The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  The horses had worked away from the fire, and Wildfire, free of the stifling smoke, began to break and lunge and pitch, plunging round Nagger in a circle, running blindly, but with unerring scent. Slone, by masterly horsemanship, easily avoided the rushes, and made a pivot of Nagger, round which the wild horse dashed in his frenzy. It seemed that he no longer tried to free himself. He lunged to kill.

  “Steady, Nagger, old boy!” Slone kept calling. “He’ll never get at you.… If he slips that blinder I’ll kill him!”

  The stallion was a fiend in his fury, quicker than a panther, wonderful on his feet, and powerful as an ox. But he was at a disadvantage. He could not see. And Slone, in his spoken intention to kill Wildfire should the scarf slip, acknowledged that he never would have a chance to master the stallion. Wildfire was bigger, faster, stronger than Slone had believed, and as for spirit, that was a grand and fearful thing to see.

  The soft sand in the pass was plowed deep before Wildfire paused in his mad plunges. He was wet and heaving. His red coat seemed to blaze. His mane stood up and his ears lay flat.

  Slone uncoiled the lassoes from the pommel and slacked them a little. Wildfire stood up, striking at the air, snorting fiercely. Slone tried to wheel Nagger in close behind the stallion. Both horse and man narrowly escaped the vicious hoofs. But Slone had closed in. He took a desperate chance and spurred Nagger in a single leap as Wildfire reared again. The horses collided. Slone hauled the lassoes tight. The impact threw Wildfire off his balance, just as Slone had calculated, and as the stallion plunged down on four feet Slone spurred Nagger close against him. Wildfire was a little in the lead. He could only half rear now, for the heaving, moving Nagger, always against him, jostled him down, and Slone’s iron arm hauled on the short ropes. When Wildfire turned to bite, Slone knocked the vicious nose back with a long swing of his fist.

  Up the pass the horses plunged. With a rider’s wild joy Slone saw the long green-and-gray valley, and the isolated monuments in the distance. There, on that wide stretch, he would break Wildfire. How marvelously luck had favored him at the last!

  “Run, you red devil!” Slone called. “Drag us around now till you’re done!”

  They left the pass and swept out upon the waste of sage. Slone realized, from the stinging of the sweet wind in his face, that Nagger was being pulled along at a tremendous pace. The faithful black could never have made the wind cut so. Lower the wild stallion stretched and swifter he ran, till it seemed to Slone that death must end that thunderbolt race.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Lucy Bostil had called twice to her father and he had not answered. He was out at the hitching-rail, with Holley, the rider, and two other men. If he heard Lucy he gave no sign of it. She had on her chaps and did not care to go any farther than the door where she stood.

  “Somers has gone to Durango an’ Shugrue is out huntin’ hosses,” Lucy heard Bostil say, gruffly.

  “Wal now, I reckon I could handle the boat an’ fetch Creech’s hosses over,” said Holley.

  Bostil raised an impatient hand, as if to wave aside Holley’s assumption.

  Then one of the other two men spoke up. Lucy had seen him before, but did not know his name.

  “Sure there ain’t any need to rustle the job. The river hain’t showed any signs of risin’ yet. But Creech is worryin’. He allus is worryin’ over them hosses. No wonder! Thet Blue Roan is sure a hoss. Yesterday at two miles he showed Creech he was a sight faster than last year. The grass is gone over there. Creech is grainin’ his stock these last few days. An’ thet’s expensive.”

  “How about the flat up the canyon?” queried Bostil. “Ain’t there any grass there?”

  “Reckon not. It’s the dryest spell Creech ever had,” replied the other. “An’ if there was grass it wouldn’t do him no good. A landslide blocked the only trail up.”

  “Bostil, them hosses, the racers special, ought to be brought acrost the river,” said Holley, earnestly. He loved horses and was thinking of them.

  “The boat’s got to be patched up,” replied Bostil, shortly.

  It occurred to Lucy that her father was also thinking of Creech’s thoroughbreds, but not like Holley. She grew grave and listened intently.

