by Zane Grey
He sat up after a while and again watched the fire. Nell’s sweet face floated like a wraith in the pale smoke—glowed and flushed and smiled in the embers. Other faces shone there—his sister’s—that of his mother. Gale shook off the tender memories. This desolate wilderness with its forbidding silence and its dark promise of hell on the morrow—this was not the place to unnerve oneself with thoughts of love and home. But the torturing paradox of the thing was that this was just the place and just the night for a man to be haunted.
By and by Gale rose and walked down a shadowy aisle between the mesquites. On his way back the Yaqui joined him. Gale was not surprised. He had become used to the Indian’s strange guardianship. But now, perhaps because of Gale’s poignancy of thought, the contending tides of love and regret, the deep, burning premonition of deadly strife, he was moved to keener scrutiny of the Yaqui. That, of course, was futile. The Indian was impenetrable, silent, strange. But suddenly, inexplicably, Gale felt Yaqui’s human quality. It was aloof, as was everything about this Indian; but it was there. This savage walked silently beside him, without glance or touch or word. His thought was as inscrutable as if mind had never awakened in his race. Yet Gale was conscious of greatness, and, somehow, he was reminded of the Indian’s story. His home had been desolated, his people carried off to slavery, his wife and children separated from him to die. What had life meant to the Yaqui? What had been in his heart? What was now in his mind? Gale could not answer these questions. But the difference between himself and Yaqui, which he had vaguely felt as that between savage and civilized men, faded out of his mind forever. Yaqui might have considered he owed Gale a debt, and, with a Yaqui’s austere and noble fidelity to honor, he meant to pay it. Nevertheless, this was not the thing Gale found in the Indian’s silent presence. Accepting the desert with its subtle and inconceivable influence, Gale felt that the savage and the white man had been bound in a tie which was no less brotherly because it could not be comprehended.
Toward dawn Gale managed to get some sleep. Then the morning broke with the sun hidden back of the uplift of the plateau. The horses trooped up the arroyo and snorted for water. After a hurried breakfast the packs were hidden in holes in the lava. The saddles were left where they were, and the horses allowed to graze and wander at will. Canteens were filled, a small bag of food was packed, and blankets made into a bundle. Then Yaqui faced the steep ascent of the lava slope.
The trail he followed led up on the right side of the fissure, opposite to the one he had come down. It was a steep climb, and encumbered as the men were they made but slow progress. Mercedes had to be lifted up smooth steps and across crevices. They passed places where the rims of the fissure were but a few yards apart. At length the rims widened out and the red, smoky crater yawned beneath. Yaqui left the trail and began clambering down over the rough and twisted convolutions of lava which formed the rim. Sometimes he hung sheer over the precipice. It was with extreme difficulty that the party followed him. Mercedes had to be held on narrow, foot-wide ledges. The choya was there to hinder passage. Finally the Indian halted upon a narrow bench of flat, smooth lava, and his followers worked with exceeding care and effort down to his position.
At the back of this bench, between bunches of choya, was a niche, a shallow cave with floor lined apparently with mold. Ladd said the place was a refuge which had been inhabited by mountain sheep for many years. Yaqui spread blankets inside, left the canteen and the sack of food, and with a gesture at once humble, yet that of a chief, he invited Mercedes to enter. A few more gestures and fewer words disclosed his plan. In this inaccessible nook Mercedes was to be hidden. The men were to go around upon the opposite rim, and block the trail leading down to the waterhole.
Gale marked the nature of this eyrie. It was the wildest and most rugged place he had ever stepped upon. Only a sheep could have climbed up the wall above or along the slanting shelf of lava beyond. Below glistened a whole bank of choya, frosty in the sunlight, and it overhung an apparently bottomless abyss.
Ladd chose the smallest gun in the party and gave it to Mercedes.
“Shore it’s best to go the limit on bein’ ready,” he said, simply. “The chances are you’ll never need it. But if you do—”
He left off there, and his break was significant. Mercedes answered him with a fearless and indomitable flash of eyes. Thorne was the only one who showed any shaken nerve. His leave-taking of his wife was affecting and hurried. Then he and the rangers carefully stepped in the tracks of the Yaqui.
