by Zane Grey
“He’s alive, but that’s all,” said Dick, as he laid the ranger down. “Do what you can. Stop the blood. Laddy’s tough as cactus, you know. I’ll hurry back for Mercedes and Yaqui.”
Gale, like a fleet, sure-footed mountain sheep, ran along the trail. When he came across the Mexican, Rojas’s last ally, Gale had evidence of the terrible execution of the .405. He did not pause. On the first part of that descent he made faster time than had Rojas. But he exercised care along the hard, slippery, ragged slope leading to the ledge. Presently he came upon Mercedes and the Yaqui. She ran right into Dick’s arms, and there her strength, if not her courage, broke, and she grew lax.
“Mercedes, you’re safe! Thorne’s safe. It’s all right now.”
“Rojas!” she whispered.
“Gone! To the bottom of the crater! A Yaqui vengeance, Mercedes.”
He heard the girl whisper the name of the Virgin. Then he gathered her up in his arms.
“Come, Yaqui.”
The Indian grunted. He had one hand pressed close over a bloody place in his shoulder. Gale looked keenly at him. Yaqui was inscrutable, as of old, yet Gale somehow knew that wound meant little to him. The Indian followed him.
Without pausing, moving slowly in some places, very carefully in others, and swiftly on the smooth part of the trail, Gale carried Mercedes up to the rim and along to the others. Jim Lash worked awkwardly over Ladd. Thorne was trying to assist. Ladd, himself, was conscious, but he was pallid, apparently a death-stricken man. The greeting between Mercedes and Thorne was calm—strangely so, it seemed to Gale. But he was now calm himself. Ladd smiled at him, and evidently would have spoken had he the power. Yaqui then joined the group, and his piercing eyes roved from one to the other, lingering longest over Ladd.
“Dick, I’m figger’n’ hard,” said Jim, faintly. “In a minute it’ll be up to you an’ Mercedes. I’ve about shot my bolt.… Reckon you’ll do—best by bringin’ up blankets—water—salt—fire-wood. Laddy’s got—one chance—in a hundred. Fix him up—first. Use hot salt water. If my leg’s broken—set it best you can. That hole in Yaqui—only’ll bother him a day. Thorne’s bad hurt.… Now rustle—Dick, old—boy.”
Lash’s voice died away in a husky whisper, and he quietly lay back, stretching out all but the crippled leg. Gale examined it, assured himself the bones had not been broken, and then rose ready to go down the trail.
“Mercedes, hold Thorne’s head up, in your lap—so. Now I’ll go.”
On the moment Yaqui appeared to have completed the binding of his wounded shoulder, and he started to follow Gale. He paid no attention to Gale’s order for him to stay back. But he was slow, and gradually Gale forged ahead. The lingering brightness of the sunset lightened the trail, and the descent to the arroyo was swift and easy. Some of the white horses had come in for water. Blanco Sol spied Gale and whistled and came pounding toward him. It was twilight down in the arroyo. Yaqui appeared and began collecting a bundle of mesquite sticks. Gale hastily put together the things he needed; and, packing them all in a tarpaulin, he turned to retrace his steps up the trail.
Darkness was setting in. The trail was narrow, exceedingly steep, and in some places fronted on precipices. Gale’s burden was not very heavy, but its bulk made it unwieldy, and it was always overbalancing him or knocking against the wall side of the trail. Gale found it necessary to wait for Yaqui to take the lead. The Indian’s eyes must have seen as well at night as by day. Gale toiled upward, shouldering, swinging, dragging the big pack; and, though the ascent of the slope was not really long, it seemed endless. At last they reached a level, and were soon on the spot with Mercedes and the injured men.
Gale then set to work. Yaqui’s part was to keep the fire blazing and the water hot, Mercedes’s to help Gale in what way she could. Gale found Ladd had many wounds, yet not one of them was directly in a vital place. Evidently, the ranger had almost bled to death. He remained unconscious through Gale’s operations. According to Jim Lash, Ladd had one chance in a hundred, but Gale considered it one in a thousand. Having done all that was possible for the ranger, Gale slipped blankets under and around him, and then turned his attention to Lash.
