The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  As it happened this day Dale encountered Al Auchincloss sitting in the shade of a porch, talking to some of his sheep-herders and stockmen. Auchincloss was a short man of extremely powerful build and great width of shoulder. He had no gray hairs, and he did not look old, yet there was in his face a certain weariness, something that resembled sloping lines of distress, dim and pale, that told of age and the ebb-tide of vitality. His features, cast in large mold, were clean-cut and comely, and he had frank blue eyes, somewhat sad, yet still full of spirit.

  Dale had no idea how his visit would be taken, and he certainly would not have been surprised to be ordered off the place. He had not set foot there for years. Therefore it was with surprise that he saw Auchincloss wave away the herders and take his entrance without any particular expression.

  “Howdy, Al! How are you?” greeted Dale, easily, as he leaned his rifle against the log wall.

  Auchincloss did not rise, but he offered his hand.

  “Wal, Milt Dale, I reckon this is the first time I ever seen you that I couldn’t lay you flat on your back,” replied the rancher. His tone was both testy and full of pathos.

  “I take it you mean you ain’t very well,” replied Dale. “I’m sorry, Al.”

  “No, it ain’t thet. Never was sick in my life. I’m just played out, like a hoss thet had been strong an’ willin’, an’ did too much.… Wal, you don’t look a day older, Milt. Livin’ in the woods rolls over a man’s head.”

  “Yes, I’m feelin’ fine, an’ time never bothers me.”

  “Wal, mebbe you ain’t such a fool, after all. I’ve wondered lately—since I had time to think.… But, Milt, you don’t git no richer.”

  “Al, I have all I want an’ need.”

  “Wal, then, you don’t support anybody; you don’t do any good in the world.”

  “We don’t agree, Al,” replied Dale, with his slow smile.

  “Reckon we never did.… An’ you jest come over to pay your respects to me, eh?”

  “Not altogether,” answered Dale, ponderingly. “First off, I’d like to say I’ll pay back them sheep you always claimed my tame cougar killed.”

  “You will! An’ how’d you go about that?”

  “Wasn’t very many sheep, was there?

  “A matter of fifty head.”

  “So many! Al, do you still think old Tom killed them sheep?”

  “Humph! Milt, I know damn well he did.”

  “Al, now how could you know somethin’ I don’t? Be reasonable, now. Let’s don’t fall out about this again. I’ll pay back the sheep. Work it out—”

  “Milt Dale, you’ll come down here an’ work out that fifty head of sheep!” ejaculated the old rancher, incredulously.

  “Sure.”

  “Wal, I’ll be damned!” He sat back and gazed with shrewd eyes at Dale. “What’s got into you, Milt? Hev you heard about my niece thet’s comin’, an’ think you’ll shine up to her?”

  “Yes, Al, her comin’ has a good deal to do with my deal,” replied Dale, soberly. “But I never thought to shine up to her, as you hint.”

  “Haw! Haw! You’re just like all the other colts hereabouts. Reckon it’s a good sign, too. It’ll take a woman to fetch you out of the woods. But, boy, this niece of mine, Helen Rayner, will stand you on your head. I never seen her. They say she’s jest like her mother. An’ Nell Auchincloss—what a girl she was!”

  Dale felt his face grow red. Indeed, this was strange conversation for him.

  “Honest, Al—” he began.

  “Son, don’t lie to an old man.”

  “Lie! I wouldn’t lie to anyone. Al, it’s only men who live in towns an’ are always makin’ deals. I live in the forest, where there’s nothin’ to make me lie.”

  “Wal, no offense meant, I’m sure,” responded Auchincloss. “An’ mebbe there’s somethin’ in what you say… We was talkin’ about them sheep your big cat killed. Wal, Milt, I can’t prove it, that’s sure. An’ mebbe you’ll think me doddery when I tell you my reason. It wasn’t what them greaser herders said about seein’ a cougar in the herd.”

  “What was it, then?” queried Dale, much interested.

  “Wal, thet day a year ago I seen your pet. He was lyin’ in front of the store an’ you was inside tradin’, fer supplies, I reckon. It was like meetin’ an enemy face to face. Because, damn me if I didn’t know that cougar was guilty when he looked in my eyes! There!”

