the U P Trail (1940)

by Grey, Zane

  Soon Indians entered the lodge, quite a number, with squaws among them, judging by their voices. A harangue ensued, lasting an hour or more; it interested

  Allie, especially because at times she heard and recognized the quick, passionate utterance of the young squaw.

  Soon Allie's old attendant shuffled in, and unbound her, then, lifting the curtain she motioned to Allie to come out. Allie went into the lodge. An early sun lighted the place brightly. It was full of Indians. In the center stood a striking figure, probably a chief, tall and lean, with scars on his naked breast. His face was bronze, with deep lines, somber and bitter, and cruel thin lips, and eyes that glittered like black fire. His head had the poise of an eagle.

  His piercing glance scarcely rested an instant upon Allie. He motioned for her to be taken away. Allie, as she was led back, got a glimpse of the young squaw.

  Sullen, with bowed head, and dark rich blood thick in her face, with heaving breast and clenched hands, she presented a picture of outraged pride and jealousy.

  Probably the chief had decided to claim Allie as his captive, a decision which would be fiercely resented by the young Indian bride.

  The camp quieted down after that. Allie peeped through a slit between the hides of which her tent was constructed, and she saw no one but squaws and children.

  The mustangs appeared worn out. Evidently the braves and warriors were resting after a hard ride or fight or foray.

  Nothing happened. The hours dragged. Allie heard the breathing of heavy sleepers. About dark she was fed again and bound.

  That night she was awakened by a gentle shake. A hand moved from her shoulder to her lips. The pale moonlight filtered into the tent. Allie saw a figure kneeling beside her and she heard a whispered "'Sh-s-s-sh!" Then her hands and feet were freed. She divined then that the young squaw had come to let her go, in the dead of night. Her heart throbbed high as her liberator held up a side of the tent.

  Allie crawled out. A bright moon soared in the sky. The camp was silent. The young woman slipped after her, and with a warning gesture to be silent she led

  Allie away toward the slope of the valley. It was a goodly distance. Not a sound disturbed the peace of the beautiful night. The air was cold and still. Allie shivered and trembled. This was the most exciting adventure of all. She felt a sudden tenderness and warmth for this Indian girl. Once the squaw halted, with ear intent, listening. Allie's heart stopped beating. But no bark of dog, no sound of pursuit, justified alarm. At last they reached the base of the slope.

  The Indian pointed high toward the ridge-top. She made undulating motions of her hand, as if to picture the topography of the ridges, and the valleys between; then kneeling, she made a motion with her finger on the ground that indicated a winding trail. Whereupon she stealthily glided away; all without a spoken word.

  Allie was left alone; free; with direction how to find the trail. But what use was it for her to find it in that wilderness? Still, her star kept drawing her spirit. She began to climb. The slope was grassy, and her light feet left little trace. She climbed and climbed until she thought her heart would burst. Once upon the summit, she fell in the grass and rested.

  Far below in the moon-blanched valley lay the white tents and the twinkling camp-fires. The bay of a dog floated up to her. It was a tranquil, beautiful scene. Rising, she turned her back upon it, with a muttered prayer for the

  Indian girl whose jealousy and generosity had freed her, and again she faced the ridge-top and the unknown wilderness.

  A wolf mourned, and the sound, clear and sharp, startled her. But remembering

  Slingerland's word that no beast would be likely to harm her in the warm season, she was reassured. Soon she had crossed the narrow back of the ridge, to see below another valley like the one she had left, but without the tents and fires.

  Descent was easy and she covered ground swiftly. She feared lest she should come upon a stream in flood. Again she mounted a slope, zigzagging up, going slowly, reserving her strength, pausing often to rest and to listen, and keeping a straight line with the star she had marked. Climbing was hard work, however slowly she went, just as going down was a relief to her wearied legs.

  In this manner she climbed four ridges and crossed three valleys before a rest became imperative. Now dawn was near, as was evidenced by the paling stars and the gray in the east. It would be well for her to remain on high ground while day broke.

