The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  The rangers, with Yaqui and Thorne, stationed themselves at the several windows of the sitting-room. Rifles and smaller arms and boxes of shells littered the tables and window seats. No small force of besiegers could overcome a resistance such as Belding and his men were capable of making.

  “Here they come, boys,” called Gale, from his window.

  “Rebel-raiders I should say, Laddy.”

  “Shore. An’ a fine outfit of buzzards!”

  “Reckon there’s about a dozen in the bunch,” observed the calm Lash. “Some hosses they’re ridin’. Where ’n the hell do they get such hosses, anyhow?”

  “Shore, Jim, they work hard an’ buy ’em with real silver pesos,” replied Ladd, sarcastically.

  “Do any of you see Rojas?” whispered Thorne.

  “Nix. No dandy bandit in that outfit.”

  “It’s too far to see,” said Gale.

  The horsemen halted at the corrals. They were orderly and showed no evidence of hostility. They were, however, fully armed. Belding stalked out to meet them. Apparently a leader wanted to parley with him, but Belding would hear nothing. He shook his head, waved his arms, stamped to and fro, and his loud, angry voice could be heard clear back at the house. Whereupon the detachment of rebels retired to the bank of the river, beyond the white post that marked the boundary line, and there they once more drew rein. Belding remained by the corrals watching them, evidently still in threatening mood. Presently a single rider left the troop and trotted his horse back down the road. When he reached the corrals he was seen to halt and pass something to Belding. Then he galloped away to join his comrades.

  Belding looked at whatever it was he held in his hand, shook his burley head, and started swiftly for the house. He came striding into the room holding a piece of soiled paper.

  “Can’t read it and don’t know as I want to,” he said, savagely.

  “Beldin’, shore we’d better read it,” replied Ladd. “What we want is a line on them Greasers. Whether they’re Campo’s men or Salazar’s, or just a wanderin’ bunch of rebels—or Rojas’s bandits. Sabe, señor?”

  Not one of the men was able to translate the garbled scrawl.

  “Shore Mercedes can read it,” said Ladd.

  Thorne opened a door and called her. She came into the room followed by Nell and Mrs. Belding. Evidently all three divined a critical situation.

  “My dear, we want you to read what’s written on this paper,” said Thorne, as he led her to the table. “It was sent in by rebels, and—and we fear contains bad news for us.”

  Mercedes gave the writing one swift glance, then fainted in Thorne’s arms. He carried her to a couch, and with Nell and Mrs. Belding began to work over her.

  Belding looked at his rangers. It was characteristic of the man that, now when catastrophe appeared inevitable, all the gloom and care and angry agitation passed from him.

  “Laddy, it’s Rojas all right. How many men has he out there?”

  “Mebbe twenty. Not more.”

  “We can lick twice that many Greasers.”

  “Shore.”

  Jim Lash removed his pipe long enough to speak.

  “I reckon. But it ain’t sense to start a fight when mebbe we can avoid it.”

  “What’s your idea?”

  “Let’s stave the Greaser off till dark. Then Laddy an’ me an’ Thorne will take Mercedes an’ hit the trail for Yuma.”

  “Camino del Diablo! That awful trail with a woman! Jim, do you forget how many hundreds of men have perished on the Devil’s Road?”

  “I reckon I ain’t forgettin’ nothin’,” replied Jim. “The waterholes are full now. There’s grass, an’ we can do the job in six days.”

  “It’s three hundred miles to Yuma.”

  “Beldin’, Jim’s idea hits me pretty reasonable,” interposed Ladd. “Lord knows that’s about the only chance we’ve got except fightin’.”

  “But suppose we do stave Rojas off, and you get safely away with Mercedes. Isn’t Rojas going to find it out quick? Then what’ll he try to do to us who’re left here?”

  “I reckon he’d find out by daylight,” replied Jim. “But, Tom, he ain’t agoin’ to start a scrap then. He’d want time an’ hosses an’ men to chase us out on the trail. You see, I’m figgerin’ on the crazy Greaser wantin’ the girl. I reckon he’ll try to clean up here to get her. But he’s too smart to fight you for nothin’. Rojas may be nutty about women, but he’s afraid of the U. S. Take my word for it he’d discover the trail in the mornin’ an’ light out on it. I reckon with ten hours’ start we could travel comfortable.”

  Belding paced up and down the room. Jim and Ladd whispered together. Gale walked to the window and looked out at the distant group of bandits, and then turned his gaze to rest upon Mercedes. She was conscious now, and her eyes seemed all the larger and blacker for the whiteness of her face. Thorne held her hands, and the other women were trying to still her tremblings.

