The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  He strode down to the water and, sitting upon the stone he had occupied so often, he listened. He turned his ear upstream, then downstream, and to the side, and again upstream and listened.

  The river seemed the same.

  It was slow, heavy, listless, eddying, lingering, moving—the same apparently as for days past. It splashed very softly and murmured low and gurgled faintly. It gave forth fitful little swishes and musical tinkles and lapping sounds. It was flowing water, yet the proof was there of tardiness. Now it was almost still, and then again it moved on. It was a river of mystery telling a lie with its low music. As Bostil listened all those soft, watery sounds merged into what seemed a moaning, and that moaning held a roar so low as to be only distinguishable to the ear trained by years.

  No—the river was not the same. For the voice of its soft moaning showed to Bostil its meaning. It called from the far north—the north of great ice-clad peaks beginning to glisten under the nearing sun; of vast snow-filled canyons dripping and melting; of the crystal brooks suddenly colored and roiled and filled bank-full along the mountain meadows; of many brooks plunging down and down, rolling the rocks, to pour their volume into the growing turbid streams on the slopes. It was the voice of all that widely separated water spilled suddenly with magical power into the desert river to make it a mighty, thundering torrent, red and defiled, terrible in its increasing onslaught into the canyon, deep, ponderous, but swift—the Colorado in flood.

  And as Bostil heard that voice he trembled. What was the thing he meant to do? A thousand thoughts assailed him in answer and none were clear. A chill passed over him. Suddenly he felt that the cold stole up from his feet. They were both in the water. He pulled them out and, bending down, watched the dim, dark line of water. It moved up and up, inch by inch, swiftly. The river was on the rise!

  Bostil leaped up. He seemed possessed of devils. A rippling hot gash of blood fired his every vein and tremor after tremor shook him.

  “By G—d! I had it right—she’s risin’!” he exclaimed, hoarsely.

  He stared in fascinated certainty at the river. All about it and pertaining to it had changed. The murmur and moan changed to a low, sullen roar. The music was gone. The current chafed at its rock-bound confines. Here was an uneasy, tormented, driven river! The light from the stars shone on dark, glancing, restless waters, uneven and strange. And while Bostil watched, whether it was a short time or long, the remorseless, destructive nature of the river showed itself.

  Bostil began to pace the sands. He thought of those beautiful race-horses across the river.

  “It’s not too late!” he muttered. “I can get the boat over an’ back—yet!”

  He knew that on the morrow the Colorado in flood would bar those horses, imprison them in a barren canyon, shut them in to starve.

  “It’d be hellish!… Bostil, you can’t do it. You ain’t thet kind of a man.… Bostil poison a water-hole where hosses loved to drink, or burn over grass!… What would Lucy think of you?… No, Bostil, you’ve let spite rule bad. Hurry now and save them hosses!”

  He strode down to the boat. It swung clear now, and there was water between it and the shore. Bostil laid hold of the cables. As he did so he thought of Creech and a blackness enfolded him. He forgot Creech’s horses. Something gripped him, burned him—some hard and bitter feeling which he thought was hate of Creech. Again the wave of fire ran over him, and his huge hands strained on the cables. The fiend of that fiendish river had entered his soul. He meant ruin to a man. He meant more than ruin. He meant to destroy what his enemy, his rival loved. The darkness all about him, the gloom and sinister shadow of the canyon, the sullen increasing roar of the’ river—these lent their influence to the deed, encouraged him, drove him onward, fought and strangled the resistance in his heart. As he brooded all the motives for the deed grew like that remorseless river. Had not his enemy’s son shot at him from ambush? Was not his very life at stake? A terrible blow must be dealt Creech, one that would crush him or else lend him manhood enough to come forth with a gun. Bostil, in his torment, divined that Creech would know who had ruined him. They would meet then, as Bostil had tried more than once to bring about a meeting. Bostil saw into his soul, and it was a gulf like this canyon pit where the dark and sullen river raged. He shrank at what he saw, but the furies of passion held him fast. His hands tore at the cables. Then he fell to pacing to and fro in the gloom. Every moment the river changed its voice. In an hour flood would be down. Too late, then! Bostil again remembered the sleek, slim, racy thoroughbreds—Blue Roan, a wild horse he had longed to own, and Peg, a mare that had no equal in the uplands. Where did Bostil’s hate of a man stand in comparison with love of a horse? He began to sweat and the sweat burned him.

