The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  “That’s a pesky porcupine,” he whispered. “Almost crawled over you. He sure would have stuck you full of quills.”

  Whereupon he threw a stick at the animal. It bounced straight up to turn round with startling quickness, and it gave forth a rattling sound; then it crawled out of sight.

  “Por—cu—pine!” whispered Bo, pantingly. “It might—as well—have been—an elephant!”

  Helen uttered a long, eloquent sigh. She would not have cared to describe her emotions at sight of a harmless hedgehog.

  “Listen!” warned Dale, very low. His big hand closed over Helen’s gauntleted one. “There you have—the real cry of the wild.”

  Sharp and cold on the night air split the cry of a wolf, distant, yet wonderfully distinct. How wild and mournful and hungry! How marvelously pure! Helen shuddered through all her frame with the thrill of its music, the wild and unutterable and deep emotions it aroused. Again a sound of this forest had pierced beyond her life, back into the dim remote past from which she had come.

  The cry was not repeated. The coyotes were still. And silence fell, absolutely unbroken.

  Dale nudged Helen, and then reached over to give Bo a tap. He was peering keenly ahead and his strained intensity could be felt. Helen looked with all her might and she saw the shadowy gray forms of the coyotes skulk away, out of the moonlight into the gloom of the woods, where they disappeared. Not only Dale’s intensity, but the very silence, the wildness of the moment and place, seemed fraught with wonderful potency. Bo must have felt it, too, for she was trembling all over, and holding tightly to Helen, and breathing quick and fast.

  “A-huh!” muttered Dale, under his breath.

  Helen caught the relief and certainty in his exclamation, and she divined, then, something of what the moment must have been to a hunter.

  Then her roving, alert glance was arrested by a looming gray shadow coming out of the forest. It moved, but surely that huge thing could not be a bear. It passed out of gloom into silver moonlight. Helen’s heart bounded. For it was a great frosty-coated bear lumbering along toward the dead horse. Instinctively Helen’s hand sought the arm of the hunter. It felt like iron under a rippling surface. The touch eased away the oppression over her lungs, the tightness of her throat. What must have been fear left her, and only a powerful excitement remained. A sharp expulsion of breath from Bo and a violent jerk of her frame were signs that she had sighted the grizzly.

  In the moonlight he looked of immense size, and that wild park with the gloomy blackness of forest furnished a fit setting for him. Helen’s quick mind, so taken up with emotion, still had a thought for the wonder and the meaning of that scene. She wanted the bear killed, yet that seemed a pity.

  He had a wagging, rolling, slow walk which took several moments to reach his quarry. When at length he reached it he walked around with sniffs plainly heard and then a cross growl. Evidently he had discovered that his meal had been messed over. As a whole the big bear could be seen distinctly, but only in outline and color. The distance was perhaps two hundred yards. Then it looked as if he had begun to tug at the carcass. Indeed, he was dragging it, very slowly, but surely.

  “Look at that!” whispered Dale. “If he ain’t strong!… Reckon I’ll have to stop him.”

  The grizzly, however, stopped of his own accord, just outside of the shadow-line of the forest. Then he hunched in a big frosty heap over his prey and began to tear and rend.

  “Jess was a mighty good horse,” muttered Dale, grimly; “too good to make a meal for a hog silvertip.”

  Then the hunter silently rose to a kneeling position, swinging the rifle in front of him. He glanced up into the low branches of the tree overhead.

  “Girls, there’s no tellin’ what a grizzly will do. If I yell, you climb up in this tree, an’ do it quick.”

  With that he leveled the rifle, resting his left elbow on his knee. The front end of the rifle, reaching out of the shade, shone silver in the moonlight. Man and weapon became still as stone. Helen held her breath. But Dale relaxed, lowering the barrel.

  “Can’t see the sights very well,” he whispered, shaking his head. “Remember, now—if I yell you climb!”

  Again he aimed and slowly grew rigid. Helen could not take her fascinated eyes off him. He knelt, bareheaded, and in the shadow she could make out the gleam of his clear-cut profile, stern and cold.