Jim came out of his stupor. A mushrooming bullet had torn a great hole in his leg. Gale, upon examination, could not be sure the bones had been missed, but there was no bad break. The application of hot salt water made Jim groan. When he had been bandaged and laid beside Ladd, Gale went on to the cavalryman. Thorne was very weak and scarcely conscious. A furrow had been plowed through his scalp down to the bone. When it had been dressed, Mercedes collapsed. Gale laid her with the three in a row and covered them with blankets and the tarpaulin.
Then Yaqui submitted to examination. A bullet had gone through the Indian’s shoulder. To Gale it appeared serious. Yaqui said it was a fleabite. But he allowed Gale to bandage it, and obeyed when he was told to lie quiet in his blanket beside the fire.
Gale stood guard. He seemed still calm, and wondered at what he considered a strange absence of poignant feeling. If he had felt weariness it was now gone. He coaxed the fire with as little wood as would keep it burning; he sat beside it; he walked to and fro close by; sometimes he stood over the five sleepers, wondering if two of them, at least, would ever awaken.
Time had passed swiftly, but as the necessity for immediate action had gone by, the hours gradually assumed something of their normal length. The night wore on. The air grew colder, the stars brighter, the sky bluer, and, if such could be possible, the silence more intense. The fire burned out, and for lack of wood could not be rekindled. Gale patrolled his short beat, becoming colder and damper as dawn approached. The darkness grew so dense that he could not see the pale faces of the sleepers. He dreaded the gray dawn and the light. Slowly the heavy black belt close to the lava changed to a pale gloom, then to gray, and after that morning came quickly.
The hour had come for Dick Gale to face his great problem. It was natural that he hung back a little at first; natural that when he went forward to look at the quiet sleepers he did so with a grim and stern force urging him. Yaqui stirred, roused, yawned, got up; and, though he did not smile at Gale, a light shone swiftly across his dark face. His shoulder drooped and appeared stiff, otherwise he was himself. Mercedes lay in deep slumber. Thorne had a high fever, and was beginning to show signs of restlessness. Ladd seemed just barely alive. Jim Lash slept as if he was not much the worse for his wound.
Gale rose from his examination with a sharp breaking of his cold mood. While there was life in Thorne and Ladd there was hope for them. Then he faced his problem, and his decision was instant.
He awoke Mercedes. How wondering, wistful, beautiful was that first opening flash of her eyes! Then the dark, troubled thought came. Swiftly she sat up.
“Mercedes—come. Are you all right? Laddy is alive. Thorne’s not—not so bad. But we’ve got a job on our hands! You must help me.”
She bent over Thorne and laid her hands on his hot face. Then she rose—a woman such as he had imagined she might be in an hour of trial.
Gale took up Ladd as carefully and gently as possible.
“Mercedes, bring what you can carry and follow me,” he said. Then, motioning for Yaqui to remain there, he turned down the slope with Ladd in his arms.
Neither pausing nor making a misstep nor conscious of great effort, Gale carried the wounded man down into the arroyo. Mercedes kept at his heels, light, supple, lithe as a panther. He left her with Ladd and went back. When he had started off with Thorne in his arms he felt the tax on his strength. Surely and swiftly, however, he bore the cavalryman down the trail to lay him beside Ladd. Again he started back, and when he began to mount the steep lava steps he was hot, wet, breathing hard. As he reached the scene of that night’s camp a voice greeted him. Jim Lash was sitting up.
“Hello, Dick. I woke some late this mornin’. Where’s Laddy? Dick, you ain’t a-goin’ to say—”
“Laddy’s alive—that’s about all,” replied Dick.
>
“Where’s Thorne an’ Mercedes? Look here, man! I reckon you ain’t packin’ this crippled outfit down that awful trail?”
“Had to, Jim. An hour’s sun—would kill—both Laddy and Thorne. Come on now.”
For once Jim Lash’s cool good nature and careless indifference gave precedence to amaze and concern.
“Always knew you was a husky chap. But, Dick, you’re no hoss! Get me a crutch an’ give me a lift on one side.”
“Come on,” replied Gale. “I’ve no time to monkey.”
He lifted the ranger, called to Yaqui to follow with some of the camp outfit, and once more essayed the steep descent. Jim Lash was the heaviest man of the three, and Gale’s strength was put to enormous strain to carry him on that broken trail. Nevertheless, Gale went down, down, walking swiftly and surely over the bad places; and at last he staggered into the arroyo with bursting heart and red-blinded eyes. When he had recovered he made a final trip up the slope for the camp effects which Yaqui had been unable to carry.