  No one but Gale saw the Yaqui in the background looking down upon the Spanish girl. All of Yaqui’s looks were strange; but this singularly so. Gale marked it, and felt he would never forget. Mercedes’s beauty had never before struck him as being so exquisite, so alluring as now when she lay stricken. Gale wondered if the Indian was affected by her loveliness, her helplessness, or her terror. Yaqui had seen Mercedes only a few times, and upon each of these he had appeared to be fascinated. Could the strange Indian, because his hate for Mexicans was so great, be gloating over her misery? Something about Yaqui—a noble austerity of countenance—made Gale feel his suspicion unjust.

  Presently Belding called his rangers to him, and then Thorne.

  “Listen to this,” he said, earnestly. “I’ll go out and have a talk with Rojas. I’ll try to reason with him; tell him to think a long time before he sheds blood on Uncle Sam’s soil. That he’s now after an American’s wife! I’ll not commit myself, nor will I refuse outright to consider his demands, nor will I show the least fear of him. I’ll play for time. If my bluff goes through…well and good.… After dark the four of you, Laddy, Jim, Dick, and Thorne, will take Mercedes and my best white horses, and, with Yaqui as guide, circle round through Altar Valley to the trail, and head for Yuma.… Wait now, Laddy. Let me finish. I want you to take the white horses for two reasons—to save them and to save you. Savvy? If Rojas should follow on my horses he’d be likely to catch you. Also, you can pack a great deal more than on the bronchs. Also, the big horses can travel faster and farther on little grass and water. I want you to take the Indian, because in a case of this kind he’ll be a godsend. If you get headed or lost or have to circle off the trail, think what it ’d mean to have Yaqui with you. He knows Sonora as no Greaser knows it. He could hide you, find water and grass, when you would absolutely believe it impossible. The Indian is loyal. He has his debt to pay, and he’ll pay it, don’t mistake me. When you’re gone I’ll hide Nell so Rojas won’t see her if he searches the place. Then I think I could sit down and wait without any particular worry.”

  The rangers approved of Belding’s plan, and Thorne choked in his effort to express his gratitude.

  “All right, we’ll chance it,” concluded Belding. “I’ll go out now and call Rojas and his outfit over… Say, it might be as well for me to know just what he said in that paper.”

  Thorne went to the side of his wife.

  “Mercedes, we’ve planned to outwit Rojas. Will you tell us just what he wrote?”

  The girl sat up, her eyes dilating, and with her hands clasping Thorne’s. She said:

  “Rojas swore—by his saints and his virgin—that if I wasn’t given—to him—in twenty-four hours—he would set fire to the village—kill the men—carry off the women—hang the children on cactus thorns!”

  A moment’s silence followed her last halting whisper.

  “By his saints an’ his virgin!” echoed Ladd. He laughed—a cold, cutting, deadly laugh—significant and terrible.

  Then the Yaqui uttered a singular cry. Gal
e had heard this once before, and now he remembered it was at the Papago Well.

  “Look at the Indian,” whispered Belding, hoarsely. “Damn if I don’t believe he understood every word Mercedes said. And, gentlemen, don’t mistake me, if he ever gets near Señor Rojas there’ll be some gory Aztec knife work.”

  Yaqui had moved close to Mercedes, and stood beside her as she leaned against her husband. She seemed impelled to meet the Indian’s gaze, and evidently it was so powerful or hypnotic that it wrought irresistibly upon her. But she must have seen or divined what was beyond the others, for she offered him her trembling hand. Yaqui took it and laid it against his body in a strange motion, and bowed his head. Then he stepped back into the shadow of the room.

  Belding went outdoors while the rangers took up their former position at the west window. Each had his own somber thoughts, Gale imagined, and knew his own were dark enough. A slow fire crept along his veins. He saw Belding halt at the corrals and wave his hand. Then the rebels mounted and came briskly up the road, this time to rein in abreast.

  Wherever Rojas had kept himself upon the former advance was not clear; but he certainly was prominently in sight now. He made a gaudy, almost a dashing figure. Gale did not recognize the white sombrero, the crimson scarf, the velvet jacket, nor any feature of the dandy’s costume; but their general effect, the whole ensemble, recalled vividly to mind his first sight of the bandit. Rojas dismounted and seemed to be listening. He betrayed none of the excitement Gale had seen in him that night at the Del Sol. Evidently this composure struck Ladd and Lash as unusual in a Mexican supposed to be laboring under stress of feeling. Belding made gestures, vehemently bobbed his big head, appeared to talk with his body as much as with his tongue. Then Rojas was seen to reply, and after that it was clear that the talk became painful and difficult. It ended finally in what appeared to be mutual understanding. Rojas mounted and rode away with his men, while Belding came tramping back to the house.

