The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  “Another moonstruck rider!” he said. “Your eyes are sure full moons, Lucy. I’d be ashamed to trifle with these poor fellers.”

  “Dad!”

  “You’re a heartless flirt—same as your mother was before she met me.”

  “I’m not. And I don’t believe mother was, either,” replied Lucy. It was easy to strike fire from her.

  “Wal, you did dead wrong to ride out there day after day meetin’ Slone, because—young woman—if he ever has the nerve to ask me for you I’ll beat him up bad.”

  “Then you’d be a brute!” retorted Lucy.

  “Wal, mebbe,” returned Bostil, secretly delighted and surprised at Lucy’s failure to see through him. But she was looking inward. He wondered what hid there deep in her. “But I can’t stand for the nerve of thet.”

  “He—he means to—to ask you.”

  “The h——.… A-huh!”

  Lucy did not catch the slip of tongue. She was flushing now. “He said he’d never have let me meet him out there alone—unless—he—he loved me—and as our neighbors and the riders would learn of it—and talk—he wanted you and them to know he’d asked to—to marry me.”

  “Wal, he’s a square young man!” ejaculated Bostil, involuntarily. It was hard for Bostil to hide his sincerity and impulsiveness; much harder than to hide unworthy attributes. Then he got back on the other track. “That’ll make me treat him decent, so when he rides up to ask for you I’ll let him off with, ‘No!”

  Lucy dropped her head. Bostil would have given all he had, except his horses, to feel sure she did not care for Slone.

  “Dad—I said—‘No’—for myself,” she murmured.

  This time Bostil did not withhold the profane word of surprise. “… So he’s asked you, then? Wal, wal! When?”

  “Today—out there in the rocks where he waited with Wildfire for me. He—he—”

  Lucy slipped into her father’s arms, and her slender form shook. Bostil instinctively felt what she then needed was her mother. Her mother was dead, and he was only a rough, old, hard rider. He did not know what to do—to say. His heart softened and he clasped her close. It hurt him keenly to realize that he might have been a better, kinder father if it were not for the fear that she would find him out. But that proved he loved her, craved her respect and affection.

  “Wal, little girl, tell me,” he said.

  “He—he broke his word to me.”

  “A-huh! Thet’s too bad. An’ how did he?”

  “He—he—” Lucy seemed to catch her tongue.

  Bostil was positive she had meant to tell him something and suddenly changed her mind. Subtly the child vanished—a woman remained. Lucy sat up self-possessed once more. Some powerfully impelling thought had transformed her. Bostil’s keen sense gathered that what she would not tell was not hers to reveal. For herself, she was the soul of simplicity and frankness.

  “Days ago I told him I cared for him,” she went on. “But I forbade him to speak of it to me. He promised. I wanted to wait till after the race—till after I had found courage to confess to you. He broke his word.… Today when he put me up on Wildfire he—he suddenly lost his head.”

  The slow scarlet welled into Lucy’s face and her eyes grew shamed, but bravely she kept facing her father.

  “He—he pulled me off—he hugged me—he k-kissed me.… Oh, it was dreadful—shameful!… Then I gave him back—some—something he had given me. And I told him I—I hated him—and I told him, ‘No!’”

  “But you rode his hoss in the race,” said Bostil.

  Lucy bowed her head at that. “I—I couldn’t resist!”

  Bostil stroked the bright head. What a quandary for a thick-skulled old horseman! “Wal, it seems to me Slone didn’t act so bad, considerin’. You’d told him you cared for him. If it wasn’t for thet!… I remember I did much the same to your mother. She raised the devil, but I never seen as she cared any less for me.”

  “I’ll never forgive him,” Lucy cried, passionately. “I hate him. A man who breaks his word in one thing will do it in another.”

  Bostil sadly realized that his little girl had reached womanhood and love, and with them the sweet, bitter pangs of life. He realized also that here was a crisis when a word—an unjust or lying word from him would forever ruin any hope that might still exist for Slone. Bostil realized this acutely, but the realization was not even a temptation.

  “Wal, listen. I’m bound to confess your new rider is sure swift. An’, Lucy, today if he hadn’t been as swift with a rope as he is in love—wal, your old daddy might be dead!”

