell me beads straightway drove it out of my mind again.

  When I awoke the next day, it was to see the sage ridges and red buttes of Arizona. We were due at Holston at eight o’clock, but owing to a crippled engine the train was hours late. At last I fell asleep to be awakened by a vigorous shake.

  “Holston. Your stop. Holston,” the conductor was saying.

  “All right,” I said, sitting up and then making a grab for my grip. “We’re pretty late, aren’t we?”

  “Six hours. It’s two o’clock.”

  “Hope I can get a room,” I said, as I followed him out on the platform. He held up his lantern so that the light would shine in my face. “There’s a hotel down the street a block or so. Better hurry and look sharp. Holston’s not a safe place for a stranger at night.”

  I stepped off into a windy darkness. A lamp glimmered in the station window. By its light I made out several men, the foremost of whom had a dark, pointed face and glittering eyes. He wore a strange hat, and I knew from pictures I had seen that he was a Mexican. Then the bulky form of Buell loomed up. I called, but evidently he did not hear me. The men took his grips, and they moved away to disappear in the darkness. While I paused, hoping to see someone to direct me, the train puffed out, leaving me alone on the platform.

  When I turned the corner I saw two dim lights, one far to the left, the other to the right, and the black outline of buildings under what appeared to be the shadow of a mountain. It was the quietest and darkest town I had ever struck.

  I decided to turn toward the right-hand light, for the conductor had said “down the street.” I set forth at a brisk pace, but the loneliness and strangeness of the place were rather depressing.

  Before I had gone many steps, however, the sound of running water halted me, and just in the nick of time, for I was walking straight into a ditch. By peering hard into the darkness and feeling my way I found a bridge. Then it did not take long to reach the light. But it was a saloon, and not the hotel. One peep into it served to make me face about in double-quick time, and hurry in the opposite direction.

  Hearing a soft footfall, I glanced over my shoulder, to see the Mexican that I had noticed at the station. He was coming from across the street. I wondered if he were watching me. He might be. My heart began to beat violently. Turning once again, I discovered that the fellow could not be seen in the pitchy blackness. Then I broke into a run.

  CHAPTER III

  THE TRAIL

  A short dash brought me to the end of the block; the side street was not so dark, and after I had crossed this open space I glanced backward.

  Soon I sped into a wan circle of light, and, reaching a door upon which was a hotel sign, I burst in. Chairs were scattered about a bare office; a man stirred on a couch, and then sat up, blinking.

  “I’m afraid—I believe someone’s chasing me,” I said.

  He sat there eying me, and then drawled, sleepily:

  “Thet ain’t no call to wake a feller, is it?”

  The man settled himself comfortably again, and closed his eyes.

  “Say, isn’t this a hotel? I want a room!” I cried.

  “Upstairs; first door.” And with that the porter went to sleep in good earnest.

  I made for the stairs, and, after a backward look into the street, I ran up. A smelly lamp shed a yellowish glare along a hall. I pushed open the first door, and, entering the room, bolted myself in. Then all the strength went out of my legs. When I sat down on the bed I was in a cold sweat and shaking like a leaf. Soon the weakness passed, and I moved about the room, trying to find a lamp or candle. Evidently the hotel, and, for that matter, the town of Holston, did not concern itself with such trifles as lights. On the instant I got a bad impression of Holston. I had to undress in the dark. When I pulled the window open a little at the top the upper sash slid all the way down. I managed to get it back, and tried raising the lower sash. It was very loose, but it stayed up. Then I crawled into bed.

  Though I was tired and sleepy, m
y mind whirled so that I could not get to sleep. If I had been honest with myself I should have wished myself back home. Pennsylvania seemed a long way off, and the adventures that I had dreamed of did not seem so alluring, now that I was in a lonely room in a lonely, dark town. Buell had seemed friendly and kind—at least, in the beginning. Why had he not answered my call? The incident did not look well to me. Then I fell to wondering if the Mexican had really followed me. The first thing for me in the morning would be to buy a revolver. Then if any Mexicans—

  A step on the tin roof outside frightened me stiff. I had noticed a porch, or shed, under my window. Some one must have climbed upon it. I stopped breathing to listen. For what seemed moments there was no sound. I wanted to think that the noise might have been made by a cat, but I couldn’t. I was scared—frightened half to death.

