Zane Grey (29 page)

August Naab walked swiftly from the circle of light into the darkness;
his heavy steps sounded on the porch, and in the hallway. His three sons
went toward their cabins with bowed heads and silent tongues. Eschtah
folded his blanket about him and stalked off into the gloom of the grove,
followed by his warriors.

Hare remained in the shadow of the cottonwood where he had stood
unnoticed. He had not moved a muscle since he had heard August Naab's
declaration. That one word of Naab's intention, "Alone!" had arrested
him. For it had struck into his heart and mind. It had paralyzed him
with the revelation it brought; for Hare now knew as he had never known
anything before, that he would forestall August Naab, avenge the death of
Dave, and kill the rustler Holderness. Through blinding shock he passed
slowly into cold acceptance of his heritage from the desert.

The two long years of his desert training were as an open page to Hare's
unveiled eyes. The life he owed to August Naab, the strength built up by
the old man's knowledge of the healing power of plateau and range—these
lay in a long curve between the day Naab had lifted him out of the White
Sage trail and this day of the Mormon's extremity. A long curve with
Holderness's insulting blow at the beginning, his murder of a beloved
friend at the end! For Hare remembered the blow, and never would he
forget Dave's last words. Yet unforgetable as these were, it was duty
rather than revenge that called him. This was August Naab's hour of
need. Hare knew himself to be the tool of inscrutable fate; he was the
one to fight the old desert-scarred Mormon's battle. Hare recalled how
humbly he had expressed his gratitude to Naab, and the apparent
impossibility of ever repaying him, and then Naab's reply: "Lad, you can
never tell how one man may repay another." Hare could pay his own debt
and that of the many wanderers who had drifted across the sands to find a
home with the Mormon. These men stirred in their graves, and from out
the shadow of the cliff whispered the voice of Mescal's nameless father:
"Is there no one to rise up for this old hero of the desert?"

Softly Hare slipped into his room. Putting on coat and belt and catching
up his rifle he stole out again stealthily, like an Indian. In the
darkness of the wagon-shed he felt for his saddle, and finding it, he
groped with eager hands for the grain-box; raising the lid he filled a
measure with grain, and emptied it into his saddle-bag. Then lifting the
saddle he carried it out of the yard, through the gate and across the
lane to the corrals. The wilder mustangs in the far corral began to kick
and snort, and those in the corral where Black Bolly was kept trooped
noisily to the bars. Bolly whinnied and thrust her black muzzle over the
fence. Hare placed a caressing hand on her while he waited listening and
watching. It was not unusual for the mustangs to get restless at any
time, and Hare was confident that this would pass without investigation.

Gradually the restless stampings and suspicious snortings ceased, and
Hare, letting down the bars, led Bolly out into the lane. It was the
work of a moment to saddle her; his bridle hung where he always kept it,
on the pommel, and with nimble fingers he shortened the several straps to
fit Bolly's head, and slipped the bit between her teeth. Then he put up
the bars of the gate.

Before mounting he stood a moment thinking coolly, deliberately numbering
the several necessities he must not forget—grain for Bolly, food for
himself, his Colt and Winchester, cartridges, canteen, matches, knife.
He inserted a hand into one of his saddle-bags expecting to find some
strips of meat. The bag was empty. He felt in the other one, and under
the grain he found what he sought. The canteen lay in the coil of his
lasso tied to the saddle, and its heavy canvas covering was damp to his
touch. With that he thrust the long Winchester into its saddle-sheath,
and swung his leg over the mustang.

The house of the Naabs was dark and still. The dying council-fire cast
flickering shadows under the black cottonwoods where the Navajos slept.
The faint breeze that rustled the leaves brought the low sullen roar of
the river.

Hare guided Bolly into the thick dust of the lane, laid the bridle
loosely on her neck for her to choose the trail, and silently rode out
into the lonely desert night.