  As he entered the door his eyes were shining, his big hands were clenched, and he was breathing audibly.

  “You can rope me if I’m not locoed!” he burst out. “I went out to conciliate a red-handed little murderer, and damn me if I didn’t meet a—a—well, I’ve not suitable name handy. I started my bluff and got along pretty well, but I forgot to mention that Mercedes was Thorne’s wife. And what do you think? Rojas swore he loved Mercedes—swore he’d marry her right here in Forlorn River—swore he would give up robbing and killing people, and take her away from Mexico. He has gold—jewels. He swore if he didn’t get her nothing mattered. He’d die anyway without her.… And here’s the strange thing. I believe him! He was cold as ice, and all hell inside. Never saw a Greaser like him. Well, I pretended to be greatly impressed. We got to talking friendly, I suppose, though I didn’t understand half he said, and I imagine he gathered less what I said. Anyway, without my asking he said for me to think it over for a day and then we’d talk again.”

  “Shore we’re born lucky!” ejaculated Ladd.

  “I reckon Rojas’ll be smart enough to string his outfit across the few trails leadin’ out of Forlorn River,” remarked Jim.

  “That needn’t worry us. All we want is dark to come,” replied Belding. “Yaqui will slip through. If we thank any lucky stars let it be for the Indian.… Now, boys, put on your thinking caps. You’ll take eight horses, the pick of my bunch. You must pack all that’s needed for a possible long trip. Mind, Yaqui may lead you down into some wild Sonora valley and give Rojas the slip. You may get to Yuma in six days, and maybe in six weeks. Yet you’ve got to pack light—a small pack in saddles—larger ones on the two free horses. You may have a big fight. Laddy, take the .405. Dick will pack his Remington. All of you go gunned heavy. But the main thing is a pack that’ll be light enough for swift travel, yet one that’ll keep you from starving on the desert.”

  The rest of that day passed swiftly. Dick had scarcely a word with Nell, and all the time, as he chose and deliberated and worked over his little pack, there was a dull pain in his heart.

  The sun set, twilight fell, then night closed down fortunately a night slightly overcast. Gale saw the white horses pass his door like silent ghosts. Even Blanco Diablo made no sound, and that fact was indeed a tribute to the Yaqui. Gale went out to put his saddle on Blanco Sol. The horse rubbed a soft nose against his shoulder. Then Gale returned to the sitting-room. There was nothing more to do but wait and say good-by. Mercedes came clad in leather chaps and coat, a slim stripling of a cowboy, her dark eyes flashing. Her beauty could not be hidden, and now hope and courage had fired her blood.

  Gale drew Nell off into the shadow of the room. She was trembling, and as she leaned toward him she was very different from the coy girl who had so long held him aloof. He took her into his arms.

  “Dearest, I’m going—soon.… And maybe I’ll never—”

  “Dick, do—don’t say it,” sobbed Nell, with her head on his breast.

  “I might never come back,” he went on, steadily. “I love you—I’ve loved you ever since the first moment I saw you. Do you care for me—a little?”

  “Dear Dick—de-dear Dick, my heart is breaking,” faltered Nell, as she clung to him.

  “It might be breaking for Mercedes—for Laddy and Jim. I want to hear something for myself. Something to have on long marches—round lonely campfires. Something to keep my spirit alive. Oh, Nell, you can’t imagine that silence out there—that terrible world of sand and stone!… Do you love me?”

  “Yes, yes. Oh, I love you so! I never knew it till now. I love you so. Dick, I’ll be safe and I’ll wait—and hope and pray for your return.”

  “If I come back—no—when I come back, will you marry me?”

  “I—I—oh yes!” she whispered, and returned his kiss.

  Belding was in the room speaking softly.

  “Nell, darling, I must go,” said Dick.

  “I’m a selfish little coward,” cried Nell. “It’s so splendid of you all. I ought to glory in it, but I can’t.… Fight if you must, Dick. Fight for that lovely persecuted girl. I’ll love you—the more.… Oh! Good-by! Good-by!”

  With a wrench that shook him Gale let her go. He heard Belding’s soft voice.

  “Yaqui says the early hour’s best. Trust him, Laddy. Remember what I say—Yaqui’s a godsend.”