  If there had been a bolt on the window the matter would not have been so disturbing. I lay there a-quiver, eyes upon the gray window space of my room. Dead silence once more intervened. All I heard was the pound of my heart against my ribs.

  Suddenly I froze at the sight of a black figure against the light of my window. I recognized the strange bat, the grotesque outlines. I was about to shout for help when the fellow reached down and softly began to raise the sash.

  That made me angry. Jerking up in bed, I caught the heavy pitcher from the wash-stand and flung it with all my might.

  Crash!

  Had I smashed out the whole side of the room it could scarcely have made more noise. Accompanied by the clinking of glass and the creaking of tin, my visitor rolled off the roof. I waited, expecting an uproar from the other inmates of the hotel. No footstep, no call sounded within hearing. Once again the stillness settled down.

  Then, to my relief, the gray gloom lightened, and dawn broke. Never had I been so glad to see the morning. While dressing I cast gratified glances at the ragged hole in the window. With the daylight my courage had returned, and I began to have a sort of pride in my achievement.

  “If that fellow had known how I can throw a baseball he’d have been careful,” I thought, a little cockily.

  I went downstairs into the office. The sleepy porter was mopping the floor. Behind the desk stood a man so large that he made Buell seem small. He was all shoulders and beard.

  “Can I get breakfast?”

  “Nobody’s got a half-hitch on you, has they?” he replied, jerking a monstrous thumb over his shoulder toward a door.

  I knew the words half-hitch had something to do with a lasso, and I was rather taken back by the hotel proprietor’s remark. The dining-room was more attractive than anything I had yet seen about the place: the linen was clean, and the ham and eggs and coffee that were being served to several rugged men gave forth a savory odor. But either the waiter was blind or he could not bear, for he paid not the slightest attention to me. I waited, while trying to figure out the situation. Something was wrong, and, whatever it was, I guessed that it must be with me. After about an hour I got my breakfast. Then I went into the office, intending to be brisk, businesslike, and careful about asking questions.

  “I’d like to pay my bill, and also for a little damage,” I said, telling what had happened.

  “Somebody’ll kill thet Greaser yet,” was all the comment the man made.

  I went outside, not knowing whether to be angry or amused with these queer people. In the broad light of day Holston looked as bad as it had made me feel by night. All I could see were the station and freight-sheds, several stores with high, wide signs, glaringly painted, and a long block of saloons. When I had turned a street corner, however, a number of stores came into view with some three-storied brick buildings, and, farther out, many frame houses.

  Moreover, this street led my eye to great snowcapped mountains, and I stopped short in my tracks, for I realized they were the Arizona peaks. Up the swelling slopes swept a black fringe that I knew to be timber. The mountains appeared to be close, but I knew that even the foot-bills were miles away. Penetier, I remembered from one of Dick’s letters, was on the extreme northern slope, and it must be anywhere from forty to sixty miles off. The sharp, white peaks glistened in the morning sun; the air had a cool touch of snow and a tang of pine. I drew in a full breath, with a sense on being among the pines.

  Now I must buy my outfit and take the trail for Penetier. This I resolved to do with as few questions as possible. I never before was troubled by sensitiveness, but the fact had dawned upon me that I did not like being taken for a tenderfoot. So, with this in mind, I entered a general merchandise store.

  It was very large, and full of hardware, harness, saddles, blankets—everything that cowboys and ranchmen use. Several men, two in shirt-sleeves, were chatting near the door. They saw me come in, and then, for all that it meant to them, I might as well not have been in existence at all. So I sat down to wait, determined to take Western ways and things as I found them. I sat there fifteen minutes by my watch. This was not so bad; but when a lanky, red-faced, leather-legged individual came in too he at once supplied with his wants, I began to get angry. I waited another five minutes, and still the friendly chatting went on. Finally I could stand it no longer.

  “Will somebody wait on me?” I demanded.

  One of the shirt-sleeved men leisurely got up and surveyed me.

  “Do you want to buy something?” he drawled.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?”

