by Zane Grey
Slone led his horse and walked on, more and more disturbed in mind. When he came to a larger, bare, flat cañon bottom, where the rock had been washed clear of sand, he found no more cedar berries. They had been picked up. At the other extreme edge of this stony ground he found crumpled bits of cedar and cedar berries scattered in one spot, as if thrown there by someone who read their meaning.
This discovery unnerved Slone. It meant so much. And if Slone had any hope or reason to doubt that these strangers had taken up the trail for good, the next few miles dispelled it. They were trailing Creech.
Suddenly Slone gave a wild start, which made Wildfire plunge.
“Cordts!” whispered Slone, and the cold sweat oozed out of every pore.
These cañons were the hiding-places of the horse-thief. He and two of his men had chanced upon Creech’s trail; and perhaps their guess at its meaning was like Slone’s. If they had not guessed they would soon learn. It magnified Slone’s task a thousandfold.He had a moment of bitter, almost hopeless realization before a more desperate spirit awoke in him. He had only more men to kill—that was all. These upland riders did not pack rifles, of that Slone was sure. And the sooner he came up with Cordts the better. It was then he let Wildfire choose his gait and the trail. Sunset, twilight, dusk, and darkness came with Slone keeping on and on. As long as there were no intersecting cañons or clefts or slopes by which Creech might have swerved from his course, just so long Slone would travel. And it was late in the night when he had to halt.
Early next day the trail led up out of the red and broken gulches to the cedared uplands. Slone saw a black-rimmed, looming plateau in the distance. All these winding cañons, and the necks of the high ridges between, must run up to that great table-land.
That day he lost two of the horse tracks. He did not mark the change for a long time after there had been a split in the party that had been trailing Creech. Then it was too late for him to go back to investigate, even if that had been wise. He kept on, pondering, trying to decide whether or not he had been discovered and was now in danger of ambush ahead and pursuit from behind. He thought that possibly Cordts had split his party, one to trail along after Creech, the others to work around to head him off. Undoubtedly Cordts knew this broken cañon country and could tell where Creech was going, and knew how to intercept him.
The uncertainty wore heavily upon Slone. He grew desperate. He had no time to steal along cautiously. He must be the first to get to Creech. So he held to the trail and went as rapidly as the nature of the ground would permit, expecting to be shot at from any clump of cedars. The trail led down again into a narrow cañon with low walls. Slone put all his keenness on what lay before him.
Wildfire’s sudden break and upflinging of head and his snort preceded the crack of a rifle. Slone knew he had been shot at, although he neither felt nor heard the bullet. He had no chance to see where the shot came from, for Wildfire bolted, and needed as much holding and guiding as Slone could give. He ran a mile. Then Slone was able to look about him. Had he been shot at from above or behind? He could not tell. It did not matter, so long as the danger was not in front. He kept a sharp lookout, and presently along the right cañon rim, five hundred feet above him, he saw a bay horse, and a rider with a rifle. He had been wrong, then, about these riders and their weapons. Slone did not see any wisdom in halting to shoot up at this pursuer, and he spurred Wildfire just as a sharp crack sounded above. The bullet thudded into the earth a few feet behind him. And then over bad ground, with the stallion almost unmanageable, Slone ran a gantlet of shots. Evidently the man on the rim had smooth ground to ride over, for he easily kept abreast of Slone. But he could not get the range. Fortunately for Slone, broken ramparts above checked the tricks of that pursuer, and Slone saw no more of him.
It afforded him great relief to find that Creech’s trail turned into a cañon on the left; and here, with the sun already low, Slone began to watch the clumps of cedar and the jumbles of rock. But he was not ambushed. Darkness set in, and, being tired out, he was about to halt for the night when he caught the flicker of a camp-fire. The stallion saw it, too, but did not snort. Slone dismounted and, leading him, went cautiously forward on foot, rifle in hand.