They climbed up to the level of the rim and went along the edge. When they reached the fissure and came upon its narrowest point, Yaqui showed in his actions that he meant to leap it. Ladd restrained the Indian. They then continued along the rim till they reached several bridges of lava which crossed it. The fissures was deep in some parts, choked in others. Evidently the crater had no direct outlet into the arroyo below. Its bottom, however, must have been far beneath the level of the waterhole.
After the fissure was crossed the trail was soon found. Here it ran back from the rim. Yaqui waved his hand to the right, where along the corrugated slope of the crater there were holes and crevices and coverts for a hundred men. Yaqui strode on up the trail toward a higher point, where presently his dark figure stood motionless against the sky. The rangers and Thorne selected a deep depression, out of which led several ruts deep enough for cover. According to Ladd it was as good a place as any, perhaps not so hidden as others, but freer from the dreaded choya. Here the men laid down rifles and guns, and, removing their heavy cartridge belts, settled down to wait.
Their location was close to the rim wall and probably five hundred yards from the opposite rim, which was now seen to be considerably below them. The glaring red cliff presented a deceitful and baffling appearance. It had a thousand ledges and holes in its surfaces, and one moment it looked perpendicular and the next there seemed to be a long slant. Thorne pointed out where he thought Mercedes was hidden; Ladd selected another place, and Lash still another. Gale searched for the bank of choya he had seen under the bench where Mercedes’s retreat lay, and when he found it the others disputed his opinion. Then Gale brought his field glass into requisition, proving that he was right. Once located and fixed in sight, the white patch of choya, the bench, and the sheep eyrie stood out from the other features of that rugged wall. But all the men were agreed that Yaqui had hidden Mercedes where only the eyes of a vulture could have found her.
Jim Lash crawled into a little strip of shade and bided the time tranquilly. Ladd was restless and impatient and watchful, every little while rising to look up the far-reaching slope, and then to the right, where Yaqui’s dark figure stood out from a high point of the rim. Thorne grew silent, and seemed consumed by a slow, sullen rage. Gale was neither calm nor free of a gnawing suspense nor of a waiting wrath. But as best he could he put the pending action out of mind.
It came over him all of a sudden that he had not grasped the stupendous nature of this desert setting. There was the measureless red slope, its lower ridges finally sinking into white sand dunes toward the blue sea. The cold, sparkling light, the white sun, the deep azure of sky, the feeling of boundless expanse all around him—these meant high altitude. Southward the barren red simply merged into distance. The field of craters rose in high, dark wheels toward the dominating peaks. When Gale withdrew his gaze from the magnitude of these spaces and heights the crater beneath him seemed dwarfed. Yet while he gazed it spread and deepened and multiplied its ragged lines. No, he could not grasp the meaning of size or distance here. There was too much to stun the sight. But the mood in which nature had created this convulsed world of lava seized hold upon him.
Meanwhile the hours passed. As the sun climbed the clear, steely lights vanished, the blue hazes deepened, and slowly the glistening surfaces of lava turned redder. Ladd was concerned to discover that Yaqui was missing from his outlook upon the high point. Jim Lash came out of the shady crevice, and stood up to buckle on his cartridge belt. Hi
s narrow, gray glance slowly roved from the height of lava down along the slope, paused in doubt, and then swept on to resurvey the whole vast eastern dip of the plateau.
“I reckon my eyes are pore,” he said. “Mebbe it’s this damn red glare. Anyway, what’s them creepin’ spots up there?”
“Shore I seen them. Mountain sheep,” replied Ladd.
“Guess again, Laddy. Dick, I reckon you’d better flash the glass up the slope.”
Gale adjusted the field glass and began to search the lava, beginning close at hand and working away from him. Presently the glass became stationary.
“I see half a dozen small animals, brown in color. They look like sheep. But I couldn’t distinguish mountain sheep from antelope.”
“Shore they’re bighorn,” said Laddy.
“I reckon if you’ll pull around to the east an’ search under that long wall of lava—there—you’ll see what I see,” added Jim.
The glass climbed and circled, wavered an instant, then fixed steady as a rock. There was a breathless silence.
“Fourteen horses—two packed—some mounted—others without riders, and lame,” said Gale, slowly.
Yaqui appeared far up the trail, coming swiftly. Presently he saw the rangers and halted to wave his arms and point. Then he vanished as if the lava had opened beneath him.