  The old rancher expected to be laughed at. But Dale was grave.

  “Al, I know how you felt,” he replied, as if they were discussing an action of a human being. “Sure I’d hate to doubt old Tom. But he’s a cougar. An’ the ways of animals are strange… Anyway, Al, I’ll make good the loss of your sheep.”

  “No, you won’t,” rejoined Auchincloss, quickly. “We’ll call it off. I’m takin’ it square of you to make the offer. Thet’s enough. So forget your worry about work, if you had any.”

  “There’s somethin’ else, Al, I wanted to say,” began Dale, with hesitation. “An’ it’s about Beasley.”

  Auchincloss started violently, and a flame of red shot into his face. Then he raised a big hand that shook. Dale saw in a flash how the old man’s nerves had gone.

  “Don’t mention—thet—thet greaser—to me!” burst out the rancher. “It makes me see—red.… Dale, I ain’t overlookin’ that you spoke up fer me today—stood fer my side. Lem Harden told me. I was glad. An’ thet’s why—today—I forgot our old quarrel.… But not a word about thet sheep-thief—or I’ll drive you off the place!”

  “But, Al—be reasonable,” remonstrated Dale. “It’s necessary thet I speak of—of Beasley.”

  “It ain’t. Not to me. I won’t listen.”

  “Reckon you’ll have to, Al,” returned Dale. “Beasley’s after your property. He’s made a deal—”

  “By Heaven! I know that!” shouted Auchincloss, tottering up, with his face now black-red. “Do you think thet’s new to me? Shut up, Dale! I can’t stand it.”

  “But Al—there’s worse,” went on Dale, hurriedly. “Worse! Your life’s threatened—an’ your niece, Helen—she’s to be—”

  “Shut up—an’ clear out!” roared Auchincloss, waving his huge fists.

  He seemed on the verge of a collapse as, shaking all over, he backed into the door. A few seconds of rage had transformed him into a pitiful old man.

  “But, Al—I’m your friend—” began Dale, appealingly.

  “Friend, hey?” returned the rancher, with grim, bitter passion. “Then you’re the only one.… Milt Dale, I’m rich an’ I’m a dyin’ man. I trust nobody… But, you wild hunter—if you’re my friend—prove it!… Go kill thet greaser sheep-thief! Do somethin’—an’ then come talk to me!”

  With that he lurched, half falling, into the house, and slammed the door.

  Dale stood there for a blank moment, and then, taking up his rifle, he strode away.

  Toward sunset Dale located the camp of his four Mormon friends, and reached it in time for supper.

  John, Roy, Joe, and Hal Beeman were sons of a pioneer Mormon who had settled the little community of Snowdrop. They were young men in years, but hard labor and hard life in the open had made them look matured. Only a year’s difference in age stood between John and Roy, and between Roy and Joe, and likewise Joe and Hal. When it came to appearance they were difficult to distinguish from one another. Horsemen, sheep-herders, cattle-raisers, hunters—they all possessed long, wiry, powerful frames, lean, bronzed, still faces, and the quiet, keen eyes of men used to the open.

  Their camp was situated beside a spring in a cove surrounded by aspens, some three miles from Pine; and, though working for Beasley, near the village, they had ridden to and fro from camp, after the habit of seclusion peculiar to their kind.

  Dale and the brothers had much in common, and a warm regard had sprang up. But their exchange of confidences had wholly concerned things pertaining to the forest. Dale ate supper with them, and talked as usual when he met them, wi
thout giving any hint of the purpose forming in his mind. After the meal he helped Joe round up the horses, hobble them for the night, and drive them into a grassy glade among the pines. Later, when the shadows stole through the forest on the cool wind, and the camp-fire glowed comfortably, Dale broached the subject that possessed him.

  “An’ so you’re working for Beasley?” he queried, by way of starting conversation.

  “We was,” drawled John. “But today, bein’ the end of our month, we got our pay an’ quit. Beasley sure was sore.”

  “Why’d you knock off?”

  John essayed no reply, and his brothers all had that quiet, suppressed look of knowledge under restraint.

