by Zane Grey
“Hi thar, Red Wilson, you air some late gettin’ in,” greeted old Brackton.
Red Wilson had red eyes from fighting the flying sand; and red dust pasted in his scraggy beard, and as he gave his belt an upward hitch little red clouds flew from his gun-sheath.
“Yep. An’ I left a wheel an’ part of the load on the trail,” he said.
With him were Indians who began to unhitch the teams. Riders lounging in the shade greeted Wilson and inquired for news. The teamster replied that travel was dry, the water-holes were dry, and he was dry. And his reply gave both concern and amusement.
“One more trip out an’ back—thet’s all, till it rains,” concluded Wilson.
Brackton led him inside, evidently to alleviate part of that dryness.
Water and grass, next to horses, were the stock subject of all riders.
“It’s got oncommon hot early,” said one.
“Yes, an’ them northeast winds—hard this spring,” said another.
“No snow on the uplands.”
“Holley seen a dry spell comin’. Wal, we can drift along without freighters. There’s grass an’ water enough here, even if it doesn’t rain.”
“Sure, but there ain’t none across the river.”
“Never was, in early season. An’ if there was it’d be sheeped off.”
“Creech’ll be fetchin’ his hosses across soon, I reckon.”
“You bet he will. He’s trainin’ for the races next month.”
“An’ when air they comin’ off?”
“You got me. Mebbe Van knows.”
Someone prodded a sleepy rider who lay all his splendid, lithe length, hat over his eyes. Then he sat up and blinked, a lean-faced, gray-eyed fellow, half good-natured and half resentful.
“Did somebody punch me?”
“Naw, you got nightmare! Say, Van, when will the races come off?”
“Huh! An’ you woke me for thet?… Bostil says in a few weeks, soon as he hears from the Indians. Plans to have eight hundred Indians here, an’ the biggest purses an’ best races ever had at the Ford.”
“You’ll ride the King again?”
“Reckon so. But Bostil is kickin’ because I’m heavier than I was,” replied the rider.
“You’re skin an’ bones at thet.”
“Mebbe you’ll need to work a little off, Van. Some one said Creech’s Blue Roan was comin’ fast this year.”
“Bill, your mind ain’t operatin’,” replied Van, scornfully. “Didn’t I beat Creech’s hosses last year without the King turnin’ a hair?”
“Not if I recollect, you didn’t. The Blue Roan wasn’t runnin’.”
Then they argued, after the manner of friendly riders, but all earnest, all eloquent in their convictions. The prevailing opinion was that Creech’s horse had a chance, depending upon condition and luck.
The argument shifted upon the arrival of two newcomers, leading mustangs and apparently talking trade. It was manifest that these arrivals were not loath to get the opinions of others.
“Van, there’s a hoss!” exclaimed one.
“No, he ain’t,” replied Van.
And that diverse judgment appeared to be characteristic throughout. The strange thing was that Macomber, the rancher, had already traded his mustang and money to boot for the sorrel. The deal, whether wise or not, had been consummated. Brackton came out with Red Wilson, and they had to have their say.
“Wal, durned if some of you fellers ain’t kind an’ complimentary,” remarked Macomber, scratching his head. “But then every feller can’t have hoss sense.” Then, looking up to see Lucy Bostil coming along the road, he brightened as if with inspiration.
Lucy was at home among them, and the shy eyes of the younger riders, especially Van, were nothing if not revealing. She greeted them with a bright smile, and when she saw Brackton she burst out:
“Oh, Mr. Brackton, the wagon’s in, and did my box come?… To-day’s my birthday.”
“’Deed it did, Lucy; an’ many more happy ones to you!” he replied, delighted in her delight. “But it’s too heavy for you. I’ll send it up—or mebbe one of the boys—”
Five riders in unison eagerly offered their services and looked as if each had spoken first. Then Macomber addressed her:
“Miss Lucy, you see this here sorrel?”
“Ah! The same lazy crowd and the same old story—a horse trade!” laughed Lucy.
“There’s a little difference of opinion,” said Macomber, politely indicating the riders. “Now, Miss Lucy, we-all know you’re a judge of a hoss. And as good as thet you tell the truth. Thet ain’t in some hoss-traders I know.… What do you think of this mustang?”
