by Zane Grey
“Wal!” Creech simply blazed with excitement. “I ain’t wonderin’ if he did. His own girl! Lucy, come to remember, you always said you’d beat thet gray racer.… Fer the Lord’s sake tell me all about it.”
Lucy warmed to him because, broken as he was, he could be genuinely glad some horse but his own had won a race. Bostil could never have been like that. So Lucy told him about the race—and then she had to tell about Wildfire, and then about Slone. But at first all of Creech’s interest centered round Wildfire and the race that had not really been run. He asked a hundred questions. He was as pleased as a boy listening to a good story. He praised Lucy again and again. He crowed over Bostil’s discomfiture. And when Lucy told him that Slone had dared her father to race, had offered to bet Wildfire and his own life against her hand, then Creech was beside himself.
“This hyar Slone—he called Bostil’s hand!”
“He’s a wild-horse hunter. And he can trail us!”
“Trail us! Slone? Say, Lucy, are you in love with him?”
Lucy uttered a strange little broken sound, half laugh, half sob. “Love him! Ah!”
“An’ your Dad’s ag’in him! Sure Bostil’ll hate any rider with a fast hoss. Why didn’t the darn fool sell his stallion to your father?”
“He gave Wildfire to me.”
“I’d have done the same. Wal, now, when you git back home what’s comin’ of it all?”
Lucy shook her head sorrowfully. “God only knows. Dad will never own Wildfire, and he’ll never let me marry Slone. And when you take the King away from him to ransom me—then my life will be hell, for if Dad sacrifices Sage King, afterward he’ll hate me as the cause of his loss.”
“I can sure see the sense of all that,” replied Creech, soberly. And he pondered.
Lucy saw through this man as if he had been an inch of crystal water. He was no villain, and just now in his simplicity, in his plodding thought of sympathy for her he was lovable.
“It’s one hell of a muss, if you’ll excuse my talk,” said Creech. “An’ I don’t like the looks of what I ’pear to be throwin’ in your way.… But see hyar, Lucy, if Bostil didn’t give up—or, say, he gits the King back, thet wouldn’t make your chance with Slone any brighter.”
“I don’t know.”
“Thet race will have to be ran!”
“What good will that do?” cried Lucy, with tears in her eyes. “I don’t want to lose Dad. I—I—love him—mean as he is. And it’ll kill me to lose Lin. Because Wildfire can beat Sage King, and that means Dad will be forever against him.”
“Couldn’t this wild-horse feller let the King win thet race?”
“Oh, he could, but he wouldn’t.”
“Can’t you be sweet round him—fetch him over to thet?”
“Oh, I could, but I won’t.”
Creech might have been plotting the happiness of his own daughter, he was so deeply in earnest.
“Wal, mebbe you don’t love each other so much, after all.… Fast hosses mean much to a man in this hyar country. I know, fer I lost mine!… But they ain’t all.… I reckon you young folks don’t love so much, after all.”
“But—we—do!” cried Lucy, with a passionate sob. All this talk had unnerved her.
“Then the only way is fer Slone to lie to Bostil.”
“Lie!” exclaimed Lucy.
“Thet’s it. Fetch about a race, somehow—one Bostil can’t see—an’ then lie an’ say the King run Wildfire off his legs.”
Suddenly it occurred to Lucy that one significance of this idea of Creech’s had not dawned upon him. “You forget that soon my father will no longer own Sage King or Sarchedon or Dusty Ben—or any racer. He loses them or me, I thought. That’s what I am here for.”
Creech’s aspect changed. The eagerness and sympathy fled from his face, leaving it once more hard and stern. He got up and stood a tall, dark, and gloomy man, brooding over his loss, as he watched the canyon. Still, there was in him then a struggle that Lucy felt. Presently he bent over and put his big hand on her head. It seemed gentle and tender compared with former contacts, and it made Lucy thrill. She could not see his face. What did he mean? She divined something startling, and sat there trembling in suspense.
“Bostil won’t lose his only girl—or his favorite hoss!… Lucy, I never had no girl. But it seems I’m rememberin’ them rides you used to have on my knee when you was little!”