  “How soon’ll Creech hear the river an’ know what’s comin’?” muttered Bostil, darkly. And that question showed him how he was lost. All this strife of doubt and fear and horror were of no use. He meant to doom Creech’s horses. The thing had been unalterable from the inception of the insidious, hateful idea. It was irresistible. He grew strong, hard, fierce, and implacable. He found himself. He strode back to the cables. The knots, having dragged in the water, were soaking wet and swollen. He could not untie them. Then he cut one strand after another. The boat swung out beyond his reach.

  Instinctively Bostil reached to pull it back.

  “My God!… It’s goin’!” he whispered. “What have I done?”

  He—Bostil—who had made this Crossing of the Fathers more famous as Bostil’s Ford—he—to cut the boat adrift! The thing was inconceivable.

  The roar of the river rose weird and mournful and incessant, with few breaks, and these were marked by strange ripping and splashing sounds made as the bulges of water broke on the surface. Twenty feet out the boat floated, turning a little as it drifted. It seemed loath to leave. It held on the shore eddy. Hungrily, spitefully the little, heavy waves lapped it. Bostil watched it with dilating eyes. There! the current caught one end and the water rose in a hollow splash over the corner. An invisible hand, like a mighty giant’s, seemed to swing the boat out. It had been dark; now it was opaque, now shadowy, now dim. How swift this cursed river! Was there any way in which Bostil could recover his boat? The river answered him with hollow, deep mockery. Despair seized upon him. And the vague shape of the boat, spectral and instinct with meaning, passed from Bostil’s strained gaze.

  “So help me God, I’ve done it!” he groaned, hoarsely. And he staggered back and sat down. Mind and heart and soul were suddenly and exquisitely acute to the shame of his act. Remorse seized upon his vitals. He suffered physical agony, as if a wolf gnawed him internally.

  “To hell with Creech an’ his hosses, but where do I come in as a man?” he whispered. And he sat there, arms tight around his knees, locked both mentally and physically into inaction.

  The rising water broke the spell and drove him back. The river was creeping no longer. It swelled. And the roar likewise swelled. Bostil hurried across the flat to get to the rocky trail before he was cut off, and the last few rods he waded in water up to his knees.

  “I’ll leave no trail there,” he muttered, with a hard laugh. It sounded ghastly to him, like the laugh of the river.

  And there at the foot of the rocky trail he halted to watch and listen. The old memorable boom came to his ears. The flood was coming. For twenty-three years he had heard the vanguard boom of the Colorado in flood. But never like this, for in the sound he heard the strife and passion of his blood, and realized himself a human counterpart of that remorseless river. The moments passed and each one saw a swelling of the volume of sound. The sullen roar just below him was gradually lost in a distant roar. A steady wind now blew through the canyon. The great walls seemed to gape wider to prepare for the torrent. Bostil backed slowly up the trail as foot by foot the water rose. The floor of the amphitheater was now a lake of choppy, angry waves. The willows bent and seethed in the edge of the current. Beyond ran an uneven, bulging mass that resembled some
gray, heavy moving monster. In the gloom Bostil could see how the river turned a corner of wall and slanted away from it toward the center, where it rose higher. Black objects that must have been driftwood appeared on this crest. They showed an instant, then flashed out of sight. The boom grew steadier, closer, louder, and the reverberations, like low detonations of thunder, were less noticeable because all sounds were being swallowed up.

  A harder breeze puffed into Bostil’s face. It brought a tremendous thunder, as if all the colossal walls were falling in avalanche. Bostil knew the crest of the flood had turned the corner above and would soon reach him. He watched. He listened, but sound had ceased. His ears seemed ringing and they hurt. All his body felt cold, and he backed up and up, with dead feet.

