by Zane Grey
“Jeff got my pinto for a mustang with three legs. If I hadn’t been drunk, I’d never have traded. So I’m looking for Jeff.”
He bit out the last words with a peculiar snap of his long teeth, a circumstance that caused Hare instantly to associate the savage clicking with the name he had heard given this man. August Naab looked at him with gloomy eyes and stern shut mouth, an expression of righteous anger, helplessness, and grief combined, the look of a man to whom obstacles had been nothing, at last confronted with crowning defeat. Hare realized that this son was Naab’s firstborn, best-loved, a thorn in his side, a black sheep.
“Say, Father, is that the spy you found on the trail?” Snap’s pale eyes gleamed on Hare and the little flames seemed to darken and leap.
“This is Jack Hare, the young man I found. But he’s not a spy.”
“You can’t make anyone believe that. He’s down as a spy. Dene’s spy! His name’s gone over the ranges as a counter of unbranded stock. Dene has named him and Dene has marked him. Don’t take him home, as you’ve taken so many sick and hunted men before. What’s the good of it? You never made a Mormon of one of them yet. Don’t take him . . . unless you want another grave for your cemetery. Ha! Ha!”
Hare recoiled with a shock. Snap Naab swayed to the door and stepped down, all the time with his face over his shoulder, his baleful glance on Hare, and then the blue haze swallowed him.
The several loungers went out; August engaged the storekeeper in conversation, introducing Hare and explaining their wants. They inspected the various needs of a range rider, selecting, in the end, not the few suggested by Hare, but the many chosen by Naab. The last purchase was the rifle Naab had talked about. It was a beautiful weapon, finely polished and carved, entirely out of place among the plain coarse-sighted and coarse-stocked guns in the rack.
“Never had a chance to sell it,” said Abe. “Too long and heavy for the riders. I’ll let it go cheap, half price, and the cartridges, also, two thousand.”
“Taken,” replied Naab quickly, with a satisfaction that showed he liked a bargain.
“August, you must be going to shoot some?” queried Abe. “Something bigger than rabbits and coyotes. It’s about time . . . even if you are an elder. We Mormons must . . . .” He broke off, continuing in a low tone: “Here’s Holderness now.”
Hare wheeled with the interest that had gathered with the reiteration of this man’s name.
A newcomer stooped to get in the door. He outtopped even Naab in height, and was a superb blond-bearded man, striding with the spring of a mountaineer.
“Good day to you, Naab,” he said. “Is this the young fellow you picked up?”
“Yes. Jack Hare,” rejoined Naab.
“Well, Hare, I’m Holderness. You’ll recall my name. You were sent to Lund by men interested in my ranges. I expected to see you in Lund, but couldn’t get over.”
Hare met the proffered hand with his own, and, as he had recoiled from Snap Naab so now he received another shock, different indeed but impelling in its power, instinctive of some great portent. Hare was impressed by an indefinable subtlety, a nameless distrust, as colorless as the clear penetrating amber lightness of the eyes that bent upon him.
“Holderness, will you right the story about Hare?” inquired Naab.
“You mean about his being a spy? Well, Naab, the truth is that was his job. I advised against sending a man down here for that sort of work. It won’t do. These Mormons will steal each other’s cattle, and they’ve got to get rid of them . . . so they won’t have a man taking account of stock, brands, and all that. If the Mormons would stand for it, the rustlers wouldn’t. I’ll take Hare out to the ranch and give him work, if he wants. But he’d do best to leave Utah.”
“Thank you, no,” replied Hare decidedly.
“He’s going with me,” said August Naab.
Holderness accepted this with an almost imperceptible nod, and he swept Hare with eyes that searched and probed for latent possibilities. It was the keen intelligence of a man who knew what development meant on the desert, not in any sense an interest in the young man at present. Then he turned back.
Hare, feeling that Holderness wished to talk with Naab, walked to the counter and began assorting his purchases, but he could not help hearing what was said.
“Lungs bad?” queried Holderness.
“One of them,” replied Naab.
