Zane Grey (32 page)

"Mormons, this is Dene's spy, the man who killed Holderness!"

The listeners burst into the short stern shout of men proclaiming a
leader in war.

"What's the game?" demanded Hare.

"A fair trial for the rustlers, then a rope," replied John Caldwell. The
low ominous murmur swelled through the crowd again.

"There are two men here who have befriended me. I won't see them
hanged."

"Pick them out!" A strange ripple of emotion made a fleeting break in
John Caldwell's hard face.

Hare eyed the prisoners.

"Nebraska, step out here," said he.

"I reckon you're mistaken," replied the rustler, his blue eyes intently
on Hare. "I never seen you before. An' I ain't the kind of a feller to
cheat the man you mean."

"I saw you untie the girl's hands."

"You did? Well, d—n me!"

"Nebraska, if I save your life will you quit rustling cattle? You
weren't cut out for a thief."

"Will I? D—n me! I'll be straight an' decent. I'll take a job ridin'
for you, stranger, an' prove it."

"Cut him loose from the others," said Hare. He scrutinized the line of
rustlers. Several were masked in black. "Take off those masks!"

"No! Those men go to their graves masked." Again the strange twinge of
pain crossed John Caldwell's face.

"Ah, I see," exclaimed Hare. Then quickly: "I couldn't recognize the
other man anyhow; I don't know him. But Mescal can tell. He saved her
and I'll save him. But how?"

Every rustler, except the masked ones standing stern and silent, clamored
that he was the one to be saved.

"Hurry back home," said Caldwell in Hare's ear "Tell them to fetch
Mescal. Find out and hurry back. Time presses. The Mormons are
wavering. You've got only a few minutes."

Hare slipped out of the crowd, sped up the road, jumped the fence on the
run, and burst in upon the Bishop and his family.

"No danger—don't be alarmed—all's well," he panted. "The rustlers are
captured. I want Mescal. Quick! Where is she? Fetch her, somebody."

One of the women glided from the room. Hare caught the clicking of a
latch, the closing of a door, hollow footfalls descending on stone, and
dying away under the cottage. They rose again, ending in swiftly
pattering footsteps. Like a whirlwind Mescal came through the hall,
black hair flying, dark eyes beaming.

"My darling!" Oblivious of the Mormons he swung her up and held her in
his arms. "Mescal! Mescal!"

When he raised his face from the tumbling mass of her black hair, the
Bishop and his family had left the room.

"Listen, Mescal. Be calm. I'm safe. The rustlers are prisoners. One
of them released you from Holderness. Tell me which one?"

"I don't know," replied Mescal. "I've tried to think. I didn't see his
face; I can't remember his voice."

"Think! Think! He'll be hanged if you don't recall something to identify
him. He deserves a chance. Holderness's crowd are thieves, murderers.
But two were not all bad. That showed the night you were at Silver Cup.
I saved Nebraska—"

"Were you at Silver Cup? Jack!"

"Hush! don't interrupt me. We must save this man who saved you. Think!
Mescal! Think!"

"Oh! I can't. What—how shall I remember?"

"Something about him. Think of his coat, his sleeve. You must remember
something. Did you see his hands?"

"Yes, I did—when he was loosing the cords," said Mescal, eagerly.
"Long, strong fingers. I felt them too. He has a sharp rough wart on
one hand, I don't know which. He wears a leather wristband."

"That's enough!" Hare bounded out upon the garden walk and raced back to
the crowded square. The uneasy circle stirred and opened for him to
enter. He stumbled over a pile of lassoes which had not been there when
he left. The stony Mormons waited; the rustlers coughed and shifted
their feet. John Caldwell turned a gray face. Hare bent over the three
dead rustlers lying with Holderness, and after a moment of anxious
scrutiny he rose to confront the line of prisoners.

"Hold out your hands."

One by one they complied. The sixth rustler in the line, a tall fellow,
completely masked, refused to do as he was bidden. Twice Hare spoke.
The rustler twisted his bound hands under his coat.

"Let's see them," said Hare, quickly. He grasped the fellow's arm and
received a violent push that almost knocked him over. Grappling with the
rustler, he pulled up the bound hands, in spite of fierce resistance, and
there were the long fingers, the sharp wart, the laced wristband.
"Here's my man!" he said.

"No," hoarsely mumbled the rustler. The perspiration ran down his corded
neck; his breast heaved convulsively.