  She grew as white as her dress. “Oh, Dad! I knew something had happened,” she cried, reaching for him.

  Then Bostil told her how Dick Sears had menaced him—how Slone had foiled the horse-thief. He told the story bluntly, but eloquently, with all a rider’s praise. Lucy rose with hands pressed against her breast. When had Bostil seen eyes like those—dark, shining, wonderful? Ah! he remembered her mother’s once—only once, as a girl.

  Then Lucy kissed him and without a word fled from the room.

  Bostil stared after her. “Damn me!” he swore, as he threw a boot against the wall. “I reckon I’ll never let her marry Slone, but I just had to tell her what I think of him!”

  WILDFIRE [Part 3]

  CHAPTER XIV

  Slone lay wide awake under an open window, watching the stars glimmer through the rustling foliage of the cottonwoods. Somewhere a lonesome hound bayed. Very faintly came the silvery tinkle of running water.

  For five days Slone had been a guest of Bostil’s, and the whole five days had been torment.

  On the morning of the day after the races Lucy had confronted him. Would he ever forget her eyes—her voice? “Bless you for saving my dad!” she had said. “It was brave.… But don’t let dad fool you. Don’t believe in his kindness. Above all, don’t ride for him! He only wants Wildfire, and if he doesn’t get him he’ll hate you!”

  That speech of Lucy’s had made the succeeding days hard for Slone. Bostil loaded him with gifts and kindnesses, and never ceased importuning him to accept his offers. But for Lucy, Slone would have accepted. It was she who cast the first doubt of Bostil into his mind. Lucy averred that her father was splendid and good in every way except in what pertained to fast horses; there he was impossible.

  The great stallion that Slone had nearly sacrificed his life to catch was like a thorn in the rider’s flesh. Slone lay there in the darkness, restless, hot, rolling from side to side, or staring out at the star-studded sky—miserably unhappy all on account of that horse. Almost he hated him. What pride he had felt in Wildfire! How he had gloried in the gift of the stallion to Lucy! Then, on the morning of the race had come that unexpected, incomprehensible and wild act of which he had been guilty. Yet not to save his life, his soul, could he regret it! Was it he who had been responsible, or an unknown savage within him? He had kept his word to Lucy, when day after day he had burned with love until that fatal moment when the touch of her, as he lifted her to Wildfire’s saddle, had made a madman out of him. He had swept her into his arms and held her breast to his, her face before him, and he had kissed the sweet, parting lips till he was blind.

  Then he had learned what a little fury she was. Then he learned how he had fallen, what he had forfeited. In his amaze at himself, in his humility and shame, he had not been able to say a word in his own defense. She did not know yet that his act had been ungovernable and that he had not known what he was doing till too late. And she had finished with: “I’ll ride Wildfire in the race—but I won’t have him—and I won’t have you! No!”

  She had the steel and hardness of her father.

  For Slone, the watching of that race was a blend of rapture and despair. He lived over in mind all the time between the race and this hour when he lay there sleepless and full of remorse. His mind was like a racecourse with many races; and predominating in it was that swift, strange, stinging race of his memory of Lucy Bostil’s looks and act
ions.

  What an utter fool he was to believe she had meant those tender words when, out there under the looming monuments, she had accepted Wildfire! She had been an impulsive child. Her scorn and fury that morning of the race had left nothing for him except footless fancies. She had mistaken love of Wildfire for love of him. No, his case was hopeless with Lucy, and if it had not been so Bostil would have made it hopeless. Yet there were things Slone could not fathom—the wilful, contradictory, proud and cold and unaccountably sweet looks and actions of the girl. They haunted Slone. They made him conscious he had a mind and tortured him with his development. But he had no experience with girls to compare with what was happening now. It seemed that accepted fact and remembered scorn and cold certainty were somehow at variance with hitherto unknown intuitions and instincts. Lucy avoided him, if by chance she encountered him alone. When Bostil or Aunt Jane or anyone else was present Lucy was kind, pleasant, agreeable. What made her flush red at sight of him and then, pale? Why did she often at table or in the big living-room softly brush against him when it seemed she could have avoided that? Many times he had felt some inconceivable drawing power, and looked up to find her eyes upon him, strange eyes full of mystery, that were suddenly averted. Was there any meaning attachable to the fact that his room was kept so tidy and neat, that every day something was added to its comfort or color, that he found fresh flowers whenever he returned, or a book, or fruit, or a dainty morsel to eat, and once a bunch of Indian paint-brush, wild flowers of the desert that Lucy knew he loved? Most of all, it was Lucy’s eyes which haunted Slone—eyes that had changed, darkened, lost their audacious flash, and yet seemed all the sweeter. The glances he caught, which he fancied were stolen—and then derided his fancy—thrilled him to his heart. Thus Slone had spent waking hours by day and night, mad with love and remorse, tormented one hour by imagined grounds for hope and resigned to despair the next.

