Wildfire and the Heritage of the Desert

by Zane Grey

  One morning Slone had a visitor—old Brackton. Slone’s cordiality died on his lips before it was half uttered. Brackton’s former friendliness was not in evidence; indeed, he looked at Slone with curiosity and disfavor.

  “Howdy, Slone! I jest wanted to see what you was doin’ up hyar,” he said.

  Slone spread his hands and explained in few words.

  “So you took over the place, hey? We all figgered thet. But Vorhees was mum. Fact is, he was sure mysterious.” Brackton sat down and eyed Slone with interest. “Folks are talkin’ a lot about you,” he said, bluntly.

  “Is that so?”

  “You ’pear to be a pretty mysterious kind of a feller, Slone. I kind of took a shine to you at first, an’ thet’s why I come up hyar to tell you it’d be wise fer you to vamoose.”

  “What!” exclaimed Slone.

  Brackton repeated substantially what he had said, then, pausing an instant, continued: “I’ve no call to give you a hunch, but I’ll do it jest because I did like you fust off.”

  The old man seemed fussy and nervous and patronizing and disparaging all at once.

  “What’d you beat up thet poor Joel Creech fer?” demanded Brackton.

  “He got what he deserved,” replied Slone, and the memory, coming on the head of this strange attitude of Brackton’s, roused Slone’s temper.

  “Wal, Joel tells some queer things about you—fer instance, how you took advantage of little Lucy Bostil, grabbin’ her an’ maulin’ her the way Joel seen you.”

  “Damn the loon!” muttered Slone, rising to pace the path.

  “Wal, Joel’s a bit off, but he’s not loony all the time. He’s seen you an’ he’s tellin’ it. When Bostil hears it you’d better be acrost the cañon!”

  Slone felt the hot, sick rush of blood to his face, and humiliation and rage overtook him.

  “Joel’s down at my house. He had fits after you beat him, an’ he ’ain’t got over them yet. But he could blab to the riders. Van Sickle’s lookin’ fer you. An’ to-day when I was alone with Joel he told me some more queer things about you. I shut him up quick. But I ain’t guaranteein’ I can keep him shut up.”

  “I’ll bet you l shut him up,” declared Slone. “What more did the fool say?”

  “Slone, hev you been round these hyar parts—down among the monuments—fer any considerable time?” queried Brackton.

  “Yes, I have—several weeks out there, an’ about ten days or so around the Ford.”

  “Where was you the night of the flood?”

  The shrewd scrutiny of the old man, the suspicion, angered Slone.

  “If it’s any of your mix, I was out on the slope among the rocks. I heard that flood comin’ down long before it got here,” replied Slone, deliberately.

  Brackton averted his gaze, and abruptly rose as if the occasion was ended. “Wal, take my hunch an’ leave!” he said, turning away.

  “Brackton, if you mean well, I’m much obliged,” returned Slone, slowly, ponderingly. “But I’ll not take the hunch.”

  “Suit yourself,” added Brackton, coldly, and he went away.

  Slone watched him go down the path and disappear in the lane of cottonwoods.

  “I’ll be darned!” muttered Slone. “Funny old man. Maybe Creech’s not the only loony one hereabouts.”

  Slone tried to laugh off the effect of the interview, but it persisted and worried him all day. After supper he decided to walk down into the village, and would have done so but for the fact that he saw a man climbing his path. When he recognized the rider Holley he sensed trouble, and straightway he became gloomy. Bostil’s right-hand man could not call on him for any friendly reason. Holley came up slowly, awkwardly, after the manner of a rider unused to walking. Slone had built a little porch on the front of his cabin and a bench, which he had covered with goatskins. It struck him a little strangely that he should bend over to rearrange these skins just as Holley approached the porch.

  “Howdy, son!” was the rider’s drawled remark. “Sure makes—me—puff to climb—up this mountain.”

  Slone turned instantly, surprised at the friendly tone, doubting his own ears, and wanting to verify them. He was the more surprised to see Holley unmistakably amiable.

  “Hello, Holley! How are you?” he replied. “Have a seat.”

  “Wal, I’m right spry fer an old bird. But I can’t climb wuth a damn.… Say, this here beats Bostil’s view.”