“He’s all in. Better send him out of the country. He’s got the name of Dene’s spy and he’ll never get another on this desert. Dene will kill him. This isn’t good judgment, Naab, to take him with you. Even your friends don’t like it, and it means trouble for you.”
“We’ve settled it,” said Naab coldly.
“Well, remember, I’ve warned you. I’ve tried to be friendly with you, Naab, but you won’t have it. Anyway, I’ve wanted to see you lately to find out how we stand.”
“What do you mean?”
“How we stand on several things . . . to begin with there’s Mescal.”
“You asked me several times for Mescal, and I said no.”
“But I never said I’d marry her. Now I want her, and I will marry her.”
“No,” rejoined Naab, adding brevity to his coldness.
“Why not?” demanded Holderness. “Oh, well, I can’t take that as an insult. I know there’s not enough money in Utah to get a girl away from a Mormon . . . . About the offer for the water rights . . . how do we stand? I’ll give you ten thousand dollars for the rights to Seeping Springs and Silver Cup.”
“Ten thousand!” ejaculated Naab. “Holderness, I wouldn’t take a hundred thousand. You might as well ask to buy my home, my stock, my range, twenty years of toil for ten thousand dollars!”
“You refuse? All right. I think I’ve made you a fair proposition,” said Holderness in a smooth, quick tone. “The land is owned by the government, and, although your ranges are across the Arizona line, they really figure as Utah land. My company’s spending big money, and the government won’t let you have a monopoly. No one man can control the water supply of a hundred miles of range. Times are changing. You want to see that. You ought to protect yourself before it’s too late.”
“Holderness, this is a desert. No men save Mormons could ever have made it habitable. The government scarcely knows of its existence. It’ll be fifty years before there’s any law here. Listen. This desert belongs to the Mormons. We found the springs, dug the ditches. No man can come in here to take our water.”
“Why can’t he? The water doesn’t belong to anyone. Why can’t he?”
“Because of the unwritten law of the desert. No Mormon would refuse you or your horse a drink, or even a reasonable supply for your stock. But you can’t come in here and take our water for your own use, to supplant us, to parch our stock. Why, even an Indian respects desert law!”
“Bah! I’m not a Mormon or an Indian. I’m a cattleman. It’s plain business with me. Once more I make you the offer.”
Naab scorned to reply. The men faced each other for a silent moment, their glances scintillating. Then Holderness whirled on his heel, jostling into Hare.
“Get out of my way,” said the rancher, in the disgust of intense irritation. He swung his arm, and his open hand sent Hare reeling against the counter.
“Jack,” said Naab, breathing hard, “Holderness showed his real self today. I always knew it, yet I gave him the benefit of the doubt . . . . For him to strike you. I’ve not the gift of revelation, but I see . . . . Let us go.”
On the return to the bishop’s cottage Naab did not speak once; the transformation that had begun with the appearance of his drunken son had reached a climax of gloomy silence after the clash with Holderness. Naab went directly to Bishop Caldwell, and presently the quavering voice of the old minister rose in prayer.
Hare dropped wearily into the chair on the porch, and presently fell into a doze, from which he awakened with a start. Naab’s sons, with Martin Cole and several other men, were standing in the y
ard. Naab himself was gently crowding the women into the house. When he got them all inside, he closed the door and turned to Cole.
“Was it a fair fight?”
“Yes, an even break. They met in front of Abe’s. I saw the meeting. Neither was surprised. They stood for a moment watching each other. Then they drew . . . only Snap was quicker. Larsen’s gun went off as he fell. That trick you taught Snap saved his life again. Larsen was no slouch on the draw.”
“Where’s Snap now?”
“Gone after his pinto. He was sober. Said he’d pack at once. Larsen’s friends are ugly. Snap said to tell you to hurry out of the village with young Hare, if you want to take him at all. Dene has ridden in . . . he swears you won’t take Hare away.”
“We’re all packed and ready to hitch up,” returned Naab. “We could start at once, only until dark I’d rather take chances here than out on the trail.”
“Snap said Dene would ride right into the bishop’s after Hare.”
“No. He wouldn’t dare.”
“Father!” Dave Naab spoke sharply from where he stood high on a grassy bank. “Here’s Dene now, riding up with Culver, and some man I don’t know. They’re coming in. Dene’s jumped the fence! Look out!”
