Wildfire and the Heritage of the Desert

by Zane Grey

  “I’ll—be—quiet!” she faltered. She knew what her father had always feared had come to pass. And though she had been told to put no value on her life, in that event, she could not run. All in an instant—when life had been so sweet—she could not face pain or death.

  The man moved back a step. He was tall, gaunt, ragged. But not like Cordts! Never would she forget Cordts. She peered up at him. In the dim light of the few stars she recognized Joel Creech’s father.

  “Oh, thank God!” she whispered, in the shock of blessed relief. “I thought—you were—Cordts!”

  “Keep quiet!” he whispered back, sternly, and with rough hand he shook her.

  Lucy awoke to realities. Something evil menaced her, even though this man was not Cordts. Her mind could not grasp it. She was amazed—stunned. She struggled to speak, yet to keep within that warning command.

  “What—on earth—does this—mean?” she gasped, very low. She had no sense of fear of Creech. Once, when he and her father had been friends, she had been a favorite of Creech’s. When a little girl she had ridden his knee many times. Between Creech and Cordts there was immeasurable distance. Yet she had been violently seized and carried out into the sage and menaced.

  Creech leaned down. His gaunt face, lighted by terrible eyes, made her recoil. “Bostil ruined me—an’ killed my hosses,” he whispered, grimly. “An’ I’m takin’ you away. An’ I’ll hold you in ransom for the King—an’ Sarchedon—an’ all his racers!”

  “Oh!” cried Lucy, in startling surprise that yet held a pang. “Oh, Creech!… Then you mean me no harm!”

  The man straightened up and stood a moment, darkly silent, as if her query had presented a new aspect of the case. “Lucy Bostil, I’m a broken man an’ wild an’ full of hate. But God knows I never thought of thet—of harm to you.… No, child, I won’t harm you. But you must obey an’ go quietly, for there’s a devil in me.”

  “Where will you take me?” she asked.

  “Down in the cañons, where no one can track me,” he said. “It’ll be hard goin’ fer you, child, an’ hard fare.… But I’m strikin’ at Bostil’s heart as he has broken mine. I’ll send him word. An’ I’ll tell him if he won’t give his hosses thet I’ll sell you to Cordts.”

  “Oh, Creech—but you wouldn’t!” she whispered, and her hand went to his brawny arm.

  “Lucy, in thet case I’d make as poor a blackguard as anythin’ else I’ve been,” he said, forlornly. “But I’m figgerin’ Bostil will give up his hosses fer you.”

  “Creech, I’m afraid he won’t. You’d better give me up. Let me go back. I’ll never tell. I don’t blame you. I think you’re square. My dad is.… But, oh, don’t make me suffer! You used to—to care for me, when I was little.”

  “Thet ain’t no use,” he replied. “Don’t talk no more.… Git up hyar now an’ ride in front of me.”

  He led her to a lean mustang. Lucy swung into the saddle. She thought how singular a coincidence it was that she had worn a riding-habit. It was dark and thick, and comfortable for riding. Suppose she had worn the flimsy dress, in which she had met Slone every night save this one? Thought of Slone gave her a pang. He would wait and wait and wait. He would go back to his cabin, not knowing what had befallen her.

  Suddenly Lucy noticed another man, near at hand, holding two mustangs. He mounted, rode before her, and then she recognized Joel Creech. Assurance of this brought back something of the dread. But the father could control the son!

  “Ride on,” said Creech, hitting her horse from behind.

  And Lucy found herself riding single file, with two men and a pack-horse, out upon the windy, dark sage slope. They faced the direction of the monuments, looming now and then so weirdly black and grand against the broad flare of lightning-blazed sky.

  Ever since Lucy had reached her teens there had been predictions that she would be kidnapped, and now the thing had come to pass. She was in danger, she knew, but in infinitely less than had any other wild character of the uplands been her captor. She believed, if she went quietly and obediently with Creech, that she would be, at least, safe from harm. It was hard luck for Bostil, she thought, but no worse than he deserved. Retribution had overtaken him. How terribly hard he would take the loss of his horses! Lucy wondered if he really ever would part with the King, even to save her from privation and peril. Bostil was more likely to trail her with his riders and to kill the Creeches than to concede their demands. Perhaps, though, that threat to sell her to Cordts would frighten the hard old man.