  The reply trembling on my lips was cut short by the entrance of Buell.

  “Hello!” he said in a loud voice, shaking hands with me. “You’ve trailed into the right place. Smith, treat this lad right. It’s guns an’ knives an’ lassoes he wants, I’ll bet a hoss.”

  “Yes, I want an outfit,” I said, much embarrassed. “I’m going to meet a friend out in Penetier, a ranger—Dick Leslie.”

  Buell started violently, and his eyes flashed. “Dick—Dick Leslie!” he said, and coughed loudly. “I know Dick.… So you’re a friend of his’n?… Now, let me help you with the outfit.”

  Anything strange in Buell’s manner was forgotten, in the absorbing interest of my outfit. Father had given me plenty of money, so that I had but to choose. I had had sense enough to bring my old corduroys and boots, and I had donned them that morning. One after another I made my purchases—Winchester, revolver, bolsters, ammunition, saddle, bridle, lasso, blanket. When I got so far, Buell said: “You’ll need a mustang an’ a pack-pony. I know a feller who’s got jest what you want.” And with that he led me out of the store.

  “Now you take it from me,” he went on, in a fatherly voice, “Holston people haven’t got any use for Easterners. An’ if you mention your business—forestry an’ that—why, you wouldn’t be safe. There’s many in the lumberin’ business here as don’t take kindly to the Government. See! That’s why I’m givin’ you advice. Keep it to yourself an’ hit the trail today, soon as you can. I’ll steer you right.”

  I was too much excited to answer clearly; indeed, I hardly thanked him. However, he scarcely gave me the chance. He kept up his talk about the townspeople and their attitude toward Easterners until we arrived at a kind of stock-yard full of shaggy little ponies. The sight of them drove every other thought out of my head.

  “Mustangs!” I exclaimed.

  “Sure. Can you ride?”

  “Oh yes. I have a horse at home.… What wiry little fellows! They’re so wild-looking.”

  “You pick out the one as suits you, an’ I’ll step into Cless’s here. He’s the man who owns this bunch.”

  It did not take me long to decide. A black mustang at once took my eye. When he had been curried and brushed he would be a little beauty. I was trying to coax him to me when Buell returned with a man.

  “Thet your pick?” he asked, as I pointed. “Well, now, you’re not so much of a tenderfoot. Thet’s the best mustang in the lot. Cless, how much for him, an’ a pack-pony an’ pack-saddle?”

  “I reckon twenty dollars’ll make it square,” repl
ied the owner.

  This nearly made me drop with amazement. I had only about seventy-five dollars left, and I had been very much afraid that I could not buy the mustang, let alone the pack-pony and saddle.

  “Cless, send round to Smith for the lad’s outfit, an’ saddle up for him at once.” Then he turned to me. “Now some grub, an’ a pan or two.”

  Having camped before, I knew how to buy supplies. Buell, however, cut out much that I wanted, saying the thing to think of was a light pack for the pony.

  “I’ll hurry to the hotel and get my things,” I said, “and meet you here. I’ll not be a moment.”

  But Buell said it would be better for him to go with me, though he did not explain. He kept with me, still he remained in the office while I went upstairs. Somehow this suited me, for I did not want him to see the broken window. I took a few things from my grip and rolled them in a bundle. Then I took a little leather case of odds and ends I had always carried when camping and slipped it into my pocket. Hurrying downstairs I left my grip with the porter, wrote and mailed a postal card to my father, and followed the impatient Buell.

  “You see, it’s a smart lick of a ride to Penetier, and I want to get there before dark,” he explained, kindly.

  I could have shouted for very glee when I saw the black mustang saddled and bridled.

  “He’s well broke,” said Cless. “Keep his bridle down when you ain’t in the saddle. An’ find a patch of grass fer him at night. The pony’ll stick to him.”

  Cless fell to packing a lean pack-pony.

  “Watch me do this,” said he; “you’ll hev trouble if you don’t git the hang of the diamondhitch.”

  I watched him set the little wooden criss-cross on the pony’s back, throw the balance of my outfit (which he had tied up in a canvas) over the saddle, and then pass a long rope in remarkable turns and wonderful loops round pony and pack.