by Zane Grey
“No. You’re different from other white men out here,” she replied in a tone that did not indicate that she respected him for it.
“If I made love to you I’d ask you to marry me,” continued Chane, at a loss what to say to this misguided child.
Her reception of this was a shy surprise, a hint of coquetry and response singularly appealing. It made Chane pity her. At the same time he divined that other white men, in their attention to her, had never touched the chord of fineness and sweetness that lay deep in her. Suddenly he realized the fatality of her position, and it distressed him. He did not love her, but almost he wished he did. In his anxious perturbation he launched into an emphatic declaration against Manerube. Sosie listened intently. It was evidently an exciting hour for her.
“But Manerube says he will take me away,” she replied when Chane had concluded his tirade.
Chane was shocked. “Surely he will. But you mustn’t let him.”
“I’ll run off with him,” the girl replied, with something inevitable about her.
“No, you won’t, Sosie,” declared Chane. “I’ll stop you. I told Manerube he’d better not let me see him with you again.”
“What would you do, Mister Chane?” she asked, a curious dark flash in her eyes.
“Well … that depends on what he did,” rejoined Chane, somewhat taken aback. “I’d beat him good and hard, at least.”
“I thought you said you weren’t in love with me!” Sosie cried in a sort of wild gladness.
Chane threw up his hands. It was impossible to hear her talk and remember she was Indian, yet the content of what she said forcibly struck home the proof that she was not white. Chane had a momentary desire to tell her he did care for her and thus save her from Manerube, but he reconsidered the hasty thought because, once acted upon, that would involve a greater sacrifice than he could offer.
“Sosie, can’t you understand?” asked Chane, striving for patience. “I don’t love you as a man of my kind must love a girl to want her … to marry her, you know. But I like you. I’m sorry for you. I think you’re a bright, fine little girl. I want to help you. Manerube means bad by you. I know. I’ve heard him say as much to his pards. He’ll destroy your soul. Promise me you’ll not see him again.”
“Yes, I promise … if you’ll come sometimes,” she replied, won by his spirit. There were tears in her big dusky eyes. She was a simple, impulsive child, honest at heart, with the hot blood of her race.
“Of course I’ll come … as long …” he said, breaking off suddenly. He had meant to say he would come as long as he stayed in camp there, but he thought it best to hide from her that he was leaving soon. “I’ll be back in an hour. You stay here.”
“Adiós, señor,” she murmured gladly, speaking the Spanish he had told her pleased him.
Chane rode back to the hogan, hoping to find Toddy Nokin, or one of the Indian men. He thought it best to tell someone to keep an eye on Sosie. He was not sure he could trust her. But he did not find anyone, and turned Brutus for the open sage. As he rode, perplexed by the unsolvable problem of this little Indian girl, he became conscious that now, although he pitied her, somehow his sympathy was different from what it had been. He had rather idealized Sosie. It affronted and alienated him to learn she was quite willing to run off with such a man as Manerube.
Chane rode across the rolling upland, keeping sharp lookout along the ridge that Manerube would cross if he had ventured toward the Indian camp. There was, however, no sign of horses in that direction.
“Reckon it was a bluff,” declared Chane with relief. In spite of McPherson’s hint, he did not entertain a very high regard for Manerube’s courage.
Circling to the south, Chane at length reached the rise of ground running along a shallow league-wide valley, gray and purple with sage, spotted with rocks and cedars, and animated by moving horses. Toddy Nokin and his braves were driving in the last of the mustangs Chane had bargained for. This pleased Chane, for some of these had been ranging Paiute Cañon, a deep long gorge, accessible by but few trails.
Brutus saw the moving dots below and lifted his head high, his ears erect. Then Chane put him to a lope down the gradual descent. It soon became evident to Chane that this horse did not need to be guided, except possibly in exceedingly bad ground. The sagebrush did not bother Brutus any more than if it had not been there. He crashed through it, and the little washes and ruts in the red earth, that sometimes tripped an ordinary horse, apparently were the same to Brutus as level ground. His hoofs were so big, his legs so strong, his dexterity and judgment so good, that it seemed safe to ride him anywhere a horse could run.