  “Yes, it’s fine,” replied Slone, rather awkwardly, as he sat down on the porch step. What could Holley want with him? This old rider was above curiosity or gossip.

  “Slone, you ain’t holdin’ it ag’in me—thet I tried to shut you up the other day?” he drawled, with dry frankness.

  “Why, no, Holley, I’m not. I saw your point. You were right. But Bostil made me mad.”

  “Sure! He’d make anybody mad. I’ve seen riders bite themselves, they was so mad at Bostil. You called him, an’ you sure tickled all the boys. But you hurt yourself, fer Bostil owns an’ runs this here ford.”

  “So I’ve discovered,” replied Slone.

  “You got yourself in bad right off, fer Bostil has turned the riders ag’in you, an’ this here punchin’ of Creech has turned the village folks ag’in you. What’d you pitch into him fer?”

  Slone caught the kindly interest and intent of the rider, and it warmed him as Brackton’s disapproval had alienated him.

  “Wal, I reckon I’d better tell you,” drawled Holley, as Slone hesitated, “thet Lucy wants to know if you beat up Joel an’ why you did.”

  “Holley! Did she ask you to find out?”

  “She sure did. The girl’s worried these days, Slone.… You see, you haven’t been around, an’ you don’t know what’s comin’ off.”

  “Brackton was here to-day an’ he told me a good deal. I’m worried, too,” said Slone, dejectedly.

  “Thet hoss of yours, Wildfire, he’s enough to make you hated in Bostil’s camp, even if you hadn’t made a fool of yourself, which you sure have.”

  Slone dropped his head as admission.

  “What Creech swears he seen you do to Miss Lucy, out there among the rocks, where you was hid with Wildfire—is there any truth in thet?” asked Holley, earnestly. “Tell me, Slone. Folks believe it. An’ it’s hurt you at the Ford. Bostil hasn’t heard it yet, an’ Lucy she doesn’t know. But I’m figgerin’ thet you punched Joel because he throwed it in your face.”

  “He did, an’ I lambasted him,” replied Slone, with force.

  “You did right. But what I want to know, is it true what Joel seen?”

  “It’s true, Holley. But what I did isn’t so bad—so bad as he’d make it look.”

  “Wal, I knowed thet. I knowed fer a long time how Lucy cares fer you,” returned the old rider, kindly.

  Slone raised his head swiftly, incredulously. “Holley! You can’t be serious.”

  “Wal, I am. I’ve been sort of a big brother to Lucy Bostil for eighteen years. I carried her in these here hands when she weighed no more’n my spurs. I taught her how to ride—what she knows about hosses. An’ she knows more’n her dad. I taught her to shoot. I know her better’n anybody. An’ lately she’s been different. She’s worried an’ unhappy.”

  “But Holley, all that—it doesn’t seem—”

  “I reckon not,” went on Holley, as Slone halted. “I think she cares fer you. An’ I’m your friend, Slone. You’re goin’ to buck up ag’in some hell round here sooner or later. An’ you’ll need a friend.”

  “Thanks—Holley,” replied Slone, unsteadily. He thrilled under the iron grasp of the rider’s hard hand.

  “You’ve got another friend you can gamble on,” said Holley, significantly.

  “Another! Who?”

  “Lucy Bostil. An’ don’t you fergit thet. I’ll bet she’ll raise more trouble than Bostil when she hears what Joel Creech is tellin’. Fer she’s bound to hear it. Van Sickle swears he’s a-goin’ to tell her an’ then beat you up with a quirt.”


  “He is, is he?” snapped Slone, darkly.

  “I’ve a hunch Lucy’s guessed why you punched Joel. But she wants to know fer sure. Now, Slone, I’ll tell her why.”

  “Oh, don’t!” said Slone, involuntarily.

  “Wal, it’ll be better comin’ from you an’ me. Take my word fer thet. I’ll prepare Lucy. An’ she’s as good a scrapper as Bostil, any day.”

  “It all scares me,” replied Slone. He did feel panicky, and that was from thoughts of what shame might befall Lucy. The cold sweat oozed out of every pore. What might not Bostil do? “Holley, I love the girl. So I—I didn’t insult her. Bostil will never understand. An’ what’s he goin’ to do when he finds out?”

