by Zane Grey
“Is it possible, Dick, that any of those loggers back there don’t know the Government is being defrauded?”
“Ken, hardly any of them know it, and they wouldn’t care if they did. You see, this forest-preserve business is new out here. Formerly the lumbermen bought so much land and cut over it—skinned it. Two years ago, when the National Forests were laid out, the lumbering men—that is, the loggers, sawmill hands, and so on—found they did not get as much employment as formerly. So generally they’re sore on the National Forest idea.”
“But, Dick, if they understand the idea of forestry they’d never oppose it.”
“Maybe. I don’t understand it too well myself. I can fight fire—that’s my business; but this ranger work is new. I doubt if the Westerners will take to forestry. There’ve been some shady deals all over the West because of it. Buell, now, he’s a timber shark. He bought so much timber from the Government, and had the markers come in to mark the cut; then after they were gone, he rushed up a mill and clapped on a thousand hands.”
“And the rangers stand for it? Where’ll their jobs be when the Government finds out?”
“I was against it from the start. So was Jim, particularly. But the other rangers persuaded us.”
It began to dawn upon me that Dick Leslie might, after all, turn out to be good soil in which to plant some seeds of forestry. I said no more then, as we were busy packing for the start, but when we had mounted I began to talk. I told him all I had learned about trees, how I loved them, and how I had determined to devote my life to their study, care, and development. As we rode along under the wide-spreading pines I illustrated my remarks by every example I could possibly use. The more I talked the more interested Dick became, and this spurred me on. Perhaps I exaggerated, but my conscience never pricked me. He began to ask questions.
We reached a spring at midday, and halted for a rest. I kept on pleading, and presently I discovered, to my joy, that I had made a strong impression upon Dick. It seemed a strange thing for me to be trying to explain forestry to a forest ranger, but so it was.
“Ken, it’s all news to me. I’ve been on Penetier about a year, and I never heard a word of what you’ve been telling me. My duties have been the practical ones that any woodsman knows. Jim and the other rangers—why, they don’t know any more than I. It’s a great thing, and I’ve queered my chance with the Government.”
“No, you haven’t—neither has Jim—not if you’ll be straight from now on. You can’t keep faith with Buell. He tried to kidnap me. That lets you out. We’ll spoil Buell’s little deal and save Penetier. A letter to father will do it. He has friends in the Forestry Department at Washington. Dick, what do you say? It’s not too late!”
The dark shade lifted from the ranger’s face, and he looked at me with the smile of the old fishing days.
“Say? I say yes!” he exclaimed, in ringing voice, “Ken, you’ve made a man of me!”
CHAPTER VII
BACK TO HOLSTON
Soon we were out of the forest, and riding across the sage-flat with Holston in sight. Both of us avoided the unpleasant subject of my enforced home-going. Evidently Dick felt cut up about it, and it caused me such a pang that I drove it from my mind. Toward the end of our ride Dick began again to talk of forestry.
“Ken, it’s mighty interesting—all this you’ve said about trees. Some of the things are so simple that I wonder I didn’t hit on them long ago; in fact, I knew a lot of what you might call forestry, but the scientific ideas—they stump me. Now, what you said about a pine-tree cleaning itself—come back at me with that.”
“Why, that’s simple enough, Dick,” I answered. “Now, say here we have a clump of pine saplings. They stand pretty close—close enough to make dense shade, but not too crowded. The shade has prevented the lower branches from producing leaves. As a consequence these branches die. Then they dry, rot, and fall off, so when the trees mature they are clean-shafted. They have fine, clear trunks. They have cleaned themselves, and so make the best of lumber, free from knots.”
So our talk went on. Once in town I was impatient to write to my father, for we had decided that we would not telegraph. Leaving our horses in Cless’s corral, we went to the hotel and proceeded to compose the letter. This turned out more of a task than we had bargained for. But we got it finished at last, not forgetting to put in a word for Jim Williams, and then we both signed it.
“There!” I cried. “Dick, something will be doing round Holston before many days.”