A clatter of hoofs and rattling of gravel preceded the appearance of a black horse in the garden path. His rider bent low to dodge the vines of the arbor, and reined in before the porch to slip out of the saddle with the agility of an Indian. It was Dene, dark, smiling, nonchalant.
“What do you seek in the house of a bishop?” challenged August Naab, planting his broad bulk squarely before Hare.
“Dene’s spy!”
“What do you seek in the house of a bishop?” repeated Naab.
“I shore want to see the young feller you lied to me about,” returned Dene, his smile slowly fading.
“No speech could be a lie to an outlaw.”
“I want him, you Mormon preacher!”
“You can’t have him.”
“I’ll shore get him.”
In one great stride Naab confronted and towered over Dene.
The rustler’s gaze shifted warily from Naab to the quiet Mormons and back again. Then his right hand quivered and shot downward. Naab’s act was even quicker. A Colt gleamed and whirled to the grass, and the outlaw cried out as his arm cracked in the Mormon’s grasp.
Dave Naab leaped off the bank directly in front of Dene’s approaching companions, and faced them, alert and silent, his hand on his hip.
August Naab swung the outlaw against the porch post and held him there with brawny arm.
“Whelp of an evil breed!” he thundered, shaking his gray head. “Do you think we fear you and your gun-sharp tricks? Look! See this!” He released Dene and stepped back with his hand before him. Suddenly it moved, quicker than sight, and a Colt revolver lay in his outstretched palm. He dropped it back into the holster. “Let that teach you never to draw on me again.” He doubled his huge fist and shoved it before Dene’s eyes. “One blow would crack your skull like an eggshell. Why don’t I deal it? Because, you mindless hell hound, because there’s a higher law than man’s . . . God’s law . . . . Thou shalt not kill! Understand that if you can. Leave me and mine alone from this day. Now go!”
He pushed Dene down the path into the arms of his companions.
“Out with you!” said Dave Naab. “Hurry! Get your horse. Hurry! I’m not so particular about God as Dad is!”
Chapter Three
After the departure of Dene and his comrades Naab decided to leave White Sage at nightfall. Martin Cole and the bishop’s sons tried to persuade him to remain, urging that the trouble sure to come could be more safely met in the village. Naab, however, was obdurate, unreasonably so, Cole said, unless there were some good reason why he wished to strike the trail in the night. When twilight closed in, Naab had his teams ready and the women shut in the canvas-covered wagons. Hare was to ride in an open wagon, one that Naab had left at White Sage to be loaded with grain. When it grew so dark that objects were scarcely discernible, a man vaulted the cottage fence.
“Dave, where are the boys?” asked Naab.
“Not so loud. The boys are coming,” replied Dave in a whisper. “Dene is wild. I guess you snapped a bone in his arm. He swears he’ll kill us all. But Chance and the rest of the gang won’t be in till late. We’ve time to reach the Coconina Trail, if we hustle.”
“Any news of Snap?”
“He rode out before sundown.”
Three more forms emerged from the gloom.
“All right, boys. Go ahead, Dave, you lead.”
Dave and George Naab mounted their mustangs and rode through the gate; the first wagon rolled after them, its white dome gradually dissolving in the darkness; the second one started, then August Naab stepped to his seat on the third with a low cluck to the team. Hare shut the gate and climbed over the tailboard of the wagon.
A slight swish of weeds and grasses brushing the wheels was all the sound made in the cautious advance. A bare field lay to the left; to the right low roofs and sharp chimneys showed among the trees; here and there lights twinkled. No one hailed, not a dog barked.
Presently the leaders turned into a road where the iron hoofs and wheels cracked and crunched the stones.
Hare thought he saw something in the deep shade of a line of poplar trees; he peered closer, and made out a motionless horse and rider, just a shade blacker than the deepest gloom. The next instant they vanished, and the rapid clatter of hoofs down the road told Hare his eyes had not deceived him.
“Get up,” growled Naab to his horses. “Jack, did you see that fellow?”
“Yes. What was he doing there?”
