The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  What these two men represented in Shefford’s uplift was too great for the present to define, but they and the desert that had developed them had taught him the meaning of life. He might fail often, since failure was the lot of his kind, but could he ever fail again in faith in man or God while he had mind to remember the Indian and the Mormon?

  Still, though he placed them on a noble height and loved them well, there would always abide with him a sorrow for the Mormon and a sleepless and eternal regret for that Indian on his lonely cedar slope with the spirits of his vanishing race calling him.

  * * * *

  Willow Springs appeared to be a lively place that morning. Presbrey was gay and his sweet-faced wife was excited. The teamsters were a jolly, whistling lot. And the lean mustangs kicked and bit at one another. The trader had brought out two light wagons for the trip, and, after the manner of desert men, desired to start at sunrise.

  Far across the Painted Desert towered the San Francisco peaks, black-timbered, blue-canyoned, purple-hazed, with white snow, like the clouds, around their summits.

  Jane Withersteen looked at the radiant Fay and lived again in her happiness. And at last excitement had been communicated to the old gun-man.

  “Shore we’re goin’ to live with Fay an’ John, an’ be near Venters an’ Bess, an’ see the blacks again, Jane.… An’ Venters will tell you, as he did me, how Wrangle run Black Star off his legs!”

  All connected with that early start was sweet, sad, hopeful.

  And so they rode away from Willow Springs, through the green fields of alfalfa and cotton wood, down the valley with its smoking hogans and whistling mustangs and scarlet-blanketed Indians, and out upon the bare, ridgy, colorful desert toward the rosy sunrise.

  EPILOGUE

  On the outskirts of a little town in Illinois there was a farm of rolling pasture-land. And here a beautiful meadow, green and red in clover, merged upon an orchard in the midst of which a brown-tiled roof showed above the trees.

  One afternoon in May a group of people, strangely agitated, walked down a shady lane toward the meadow.

  “Wal, Jane, I always knew we’d get a look at them hosses again—I shore knew,” Lassiter was saying in the same old, cool, careless drawl. But his clawlike hands shook a little.

  “Oh! will they know me?” asked Jane Withersteen, turning to a stalwart man—no other than the dark-faced Venters, her rider of other days.

  “Know you? I’ll bet they will,” replied Venters. “What do you say, Bess?”

  The shadow brightened in Bess’s somber blue eyes, as if his words had recalled her from a sad and memorable past.

  “Black Star will know her, surely,” replied Bess. “Sometimes he points his nose toward the west and watches as if he saw the purple slopes and smelt the sage of Utah! He has never forgotten. But Night has grown deaf and partly blind of late. I doubt if he’d remember.”

  Shefford and Fay walked arm in arm in the background.

  Out in the meadow two horses were grazing. They were sleek, shiny, long-maned, long-tailed, black as coal, and, though old, still splendid in every line.

  “Do you remember them?” whispered Shefford.

  “Oh, I only needed to see Black Star,” murmured Fay, her voice quivering. “I can remember being lifted on his back.… How strange! It seems so long ago.… Look! Mother Jane is going out to them.”

  Jane Withersteen advanced alone through the clover, and it was with unsteady steps. Presently she halted. What glorious and bitter memories were expressed in her strange, poignant call!

  Black Star started and swept up his noble head and looked. But Night went on calmly grazing. Then Jane called again—the same strange call, only louder, and this time broken. Black Star raised his head higher and he whistled a piercing blast. He saw Jane; he knew her as he had remembered the call; and he came pounding toward her. She met him, encircled his neck with her arms, and buried her face in his mane.

  “Shore I reckon I’d better never say any more about Wrangle runnin’ the blacks off their legs thet time,” muttered Lassiter, as if to himself.

  “Lassiter, you only dreamed that race,” replied Venters, with a smile.

  “Oh, Bern, isn’t it good that Black Star remembered her—that she’ll have him—something left of her old home?” asked Bess, wistfully.

  “Indeed it is good. But, Bess, Jane Withersteen will find a new spirit and new happiness here.”

  Jane came toward them, leading both horses. “Dear friends, I am happy. Today I bury all regrets. Of the past I shall remember only—my riders of the purple sage.”