  Then they were all outside in the pale gloom under the trees. Yaqui mounted Blanco Diablo; Mercedes was lifted upon White Woman; Thorne climbed astride Queen; Jim Lash was already upon his horse, which was as white as the others but bore no name; Ladd mounted the stallion Blanco Torres, and gathered up the long halters of the two pack horses; Gale came last with Blanco Sol.

  As he toed the stirrup, hand on mane and pommel, Gale took one more look in at the door. Nell stood in the gleam of light, her hair shining, face like ashes, her eyes dark, her lips parted, her arms outstretched. That sweet and tragic picture etched its cruel outlines into Gale’s heart. He waved his hand and then fiercely leaped into the saddle.

  Blanco Sol stepped out.

  Before Gale stretched a line of moving horses, white against dark shadows. He could not see the head of that column; he scarcely heard a soft hoofbeat. A single star shone out of a rift in thin clouds. There was no wind. The air was cold. The dark space of desert seemed to yawn. To the left across the river flickered a few campfires. The chill night, silent and mystical, seemed to close in upon Gale; and he faced the wide, quivering, black level with keen eyes and grim intent, and an awakening of that wild rapture which came like a spell to him in the open desert.

  DESERT GOLD [Part 3]

  CHAPTER XI

  ACROSS CACTUS AND LAVA

  Blanco Sol showed no inclination to bend his head to the alfalfa which swished softly about his legs. Gale felt the horse’s sensitive, almost human alertness. Sol knew as well as his master the nature of that flight.

  At the far corner of the field Yaqui halted, and slowly the line of white horses merged into a compact mass. There was
a trail here leading down to the river. The campfires were so close that the bright blazes could be seen in movement, and dark forms crossed in front of them. Yaqui slipped out of his saddle. He ran his hand over Diablo’s nose and spoke low, and repeated this action for each of the other horses. Gale had long ceased to question the strange Indian’s behavior. There was no explaining or understanding many of his manoeuvers. But the results of them were always thought-provoking. Gale had never seen horse stand so silently as in this instance; no stamp—no champ of bit—no toss of head—no shake of saddle or pack—no heave or snort! It seemed they had become imbued with the spirit of the Indian.

  Yaqui moved away into the shadows as noiselessly as if he were one of them. The darkness swallowed him. He had taken a parallel with the trail. Gale wondered if Yaqui meant to try to lead his string of horses by the rebel sentinels. Ladd had his head bent low, his ear toward the trail. Jim’s long neck had the arch of a listening deer. Gale listened, too, and as the slow, silent moments went by his faculty of hearing grew more acute from strain. He heard Blanco Sol breathe; he heard the pound of his own heart; he heard the silken rustle of the alfalfa; he heard a faint, far-off sound of voice, like a lost echo. Then his ear seemed to register a movement of air, a disturbance so soft as to be nameless. Then followed long, silent moments.

  Yaqui appeared as he had vanished. He might have been part of the shadows. But he was there. He started off down the trail leading Diablo. Again the white line stretched slowly out. Gale fell in behind. A bench of ground, covered with sparse greasewood, sloped gently down to the deep, wide arroyo of Forlorn River. Blanco Sol shied a few feet out of the trail. Peering low with keen eyes, Gale made out three objects—a white sombrero, a blanket, and a Mexican lying face down. The Yaqui had stolen upon this sentinel like a silent wind of death. Just then a desert coyote wailed, and the wild cry fitted the darkness and the Yaqui’s deed.

  Once under the dark lee of the river bank Yaqui caused another halt, and he disappeared as before. It seemed to Gale that the Indian started to cross the pale level sandbed of the river, where stones stood out gray, and the darker line of opposite shore was visible. But he vanished, and it was impossible to tell whether he went one way or another. Moments passed. The horses held heads up, looked toward the glimmering campfires and listened. Gale thrilled with the meaning of it all—the night—the silence—the flight—and the wonderful Indian stealing with the slow inevitableness of doom upon another sentinel. An hour passed and Gale seemed to have become deadened to all sense of hearing. There were no more sounds in the world. The desert was as silent as it was black. Yet again came that strange change in the tensity of Gale’s ear-strain, a check, a break, a vibration—and this time the sound did not go nameless. It might have been moan of wind or wail of far-distant wolf, but Gale imagined it was the strangling death-cry of another guard, or that strange, involuntary utterance of the Yaqui. Blanco Sol trembled in all his great frame, and then Gale was certain the sound was not imagination.