  “Listen to what I come to tell you, then you’ll talk,” went on Dale. And hurriedly he told of Beasley’s plot to abduct Al Auchincloss’s niece and claim the dying man’s property.

  When Dale ended, rather breathlessly, the Mormon boys sat without any show of surprise or feeling. John, the eldest, took up a stick and slowly poked the red embers of the fire, making the white sparks fly.

  “Now, Milt, why’d you tell us thet?” he asked, guardedly.

  “You’re the only friends I’ve got,” replied Dale. “It didn’t seem safe for me to talk down in the village. I thought of you boys right off. I ain’t goin’ to let Snake Anson get that girl. An’ I need help, so I come to you.”

  “Beasley’s strong around Pine, an’ old Al’s weakenin’. Beasley will git the property, girl or no girl,” said John.

  “Things don’t always turn out as they look. But no matter about that. The girl deal is what riled me.… She’s to arrive at Magdalena on the sixteenth, an’ take stage for Snowdrop.… Now what to do? If she travels on that stage I’ll be on it, you bet. But she oughtn’t to be in it at all.… Boys, somehow I’m goin’ to save her. Will you help me? I reckon I’ve been in some tight corners for you. Sure, this ’s different. But are you my friends? You know now what Beasley is. An’ you’re all lost at the hands of Snake Anson’s gang. You’ve got fast hosses, eyes for trackin’, an’ you can handle a rifle. You’re the kind of fellows I’d want in a tight pinch with a bad gang. Will you stand by me or see me go alone?”

  Then John Beeman, silently, and with pale face, gave Dale’s hand a powerful grip, and one by one the other brothers rose to do likewise. Their eyes flashed with hard glint and a strange bitterness hovered around their thin lips.

  “Milt, mebbe we know what Beasley is better ’n you,” said John, at length. “He ruined my father. He’s cheated other Mormons. We boys have proved to ourselves thet he gets the sheep Anson’s gang steals.… An’ drives the herds to Phenix! Our people won’t let us accuse Beasley. So we’ve suffered in silence. My father always said, let someone else say the first word against Beasley, an’ you’ve come to us!”

  Roy Beeman put a hand on Dale’s shoulder. He, perhaps, was the keenest of the brothers and the one to whom adventure and peril called most. He had been oftenest with Dale, on many a long trail, and he was the hardest rider and the most relentless tracker in all that range country.

  “An’ we’re goin’ with you,” he said, in a strong and rolling voice.

  They resumed their seats before the fire. John threw on more wood, and with a crackling and sparkling the blaze curled up, fanned by the wind. As twilight deepened into night the moan in the pines increased to a roar. A pack of coyotes commenced to pierce the air in staccato cries.

  The five young men conversed long and earnestly, considering, planning, rejecting ideas advanced by each. Dale and Roy Beeman suggested most of what became acceptable to all. Hunters of their type resembled explorers in slow and deliberate attention to details. What they had to deal with here was a situation of unlimited possibilities; the horses and outfit needed; a long detour to reach Magdalena unobserved; the rescue of a strange girl who would no doubt be self-willed and determined to ride on the stage—the rescue forcible, if necessary; the fight and the inevitable pursuit; the flight into the forest, and the safe delivery of the girl to Auchincloss.

  “Then, Milt, will we go after Beasley?” queried Roy Beeman, significantly.

  Dale was silent and thoughtful.

  “Sufficient unto the day!” said John. “An’ fellars, let’s go to bed.”

  They rolled out their tarpaulins, Dale sharing Roy’s blankets, and soon were asleep, while the red embers slowly faded, and the great roar of wind died down, and the forest stillness set in.

  CHAPTER IV

  Helen Rayner had been on the westbound overland train fully twenty-four hours before she made an alarming discovery.