  A streak of fire and a heavy report startled her. Then she heard the bullet hit. Shifting her glance, she saw the bear lurch with convulsive action, rearing on his hind legs. Loud clicking snaps must have been a clashing of his jaws in rage. But there was no other sound. Then again Dale’s heavy gun boomed. Helen heard again that singular spatting thud of striking lead. The bear went down with a flop as if he had been dealt a terrific blow. But just as quickly he was up on all-fours and began to whirl with hoarse, savage bawls of agony and fury. His action quickly carried him out of the moonlight into the shadow, where he disappeared. There the bawls gave place to gnashing snarls, and crashings in the brush, and snapping of branches, as he made his way into the forest.

  “Sure he’s mad,” said Dale, rising to his feet. “An’ I reckon hard hit. But I won’t follow him tonight.”

  Both the girls got up, and Helen found she was shaky on her feet and very cold.

  “Oh-h, wasn’t—it—won-wonder-ful!” cried Bo.

  “Are you scared? Your teeth are chatterin’,” queried Dale.

  “I’m—cold.”

  “Well, it sure is cold, all right,” he responded. “Now the fun’s over, you’ll feel it.… Nell, you’re froze, too?”

  Helen nodded. She was, indeed, as cold as she had ever been before. But that did not prevent a strange warmness along her veins and a quickened pulse, the cause of which she did not conjecture.

  “Let’s rustle,” said Dale, and led the way out of the wood and skirted its edge around to the slope. There they climbed to the flat, and went through the straggling line of trees to where the horses were tethered.

  Up here the wind began to blow, not hard through the forest, but still strong and steady out in the open, and bitterly cold. Dale helped Bo to mount, and then Helen.

  “I’m—numb,” she said. “I’ll fall off—sure.”

  “No. You’ll be warm in a jiffy,” he replied, “because we’ll ride some goin’ back. Let Ranger pick the way an’ you hang on.”

  With Ranger’s first jump Helen’s blood began to run. Out he shot, his lean, dark head beside Dale’s horse. The wild park lay clear and bright in the moonlight, with strange, silvery radiance on the grass. The patches of timber, like spired black islands in a moon-blanched lake, seemed to harbor shadows, and places for bears to hide, ready to spring out. As Helen neared each little grove her pulses shook and her heart beat. Half a mile of rapid riding burned out the cold. And all seemed glorious—the sailing moon, white in a dark-blue sky, the white, passionless stars, so solemn, so far away, the beckoning fringe of forest-land at once mysterious and friendly, and the fleet horses, running with soft, rhythmic thuds over the grass, leaping the ditches and the hollows, making the bitter wind sting and cut. Coming up that park the ride had been long; going back was as short as it was thrilling. In Helen, experiences gathered realization slowly, and it was this swift ride, the horses neck and neck, and all the wildness and beauty, that completed the slow, insidious work of years. The tears of excitement froze on her cheeks and her heart heaved full. All that pertained to this night got into her blood. It was only to feel, to live now, but it could be understood and remembered forever afterward.

  Dale’s horse, a little in advance, sailed over a ditch. Ranger made a splendid leap, but he alighted among some grassy tufts and fell. Helen shot over his head. She struck lengthwise, her arms stretched, and slid hard to a shocking impact that stunned her.

  Bo’s scream rang in her ears; she felt the wet grass under her face and then the strong hands that lifted her. Dale loomed over her, bending down to look into her face; Bo was clutching
her with frantic hands. And Helen could only gasp. Her breast seemed caved in. The need to breathe was torture.

  “Nell!—you’re not hurt. You fell light, like a feather. All grass here.… You can’t be hurt!” said Dale, sharply.

  His anxious voice penetrated beyond her hearing, and his strong hands went swiftly over her arms and shoulders, feeling for broken bones.

  “Just had the wind knocked out of you,” went on Dale. “It feels awful, but it’s nothin’.”

  Helen got a little air, that was like hot pin-points in her lungs, and then a deeper breath, and then full, gasping respiration.

  “I guess—I’m not hurt—not a bit,” she choked out.

  “You sure had a header. Never saw a prettier spill. Ranger doesn’t do that often. I reckon we were travelin’ too fast. But it was fun, don’t you think?”

  It was Bo who answered. “Oh, glorious!… But, gee! I was scared.”

  Dale still held Helen’s hands. She released them while looking up at him. The moment was realization for her of what for days had been a vague, sweet uncertainty, becoming near and strange, disturbing and present. This accident had been a sudden, violent end to the wonderful ride. But its effect, the knowledge of what had got into her blood, would never change. And inseparable from it was this man of the forest.

