Panguitch

by Zane Grey

“Wal, boss, how long are you goin’ to be findin’ out he cain’t throw anythin’ but a bluff?” drawled Utah.

  Manerube, with the help of Bonny and Miller, downed the mustang. Loughbridge tried to hold down its head, but did not succeed until Alonzo came to his assistance. They were a considerable time tying the knee.

  “How many horses have they tied?” inquired Melberne, shifting his gaze to the far side of the corral, where the bound animals stood, already pathetic and dispirited.

  “Sixteen or seventeen at most,” replied Chane. “I counted them twice.”

  Melberne cursed his amaze and disgust. “Weymer, let’s go over an’ watch them,” he said.

  “Not me. You’re boss of the outfit. You go,” replied Chane.

  Whereupon Melberne got up and strode toward the other squad. Perhaps his approach caused them to speed up in action, but it did not add to their efficiency. Chane had needed only one glance to see that Manerube was only ordinary in the use of a lasso. Alonzo could have done better blindfolded. Manerube cast his noose to circle the neck, and this hold, when accomplished, was not a good one for the throwing of a horse. It took three men to haul the horse over on his side, and then he was half choked to death. Melberne lent a hand in holding down this particular horse. Manerube did quicker work this time, but, as the horse staggered up, Chane saw that the job of tying had not been cleverly done, and certainly not as humanely as it was possible to do. Manifestly Melberne saw this, for he pointed at the flopping shortened leg as the horse hobbled away.

  The only unbound horse left in the corral now was a chestnut sorrel, a stallion that had several times taken Chane’s eyes. He was a beauty, big, smooth, graceful, and wild as a hawk. Alonzo and Miller, both clever at herding horses, finally drove him within reach of Manerube’s rope. But Manerube missed, and the lasso, crackling on the head of the stallion, scared him so that he seemed to have wings. In half a dozen magnificent bounds he got stretched out. Then, headed for the fence, he gave such exhibition of speed that some of the riders voiced their feelings.

  “Oh … look at him!” yelled Chess.

  “Boys … he’s going to jump the fence,” declared Chane excitedly.

  “He’s got a bone in his teeth!” called out the sailor admiringly.

  “Shure now … he’s grand,” said the Irishman.

  The sorrel meant freedom or death. His action showed more than mere brute wildness of terror. He had less fear of that terrible barbed fence than of the man enemies with their ropes. Like a greyhound he rose to the leap, having the foresight to leave the ground far enough from the fence to allow for the height. Up he shot, a beautiful wild sight, his head level and pointed, his mane streaming back. His forehoofs cleared the top wire, but his hind ones caught it. With a ringing twang the wire snapped. The stallion fell on head and shoulder, rolled over, and, regaining his legs, he raced away, evidently none the worse for the accident.

  Chane let out a short exultant shout. Melberne, who had come back, gave sharp orders for the men to let in more horses from the big corral. As they ran to do his bidding, Chane took a bundle of short ropes from the fence and tucked one end of them under his belt.

  “Manerube hasn’t the knack,” declared Melberne, fuming.

  “Who said he had?” retorted Chane.

  “He did.”

  “Well, if you were damn fool enough to believe him, take your medicine,” rejoined Chane grimly.

  Then, as another band of snorting, shrieking wild horses thundered from the big corral both Chane and Melberne had to take to the fence to save their lives. The frightened beasts trooped by; the men closed the gate and hurried up.

  “Come on, you wranglers!” shouted Chane. “See if you can stay with me.”

  It was a boast, but not made in the cheerful rival spirit characteristic of riders of the open. Chane’s heart was sore, his blood was hot, his temper fierce, and his expression was a taunt, a grim banter. He meant to lay Melberne and the others of his squad flat on their backs, as if he had knocked them there. But they, likewise inflamed, answered violently to his challenge. Chane ran out into the corral, swinging his lasso.

  * * * * *

  The glaring sun stood straight overhead and dusty heat veils rose from the trodden floor of the corral.

  “Sixty-eight,” Chane said huskily, as with cramped and stinging hands he slipped his noose from the leg of the last horse tied. “Let … him … up.”