Then he drew Jim and Mercedes and Yaqui, also, into an earnest discussion of ways and means whereby to fight for the life of Thorne. Ladd’s case Gale now considered hopeless, though he meant to fight for him, too, as long as he breathed.
In the labor of watching and nursing it seemed to Gale that two days and two nights slipped by like a few hours. During that time the Indian recovered from his injury, and became capable of performing all except heavy tasks. Then Gale succumbed to weariness. After his much-needed rest he relieved Mercedes of the care and watch over Thorne which, up to that time, she had absolutely refused to relinquish. The cavalryman had high fever, and Gale feared he had developed blood poisoning. He required constant attention. His condition slowly grew worse, and there came a day which Gale thought surely was the end. But that day passed, and the night, and the next day, and Thorne lived on, ghastly, stricken, raving. Mercedes hung over him with jealous, passionate care and did all that could have been humanly done for a man. She grew wan, absorbed, silent. But suddenly, and to Gale’s amaze and thanksgiving, there came an abatement of Thorne’s fever. With it some of the heat and redness of the inflamed wound disappeared. Next morning he was conscious, and Gale grasped some of the hope that Mercedes had never abandoned. He forced her to rest while he attended to Thorne. That day he saw that the crisis was past. Recovery for Thorne was now possible, and would perhaps depend entirely upon the care he received.
Jim Lash’s wound healed without any aggravating symptoms. It would be only a matter of time until he had the use of his leg again. All these days, however, there was little apparent change in Ladd’s condition, unless it was that he seemed to fade away as he lingered. At first his wounds remained open; they bled a little all the time outwardly, perhaps internally also; his blood did not seem to clot, and so the bullet-holes did not close. Then Yaqui asked for the care of Ladd. Gale yielded it with opposing thoughts—that Ladd would waste slowly away till life ceased, and that there never was any telling what might lie in the power of this strange Indian. Yaqui absented himself from camp for a while, and when he returned he carried the roots and leaves of desert plants unknown to Gale. From these the Indian brewed an ointment. Then he stripped the bandages from Ladd and applied the mixture to his wounds. That done, he let him lie with the wounds exposed to the air, at night covering him. Next day he again exposed the wounds to the warm, dry air. Slowly they closed, and Ladd ceased to bleed externally.
Days passed and grew into what Gale imagined must have been weeks. Yaqui recovered fully. Jim Lash began to move about on a crutch; he shared the Indian’s watch over Ladd. Thorne lay a haggard, emaciated ghost of his former rugged self, but with life in the eyes that turned always toward Mercedes. Ladd lingered and lingered. The life seemingly would not leave his bullet-pierced body. He faded, withered, shrunk till he was almost a skeleton. He knew those who worked and watched over him, but he had no power of speech. His eyes and eyelids moved; the rest of him seemed stone. All those days nothing except water was given him. It was marvelous how tenaciously, however feebly, he clung to life. Gale imagined it was the Yaqui’s spirit that held back death. That tireless, implacable, inscrutable savage was ever at the ranger’s side. His great somber eyes burned. At length he went to Gale, and, with that strange light flitting across the hard bronzed face, he said Ladd would live.
* * *
The second day after Ladd had been given such thin nourishment as he could swallow he recovered the use of his tongue.
“Shore—this’s—hell,” he whispered.
That was a characteristic speech for the ranger, Gale thought; and indeed it made all who heard it smile while their eyes were wet.
From that time forward Ladd gained, but he gained so immeasurably slowly that only the eyes of hope could have seen any improvement. Jim Lash threw away his crutch, and Thorne was well, if still somewhat weak, before Ladd could lift his arm or turn his head. A kind of long, immovable gloom passed, like a shadow, from his face. His whispers grew stronger. And the day arrived when Gale, who was perhaps the least optimistic, threw doubt to the winds and knew the ranger would get well. For Gale that joyous moment of realization was one in which he seemed to return to a former self long absent. He experienced an elevation of soul. He was suddenly overwhelmed with gratefulness, humility, awe. A gloomy black terror had passed by. He wanted to thank the faithful Mercedes, and Thorne for getting well, and the cheerful Lash, and Ladd himself, and that strange and wonderful Yaqui, now such a splendid figure. He thought of home and Nell. The terrible encompassing red slopes lost something of their fearsomeness, and there was a good spirit hovering near.