Macomber had eyes of enthusiasm for his latest acquisition, but some of the cock-sureness had been knocked out of him by the blunt riders.
“Macomber, aren’t you a great one to talk?” queried Lucy, severely. “Didn’t you get around Dad and trade him an old, blind, knock-kneed bag of bones for a perfectly good pony—one I liked to ride?”
The riders shouted with laughter while the rancher struggled with confusion.
“’Pon my word, Miss Lucy, I’m surprised you could think thet of such an old friend of yours—an’ your Dad’s, too. I’m hopin’ he doesn’t side altogether with you.”
“Dad and I never agree about a horse. He thinks he got the best of you. But you know, Macomber, what a horse-thief you are. Worse than Cordts!”
“Wal, if I get the best of Bostil I’m willin’ to be thought bad. I’m the first feller to take him in.… An’ now, Miss Lucy, look over my sorrel.”
Lucy Bostil did indeed have an eye for a horse. She walked straight up to the wild, shaggy mustang with a confidence born of intuition and experience, and reached a hand for his head, not slowly, nor yet swiftly. The mustang looked as if he was about to jump, but he did not. His eyes showed that he was not used to women.
“He’s not well broken,” said Lucy. “Some Navajo has beaten his head in breaking him.”
Then she carefully studied the mustang point by point.
“He’s deceiving at first because he’s good to look at,” said Lucy. “But I wouldn’t own him. A saddle will turn on him. He’s not vicious, but he’ll never get over his scare. He’s narrow between the eyes—a bad sign. His ears are stiff—and too close. I don’t see anything more wrong with him.”
“You seen enough,” declared Macomber. “An’ so you wouldn’t own him?”
“You couldn’t make me a present of him—even on my birthday.”
“Wal, now I’m sorry, for I was thinkin’ of thet,” replied Macomber, ruefully. It was plain that the sorrel had fallen irremediably in his estimation.
“Macomber, I often tell Dad all you horse-traders get your deserts now and then. It’s vanity and desire to beat the other man that’s your downfall.”
Lucy went away, with Van shouldering her box, leaving Macomber trying to return the banter of the riders. The good-natured raillery was interrupted by a sharp word from one of them.
“Look! Darn me if thet ain’t a naked Indian comin’!”
The riders whirled to see an apparently nude savage approaching, almost on a run.
“Take a shot at thet, Bill,” said another rider. “Miss Lucy might see— No, she’s out of sight. But, mebbe some other woman is around.”
“Hold on, Bill,” called Macomber. “You never saw an Indian run like thet.”
Some of the riders swore, others laughed, and all suddenly became keen with interest.
“Sure his face is white, if his body’s red!”
The strange figure neared them. It was indeed red up to the face, which seemed white in contrast. Yet only in general shape and action did it resemble a man.
“Damned if it ain’t Joel Creech!” sang out Bill Stark.
The other riders accorded their wondering assent.
“Gone crazy, sure!”
“I always seen it comin’.”
“Say, but ain’t he wild? Foamin
’ at the mouth like a winded hoss!”
Young Creech was headed down the road toward the ford across which he had to go to reach home. He saw the curious group, slowed his pace, and halted. His face seemed convulsed with rage and pain and fatigue. His body, even to his hands, was incased in a thick, heavy coating of red adobe that had caked hard.
“God’s sake—fellers—” he panted, with eyes rolling, “take this—’dobe mud off me!… I’m dyin’!”
Then he staggered into Brackton’s place. A howl went up from the riders and they surged after him.
* * *
That evening after supper Bostil stamped in the big room, roaring with laughter, red in the face; and he astonished Lucy and her aunt to the point of consternation.
“Now—you’ve—done—it—Lucy Bostil!” he roared.
“Oh dear! Oh dear!” exclaimed Aunt Jane.
“Done what?” asked Lucy, blankly.
Bostil conquered his paroxysm, and, wiping his moist red face, he eyed Lucy in mock solemnity.
“Joel!” whispered Lucy, who had a guilty conscience.
“Lucy, I never heard the beat of it.… Joel’s smarter in some ways than we thought, an’ crazier in others. He had the sun figgered, but what’d he want to run through town for? Why, never in my life have I seen such tickled riders.”