“That’s no joke, you can bet,” replied Dick, wiping his face. “Ken, it’s made me sweat just to see that letter start East. Buell is a tough sort, and he’ll make trouble. Well, he wants to steer clear of Jim and me.”
After that we fell silent, and walked slowly back toward Cless’s corral. Dick’s lips were closed tight, and he did not look at me. Evidently he did not intend to actually put me aboard a train, and the time for parting had come. He watered his horses at the trough, and fussed over his pack and fumbled with his saddle-girths. It looked to me as though he had not the courage to say goodby.
“Ken, it didn’t look so bad—so mean till now,” he said. “I’m all broken up.… To get you way out here! Oh! what’s the use? I’m mighty sorry.… Good-bye—maybe—
He broke off suddenly, and, wringing my hand, he vaulted into the saddle. He growled at his pack-pony, and drove him out of the corral. Then he set off at a steady trot down the street toward the open country.
It came to me in a flash, as I saw him riding farther and farther away, that the reason my heart was not broken was because I did not intend to go home. Dick had taken it for granted that I would board the next train for the East. But I was not going to do anything of the sort. To my amaze I found my mind made up on that score. I had no definite plan, but I was determined to endure almost anything rather than give up my mustang and outfit.
“It’s shift for myself now,” I thought, soberly. “I guess I can make good.… I’m going back to Penetier.”
Even in the moment of impulse I knew how foolish this would be. But I could not help it. That forest had bewitched me. I meant to go back to it.
“I’ll stay away from the sawmill,” I meditated, growing lighter of heart every minute. “I’ll keep out of sight of the lumbermen. I’ll go higher up on the mountain, and hunt, and study the trees.… I’ll do it.”
Whereupon I marched off at once to a store and bought the supply of provisions that Buell had decided against when he helped me with my outfit. This addition made packing the pony more of a problem than ever, but I contrived to get it all on to my satisfaction. It was nearing sunset when I rode out of Holston this second time. The sage flat was bare and gray. Dick had long since reached the pines, and would probably make camp at the spring where we had stopped for lunch. I certainly did not want to catch up with him, but as there was small chance of that; it caused me no concern.
Shortly after sunset twilight fell, and it was night when I reached the first pine-trees. Still, as the trail was easily to be seen, I kept on, for I did not want to camp without water. The forest was very dark, in some places like a huge black tent, and I had not ridden far when the old fear of night, the fancy of things out there in the darkness, once more possessed me. It made me angry. Why could I not have the same confidence that I had in the daytime? It was impossible. The forest was full of moving shadows. When the wind came up to roar in the pine-tips it was a relief because it broke the silence.
I began to doubt whether I could be sure of locating the spring, and I finally decided to make camp at once. I stopped Hal, and had swung my leg over the pommel when I saw a faint glimmer of light far ahead. It twinkled like a star, but was not white and cold enough for a star.
“That’s Dick’s campfire,” I said. “I’ll have to stop here. Maybe I’m too close now.”
I pondered the question. The blaze was a long way off, and I concluded I could risk camping on the spot, provided I did not make a fire. Accordingly I dismou
nted, and was searching for a suitable place when I happened to think that the campfire might not be Dick’s, after all. Perhaps Buell had sent the Mexican with Bud and Bill on my trail again. This would not do. But I did not want to go back or turn off the trail.
“I’ll slip up and see who it is,” I decided.
The idea pleased me; however, I did not yield to it without further consideration. I had a clear sense of responsibility. I knew that from now on I should be called upon to reason out many perplexing things. I did not want to make any mistakes. So I tied Hal and the pack-pony to a bush fringing the trail, and set off through the forest.
It dawned upon me presently that the campfire was much farther away than it appeared. Often it went out of sight behind trees. By degrees it grew larger and larger. Then I slowed down and approached more cautiously. Once when the trees obscured it I traveled some distance without getting a good view of it. Passing down into a little hollow I lost it again. When I climbed out I hauled up short with a sharp catch of my breath. There were several figures moving around the campfire. I had stumbled on a camp that surely was not Dick Leslie’s.