“Lemme that glass,” suddenly said Jim Lash. “I’m seein’ red, I tell you.… Well, pore as my eyes are they had it right. Rojas an’ his outfit have left the trail.”
“Jim, you ain’t meanin’ they’ve taken to that awful slope?” queried Ladd.
“I sure do. There they are—still comin’, but goin’ down, too.”
“Mebbe Rojas is crazy, but it begins to look like he—”
“Laddy, I’ll be danged if the Greaser bunch hasn’t vamoosed. Gone out of sight! Right there not a half mile away, the whole caboodle—gone!”
“Shore they’re behind a crust or have gone down into a rut,” suggested Ladd. “They’ll show again in a minute. Look sharp, boys, for I’m figgerin’ Rojas’ll spread his men.”
Minutes passed, but nothing moved upon the slope. Each man crawled up to a vantage point along the crest of rotting lava. The watchers were careful to peer through little notches or from behind a spur, and the constricted nature of their hiding-place kept them close together. Ladd’s muttering grew into a growl, then lapsed into the silence that marked his companions. From time to time the rangers looked inquiringly at Gale. The field glass, however, like the naked sight, could not catch the slightest moving object out there upon the lava. A long hour of slow, mounting suspense wore on.
“Shore it’s all goin’ to be as queer as the Yaqui,” said Ladd.
Indeed, the strange mien, the silent action, the somber character of the Indian had not been without effect upon the minds of the men. Then the weird, desolate, tragic scene added to the vague sense of mystery. And now the disappearance of Rojas’s band, the long wait in the silence, the boding certainty of invisible foes crawling, circling closer and closer, lent to the situation a final touch that made it unreal.
“I’m reckonin’ there’s a mind behind them Greasers,” replied Jim. “Or mebbe we ain’t done Rojas credit… If somethin’ would only come off!”
That Lash, the coolest, most provokingly nonchalant of men in times of peril, should begin to show a nervous strain was all the more indicative of a subtle pervading unreality.
“Boys, look sharp!” suddenly called Lash. “Low down to the left—mebbe three hundred yards. See, along by them seams of lava—behind the choyas. First off I thought it was a sheep. But it’s the Yaqui!… Crawlin’ swift as a lizard! Can’t you see him?”
It was a full moment before Jim’s companions could locate the Indian. Flat as a snake Yaqui wound himself along with incredible rapidity. His advance was all the more remarkable for the fact that he appeared to pass directly under the dreaded choyas. Sometimes he paused to lift his head and look. He was directly in line with a huge whorl of lava that rose higher than any point on the slope. This spur was a quarter of a mile from the position of the rangers.
“Shore he’s headin’ for that high place,” said Ladd. “He’s goin’ slow now. There, he’s stopped behind some choyas. He’s gettin’ up—no, he’s kneelin’.… Now what the hell!”
“Laddy, take a peek at the side of that lava ridge,” sharply called Jim. “I guess mebbe somethin’ ain’t comin’ off. See! There’s Rojas an’ his outfit climbin’. Don’t make out no hosses.… Dick, use your glass an’ tell us what’s doin’. I’ll watch Yaqui an’ tell you what his move means.”
Clearly and distinctly, almost as if he could have touched them, Gale had Rojas and his followers in sight. They were toiling up the rough lava on foot. They were heavily armed. Spurs, chaps, jackets, scarfs were not in evidence. Gale saw the lean, swarthy faces, the black, straggly hair, the ragged, soiled garments which had once been white.
“They’re almost up now,” Gale was saying. “There! They halt on top. I see Rojas. He looks wild. By hell! Fellows, an Indian!… It’s a Papago. Belding’s old herder!… The Indian points—this way—then down. He’s showing Rojas the lay of the trail.”
“Boys, Yaqui’s in range of that bunch,” said Jim, swiftly. “He’s raisin’ his rifle slow—Lord, how slow he is!… He’s covered someone. Which one I can’t say. But I think he’ll pick Rojas.”
“The Yaqui can shoot. He’ll pick Rojas,” added Gale, grimly.
“Rojas—yes—yes!” cried Thorne, in passion of suspense.
“Not on your life!” Ladd’s voice cut in with scorn. “Gentlemen, you can gamble Yaqui’ll kill the Papago. That traitor Indian knows these sheep haunts. He’s tellin’ Rojas—”
A sharp rifle shot rang out.