“Dad!” almost screamed Lucy. “What did Joel do?”
“Wal, I see it this way. He couldn’t or wouldn’t wait for sundown. An’ he wasn’t hankerin’ to be burned. So he wallows in a ’dobe mud-hole an’ covers himself thick with mud. You know that ’dobe mud! Then he starts home. But he hadn’t figgered on the ’dobe gettin’ hard, which it did—harder’n rock. An’ thet must have hurt more’n sunburn. Late this afternoon he came runnin’ down the road, yellin’ thet he was dyin’. The boys had conniption fits. Joel ain’t over-liked, you know, an’ here they had one on him. Mebbe they didn’t try hard to clean him off. But the fact is not for hours did they get thet ’dobe off him. They washed an’ scrubbed an’ curried him, while he yelled an’ cussed. Finally they peeled it off, with his skin I guess. He was raw, an’, they say, the maddest feller ever seen in Bostil’s Ford!”
Lucy was struggling between fear and mirth. She did not look sorry. “Oh! Oh! Oh, Dad!”
“Wasn’t it great, Lucy?”
“But what—will he—do?” choked Lucy.
“Lord only knows. Thet worries me some. Because he never said a word about how he come to lose his clothes or why he had the ’dobe on him. An’ sure I never told. Nobody knows but us.”
“Dad, he’ll do something terrible to me!” cried Lucy, aghast at her premonition.
CHAPTER III
The days did not pass swiftly at Bostil’s Ford. And except in winter, and during the spring sand-storms, the lagging times passed pleasantly. Lucy rode every day, sometimes with Van, and sometimes alone. She was not over-keen about riding with Van—first, because he was in love with her; and secondly, in spite of that, she could not beat him when he rode the King. They were training Bostil’s horses for the much-anticipated races.
At last word arrived from the Utes and Navajos that they accepted Bostil’s invitation and would come in force, which meant, according to Holley and other old riders, that the Indians would attend about eight hundred strong.
“Thet old chief, Hawk, is comin’,” Holley informed Bostil. “He hasn’t been here for several years. Recollect thet bunch of colts he had? They’re hosses, not mustangs.… So you look out, Bostil!”
No rider or rancher or sheepman, in fact, no one, ever lost a chance to warn Bostil. Some of it was in fun, but most of it was earnest. The nature of events was that sooner or later a horse would beat the King. Bostil knew that as well as anybody, though he would not admit it. Holley’s hint made Bostil look worried. Most of Bostil’s gray hairs might have been traced to his years of worry about horses.
The day he received word from the Indians he sent for Brackton, Williams, Muncie, and Creech to come to his house that night. These men, with Bostil, had for years formed in a way a club, which gave the Ford distinction. Creech was no longer a friend of Bostil’s, but Bostil had always been fair-minded, and now he did not allow his animosities to influence him. Holley, the veteran rider, made the sixth member of the club.
Bostil had a cedar log blazing cheerily in the wide fireplace, for these early spring nights in the desert were cold.
Brackton was the last guest to arrive. He shuffled in without answering the laconic greetings accorded him, and his usually mild eyes seemed keen and hard.
“John, I reckon you won’t love me fer this here I’ve got to tell you, to-night specially,” he said seriously.
“You old robber, I couldn’t love you anyhow,” retorted Bostil. But his humor did not harmonize with the sudden gravity of his look. “What’s up?”
“Who do you suppose I jest sold whisky to?”
“I’ve no idea,” replied Bostil. Yet he looked as if he was perfectly sure.
“Cordts!… Cordts, an’ four of his outfit. Two of them I didn’t know. Bad men, judgin’ from appearances, let alone company. The others was Hutchinson an’—Dick Sears.”
“Dick Sears!” exclaimed Bostil.
Muncie and Williams echoed Bostil. Holley appeared suddenly interested. Creech alone showed no surprise.
“But Sears is dead,” added Bostil.
“He was dead—we thought,” replied Brackton, with a grim laugh. “But he’s alive again. He told me he’d been in Idaho fer two years, in the gold-fields. Said the work was too hard, so he’d come back here. Laughed when he said it, the little devil! I’ll bet he was thinkin’ of thet wagon-train of mine he stole.”
Bostil gazed at his chief rider.