  Venters smiled his gladness. “And you—Lassiter—what shall you remember?” he queried.

  The old gun-man looked at Jane and then at his clawlike hands and then at Fay. His eyes lost their shadow and began to twinkle.

  “Wal, I rolled a stone once, but I reckon now thet time Wrangle—”

  “Lassiter, I said you dreamed that race. Wrangle never beat the blacks,” interrupted Venters.… “And you, Fay, what shall you remember?”

  “Surprise Valley,” replied Fay, dreamily.

  “And you—Shefford?”

  Shefford shook his head. For him there could never be one memory only. In his heart there would never change or die memories of the wild uplands, of the great towers and walls, of the golden sunsets on the canyon ramparts, of the silent, fragrant valleys where the cedars and the sago-lilies grew, of those starlit nights when his love and faith awoke, of grand and lonely Nonnezoshe, of that red, sullen, thundering, mysterious Colorado River, of a wonderful Indian and a noble Mormon—of all that was embodied for him in the meaning of the rainbow trail.

  THE BORDER LEGION (1916) [Part 1]

  CHAPTER 1

  Joan Randle reined in her horse on the crest of the cedar ridge, and with remorse and dread beginning to knock at her heart she gazed before her at the wild and looming mountain range.

  “Jim wasn’t fooling me,” she said. “He meant it. He’s going straight for the border… Oh, why did I taunt him!”

  It was indeed a wild place, that southern border of Idaho, and that year was to see the ushering in of the wildest time probably ever known in the West. The rush for gold had peopled California with a horde of lawless men of every kind and class. And the vigilantes and then the rich strikes in Idaho had caused a reflux of that dark tide of humanity. Strange tales of blood and gold drifted into the camps, and prospectors and hunters met with many unknown men.

  Joan had quarreled with Jim Cleve, and she was bitterly regretting it. Joan was twenty years old, tall, strong, dark. She had been born in Missouri, where her father had been well-to-do and prominent, until, like many another man of his day, he had impeded the passage of a bullet. Then Joan had become the protegee of an uncle who had responded to the call of gold; and the latter part of her life had been spent in the wilds.

  She had followed Jim’s trail for miles out toward the range. And now she dismounted to see if his tracks were as fresh as she had believed. He had left the little village camp about sunrise. Someone had seen him riding away and had told Joan. Then he had tarried on the way, for it was now midday. Joan pondered. She had become used to his idle threats and disgusted with his vacillations. That had been the trouble—Jim was amiable, lovable, but since meeting Joan he had not exhibited any strength of character. Joan stood beside her horse and looked away toward the dark mountains. She was daring, resourceful, used to horses and trails and taking care of herself; and she did not need anyone to tell her that she had gone far enough. It had been her hope to come up with Jim. Always he had been repentant. But this time was different. She recalled his lean, pale face—so pale that freckles she did not know he had showed through—and his eyes, usually so soft and mild, had glinted like steel. Yes, it had been a bitter, reckless face. What had she said to him? She tried to recall it.

  The night before at twilight Joan had waited for him. She had given him precedence over the few other young men of the village, a fact sh
e resentfully believed he did not appreciate. Jim was unsatisfactory in every way except in the way he cared for her. And that also—for he cared too much.

  When Joan thought how Jim loved her, all the details of that night became vivid. She sat alone under the spruce-trees near the cabin. The shadows thickened, and then lightened under a rising moon. She heard the low hum of insects, a distant laugh of some woman of the village, and the murmur of the brook. Jim was later than usual. Very likely, as her uncle had hinted, Jim had tarried at the saloon that had lately disrupted the peace of the village. The village was growing, and Joan did not like the change. There were too many strangers, rough, loud-voiced, drinking men. Once it had been a pleasure to go to the village store; now it was an ordeal. Somehow Jim had seemed to be unfavorably influenced by these new conditions. Still, he had never amounted to much. Her resentment, or some feeling she had, was reaching a climax. She got up from her seat. She would not wait any longer for him, and when she did see him it would be to tell him a few blunt facts.

