The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  “Will—you—please—fetch Sarch?” asked Lucy, tremulously.

  While Slone went for the horse and saddled him Lucy composed herself outwardly. And she had two very strong desires—one to tell Slone something, and the other to run. She decided she would do both together.

  Slone brought Sarchedon. Lucy put on her gauntlets, and, mounting the horse, she took a moment to arrange her skirts before she looked down at Slone. He was now pale, rather than white, and instead of fire in his eyes there was sadness. Lucy felt the swelling and pounding of her heart—and a long, delicious shuddering thrill that ran over her.

  “Lin, I won’t take Wildfire,” she said.

  “Yes, you will. You can’t refuse. Remember he’s grown to look to you. It wouldn’t be right by the horse.”

  “But he’s all you have in the world,” she protested. Yet she knew any protestations would be in vain.

  “No. I have good old faithful Nagger.”

  “Would you go try to hunt another wild stallion—like Wildfire?” asked Lucy, curiously. She was playing with the wonderful sweet consciousness of her power to render happiness when she chose.

  “No more horse-huntin’ for me,” declared Slone. “An’ as for findin’ one like Wildfire—that’d never be.”

  “Suppose I won’t accept him?”

  “How could you refuse? Not for me but for Wildfire’s sake!… But if you could be mean an’ refuse, why, Wildfire can go back to the desert.”

  “No!” exclaimed Lucy.

  “I reckon so.”

  Lucy paused a moment. How dry her tongue seemed! And her breathing was labored! An unreal shimmering gleam shone on all about her. Even the red stallion appeared enveloped in a glow. And the looming monuments looked down upon her, paternal, old, and wise, bright with the color of happiness.

  “Wildfire ought to have several more days’ training—then a day of rest—and then the race,” said Lucy, turning again to look at Slone.

  A smile was beginning to change the hardness of his face. “Yes, Lucy,” he said.

  “And I’ll have to ride him?”

  “You sure will—if he’s ever to beat the King.”

  Lucy’s eyes flashed blue. She saw the crowd—the curious, friendly Indians—the eager riders—the spirited horses—the face of her father—and last the race itself, such a race as had never been ran, so swift, so fierce, so wonderful.

  “Then Lin,” began Lucy, with a slowly heaving breast, “if I accept Wildfire will you keep him for me—until…and if I accept him, and tell you why, will you promise to say—”

  “Don’t ask me again!” interrupted Slone, hastily. “I will speak to Bostil.”

  “Wait, will you…promise not to say a word—a single word to me—till after the race?”

  “A word—to you! What about?” he queried, wonderingly. Something in his eyes made Lucy think of the dawn.

  “About—the—Because—Why, I’m—I’ll accept your horse.”

  “Yes,” he replied, swiftly.

  Lucy settled herself in the saddle and, shortening the bridle, she got ready to spur Sarchedon into a bolt.

  “Lin, I’ll accept Wildfire because I love you.”

  Sarchedon leaped forward. Lucy did not see Slone’s face nor hear him speak. Then she was tearing through the sage, out past the whistling Wildfire, with the wind sweet in her face. She did not look back.

  CHAPTER XI

  All through May there was an idea, dark and sinister, growing in Bostil’s mind. Fiercely at first he had rejected it as utterly unworthy of the man he was. But it returned. It would not be denied. It was fostered by singular and unforeseen circumstances. The meetings with Creech, the strange, sneaking actions of young Joel Creech, and especially the gossip of riders about the improvement in Creech’s swift horse—these things appeared to loom larger and larger and to augment in Bostil’s mind the monstrous idea which he could not shake off. So he became brooding and gloomy.

  It appeared to be an indication of his intense preoccupation of mind that he seemed unaware of Lucy’s long trips down into the sage. But Bostil had observed them long before Holley and other riders had approached him with the information.

  “Let her alone,” he growled to his men. “I gave her orders to train the King. An’ after Van got well mebbe Lucy just had a habit of ridin’ down there. She can take care of herself.”

  To himself, when alone, Bostil muttered: “Wonder what the kid has looked up now? Some mischief, I’ll bet!”

  Nevertheless, he did not speak to her on the subject. Deep in his heart he knew he feared his keen-eyed daughter, and during these days he was glad she was not in evidence at the hours when he could not very well keep entirely to himself. Bostil was afraid Lucy might divine what he had on his mind. There was no one else he cared for. Holley, that old hawk-eyed rider, might see through him, but Bostil knew Holley would be loyal, whatever he saw.