“Laddy’s right,” called Gale. “The Papago’s hit—his arm falls—There, he tumbles!”
More shots rang out. Yaqui was seen standing erect firing rapidly at the darting Mexicans. For all Gale could make out no second bullet took effect. Rojas and his men vanished behind the bulge of lava. Then Yaqui deliberately backed away from his position. He made no effort to run or hide. Evidently he watched cautiously for signs of pursuers in the ruts and behind the choyas. Presently he turned and came straight toward the position of the rangers, sheered off perhaps a hundred paces below it, and disappeared in a crevice. Plainly his intention was to draw pursuers within rifle shot.
“Shore, Jim, you had your wish. Somethin’ come off,” said Ladd. “An’ I’m sayin’ thank God for the Yaqui! That Papago ’d have ruined us. Even so, mebbe he’s told Rojas more’n enough to make us sweat blood.”
“He had a chance to kill Rojas,” cried out the drawn-faced, passionate Thorne. “He didn’t take it!… He didn’t take it!”
Only Ladd appeared to be able to answer the cavalryman’s poignant cry.
“Listen, son,” he said, and his voice rang. “We-all know how you feel. An’ if I’d had that one shot never in the world could I have picked the Papago guide. I’d have had to kill Rojas. That’s the white man of it. But Yaqui was right. Only an Indian could have done it. You can gamble the Papago alive meant slim chance for us. Because he’d led straight to where Mercedes is hidden, an’ then we’d have left cover to fight it out… When you come to think of the Yaqui’s hate for Greasers, when you just seen him pass up a shot at one—well, I don’t know how to say what I mean, but damn me, my som-brer-ro is off to the Indian!”
“I reckon so, an’ I reckon the ball’s opened,” rejoined Lash, and now that former nervous impatience so unnatural to him was as if it had never been. He was smilingly cool, and his voice had almost a caressing note. He tapped the breech of his Winchester with a sinewy brown hand, and he did not appear to be addressing any one in particular. “Yaqui’s opened the ball. Look up your pardners there, gents, an’ get ready to dance.”
Another wait set in then, and judging by the more direct rays of the sun and a receding of the little shadows cast by the choyas,
Gale was of the opinion that it was a long wait. But it seemed short. The four men were lying under the bank of a half circular hole in the lava. It was notched and cracked, and its rim was fringed by choyas. It sloped down and opened to an unobstructed view of the crater. Gale had the upper position, fartherest to the right, and therefore was best shielded from possible fire from the higher ridges of the rim, some three hundred yards distant. Jim came next, well hidden in a crack. The positions of Thorne and Ladd were most exposed. They kept sharp lookout over the uneven rampart of their hiding-place.
The sun passed the zenith, began to slope westward, and to grow hotter as it sloped. The men waited and waited. Gale saw no impatience even in Thorne. The sultry air seemed to be laden with some burden or quality that was at once composed of heat, menace, color, and silence. Even the light glancing up from the lava seemed red and the silence had substance. Sometimes Gale felt that it was unbearable. Yet he made no effort to break it.
Suddenly this dead stillness was rent by a shot, clear and stinging, close at hand. It was from a rifle, not a carbine. With startling quickness a cry followed—a cry that pierced Gale—it was so thin, so high-keyed, so different from all other cries. It was the involuntary human shriek at death.
“Yaqui’s called out another pardner,” said Jim Lash, laconically.
Carbines began to crack. The reports were quick, light, like sharp spats without any ring. Gale peered from behind the edge of his covert. Above the ragged wave of lava floated faint whitish clouds, all that was visible of smokeless powder. Then Gale made out round spots, dark against the background of red, and in front of them leaped out small tongues of fire. Ladd’s .405 began to “spang” with its beautiful sound of power. Thorne was firing, somewhat wildly Gale thought. Then Jim Lash pushed his Winchester over the rim under a choya, and between shots Gale could hear him singing: “Turn the lady, turn—turn the lady, turn!… Alaman left!… Swing your pardners!… Forward an’ back!… Turn the lady, turn!” Gale got into the fight himself, not so sure that he hit any of the round, bobbing objects he aimed at, but growing sure of himself as action liberated something forced and congested within his breast.