The cañon widened at a point where two breaks occurred, and the less-restricted space was thick with cedar and piñon. Slone could tell by the presence of these trees and also by a keener atmosphere that he was slowly getting to a higher altitude. This camp-fire must belong to Cordts or the one man who had gone on ahead. And Slone advanced boldly. He did not have to make up his mind what to do.
But he was amazed to see several dark forms moving to and fro before the bright camp-fire, and he checked himself abruptly. Considering a moment, Slone thought he had better have a look at these fellows. So he tied Wildfire and, taking to the darker side of the cañon, he stole cautiously forward.
The distance was considerable, as he had calculated. Soon, however, he made out the shadowy outlines of horses feeding in the open. He hugged the cañon wall for fear they might see him. As luck would have it the night breeze was in his favor. Stealthily he stole on, in the deep shadow of the wall, and under the cedars, until he came to a point opposite the camp-fire, and then he turned toward it. He went slowly, carefully, noiselessly, and at last he crawled through the narrow aisles between thick sage-brush. Another clump of cedars loomed up, and he saw the flickering of firelight upon the pale green foliage.
He heard gruff voices before he raised himself to look, and by this he gauged his distance. He was close enough—almost too close. But as he crouched in dark shade and there were no horses near, he did not fear discovery.
When he peered out from his covert the first thing to strike and hold his rapid glance was the slight figure of a girl. Slone stifled a gasp in his throat. He thought he recognized Lucy. Stunned, he crouched down again with his hands clenched round his rifle. And there he remained for a long moment of agony before reason asserted itself over emotion. Had he really seen Lucy? He had heard of a girl now and then in the camps of these men, especially Cordts. Maybe Creech had fallen in with comrades. No, he could not have had any comrades there but horse-thieves, and Creech was above that. If Creech was there he had been held up by Cordts; if Lucy only was with the gang, Creech had been killed.
Slone had to force himself to look again. The girl had changed her position. But the light shone upon the men. Creech was not one of the three, nor Cordts, nor any man Slone had seen before. They were not honest men, judging from their hard, evil looks. Slone was nonplussed and he was losing self-control. Again he lowered himself and waited. He caught the word “Durango” and “hosses” and “fer enough in,” the meaning of which was vague. Then the girl laughed. And Slone found himself trembling with joy. Beyond any doubt that laugh could not have been Lucy’s.
Slone stole back as he had come, reached the shadow of the wall, and drew away until he felt it safe to walk quickly. When he reached the place where he expected to find Wildfire he did not see him. Slone looked and looked. Perhaps he had misjudged distance and place in the gloom. Still, he never made mistakes of that nature. He searched around till he found the cedar stump to which he had tied the lasso. In the gloom, he could not see it, and when he reached out he did not feel it. Wildfire was gone! Slone sank down, overcome. He cursed what must have been carelessness, though he knew he never was careless with a horse. What had happened? He did not know. But Wildfire was gone—and that meant Lucy’s doom and his! Slone shook with cold.
Then, as he leaned against the stump, wet and shaking, a familiar sound met his ears. It was made by the teeth of a grazing horse—a slight, keen, tearing cut. Wildfire was close at hand! With a sweep Slone circled the stump and he found the knot of the lasso. He had missed it. He began to gather in the long rope, and soon felt the horse. In the black gloom against the wall Slone could not distinguish Wildfire.
“Whew!” he muttered, wiping the sweat off his face. “Good Lord!… All for nothin’.”
&n
bsp; It did not take Slone long to decide to lead the horse and work up the cañon past the campers. He must get ahead of them, and once there he had no fear of them, either by night or day. He really had no hopes of getting by undiscovered, and all he wished for was to get far enough so that he could not be intercepted. The grazing horses would scent Wildfire or he would scent them.
For a wonder Wildfire allowed himself to be led as well as if he had been old, faithful Nagger. Slone could not keep close in to the wall for very long, on account of the cedars, but he managed to stay in the outer edge of shadow cast by the wall. Wildfire winded the horses, halted, threw up his head. But for some reason beyond Slone the horse did not snort or whistle. As he knew Wildfire he could have believed him intelligent enough and hateful enough to betray his master.