  The horses trotted and swung up over the slope, turning gradually, evidently to make a wide detour round the Ford, until Lucy’s back was toward the monuments. Before her stretched the bleak, barren, dark desert, and through the opaque gloom she could see nothing. Lucy knew she was headed for the north, toward the wild cañons, unknown to the riders. Cordts and his gang hid in there. What might not happen if the Creeches fell in with Cordts? Lucy’s confidence sustained a check. Still, she remembered the Creeches were like Indians. And what would Slone do? He would ride out on her trail. Lucy shivered for the Creeches if Slone ever caught up with them, and remembering his wild-horse-hunter’s skill at tracking, and the fleet and tireless Wildfire, she grew convinced that Creech could not long hold her captive. For Slone would be wary. He would give no sign of his pursuit. He would steal upon the Creeches in the dark and—Lucy shivered again. What an awful fate had been that of Dick Sears!

  So as she rode on Lucy’s mind was full. She was used to riding, and in the motion of a horse there was something in harmony with her blood. Even now, with worry and dread and plotting strong upon her, habit had such power over her that riding made the hours fleet. She was surprised to be halted, to see dimly low, dark mounds of rock ahead.

  “Git off,” said Creech.

  “Where are we?” asked Lucy.

  “Reckon hyar’s the rocks. An’ you sleep some, fer you’ll need it.” He spread a blanket, laid her saddle at the head of it, and dropped another blanket. “What I want to know is—shall I tie you up or not?” asked Creech. “If I do you’ll git sore. An’ this’ll be the toughest trip you ever made.”

  “You mean will I try to get away from you—or not?” queried Lucy.

  “Jest thet.”

  Lucy pondered. She divined some fineness of feeling in this coarse man. He wanted to spare her not only pain, but the necessity of watchful eyes on her every moment. Lucy did not like to promise not to try to escape, if opportunity presented. Still, she reasoned, that once deep in the cañons, where she would be in another day, she would be worse off if she did get away. The memory of Cordts’s cavernous, hungry eyes upon her was not a small factor in Lucy’s decision.

  “Creech, if I give my word not to try to get away, would you believe me?” she asked.

  Creech was slow in replying. “Reckon I would,” he said, finally.

  “All right, I’ll give it.”

  “An’ thet’s sense. Now you lay down.”

  Lucy did as she was bidden and pulled the blanket over her. The place was gloomy and still. She heard the sound of mustangs’ teeth on grass, and the soft footfalls of the men. Presently these sounds ceased. A cold wind blew over her face and rustled in the sage near her. Gradually the chill passed away, and a stealing warmth took its place. Her eyes grew tired. What had happened to her? With eyes closed she thought it was all a dream. Then the feeling of the hard saddle as a pillow under her head told her she was indeed far from her comfortable little room. What would poor Aunt Jane do in the morning when she discovered who was missing? What would Holley do? When would Bostil return? It might be soon and it might be days. And Slone—Lucy felt sorriest for him. For he loved her best. She thrilled at thought of Slone on that grand horse—on her Wildfire. And with her mind running on and on, seemingly making sleep impossible, the thoughts at last became dreams.

  Lucy awakened at dawn. One hand ached with cold, for it had been outside the blanket. Her hard bed had cramped her muscles. She heard the c
rackling of fire and smelled cedar smoke. In the gray of morning she saw the Creeches round a camp-fire.

  Lucy got up then. Both men saw her, but made no comment. In that cold, gray dawn she felt her predicament more gravely. Her hair was damp. She had ridden nearly all night without a hat. She had absolutely nothing of her own except what was on her body. But Lucy thanked her lucky stars that she had worn the thick riding-suit and her boots, for otherwise, in a summer dress, her condition would soon have been miserable.

  “Come an’ eat,” said Creech. “You have sense—an’ eat if it sticks in your throat.”

  Bostil had always contended in his arguments with riders that a man should eat heartily on the start of a trip so that the finish might find him strong. And Lucy ate, though the coarse fare sickened her. Once she looked curiously at Joel Creech. She felt his eyes upon her, but instantly he averted them. He had grown more haggard and sullen than ever before.

