Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 115
“Wal, you keep the hat,” he replied, with his back turned. “Greaser stole your hoss an’ your outfit’s lost, an’ you might want somethin’ to remember your — your friends in Arizony. . . . Thet hat ain’t much, but, say, the buckle was an Injun’s I shot, an’ I made the band when I was in jail in Yuma.”
“Thank you, Herky. I’ll keep it, though I’d never need anything to make me remember Arizona — or you.”
Herky swung his bow-legs over Target and I got astride the lean-backed pony. There did not seem to be any more to say, yet we both lingered.
“Good-bye, Herky, I’m glad I met you,” I said, offering my hand.
He gave it a squeeze that nearly crushed my fingers. His keen little eyes gleamed, but he turned away without another word, and, slapping Target on the flank, rode off under the trees.
I put the hat back on my head and watched Herky for a moment. His silence and abrupt manner were unlike him, but what struck me most was the fact that in our last talk every word had been clean and sincere. Somehow it pleased me. Then I started the pony toward Holston.
He was tired and I was ready to drop, and those last few miles were long. We reached the outskirts of the town perhaps a couple of hours before sundown. A bank of clouds had spread out of the west and threatened rain.
The first person I met was Cless, and he put the pony in his corral and hurried me round to the hotel. On the way he talked so fast and said so much that I was bewildered before we got there. The office was full of men, and Cless shouted to them. There was the sound of a chair scraping hard on the floor, then I felt myself clasped by brawny arms. After that all was rather hazy in my mind. I saw Dick and Jim and old Hiram, though, I could not see them distinctly, and I heard them all talking, all questioning at once. Then I was talking in a somewhat silly way, I thought, and after that some one gave me a hot, nasty drink, and I felt the cool sheets of a bed.
The next morning all was clear. Dick came to my room and tried to keep me in bed, but I refused to stay. We went down to breakfast, and sat at a table with Jim and Hiram. It seemed to me that I could not answer any questions till I had asked a thousand.
What news had they for me? Buell had escaped, after firing the slash. His sawmill and lumber-camp and fifty thousand acres of timber had been burned. The fire had in some way been confined to the foot-hills. It had rained all night, so the danger of spreading was now over. My letter had brought the officers of the forest service; even the Chief, who had been travelling west over the Santa Fe, had stopped off and was in Holston then. There had been no arrests, nor would there be, unless Buell or Stockton could be found. A new sawmill was to be built by the service. Buell’s lumbermen would have employment in the mill and as rangers in the forest.
But I was more interested in matters which Dick seemed to wish to avoid.
“How did you get out of the burning forest?” I asked, for the second time.
“We didn’t get out. We went back to the pool where we sent you. The pack-ponies were there, but you were gone. By George! I was mad, and then I was just broken up. I was . . . afraid you’d been burned. We weathered the fire all right, and then rode in to Holston. Now the mystery is where were you?”
“Then you saved all the ponies?”
“Yes, and brought your outfit in. But, Ken, we — that was awful of us to forget those poor fellows tied fast in the cabin.” Dick looked haggard, there was a dark gloom in his eyes, and he gulped. Then I knew why he avoided certain references to the fire. “To be burned alive . . . horrible! I’ll never get over it. It’ll haunt me always. Of course we had to save our own lives; we had no time to go to them. Yet—”
“Don’t let it worry you, Dick,” I interrupted.
“What do you mean?” he asked, slowly.
“Why, I beat the fire up to the cabin, that’s all. Buell’s horse can run some. I cut the men loose, and we made up across the ridge, got lost, surrounded by fire, and then I got Herky to help me start a back-fire in that big canyon.”
“Back-fire!” exclaimed Dick, slamming the table with his big fist. Then he settled down and looked at me. Hiram looked at me. Jim looked at me, and not one of them said a word for what seemed a long time. It brought the blood to my face. But for all my embarrassment it was sweet praise. At last Dick broke the silence.
“Ken Ward, this stumps me I . . . Tell us about it.”
So I related my adventures from the moment they had left me till we met again.