“Watching the road. He’s one of Dene’s scouts.”
“Will Dene . . .?”
One of Naab’s sons came trotting back. “Think that was Larsen’s pal. He was lying in wait for Snap.”
“I thought he was a scout for Dene,” replied August. “Maybe he’s that, too.”
“Likely enough. Hurry along and keep the gray team going lively. They’ve had a week’s rest.”
Hare watched the glimmering lights of the village vanish one by one, like jack-o’-lanterns. The horses kept a steady even trot on into the huge windy hall of the desert night. Fleecy clouds veiled the stars, yet transmitted a wan glow. A chill crept over Hare. As he crawled under the blankets Naab had spread for him, his hand came into contact with a polished metal surface cold as ice. It was his rifle. Naab had placed it under the blankets. Fingering the rifle, Hare found the spring opening on the right side of the breech, and, pressing it down, he felt the round head of a cartridge. Naab had loaded the weapon, he had placed it where Hare’s hand must find it, yet he had not spoken of it. Hare did not stop to reason with his first impulse. Without a word, with silent insistence, disregarding his shattered health, August Naab had given him a man’s part to play. The full meaning lifted Hare out of his self-abasement; once more he felt himself a man.
Hare soon yielded to the warmth of the blankets; a drowsiness that he endeavored in vain to throw off smothered his thoughts; sleep glued his eyelids tight. They opened again some hours later. For a moment he could not realize where he was, then the whip of the cold wind across his face, the woolly feel and smell of the blankets, and finally the steady trot of horses and the clink of a chain swinging somewhere under him, recalled the actuality of the night ride. He wondered how many miles had been covered, how the drivers knew the direction and kept the horses in the trail, and whether the outlaws were in pursuit. When Naab stopped the team and, climbing down, walked back some rods to listen, Hare felt sure that Dene was coming. He listened, too, but the movements of the horses and the rattle of their harness were all the sounds he could hear. Naab returned to his seat; the team started, now no longer in a trot; they were climbing. After that Hare fell into a slumber in which he could hear the slow grating whirr of wheels, and, when it ceased, he awoke to raise himself and turn his ear to the back trail. By
and by he discovered that the black night had changed to gray; dawn was not far distant; he dozed and awakened to clear light. A rose-red horizon lay far below and to the eastward; the intervening descent was like a rolling sea with league-long swells.
“Glad you slept some,” was Naab’s greeting. “No sign of Dene yet. If we can get over the divide, we’re safe. That’s Coconina there, Fire Mountain in Navajo meaning. It’s a plateau low and narrow at this end, but it runs far to the east and rises nine thousand feet. It forms a hundred miles of the north rim of the Grand Cañon. We’re across the Arizona line now.”
Hare followed the sweep of the ridge that rose to the eastward, but to his inexperienced eyes its appearance carried no sense of its noble proportions.
“Don’t form any ideas of distance and size yet a while,” said Naab, reading Hare’s expression. “They’d only have to be made over as soon as you learn what light and air are in this country. It looks only half a mile to the top of the divide . . . well, if we make it by midday, we’re lucky. There, see a black spot over this way, far under the red wall? Look sharp. Good. That’s Holderness’s ranch. It’s thirty miles from here. Nine Mile Valley heads in there. Once it belonged to Martin Cole. Holderness stole it. And he’s begun to range over the divide.”
The sun rose and warmed the chill air. Hare began to notice the increased height and abundance of the sagebrush, which was darker in color. The first cedar tree, stunted in growth, dead at the top, was the halfway mark up the ascent, so Naab said; it was also the forerunner of other cedars that increased in number toward the summit. At length Hare, tired of looking upward at the creeping white wagons, closed his eyes. The wheels crunched on the stones; the horses heaved and labored. Naab’s—“Get up!”—was the only spoken sound; the sun beamed down warm, then hot, and the hours passed. Some unusual noise roused Hare out of his lethargy. The wagon was at a standstill. Naab stood on the seat with outstretched arm. George and Dave were close by, on their mustangs, and Snap Naab, mounted on a cream-colored pinto, reined him under August’s arm, and faced the valley below.