  Toward the end of the month, when Somers returned from horse-hunting, Bostil put him and Shugrue to work upon the big flatboat down at the crossing. Bostil himself went down, and he walked—a fact apt to be considered unusual if it had been noticed.

  “Put in new planks,” was his order to the men. “An’ pour hot tar in the cracks. Then when the tar dries shove her in…but I’ll tell you when.”

  Every morning young Creech rowed over to see if the boat was ready to take the trip across to bring his father’s horses back. The third morning of work on the boat Bostil met Joel down there. Joel seemed eager to speak to Bostil. He certainly was a wild-looking youth.

  “Bostil, my ole man is losin’ sleep waitin’ to git the hosses over,” he said, frankly. “Feed’s almost gone.”

  “That’ll be all right, Joel,” replied Bostil. “You see, the river ain’t begun to raise yet.… How’re the hosses comin’ on?”

  “Grand, sir—grand!” exclaimed the simple Joel. “Peg is runnin’ faster than last year, but Blue Roan is leavin’ her a mile. Dad’s goin’ to bet all he has. The roan can’t lose this year.”

  Bostil felt like a bull bayed at by a hound. Blue Roan was a young horse, and every season he had grown bigger and faster. The King had reached the limit of his speed. That was great, Bostil knew, and enough to win over any horse in the uplands, providing the luck of the race fell even. Luck, however, was a fickle thing.

  “I was advisin’ Dad to swim the hosses over,” declared Joel, deliberately.

  “A-huh! You was?… An’ why?” rejoined Bostil.

  Joel’s simplicity and frankness vanished, and with them his rationality. He looked queer. His contrasting eyes shot little malignant gleams. He muttered incoherently, and moved back toward the skiff, making violent gestures, and his muttering grew to shouting, though still incoherent. He got in the boat and started to row back over the river.

  “Sure he’s got a screw loose,” observed Somers. Shugrue tapped his grizzled head significantly.

  Bostil made no comment. He strode away from his men down to the river shore, and, finding a seat on a stone, he studied the slow eddying red current of the river and he listened. If any man knew the strange and remorseless Colorado, that man was Bostil. He never made any mistakes in anticipating what the river was going to do.

  And now he listened, as if indeed the sullen, low roar, the murmuring hollow gurgle, the sudden strange splash, were spoken words meant for his ears alone. The river was low. It seemed tired out. It was a dirty red in color, and it swirled and flowed along lingeringly. At times the current was almost imperceptible; and then again it moved at varying speed. It seemed a petulant, waiting, yet inevitable stream, with some remorseless end before it. It had a thousand voices, but not the one Bostil listened to hear.

  He plodded gloomily up the trail, resting in the quiet, dark places of the canyon, loath to climb out into the clear light of day. And once in the village, Bostil shook himself as if to cast off an evil, ever-present, pressing spell.

  The races were now only a few days off. Piutes and Navajos
were camped out on the sage, and hourly the number grew as more came in. They were building cedar sunshades. Columns of blue smoke curled up here and there. Mustangs and ponies grazed everywhere, and a line of Indians extended along the racecourse, where trials were being held. The village was full of riders, horse-traders and hunters, and ranchers. Work on the ranges had practically stopped for the time being, and in another day or so every inhabitant of the country would be in Bostil’s Ford.

  Bostil walked into the village, grimly conscious that the presence of the Indians and riders and horses, the action and color and bustle, the near approach of the great race-day—these things that in former years had brought him keen delight and speculation—had somehow lost their tang. He had changed. Something was wrong in him. But he must go among these visitors and welcome them as of old; he who had always been the life of these racing-days must be outwardly the same. And the task was all the harder because of the pleasure shown by old friends among the Indians and the riders at meeting him. Bostil knew he had been a cunning horse-trader, but he had likewise been a good friend. Many were the riders and Indians who owed much to him. So everywhere he was hailed and besieged, until finally the old excitement of betting and bantering took hold of him and he forgot his brooding.

  Brackton’s place, as always, was a headquarters for all visitors. Macomber had just come in full of enthusiasm and pride over the horse he had entered, and he had money to wager. Two Navajo chiefs, called by white men Old Horse and Silver, were there for the first time in years. They were ready to gamble horse against horse. Cal Blinn and his riders of Durango had arrived; likewise Colson, Sticks, and Burthwait, old friends and rivals of Bostil’s.

