by Zane Grey
He choked off his characteristic oath when excited and blurted out, “Say, but Dick Gale never went to the bad!… Listen!”
Belding had scarcely started Dick Gale’s story when he perceived that never in his life had he such an absorbed and breathless audience. Presently they were awed, and at the conclusion of that story they sat white-faced, still, amazed beyond speech. Dick Gale’s advent in Casita, his rescue of Mercedes, his life as a border ranger certainly lost no picturesque or daring or even noble detail in Belding’s telling. He kept back nothing but the present doubt of Dick’s safety.
Dick’s sister was the first of the three to recover herself.
“Oh, father!” she cried; and there was a glorious light in her eyes. “Deep down in my heart I knew Dick was a man!”
Mr. Gale rose unsteadily from his chair. His frailty was now painfully manifest.
“Mr. Belding, do you mean my son—Richard Gale—has done all that you told us?” he asked, incredulously.
“I sure do,” replied Belding, with hearty good will.
“Martha, do you hear?” Mr. Gale turned to question his wife. She could not answer. Her face had not yet regained its natural color.
“He faced that bandit and his gang alone—he fought them?” demanded Mr. Gale, his voice stronger.
“Dick mopped up the floor with the whole outfit!”
“He rescued a Spanish girl, went into the desert without food, weapons, anything but his hands? Richard Gale, whose hands were always useless?”
Belding nodded with a grin.
“He’s a ranger now—riding, fighting, sleeping on the sand, preparing his own food?”
“Well, I should smile,” rejoined Belding.
“He cares for his horse, with his own hands?” This query seemed to be the climax of Mr. Gale’s strange hunger for truth. He had raised his head a little higher, and his eye was brighter.
Mention of a horse fired Belding’s blood.
“Does Dick Gale care for his horse? Say, there are not many men as well loved as that white horse of Dick’s. Blanco Sol he is, Mr. Gale. That’s Mex for White Sun. Wait till you see Blanco Sol! Bar one, the whitest, biggest, strongest, fastest, grandest horse in the Southwest!”
“So he loves a horse! I shall not know my own son.… Mr. Belding, you say Richard works for you. May I ask, at what salary?”
“He gets forty dollars, board and outfit,” replied Belding, proudly.
“Forty dollars?” echoed the father. “By the day or week?”
“The month, of course,” said Belding, somewhat taken aback.
“Forty dollars a month for a young man who spent five hundred in the same time when he was at college, and who ran it into thousands when he got out!”
Mr. Gale laughed for the first time, and it was the laugh of a man who wanted to believe what he heard yet scarcely dared to do it.
“What does he do with so much money—money earned by peril, toil, sweat, and blood? Forty dollars a month!”
“He saves it,” replied Belding.
Evidently this was too much for Dick Gale’s father, and he gazed at his wife in sheer speechless astonishment. Dick’s sister clapped her hands like a little child.
Belding saw that the moment was propitious.
“Sure he saves it. Dick’s engaged to marry Nell here. My stepdaughter, Nell Burton.”
“Oh-h, Dad!” faltered Nell; and she rose, white as her dress.
How strange it was to see Dick’s mother and sister rise, also, and turn to Nell with dark, proud, searching eyes. Belding vaguely realized some blunder he had made. Nell’s white, appealing face gave him a pang. What had he done? Surely this family of Dick’s ought to know his relation to Nell. There was a silence that positively made Belding nervous.
Then Elsie Gale stepped close to Nell.
“Miss Burton, are you really Richard’s betrothed?”
Nell’s tremulous lips framed an affirmative, but never uttered it. She held out her hand, showing the ring Dick had given her. Miss Gale’s recognition was instant, and her response was warm, sweet, gracious.
“I think I am going to be very, very glad,” she said, and kissed Nell.
“Miss Burton, we are learning wonderful things about Richard,” added Mr. Gale, in an earnest though shaken voice. “If you have had to do with making a man of him—and now I begin to see, to believe so—may God bless you!… My dear girl, I have not really looked at you. Richard’s fiancee!… Mother, we have not found him yet, but I think we’ve found his secret. We believed him a lost son. But here is his sweetheart!”
It was only then that the pride and hauteur of Mrs. Gale’s face broke into an expression of mingled pain and joy. She opened her arms. Nell, uttering a strange little stifled cry, flew into them.