“It was a wild boy’s trick, Ken — that ride in the very face of fire in a dry forest. But, thank God, you saved the lives of those fellows.” “Amen!” exclaimed old Hiram, fervently. “My lad, you saved Penetier, too; thar’s no doubt on it. The fire was sweepin’ up the canyon, an’ it would have crossed the brook somewhars in thet stretch you back-fired.”
“Ken, you shore was born in Texas,” drawl Jim Williams.
His remark was unrelated to our talk, I did not know what he meant by it; nevertheless it pleased me more than anything that had ever been said me in my life.
Then came the reading of letters that had a rived for me. In Hal’s letter, first and last harped on having been left behind. Father sent me a check, and wrote that in the event of a trouble in the lumber district he trusted me to take the first train for Harrisburg. That, I knew, meant that I must get out of my ragged clothes. That I did, and packed them up — all except Herky sombrero, which I wore. Then I went to the railroad station to see the schedule, and I compromised with father by deciding to take the limited. The fast east-bound train had gone a little before, and the next one did not leave until six o’clock. Th would give me half a day with my friends.
When I returned to the hotel Dick was looking for me. He carried me off up-stairs to a hall full of men. At one end were tables littered with papers, and here men were signing their name Dick explained that forest rangers were being paid and new ones hired. Then he introduced me officers of the service and the Chief. I knew by the way they looked at me that Dick had been talking. It made me so tongue-tied that I could not find my voice when the Chief spoke to me and shook my hand warmly. He was a tall man, with a fine face and kind eyes and hair just touched with gray.
“Kenneth Ward,” he went on, pleasantly, “I hope that letter of introduction I dictated for you some time ago has been of some service.”
“I haven’t had a chance to use it yet,” I blurted out, and I dived into my pocket to bring forth the letter. It was wrinkled, soiled, and had been soaked with water. I began to apologize for its disreputable appearance when he interrupted me.
“I’ve heard about the ducking you got and all the rest of it,” he said, smiling. Then his manner changed to one of business and hurry.
“You are studying forestry?”
“Yes, sir. I’m going to college this fall.”
“My friend in Harrisburg wrote me of your ambition and, I may say, aptness for the forest service. I’m very much pleased. We need a host of bright young fellows. Here, look at this map.”
He drew my attention to a map lying on the table, and made crosses and tracings with a pencil while he talked.
“This is Penetier. Here are the Arizona Peaks. The heavy shading represents timbered land. All these are canyons. Here’s Oak Creek Canyon, the one the fire bordered. Now I want you to tell me how you worked that back-fire, and, if you can, mark the line you fired.”
This appeared to me an easy task, and certainly one I was enthusiastic over. I told him just how I had come to the canyon, and how I saw that the fire would surely cross there, and that a back-fire was the only chance. Then, carefully studying the map, I marked off the three miles Herky and I had fired.
“Very good. You had help in this?”
“Yes. A fellow called Herky-Jerky. He was one of Buell’s men who kept me a prisoner.”
“But he turned out a pretty good sort, didn’t he?”
“Indeed, yes, sir.”
“Well, I’ll try to locate him, and offer him a job in the service. Now, Mr. Ward, you’ve had special opportunities; you have an eye in your head, and you are interested in forestry. Perhaps you can help us. Personally I shall be most pleased to hear what you think might be done in Penetier.”
I gasped and stared, and could scarcely believe my ears. But he was not joking; he was as serious as if he had addressed himself to one of his officers. I looked at them all, standing interested and expectant. Dick was as grave and erect as a deacon. Jim seemed much impressed. But old Hiram Bent, standing somewhat back of the others, deliberately winked at me.
But for that wink I never could have seized my opportunity. It made me remember my talks with Hiram. So I boiled down all that I had learned and launched it on the Chief. Whether I was brief or not, I was out of breath when I stopped. He appeared much surprised.
“Thank you,” he said, finally. “You certainly have been observant.” Then he turned to his officers. “Gentlemen, here’s a new point of view from first-hand observation. I call it splendid conservation. It’s in the line of my policy. It considers the settler and lumberman instead of combating him.”
He shook hands with me again. “You may be sure I’ll not lose sight of you. Of course you will be coming West next summer, after your term at college?”
“Yes, sir, I want to — if Dick—”
He smiled as I hesitated. That man read my mind like an open book.