  Upon the sixth morning of his stay at Bostil’s Slone rose with something of his former will reasserting itself. He could not remain in Bostil’s home any longer unless he accepted Bostil’s offer, and this was not to be thought of. With a wrench Slone threw off the softening indecision and hurried out to find Bostil while the determination was hot.

  Bostil was in the corral with Wildfire. This was the second time Slone had found him there. Wildfire appeared to regard Bostil with a much better favor than he did his master. As Slone noted this a little heat stole along his veins. That was gall to a rider.

  “I like your hoss,” said Bostil, with gruff frankness. But a tinge of red showed under his beard.

  “Bostil, I’m sorry I can’t take you up on the job,” rejoined Slone, swiftly. “It’s been hard for me to decide. You’ve been good to me. I’m grateful. But it’s time I was tellin’ you.”

  “Why can’t you?” demanded Bostil, straightening up with a glint in his big eyes. It was the first time he had asked Slone that.

  “I can’t ride for you,” replied Slone, briefly.

  “Anythin’ to do with Lucy?” queried Bostil.

  “How so?” returned Slone, conscious of more heat.

  “Wal, you was sweet on her an’ she wouldn’t have you,” replied Bostil.

  Slone felt the blood swell and boil in his veins. This Bostil could say as harsh and hard things as repute gave him credit for.

  “Yes, I am sweet on Lucy, an’ she won’t have me,” said Slone, steadily. “I asked her to let me come to you an’ tell you I wanted to marry her. But she wouldn’t.”

  “Wal, it’s just as good you didn’t come, because I might.…” Bostil broke off his speech and began again. “You don’t lack nerve, Slone. What’d you have to offer Lucy?”

  “Nothin’ except—But that doesn’t matter,” replied Slone, cut to the quick by Bostil’s scorn. “I’m glad you know, an’ so much for that.”

  Bostil turned to look at Wildfire once more, and he looked long. When he faced around again he was another man. Slone felt the powerful driving passion of this old horse-trader.

  “Slone, I’ll give you pick of a hundred mustangs an’ a thousand dollars for Wildfire!”

  So he unmasked his power in the face of a beggarly rider! Though it struck Slone like a thunderbolt, he felt amused. But he did not show that. Bostil had only one possession, among all his uncounted wealth, that could win Wildfire from his owner.

  “No,” said Slone, briefly.

  “I’ll double it,” returned Bostil, just as briefly.

  “No!”

  “I’ll—”

  “Save your breath, Bostil,” flashed Slone. “You don’t know me. But let me tell you—you can’t buy my horse!”

  The great veins swelled and churned in Bostil’s bull neck; a thick and ugly contortion worked in his face; his eyes reflected a sick rage.

  Slone saw that two passions shook Bostil—one, a bitter, terrible disappointment, and the other, the passion of a man who could not brook being crossed. It appeared to Slone that the best thing he could do was to get away quickly, and to this end he led Wildfire out of the corral to the stable courtyard, and there quickly saddled him. Then he went into another corral for his other horse, Nagger, and, bringing him out, returned to find Bostil had followed as far as the court. The old man’s rage apparently had passed or had been smothered.

  “See here,” he began, in thick voice, “don’t be a d— fool an’ ruin your chance in life. I’ll—”

  “Bostil, my one chance was ruined—an’ you know who did it,” replied Slone, as he gathered Nagger’s rope and Wildfire’s bridle together. “I’ve no hard feelin’s.… But I can’t sell you my horse. An’ I can’t ride for you—because—well, because it would breed trouble.”