  Utah rolled off the head of the horse and lay where he rolled. The struggling beast rose and plunged away.

  “Shall we … make it … sixty-nine?” asked Chane, gazing down upon the spent and begrimed rider.

  “I … pass,” whispered Utah.

  Chane and Utah had been working alone for some time. Chess had given out, then Melberne had succumbed, and finally Captain Bunk, after a wonderful exhibition of endurance, had fallen in his tracks. He had to be carried to the fence. Manerube’s squad had quit an hour ago.

  Approaching the spot where Melberne sat against the fence, Chane slowly drew in his dragging lasso.

  “Melberne … we made it … sixty-eight. And that … finished Utah.”

  “Damn you, Weymer!” declared Melberne with deliberation.

  Chane could only stare a query as to the reason he was being damned, when he had worked like a galley slave for eight hours. Melberne was rested. He had wiped the sweaty, dusty lather from his face, so that his expression could be noted. It seemed enigmatical to Chane.

  “Sixty-eight an’ fifty-six make one hundred twenty-four,” said Melberne. “That with the forty-nine Manerube has accounted for sums up one hundred seventy-three.”

  “For ten men … some of them … green hands … that’s a mighty … good showing,” panted Chane as he wearily seated himself and began to wipe his dripping face.

  “Hell!” ejaculated Melberne, throwing up his hands.

  “Sure. I told you … it’d be hell,” replied Chane.

  “I don’t mean what you mean,” grunted Melberne.

  “Well … boss, the worst … is yet to come,” Chane replied with as much of maliciousness as he could muster.

  “A-huh. Reckon you said that before … Weymer, have you heard me squeal?”

  “No, Melberne,” returned Chane quietly. “I’ve only respect … for you.”

  Wal, let’s eat an’ make the drive to the railroad. I’m shore curious aboot that. Chess, fetch the saddlebags of grub, an’ call the men over.”

  * * * * *

  All the riders except two were mounted and ranged on each side of the gate, which, being opened by the riders on foot, left an avenue of apparent escape to the disabled wild horses. They did not need to be driven out. Before the gate was half open some of them broke for the desert, and soon they were all plunging to crowd through.

  Chane, closing the gate and leaping astride Brutus, was the last rider to get into action. A long line of bobbing horses stretched before him across the valley, and on each side rode the riders. These three-legged wild horses would take a good deal of driving. Brutus had to run to keep up with them. It was necessary, therefore, to keep them at as uniform a gait as was possible, for if some traveled fast and others slow, the line would spread so wide that ten riders could not prevent escape of many. Drives like these were nightmares to Chane. He had never taken one that was not a race. Indeed, the crippled wild horses were racing for freedom. But if any did escape, it was only to meet a lingering death. Chane had Alonzo and Utah with him in the rear of the moving line, and they, moved by compassion, would ride their best to keep all the wild horses in.

  The first spurt led up out of the valley, over the ridge, and into the level country that stretched north. The three-legged horses had been deprived of their fleetness, but not of their endurance. Still, not until the rough rocky country had been reached did they slow their gait or begin to show an unnatural strain
. Chane knew what to expect and hated to look for it. He rode hard, and the chasing and heading and driving of these wild horses occupied his thoughts to the exclusion of all else.

  Toward the middle of the afternoon what was left of Melberne’s first consignment of captured wild horses was driven into the corrals at Lund, a hamlet at the terminus of the railroad. Here help was available, as wild horse shipping had become quite a business in that section of Utah. Melberne’s drove were on the verge of collapse. Thirty-seven had been lost or killed on the drive in; some were in condition necessitating prompt shooting; others had great raw sores already flyblown; many had legs swollen to twice their original size.

  The ropes that bound the bent forelegs had at once to be removed. This meant roping and throwing the horses, and holding them down until the bonds could be cut. The suffering of these wild horses was something that worked more deeply upon Chane’s emotions than any cruelty to beasts had ever done before. If he had not known how his skill and speed had saved them much more agony, he could never have completed the job.

  Out of one hundred and seventy-three bound at Stark Valley a total of one hundred and twenty were available for shipping, from which Melberne received a little more than fifteen hundred dollars.