  For a while Brackton’s was merry. There was some drinking and much betting. It was characteristic of Bostil that he would give any odds asked on the King in a race; and, furthermore, he would take any end of wagers on other horses. As far as his own horses were concerned he bet shrewdly, but in races where his horses did not figure he seemed to find fun in the betting, whether or not he won.

  The fact remained, however, that there were only two wagers against the King, and both were put up by Indians. Macomber was betting on second or third place for his horse in the big race. No odds of Bostil’s tempted him.

  “Say, where’s Wetherby?” rolled out Bostil. “He’ll back his hoss.”

  “Wetherby’s ridin’ over tomorrow,” replied Macomber. “But you gotta bet him two to one.”

  “See hyar, Bostil,” spoke up old Cal Blinn, “you jest wait till I git an eye on the King’s runnin’. Mebbe I’ll go you even money.”

  “An’ as fer me, Bostil,” said Colson, “I ain’t set up yit which hoss I’ll race.”

  Burthwait, an old rider, came forward to Brackton’s desk and entered a wager against the field that made all the men gasp.

  “By George! pard, you ain’t a-limpin’ along!” ejaculated Bostil, admiringly, and he put a hand on the other’s shoulder.

  “Bostil, I’ve a grand hoss,” replied Burthwait. “He’s four years old, I guess, fer he was born wild, an’ you never seen him.”

  “Wild hoss?… Huh!” growled Bostil. “You must think he can run.”

  “Why, Bostil, a streak of lightnin’ ain’t anywheres with him.”

  “Wal, I’m glad to hear it,” said Bostil, gruffly. “Brack, how many hosses entered now for the big race?”

  The lean, gray Brackton bent earnestly over his soiled ledger, while the riders and horsemen round him grew silent to listen.

  “Thar’s the Sage King by Bostil,” replied Brackton. “Blue Roan an’ Peg, by Creech; Whitefoot, by Macomber; Rocks, by Holley; Hoss-shoes, by Blinn; Bay Charley, by Burthwait. Then thar’s the two mustangs entered by Old Hoss an’ Silver—an’ last—Wildfire, by Lucy Bostil.”

  “What’s thet last?” queried Bostil.

  “Wildfire, by Lucy Bostil,” repeated Brackton.

  “Has the girl gone an’ entered a hoss?”

  “She sure has. She came in today, regular an’ business-like, writ her name an’ her hoss’s—here ’tis—an’ put up the entrance money.”

  “Wal, I’ll be damned!” exclaimed Bostil. He was astonished and pleased. “She said she’d do it. But I didn’t take no stock in her talk.… An’ the hoss’s name?”

  “Wildfire.”

  “Huh!… Wildfire. Mebbe thet girl can’t think of names for hosses! What’s this hoss she calls Wildfire?”

  “She sure didn’t say,” replied Brackton. “Holley an’ Van an’ some more of the boys was here. They joked her a little. You oughter seen the look Lucy give them. But fer once she seemed mum. She jest walked away mysterious like.”

  “Lucy’s got a pony off some Indian, I reckon,” returned Bostil, and he laughed. “Then thet makes ten hosses entered so far?”

  “Right. An’ there’s sure to be one more. I guess the track’s wide enough for twelve.”

  “Wal, Brack, there’ll likely be one hoss out in front an’ some stretched out behind,” replied Bostil, dryly. “The track’s sure wide enough.”

  “Won’t thet be a grand race!” exclaimed an enthusiastic rider. “Wisht I had about a million to bet!”

  “Bostil, I ’most forgot,” went on Brackton, “Cordts sent word by the Piutes who come today thet he’d be here sure.”

  Bostil’s face subtly changed. The light seemed to leave it. He did not reply to Brackton—did not show that he heard the comment on all sides. Public opinion was against Bostil’s permission to allow Cordts and his horse-thieves to attend the races. Bostil appeared grave, regretful. Yet it was known by all that in the strangeness and perversity of his rider’s nature he wanted Cordts to see the King win that race. It was his rider’s vanity and defiance in the teeth of a great horse-thief. But no good would come of Cordts’s presence—that much was manifest.

