The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  They sat talking in low voices until a late hour. The incident now began to take on the nature of Helen’s long-yearned-for adventure. Some of the party even grew merry in a subdued way. Then, gradually, one by one they tired and went to bed. Helen vowed she could not sleep in a place where there were bats and crawling things. Madeline fancied, however, that they all went to sleep while she lay wide-eyed, staring up at the black bulge of overhanging rock and beyond the starry sky.

  To keep from thinking of Stewart and the burning anger he had caused her to feel for herself, Madeline tried to keep her mind on other things. But thought of him recurred, and each time there was a hot commotion in her breast hard to stifle. Intelligent reasoning seemed out of her power. In the daylight it had been possible for her to be oblivious to Stewart’s deceit after the moment of its realization. At night, however, in the strange silence and hovering shadows of gloom, with the speaking stars seeming to call to her, with the moan of the wind in the pines, and the melancholy mourn of coyotes in the distance, she was not able to govern her thought and emotion. The day was practical, cold; the night was strange and tense. In the darkness she had fancies wholly unknown to her in the bright light of the sun. She battled with a haunting thought. She had inadvertently heard Nels’s conversation with Stewart; she had listened, hoping to hear some good news or to hear the worst; she had learned both, and, moreover, enlightenment on one point of Stewart’s complex motives. He wished to spare her any sight that might offend, frighten, or disgust her. Yet this Stewart, who showed a fineness of feeling that might have been wanting even in Boyd Harvey, maintained a secret rendezvous with that pretty, abandoned Bonita. Here always the hot shame, like a live, stinging, internal fire, abruptly ended Madeline’s thought. It was intolerable, and it was the more so because she could neither control nor understand it. The hours wore on, and at length, as the stars began to pale and there was no sound whatever, she fell asleep.

  She was called out of her slumber. Day had broken bright and cool. The sun was still below the eastern crags. Ambrose, with several other cowboys, had brought up buckets of spring-water, and hot coffee and cakes. Madeline’s party appeared to be none the worse for the night’s experience. Indeed, the meager breakfast might have been as merrily partaken of as it was hungrily had not Ambrose enjoined silence.

  “They’re expectin’ company down below,” he said.

  This information and the summary manner in which the cowboys soon led the party higher up among the ruined shelves of rock caused a recurrence of anxiety. Madeline insisted on not going beyond a projection of cliff from which she could see directly down into the camp. As the vantage-point was one affording concealment, Ambrose consented, but he placed the frightened Christine near Madeline and remained there himself.

  “Ambrose, do you really think the guerrillas will come?” asked Madeline.

  “Sure. We know. Nels just rode in and said they were on their way up. Miss Hammond, can I trust you? You won’t let out a squeal if there’s a fight down there? Stewart told me to hide you out of sight or keep you from lookin’.”

  “I promise not to make any noise,” replied Madeline. Madeline arranged her coat so that she could lie upon it, and settled down to wait developments. There came a slight rattling of stones in the rear. She turned to see Helen sliding down a bank with a perplexed and troubled cowboy. Helen came stooping low to where Madeline lay and said: “I am going to see what happens, if I die in the attempt! I can stand it if you can.” She was pale and big-eyed. Ambrose promptly swore at the cowboy who had let her get away from him. “Take a half-hitch on her yourself an’ see where you end up,” replied the fellow, and disappeared in the jumble of rocks. Ambrose, finding words useless, sternly and heroically prepared to carry Helen back to the others. He laid hold of her. In a fury, with eyes blazing, Helen whispered:

  “Let go of me! Majesty, what does this fool mean?”

  Madeline laughed. She knew Helen, and had marked the whisper, when ordinarily Helen would have spoken imperiously, and not low. Madeline explained to her the exigency of the situation. “I might run, but I’ll never scream,” said Helen. With that Ambrose had to be content to let her stay. However, he found her a place somewhat farther back from Madeline’s position, where he said there was less danger of her being seen. Then he sternly bound her to silence, tarried a moment to comfort Christine, and returned to where Madeline lay concealed. He had been there scarcely a moment when he whispered:

  “I hear hosses. The guerrillas are comin’.”