Belding suddenly discovered an unaccountable blur in his sight. He could not see perfectly, and that was why, when Mrs. Belding entered the sitting-room, he was not certain that her face was as sad and white as it seemed.
CHAPTER XV
BOUND IN THE DESERT
Far away from Forlorn River Dick Gale sat stunned, gazing down into the purple depths where Rojas had plunged to his death. The Yaqui stood motionless upon the steep red wall of lava from which he had cut the bandit’s hold. Mercedes lay quietly where she had fallen. From across the depths there came to Gale’s ear the Indian’s strange, wild cry.
Then silence, hollow, breathless, stony silence enveloped the great abyss and its upheaved lava walls. The sun was setting. Every instant the haze reddened and thickened.
Action on the part of the Yaqui loosened the spell which held Gale as motionless as his surroundings. The Indian was edging back toward the ledge. He did not move with his former lithe and sure freedom. He crawled, slipped, dragged himself, rested often, and went on again. He had been wounded. When at last he reached the ledge where Mercedes lay Gale jumped to his feet, strong and thrilling, spurred to meet the responsibility that now rested upon him.
Swiftly he turned to where Thorne lay. The cavalryman was just returning to consciousness. Gale ran for a canteen, bathed his face, made him drink. The look in Thorne’s eyes was hard to bear.
“Thorne! Thorne! it’s all right, it’s all right!” cried Gale, in piercing tones. “Mercedes is safe! Yaqui saved her! Rojas is done for! Yaqui jumped down the wall and drove the bandit off the ledge. Cut him loose from the wall, foot by foot, hand by hand! We’ve won the fight, Thorne.”
For Thorne these were marvelous strength-giving words. The dark horror left his eyes, and they began to dilate, to shine. He stood up, dizzily but unaided, and he gazed across the crater. Yaqui had reached the side of Mercedes, was bending over her. She stirred. Yaqui lifted her to her feet. She appeared weak, unable to stand alone. But she faced across the crater and waved her hand. She was unharmed. Thorne lifted both arms above head, and from his lips issued a cry. It was neither call nor holloa nor welcome nor answer. Like the Yaqui’s, it could scarcely be named. But it was deep, husky, prolonged, terribly human in its intensity. It made Gale shudder and made his heart beat like a trip hammer. Mercedes again waved a white hand. The Yaqui waved, too, and Gale saw in the action an urgent signal.
Hastily taking up canteen and rifles, Gale put a supporting arm around Thorne.
“Come, old man. Can you walk? Sure you can walk! Lean on me, and we’ll soon get out of this. Don’t look across. Look where you step. We’ve not much time before dark. Oh, Thorne, I’m afraid Jim has cashed in! And the last I saw of Laddy he was badly hurt.”
Gale was keyed up to a high pitch of excitement and alertness. He seemed to be able to do many things. But once off the ragged notched lava into the trail he had not such difficulty with Thorne, and could keep his keen gaze shifting everywhere for sight of enemies.
“Listen, Thorne! What’s that?” asked Gale, halting as they came to a place where the trail led down through rough breaks in the lava. The silence was broken by a strange sound, almost unbelieveable considering the time and
place. A voice was droning: “Turn the lady, turn! Turn the lady, turn! Alamon left. All swing; turn the lady, turn!”
“Hello, Jim,” called Gale, dragging Thorne round the corner of lava. “Where are you? Oh, you son of a gun! I thought you were dead. Oh, I’m glad to see you! Jim, are you hurt?”
Jim Lash stood in the trail leaning over the butt of his rifle, which evidently he was utilizing as a crutch. He was pale but smiling. His hands were bloody. A scarf had been bound tightly round his left leg just above the knee. The leg hung limp, and the foot dragged.
“I reckon I ain’t injured much,” replied Him. “But my leg hurts like hell, if you want to know.”
“Laddy! Oh, where’s Laddy?”
“He’s just across the crack there. I was trying to get to him. We had it hot an’ heavy down here. Laddy was pretty bad shot up before he tried to head Rojas off the trail.… Dick, did you see the Yaqui go after Rojas?”
“Did I!” exclaimed Gale, grimly.