  So she rested, but, soon cooling off, she suffered with the cold. Huddling down in the grass against a stone, and facing the east, she waited for dawn to break.

  The stars shut their eyes; the dark blue of sky turned gray; a pale light seemed to suffuse itself throughout the east. The valley lay asleep in shadow, the ridges awoke in soft gray mist. Far down over the vastness and openness of the plains appeared a ruddy glow. It warmed, it changed, it brightened. A sea of cloudy vapors, serene and motionless, changed to rose and pink; and a red curve slid up over the distant horizon. All that world of plain and cloud and valley and ridge quickened as with the soul of day, while it colored with the fire of sun. Red, radiant, glorious, the sun rose.

  It was the dispeller of gloom, the bringer of hope. Allie Lee, lost on the heights, held out her arms to the east and the sun, and she cried: "Oh, God! ...

  Oh, Neale; Neale!"

  When she turned to look down into the valley below she saw the white winding ribbon-like trail, and with her eyes she followed it to where the valley opened wide upon the plains.

  She must go down the slope to the cover of the trees and brush, and there work along eastward, ever with eye alert. She must meet with travelers within a few days, or perish of starvation, or again fall into the hands of the Sioux. Thirst she did not fear, for the recent heavy rain had left waterholes everywhere.

  With action her spirit lightened and the numbness of hands and feet left her.

  Time passed swiftly. The sun stood straight overhead before she realized she had walked miles; and it declined westward as she skulked like an Indian from tree to tree, from bush to bush, along the first bench of the valley floor.

  Night overtook her at the gateway of the valley. The vast monotony of the plains opened before her like a gulf. She feared it. She found a mound of earth with a wind-worn shelf in its side and overgrown with sage; and into this she crawled, curled in the sand and prayed and slept.

  Next day she took up a position a few hundred yards from the trail and followed its course, straining her eyes to see before and behind her, husbanding her strength with frequent rests, and drinking from every pool.

  That day, like its predecessor, passed swiftly by and left her well out upon the huge, billowy bosom of the plains. Again she sought a hiding-place, but none offered. There was no warmth in the sand, and the night wind arose, cold and moaning. She could not sleep. The whole empty world seemed haunted. Rustlings of the sage, seepings of the sand, gusts of the wind, the night, the loneliness, the faithless stars and a treacherous moon that sank, the wailing of wolves; all these things worked upon her mind and spirit until she lost her courage. She feared to shut her eyes or cover her face, for then she could not see the stealthy forms stalking her out of the gloom. She prayed no more to her star.

  "Oh, God, have you forsaken me?" she moaned.

  How relentless the grip of the endless hours! The black night held fast. And yet when she had grown nearly mad waiting for the dawn, it finally broke, ruddy and bright, with the sun, as always, a promise of better things to come.

  Allie found no water that day. She suffered from the lack of it, but hunger appeared to have left her. Her strength diminished, yet she walked and plodded miles on miles, always gazing both hopelessly and hopefully along the winding trail.

  At the close of the short and merciful day despair seized upon Allie's mind.

  With night came gloom and the memory of her mother's fate. She still clung to a strange faith that all would soon be well. But reason, fact, reality, these present things pointed to certain doo
m; starvation; death by thirst; or Indians! A thousand times she imagined she heard the fleet hoof-beating of many mustangs.

  Only the tiny pats of the broken sage leaves in the wind!

  It was a dark and cloudy night, warmer and threatening rain. She kept continually turning round and round to see what it was that came creeping up behind her so stealthily. How horrible was the dark; the blackness that showed invisible things! A wolf sent up his hungry, lonely cry. She did not fear this reality so much as she feared the intangible. If she lived through this night, there would be another like it to renew the horror. She would rather not live.

  Like a creature beset by foes all around she watched; she faced every little sound; she peered into the darkness, instinctively unable to give up, to end the struggle, to lie down and die.

  Neale seemed to be with her. He was alive. He was thinking of her at that very moment. He would expect her to overcome self and accident and calamity. He spoke to her out of the distance and his voice had the old power, stronger than fear, exhaustion, hopelessness, insanity. He could call her back from the grave.

