The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  Creech seemed to gain strength with his speech and passion with the strength. His eyes glinted at the hard, paling face of his rival. He raised a clenching fist.

  “An’ by G—d, I’m goin’ to win thet race!”

  During that week Lucy had heard many things about Joel Creech, and some of them were disquieting.

  Some rider had not only found Joel’s clothes on the trail, but he had recognized the track of the horse Lucy rode, and at once connected her with the singular discovery. Coupling that with Joel’s appearance in the village incased in a heaving armor of adobe, the riders guessed pretty close to the truth. For them the joke was tremendous. And Joel Creech was exceedingly sensitive to ridicule. The riders made life unbearable for him. They had fun out of it as long as Joel showed signs of taking the joke manfully, which was not long, and then his resentment won their contempt. That led to sarcasm on their part and bitter anger on his. It came to Lucy’s ears that Joel began to act and talk strangely. She found out that the rider Van had knocked Joel down in Brackton’s store and had kicked a gun out of his hand. Van laughed off the rumor and Brackton gave her no satisfaction. Moreover, she heard no other rumors. The channels of gossip had suddenly closed to her. Bostil, when questioned by Lucy, swore in a way that amazed her, and all he told her was to leave Creech alone. Finally, when Muncie discharged Joel, who worked now and then, Lucy realized that something was wrong with Joel and that she was to blame for it.

  She grew worried and anxious and sorry, but she held her peace, and determined to find out for herself what was wrong. Every day when she rode out into the sage she expected to meet him, or at least see him somewhere; nevertheless days went by and there was no sign of him.

  One afternoon she saw some Indians driving sheep down the river road toward the ford, and, acting upon impulse, she turned her horse after them.

  Lucy seldom went down the river road. Riding down and up was merely work, and a horse has as little liking for it as she had. Usually it was a hot, dusty trip, and the great, dark, overhanging walls had a depressing effect, upon her. She always felt awe at the gloomy canyon and fear at the strange, murmuring red river. But she started down this afternoon in the hope of meeting Joel. She had a hazy idea of telling him she was sorry for what she had done, and of asking him to forget it and pay no more heed to the riders.

  The sheep raised a dust-cloud in the sandy wash where the road wound down, and Lucy hung back to let them get farther ahead. Gradually the tiny roar of pattering hoofs and the blended bleating and baaing died away. The dust-cloud, however, hung over the head of the ravine, and Lucy had to force Sarchedon through it. Sarchedon did not mind sand and dust, but he surely hated the smell of sheep. Lucy seldom put a spur to Sarchedon; still, she gave him a lash with her quirt, and then he went on obediently, if disgustedly. He carried his head like a horse that wondered why his mistress preferred to drive him down into an unpleasant hole when she might have been cutting the sweet, cool sage wind up on the slope.

  The wash, with its sand and clay walls, dropped into a gulch, and there was an end of green growths. The road led down over solid rock. Gradually the rims of the gorge rose, shutting out the light and the cliffs. It was a winding road and one not safe to tarry on in a stormy season. Lucy had seen boulders weighing a ton go booming down that gorge during one of the sudden fierce desert storms, when a torrent of water and mud and stone went plunging on to the river. The ride through here was short, though slow. Lucy always had time to adjust her faculties for the overpowering contrast these lower regions presented. Long before she reached the end of the gorge she heard the sullen thunder of the river. The river was low, too, for otherwise there would have been a deafening roar.

  Presently she came out upon a lower branch of the canyon, into a great red-walled space, with the river still a thousand feet below, and the cliffs towering as high above her. The road led down along this rim where to the left all was open, across to the split and peaked wall opposite. The river appeared to sweep round a bold, bulging corner a mile above. It was a wide, swift, muddy, turbulent stream. A great bar of sand stretched out from the shore. Beyond it, through the mouth of an intersecting canyon, could be seen a clump of cottonwoods and willows that marked the home of the Creeches. Lucy could not see the shore nearest her, as it was almost directly under her. Besides, in this narrow road, on a spirited horse, she was not inclined to watch the scenery. She hurried Sarchedon down and down, under the overhanging brows of rock, to where the rim sloped out and failed. Here was a half-acre of sand, with a few scant willows, set down seemingly in a dent at the base of the giant, beetling cliffs. The place was light, though the light seemed a kind of veiled red, and to Lucy always ghastly. She could not have been joyous with that river moaning before her, even if it had been up on a level, in the clear and open day. As a little girl eight years old she had conceived a terror and hatred of this huge, jagged rent so full of red haze and purple smoke and the thunder of rushing waters. And she had never wholly outgrown it. The joy of the sun and wind, the rapture in the boundless open, the sweetness in the sage—these were not possible here. Something mighty and ponderous, heavy as those colossal cliffs, weighted down her spirit. The voice of the river drove out any dream. Here was the incessant frowning presence of destructive forces of nature. And the ford was associated with catastrophe—to sheep, to horses and to men.