  The Creeches did not loiter over the camp tasks. Lucy was left to herself. The place appeared to be a kind of depression from which the desert rolled away to a bulge against the rosy east, and the rocks behind rose broken and yellow, fringed with cedars.

  “Git the hosses in, if you want to,” Creech called to her, and then as Lucy started off to where the mustangs grazed she heard him curse his son. “Come back hyar! Leave the girl alone or I’ll rap you one!”

  Lucy drove three of the mustangs into camp, where Creech began to saddle them. The remaining one, the pack animal, Lucy found among the scrub cedars at the base of the low cliffs. When she drove him in Creech was talking hard to Joel, who had mounted.

  “When you come back, work up this cañon till you git up. It heads on the pine plateau. I can’t miss seein’ you, or anyone, long before you git up on top. An’ you needn’t come without Bostil’s hosses. You know what to tell Bostil if he threatens you, or refuses to send his hosses, or turns his riders on my trail. Thet’s all. Now git!”

  Joel Creech rode away toward the rise in the rolling, barren desert.

  “An’ now we’ll go on,” said Creech to Lucy.

  When he had gotten all in readiness he ordered Lucy to follow closely in his tracks. He entered a narrow cleft in the low cliffs which wound in and out, and was thick with sage and cedars. Lucy, riding close to the cedars, conceived the idea of plucking the little green berries and dropping them on parts of the trail where their tracks would not show. Warily she filled the pockets of her jacket.

  Creech led the way without looking back, and did not seem to care where the horses stepped. The time had not yet come, Lucy concluded, when he was ready to hide his trail. Presently the narrow cleft opened into a low-walled cañon, full of debris from the rotting cliffs, and this in turn opened into a main cañon with mounting yellow crags. It appeared to lead north. Far in the distance above rims and crags rose in a long, black line like a horizon of dark cloud.

  Creech crossed this wide cañon and entered one of the many breaks in the wall. This one was full of splintered rock and weathered shale—the hardest kind of travel for both man and beast. Lucy was nothing if not considerate of a horse, and here she began to help her animal in all the ways a good rider knows. Much as this taxed her attention, she remembered to drop some of the cedar berries upon hard ground or rocks. And she knew she was leaving a trail for Slone’s keen eyes.

  * * *

  That day was the swiftest and the most strenuous in all Lucy Bostil’s experience in the open. At sunset, when Creech halted in the niche in a gorge between lowering cliffs, Lucy fell off her horse and lay still and spent on the grass.

  Creech had a glance of sympathy and admiration for her, but he did not say anything about the long day’s ride. Lucy never in her life before appreciated rest nor the softness of grass nor the relief at the end of a ride. She lay still with a throbbing, burning ache in all her body. Creech, after he had turned the horses loose, brought her a drink of cold water from the brook she heard somewhere near by.

  “How—far—did—we—come?” she whispered.

  “By the way round I reckon nigh on to sixty miles,” he replied. “But we ain’t half thet far from where we camped last night.”

  Then he set to work at camp tasks. Lucy shook her head when he brought her food, but he insisted, and she had to force it down. Creech appeared rough but kind. After she had become used to the hard, gaunt, black face she saw sadness and thought on it. One thing Lucy had noticed was that Creech never failed to spare a horse, if it was possible. He would climb on foot over bad places.

  Night soon mantled the gorge in blackness thick as pitch. Lucy could not tell whether her eyes were open or shut, so far as what she saw was concerned. Her eyes seemed filled, however, with a thousand pictures of the wild and tortuous cañons and gorges through which she had ridden that day. The ache in her limbs and the fever in her blood would not let her sleep. It seemed that these were forever to be a part of her. For twelve hours she had ridden and walked with scarce a thought of the nature of the wild country, yet once she lay down to rest her mind was an endless hurrying procession of pictures—narrow red clefts choked with green growths—yettow gorges and weathered slides—dusty, treacherous divides connecting cañons—jumbles of ruined cliffs and piles of shale—miles and miles and endless winding miles of yellow, low, beetling walls. And through it all she had left a trail.

  Next day Creech climbed out of that low-walled cañon, and Lucy saw a wild, rocky country cut by gorges, green and bare, or yellow and cedared. The long, black-fringed line she had noticed the day before loomed closer, overhanging this crisscrossed region of cañons. Every half-hour Creech would lead them downward and presently climb out again. There were sand and hard ground and thick turf and acres and acres of bare rock where even a shod horse would not leave a track.