The ground was as soft as velvet, and my footsteps gave forth no sound. When the wind lulled I paused behind a tree and waited for another gusty roar. I kept very close to the trail, for that was the only means by which I could return to my horses. I felt the skin tighten on my face. Suddenly, as I paused, I beard angry voices, pitched high. But I could not make out the words.
Curiosity got the better of me. If the men were hired by Buell I wanted to know what they were quarrelling about. I stole stealthily from tree to tree, and another hollow opened beneath me. It was so wide and the pines so overshadowed it that I could not tell how close the opposite side might be to the campfire. I slipped down along the edge of the trail. The blaze disappeared. Only a faint arc of light showed through the gloom.
I peered keenly into the blackness. At length I reached the slope. Here I dropped to my hands and knees.
It was a long crawl to the top. Reaching it, I cautiously peeped over. There were trees hiding the fire. But it was close. I heard the voices of men. I backed down the slope, crossed the trail, and came up on the other side. Pines grew thick on this level, and I stole silently from one to another. Finally I reached the black trunk of a tree close to the campfire.
For a moment I lay low. I did not seem exactly afraid, but I was all tense and hard, and my heart drummed in my ears. There was something ticklish about this scouting. Then I peeped out.
It added little to my excitement to recognize the Mexican. He sat near the fire smoking a cigarette. Near him were several men, one of whom was Bill. Facing them sat a man with his back to a small sapling. He was tied with a lasso.
One glance at his white face made me drop behind the tree, where I lay stunned and bewildered—for that man was Dick Leslie.
CHAPTER VIII
THE LUMBERMEN
For a full moment I just lay still, hugging the ground, and I did not seem to think at all. Voices loud in anger roused me. Raising myself, I guardedly looked from behind the tree.
One of the lumbermen threw brush on the fire, making it blaze brightly. He was tall and had a red beard. I recognized Stockton, Buell’s right hand in the lumber deal.
“Leslie, you’re a liar!” he said.
Dick’s eyes glinted from his pale face.
“Yes, that’s your speed, Stockton,” he retorted. “You bring your thugs into my camp pretending to be friendly. You grab a fellow behind his back, tie him up, and then call him a liar. Wait, you timber shark!”
“You’re lying about that kid, Ward,” declared the other. “You sent him back East, that’s what. He’ll have the whole forest service down here. Buell will be wild. Oh, he won’t do a thing when he learns Ward has given us the slip!”
“I tell you, Ken Ward gave me the slip,” replied Dick. “I’ll admit I meant to see him safe in Holston. But he wouldn’t go. He ran off from me right here in this forest.”
What could have been Dick’s object in telling such a lie? It made me wonder. Perhaps these lumbermen were more dangerous than I had supposed, and Dick did not wish them to believe I had left Penetier. Maybe he was playing for time, and did not want them to get alarmed and escape before the officers came.
“Why did he run off?” asked Stockton.
“Because I meant to send him home, and he didn’t want to go. He’s crazy to camp out, to hunt and ride.”
“If that’s true, Leslie, there’s been no word sent to Washington.”
“How could there be?”
“Well, I’ve got to hold you anyway till we see Buell. His orders were to keep you and Ward prisoners till this lumber deal is pulled off. We’re not going to be stopped now.”
Leslie turned crimson, and strained on the lasso that bound him to the sapling. “Somebody is going to pay for this business!” he declared, savagely. “You forget I’m an officer in this forest.”
“I’ll hold you, Leslie, whatever comes of it,” answered the lumberman. “I’d advise you to cool down.”
“You and Buell have barked up the wrong tree, mind that, Stockton. Jim Williams, my pardner, is wise. He expects me back tomorrow.”
“See hyar, Stockton,” put in Bill, “you’re new in Arizona, an’ I want to give you a hunch. If Jim Williams hits this trail, you ain’t goin’ to be well enough to care about any old lumber steal.”
“Jim hit the trail all right,” went on Dick. “He’s after Greaser. It’d go hard with you if Jim happened to walk in now.”
“I don’t want to buck against Williams, that’s certain,” replied Stockton. “I know his record. But I’ll take a chance—anyway, till Buell knows. It’s his game.”