"You fool!" cried Hare, dumfounded and resentful. "I recognized you.
Would you rather hang than live? What's your secret?"

He snatched off the black mask. The Bishop's eldest son stood revealed.

"Good God!" cried Hare, recoiling from that convulsed face.

"Brother! Oh! I feared this," groaned John Caldwell.

The rustlers broke out into curses and harsh laughter.

"— — you Mormons! See him! Paul Caldwell! Son of a Bishop! Thought he
was shepherdin' sheep?"

"D—n you, Hare!" shouted the guilty Mormon, in passionate fury and shame.
"Why didn't you hang me? Why didn't you bury me unknown?"

"Caldwell! I can't believe it," cried Hare, slowly coming to himself.
"But you don't hang. Here, come out of the crowd. Make way, men!"

The silent crowd of Mormons with lowered and averted eyes made passage
for Hare and Caldwell. Then cold, stern voices in sharp questions and
orders went on with the grim trial. Leading the bowed and stricken
Mormon, Hare drew off to the side of the town-hall and turned his back
upon the crowd. The constant trampling of many feet, the harsh medley of
many voices swelled into one dreadful sound. It passed away, and a long
hush followed. But this in turn was suddenly broken by an outcry:

"The Navajos! The Navajos!"

Hare thrilled at that cry and his glance turned to the eastern end of the
village road where a column of mounted Indians, four abreast, was riding
toward the square.

"Naab and his Indians," shouted Hare. "Naab and his Indians! No fear!"
His call was timely, for the aroused Mormons, ignorant of Naab's pursuit,
fearful of hostile Navajos, were handling their guns ominously.

But there came a cry of recognition—"August Naab!"

Onward came the band, Naab in the lead on his spotted roan. The mustangs
were spent and lashed with foam. Naab reined in his charger and the
keen-eyed Navajos closed in behind him. The old Mormon's eagle glance
passed over the dark forms dangling from the cottonwoods to the files of
waiting men.

"Where is he?"

"There!" answered John Caldwell, pointing to the body of Holderness.

"Who robbed me of my vengeance? Who killed the rustler?" Naab's
stentorian voice rolled over the listening multitude. In it was a hunger
of thwarted hate that held men mute. He bent a downward gaze at the dead
Holderness as if to make sure of the ghastly reality. Then he seemed to
rise in his saddle, and his broad chest to expand. "I know—I saw it
all—blind I was not to believe my own eyes! Where is he? Where is
Hare?"

Some one pointed Hare out. Naab swung from his saddle and scattered the
men before him as if they had been sheep. His shaggy gray head and
massive shoulders towered above the tallest there.

Hare felt again a cold sense of fear. He grew weak in all his being. He
reeled when the gray shaggy giant laid a huge hand on his shoulder and
with one pull dragged him close. Was this his kind Mormon benefactor,
this man with the awful eyes?

"You killed Holderness?" roared Naab.

"Yes," whispered Hare.

"You heard me say I'd go alone? You forestalled me? You took upon
yourself my work? . . . Speak."

"I—did."

"By what right?"

"My debt—duty—your family—Dave!"

"Boy! Boy! You've robbed me." Naab waved his arm from the gaping crowd to
the swinging rustlers. "You've led these white-livered Mormons to do my
work. How can I avenge my sons—seven sons?"

His was the rage of the old desert-lion. He loosed Hare and strode in
magnificent wrath over Holderness and raised his brawny fists.

"Eighteen years I prayed for wicked men," he rolled out. "One by one I
buried my sons. I gave my springs and my cattle. Then I yielded to the
lust for blood. I renounced my religion. I paid my soul to everlasting
hell for the life of my foe. But he's dead! Killed by a wild boy! I sold
myself to the devil for nothing!"

August Naab raved out his unnatural rage amid awed silence. His revolt
was the flood of years undammed at the last. The ferocity of the desert
spirit spoke silently in the hanging rustlers, in the ruthlessness of the
vigilantes who had destroyed them, but it spoke truest in the sonorous
roll of the old Mormon's wrath.

"August, young Hare saved two of the rustlers," spoke up an old friend,
hoping to divert the angry flood. "Paul Caldwell there, he was one of
them. The other's gone."

Naab loomed over him. "What!" he roared. His friend edged away,
repeating his words and jerking his thumb backward toward the Bishop's
son.