  Madeline’s hiding-place was well protected from possible discovery from below. She could peep over a kind of parapet, through an opening in the tips of the pines that reached up to the cliff, and obtain a commanding view of the camp circle and its immediate surroundings. She could not, however, see far either to right or left of the camp, owing to the obstructing foliage. Presently the sound of horses’ hoofs quickened the beat of her pulse and caused her to turn keener gaze upon the cowboys below.

  Although she had some inkling of the course Stewart and his men were to pursue, she was not by any means prepared for the indifference she saw. Frank was asleep, or pretended to be. Three cowboys were lazily and unconcernedly attending to camp-fire duties, such as baking biscuits, watching the ovens, and washing tins and pots. The elaborate set of aluminum plates, cups, etc., together with the other camp fixtures that had done service for Madeline’s party, had disappeared. Nick Steele sat with his back to a log, smoking his pipe. Another cowboy had just brought the horses closer into camp, where they stood waiting to be saddled. Nels appeared to be fussing over a pack. Stewart was rolling a cigarette. Monty had apparently nothing to do for the present except whistle, which he was doing much more loudly than melodiously. The whole ensemble gave an impression of careless indifference.

  The sound of horses’ hoofs grew louder and slowed its beat. One of the cowboys pointed down the trail, toward which several of his comrades turned their heads for a moment, then went on with their occupations.

  Presently a shaggy, dusty horse bearing a lean, ragged, dark rider rode into camp and halted. Another followed, and another. Horses with Mexican riders came in single file and stopped behind the leader.

  The cowboys looked up, and the guerrillas looked down. “Buenos dias, señor,” ceremoniously said the foremost guerrilla.

  By straining her ears Madeline heard that voice, and she recognized it as belonging to Don Carlos. His graceful bow to Stewart was also familiar. Otherwise she would never have recognized the former elegant vaquero in this uncouth, roughly dressed Mexican.

  Stewart answered the greeting in Spanish, and, waving his hand toward the camp-fire, added in English, “Get down and eat.”

  The guerrillas were anything but slow in complying. They crowded to the fire, then spread in a little circle and squatted upon the ground, laying their weapons beside them. In appearance they tallied with the band of guerrillas that had carried Madeline up into the foothills, only this band was larger and better armed. The men, moreover, were just as hungry and as wild and beggarly. The cowboys were not cordial in their reception of this visit, but they were hospitable. The law of the desert had always been to give food and drink to wayfaring men, whether lost or hunted or hunting.

  “There’s twenty-three in that outfit,” whispered Ambrose, “includin’ four white men. Pretty rummy outfit.”

  “They appear to be friendly enough,” whispered Madeline.

  “Things down there ain’t what they seem,” replied Ambrose.

  “Ambrose, tell me—explain to me. This is my opportunity. As long as you will let me watch them, please let me know the—the real thing.”

  “Sure. But recollect, Miss Hammond, that Gene’ll give it to me good if he ever knows I let you look and told you what’s what. Well, decent-like Gene is seen’ them poor devils get a square meal. They’re only a lot of calf-thieves in this country. Across the border they’re bandits, some of them, the others just riffraff outlaws. That rebel bluff d
oesn’t go down with us. I’d have to see first before I’d believe them Greasers would fight. They’re a lot of hard-ridin’ thieves, and they’d steal a fellow’s blanket or tobacco. Gene thinks they’re after you ladies—to carry you off. But Gene—Oh, Gene’s some highfalutin in his ideas lately. Most of us boys think the guerrillas are out to rob—that’s all.”

  Whatever might have been the secret motive of Don Carlos and his men, they did not allow it to interfere with a hearty appreciation of a generous amount of food. Plainly, each individual ate all that he was able to eat at the time. They jabbered like a flock of parrots; some were even merry, in a kind of wild way. Then, as each and every one began to roll and smoke the inevitable cigarette of the Mexican, there was a subtle change in manner. They smoked and looked about the camp, off into the woods, up at the crags, and back at the leisurely cowboys. They had the air of men waiting for something.

  “Señor,” began Don Carlos, addressing Stewart. As he spoke he swept his sombrero to indicate the camp circle.