  Lucy rode across the bar to the shore where the Indians were loading the sheep into an immense rude flatboat. As the sheep were frightened, the loading was no easy task. Their bleating could be heard above the roar of the river. Bostil’s boatmen, Shugrue and Somers, stood knee-deep in the quicksand of the bar, and their efforts to keep free-footed were as strenuous as their handling of the sheep. Presently the flock was all crowded on board, the Indians followed, and then the boatmen slid the unwieldy craft off the sand-bar. Then, each manning a clumsy oar, they pulled upstream. Along shore were whirling, slow eddies, and there rowing was possible. Out in that swift current it would have been folly to try to contend with it, let alone make progress. The method of crossing was to row up along the shore as far as a great cape of rock jutting out, and there make into the current, and while drifting down pull hard to reach the landing opposite. Heavily laden as the boat was, the chances were not wholly in favor of a successful crossing.

  Lucy watched the slow, laborious struggle of the boatmen with the heavy oars until she suddenly remembered the object of her visit down to the ford. She appeared to be alone on her side of the river. At the landing opposite, however, were two men; and presently Lucy recognized Joel Creech and his father. A second glance showed Indians with burros, evidently waiting for the boat. Joel Creech jumped into a skiff and shoved off. The elder man, judging by his motions, seemed to be trying to prevent his son from leaving the shore. But Joel began to row upstream, keeping close to the shore. Lucy watched him. No doubt he had seen her and was coming across. Either the prospect of meeting him or the idea of meeting him there in the place where she was never herself made her want to turn at once and ride back home. But her stubborn sense of fairness overruled that. She would hold her ground solely in the hope of persuading Joel to be reasonable. She saw the big flatboat sweep into line of sight at the same time Joel turned into the current. But while the larger craft drifted slowly the other way, the smaller one came swiftly down and across. Joel swept out of the current into the eddy, rowed across that, and slid the skiff up on the sand-bar. Then he stepped out. He was bareheaded and barefooted, but it was not that which made him seem a stranger to Lucy.

  “Are you lookin’ fer me?” he shouted.

  Lucy waved a hand for him to come up.

  Then he approached. He was a tall, lean young man, stoop-shouldered and bow-legged from much riding, with sallow, freckled face, a thin fuzz of beard, weak mouth and chin, and eyes remarkable for their small size and piercing quality and different color. For one was gray and the other was hazel. There was no scar on his face, but the irregularity of his featur
es reminded one who knew that he had once been kicked in the face by a horse.

  Creech came up hurriedly, in an eager, wild way that made Lucy suddenly pity him. He did not seem to remember that the stallion had an antipathy for him. But Lucy, if she had forgotten, would have been reminded by Sarchedon’s action.

  “Look out, Joel!” she called, and she gave the black’s head a jerk. Sarchedon went up with a snort and came down pounding the sand. Quick as an Indian Lucy was out of the saddle.

  “Lemme your quirt,” said Joel, showing his teeth like a wolf.

  “No. I wouldn’t let you hit Sarch. You beat him once, and he’s never forgotten,” replied Lucy.

  The eye of the horse and the man met and clashed, and there was a hostile tension in their attitudes. Then Lucy dropped the bridle and drew Joel over to a huge drift-log, half buried in the sand. Here she sat down, but Joel remained standing. His gaze was now all the stranger for its wistfulness. Lucy was quick to catch a subtle difference in him, but she could not tell wherein it lay.

  “What’d you want?” asked Joel.

  “I’ve heard a lot of things, Joel,” replied Lucy, trying to think of just what she wanted to say.