It was one of the other horses that whistled an alarm. This came at a point almost even with the camp-fire. Slone, holding Wildfire down, had no time to get into a stirrup, but leaped to the saddle and let the horse go. There were hoarse yells and then streaks of fire and shots. Slone heard the whizz of heavy bullets, and he feared for Wildfire. But the horse drew swiftly away into the darkness. Slone could not see whether the ground was smooth or broken, and he left that to Wildfire. Luck favored them, and presently Slone pulled him in to a safe gait, and regretted only that he had not had a chance to take a shot at that camp.
Slone walked the horse for an hour, and then decided that he could well risk a halt for the night.
Before dawn he was up, warming his chilled body by violent movements, and forcing himself to eat.
The rim of the west wall changed from gray to pink. A mocking-bird burst into song. A coyote sneaked away from the light of day. Out in the open Slone found the trail made by Creech’s mustangs and by the horse of Cordts’s man. The latter could not be very far ahead. In less than an hour Slone came to a clump of cedars where this man had camped. An hour behind him!
This cañon was open, with a level and narrow floor divided by a deep wash. Slone put Wildfire to a gallop. The narrow wash was no obstacle to Wildfire; he did not have to be urged or checked. It was not long before Slone saw a horseman a quarter of a mile ahead, and he was discovered almost at the same time. This fellow showed both surprise and fear. He ran his horse. But in comparison with Wildfire that horse seemed sluggish. Slone would have caught up with him very soon but for a change in the lay of the land. The cañon split up and all of its gorges and ravines and washes headed upon the pine-fringed plateau, now only a few miles distant. The gait of the horses had to be reduced to a trot, and then a walk. The man Slone was after left Creech’s trail and took to a side cleft. Slone, convinced he would soon overhaul him, and then return to take up Creech’s trail, kept on in pursuit. Then Slone was compelled to climb. Wildfire was so superior to the other’s horse, and Slone was so keen at choosing ground and short cuts, that he would have been right upon him but for a split in the rock which suddenly yawned across his path. It was impassable. After a quick glance Slone abandoned the direct pursuit, and, turning along this gulch, he gained a point where the horse-thief would pass under the base of the rim-wall, and here Slone would have him within easy rifle-shot.
And the man, intent on getting out of the canon, rode into the trap, approaching to within a hundred yards of Slone, who suddenly showed himself on foot, rifle in hand. The deep gulch was a barrier to Slone’s further progress, but his rifle dominated the situation.
“Hold on!” he called, warningly.
“Hold on yerself!” yelled the other, aghast, as he halted his horse. He gazed down and evidently was quick to take in the facts.
Slone had meant to kill this man without even a word, yet now when the moment had come a feeling almost of sickness clouded his resolve. But he leveled the rifle.
“I got it on you,” he called.
“Reckon you hev. But see hyar—”
“I can hit you anywhere.”
“Wal, I’ll take yer word fer thet.”
“All right. Now talk fast.… Are you one of Cordts’s gang?”
“Sure.”
“Why are you alone?”
“We split down hyar.”
“Did you know I was on this trail?”
“Nope. I didn’t sure, or you’d never ketched me, red hoss or no.”
“Who were you trailin’?”
“Ole Creech an’ the girl he kidnapped.”
Slone felt the leap of his blood and the jerk it gave the rifle as his tense finger trembled on the trigger.
“Girl.… What girl?” he called, hoarsely.
“Bostil’s girl.”
“Why did Cordts split on the trail?”
“He an’ Hutch went round fer some more of the gang, an’ to head off Joel Creech when he comes in with Bostil’s hosses.”
Slone was amazed to find how the horse-thieves had calculated; yet, on second thought, the situation, once the Creeches had been recognized, appeared simple enough.
“What was your game?” he demanded.
“I was follerin’ Creech jest to find out where he’d hole up with the girl.”
“What’s Cordts’s game—after he heads Joel Creech?”
“Then he’s goin’ fer the girl.”