  And so the night passed.

  In the morning, when the sun lit the level land, far down the trail westward gleamed a long white line of moving wagons.

  Allie uttered a wild and broken cry, in which all the torture shuddered out of her heart. Again she was saved! That black doubt was shame to her spirit. She prayed her thanksgiving, and vowed in her prayers that no adversity, however cruel, could ever again shake her faith or conquer her spirit.

  She was going on to meet Neale. Life was suddenly sweet again, unutterably full, blazing like the sunrise. He was there; somewhere to the eastward.

  She waited. The caravan was miles away. But it was no mirage, no trick of the wide plain! She watched. If the hours of night had been long, what were these hours of day with life and the chance of happiness ever advancing?

  At last she saw the scouts riding in front and alongside, and the plodding oxen.

  It was a large caravan, well equipped for defense.

  She left the little rise of ground and made for the trail. How uneven the walking! She staggered. Her legs were weak. But she gained the trail and stood there. She waved. They were not so far away. Surely she would be seen. She staggered on; waved again.

  There! The leading scout had halted. He pointed. Other riders crowded around him. The caravan came to a stop.

  Allie heard voices. She waved her arms and tried to run. A scout dismounted, advanced to meet her, rifle ready. The caravan feared a Sioux trick. Allie described a lean, gray old man; now he was rapidly striding toward her.

  "It's a white gal!" she heard him shout.

  Others ran forward as she staggered to meet them.

  "I'm alone; I'm; lost!" she faltered.

  "A white gal in Injun dress," said another.

  And then kind hands were outstretched to her.

  "I'm; running; away ... Indians!" panted Allie.

  "Whar?" asked the lean old scout.

  "Over the ridges; miles; twenty miles; more. They had me. I got; away ... four; three days ago."

  The group around Allie opened to admit another man.

  "Who's this; who's this?" called a quick voice, soft and liquid, yet with a quality of steel in it.

  Allie had heard that voice. She saw a tall man in long black coat and wide black hat and flowered vest and flowing tie. Her heart contracted.

  "ALLIE!" rang the voice.

  She looked up to see a dark, handsome face; a Spanish face with almond eyes, sloe-black and magnetic; a face that suddenly blazed.

  She recognized the man with whom her mother had run away; the man she had long believed her father; the adventurer Durade! Then she fainted.

  Chapter 14

  Allie recovered to find herself lying in a canvas-covered wagon, and being worked over by several sympathetic women. She did not see Durade. But she knew she had not been mistaken. The wagon was rolling along as fast as oxen could travel. Evidently the caravan had been alarmed by the proximity of the Sioux and was making as much progress as possible.

  Allie did not answer many questions. She drank thirstily, but she was too exhausted to eat.

  "Whose caravan?" was the only query she made.

  "Durade's," replied one woman, and it was evident from the way she spoke that this was a man of consequence.

  As Allie lay there, slowly succumbing to weariness and drowsiness, she thought of the irony of fate that had let her escape the Sioux only to fall into the hands of Durade. Still, there was hope. Durade was traveling toward the east.

  Out there somewhere he would meet Neale, and then blood would be spilled. She had always regarded Durade strangely, wondering that in spite of his kindness to her she could not really care for him. She understood now and hated him passionately. And if there was any one she feared it was Durade. Allie lost herself in the past, seeing the stream of mixed humanity that passed through

  Durade's gambling-halls. No doubt he was on his way, first to search for her mother, and secondly, to profit by the building of the railroad. But he would never find her mother. Allie was glad.

  At length she fell asleep and slept long, then dozed at intervals. The caravan halted. Allie heard the familiar sing-song calls to the oxen. Soon all was bustle about her, and this fully awakened her. In a moment or more she must expect to be face to face with Durade. What should she tell him? How much should she let him know? Not one word about her mother! He would be less afraid of her if he found out that the mother was dead. Durade had always feared Allie's mother.