Down in the center of this oval bowl lay a natural corral, a long narrow space of the best pasture land, barred on two sides by low stone walls that came to an apex at the head of the depression, and shut off at its mouth and widest part by a cedar fence. Even at dry seasons there was always water in the deep hole in the rocks where the walls met, and at this time there was a running stream. Chane arrived as Toddy Nokin and his Indians were driving a bunch of mustangs into this corral.
Chane rode inside to take a look at these mustangs. There were nine of them, and the best of the lot he had seen. A blue roan stood out conspicuously among the tan-colored, black-maned buckskins. They were young horses, fat and sleek, and, unlike most Indian ponies, not at all wild. The Paiutes handled horses better than the Navajos. The latter were nomads of the desert, and seldom took time to break and train a horse properly. Most Navajo mustangs were head shy, which was a trait Chane did not like. They had been beaten about the head, or broken with cruel hackamores, or in some way hurt so that they never recovered.
Toddy Nokin rode into the corral, and his braves, who were his sons, put up the poles that formed a gate. He held up his hands to Chane and counted with fingers to the number of twenty-six, and informed Chane he would not sell more. Chane had hoped to buy a larger number, but knew it was useless to try to change Toddy’s mind.
He motioned to Toddy to dismount, and, getting off himself, he went among the mustangs. They would not allow him to get close enough to put a hand on them, until Toddy’s sons drove them back into a bunch. Then Chane, following a habit that was pleasure to him as well as business, leisurely examined them one by one. He just naturally loved horses, and, if he had been rich, he would have owned a thousand. The blue roan at once took his eye.
“Blue, reckon I’ll keep you,” he said.
Presently he had looked them over to his satisfaction, and repaired to the shade of a cedar, where Toddy squatted, making a flat wisp of a cigarette.
“Toddy, they’re worth more than I offered and you agreed to take,” Chane said frankly.
The Paiute made a gesture that signified a bargain was a bargain. Then he asked, “How much Mormons pay you?”
“Twenty-five dollars for most of them and more for the best,” replied Chane.
Toddy nodded his grizzled old head as if that was something to consider.
“Why good horse trade now?” he asked.
Chane explained to him that a St. Louis horse dealing company had recently stimulated the wild horse hunting in Nevada and Utah, which business had stirred the Mormons to more activity.
“Ugh!” grunted Toddy, and then he told Chane he would round up more mustangs of his own, and buy from the Navajos, and drive them across the rivers next moon.
“Next moon,” repeated Chane. “That’ll be after the middle of October. Fine. Will you sell to me or the Mormons?”
“Sell Mormons,” replied Toddy shrewdly, adding he would pay Chane for finding purchasers.
“Maybe I can get a better price from the wranglers,” replied Chane. “Now, Toddy, where will we meet?”
Whereupon the Paiute brushed clear a place in the dust, and, taking up a bit of stick, he began to draw a map. This sort of thing always interested Chane. The Indians were natural artists, and they hel
d in their minds a wonderful knowledge of the country. Toddy Nokin drew lines to represent the San Juan and Colorado Rivers. He made a dot to mark the Hole-in-the-Wall, an outlet from the cañoned wilderness made notorious by outlaws a few years before. He drew the Henry Mountains to the right and Wild Horse Mesa to the left, and between these he laid down a trail he would follow. Somewhere beyond Wild Horse Mesa, at a place he called Nightwatch Spring, he would hold the mustangs to fatten up after that long hard journey over the barren rocks.
“Nightwatch Spring,” said Chane. “I’ve heard of that place from someone … maybe a wrangler … Toddy, mark out where this water lies.”
Toddy showed Chane where to branch off the main Paiute trail, north and west of the low end of Wild Horse Mesa, and he gave Chane the impression that this spring had never been known by whites and lay in a beautiful wide cañon where grass was abundant.
“You want have horse ranch sometime,” concluded Toddy, nodding with great vehemence. “Toddy show you place.”
So much from this old Paiute thrilled Chane with its possibilities. How well it paid to be kindly and helpful toward the Indians. No Paiute had ever left debt unpaid to him.