  The shadows of the canyon lightened. A river-wide froth, like a curtain, moved down, spreading mushroom-wise before it, a rolling, heaving maelstrom. Bostil ran to escape the great wave that surged into the amphitheater, up and up the rocky trail. When he turned again he seemed to look down into hell. Murky depths, streaked by pale gleams, and black, sinister, changing forms yawned beneath them. He watched with fixed eyes until once more the feeling of filled ears left him and an awful thundering boom assured him of actualities. It was only the Colorado in flood.

  CHAPTER XII

  Bostil slept that night, but his sleep was troubled, and a strange, dreadful roar seemed to run through it, like a mournful wind over a dark desert. He was awakened early by a voice at his window. He listened. There came a rap on the wood.

  “Bostil!… Bostil!” It was Holley’s voice.

  Bostil rolled off the bed. He had slept without removing any apparel except his boots.

  “Wal, Hawk, what d’ye mean wakin’ a man at this unholy hour?” growled Bostil.

  Holley’s face appeared above the rude sill. It was pale and grave, with the hawk eyes like glass. “It ain’t so awful early,” he said. “Listen, boss.”

  Bostil halted in the act of pulling on a boot. He looked at his man while he listened. The still air outside seemed filled with low boom, like thunder at a distance. Bostil tried to look astounded.

  “Hell!… It’s the Colorado! She’s boomin’!”

  “Reckon it’s hell all right—for Creech,” replied Holley. “Boss, why didn’t you fetch them hosses over?”

  Bostil’s face darkened. He was a bad man to oppose—to question at times. “Holley, you’re sure powerful anxious about Creech. Are you his friend?”

  “Naw! I’ve little use fer Creech,” replied Holley. “An’ you know thet. But I hold for his hosses as I would any man’s.”

  “A-huh! An’ what’s your kick?”

  “Nothin’—except you could have fetched them over before the flood come down. That’s all.”

  The old horse-trader and his right-hand rider looked at each other for a moment in silence. They understood each other. Then Bostil returned to the task of pulling on wet boots and Holley went away.

  Bostil opened his door and stepped outside. The eastern ramparts of the desert were bright red with the rising sun. With the night behind him and the morning cool and bright and beautiful, Bostil did not suffer a pang nor feel a regret. He walked around under the cottonwoods where the mocking-birds were singing. The shrill, screeching bray of a burro split the morning stillness, and with that the sounds of the awakening village drowned that sullen, dreadful boom of the river. Bostil went in to breakfast.

  He encountered Lucy in the kitchen, and he did not avoid her. He could tell from her smiling greeting that he seemed to her his old self again. Lucy wore an apron and she had her sleeves rolled up, showing round, strong, brown arms. Somehow to Bostil she seemed different. She had been pretty, but now she was more than that. She was radiant. Her blue eyes danced. She looked excited. She had been telling her aunt something, and that worthy woman appeared at once shocked and delighted. But Bostil’s entrance had caused a mysterious break in everything that had been going on, except the preparation of the morning meal.

  “Now I rode in on some confab or other, that’s sure,” said Bostil, good-naturedly.

  “You sure did, Dad,” replied Lucy, with a bright smile.

  “Wal, let me sit in the game,” he rejoined.

  “Dad, you can’t even ante,” said Lucy.

  “Jane, what’s this kid up to?” asked Bostil, turning to his sister.

  “The good Lord only knows!” replied Aunt Jane, with a sigh.

  “Kid?… See here, Dad, I’m eighteen long ago. I’m grown up. I can do as I please, go where I like, and anything.… Why, Dad, I could get—married.”

  “Haw! haw!” laughed Bostil. “Jane, hear the girl.”

  “I hear her, Bostil,” sighed Aunt Jane.

  “Wal, Lucy, I’d just like to see you fetch some fool love-sick rider around when I’m feelin’ good,” said Bostil.

  Lucy laughed, but there was a roguish, daring flash in her eyes. “Dad, you do seem to have all the young fellows scared. Some day maybe one will ride along—a rider like you used to be—that nobody could bluff.… And he can have me!”

  “A-huh!… Lucy, are you in fun?”