“The finish was all that saved me from runnin’ loco plumb over the rim. You see I was closer’n you to where Mercedes was hid. When Rojas an’ his last Greaser started across, Laddy went after them, but I couldn’t. Laddy did for Rojas’s man, then went down himself. But he got up an’ fell, got up, went on, an’ fell again. Laddy kept doin’ that till he dropped for good. I reckon our chances are against findin’ him alive.… I tell you, boys, Rojas was hell-bent. An’ Mercedes was game. I saw her shoot him. But mebbe bullets couldn’t stop him then. If I didn’t sweat blood when Mercedes was fightin’ him on the cliff! Then the finish! Only a Yaqui could have done that.… Thorne, you didn’t miss it?”
“Yes, I was down and out,” replied the cavalryman.
“It’s a shame. Greatest stunt I ever seen! Thorne, you’re standin’ up pretty fair. How about you? Dick, is he bad hurt?”
“No, he’s not. A hard knock on the skull and a scalp wound,” replied Dick. “Here, Jim, let me help you over this place.”
Step by step Gale got the two injured men down the uneven declivity and then across the narrow lava bridge over the fissure. Here he bade them rest while he went along the trail on that side to search for Laddy. Gale found the ranger stretched out, face downward, a reddened hand clutching a gun. Gale thought he was dead. Upon examination, however, it was found that Ladd still lived, though he had many wounds. Gale lifted him and carried him back to the others.
“He’s alive, but that’s all,” said Dick, as he laid the ranger down. “Do what you can. Stop the blood. Laddy’s tough as cactus, you know. I’ll hurry back for Mercedes and Yaqui.”
Gale, like a fleet, sure-footed mountain sheep, ran along the trail. When he came across the Mexican, Rojas’s last ally, Gale had evidence of the terrible execution of the .405. He did not pause. On the first part of that descent he made faster time than had Rojas. But he exercised care along the hard, slippery, ragged slope leading to the ledge. Presently he came upon Mercedes and the Yaqui. She ran right into Dick’s arms, and there her strength, if not her courage, broke, and she grew lax.
“Mercedes, you’re safe! Thorne’s safe. It’s all right now.”
“Rojas!” she whispered.
“Gone! To the bottom of the crater! A Yaqui’s vengeance, Mercedes.”
He heard the girl whisper the name of the Virgin. Then he gathered her up in his arms.
“Come, Yaqui.”
The Indian grunted. He had one hand pressed close over a bloody place in his shoulder. Gale looked keenly at him. Yaqui was inscrutable, as of old, yet Gale somehow knew that wound meant little to him. The Indian followed him.
Without pausing, moving slowly in some places, very carefully in others, and swiftly on the smooth part of the trail, Gale carried Mercedes up to the rim and along to the the others. Jim Lash worked awkwardly over Ladd. Thorne was trying to assist. Ladd, himself, was conscious, but he was a pallid, apparently a death-stricken man. The greeting between Mercedes and Thorne was calm—strangely so, it seemed to Gale. But he was calm himself. Ladd smiled at him, and evidently would have spoken had he the power. Yaqui then joined the group, and his piercing eyes roved from one to the other, lingering longest over Ladd.
“Dick, I’m figger’n hard,” said Jim, faintly. “In a minute it’ll be up to you an’ Mercedes. I’ve about shot my bolt.… Reckon you’ll do— best by bringin’ up blankets—water—salt—firewood. Laddy’s got—one chance—in a hundred. Fix him up—first. Use hot salt water. If my leg’s broke—set it best you can. That hole in Yaqui—only’ll bother him a day. Thorne’s bad hurt… Now rustle—Dick, old—boy.”
Lash’s voice died away in a husky whisper, and he quietly lay back, stretching out all but the crippled leg. Gale examined it, assured himself the bones had not been broken, and then rose ready to go down the trail.
“Mercedes, hold Thorne’s head up, in your lap—so. Now I’ll go.”
On the moment Yaqui appeared to have completed the binding of his wounded shoulder, and he started to follow Gale. He paid no attention to Gale’s order for him to stay back. But he was slow, and gradually Gale forged ahead. The lingering brightness of the sunset lightened the trail, and the descent to the arroyo was swift and easy. Some of the white horses had come in for water. Blanco Sol spied Gale and whistled and came pounding toward him. It was twilight down in the arroyo. Yaqui appeared and began collecting a bundle of mesquite sticks. Gale hastily put together the things he needed; and, packing them all in a tarpaulin, he turned to retrace his steps up the trail.