  “An’ what kind?” queried Bostil.

  Holley and Farlane and Van, with several other riders, had come up and were standing open-mouthed. Slone gathered from their manner and expression that anything might happen with Bostil in such a mood.

  “We’d be racin’ the King an’ Wildfire, wouldn’t we?” replied Slone.

  “An’ supposin’ we would?” returned Bostil, ominously. His huge frame vibrated with a slight start.

  “Wildfire would run off with your favorite—an’ you wouldn’t like that,” answered Slone. It was his rider’s hot blood that prompted him to launch this taunt. He could not help it.

  “You wild-hoss chaser,” roared Bostil, “your Wildfire may be a bloody killer, but he can’t beat the King in a race!”

  “Excuse me, Bostil, but Wildfire did beat the King!”

  This was only adding fuel to the fire. Slone saw Holley making signs that must have meant silence would be best. But Slone’s blood was up. Bostil had rubbed him the wrong way.

  “You’re a lair!” declared Bostil, with a tremendous stride forward. Slone saw then how dangerous the man really was. “It was no race. Your wild hoss knocked the King off the track.”

  “Sage King had the lead, didn’t he? Why didn’t he keep it?”

  Bostil was like a furious, intractable child whose favorite precious treasure had been broken; and he burst out into a torrent of incoherent speech, apparently reasons why this and that were so. Slone did not make out what Bostil meant and he did not care. When Bostil got out of breath Slone said:

  “We’re both wastin’ talk. An’ I’m not wantin’ you to call me a liar twice.… Put your rider up on the King an’ come on, right now. I’ll—”

  “Slone, shut up an’ chase yourself,” interrupted Holley.

  “You go to hell!” returned Slone, coolly.

  There was a moment’s silence, in which Slone took Holley’s measure. The hawk-eyed old rider may have been square, but he was then thinking only of Bostil.

  “What am I up, against here?” demanded Slone. “Am I goin’ to be shot because I’m takin’ my own part? Holley, you an’ the rest of your pards are all afraid of this old devil. But I’m not—an’ you stay out of this.”

  “Wal, son, you needn’t git riled,” replied Holley, placatingly
. “I was only tryin’ to stave off talk you might be sorry for.”

  “Sorry for nothin’! I’m goin’ to make this great horse-trader, this rich an’ mighty rancher, this judge of grand horses, this Bostil!… I’m goin’ to make him race the King or take water!” Then Slone turned to Bostil. That worthy evidently had been stunned by the rider who dared call him to his face. “Come on! Fetch the King! Let your own riders judge the race!”

  Bostil struggled both to control himself and to speak. “Naw! I ain’t goin’ to see thet red hoss-killer jump the King again!”

  “Bah! you’re afraid. You know there’d be no girl on his back. You know he can outrun the King an’ that’s why you want to buy him.”

  Slone caught his breath then. He realized suddenly, at Bostil’s paling face, that perhaps he had dared too much. Yet, maybe the truth flung into this hard old rider’s teeth was what he needed more than anything else. Slone divined, rather than saw, that he had done an unprecedented thing.

  “I’ll go now, Bostil.”

  Slone nodded a good-by to the riders, and, turning away, he led the two horses down the lane toward the house. It scarcely needed sight of Lucy under the cottonwoods to still his anger and rouse his regret. Lucy saw him coming, and, as usual, started to avoid meeting him, when sight of the horses, or something else, caused her to come toward him instead.

  Slone halted. Both Wildfire and Nagger whinnied at sight of the girl. Lucy took one flashing glance at them, at Slone, and then she evidently guessed what was amiss.

  “Lucy, I’ve done it now—played hob, sure,” said Slone.

  “What?” she cried.

  “I called your dad—called him good an’ hard—an’ he—he—”

  “Lin! Oh, don’t say Dad.” Lucy’s face whitened and she put a swift hand upon his arm—a touch that thrilled him. “Lin! there’s blood—on your face. Don’t—don’t tell me Dad hit you?”