Zane Grey (30 page)

A thousand thoughts flitted through Hare's mind—a steady stream of
questions and answers. Why did Snap look anxiously along the oasis
trail? It was not that he feared his father or his brothers alone, but
there was always the menace of the Navajos. Why was Holderness in no
hurry to leave Silver Cup? Why did he lag at the spring when, if he
expected riders from his ranch, he could have gone on to meet them,
obviously saving time and putting greater distance between him and the
men he had wronged? Was it utter fearlessness or only a deep-played
game? Holderness and his rustlers, all except the gloomy Naab, were
blind to the peril that lay beyond the divide. How soon would August
Naab strike out on the White Sage trail? Would he come alone? Whether
he came alone or at the head of his hard-riding Navajos he would arrive
too late. Holderness's life was not worth a pinch of the ashes he
flecked so carelessly from his cigarette. Snap Naab's gloom, his long
stride, his nervous hand always on or near the butt of his Colt, spoke
the keenness of his desert instinct. For him the sun had arisen red over
the red wall. Had he harmed Mescal? Why did he keep the cabin door shut
and guard it so closely?

While Hare watched and thought the hours sped by. Holderness lounged
about and Snap kept silent guard. The rustlers smoked, slept, and moved
about; the day waned, and the shadow of the cliff crept over the cabin.
To Hare the time had been as a moment; he was amazed to find the sun had
gone down behind Coconina. If August Naab had left the oasis at dawn he
must now be near the divide, unless he had been delayed by a wind-storm
at the strip of sand. Hare longed to see the roan charger come up over
the crest; he longed to see a file of Navajos, plumes waving, dark
mustangs gleaming in the red light, sweep down the stony ridge toward the
cedars. "If they come," he whispered, "I'll kill Holderness and Snap and
any man who tries to open that cabin door."

So he waited in tense watchfulness, his gaze alternating between the wavy
line of the divide and the camp glade. Out in the valley it was still
daylight, but under the cliff twilight had fallen. All day Hare had
strained his ears to hear the talk of the rustlers, and it now occurred
to him that if he climbed down through the split in the cliff to the
bench where Dave and George had always hidden to watch the spring he
would be just above the camp. This descent involved risk, but since it
would enable him to see the cabin door when darkness set in, he decided
to venture. The moment was propitious, for the rustlers were bustling
around, cooking dinner, unrolling blankets, and moving to and fro from
spring and corral. Hare crawled back a few yards and along the cliff
until he reached the split. It was a narrow steep crack which he well
remembered. Going down was attended with two dangers—losing his hold,
and the possible rattling of stones. Face foremost he slipped downward
with the gliding, sinuous movement of a snake, and reaching the grassy
bench he lay quiet. Jesting voices and loud laughter from below
reassured him. He had not been heard. His new position afforded every
chance to see and hear, and also gave means of rapid, noiseless retreat
along the bench to the cedars. Lying flat he crawled stealthily to the
bushy fringe of the bench.

A bright fire blazed under the cliff. Men were moving and laughing. The
cabin door was open. Mescal stood leaning back from Snap Naab,
struggling to release her hands.

"Let me untie them, I say," growled Snap.

Mescal tore loose from him and stepped back. Her hands were bound before
her, and twisting them outward, she warded him off. Her dishevelled hair
almost hid her dark eyes. They burned in a level glance of hate and
defiance. She was a little lioness, quivering with fiery life, fight in
every line of her form.

"All right, don't eat then—starve!" said Snap.

"I'll starve before I eat what you give me."

The rustlers laughed. Holderness blew out a puff of smoke and smiled.
Snap glowered upon Mescal and then upon his amiable companions. One of
them, a ruddyfaced fellow, walked toward Mescal.

"Cool down, Snap, cool down," he said. "We're not goin' to stand for a
girl starvin'. She ain't eat a bite yet. Here, Miss, let me untie your
hands—there. . . . Say! Naab, d—n you, her wrists are black an'
blue!"

"Look out! Your gun!" yelled Snap.

With a swift movement Mescal snatched the man's Colt from its holster and
was raising it when he grasped her arm. She winced and dropped the
weapon.

"You little Indian devil!" exclaimed the rustler, in a rapt admiration.
"Sorry to hurt you, an' more'n sorry to spoil your aim. Thet wasn't kind
to throw my own gun on me, jest after I'd played the gentleman, now, was
it?"