  “Wal, that’s twice what my outfit cost me,” he muttered.

  Chane, who heard this remark, turned it over in his mind, pondering at its significance. From Melberne’s tone he gathered that it would have been pleasure to throw the money into the sage. Neither disappointment nor bitterness showed in Melberne’s tensity. He labored under a stronger emotion than either. He was no longer his genial self, and showed scant courtesy to his former partner, Loughbridge, who evidently regretted his hasty relinquishing of joint authority in the deal. Most thought-impelling of all Melberne’s reactions was the obvious fact that he seemed to want to get out of hearing of the loud-mouthed Manerube.

  During supper, which was eaten in a tavern kept for cattlemen and horse wranglers, much talk was indulged in regarding the remainder of the captured wild horses back in Stark Valley. Melberne took no part in it. Manerube, backed by Loughbridge, was loudly in favor of taking a large force of men to help tie up the rest of the wild horses.

  “I was handicapped,” protested Manerube. “I had to do it all alone. Alonzo lay down on the job. He could, but he wouldn’t. Same with Miller. If I had men, now …”

  “Y-y-y-y-you … you …” stuttered the accused rider fiercely.

  “Manerube,” interrupted Melberne coldly, “I reckon Miller is tryin’ to call you a liar.”

  “Is that so?” shouted Manerube, rising from the table and glaring at the little rider. “If you can’t talk, make signs, you stuttering idiot. Do you call me a liar?”

  Miller had never been an aggressive fellow, and now, dominated perhaps by Manerube’s swaggering assurance before all the men, he did not attempt an answer. He dropped his head and resumed eating his supper. Chane observed that Miller was not the only one who bent his face over his plate. Melberne and Utah both seemed absorbed in the food before them, which on the moment they were not eating. Again Chane sensed the passing of a crisis to which Manerube was as ignorant as if he were deaf and blind.

  * * * * *

  Sunset found Chane leading Melberne’s outfit out on the trail for Stark Valley. Brutus at last was satisfied to accommodate his gait to the trot and walk of the other horses. Chess rode beside Chane, too weary to talk. And Chane, steeped in the gloom of that sordid day, had nothing to say, nor any thought of what usually abided with him on a ride through the dark, lonely, melancholy desert night.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sue Melberne realized fully what she was doing when she hid in the cedars on the west ridge of Stark Valley and watched the riders drive the crippled wild horses northward toward Lund. Her intention was to see them pass out of sight, leaving her safe to carry out a desperate plan. But she had not prepared herself for the actual spectacle of seeing a long line of beautiful wild mustangs hobbling by on three legs, some of them lame, many of them dripping red, all showing an unnatural and terrible stress.

  Chane Weymer was the last of those riders. Something in the earnestness of his maneuvers to save the mustangs useless action, the fact that he did not spare Brutus, and once, when a mustang fell, a sharp gesture expressing poignant impotence to do what he would like to—these roused in Sue impressions that not only warmed her heart toward Chane, but strengthened her spirit for the deed she had in mind.

  “If Dad ever finds me out he’ll half kill me,” soliloquized Sue as she watched the last of the captured wild horses and their drivers disappear. She would have had the nerve to carry out her design even if she had not just been an eye-witness to the brutality of this business. Nothing now could have deterred her. “How can Dad do it?” she muttered. “It will be a failure. Those poor mustangs are ruined … Oh, I’d like to tie up that Manerube and drive him … horse whip him.”

  Sue went back to where she had hidden her pony in the cedars, and mounting with difficulty, for she still had a stiff knee, she rode down the ridge over the ground that the wild horses had just covered. In the distance she could see a dark patch on the valley floor and knew it to be the captured wild horses trapped in the corral. The sight sent a little quiver over her and spurred her to ride at a lope, even though she suffered twinges when her horse broke his stride for the differing lay of the ground.

  This ride of Sue’s was not for pleasure. She did not watch the distant purple ranges, or gaze in rapture at the wonderful walls of Wild Horse Mesa. Rabbits, coyotes, lizards caught her quick eye, but did not incite her interest. She was bent on the most independent and reckless deed of her life. She felt driven. The pangs of a consuming and increasing love had played havoc with Sue’s temper. The days since her injury had been dark ones.