HARE, listening breathlessly, rode on toward the gateway of the cliffs,
and when he had passed the corner of the wall he sighed in relief.
Spurring Bolly into a trot he rode forward with a strange elation. He
had slipped out of the oasis unheard, and it would be morning before
August Naab discovered his absence, perhaps longer before he divined his
purpose. Then Hare would have a long start. He thrilled with something
akin to fear when he pictured the old man's rage, and wondered what
change it would make in his plans. Hare saw in mind Naab and his sons,
and the Navajos sweeping in pursuit to save him from the rustlers.

But the future must take care of itself, and he addressed all the
faculties at his command to cool consideration of the present. The strip
of sand under the Blue Star had to be crossed at night—a feat which even
the Navajos did not have to their credit. Yet Hare had no shrinking; he
had no doubt; he must go on. As he had been drawn to the Painted Desert
by a voiceless call, so now he was urged forward by something nameless.

In the blackness of the night it seemed as if he were riding through a
vaulted hall swept by a current of air. The night had turned cold, the
stars had brightened icily, the rumble of the river had died away when
Bolly's ringing trot suddenly changed to a noiseless floundering walk.
She had come upon the sand. Hare saw the Blue Star in the cliff, and
once more loosed the rein on Bolly's neck. She stopped and champed her
bit, and turned her black head to him as if to intimate that she wanted
the guidance of a sure arm. But as it was not forthcoming she stepped
onward into the yielding sand.

With hands resting idly on the pommel Hare sat at ease in the saddle.
The billowy dunes reflected the pale starlight and fell away from him to
darken in obscurity. So long as the Blue Star remained in sight he kept
his sense of direction; when it had disappeared he felt himself lost.
Bolly's course seemed as crooked as the jagged outline of the cliffs.
She climbed straight up little knolls, descended them at an angle, turned
sharply at wind-washed gullies, made winding detours, zigzagged levels
that shone like a polished floor; and at last (so it seemed to Hare) she
doubled back on her trail. The black cliff receded over the waves of
sand; the stars changed positions, travelled round in the blue dome, and
the few that he knew finally sank below the horizon. Bolly never lagged;
she was like the homeward-bound horse, indifferent to direction because
sure of it, eager to finish the journey because now it was short. Hare
was glad though not surprised when she snorted and cracked her iron-shod
hoof on a stone at the edge of the sand. He smiled with tightening lips
as he rode into the shadow of a rock which he recognized. Bolly had
crossed the treacherous belt of dunes and washes and had struck the trail
on the other side.

The long level of wind-carved rocks under the cliffs, the ridges of the
desert, the miles of slow ascent up to the rough divide, the gradual
descent to the cedars—these stretches of his journey took the night
hours and ended with the brightening gray in the east. Within a mile of
Silver Cup Spring Hare dismounted, to tie folded pads of buckskin on
Bolly's hoofs. When her feet were muffled, he cautiously advanced on the
trail for the matter of a hundred rods or more; then sheered off to the
right into the cedars. He led Bolly slowly, without rattling a stone or
snapping a twig, and stopped every few paces to listen. There was no
sound other than the wind in the cedars. Presently, with a gasp, he
caught the dull gleam of a burned-out camp-fire. Then his movements
became as guarded, as noiseless as those of a scouting Indian. The dawn
broke over the red wall as he gained the trail beyond the spring.

He skirted the curve of the valley and led Bolly a little way up the
wooded slope to a dense thicket of aspens in a hollow. This thicket
encircled a patch of grass. Hare pressed the lithe aspens aside to admit
Bolly and left her there free. He drew his rifle from its sheath and,
after assuring himself that the mustang could not be seen or heard from
below, he bent his steps diagonally up the slope.

Every foot of this ground he knew, and he climbed swiftly until he struck
the mountain trail. Then, descending, he entered the cedars. At last he
reached a point directly above the cliff-camp where he had spent so many
days, and this he knew overhung the cabin built by Holderness. He stole
down from tree to tree and slipped from thicket to thicket. The sun, red
as blood, raised a bright crescent over the red wall; the soft mists of
the valley began to glow and move; cattle were working in toward the
spring. Never brushing a branch, never dislodging a stone, Hare
descended the slope, his eyes keener, his ears sharper with every step.
Soon the edge of the gray stone cliff below shut out the lower level of
cedars. While resting he listened. Then he marked his course down the
last bit of slanting ground to the cliff bench which faced the valley.
This space was open, rough with crumbling rock and dead cedar brush—a
difficult place to cross without sound. Deliberate in his choice of
steps, very slow in moving, Hare went on with a stealth which satisfied
even his intent ear. When the wide gray strip of stone drew slowly into
the circle of his downcast gaze he sank to the ground with a slight
trembling in all his limbs. There was a thick bush on the edge of the
cliff; in three steps he could reach it and, unseen himself, look down
upon the camp.