  “Wal, let’s hope you won’t git any wuss’n you give Joel.”

  “Let Bostil beat me!” ejaculated Slone. “I think I’m willin’—now—the way I feel. But I’ve a temper, and Bostil rubs me the wrong way.”

  “Wal, leave your gun home, an’ fight Bostil. You’re pretty husky. Sure he’ll lick you, but mebbe you could give the old cuss a black eye.” Holley laughed as if the idea gave him infinite pleasure.

  “Fight Bostil?… Lucy would hate me!” cried Slone.

  “Nix! You don’t know thet kid. If the old man goes after you Lucy’ll care more fer you. She’s just like him in some ways.” Holley pulled out a stubby black pipe and, filling and lighting it, he appeared to grow more thoughtful. “It wasn’t only Lucy thet sent me up here to see you. Bostil had been pesterin’ me fer days. But I kept fightin’ shy of it till Lucy got hold of me.”

  “Bostil sent you? Why?”

  “Reckon you can guess. He can’t sleep, thinkin’ about your red hoss. None of us ever seen Bostil have sich a bad case. He raised Sage King. But he’s always been crazy fer a great wild stallion. An’ here you come along—an’ your hoss jumps the King—an’ there’s trouble generally.”

  “Holley, do you think Wildfire can beat Sage King?” asked Slone, eagerly.

  “Reckon I do. Lucy says so, an’ I’ll back her any day. But, son, I ain’t paradin’ what I think. I’d git in bad myself. Farlane an’ the other boys, they’re with Bostil. Van he’s to blame fer thet. He’s takin’ a dislike to you, right off. An’ what he tells Bostil an’ the boys about thet race don’t agree with what Lucy tells me. Lucy says Wildfire ran fiery an’ cranky at the start. He wanted to run round an’ kill the King instead of racin’. So he was three lengths behind when Macomber dropped the flag. Lucy says the King got into his stride. She knows. An’ there Wildfire comes from behind an’ climbs all over the King!… Van tells a different story.”

  “It came off just as Lucy told you,” declared Slone. “I saw every move.”

  “Wal, thet’s neither here nor there. What you’re up ag’in is this. Bostil is sore since you called him. But he holds himself in because he hasn’t given up hope of gittin’ Wildfire. An’, Slone, you’re sure wise, ain’t you, thet if Bostil doesn’t buy him you can’t stay on here?”

  “I’m wise. But I won’t sell Wildfire,” replied Slone, doggedly.

  “Wal, I’d never wasted my breath tellin’ you all this if I hadn’t figgered about Lucy. You’ve got her to think of.”

  Slone turned on Holley passionately. “You keep hintin’ there’s a hope for me, when I know there’s none!”

  “You’re only a boy,” replied Holley. “Son, where there’s life there’s hope. I ain’t a-goin’ to tell you agin thet I know Lucy Bostil.”

  Slone could not stand nor walk nor keep still. He was shaking from head to foot.

  “Wildfire’s not mine to sell. He’s Lucy’s!” confessed Slone.

  “The devil you say!” ejaculated Holley, and he nearly dropped his pipe.

  “I gave Wildfire to her. She accepted him. It was done. Then—then I lost my head an’ made her mad.… An’—she said she’d ride him in the race, but wouldn’t keep him. But he is hers.”

  “Oho! I see. Slone, I was goin’ to advise you to sell Wildfire—all on account of Lucy. You’re young an’ you’d have a big start in life if you would. But Lucy’s your girl an’ you give her the hoss.… Thet settles thet!”

  “If I go away from here an’ leave Wildfire for Lucy—do you think she could keep him? Wouldn’t Bostil take him from her?”

  “Wal, son, if he tried thet on Lucy she’d jump Wildfire an’ hit your trail an’ hang on to it till she found you.”

  “What’ll you tell Bostil?” asked Slone, half beside himself.

  “I’m consarned if I know,” replied Holley. “Mebbe I’ll think of some idee. I’ll go back now. An’ say, son, I reckon you’d better hang close to home. If you meet Bostil down in the village you two’d clash sure. I’ll come up soon, but it’ll be after dark.”