"I didn't—intend—to shoot—you," panted Mescal.

"Naab, if this's your Mormon kind of wife—excuse me! Though I ain't
denyin' she's the sassiest an' sweetest little cat I ever seen!"

"We Mormons don't talk about our women or hear any talk," returned Snap,
a dancing fury in his pale eyes. "You're from Nebraska?"

"Yep, jest a plain Nebraska rustler, cattle-thief, an' all round no-good
customer, though I ain't taken to houndin' women yet."

For answer Snap Naab's right hand slowly curved upward before him and
stopped taut and inflexible, while his strange eyes seemed to shoot
sparks.

"See here, Naab, why do you want to throw a gun on me?" asked the
rustler, coolly. "Haven't you shot enough of your friends yet? I reckon
I've no right to interfere in your affairs. I was only protestin'
friendly like, for the little lady. She's game, an' she's called your
hand. An' it's not a straight hand. Thet's all, an' d—n if I care
whether you are a Mormon or not. I'll bet a hoss Holderness will back me
up."

"Snap, he's right," put in Holderness, smoothly. "You needn't be so
touchy about Mescal. She's showed what little use she's got for you. If
you must rope her around like you do a mustang, be easy about it. Let's
have supper. Now, Mescal, you sit here on the bench and behave yourself.
I don't want you shooting up my camp."

Snap turned sullenly aside while Holderness seated Mescal near the door
and fetched her food and drink. The rustlers squatted round the
camp-fire, and conversation ceased in the business of the meal.

To Hare the scene had brought a storm of emotions. Joy at the sight of
Mescal, blessed relief to see her unscathed, pride in her fighting
spirit—these came side by side with gratitude to the kind Nebraska
rustler, strange deepening insight into Holderness's game,
unextinguishable white-hot hatred of Snap Naab. And binding all was the
ever-mounting will to rescue Mescal, which was held in check by an
inexorable judgment; he must continue to wait. And he did wait with
blind faith in the something to be, keeping ever in mind the last resort-
-the rifle he clutched with eager hands. Meanwhile the darkness
descended, the fire sent forth a brighter blaze, and the rustlers
finished their supper. Mescal arose and stepped across the threshold of
the cabin door.

"Hold on!" ordered Snap, as he approached with swift strides. "Stick out
your hands!"

Some of the rustlers grumbled; and one blurted out: "Aw no, Snap, don't
tie her up—no!"

"Who says no?" hissed the Mormon, with snapping teeth. As he wheeled
upon them his Colt seemed to leap forward, and suddenly quivered at
arm's-length, gleaming in the ruddy fire-rays.

Holderness laughed in the muzzle of the weapon. "Go ahead, Snap, tie up
your lady love. What a tame little wife she's going to make you! Tie her
up, but do it without hurting her."

The rustlers growled or laughed at their leader's order. Snap turned to
his task. Mescal stood in the doorway and shrinkingly extended her
clasped hands. Holderness whirled to the fire with a look which betrayed
his game. Snap bound Mescal's hands securely, thrust her inside the
cabin, and after hesitating for a long moment, finally shut the door.

"It's funny about a woman, now, ain't it?" said Nebraska, confidentially,
to a companion. "One minnit she'll snatch you bald-headed; the next,
she'll melt in your mouth like sugar. An' I'll be darned if the
changeablest one ain't the kind to hold a feller longest. But it's h—l.
I was married onct. Not any more for mine! A pal I had used to say thet
whiskey riled him, thet rattlesnake pisen het up his blood some, but it
took a woman to make him plumb bad. D—n if it ain't so. When there's a
woman around there's somethin' allus comin' off."

But the strain, instead of relaxing, became portentous. Holderness
suddenly showed he was ill at ease; he appeared to be expecting arrivals
from the direction of Seeping Springs. Snap Naab leaned against the side
of the door, his narrow gaze cunningly studying the rustlers before him.
More than any other he had caught a foreshadowing. Like the desert-hawk
he could see afar. Suddenly he pressed back against the door, half
opening it while he faced the men.

"Stop!" commanded Holderness. The change in his voice was as if it had
come from another man. "You don't go in there!"

"I'm going to take the girl and ride to White Sage," replied Naab, in
slow deliberation.

"Bah! You say that only for the excuse to get into the cabin with her.
You tried it last night and I blocked you. Shut the door, Naab, or
something'll happen."