A little cloud or smoke rose lazily and capped a slender column of blue.
Sounds were wafted softly upward, the low voices of men in conversation,
a merry whistle, and then the humming of a tune. Hare's mouth was dry
and his temples throbbed as he asked himself what it was best to do. The
answer came instantaneously as though it had lain just below the level of
his conscious thought. "I'll watch till Holderness walks out into sight,
jump up with a yell when he comes, give him time to see me, to draw his
gun—then kill him!"

Hare slipped to the bush, drew in a deep long breath that stilled his
agitation, and peered over the cliff. The crude shingles of the cabin
first rose into sight; then beyond he saw the corral with a number of
shaggy mustangs and a great gray horse. Hare stared blankly. As in a
dream he saw the proud arch of a splendid neck, the graceful wave of a
white-crested mane.

"Silvermane! . . . My God!" he gasped, suddenly. "They caught him—after
all!"

He fell backward upon the cliff and lay there with hands clinching his
rifle, shudderingly conscious of a blow, trying to comprehend its
meaning.

"Silvermane! . . . they caught him—after all!" he kept repeating; then in
a flash of agonized understanding he whispered: "Mescal . . . Mescal!"

He rolled upon his face, shutting out the blue sky; his body stretched
stiff as a bent spring released from its compress, and his nails dented
the stock of his rifle. Then this rigidity softened to sobs that shook
him from head to foot. He sat up, haggard and wild-eyed.

Silvermane had been captured, probably by rustlers waiting at the western
edge of the sand-strip. Mescal had fallen into the hands of Snap Naab.
But Mescal was surely alive and Snap was there to be killed; his long
career of unrestrained cruelty was in its last day—something told Hare
that this thing must and should be. The stern deliberation of his intent
to kill Holderness, the passion of his purpose to pay his debt to August
Naab, were as nothing compared to the gathering might of this new
resolve; suddenly he felt free and strong as an untamed lion broken free
from his captors.

From the cover of the bush he peered again over the cliff. The cabin
with its closed door facing him was scarcely two hundred feet down from
his hiding-place. One of the rustlers sang as he bent over the
camp-fire and raked the coals around the pots; others lounged on a bench
waiting for breakfast; some rolled out of their blankets; they stretched
and yawned, and pulling on their boots made for the spring. The last man
to rise was Snap Naab, and he had slept with his head on the threshold of
the door. Evidently Snap had made Mescal a prisoner in the cabin, and no
one could go in or out without stepping upon him. The rustler-foreman of
Holderness's company had slept with his belt containing two Colts, nor
had he removed his boots. Hare noted these details with grim humor. Now
the tall Holderness, face shining, gold-red beard agleam, rounded the
cabin whistling. Hare watched the rustlers sit down to breakfast, and
here and there caught a loud-spoken word, and marked their leisurely
care-free manner. Snap Naab took up a pan of food and a cup of coffee,
carried them into the cabin, and came out, shutting the door.

After breakfast most of the rustlers set themselves to their various
tasks. Hare watched them with the eyes of a lynx watching deer. Several
men were arranging articles for packing, and their actions were slow to
the point of laziness; others trooped down toward the corral. Holderness
rolled a cigarette and stooped over the campfire to reach a burning
stick. Snap Naab stalked to and fro before the door of the cabin. He
alone of the rustler's band showed restlessness, and more than once he
glanced up the trail that led over the divide toward his father's oasis.
Holderness sent expectant glances in the other direction toward Seeping
Springs. Once his clear voice rang out:

"I tell you, Naab, there's no hurry. We'll ride in tomorrow."