  There was an awkward pause. Creech’s rider, whoever he was, evidently tried to conceal his anxiety. He flicked his boots with a quirt. The boots were covered with wet mud. Probably he had crossed the river very recently.

  “Wal, when will you have the hosses fetched over?” he asked, deliberately. “Creech’ll want to know.”

  “Just as soon as the boat’s mended,” replied Bostil. “I’ll put Shugrue on the job tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Bostil. Sure, thet’ll be all right. Creech’ll be satisfied,” said the rider, as if relieved. Then he mounted, and with his companion trotted down the lane.

  The lean, gray Holley bent a keen gaze upon Bostil. But Bostil did not notice that; he appeared preoccupied in thought.

  “Bostil, the dry winter an’ spring here ain’t any guarantee thet there wasn’t a lot of snow up in the mountains.” Holley’s remark startled Bostil.

  “No—it ain’t—sure,” he replied.

  “An’ any mornin’ along now we might wake up to hear the Colorado boomin’,” went on Holley, significantly.

  Bostil did not reply to that.

  “Creech hain’t lived over there so many years. What’s he know about the river? An’ fer that matter, who knows anythin’ sure about thet hell-bent river?”

  “It ain’t my business thet Creech lives over there riskin’ his stock every spring,” replied Bostil, darkly.

  Holley opened his lips to speak, hesitated, looked away from Bostil, and finally said, “No, it sure ain’t.” Then he turned and walked away, head bent in sober thought. Bostil came toward the open door where Lucy stood. He looked somber. At her greeting he seemed startled.

  “What?” he said.

  “I just said, ‘Hello, Dad,’” she replied, demurely. Yet she thoughtfully studied her father’s dark face.

  “Hello yourself.… Did you know Van got throwed an’ hurt?”

  “Yes.”

  Bostil swore under his breath. “There ain’t any riders on the range thet can be trusted,” he said, disgustedly. “They’re all the same. They like to get in a bunch an’ jeer each other an’ bet. They want mean hosses. They make good hosses buck. They haven’t any use for a hoss thet won’t buck. They all want to give a hoss a rakin’ over.… Think of thet fool Van gettin’ throwed by a two-dollar Ute mustang. An’ hurt so he can’t ride for days! With them races comin’ soon! It makes me sick.”

  “Dad, weren’t you a rider once?” asked Lucy.

  “I never was thet kind.”

  “Van will be all right in a few days.”

  “No matter. It’s bad business. If I had any other rider who could handle the King I’d let Van go.”

  “I can get just as much out of the King as Van can,” said Lucy, spiritedly.

  “You!” exclaimed Bostil. But there was pride in his glance.

  “I know I can.”

  “You never had any use for Sage King,” said Bostil, as if he had been wronged.

  “I love the King a little, and hate him a lot,” laughed Lucy.

  “Wal, I might let you ride at thet, if Van ain’t in shape,” rejoined her father.

  “I wouldn’t ride him in the race. But I’ll keep him in fine fettle.”

  “I’ll bet you’d like to see Sarch beat him,” said Bostil, jealously.

  “Sure I would,” replied Lucy, teasingly. “But, Dad, I’m afraid Sarch never will beat him.”

  Bostil grunted. “See here. I don’t want any weight up on the King. You take him out for a few days. An’ ride him! Savvy thet?”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “Give him miles an’ miles—an’ then comin’ home, on good trails, ride him for all your worth.… Now, Lucy, keep your eye open. Don’t let anyone get near you on the sage.”

  “I won’t.�
� Dad, do you still worry about poor Joel Creech?”

  “Not Joel. But I’d rather lose all my stock then have Cordts or Dick Sears get within a mile of you.”

  “A mile!” exclaimed Lucy, lightly, though a fleeting shade crossed her face. “Why, I’d run away from him, if I was on the King, even if he got within ten yards of me.”

  “A mile is close enough, my daughter,” replied Bostil. “Don’t ever forget to keep your eye open. Cordts has sworn thet if he can’t steal the King he’ll get you.”

  “Oh! he prefers the horse to me.”

  “Wal, Lucy, I’ve a sneakin’ idea thet Cordts will never leave the uplands unless he gets you an’ the King both.”