“Wal, I reckon we didn’t kill Sears, after all,” replied Holley. “I wasn’t never sure.”
“Lord! Cordts an’ Sears in camp!” ejaculated Bostil, and he began to pace the room.
“No, they’re gone now,” said Brackton.
“Take it easy, boss. Sit down,” drawled Holley. “The King is safe, an’ all the racers. I swear to thet. Why, Cordts couldn’t chop into thet log-an’-wire corral if he an’ his gang chopped all night! They hate work. Besides, Farlane is there, an’ the boys.”
This reassured Bostil, and he resumed his chair. But his hand shook a little.
“Did Cordts have anythin’ to say?” he asked.
“Sure. He was friendly an’ talkative,” replied Brackton. “He came in just after dark. Left a man I didn’t see out with the hosses. He bought two big packs of supplies, an’ some leather stuff, an’, of course, ammunition. Then some whisky. Had plenty of gold an’ wouldn’t take no change. Then while his men, except Sears, was carryin’ out the stuff, he talked.”
“Go on. Tell me,” said Bostil.
“Wal, he’d been out north of Durango an’ fetched news. There’s wild talk back there of a railroad goin’ to be built someday, joinin’ east an’ west. It’s interestin’ but no sense to it. How could they build a railroad through thet country?”
“North it ain’t so cut up an’ lumpy as here,” put in Holley.
“Grandest idea ever thought of for the West,” avowed Bostil. “If thet railroad ever starts we’ll all get rich.… Go on, Brack.”
“Then Cordts said water an’ grass was peterin’ out back on the trail, same as Red Wilson said last week. Finally he asked, ‘How’s my friend Bostil?’ I told him you was well. He looked kind of thoughtful then, an’ I knew what was comin’.… ‘How’s the King?’ ‘Grand,’ I told him—‘grand.’ ‘When is them races comin’ off?’ I said we hadn’t planned the time yet, but it would be soon—inside a month or two. ‘Brackton,’ he said, sharp-like, ‘is Bostil goin’ to pull a gun on me at sight?’ ‘Reckon he is,’ I told him. ‘Wal, I’m not powerful glad to know thet.… I hear Creech’s blue hoss will race the King this time. How about it?’ ‘Sure an’ certain this year. I’ve Creech’s an’ Bostil’s word for thet.’ Cordts put h
is hand on my shoulder. You ought’ve seen his eyes!… ‘I want to see thet race.… I’m goin’ to.’ ‘Wal,’ I said, ‘you’ll have to stop bein’—You’ll need to change your bizness.’ Then, Bostil, what do you think? Cordts was sort of eager an’ wild. He said thet was a race he jest couldn’t miss. He swore he wouldn’t turn a trick or let a man of his gang stir a hand till after thet race, if you’d let him come.”
A light flitted across Bostil’s face.
“I know how Cordts feels,” he said.
“Wal, it’s a queer deal,” went on Brackton. “Fer a long time you’ve meant to draw on Cordts when you meet. We all know thet.”
“Yes, I’ll kill him!” The light left Bostil’s face. His voice sounded differently. His mouth opened, dropped strangely at the corners, then shut in a grim, tense line. Bostil had killed more than one man. The memory, no doubt, was haunting and ghastly.
“Cordts seemed to think his word was guarantee of his good faith. He said he’d send an Indian in here to find out if he can come to the races. I reckon, Bostil, thet it wouldn’t hurt none to let him come. An’ hold your gun hand fer the time he swears he’ll be honest. Queer deal, ain’t it, men? A hoss-thief turnin’ honest jest to see a race! Beats me! Bostil, it’s a cheap way to get at least a little honesty from Cordts. An’ refusin’ might rile him bad. When all’s said Cordts ain’t as bad as he could be.”
“I’ll let him come,” replied Bostil, breathing deep. “But it’ll be hard to see him, rememberin’ how he’s robbed me, an’ what he’s threatened. An’ I ain’t lettin’ him come to bribe a few weeks’ decency from him. I’m doin’ it for only one reason.… Because I know he loves the King—how he wants to see the King run away from the field thet day! Thet’s why!”
There was a moment of silence, during which all turned to Creech. He was a stalwart man, no longer young, with a lined face, deep-set, troubled eyes, and white, thin beard.