  Lucy tossed her bright head, but did not answer.

  “Jane, what’s got into her?” asked Bostil, appealing to his sister.

  “Bostil, she’s in fun, of course,” declared Aunt Jane. “Still, at that, there’s some sense in what she says. Come to your breakfast, now.”

  Bostil took his seat at the table, glad that he could once more be amiable with his women-folk. “Lucy, tomorrow’ll be the biggest day Bostil’s Ford ever seen,” he said.

  “It sure will be, Dad. The biggest surprising day the Ford ever had,” replied Lucy.

  “Surprisin’?”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “Who’s goin’ to get surprised?”

  “Everybody.”

  Bostil said to himself that he had been used to Lucy’s banter, but during his moody spell of days past he had forgotten how to take her or else she was different.

  “Brackton tells me you’ve entered a hoss against the field.”

  “It’s an open race, isn’t it?”

  “Open as the desert, Lucy,” he replied. “What’s this hoss Wildfire you’ve entered?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” taunted Lucy.

  “If he’s as good as his name you might be in at the finish.… But, Lucy, my dear, talkin’ good sense now—you ain’t a-goin’ to go up on some unbroken mustang in this big race?”

  “Dad, I’m going to ride a horse.”

  “But, Lucy, ain’t it a risk you’ll be takin’—all for fun?”

  “Fun!… I’m in dead earnest.”

  Bostil liked the look of her then. She had paled a little; her eyes blazed; she was intense. His question had brought out her earnestness, and straightway Bostil became thoughtful. If Lucy had been a boy she would have been the greatest rider on the uplands; and even girl as she was, superbly mounted, she would have been dangerous in any race.

  “Wal, I ain’t afraid of your handlin’ of a hoss,” he said, soberly. “An’ as long as you’re in earnest I won’t stop you. But, Lucy, no bettin’. I won’t let you gamble.”

  “Not even with you?” she coaxed.

  Bostil stared at the girl. What had gotten into her? “What’ll you bet?” he, queried, with blunt curiosity.

  “Dad, I’ll go you a hundred dollars in gold that I finish one—two—three.”

  Bostil threw back his head to laugh heartily. What a chip of the old block she was! “Child, there’s some fast hosses that’ll be back of the King. You’d be throwin’ away money.”

  Blue fire shone in his daughter’s eyes. She meant business, all right, and Bostil thrilled with pride in her.

  “Dad, I’ll bet you two hundred, even, that I beat the King!” she flashed.

  “Wal, of all the nerve!” ejaculated Bostil. “No, I won’t take you up. Reckon I never before turned down an even bet. Understand, Lucy, ridin’ in the race is enough for
you.”

  “All right, Dad,” replied Lucy, obediently.

  At that juncture Bostil suddenly shoved back his plate and turned his face to the open door. “Don’t I hear a runnin’ hoss?”

  Aunt Jane stopped the noise she was making, and Lucy darted to the door. Then Bostil heard the sharp, rhythmic hoof-beats he recognized. They shortened to clatter and pound—then ceased somewhere out in front of the house.

  “It’s the King with Van up,” said Lucy, from the door. “Dad, Van’s jumped off—he’s coming in…he’s running. Something has happened.… There are other horses coming—riders—Indians.”

  Bostil knew what was coming and prepared himself. Rapid footsteps sounded without.

  “Hello, Miss Lucy! Where’s Bostil?”

  A lean, supple rider appeared before the door. It was Van, greatly excited.

  “Come in, boy,” said Bostil. “What’re you flustered about?”

  Van strode in, spurs jangling, cap in hand. “Boss, there’s—a sixty-foot raise—in the river!” Van panted.

  “Oh!” cried Lucy, wheeling toward her father.

  “Wal, Van, I reckon I knowed thet,” replied Bostil. “Mebbe I’m gettin’ old, but I can still hear.… Listen.”

  Lucy tiptoed to the door and turned her head sidewise and slowly bowed it till she stiffened. Outside were, sounds of birds and horses and men, but when a lull came it quickly filled with a sullen, low boom.

  “Highest flood we—ever seen,” said Van.