  “And, Dad—you consented to let that horse-thief come to our races?” exclaimed Lucy, with heat.

  “Why not? He can’t do any harm. If he or his men get uppish, the worse for them. Cordts gave his word not to turn a trick till after the races.”

  “Do you trust him?”

  “Yes. But his men might break loose, away from his sight. Especially thet Dick Sears. He’s a bad man. So be watchful whenever you ride out.”

  As Lucy went down toward the corrals she was thinking deeply. She could always tell, woman-like, when her father was excited or agitated. She remembered the conversation between him and Creech’s rider. She remembered the keen glance old Holley had bent upon him. And mostly she remembered the somber look upon his face. She did not like that. Once, when a little girl, she had seen it and never forgotten it, nor the thing that it was associated with—something tragical which had happened in the big room. There had been loud, angry voices of men—and shots—and then the men carried out a long form covered with a blanket. She loved her father, but there was a side to him she feared. And somehow related to that side was his hardness toward Creech and his intolerance of any rider owning a fast horse and his obsession in regard to his own racers. Lucy had often tantalized her father with the joke that if it ever came to a choice between her and his favorites they would come first. But was it any longer a joke? Lucy felt that she had left childhood behind with its fun and fancies, and she had begun to look at life thoughtfully.

  Sight of the corrals, however, and of the King prancing around, drove serious thoughts away. There were riders there, among them Farlane, and they all had pleasant greetings for her.

  “Farlane, Dad says I’m to take out Sage King,” announced Lucy.

  “No!” ejaculated Farlane, as he pocketed his pipe.

  “Sure. And I’m to ride him. You know how Dad means that.”

  “Wal, now, I’m doggoned!” added Farlane, looking worried and pleased at once. “I reckon, Miss Lucy, you—you wouldn’t fool me?”

  “Why, Farlane!” returned Lucy, reproachfully. “Did I ever do a single thing around horses that you didn’t want me to?”

  Farlane rubbed his chin beard somewhat dubiously. “Wal, Miss Lucy, not exactly while you was around the hosses. But I reckon when you onct got up, you’ve sorta forgot a few times.”

  All the riders laughed, and Lucy joined them.

  “I’m safe when I’m up, you know that,” she replied.

  They brought out the gray, and after the manner of riders who had the care of a great horse and loved him, they curried and combed and rubbed him before saddling him.

  “Reckon you’d better ride Van’s saddle,” suggested Farlane. “Them races is close now, an’ a strange saddle—”

  “Of course. Don’t change anything he’s used to, except the stirrups,” replied Lucy.

  Despite her antipathy toward Sage King, Lucy could not gaze at him without all a rider’s glory in a horse. He was sleek, so graceful, so racy, so near the soft gray of the sage, so beautiful in build and action. Then he was the kind of a horse that did not have to be eternally watched. He was spirited and full of life, eager to run, but when Farlane called for him to stand still he obeyed. He was the kind of a horse that a child could have played around in safety. He never kicked. He never bit. He never bolted. It was splendid to see him with Farlane or with Bostil. He did not like Lucy very well, a fact that perhaps accounted for Lucy’s antipathy. For that matter, he did not like any woman. If he had a bad trait, it came out when Van rode him, but all the riders, and Bostil, too, claimed that Van was to blame for that.

  “Thar, I reckon them stirrups is right,” declared Farlane. “Now, Miss Lucy, hold him tight till he wears off thet edge. He needs work.”

  Sage King would not kneel for Lucy as Sarchedon did, and he was too high for her to mount from the ground, so she mounted from a rock. She took to the road, and then the first trail into the sage, intending to trot him ten or fifteen miles down into the valley, and give him some fast, warm work on the return.