Slone scarcely needed to be told all this, but the deliberate words from the lips of one of Cordts’s gang bore a raw, brutal proof of Lucy’s peril. And yet Slone could not bring himself to kill this man in cold blood. He tried, but in vain.
“Have you got a gun?” called Slone, hoarsely.
“Sure.”
“Ride back the other way!… If you don’t lose me I’ll kill you!”
The man stared. Slone saw the color return to his pale face. Then he turned his horse and rode back out of sight. Slone heard him rolling the stones down the long, rough slope; and when he felt sure the horse-thief had gotten a fair start he went back to mount Wildfire in pursuit.
* * *
This trailer of Lucy never got back to Lucy’s trail—never got away.
But Slone, when that day’s hard, deadly pursuit ended, found himself lost in the canons. How bitterly he cursed both his weakness in not shooting the man at sight, and his strength in following him with implacable purpose! For to be fair, to give the horse-thief a chance for his life, Slone had lost Lucy’s trail. The fact nearly distracted him. He spent a sleepless night of torture.
All next day, like a wild man, he rode and climbed and descended, spurred by one purpose, pursued by suspense and dread. That night he tied Wildfire near water and grass and fell into the sleep of exhaustion.
Morning came. But with it no hope. He had been desperate. And now he was in a frightful state. It seemed that days and days had passed, and nights that were hideous with futile nightmares.
He rode down into a cañon with sloping walls, and broken, like all of these cañons under the great plateau. Every cañon resembled another. The upland was one vast network. The world seemed a labyrinth of cañons among which he was hopelessly lost. What would—what had become of Lucy? Every thought in his whirling brain led back to that—and it was terrible.
Then—he was gazing transfixed down upon the familiar tracks left by Creech’s mustangs. Days old, but still unfollowed!
CHAPTER XIX
That track led up the narrowing cañon to its head at the base of the plateau.
Slone, mindful of his horse, climbed on foot, halting at the zigzag turns to rest. A long, gradually ascending trail mounted the last slope, which when close at hand was not so precipitous as it appeared from below. Up there the wind, sucked out of the cañons, swooped and twisted hard.
At last Slone led Wildfire over the rim and halted for another breathing-spell. Before him was a beautiful, gently sloping stretch of waving grass leading up to the dark pine forest from which came a roar of wind. Beneath Slone the wild and whorled cañon breaks extended, wonderful in thousands of denuded surfaces, gold and red and yellow, with the smoky depths between.
Wildfire sniffed the wind and s
norted. Slone turned, instantly alert. The wild horse had given an alarm. Like a flash Slone leaped into the saddle. A faint cry, away from the wind, startled Slone. It was like a cry he had heard in dreams. How overstrained his perceptions! He was not really sure of anything, yet on the instant he was tense.
Straggling cedars on his left almost wholly obstructed Slone’s view. Wildfire’s ears and nose were pointed that way. Slone trotted him down toward the edge of this cedar clump so that he could see beyond. Before he reached it, however, he saw something blue, moving, waving, lifting.
“Smoke!” muttered Slone. And he thought more of the danger of fire on that windy height than he did of another peril to himself.
Wildfire was hard to hold as he rounded the edge of the cedars.
Slone saw a line of leaping flame, a line of sweeping smoke, the grass on fire … horses!—a man!
Wildfire whistled his ringing blast of hate and menace, his desert challenge to another stallion.
The man whirled to look.
Slone saw Joel Creech—and Sage King—and Lucy, half naked, bound on his back!
Joy, agony, terror in lightning-swift turns, paralyzed Slone. But Wildfire lunged out on the run.
Sage King reared in fright, came down to plunge away, and with a magnificent leap cleared the line of fire.
Slone, more from habit than thought, sat close in the saddle. A few of Wildfire’s lengthening strides quickened Slone’s blood. Then Creech moved, also awaking from a stupefying surprise, and he snatched up a gun and fired. Slone saw the spurts of red, the puffs of white. But he heard nothing. The torrent of his changed blood, burning and terrible, filled his ears with hate and death.