  But the going was not so hard—there was not so much travel on foot for Lucy—and she finished that day in better condition than the first one.

  Next day Creech proceeded with care and caution. Many times he left the direct route, bidding Lucy wait for him, and he would ride to the rims of cañons or the tops of ridges of cedar forests, and from these vantage-points he would survey the country. Lucy gathered after a while that he was apprehensive of what might be encountered, and particularly so of what might be feared in pursuit. Lucy thought this strange, because it was out of the question for anyone to be so soon on Creech’s trail.

  These peculiar actions of Creech were more noticeable on the third day, and Lucy grew apprehensive herself. She could not divine why. But when Creech halted on a high crest that gave a sweeping vision of the broken table-land they had traversed Lucy made out for herself faint moving specks miles behind.

  “I reckon you see thet,” said Creech.

  “Horses,” replied Lucy.

  He nodded his head gloomily, and seemed pondering a serious question.

  “Is someone trailing us?” asked Lucy, and she could not keep the tremor out of her voice.

  “Wal, I should smile! Fer two days—an’ it sure beats me. They’ve never had a sight of us. But they keep comin’.”

  “They! Who?” she asked, swiftly.

  “I hate to tell you, but I reckon I ought. Thet’s Cordts an’ two of his gang.”

  “Oh—don’t tell me so!” cried Lucy, suddenly terrified. Mention of Cordts had not always had power to frighten her, but this time she had a return of that shaking fear which had overcome her in the grove the night she was captured.

  “Cordts all right,” replied Creech. “I knowed thet before I seen him. Fer two mornin’s back I seen his hoss grazin’ in thet wide cañon. But I thought I’d slipped by. Someone seen us. Or they seen our trail. Anyway, he’s after us. What beats me is how he sticks to thet trail. Cordts never was no tracker. An’ since Dick Sears is dead there ain’t a tracker in Cordts’s outfit. An’ I always could hide my tracks.… Beats me!”

  “Creech, I’ve been leaving a trail,” confessed Lucy.

  “What!”

  Then she
told him how she had been dropping cedar berries and bits of cedar leaves along the bare and stony course they had traversed.

  “Wal, I’m—” Creech stifled an oath. Then he laughed, but gruffly. “You air a cute one. But I reckon you didn’t promise not to do thet.… An’ now if Cordts gits you there’ll be only yourself to blame.”

  “Oh!” cried Lucy, frantically looking back. The moving specks were plainly in sight. “How can he know he’s trailing me?”

  “Thet I can’t say. Mebbe he doesn’t know. His hosses air fresh, though, an’ if I can’t shake him he’ll find out soon enough who he’s trailin’.”

  “Go on! We must shake him. I’ll never do that again!… For God’s sake, Creech, don’t let him get me!”

  And Creech led down off the high open land into cañons again.

  The day ended, and the night seemed a black blank to Lucy. Another sunrise found Creech leading on, sparing neither Lucy nor the horses. He kept on a steady walk or trot, and he picked out ground less likely to leave any tracks. Like an old deer he doubled on his trail. He traveled down stream-beds where the water left no trail. That day the mustangs began to fail. The others were wearing out.

  The cañons ran like the ribs of a wash-board. And they grew deep and verdant, with looming, towered walls. That night Lucy felt lost in an abyss. The dreaming silence kept her awake many moments while sleep had already seized upon her eyelids. And then she dreamed of Cordts capturing her, of carrying her miles deeper into these wild and purple cliffs, of Slone in pursuit on the stallion Wildfire, and of a savage fight. And she awoke terrified and cold in the blackness of the night.

  On the next day Creech traveled west. This seemed to Lucy to be far to the left of the direction taken before. And Lucy, in spite of her utter weariness, and the necessity of caring for herself and her horse, could not but wonder at the wild and frowning cañon. It was only a tributary of the great cañon, she supposed, but it was different, strange, impressive, yet intimate, because all about it was overpowering, near at hand, even the beetling crags. And at every turn it seemed impossible to go farther over that narrow and rock-bestrewn floor. Yet Creech found a way on.