* * *
“Boys, come round,” said Ladd, in his low voice. “An’ you, Mercedes. An’ call the Yaqui.”
Ladd lay in the shade of the brush shelter that had been erected. His head was raised slightly on a pillow. There seemed little of him but long lean lines, and if it had not been for his keen, thoughtful, kindly eyes, his face would have resembled a death mask of a man starved.
“Shore I want to know what day is it an’ what month?” asked Ladd.
Nobody could answer him. The question seemed a surprise to Gale, and evidently was so to the others.
“Look at that cactus,” went on Ladd.
Near the wall of lava a stunted saguaro lifted its head.
A few shriveled blossoms that had once been white hung along the fluted column.
“I reckon according to that giant cactus it’s somewheres along the end of March,” said Jim Lash, soberly.
“Shore it’s April. Look where the sun is. An’ can’t you feel it’s gettin’ hot?”
“Supposin’ it is April?” queried Lash, slowly.
“Well, what I’m drivin’ at is it’s about time you all was hittin’ the trail back to Forlorn River, before the water holes dry out.”
“Laddy, I reckon we’ll start soon as you’re able to be put on a hoss.”
“Shore that’ll be too late.”
A silence ensued, in which those who heard Ladd gazed fixedly at him and then at one another. Lash uneasily shifted the position of his lame leg, and Gale saw him moisten his lips with his tongue.
“Charlie Ladd, I ain’t reckonin’ you mean we’re to ride off an’ leave you here?”
“What else is there to do? The hot weather’s close. Pretty soon most of the water holes will be dry. You can’t travel then.… I’m on my back here, an’ God only knows when I could be packed out. Not for weeks, mebbe. I’ll never be any good again, even if I was to get out alive.… You see, shore this sort of case comes round sometimes in the desert. It’s common enough. I’ve heard of several cases where men had to go an’ leave a feller behind. It’s reasonable. If you’re fightin’ the desert you can’t afford to be sentimental.… Now, as I said, I’m all in. So what’s the sense of you waitin’ here, when it means the old desert story? By goin’ now mebbe you’ll get home. If you wait on a chance of takin’ me, you’ll be too late. Pretty soon th
is lava’ll be one roastin’ hell. Shore now, boys, you’ll see this the right way? Jim, old pard?”
“No, Laddy, an’ I can’t figger how you could ever ask me.”
“Shore then leave me here with Yaqui an’ a couple of the hosses. We can eat sheep meat. An’ if the water holds out—”
“No!” interrupted Lash, violently.
Ladd’s eyes sought Gale’s face.
“Son, you ain’t bullheaded like Jim. You’ll see the sense of it. There’s Nell a-waitin’ back at Forlorn River. Think what it means to her! She’s a damn fine girl, Dick, an’ what right have you to break her heart for an old worn-out cow-puncher? Think how she’s watchin’ for you with that sweet face all sad an’ troubled, an’ her eyes turnin’ black. You’ll go son, won’t you?”
Dick shook his head.
The ranger turned his gaze upon Thorne, and now the keen, glistening light in his gray eyes had blurred.
“Thorne, it’s different with you. Jim’s a fool, an’ young Gale has been punctured by cholla thorns. He’s got the desert poison in his blood. But you now—you’ve no call to stick—you can find that trail out. It’s easy to follow, made by so many shod hosses. Take your wife an’ go.… Shore you’ll go, Thorne?”
Deliberately and without an instant’s hesitation the cavalryman replied, “No.”
Ladd then directed his appeal to Mercedes. His face was now convulsed, and his voice, though it had sunk to a whisper, was clear, and beautiful with some rich quality that Gale had never before heard in it.
“Mercedes, you’re a woman. You’re the woman we fought for. An’ some of us are shore goin’ to die for you. Don’t make it all for nothin’. Let us feel we saved the woman. Shore you can make Thorne go. He’ll have to go if you say. They’ll all have to go. Think of the years of love an’ happiness in store for you. A week or so an’ it’ll be too late. Can you stand for me seein’ you?… Let me tell you, Mercedes, when the summer heat hits the lava we’ll all wither an’ curl up like shavin’s near a fire. A wind of hell will blow up this slope. Look at them mesquites. See the twist in them. That’s the torture of heat an’ thirst. Do you want me or all us men seein’ you like that?… Mercedes, don’t make it all for nothin’. Say you’ll persuade Thorne, if not the others.”