“Toddy Nokin, you’re a good fellow,” Chane said as he took out his worn wallet and opened it. “Here’s your money for twenty-six horses.” He counted it out, bill after bill, and placed the sum in Toddy’s wrinkled hand. The Indian did not recount it, and, slowly rolling it up, he put it in an inside pocket of his coat, after the manner of a white man.
“Grass gone here,” he said, waving his hand to indicate the long pasture corral. “You go now.”
To leave at once with his newly purchased mustangs, which Toddy manifestly advised, had scarcely been in Chane’s calculations. But a moment’s study told him how necessary that was. If the mustangs were turned loose again to feed, in one night they would wander back to their regular haunts. It had taken two weeks to collect the band. Chane saw it the same as Toddy—the mustangs should be driven at once on the way across the rivers, and herded at night or hobbled on the best available grass. It had been his intention to postpone leaving the Paiute range, owing to his distrust of McPherson, but this now was obviously impracticable. If he ran any risk from McPherson and his comrades, it could hardly be any greater now than it might be next week. Chane decided to break camp that very day, and he told Toddy Nokin so. Whereupon the Paiute said he and his sons would ride with him a couple of days, until the mustangs were off their range.
Leaving his sons to follow with the mustangs, Toddy accompanied Chane up the sage slope toward the mounds and knolls of yellow rock that marked the cañon country. Toddy’s hogans lay somewhat south and west of this sage valley where the mustangs had been kept. So that upon his return Chane rode in a direction that would cross Manerube’s trail, if this worthy had approached Toddy’s camp. The fact of such possibility reminded Chane of his promise to Sosie. He would see her, to bid her good bye, and then he must hurry to his camp. From that moment McPherson, Horn, and Slack occupied Chane’s thoughts. The situation was not to his liking, yet there had not occurred to him an alternative.
Riding along at a brisk trot, Chane, with Toddy Nokin loping behind on his shaggy little mustang, approached a zone of gray and yellow wind-worn rocks, as high as hills, and with both sloping and abrupt walls. Cedars grew thickly around them and in the winding lanes that separated them.
Turning a corner of wall, Chane’s quick eye sighted a pack horse trotting toward him, and then part of another horse, mostly concealed by an intervening cedar. They were in line with Chane. Quick as a flash he leaped off, and, motioning Toddy Nokin to do likewise, he led Brutus behind a thick low-branched cedar. Toddy slipped close behind him, stooping to peer through the branches.
“Ugh,” he grunted.
Chane saw Manerube ride into sight, coming at a good trot and leading a pack horse. Behind Manerube bobbed a black head, now in view, then disappearing. Presently Chane got a better look at it.
“Sosie! Well, I’m a son of a gun!” he ejaculated, in amaze and dismay.
The Indian girl was riding behind Manerube, and she had both arms around him. At the moment her gold-bronze face flashed in the sunlight. Chane watched intently, standing motionlessly until Manerube had ridden within one hundred feet of the cedar that concealed Chane and Toddy. Sosie’s face bobbed out to the side of Manerube’s shoulder. Most assuredly it was not the face of an unwillingly abducted girl. It wore a smile. The wide dark eyes gleamed. Her white teeth showed.
Chane’s rush of anger was almost as much against her as Manerube. Jerking his rifle from its saddle sheath, he cocked it and stepped out to level it at Manerube.
“Stop! Quick! Hands up!” he ordered.
The approaching horse snorted and jumped. Manerube hauled it to a halt. Then as his hands shot aloft his ruddy face paled.
“Up they are!” he said hoarsely, in rage and discomfiture.
Chane strode forward, and he heard the padding of Toddy’s moccasined feet close behind him.
“Sosie … get off that horse!” called Chane sharply.
The Indian girl almost fell off in the hurry that actuated her. There was no radiance now on her face, nor any of the stoical Indian courage that should have been an heritage. Her big eyes were distended.
“Manerube, I’ve a mind to shoot you,” declared Chane, with the rifle steadily leveled.