  Just then there was a slight rustle behind her. Before she could turn someone seized her in powerful arms. She was bent backward in a bearish embrace, so that she could neither struggle nor cry out. A dark face loomed over hers—came closer. Swift kisses closed her eyes, burned her cheeks, and ended passionately on her lips. They had some strange power over her. Then she was released.

  Joan staggered back, frightened, outraged. She was so dazed she did not recognize the man, if indeed she knew him. But a laugh betrayed him. It was Jim.

  “You thought I had no nerve,” he said. “What do you think of that?”

  Suddenly Joan was blindly furious. She could have killed him. She had never given him any right, never made him any promise, never let him believe she cared. And he had dared—! The hot blood boiled in her cheeks. She was furious with him, but intolerably so with herself, because somehow those kisses she had resented gave her unknown pain and shame. They had sent a shock through all her being. She thought she hated him.

  “You—you—” she broke out. “Jim Cleve, that ends you with me!”

  “Reckon I never had a beginning with you,” he replied, bitterly. “It was worth a good deal… I’m not sorry… By Heaven—I’ve—kissed you!”

  He breathed heavily. She could see how pale he had grown in the shadowy moonlight. She sensed a difference in him—a cool, reckless defiance.

  “You’ll be sorry,” she said. “I’ll have nothing to do with you any more.”

  “All right. But I’m not, and I won’t be sorry.”

  She wondered whether he had fallen under the influence of drink. Jim had never cared for liquor, which virtue was about the only one he possessed. Remembering his kisses, she knew he had not been drinking. There was a strangeness about him, though, that she could not fathom. Had he guessed his kisses would have that power? If he dared again—! She trembled, and it was not only rage. But she would teach him a lesson.

  “Joan, I kissed you because I can’t be a hangdog any longer,” he said. “I love you and I’m no good without you. You must care a little for me. Let’s marry… I’ll—”

  “Never!” she replied, like flint. “You’re no good at all.”

  “But I am,” he protested, with passion. “I used to do things. But since—since I’ve met you I’ve lost my nerve. I’m crazy for you. You let the other men run after you. Some of them aren’t fit to—to—Oh, I’m sick all the time! Now it’s longing and then it’s jealousy. Give me a chance, Joan.”

  “Why?” she queried, coldly. “Why should I? You’re shiftless. You won’t work. When you do find a little gold you squander it. You have nothing but a gun. You can’t do anything but shoot.”

  “Maybe that’ll come in handy,” he said, lightly.

  “Jim Cleve, you haven’t it in you even to be bad,” she went on, stingingly.

  At that he made a violent gesture. Then he loomed over her. “Joan Handle, do you mean that?” he asked.

  “I surely do,” she responded. At last she had struck fire from him. The fact was interesting. It lessened her anger.

  “Then I’m so low, so worthless, so spineless that I can’t even be bad?”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “That’s what you think of me—after I’ve ruined myself for love of you?”

  She laughed tauntingly. How strange and hot a glee she felt in hurting him!

  “By God, I’ll show you!” he cried, hoarsely.

  “What will you do, Jim?” she asked, mockingly.

  “I’ll shake this camp. I’ll rustle for the border. I’ll get in with Kells and Gulden… You’ll hear of me, Joan Randle!”

  These were names of strange, unknown, and wild men of a growing and terrible legion on the border. Out there, somewhere, lived desperados, robbers, road-agents, murderers. More and more rumor had brought tidings of them into the once quiet village. Joan felt a slight cold sinking sensation at her heart. But this was only a magnificent threat of Jim’s. He could not do such a thing. She would never let him, even if he could. But after the incomprehensible manner of woman, she did not tell him that.

  “Bah! You haven’t the nerve!” she retorted, with another mocking laugh.

  Haggard and fierce, he glared down at her a moment, and then without another word he strode away. Joan was amazed, and a little sick, a little uncertain: still she did not call him back.

  And now at noon of the next day she had tracked him miles toward the mountains. It was a broad trail he had taken, one used by prospectors and hunters. There was no danger of her getting lost. What risk she ran was of meeting some of these border ruffians that had of late been frequent visitors in the village. Presently she mounted again and rode down the ridge. She would go a mile or so farther.