Darkness was setting in. The trail was narrow, exceedingly steep, and in some places fronted on precipices. Gale’s burden was not very heavy, but its bulk made it unwieldy, and it was always overbalancing him or knocking against the wall side of the trail. Gale found it necessary to wait for Yaqui to take the lead. The Indian’s eyes must have seen as well at night as by day. Gale toiled upward, shouldering, swinging, dragging the big pack; and, though the ascent of the slope was not really long, it seemed endless. At last they reached a level, and were soon on the spot with Mercedes and the injured men.
Gale then set to work. Yaqui’s part was to keep the fire blazing and the water hot, Mercedes’s to help Gale in what way she could. Gale found Ladd had many wounds, yet not one of them was directly in a vital place. Evidently, the ranger had almost bled to death. He remained unconscious through Gale’s operations. According to Jim Lash, Ladd had one chance in a hundred, but Gale considered it one in a thousand. Having done all that was possible for the ranger, Gale slipped blankets under and around him, and then turned his attention to Lash.
Jim came out of his stupor. A mushrooming bullet had torn a great hole in his leg. Gale, upon examination, could not be sure the bones had been missed, but there was no bad break. The application of hot salt water made Jim groan. When he had been bandaged and laid beside Ladd, Gale went on to the cavalryman. Thorne was very weak and scarcely conscious. A furrow had been plowed through his scalp down to the bone. When it had been dressed, Mercedes collapsed. Gale laid her with the three in a row and covered them with blankets and the tarpaulin.
Then Yaqui submitted to examination. A bullet had gone through the Indian’s shoulder. To Gale it appeared serious. Yaqui said it was a flea bite. But he allowed Gale to bandage it, and obeyed when he was told to lie quiet in his blanket beside the fire.
Gale stood guard. He seemed still calm, and wondered at what he considered a strange absence of poignant feeling. If he had felt weariness it was now gone. He coaxed the fire with as little wood as would keep it burning; he sat beside it; he walked to and fro close by; sometimes he stood over the five sleepers, wondering if two of them, at least, would ever awaken.
Time had passed swiftly, but as the necessity for immediate action had gone by, the hours gradually assumed something of their normal length. The night wore on. The air grew colder, the stars brighter, the sky bluer, and, if such could be possible, the silence more intense. The fire burned out, and for lack of wood could not be rekindled. Gale
patrolled his short beat, becoming colder and damper as dawn approached. The darkness grew so dense that he could not see the pale faces of the sleepers. He dreaded the gray dawn and the light. Slowly the heavy black belt close to the lava changed to a pale gloom, then to gray, and after that morning came quickly.
The hour had come for Dick Gale to face his great problem. It was natural that he hung back a little at first; natural that when he went forward to look at the quiet sleepers he did so with a grim and stern force urging him. Yaqui stirred, roused, yawned, got up; and, though he did not smile at Gale, a light shone swiftly across his dark face. His shoulder drooped and appeared stiff, otherwise he was himself. Mercedes lay in deep slumber. Thorne had a high fever, and was beginning to show signs of restlessness. Ladd seemed just barely alive. Jim Lash slept as if he was not much the worse for his wound.
Gale rose from his examination with a sharp breaking of his cold mood. While there was life in Thorne and Ladd there was hope for them. Then he faced his problem, and his decision was instant.
He awoke Mercedes. How wondering, wistful, beautiful was that first opening flash of her eyes! Then the dark, troubled thought came. Swiftly she sat up.
“Mercedes—come. Are you all right? Laddy is alive Thorne’s not—not so bad. But we’ve got a job on our hands! You must help me.”
She bent over Thorne and laid her hands on his hot face. Then she rose—a woman such as he had imagined she might be in an hour of trial.
Gale took up Ladd as carefully and gently as possible.
“Mercedes, bring what you can carry and follow me,” he said. Then, motioning for Yaqui to remain there, he turned down the slope with Ladd in his arms.
Neither pausing nor making a misstep nor conscious of great effort, Gale carried the wounded man down into the arroyo. Mercedes kept at his heels, light, supple, lithe as a panther. He left her with Ladd and went back. When he had started off with Thorne in his arms he felt the tax on his strength. Surely and swiftly, however, he bore the cavalryman down the trail to lay him beside Ladd. Again he started back, and when he began to mount the steep lava steps he was hot, wet, breathing hard. As he reached the scene of that night’s camp a voice greeted him. Jim Lash was sitting up.