“What for? I’ve not done you any dirt,” replied the other thickly. “You’ve no call to kill me on this little hussy’s account.”
“I’m not so sure. You’ve made her run off with you,” retorted Chane.
“Made nothing. She wants to go.”
Toddy Nokin shuffled around to the side of Chane and approached his daughter. He swung his quirt. Chane saw Sosie shrink and her eyes dilate.
“Hold on, Toddy!” called Chane, and then, stepping aside so that he had the girl in line with Manerube, he addressed her, “Sosie, were you willing to go with him?”
“Yes,” she answered sullenly. “But it was because he says he’ll marry me.”
“Manerube, you hear what Sosie said. Is it true? You’re talking to a white man now.”
“No, you damn fool!” shouted Manerube. “I wouldn’t marry a squaw.”
Chane eyed Manerube in silence for a moment. The man had no sense of guilt, and he was not afraid to tell the truth.
“Well, I reckon you’d better sit tight and keep your hands high,” went on Chane. “Toddy, you take his gun.”
The Paiute advanced upon Manerube, and, quickly jerking his gun from its holster, he stepped back. Then Chane strode around Manerube to see if he had another weapon.
“Get off your horse,” Chane ordered, and handed both his rifle and his short gun to the Indian.
Manerube stared, without complying. At the outset of this encounter he had showed fear, but now, as there seemed no certainty of a fatal issue for him, the color was returning to his face.
Chane wasted no more words. Laying a powerful hold on Manerube, he jerked him from the saddle to the ground, where he sprawled hard.
“Get up, before I kick you!” went on Chane, yielding to an anger that grew hot.
Manerube got to his feet, with astonishment giving way to fury. Chane rushed him and knocked him flat. He raised on his elbow, then on his hand, while he extended the other, now shaking with passion. A reddening lump appeared on his face.
“I’ll kill you!” he hissed.
“Aw, get up and fight!” retorted Chane derisively, and he kicked Manerube, not with violence, but hard enough to elicit a solid thump. It served to make Manerube leap erect and plunge at Chane. They fought all over the place, dealing each other blow for blow. Manerube was no match for Chane at that game, and manifestly saw it, for he tried to close in. Failing that, he maneuvered until he was near enough Toddy to snatch at one of the guns Toddy held. The India
n showed surprising agility in leaping aside.
“Manerube … you’re just … what I said … you were,” Chane panted hoarsely. Rushing at Manerube and battering him down, Chane did not let him rise, but beat him soundly until he was most thoroughly whipped. Then Chane got up, to wipe sweat and blood and dust from his face.
“Take your gun … and your horses … and rustle,” ordered Chane, jerking the weapons from Toddy. He threw Manerube’s gun at his feet. Then with rifle leveled low Chane watched the man sit up, draw the gun to him by the barrel, and rise with his back to Chane. He shoved the gun into its holster, and strode, staggering a little, toward where his horses had moved. Chane kept close watch on him, ready for another show of treachery. But Manerube mounted and took up the halter of the pack animal, not looking back until he had started to ride off. Then his pallid discolored face expressed a passion that boded ill to Chane. He rode out of sight among the cedars. Chane turned to the Indians. Toddy Nokin had in no wise lost anything of his dignity, at least in his attitude toward Chane. He returned the small gun Chane had handed him. Sosie had quite recovered from what fright she had sustained, and was now regarding her champion with dusky eyes alight. Not before had the fragility of her, nor the prettiness, and something half tame, half wild, struck Chane so forcibly. But his sympathy and her appeal both went down before his anger.
“Sosie, you’re no good,” he declared.
Instantly she grew sullen, defiant. “I’m what white men have made me,” she responded.
Chane had no adequate reply for that, and indeed felt helpless.
Toddy Nokin yelled something in Paiute at his wayward daughter, and, as she whirled, he aimed a swing of the quirt and likewise a kick at her, both of which fell short. Like a flash the supple figure moved out of reach. She screeched back at them. Chane could not decide whether it was the wildcat cry of an Indian squaw or the passionate expression of her white learning. Perhaps it was both. Whatever it was, he expected it to haunt him for long.
Chapter Three