  “Reckon you have,” said Joel, dejectedly, and then he sat down on the log and dug holes in the sand with his bare feet.

  Lucy had never before seen him look tired, and it seemed that some of the healthy brown of his cheeks had thinned out. Then Lucy told him, guardedly, a few of the rumors she had heard.

  “All thet you say is nothin’ to what’s happened,” he replied, bitterly. “Them riders mocked the life an’ soul out of me.”

  “But, Joel, you shouldn’t be so—so touchy,” said Lucy, earnestly. “After all, the joke was on you. Why didn’t you take it like a man?”

  “But they knew you stole my clothes,” he protested.

  “Suppose they did. That wasn’t much to care about. If you hadn’t taken it so hard they’d have let up on you.”

  “Mebbe I might have stood that. But they taunted me with bein’—loony about you.”

  Joel spoke huskily. There was no doubt that he had been deeply hurt. Lucy saw tears in his eyes, and her first impulse was to put a hand on his and tell him how sorry she was. But she desisted. She did not feel at her ease with Joel.

  “What’d you and Van fight about?” she asked, presently. Joel hung his head. “I reckon I ain’t a-goin’ to tell you.”

  “You’re ashamed of it?”

  Joel’s silence answered that.

  “You said something about me?” Lucy could not resist her curiosity, back of which was a little heat. “It must have been—bad—else Van wouldn’t have struck you.”

  “He hit me—he knocked me flat,” passionately said Joel.

  “And you drew a gun on him?”

  “I did, an’ like a fool I didn’t wait till I got up. Then he kicked me!… Bostil’s Ford will never be big enough fer me an’ Van now.”

  “Don’t talk foolish. You won’t fight with Van.… Joel, maybe you deserved what you got. You say some—some rude things.”

  “I only said I’d pay you back,” burst out Joel.

  “How?”

  “I swore I’d lay fer you—an’ steal your clothes—so you’d have to run home naked.”

  There was indeed something lacking in Joel, but it was not sincerity. His hurt had rankled deep and his voice trembled with indignation.

  “But, Joel, I don’t go swimming in spring-holes,” protested Lucy, divided between amusement and annoyance.

  “I meant it, anyhow,” said Joel, doggedly.

  “Are you absolutely honest? Is that all you said to provoke Van?”

  “It’s all, Lucy, I swear.”

  She believed him, and saw the unfortunate circumstance more than ever her fault. “I’m sorry, Joel. I’m much to blame. I shouldn’t have lost my temper and played that trick with your clothes.… If you’d only had sense enough to stay out till after dark! But no use crying over spilt milk. Now, if you’ll do your share I’ll do mine. I’ll tell the boys I was to blame. I’ll persuade them to let you alone. I’ll go to Muncie—”

  “No you won’t go cryin’ small fer me!” blurted out Joel.

  Lucy was surprised to see pride in him. “Joel, I’ll not make it appear—”

  “You’ll not say one word about me to anyone,” he went on, with the blood beginning to darken his face. And now he faced her. How strange the blaze in his differently colored eyes! “Lucy Bostil, there’s been thet done an’ said to me which I’ll never forgive. I’m no good in Bostil’s Ford. Mebbe I never was much. But I could get a job when I wanted it an’ credit when I needed it. Now I can’t get nothin’. I’m no good!… I’m no good! An’ it’s your fault!”

  “Oh, Joel, what can I do?” cried Lucy.

  “I reckon there’s only one way you can square me,” he replied, suddenly growing pale. But his eyes were like flint. He certainly looked to be in possession of all his wits.

  “How?” queried Lucy, sharply.

  “You can marry me. Thet’ll show thet gang! An’ it’ll square me. Then I’ll go back to work an’ I’ll stick. Thet’s all, Lucy Bostil.”

  Manifestly he was laboring under strong suppressed agitation. That moment was the last of real strength and dignity ever shown by Joel Creech.

  “But, Joel, I can’t marry you—even if I am to blame for your ruin,” said Lucy, simply.

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t love you.”

  “I reckon thet won’t make any difference, if you don’t love someone else.”

  Lucy gazed blankly at him. He began to shake, and his eyes grew wild. She rose from the log.

  “Do you love anybody else?” he asked, passionately.