  The day was early in May and promised to grow hot. There was not a cloud in the blue sky. The wind, laden with the breath of sage, blew briskly from the west. All before Lucy lay the vast valley, gray and dusky gray, then blue, then purple where the monuments stood, and, farther still, dark ramparts of rock. Lucy had a habit of dreaming while on horseback, a habit all the riders had tried to break, but she did not give it rein while she rode Sarchedon, and assuredly now, up on the King, she never forgot him for an instant. He shied at mockingbirds and pack-rats and blowing blossoms and even at butterflies; and he did it, Lucy thought, just because he was full of mischief. Sage King had been known to go steady when there had been reason to shy. He did not like Lucy and he chose to torment her. Finally he earned a good dig from a spur, and then, with swift pounding of hoofs, he plunged and veered and danced in the sage. Lucy kept her temper, which was what most riders did not do, and by patience and firmness pulled Sage King out of his prancing back into the trail. He was not the least cross-grained, and, having had his little spurt, he settled down into easy going.

  In an hour Lucy was ten miles or more from home, and farther down in the valley than she had ever been. In fact, she had never before been down the long slope to the valley floor. How changed the horizon became! The monuments loomed up now, dark, sentinel-like, and strange. The first one, a great red rock, seemed to her some five miles away. It was lofty, straight-sided, with a green slope at its base. And beyond that the other monuments stretched out down the valley. Lucy decided to ride as far as the first one before turning back. Always these monuments had fascinated her, and this was her opportunity to ride near one. How lofty they were, how wonderfully colored, and how comely!

  Presently, over the left, where the monuments were thicker, and gradually merged their slopes and lines and bulk into the yellow walls, she saw low, drifting clouds of smoke.

  “Well, what’s that, I wonder?” she mused. To see smoke on the horizon in that direction was unusual, though out toward Durango the grassy benches would often burn over. And these low clouds of smoke resembled those she had seen before.

  “It’s a long way off,” she added.

  So she kept on, now and then gazing at the smoke. As she grew nearer to the first monument she was surprised, then amazed, at its height and surpassing size. It was mountain-high—a grand tower—smooth, worn, glistening, yellow and red. The trail she had followed petered out in a deep wash, and beyond that she crossed no more trails. The sage had grown meager and the greasewoods stunted and dead; and cacti appeared on barren places. The grass had not failed, but it was not rich grass such as the horses and cattle grazed upon miles back on the slope. The air was hot down here. The breeze was heavy and smelled of fire, and the sand was blowing here and there. She had a sense of the bigness, the openness of this valley, and then she realized its wildness and strangeness. These lonely, isolated monuments made the place different from any she had visited. They did not seem mere standing rocks. They seemed to retreat all the time as she approached, and they watched her. They interested her, made her curious. What had formed all these strange monuments? Here the ground was level for miles and miles, to slope gently up to the bases of these huge rocks. In an old book she had seen pictures of the Egyptian pyramids, bu
t these appeared vaster, higher, and stranger, and they were sheerly perpendicular.

  Suddenly Sage King halted sharply, shot up his ears, and whistled. Lucy was startled. That from the King meant something. Hastily, with keen glance she swept the foreground. A mile on, near the monument, was a small black spot. It seemed motionless. But the King’s whistle had proved it to be a horse. When Lucy had covered a quarter of the intervening distance she could distinguish the horse and that there appeared some thing strange about his position. Lucy urged Sage King into a lope and soon drew nearer. The black horse had his head down, yet he did not appear to be grazing. He was as still as a statue. He stood just outside a clump of greasewood and cactus.

  Suddenly a sound pierced the stillness. The King jumped and snorted in fright. For an instant Lucy’s blood ran cold, for it was a horrible cry. Then she recognized it as the neigh of a horse in agony. She had heard crippled and dying horses utter that long-drawn and blood-curdling neigh. The black horse had not moved, so the sound could not have come from him. Lucy thought Sage King acted more excited than the occasion called for. Then remembering her father’s warning, she reined in on top of a little knoll, perhaps a hundred yards from where the black horse stood, and she bent her keen gaze forward.

  It was a huge, gaunt, shaggy black horse she saw, with the saddle farther up on his shoulders than it should have been. He stood motionless, as if utterly exhausted. His forelegs were braced, so that he leaned slightly back. Then Lucy saw a rope. It was fast to the saddle and stretched down into the cactus. There was no other horse in sight, nor any living thing. The immense monument dominated the scene. It seemed stupendous to Lucy, sublime, almost frightful.