  Accompanied by her sister Bo, a precocious girl of sixteen, Helen had left St. Joseph with a heart saddened by farewells to loved ones at home, yet full of thrilling and vivid anticipations of the strange life in the Far West. All her people had the pioneer spirit; love of change, action, adventure, was in her blood. Then duty to a widowed mother with a large and growing family had called to Helen to accept this rich uncle’s offer. She had taught school and also her little brothers and sisters; she had helped along in other ways. And now, though the tearing up of the roots of old loved ties was hard, this opportunity was irresistible in its call. The prayer of her dreams had been answered. To bring good fortune to her family; to take care of this beautiful, wild little sister; to leave the yellow, sordid, humdrum towns for the great, rolling, boundless open; to live on a wonderful ranch that was some day to be her own; to have fulfilled a deep, instinctive, and undeveloped love of horses, cattle, sheep, of desert and mountain, of trees and brooks and wild flowers—all this was the sum of her most passionate longings, now in some marvelous, fairylike way to come true.

  A check to her happy anticipations, a blank, sickening dash of cold water upon her warm and intimate dreams, had been the discovery that Harve Riggs was on the train. His presence could mean only one thing—that he had followed her. Riggs had been the worst of many sore trials back there in St. Joseph. He had possessed some claim or influence upon her mother, who favored his offer of marriage to Helen; he was neither attractive, nor good, nor industrious, nor anything that interested her; he was the boastful, strutting adventurer, not genuinely Western, and he affected long hair and guns and notoriety. Helen had suspected the veracity of the many fights he claimed had been his, and also she suspected that he was not really big enough to be bad—as Western men were bad. But on the train, in the station at La Junta, one glimpse of him, manifestly spying upon her while trying to keep out of her sight, warned Helen that she now might have a problem on her hands.

  The recognition sobered her. All was not to be a road of roses to this new home in the West. Riggs would follow her, if he could not accompany her, and to gain his own ends he would stoop to anything. Helen felt the startling realization of being cast upon her own resources, and then a numbing discouragement and loneliness and helplessness. But these feelings did not long persist in the quick pride and flash of her temper. Opportunity knocked at her door and she meant to be at home to it. She would not have been Al Auchincloss’s niece if she had faltered. And, when temper was succeeded by genuine anger, she could have laughed to scorn this Harve Riggs and his schemes, whatever they were. Once and for all she dismissed fear of him. When she left St. Joseph she had faced the West with a beating heart and a high resolve to be worthy of that West. Homes had to be made out there in that far country, so Uncle Al had written, and women were needed to make homes. She meant to be one of these women and to make of her sister another. And with the thought that she would know definitely what to say to Riggs when he approached her, sooner or later, Helen dismissed him from mind.

  While the train was in motion, enabling Helen to watch the ever-changing scenery, and resting her from the strenuous task of keeping Bo well in hand at stations, she lapsed again into dreamy gaze at the pine forests and the red, rocky gullies and the dim, bold mountains. She saw the sun set over distant ranges of New Mexico—a golden blaze of glory, as new to her as the strange fancies born
in her, thrilling and fleeting by. Bo’s raptures were not silent, and the instant the sun sank and the color faded she just as rapturously importuned Helen to get out the huge basket of food they had brought from home.

  They had two seats, facing each other, at the end of the coach, and piled there, with the basket on top, was luggage that constituted all the girls owned in the world. Indeed, it was very much more than they had ever owned before, because their mother, in her care for them and desire to have them look well in the eyes of this rich uncle, had spent money and pains to give them pretty and serviceable clothes.

  The girls sat together, with the heavy basket on their knees, and ate while they gazed out at the cool, dark ridges. The train clattered slowly on, apparently over a road that was all curves. And it was supper-time for everybody in that crowded coach. If Helen had not been so absorbed by the great, wild mountain-land she would have had more interest in the passengers. As it was she saw them, and was amused and thoughtful at the men and women and a few children in the car, all middle-class people, poor and hopeful, traveling out there to the New West to find homes. It was splendid and beautiful, this fact, yet it inspired a brief and inexplicable sadness. From the train window, that world of forest and crag, with its long bare reaches between, seemed so lonely, so wild, so unlivable. How endless the distance! For hours and miles upon miles no house, no hut, no Indian tepee! It was amazing, the length and breadth of this beautiful land. And Helen, who loved brooks and running streams, saw no water at all.

  Then darkness settled down over the slow-moving panorama; a cool night wind blew in at the window; white stars began to blink out of the blue. The sisters, with hands clasped and heads nestled together, went to sleep under a heavy cloak.