  “None of your business!” retorted Lucy. Then, at a strange darkening of his face, an aspect unfamiliar to her, she grew suddenly frightened.

  “It’s Van!” he said, thickly.

  “Joel, you’re a fool!”

  That only infuriated him.

  “So they all say. An’ they got my old man believin’ it, too. Mebbe I am.… But I’m a-goin’ to kill Van!”

  “No! No! Joel, what are you saying? I don’t love Van. I don’t care any more for him than for any other rider—or—or you.”

  “Thet’s a lie, Lucy Bostil!”

  “How dare you say I lie?” demanded Lucy. “I’ve a mind to turn my back on you. I’m trying to make up for my blunder and you—you insult me!”

  “You talk sweet…but talk isn’t enough. You made me no-good.… Will you marry me?”

  “I will not!” And Lucy, with her blood up, could not keep contempt out of voice and look, and she did not care. That was the first time she had ever shown anything, approaching ridicule for Joel. The effect was remarkable. Like a lash upon a raw wound it made him writhe; but more significant to Lucy was the sudden convulsive working of his features and the wildness of his eyes. Then she turned her back, not from contempt, but to hurry away from him.

  He leaped after her and grasped her with rude hands.

  “Let me go!” cried Lucy, standing perfectly motionless. The hard clutch of his fingers roused a fierce, hot anger.

  Joel did not heed her command. He was forcing her back. He talked incoherently. One glimpse of his face added terror to Lucy’s fury.

  “Joel, you’re out of your head!” she cried, and she began to wrench and writhe out of his grasp. Then ensued a short, sharp struggle. Joel could not hold Lucy, but he tore her blouse into shreds. It seemed to Lucy that he did that savagely. She broke free from him, and he lunged at her again. With all her strength she lashed his face with the heavy leather quirt. That staggered him. He almost fell.

  Lucy bounded to Sarchedon. In a rush she was up in the saddle. Joel was running toward her. Blood on his face! Blood on his hands! He was not the Joel Creech she knew.

  “Stop!” cried Lucy, fiercely. “I’ll run you down!”

  The big black plunged at a touch of spu
r and came down quivering, ready to bolt.

  Creech swerved to one side. His face was lividly white except where the bloody welts crossed it. His jaw seemed to hang loosely, making speech difficult.

  “Jest fer—thet—” he panted, hoarsely, “I’ll lay fer you—an’ I’ll strip you—an’ I’ll tie you on a hoss—an’ I’ll drive you naked through Bostil’s Ford!”

  Lucy saw the utter futility of all her good intentions. Something had snapped in Joel Creech’s mind. And in hers kindness had given precedence to a fury she did not know was in her. For the second time she touched a spur to Sarchedon. He leaped out, flashed past Creech, and thundered up the road. It was all Lucy could do to break his gait at the first steep rise.

  CHAPTER IV

  Three wild-horse hunters made camp one night beside a little stream in the Sevier Valley, five hundred miles, as a crow flies, from Bostil’s Ford.

  These hunters had a poor outfit, excepting, of course, their horses. They were young men, rangy in build, lean and hard from life in the saddle, bronzed like Indians, still-faced, and keen-eyed. Two of them appeared to be tired out, and lagged at the camp-fire duties. When the meager meal was prepared they sat, cross-legged, before a ragged tarpaulin, eating and drinking in silence.

  The sky in the west was rosy, slowly darkening. The valley floor billowed away, ridged and cut, growing gray and purple and dark. Walls of stone, pink with the last rays of the setting sun, inclosed the valley, stretching away toward a long, low, black mountain range.

  The place was wild, beautiful, open, with something nameless that made the desert different from any other country. It was, perhaps, a loneliness of vast stretches of valley and stone, clear to the eye, even after sunset. That black mountain range, which looked close enough to ride to before dark, was a hundred miles distant.

  The shades of night fell swiftly, and it was dark by the time the hunters finished the meal. Then the campfire had burned low. One of the three dragged branches of dead cedars and replenished the fire. Quickly it flared up, with the white flame and crackle characteristic of dry cedar. The night wind had risen, moaning through the gnarled, stunted cedars near by, and it blew the fragrant wood-smoke into the faces of the two hunters, who seemed too tired to move.