Dick made no answer, and sat there eyeing his captors. There was little talk after this. Bud threw a log on the fire. Stockton told the Mexican to take a look at the horses. Greaser walked within twenty feet of where I lay, and I held my breath while he passed. The others rolled in their blankets. It was now so dark that I could not distinguish anything outside of the campfire circle. But I heard Greaser’s soft, shuffling footsteps as he returned. Then his dark, slim figure made a shadow between me and the light. He sat down before the fire and began to roll a cigarette. He did not seem sleepy.
A daring scheme flashed into my mind. I would crawl into camp and free Dick. Not only would I outwit the lumber thieves, but also make Dick think well of me. What would Jim Williams say of a trick like that? The thought of the Texan banished what little hesitation I felt. Glancing round the bright circle, I made my plan; it was to crawl far back into the darkness, go around to the other side of the camp, and then slip up behind Dick. Already his head was nodding on his breast. It made me furious to see him sitting so uncomfortably, sagging in the lasso.
I tried to beat down my excitement, but there was a tingling all over me that would not subside. But I soon saw that I might have a long wait. The Mexican did not go to sleep, so I had time to cool off.
The campfire gradually burned out, and the white glow changed to red. One of the men snored in a way that sounded like a wheezy whistle. Coyotes howled in the woods, and the longer I listened to the long, strange howls the better I liked them. The roar in the wind had died down to a moaning. I thought of myself lying there, with my skin prickling and my eyes sharp on the darkening forms. I thought of the nights I had spent with Hal in the old woods at home. How full the present seemed! My breast swelled, my hand gripped my revolver, my eyes pierced the darkness, and I would not have been anywhere else for the world.
Greaser smoked out his cigarette, and began to nod. That was the signal for me. I crawled noiselessly from the tree. When I found myself going down into the hollow, I stopped and rose to my feet. The forest was so pitchy black that I could not tell the trees from the darkness. I groped to the left, trying to circle. Once I snapped a twig; it cracked like a pistol-shot, and my heart stopped beating, then began to thump. But Greaser never stirred as he sat in the wa
ning light. At last I had half circled the camp.
After a short rest I started forward, slow and stealthy as a creeping cat. When within fifty feet of the fire I went down on all-fours and began to crawl. Twice I got out of line. But at last Dick’s burly shoulders loomed up between me and the light.
Then I halted. My breast seemed bursting, and I panted so hard that I was in a terror lest I should awaken someone. Again I thought of what I was doing, and fought desperately to gain my coolness.
Now the only cover I had was Dick’s broad back, for the sapling to which he was tied was small. I drew my hunting-knife. One more wriggle brought me close to Dick, with my face near his hands, which were bound behind him. I slipped the blade under the lasso, and cut it through.
Dick started as if he had received an electric shock. He threw back his head and uttered a sudden exclamation.
Although I was almost paralyzed with fright I put my hand on his shoulder and whispered: “S-s-s-h! It’s Ken!”
Greaser uttered a shrill cry. Dick leaped to his feet. Then I grew dizzy, and my sight blurred. I heard hoarse shouts and saw dark forms rising as if out of the earth. All was confusion. I wanted to run, but could not get up. There was a wrestling, whirling mass in front of me.
But this dimness of sight and weakness of body did not last. I saw two men on the ground, with Dick standing over them. Stockton was closing in. Greaser ran around them with something in his hand that glittered in the firelight. Stockton dived for Dick’s legs and upset him. They went down together, and the Mexican leaped on them, waving the bright thing high over his head.
I bounded forward, and, grasping his wrist with both hands, I wrenched his arm with all my might. Some one struck me over the head. I saw a million darting points of light—then all went black.
When I opened my eyes the sun was shining. I had a queer, numb feeling all over, and my head hurt terribly. Everything about me was hazy. I did not know where I was. After a little I struggled to sit up, and with great difficulty managed it. My hands were tied. Then it all came back to me. Stockton stood before me holding a tin cup of water toward my lips. My throat was parched, and I drank. Stockton had a great bruise on his forehead; his nostrils were crusted with blood, and his shirt was half torn off.