  “Holley, all this is—is good of you,” said Slone. “I—I’ll—”

  “Shut up, son,” interrupted the rider, dryly. “Thet’s your only weakness, so far as I can see. You say too much.”

  Holley started down then, his long, clinking spurs digging into the steep path. He left Slone a prey to deep thoughts at once anxious and dreamy.

  Next day Slone worked hard all day, looking forward to nightfall, expecting that Holley would come up. He tried to resist the sweet and tantalizing anticipation of a message from Lucy, but in vain. The rider had immeasurably uplifted Slone’s hope that Lucy, at least, cared for him. Not for a moment all day could Slone drive away the hope. At twilight he was too eager to eat—too obsessed to see the magnificent sunset. But Holley did not come, and Slone went to bed late, half sick with disappointment.

  The next day was worse. Slone found work irksome, yet he held to it. On the third day he rested and dreamed, and grew doubtful again, and then moody. On the fourth day Slone found he needed supplies that he must obtain from the store. He did not forget Holley’s warning, but he disregarded it, thinking there would scarcely be a chance of meeting Bostil at midday.

  There were horses standing, bridles down, before Brackton’s place, and riders lounging at the rail and step. Some of these men had been pleasant to Slone on earlier occasions. This day they seemed not to see him. Slone was tingling all over when he went into the store. Some deviltry was afoot! He had an angry thought that these riders could not have minds of their own. Just inside the door Slone encountered Wetherby, the young rancher from Durango. Slone spoke, but Wetherby only replied with an insolent stare. Slone did not glance at the man to whom Wetherby was talking. Only a few people were inside the store, and Brackton was waiting upon them. Slone stood back a little in the shadow. Brackton had observed his entrance, but did not greet him. Then Slone absolutely knew that for him the good will of Bostil’s Ford was a thing of the past.

  Presently Brackton was at leisure, but he showed no disposition to attend to Slone’s wants. Then Slone walked up to the counter and asked for supplies.

  “Have you got the money?” asked Brackton, as if addressing one he would not trust.

  “Yes,” replied Slone, growing red under an insult that he knew Wetherby had heard.

  Brackton handed out the supplies and received the money, without a word. He held his head down. It was a singular action for a man used to dealing fairly with every one. Slone felt outraged. He hurried out of the place, with shame burning him, with his own eyes downcast, and in his hurry he bumped square into a burly form. Slone recoiled—looked up. Bostil! The old rider was eyeing him with cool speculation.

  “Wal, are you drunk?” he queried, without any particular expression.

  Yet the query was to Slone like a blow. It brought his head up with a jerk, his glance steady and keen on Bostil’s.

  “Bostil, you know I don’t drink,” he said.

  “A-huh! I know a lot about you, Slone.… I heard you bought Vorhees’s place, up on the bench.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he tell you it was mortgaged to me for more’n it’s worth?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “Did he make over any papers to you?”
<
br />   “No.”

  “Wal, if it interests you I’ll show you papers thet proves the property’s mine.”

  Slone suffered a pang. The little home had grown dearer and dearer to him.

  “All right, Bostil. If it’s yours—it’s yours,” he said, calmly enough.

  “I reckon I’d drove you out before this if I hadn’t felt we could make a deal.”

  “We can’t agree on any deal, Bostil,” replied Slone, steadily. It was not what Bostil said, but the way he said it, the subtle meaning and power behind it, that gave Slone a sense of menace and peril. These he had been used to for years; he could meet them. But he was handicapped here because it seemed that, though he could meet Bostil face to face, he could not fight him. For he was Lucy’s father. Slone’s position, the impotence of it, rendered him less able to control his temper.

  “Why can’t we?” demanded Bostil. “If you wasn’t so touchy we could. An’ let me say, young feller, thet there’s more reason now thet you do make a deal with me.”

  “Deal? What about?”

  “About your red hoss.”

  “Wildfire!… No deals, Bostil,” returned Slone, and made as if to pass him.

  The big hand that forced Slone back was far from gentle, and again he felt the quick rush of blood.

  “Mebbe I can tell you somethin’ thet’ll make you sell Wildfire,” said Bostil.

  “Not if you talked yourself dumb!” flashed Slone. There was no use to try to keep cool with this Bostil, if he talked horses. “I’ll race Wildfire against the King. But no more.”