  CHAPTER XIV

  On the next morning Helen was awakened by what she imagined had been a dream of someone shouting. With a start she sat up. The sunshine showed pink and gold on the ragged spruce line of the mountain rims. Bo was on her knees, braiding her hair with shaking hands, and at the same time trying to peep out.

  And the echoes of a ringing cry were cracking back from the cliffs. That had been Dale’s voice.

  “Nell! Nell! Wake up!” called Bo, wildly. “Oh, someone’s come! Horses and men!”

  Helen got to her knees and peered out over Bo’s shoulder. Dale, standing tall and striking beside the campfire, was waving his sombrero. Away down the open edge of the park came a string of pack-burros with mounted men behind. In the foremost rider Helen recognized Roy Beeman.

  “That first one’s Roy!” she exclaimed. “I’d never forget him on a horse.… Bo, it must mean Uncle Al’s come!”

  “Sure! We’re born lucky. Here we are safe and sound—and all this grand camp trip.… Look at the cowboys.… Look! Oh, maybe this isn’t great!” babbled Bo.

  Dale wheeled to see the girls peeping out.

  “It’s time you’re up!” he called. “Your uncle Al is here.”

  For an instant after Helen sank back out of Dale’s sight she sat there perfectly motionless, so struck was she by the singular tone of Dale’s voice. She imagined that he regretted what this visiting cavalcade of horsemen meant—they had come to take her to her ranch in Pine. Helen’s heart suddenly began to beat fast, but thickly, as if muffled within her breast.

  “Hurry now, girls,” called Dale.

  Bo was already out, kneeling on the flat stone at the little brook, splashing water in a great hurry. Helen’s hands trembled so that she could scarcely lace her boots or brush her hair, and she was long behind Bo in making herself presentable. When Helen stepped out, a short, powerfully built man in coarse garb and heavy boots stood holding Bo’s hands.

  “Wal, wal! You favor the Rayners,” he was saying, “I remember your dad, an’ a fine feller he was.”

  Beside them stood Dale and Roy, and beyond was a group of horses and riders.

  “Uncle, here comes Nell,” said Bo, softly.

  “Aw!” The old cattle-man breathed hard as he turned.

  Helen hurried. She had not expected to remember this uncle, but one look into the brown, beaming face, with the blue eyes flashing, yet sad, and she recognized him, at the same instant recalling her mother.

  He held out his arms to receive her.

  “Nell Auchincloss all over again!” he exclaimed, in deep voice, as he kissed her. “I’d have knowed you anywhere!”

  “Uncle Al!” murmured Helen. “I remember you—though I was only four.”

  “Wal, wal,—that’s fine,” he replied. “I remember you straddled my knee once, an’ your hair was brighter—an’ curly. It ain’t neither now.… Sixteen years! An’ you’re twenty now? What a fine, broad-shouldered girl you are! An’, Nell, you’re the handsomest Auchincloss I ever seen!”

  Helen found herself blushing, and withdrew her hands from his as Roy stepped forward to pay his respects. He stood bareheaded, lean and tall, with neither his clear eyes nor his still face, nor the proffered hand expressing anything of the proven quality of fidelity, of achievement, that Helen sensed in him.

  “Howdy, Miss Helen? Howdy, Bo?” he said. “You all both look fine an’ brown.… I reckon I was shore slow rustlin’ your uncle Al up here. But I was figgerin’ you’d like Milt’s camp for a while.”

  “We sure did,” replied Bo, archly.

  “Aw!” breathed Auchincloss, heavily. “Lemme set down.”

  He drew the girls to the rustic seat Dale had built for them under the big pine.

  “Oh, you must be tired! How—how are you?” asked Helen, anxiously.

  “Tired! Wal, if I am it’s jest this here minit. When Joe Beeman rode in on me with thet news of you—wal, I jest fergot I was a worn-out old hoss. Haven’t felt so good in years. Mebbe two such young an’ pretty nieces will make a new man of me.”

  “Uncle Al, you look strong and well to me,” said Bo. “And young, too, and—”

  “Haw! Haw! Thet’ll do,” interrupted Al. “I see through you. What you’ll do to Uncle Al will be aplenty.… Yes, girls, I’m feelin’ fine. But strange—strange! Mebbe thet’s my joy at seein’ you safe—safe when I feared so thet damned greaser Beasley—”

  In Helen’s grave gaze his face changed swiftly—and all the serried years of toil and battle and privation showed, with something that was not age, nor resignation, yet as tragic as both.