  Behind every rock and cedar she expected to find Jim. Surely he had only threatened her. But she had taunted him in a way no man could stand, and if there were any strength of character in him he would show it now. Her remorse and dread increased. After all, he was only a boy—only a couple of years older than she was. Under stress of feeling he might go to any extreme. Had she misjudged him? If she had not, she had at least been brutal. But he had dared to kiss her! Every time she thought of that a tingling, a confusion, a hot shame went over her. And at length Joan marveled to find that out of the affront to her pride, and the quarrel, and the fact of his going and of her following, and especially out of this increasing remorseful dread, there had flourished up a strange and reluctant respect for Jim Cleve.

  She climbed another ridge and halted again. This time she saw a horse and rider down in the green. Her heart leaped. It must be Jim returning. After all, then, he had only threatened. She felt relieved and glad, yet vaguely sorry. She had been right in her conviction.

  She had not watched long, however, before she saw that this was not the horse Jim usually rode. She took the precaution then to hide behind some bushes, and watched from there. When the horseman approached closer she discerned that instead of Jim it was Harvey Roberts, a man of the village and a good friend of her uncle’s. Therefore she rode out of her covert and hailed him. It was a significant thing that at the sound of her voice Roberts started suddenly and reached for his gun. Then he recognized her.

  “Hello, Joan!” he exclaimed, turning her way. “Reckon you give me a scare. You ain’t alone way out here?”

  “Yes. I was trailing Jim when I saw you,” she replied. “Thought you were Jim.”

  “Trailin’ Jim! What’s up?”

  “We quarreled. He swore he was going to the devil. Over on the border! I was mad and told him to go.… But I’m sorry now—and have been trying to catch up with him.”

  “Ahuh!… So that’s Jim’s trail. I sure was wonderin’. Joan, it turns off a few miles back an’ takes the trail for the border. I know. I’ve been in there.”

  Joan glanced up sharply at Roberts. His scarred and grizzled face seemed grave and he avoided her gaze.

  “You don’t believe—Jim’ll really go?” she
asked, hurriedly.

  “Reckon I do, Joan,” he replied, after a pause. “Jim is just fool enough. He had been gettrn’ recklessler lately. An’, Joan, the times ain’t provocatin’ a young feller to be good. Jim had a bad fight the other night. He about half killed young Bradley. But I reckon you know.”

  “I’ve heard nothing,” she replied. “Tell me. Why did they fight?”

  “Report was that Bradley talked oncomplementary about you.”

  Joan experienced a sweet, warm rush of blood—another new and strange emotion. She did not like Bradley. He had been persistent and offensive.

  “Why didn’t Jim tell me?” she queried, half to herself.

  “Reckon he wasn’t proud of the shape he left Bradley in,” replied Roberts, with a laugh. “Come on, Joan, an’ make back tracks for home.”

  Joan was silent a moment while she looked over the undulating green ridges toward the great gray and black walls. Something stirred deep within her. Her father in his youth had been an adventurer. She felt the thrill and the call of her blood. And she had been unjust to a man who loved her.

  “I’m going after him,” she said.

  Roberts did not show any surprise. He looked at the position of the sun. “Reckon we might overtake him an’ get home before sundown,” he said, laconically, as he turned his horse. “We’ll make a short cut across here a few miles, an’ strike his trail. Can’t miss it.”

  Then he set off at a brisk trot and Joan fell in behind. She had a busy mind, and it was a sign of her preoccupation that she forgot to thank Roberts. Presently they struck into a valley, a narrow depression between the foothills and the ridges, and here they made faster time. The valley appeared miles long. Toward the middle of it Roberts called out to Joan, and, looking down, she saw they had come up with Jim’s trail. Here Roberts put his mount to a canter, and at that gait they trailed Jim out of the valley and up a slope which appeared to be a pass into the mountains. Time flew by for Joan, because she was always peering ahead in the hope and expectation of seeing Jim off in the distance. But she had no glimpse of him. Now and then Roberts would glance around at the westering sun. The afternoon had far advanced. Joan began to worry about home. She had been so sure of coming up with Jim and returning early in the day that she had left no word as to her intentions. Probably by this time somebody was out looking for her.