Then he strode away toward the forest. Lucy watched him with a full heart, and as she thought of his overcoming the evil in him when her father had yielded to it, she suffered poignant shame. This Creech was not a bad man. He was going to let her go, and he was going to return Bostil’s horses when they came. Lucy resolved with a passionate determination that her father must make ample restitution for the loss Creech had endured. She meant to tell Creech so.
Upon his return, however, he seemed so strange and forbidding again that her heart failed her. Had he reconsidered his generous thought? Lucy almost believed so. These old horse-traders were incomprehensible in any relation concerning horses. Recalling Creech’s intense interest in Wildfire and in the inevitable race to be run between him and Sage King, Lucy almost believed that Creech would sacrifice his vengeance just to see the red stallion beat the gray. If Creech kept the King in ransom for Lucy he would have to stay deeply hidden in the wild breaks of the canyon country or leave the uplands. For Bostil would never let that deed go unreckoned with. Like Bostil, old Creech was half horse and half human. The human side had warmed to remorse. He had regretted Lucy’s plight; he wanted her to be safe at home again and to find happiness; he remembered what she had been to him when she was a little girl. Creech’s other side was more complex.
Before the evening meal ended Lucy divined that Creech was dark and troubled because he had resigned himself to a sacrifice harder than it had seemed in the first flush of noble feeling. But she doubted him no more. She was safe. The King would be returned. She would compel her father to pay Creech horse for horse. And perhaps the lesson to Bostil would be worth all the pain of effort and distress of mind that it had cost her.
That night as she lay awake listening to the roar of the wind in the pines a strange premonition—like a mysterious voice—came to her with the assurance that Slone was on her trail.
On the following day Creech appeared to have cast off the brooding mood. Still, he was not talkative. He applied himself to constant watching from the rim.
Lucy began to feel rested. That long trip with Creech had made her thin and hard and strong. She spent the hours under the shade of a cedar on the rim that protected her from sun and wind. The wind, particularly, was hard to stand. It blew a gale out of the west, a dry, odorous, steady rush that roared through the pine-tops and flattened the long, white grass. This day Creech had to build up a barrier of rock round his camp-fire, to keep it from blowing away. And there was a constant danger of firing the grass.
Once Lucy asked Creech what would happen in that case.
“Wal, I reckon the grass would burn back even ag’in thet wind,” replied Creech. “I’d hate to see fire in the woods now before the rains come. It’s been the longest, dryest spell I ever lived through. But fer thet my hosses— This hyar’s a west wind, an’ it’s blowin’ harder every day. It’ll fetch the rains.”
Next day about noon, when both wind and heat were high, Lucy was awakened from a doze. Creech was standing near her. When he turned his long gaze away from the canyon he was smiling. It was a smile at once triumphant and sad.
“Joel’s comin’ with the hosses!”
Lucy jumped up, trembling and agitated. “Oh!… Where? Where?”
Creech pointed carefully with bent hand, like an Indian, and Lucy either could not get the direction or see far enough.
“Right down along the base of thet red wall. A line of hosses. Jest like a few crawlin’ ants’… An’ now they’re creepin’ out of sight.”
“Oh, I can’t see them!” cried Lucy. “Are you sure?”
/> “Positive an’ sartin,” he replied. “Joel’s comin’. He’ll be up hyar before long. I reckon we’d jest as well let him come. Fer there’s water an’ grass hyar. An’ down below grass is scarce.”
It seemed an age to Lucy, waiting there, until she did see horses zigzagging the ridges below. They disappeared, and then it was another age before they reappeared close under the bulge of wall. She thrilled at sight of Sage King and Sarchedon. She got only a glimpse of them. They must pass round under her to climb a split in the wall, and up a long draw that reached level ground back in the forest. But they were near, and Lucy tried to wait. Creech showed eagerness at first, and then went on with his camp-fire duties. While in camp he always cooked a midday meal.
Lucy saw the horses first. She screamed out. Creech jumped up in alarm.
Joel Creech, mounted on Sage King, and leading Sarchedon, was coming at a gallop. The other horses were following.
“What’s his hurry?” demanded Lucy. “After climbing out of that canyon Joel ought not to push the horses.”
“He’ll git it from me if there’s no reason,” growled Creech. “Them hosses is wet.”
“Look at Sarch! He’s wild. He always hated Joel.”