  At last the wide trail made by the mustangs led to the level of the valley and on to the high barricade of posts and barbed wire. She reached the first corral. It was the smaller one and empty. The gate had been dragged back in place, but left unfastened. Sue got off her horse and, by tugging hard, opened the gate to its limit. This done, she deliberated a moment. Across this corral she saw another and larger gate. Behind it moved a mass of pounding, snorting, whistling mustangs. Dust rose in a pall over them. The sun poured down hot. How thirsty those poor creatures must be!

  Shall I tie my horse here or over there? Sue queried herself in perplexity. Finally she decided it would be best to keep him near her. Owing to her stiff knee, she preferred to walk across the intervening corral, so she led her horse, and every step of the way felt a rising tumult in her breast. No easy thing was this to do. Had she a right to defeat her father’s labors? When she reached the far side of the corral, fear and conscience were in conflict with her love of wild horses. She was panting for breath. Excitement and effort were fatiguing her. Then her pony neighed shrilly. From the huge corral came a trampling roar. The dust flew up in sheets.

  She gazed at the wide gate. “Oh, can I open it? I will!” she cried.

  She had intended to tie her horse and then open the gate. But she saw that it would be necessary to use him. Going close to the barbed-wire fence, she peered through at the horses. Her approach had caused them to move away some rods back from the fence. All heads were pointed toward her. Lean, wild, beautiful heads! She saw hundreds of dark, fierce, terrible eyes, it seemed, fixed accusingly upon her. As she stood and gazed, so the wild horses stood, motionless, quivering. What an enormous drove of horses! There must be hundreds, thousands. Sue trembled under the weight of her emotions. Impossible to draw back!

  Then she became aware of an incessant buzzing. It had not been in evidence when the horses were moving. Flies! A swarm of flies buzzed around and over her. Flies as thick as bees—a black cloud of them—horseflies, the abominable pests that made life miserable for all horseflesh. Next Sue’s sharp eyes caught sight of red cuts and scratches on t
he legs and breasts of the horses. Thus she had a second actual sight of the work of the barbed wire. Bleeding sores and horseflies! There could be no more horrible combination, to one who loved horses.

  It took all Sue’s strength to unwind the wires that held the gate shut. The gate itself she could not budge. Taking her rope from the saddle, she tied one end to the gate, and then pondered whether or not she should ride the horse while he pulled open the gate, or walk and lead him. She decided the latter would be safer, even though she risked losing her horse. So she wound the other end of the rope around the pommel, and urged the horse. He pulled the gate open wide. Hurriedly Sue untied the rope, fearfully listening for the expected stampede. But she had plenty of time to lead her horse away from the gate. Then she peered through the fence.

  The foremost wild horses of that dense mass saw the break in the fence that had hemmed them in. They were fascinated. A piercing blast from a stallion seemed signal for a whistling, snorting chorus. Next came a restless pound of hoofs. A leader appeared—a stallion, wildest creature Sue had ever beheld, black as coal, instinct with fire. He trotted warily forward, neared the gate, gazed with fierce bloodshot eyes. Then he bolted. Like a black flash he passed through the opening. A white horse, a bay, a buckskin leaped to follow and, fleet as their leader, sped out to freedom. “Run! Oh, run!” screamed Sue, her heart bursting in the joy and terror of the moment.

  The restless pound stirred, quickened, closed into a roar of trampling hoofs, smiting the hard ground as one horse. The gate emitted a stream of moving horses, heads up, manes and tails tossing. Sue saw the stream lengthen and widen across the corral until it connected both gates. Then dust obscured clear vision. The ground shook under her feet. The din was terrific. It swelled until she could not hear more. What endless time it seemed until the roar of hoofs, the thud of bodies, the shrill blasts passed by her position, sped on, lessened, and died away.

  Sue found herself sagging against a post, holding the halter of her horse, weak from tumultuous emotions. Near her the dust clouds floated away. Far out on the valley floor a yellow mantle moved toward the west, and with it a wonderful diminishing sound. Sue sank down on the ground.