  There was a moment of silence. All these men, if they did not fear Bostil, were sometimes uneasy when near him. Some who were more reckless than discreet liked to irritate him. That, too, was a rider’s weakness.

  “When’s Creech’s hosses comin’ over?” asked Colson, with sudden interest.

  “Wal, I reckon—soon,” replied Bostil, constrainedly, and he turned away.

  By the time he got home all the excitement of the past hour had left him and gloom again abided in his mind. He avoided his daughter and forgot the fact of her entering a horse in the race. He ate supper alone, without speaking to his sister. Then in the dusk he went out to the corrals and called the King to the fence. There was love between master and horse. Bostil talked low, like a woman, to Sage King. And the hard old rider’s heart was full and a lump swelled in his throat, for contact with the King reminded him that other men loved other horses.

  Bostil returned to the house and went to his room, where he sat thinking in the dark. By and by all was quiet. Then seemingly with a wrench he bestirred himself and did what for him was a strange action. Removing his boots, he put on a pair of moccasins. He slipped out of the house; he kept to the flagstone of the walk; he took to the sage till out of the village, and then he sheered round to the river trail. With the step and sureness and the eyes of an Indian he went down through that pitch-black canyon to the river and the ford.

  The river seemed absolutely the same as during the day. He peered through the dark opaqueness of gloom. It moved there, the river he knew, shadowy, mysterious, murmuring. Bostil went down to the edge of the water, and, sitting there, he listened. Yes—the voices of the stream were the same. But after a long time he imagined there was among them an infinitely low voice, as if from a great distance. He imagined this; he doubted; he made sure; and then all seemed fancy again. His mind held only one idea and was riveted round it. He strained his hearing, so long, so intently, that at last he knew he had heard what he was longing for. Then in the gloom he took to the trail, and returned home as he had left, stealthily, like an Indian.

  But Bostil did not sleep nor rest.

  Next morning early he rode
down to the river. Somers and Shugrue had finished the boat and were waiting. Other men were there, curious and eager. Joel Creech, barefooted and ragged, with hollow eyes and strange actions, paced the sands.

  The boat was lying bottom up. Bostil examined the new planking and the seams. Then he straightened his form.

  “Turn her over,” he ordered. “Shove her in. An’ let her soak up today.”

  The men seemed glad and relieved. Joel Creech heard and he came near to Bostil.

  “You’ll—you’ll fetch Dad’s hosses over?” he queried.

  “Sure. Tomorrow,” replied Bostil, cheerily.

  Joel smiled, and that smile showed what might have been possible for him under kinder conditions of life. “Now, Bostil, I’m sorry fer what I said,” blurted Joel.

  “Shut up. Go tell your old man.”

  Joel ran down to his skiff and, leaping in, began to row vigorously across. Bostil watched while the workmen turned the boat over and slid it off the sand-bar and tied it securely to the mooring. Bostil observed that not a man there saw anything unusual about the river. But, for that matter, there was nothing to see. The river was the same.

  That night when all was quiet in and around the village Bostil emerged from his house and took to his stealthy stalk down toward the river.

  The moment he got out into the night oppression left him. How interminable the hours had been! Suspense, doubt, anxiety, fear no longer burdened him. The night was dark, with only a few stars, and the air was cool. A soft wind blew across his heated face. A neighbor’s dog, baying dismally, startled Bostil. He halted to listen, then stole on under the cottonwoods, through the sage, down the trail, into the jet-black canyon. Yet he found his way as if it had been light. In the darkness of his room he had been a slave to his indecision; now in the darkness of the looming cliffs he was free, resolved, immutable.

  The distance seemed short. He passed out of the narrow canyon, skirted the gorge over the river, and hurried down into the shadowy amphitheater under the looming walls.

  The boat lay at the mooring, one end resting lightly the sand-bar. With strong, nervous clutch Bostil felt the knots of the cables. Then he peered into the opaque gloom of that strange and huge V-shaped split between the great canyon walls. Bostil’s mind had begun to relax from the single idea. Was he alone? Except for the low murmur of the river there was dead silence—a silence like no other—a silence which seemed held under imprisoning walls. Yet Bostil peered long into the shadows. Then he looked up. The ragged ramparts far above frowned bold and black at a few cold stars, and the blue of its sky was without the usual velvety brightness. How far it was up to that corrugated rim! All of a sudden Bostil hated this vast ebony pit.