  Madeline could not distinguish his words, but his gesture plainly indicated a question in regard to the rest of the camping party. Stewart’s reply and the wave of his hand down the trail meant that his party had gone home. Stewart turned to some task, and the guerrilla leader quietly smoked. He looked cunning and thoughtful. His men gradually began to manifest a restlessness, noticeable in the absence of former languor and slow puffing of cigarette smoke. Presently a big-boned man with a bullet head and a blistered red face of evil coarseness got up and threw away his cigarette. He was an American.

  “Hey, cull,” he called in loud voice, “ain’t ye goin’ to cough up a drink?”

  “My boys don’t carry liquor on the trail,” replied Stewart. He turned now to face the guerrillas.

  “Haw, haw! I heerd over in Rodeo thet ye was gittin’ to be shore some fer temperance,” said this fellow. “I hate to drink water, but I guess I’ve gotter do it.”

  He went to the spring, sprawled down to drink, and all of a sudden he thrust his arm down in the water to bring forth a basket. The cowboys in the hurry of packing had neglected to remove this basket; and it contained bottles of wine and liquors for Madeline’s guests. They had been submerged in the spring to keep them cold. The guerrilla fumbled with the lid, opened it, and then got up, uttering a loud roar of delight.

  Stewart made an almost imperceptible motion, as if to leap forward; but he checked the impulse, and after a quick glance at Nels he said to the guerrilla:

  “Guess my party forgot that. You’re welcome to it.” Like bees the guerrillas swarmed around the lucky finder of the bottles. There was a babel of voices. The drink did not last long, and it served only to liberate the spirit of recklessness. The several white outlaws began to prowl around the camp; some of the Mexicans did likewise; others waited, showing by their ill-concealed expectancy the nature of their thoughts.

  It was the demeanor of Stewart and his comrades that puzzled Madeline. Apparently they felt no anxiety or even particular interest. Don Carlos, who had been covertly watching them, now made his scrutiny open, even aggressive. He looked from Stewart to Nels and Monty, and then to the other cowboys. While some of his men prowled around the others watched him, and the waiting attitude had taken on something sinister. The guerrilla leader seemed undecided, but not in any sense puzzled. When he turned his cunning face upon Nels and Monty he had the manner of a man in whom decision was lacking.

  In her growing excitement Madeline had not clearly heard Ambrose’s low whispers and she made an effort to distract some of her attention from those below to the cowboy crouching beside her.

  The quality, the note of Ambrose’s whisper had changed. It had a slight sibilant sound.

  “Don’t be mad if sudden-like I clap my hands over your eyes, Miss Hammond,” he was saying. “Somethin’s brewin’ below. I never seen Gene so cool. That’s a dangerous sign in him. And look, see how the boys are workin’ together! Oh, it’s slow and accident-like, but I know it’s sure not accident. That foxy Greaser knows, too. But maybe his men don’t. If they are wise they haven’t sense enough to care. The Don, though—he’s worried. He’s not payin’ so much attention to Gene, either. It’s Nels and Monty he’s watchin’. And well he need do it! There, Nick and Frank have settled down on that log with Booly. They don’t seem to be packin’ guns. But look how heavy their vests hang. A gun in each side! Those boys can pull a gun and flop over that log quicker than you can think. Do you notice how Nels and Monty and Gene are square between them guerrillas and the trail up here? It doesn’t seem on purpose, but it is. Look at Nels and Monty. How quiet they are confabbin’ together, payin’ no attention to the guerrillas. I see Monty look at Gene, then I see Nels look at Gene. Well, it’s up to Gene. And they’re goin’ to back him. I reckon, Miss Hammond, there’d be dead Greasers round that camp long ago if Nels and Monty were foot-loose. They’re beholdin’ to Gene. That’s plain. And, Lord! how it tickles me to watch them! Both packin’ two forty-fives, butts swingin’ clear. There’s twenty-four shots in them four guns. And there’s twenty-three guerrillas. If Nels and Monty ever throw guns at that close range, why, before you’d know what was up there’d be a pile of Greasers. There! Stewart said something to the Don. I wonder what. I’ll gamble it was something to get the Don’s outfit all close together. Sure! Greasers have no sense. But them white guerrillas, they’re lookin’ some dubious. Whatever’s comin’ off will come soon, you can bet. I wish I was down there. But maybe it won’t come to a scrap. Stewart’s set on avoidin’ that. He’s a wonderful chap to get his way. Lord, though, I’d like to see him go after that overbearin’ Greaser! See! the Don can’t stand prosperity. All this strange behavior of cowboys is beyond his pulque-soaked brains. Then he’s a Greaser. If Gene doesn’t knock him on the head presently he’ll begin to get over his scare, even of Nels and Monty. But Gene’ll pick out the right time. And I’m gettin’ nervous. I want somethin’ to start. Never saw Nels in but one fight, then he just shot a Greaser’s arm off for tryin’ to draw on him. But I’ve heard all about him. And Monty! Monty’s the real old-fashioned gun-man. Why, none of them stories, them lies he told to entertain the Englishman, was a marker to what Monty has done. What I don’t understand is how Monty keeps so quiet and easy and peaceful-like. That’s not his way, with such an outfit lookin’ for trouble. O-ha! Now for the grand bluff. Looks like no fight at all!”