“Wal, Lucy, I reckon I ain’t likin’ this hyar. Look at Joel!” muttered Creech, and he strode out to meet his son.
Lucy ran out too, and beyond him. She saw only Sage King. He saw her, recognized her, and, whistled even while Joel was pulling him in. For once the King showed he was glad to see Lucy. He had been having rough treatment. But he was not winded—only hot and wet. She assured herself of that, then ran to quiet the plunging Sarch. He came down at once, and pushed his big nose almost into her face. She hugged his great, hot neck. He was quivering all over. Lucy heard the other horses pounding up; she recognized Two Face’s high whinny, like a squeal; and in her delight she was about to run to them when Creech’s harsh voice arrested her. And sight of Joel’s face suddenly made her weak.
“What’d you say?” demanded Creech.
“I’d a good reason to run the hosses uphill—thet’s what!” snapped Joel. He was frothing at the mouth.
“Out with it!”
“Cordts an’ Hutch!”
“What?” roared Creech, grasping the pale Joel and shaking him.
“Cordts an’ Hutch rode in behind me down at thet cross canyon. They seen me. An’ they’re after me hard!”
Creech gave close and keen scrutiny to the strange face of his son. Then he wheeled away.
“Help me pack. An’ you, too, Lucy. We’ve got to rustle out of hyar.”
Lucy fought a sick faintness that threatened to make her useless. But she tried to help, and presently action made her stronger.
The Creeches made short work of that breaking of camp. But when it came to getting the horses there appeared danger of delay. Sarchedon had led Dusty Ben and Two Face off in the grass. When Joel went for them they galloped away toward the woods. Joel ran back.
“Son, you’re a smart hossman!” exclaimed Creech, in disgust.
“Shall I git on the King an’ ketch them?”
“No. Hold the King.” Creech went out after Plume, but the excited and wary horse eluded him. Then Creech gave up, caught his own mustangs, and hurried into camp.
“Lucy, if Cordts gits after Sarch an’ the others it’ll be as well fer us,” he said.
Soon they were riding into the forest, Creech leading, Lucy in the center, and Joel coming behind on the King. Two unsaddled mustangs carrying the packs were driven in front. Creech limited the gait to the best that the pack-horses could do. They made fast time. The level forest floor, hard and springy, afforded the best kind of going.
A cold dread had once more clutched Lucy’s heart. What would be the end of this flight? The way Creech looked back increased her dread. How horrible it would be if Cordts accomplished what he had always threatened—to run off with both her and the King! Lucy lost her confidence in Creech. She did not glance again at Joel. Once had been enough. She rode on with heavy heart. Anxiety and dread and conjecture and a gradual sinking of spirit weighed her down. Yet she never had a clearer perception of outside things. The forest loomed thicker and darker. The sky was seen only through a green, crisscross of foliage waving in the roaring gale. This strong wind was like a blast in Lucy’s face, and its keen dryness cracked her lips.
When they rode out of the forest, down a gentle slope of wind-swept grass, to an opening into a canyon Lucy was surprised to recognize the place. How quickly the ride through the forest had been made!
Creech dismounted. “Git off, Lucy. You, Joel, hurry an’ hand me the little pack.… Now I’ll take Lucy an’ the King down in hyar. You go thet way with the hosses an’ make as if you was hidin’ your trail, but don’t. Do you savvy?”
Joel shook his head. He looked sullen, somber, strange. His father repeated what he had said.
“You’re wantin’ Cordts to split on the trail?” asked Joel.
“Sure. He’ll ketch up with you sometime. But you needn’t be afeared if he does.”
“I ain’t a-goin’ to do thet.”
“Why not?” Creech demanded, slowly, with a rising voice.
“I’m a-goin’ with you. What d’ye mean, Dad, by this move? You’ll be headin’ back fer the Ford. An’ we’d git safer if we go the other way.”
Creech evidently controlled his temper by an effort. “I’m takin’ Lucy an’ the King back to Bostil.”
Joel echoed those words, slowly divining them. “Takin’ them both! The girl.… An’ givin’ up the King!”