  “Wal, never mind him—now,” he added, slowly, and the warmer light returned to his face. “Dale—come here.”

  The hunter stepped closer.

  “I reckon I owe you more ’n I can ever pay,” said Auchincloss, with an arm around each niece.

  “No, Al, you don’t owe me anythin’,” returned Dale, thoughtfully, as he looked away.

  “A-huh!” grunted Al. “You hear him, girls.… Now listen, you wild hunter. An’ you girls listen.… Milt, I never thought you much good, ’cept for the wilds. But I reckon I’ll have to swallow thet. I do. Comin’ to me as you did—an’ after bein’ druv off—keepin’ your council an’ savin’ my girls from thet hold-up, wal, it’s the biggest deal any man ever did for me.… An’ I’m ashamed of my hard feelin’s, an’ here’s my hand.”

  “Thanks, Al,” replied Dale, with his fleeting smile, and he met the proffered hand. “Now, will you be makin’ camp here?”

  “Wal, no. I’ll rest a little, an’ you can pack the girls’ outfit—then we’ll go. Sure you’re goin’ with us?”

  “I’ll call the girls to breakfast,” replied Dale, and he moved away without answering Auchincloss’s query.

  Helen divined that Dale did not mean to go down to Pine with them, and the knowledge gave her a blank feeling of surprise. Had she expected him to go?

  “Come here, Jeff,” called Al, to one of his men.

  A short, bow-legged horseman with dusty garb and sun-bleached face hobbled forth from the group. He was not young, but he had a boyish grin and bright little eyes. Awkwardly he doffed his slouch sombrero.

  “Jeff, shake hands with my nieces,” said Al. “This ’s Helen, an’ your boss from now on. An’ this ’s Bo, fer short. Her name was Nancy, but when she lay a baby in her cradle I called her Bo-Peep, an’ the name’s stuck.… Girls, this here’s my foreman, Jeff Mulvey, who’s been with me twenty years.”

  The introduction caused embarrassment to all three principals, particularly to Jeff.

  “Jeff, throw the packs an’ saddles fer a rest,” was Al’s order to his foreman.


  “Nell, reckon you’ll have fun bossin’ thet outfit,” chuckled Al. “None of ’em’s got a wife. Lot of scalawags they are; no women would have them!”

  “Uncle, I hope I’ll never have to be their boss,” replied Helen.

  “Wal, you’re goin’ to be, right off,” declared Al. “They ain’t a bad lot, after all. An’ I got a likely new man.”

  With that he turned to Bo, and, after studying her pretty face, he asked, in apparently severe tone, “Did you send a cowboy named Carmichael to ask me for a job?”

  Bo looked quite startled.

  “Carmichael! Why, Uncle, I never heard that name before,” replied Bo, bewilderedly.

  “A-huh! Reckoned the young rascal was lyin’,” said Auchincloss. “But I liked the fellar’s looks an’ so let him stay.”

  Then the rancher turned to the group of lounging riders.

  “Las Vegas, come here,” he ordered, in a loud voice.

  Helen thrilled at sight of a tall, superbly built cowboy reluctantly detaching himself from the group. He had a red-bronze face, young like a boy’s. Helen recognized it, and the flowing red scarf, and the swinging gun, and the slow, spur-clinking gait. No other than Bo’s Las Vegas cowboy admirer!

  Then Helen flashed a look at Bo, which look gave her a delicious, almost irresistible desire to laugh. That young lady also recognized the reluctant individual approaching with flushed and downcast face. Helen recorded her first experience of Bo’s utter discomfiture. Bo turned white then red as a rose.

  “Say, my niece said she never heard of the name Carmichael,” declared Al, severely, as the cowboy halted before him. Helen knew her uncle had the repute of dealing hard with his men, but here she was reassured and pleased at the twinkle in his eye.

  “Shore, boss, I can’t help thet,” drawled the cowboy. “It’s good old Texas stock.”

  He did not appear shamefaced now, but just as cool, easy, clear-eyed, and lazy as the day Helen had liked his warm young face and intent gaze.