  The women with whom Allie had ridden helped her out of the wagon, and, finding her too weak to stand, they made a bed for her on the ground. The camp site appeared to be just the same as any other part of that monotonous plain-land, but evidently there was a stream or water-hole near by. Allie saw her companions were the only women in the caravan; they were plain persons, blunt, yet kind, used to hard, honest work, and probably wives of defenders of the wagon-train.

  They could not conceal their curiosity in regard to Allie, nor their wonder. She had heard them whispering together whenever they came near.

  Presently Allie saw Durade. He was approaching. How well she remembered him! Yet the lapse of time and the change between her childhood and the present seemed incalculable. He spoke to the women, motioning in her direction. His bearing and action were that of a man of education, and a gentleman. Yet he looked what her mother had called him; a broken man of class, an adventurer, a victim of base passions.

  He came and knelt by Allie. "How are you now?" he asked. His voice was gentle and courteous, different from that of the other men.

  "I can't stand up," replied Allie.

  "Are you hurt?"

  "No; only worn out."

  "You escaped from Indians?"

  "Yes; a tribe of Sioux. They intended to keep me captive. But a young squaw freed me; led me off."

  He paused as if it was an effort to speak, and a long, thin, shapely hand went to his throat. "Your mother?" he asked, hoarsely. Suddenly his face had turned white.

  Allie gazed straight into his eyes, with wonder, pain, suspicion. "My mother!

  I've not seen her for nearly two years."

  "My God! What happened? You lost her? You became separated? ... Indians; bandits?

  ... Tell me!"

  "I have; no; more to tell," said Allie. His pain revived her own. She pitied

  Durade. He had changed; aged; there were lines in his face that were new to her.

  "I spent a year in and around Ogden, searching," went on Durade. "Tell me; more."

  "No!" cried Allie.

  "Do you know, then?" he asked, very low.

  "I'm not your daughter; and mother ran off from you. Yes, I know that," replied

  Allie, bitterly.

  "But I brought you up; took care of you; helped educate you," protested Durade, with agitation. "You were my own child, I thought. I was always kind to you. I; I loved the mother in
the daughter."

  "Yes, I know.... But you were wicked."

  "If you won't tell me it must mean she's still alive," he replied, swiftly.

  "She's not dead; ... I'll find her. I'll make her come back to me; or kill her

  ... After all these years; to leave me!"

  He seemed wrestling with mingled emotions. The man was proud and strong, but defeat in life, in the crowning passion of life, showed in his white face. The evil in him was not manifest then.

  "Where have you lived all this time?" he asked, presently.

  "Back in the hills with a trapper."

  "You have grown. When I saw you I thought it was the ghost of your mother. You are just as she was when we met."

  He seemed lost in sad retrospection. Allie saw streaks of gray in his once jet-black hair.

  "What will you do?" asked Allie.

  He was startled. The softness left him. A blaze seemed to leap under skin and eyes, and suddenly he was different; he was Durade the gambler, instinct with the lust of gold and life.

  "Your mother left me for YOU," he said, with terrible bitterness. "And the game has played you into my hands. I'll keep you. I'll hold you to get even with her."

  Allie felt stir in her the fear she had had of him in her childhood when she disobeyed. "But you can't keep me against my will; not among people we'll meet eastward."

  "I can, and I will!" he declared, softly, but implacably. "We're not going East.

  We'll be in rougher places than the gold-camps of California. There's no law but gold and guns out here ... But; if you speak of me to any one may your God have mercy on you!"

  The blaze of him betrayed the Spaniard. He meant more than dishonor, torture, and death. The evil in him was rampant. The love that had been the only good in an abnormal and disordered mind had turned to hate.

  Allie knew him. He was the first person who had ever dominated her through sheer force of will. Unless she abided by his command her fate would be worse than if she had stayed captive among the Sioux. This man was not an American. His years among men of later mold had not changed the Old World cruelty of his nature. She recognized the fact in utter despair. She had not strength left to keep her eyes open.