“Yes, both of them. I’ve changed my mind, Joel. Now—you—”
But Creech never finished what he meant to say. Joel Creech was suddenly seized by a horrible madness. It was then, perhaps, that the final thread which linked his mind to rationality stretched and snapped. His face turned green. His strange eyes protruded. His jaw worked. He frothed at the mouth. He leaped, apparently to get near his father, but he missed his direction. Then, as if sight had come back, he wheeled and made strange gestures, all the while cursing incoherently. The father’s shocked face began to show disgust. Then part of Joel’s ranting became intelligible.
“Shut up!” suddenly roared Creech.
“No, I won’t!” shrieked Joel, wagging his head in spent passion. “An’ you ain’t a-goin’ to take thet girl home.… I’ll take her with me.… An’ you take the hosses home!”
“You’re crazy!” hoarsely shouted Creech, his face going black. “They allus said so. But I never believed thet.”
“An’ if I’m crazy, thet girl made me.… You know what I’m a-goin’ to do?… I’ll strip her naked—an’ I’ll—”
Lucy saw old Creech lunge and strike. She heard the sodden blow. Joel went down. But he scrambled up with his eyes and mouth resembling those of a mad hound Lucy once had seen. The fact that he reached twice for his gun and could not find it proved the breaking connection of nerve and sense. Creech jumped and grappled with Joel. There was a wrestling, strained struggle. Creech’s hair stood up and his face had a kind of sick fury, and he continued to curse and command. They fought for the possession of the gun. But Joel seemed to have superhuman strength. His hold on the gun could not be broken. Moreover, he kept straining to point the gun at his father. Lucy screamed. Creech yelled hoarsely. But the boy was beyond reason or help, and he was beyond over powering! Lucy saw him bend his arm in spite of the desperate hold upon it and fire the gun. Creech’s hoarse entreaties ceased as his hold on Joel broke. He staggered. His arms went up with a tragic, terrible gesture. He fell. Joel stood over him, shaking and livid, but he showed only the vaguest realization of the deed. His actions were instinctive. He was the animal that had clawed himself free. Further proof of his aberration stood out in the action of sheathing his gun; he made the motion to do so, but he only dropped it in the grass.
Sight of that dropped gun broke Lucy’s spell of horror, which had kept her silent but for one scream. Suddenly her blood lea
ped like fire in her veins. She measured the distance to Sage King. Joel was turning. Then Lucy darted at the King, reached him, and, leaping, was half up on him when he snorted and jumped, not breaking her hold, but keeping her from getting up. Then iron hands clutched her and threw her, like an empty sack, to the grass.
Joel Creech did not say a word. His distorted face had the deriding scorn of a superior being. Lucy lay flat on her back, watching him. Her mind worked swiftly. She would have to fight for her body and her life. Her terror had fled with her horror. She was not now afraid of this demented boy. She meant to fight, calculating like a cunning Indian, wild as a trapped wildcat.
Lucy lay perfectly still, for she knew she had been thrown near the spot where the gun lay. If she got her hands on that gun she would kill Joel. It would be the action of an instant. She watched Joel while he watched her. And she saw that he had his foot on the rope round Sage King’s neck. The King never liked a rope. He was nervous. He tossed his head to get rid of it. Creech, watching Lucy all the while, reached for the rope, pulled the King closer and closer, and untied the knot. The King stood then, bridle down and quiet. Instead of a saddle he wore a blanket strapped round him.
It seemed that Lucy located the gun without turning her eyes away from Joel’s. She gathered all her force—rolled over swiftly—again—got her hands on the gun just as Creech leaped like a panther upon her. His weight crushed her flat—his strength made her hand-hold like that of a child. He threw the gun aside. Lucy lay face down, unable to move her body while he stood over her. Then he struck her, not a stunning blow, but just the hard rap a cruel rider gives to a horse that wants its own way. Under that blow Lucy’s spirit rose to a height of terrible passion. Still she did not lose her cunning; the blow increased it. That blow showed Joel to be crazy. She might outwit a crazy man, where a man merely wicked might master her.
Creech tried to turn her. Lucy resisted. And she was strong. Resistance infuriated Creech. He cuffed her sharply. This action only made him worse. Then with hands like steel claws he tore away her blouse.
The shock of his hands on her bare flesh momentarily weakened Lucy, and Creech dragged at her until she lay seemingly helpless before him.