"There's more going to happen than ever you think of, Holderness. Don't
interfere now, I'm going."

"Well, go ahead—but you won't take the girl!"

Snap Naab swung off the step, slamming the door behind him.

"So-ho!" he exclaimed, sneeringly. "That's why you've made me foreman,
eh?" His claw-like hand moved almost imperceptibly upward while his pale
eyes strove to pierce the strength behind Holderness's effrontery. The
rustler chief had a trump card to play; one that showed in his sardonic
smile.

"Naab, you don't get the girl."

"Maybe you'll get her?" hissed Snap.

"I always intended to."

Surely never before had passion driven Snap's hand to such speed. His
Colt gleamed in the camp-fire light. Click! Click! Click! The hammer
fell upon empty chambers.

"H—l!" he shrieked.

Holderness laughed sarcastically.

"That's where you're going!" he cried. "Here's to Naab's trick with a
gun— Bah!" And he shot his foreman through the heart.

Snap plunged upon his face. His hands beat the ground like the shuffling
wings of a wounded partridge. His fingers gripped the dust, spread
convulsively, straightened, and sank limp.

Holderness called through the door of the cabin. "Mescal, I've rid you
of your would-be husband. Cheer-up!" Then, pointing to the fallen man,
he said to the nearest bystanders: "Some of you drag that out for the
coyotes."

The first fellow who bent over Snap happened to be the Nebraska rustler,
and he curiously opened the breech of the six-shooter he picked up. "No
shells!" he said. He pulled Snap's second Colt from his belt, and
unbreeched that. "No shells! Well, d—n me!" He surveyed the group of
grim men, not one of whom had any reply.

Holderness again laughed harshly, and turning to the cabin, he fastened
the door with a lasso.

It was a long time before Hare recovered from the starting revelation of
the plot which had put Mescal into Holderness's power. Bad as Snap Naab
had been he would have married her, and such a fate was infinitely
preferable to the one that now menaced her. Hare changed his position
and settled himself to watch and wait out the night. Every hour
Holderness and his men tarried at Silver Cup hastened their approaching
doom. Hare's strange prescience of the fatality that overshadowed these
men had received its first verification in the sudden taking off of Snap
Naab. The deep-scheming Holderness, confident that his strong band meant
sure protection, sat and smoked and smiled beside the camp-fire. He had
not caught even a hint of Snap Naab's suggested warning. Yet somewhere
out on the oasis trail rode a man who, once turned from the saving of
life to the lust to kill, would be as immutable as death itself. Behind
him waited a troop of Navajos, swift as eagles, merciless as wolves,
desert warriors with the sunheated blood of generations in their veins.
As Hare waited and watched with all his inner being cold, he could almost
feel pity for Holderness. His doom was close. Twice, when the rustler
chief had sauntered nearer to the cabin door, as if to enter, Hare had
covered him with the rifle, waiting, waiting for the step upon the
threshold. But Holderness always checked himself in time, and Hare's
finger eased its pressure upon the trigger.

The night closed in black; the clouded sky gave forth no starlight; the
wind rose and moaned through the cedars. One by one the rustlers rolled
in their blankets and all dropped into slumber while the camp-fire slowly
burned down. The night hours wore on to the soft wail of the breeze and
the wild notes of far-off trailing coyotes.

Hare, watching sleeplessly, saw one of the prone figures stir. The man
raised himself very cautiously; he glanced at his companions, and looked
long at Holderness, who lay squarely in the dimming light. Then he
softly lowered himself. Hare wondered what the rustler meant to do.
Presently he again lifted his head and turned it as if listening
intently. His companions were motionless in deep-breathing sleep.
Gently he slipped aside his blankets and began to rise. He was slow and
guarded of movement; it took him long to stand erect. He stepped between
the rustlers with stockinged feet which were as noiseless as an Indian's,
and he went toward the cabin door.

He softly edged round the sleeping Holderness, showing a glinting
six-shooter in his hand. Hare's resolve to kill him before he reached
the door was checked. What did it mean, this rustler's stealthy
movements, his passing by Holderness with his drawn weapon! Again doom
hovered over the rustler chief. If he stirred!—Hare knew instantly that
this softly stepping man was a Mormon; he was true to Snap Naab, to the
woman pledged in his creed. He meant to free Mescal.