  The guerrilla leader had ceased his restless steps and glances, and turned to Stewart with something of bold resolution in his aspect.

  “Gracias, señor,” he said. “Adios.” He swept his sombrero in the direction of the trail leading down the mountain to the ranch; and as he completed the gesture a smile, crafty and jeering, crossed his swarthy face.

  Ambrose whispered so low that Madeline scarcely heard him. “If the Greaser goes that way he’ll find our horses and get wise to the trick. Oh, he’s wise now! But I’ll gamble he never even starts on that trail.”

  Neither hurriedly nor guardedly Stewart rose out of his leaning posture and took a couple of long strides toward Don Carlos.

  “Go back the way you came,” he fairly yelled; and his voice had the ring of a bugle.

  Ambrose nudged Madeline; his whisper was tense and rapid: “Don’t miss nothin’. Gene’s called him. Whatever’s comin’ off will be here quick as lightnin’. See! I guess maybe that Greaser don’t savvy good U. S. lingo. Look at that dirty yaller face turn green. Put one eye on Nels and Monty! That’s great—just to see ’em. Just as quiet and easy. But oh, the difference! Bent and stiff—that means every muscle is like a rawhide riata. They’re watchin’ with eyes that can see the workin’s of them Greasers’ minds. Now there ain’t a hoss-hair between them Greasers and hell!”

  Don Carlos gave Stewart one long malignant stare; then he threw back his head, swept up the sombrero, and his evil smile showed gleaming teeth.

  “Señor—” he began.

  With magnificent bound Stewart was upon him. The guerrilla�
��s cry was throttled in his throat. A fierce wrestling ensued, too swift to see clearly; then heavy, sodden blows, and Don Carlos was beaten to the ground. Stewart leaped back. Then, crouching with his hands on the butts of guns at his hips, he yelled, he thundered at the guerrillas. He had been quicker than a panther, and now his voice was so terrible that it curdled Madeline’s blood, and the menace of deadly violence in his crouching position made her shut her eyes. But she had to open them. In that single instant Nels and Monty had leaped to Stewart’s side. Both were bent down, with hands on the butts of guns at their hips. Nels’s piercing yell seemed to divide Monty’s roar of rage. Then they ceased, and echoes clapped from the crags. The silence of those three men crouching like tigers about to leap was more menacing than the nerve-racking yells.

  Then the guerrillas wavered and broke and ran for their horses. Don Carlos rolled over, rose, and staggered away, to be helped upon his mount. He looked back, his pale and bloody face that of a thwarted demon. The whole band got into action and were gone in a moment.

  “I knew it,” declared Ambrose. “Never seen a Greaser who could face gun-play. That was some warm. And Monty Price never flashed a gun! He’ll never get over that. I reckon, Miss Harnmond, we’re some lucky to avoid trouble. Gene had his way, as you seen. We’ll be makin’ tracks for the ranch in about two shakes.”

  “Why?” whispered Madeline, breathlessly. She became conscious that she was weak and shaken.

  “Because the guerrillas sure will get their nerve back, and come sneakin’ on our trail or try to head us off by ambushin’,” replied Ambrose. “That’s their way. Otherwise three cowboys couldn’t bluff a whole gang like that. Gene knows the nature of Greasers. They’re white-livered. But I reckon we’re in more danger now than before, unless we get a good start down the mountain. There! Gene’s callin’. Come! Hurry!”