"Judas Iscariot!" thundered Naab. "False to thyself, thy kin, and thy
God! Thrice traitor! . . . Why didn't you get yourself killed? . . . Why
are you left? Ah-h! for me—a rustler for me to kill—with my own
hands!—A rope there—a rope!"

"I wanted them to hang me," hoarsely cried Caldwell, writhing in Naab's
grasp.

Hare threw all his weight and strength upon the Mormon's iron arm. "Naab!
Naab! For God's sake, hear! He saved Mescal. This man, thief, traitor,
false Mormon—whatever he is—he saved Mescal."

August Naab's eyes were bloodshot. One shake of his great body flung
Hare off. He dragged Paul Caldwell across the grass toward the
cottonwood as easily as if he were handling an empty grain-sack.

Hare suddenly darted after him. "August! August!—look! look!" he
cried. He pointed a shaking finger down the square. The old Bishop came
tottering over the grass, leaning on his cane, shading his eyes with his
hand. "August. See, the Bishop's coming. Paul's father! Do you hear?"

Hare's appeal pierced Naab's frenzied brain. The Mormon Elder saw his
old Bishop pause and stare at the dark shapes suspended from the
cottonwoods and hold up his hands in horror.

Naab loosed his hold. His frame seemed wrenched as though by the passing
of an evil spirit, and the reaction left his face transfigured.

"Paul, it's your father, the Bishop," he said, brokenly. "Be a man. He
must never know." Naab spread wide his arms to the crowd. "Men,
listen," he said. "Of all of us Mormons I have lost most, suffered most.
Then hear me. Bishop Caldwell must never know of his son's guilt. He
would sink under it. Keep the secret. Paul will be a man again. I
know. I see. For, Mormons, August Naab has the gift of revelation!"

SUMMER gleams of golden sunshine swam under the glistening red walls of
the oasis. Shadows from white clouds, like sails on a deep-blue sea,
darkened the broad fields of alfalfa. Circling columns of smoke were
wafted far above the cottonwoods and floated in the still air. The
desert-red color of Navajo blankets brightened the grove.

Half-naked bronze Indians lolled in the shade, lounged on the cabin
porches and stood about the sunny glade in idle groups. They wore the
dress of peace. A single black-tipped white eagle feather waved above
the band binding each black head. They watched the merry children tumble
round the playground. Silvermane browsed where he listed under the shady
trees, and many a sinewy red hand caressed his flowing mane. Black Bolly
neighed her jealous displeasure from the corral, and the other mustangs
trampled and kicked and whistled defiance across the bars. The peacocks
preened their gorgeous plumage and uttered their clarion calls. The
belligerent turkey-gobblers sidled about ruffling their feathers. The
blackbirds and swallows sang and twittered their happiness to find old
nests in the branches and under the eaves. Over all boomed the dull roar
of the Colorado in flood.

It was the morning of Mescal's wedding-day.

August Naab, for once without a task, sat astride a peeled log of
driftwood in the lane, and Hare stood beside him.

"Five thousand steers, lad! Why do you refuse them? They're worth ten
dollars a head to-day in Salt Lake City. A good start for a young man."

"No, I'm still in your debt."

"Then share alike with my sons in work and profit?"

"Yes, I can accept that."

"Good! Jack, I see happiness and prosperity for you. Do you remember
that night on the White Sage trail? Ah! Well, the worst is over. We
can look forward to better times. It's not likely the rustlers will ride
into Utah again. But this desert will never be free from strife."

"Tell me of Mescal," said Hare.

"Ah! Yes, I'm coming to that." Naab bent his head over the log and
chipped off little pieces with his knife. "Jack, will you come into the
Mormon Church?"

Long had Hare shrunk from this question which he felt must inevitably
come, and now he met it as bravely as he could, knowing he would pain his
friend.

"No, August, I can't," he replied. "I feel—differently from Mormons
about—about women. If it wasn't for that! I look upon you as a father.
I'll do anything for you, except that. No one could pray to be a better
man than you. Your work, your religion, your life— Why! I've no words
to say what I feel. Teach me what little you can of them, August, but
don't ask me—that."

"Well, well," sighed Naab. The gray clearness of his eagle eyes grew
shadowed and his worn face was sad. It was the look of a strong wise man
who seemed to hear doubt and failure knocking at the gate of his creed.
But he loved life too well to be unhappy; he saw it too clearly not to
know there was nothing wholly good, wholly perfect, wholly without error.
The shade passed from his face like the cloud-shadow from the sunlit
lane.