“Mr. Leslie goes to the Coconina Forest as head forest ranger. Mr. Williams goes as his assistant. And I have appointed Mr. Bent game warden in the same forest. You may spend next summer with them.”
I stammered some kind of thanks, and found myself going out and down-stairs with my friends.
“Oh, Dick! Wasn’t he fine? ... Say, where’s Coconina Forest?”
“It’s over across the desert and beyond the Grand Canyon of Arizona. Penetier is tame compared to Coconina. I’m afraid to let you come out there.”
“I don’t have to ask you, Mr. Dick,” I replied.
“Lad, I’ll need a young fellar bad next summer,” said old Hiram, with twinkling eyes. “One as can handle a rope, an’ help tie up lions an’ sich.”
“Oh! my bear cub! I’d forgotten him. I wanted to take him home.”
“Wal, thar weren’t no sense in thet, youngster, fer you couldn’t do it. He was a husky cub.”
“I hate to give up my mustang, too. Dick, have you heard of the Greaser?”
“Not yet, but he’ll be trailing into Holston before long.”
Jim Williams removed his pipe, and puffed a cloud of white smoke.
“Ken, I shore ain’t fergot Greaser,” he drawled with his slow smile. “Hev you any pertickler thing you want did to him?”
“Jim, don’t kill him!” I burst out, impetuously, and then paused, frightened out of speech. Why I was afraid of him I did not know, he seemed so easy-going, so careless — almost sweet, like a woman; but then I had seen his face once with a look that I could never forget.
“Wal, Ken, I’ll dodge Greaser if he ever crosses my trail again.”
That promise was a relief. I knew Greaser would come to a bad end, and certainly would get his just deserts; but I did not want him punished any more for what he had done to me.
Those last few hours sped like winged moments. We talked and planned a little, I divided my outfit among my friends, and then it was time for the train. That limited train had been late, so they said, every day for a week, and this day it was on time to the minute. I had no luck.
My friends bade me good-bye as if they expected to see me next day, and I said good-bye calmly. I had my part to play. My short stay with them had made me somehow different. But my coolness was deceitful. Dick helped me on the train and wrung my hand again.
“Good-bye, Ken. It’s been great to have you out. . . . Next year you’ll be back in the forests!”
He had to hurry to get off. The train started as I looked out of my window. There stood the powerful hunter, his white head bare, and he was waving his hat. Jim leaned against a railing with his sleepy, careless smile. I caught a gleam of the blue gun swinging at his hip. Dick’s eyes shone warm and blue; he was shouting something. Then they all passed back out of sight. So my gaze wandered to the indistinct black line of Penetier, to the purple slopes, and up to the cold, white mountain-peaks, and Dick’s voice rang in my ears like a prophecy: “You’ll be back in the forests.”
THE END
The Heritage of the Desert
CONTENTS
I. THE SIGN OF THE SUNSET
II. WHITE SAGE
III. THE TRAIL OF THE RED WALL
IV. THE OASIS
V. BLACK SAGE AND JUNIPER
VI. THE WIND IN THE CEDARS
VII. SILVERMANE
VIII. THE BREAKER OF WILD MUSTANGS
IX. THE SCENT OF DESERT-WATER
X. RIDING THE RANGES
XI. THE DESERT-HAWK
XII. ECHO CLIFFS
XIII. THE SOMBRE LINE
XIV. WOLF
XV. DESERT NIGHT
XVI. THUNDER RIVER
XVII. THE SWOOP OF THE HAWK
XVIII. THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT
XIX. UNLEASHED
XX. THE RAGE OF THE OLD LION
XXI. MESCAL
The first edition
I. THE SIGN OF THE SUNSET
“BUT THE MAN’S almost dead.”
The words stung John Hare’s fainting spirit into life. He opened his eyes. The desert still stretched before him, the appalling thing that had overpowered him with its deceiving purple distance. Near by stood a sombre group of men.
“Leave him here,” said one, addressing a gray-bearded giant. “He’s the fellow sent into southern Utah to spy out the cattle thieves. He’s all but dead. Dene’s outlaws are after him. Don’t cross Dene.”
The stately answer might have come from a Scottish Covenanter or a follower of Cromwell.
“Martin Cole, I will not go a hair’s-breadth out of my way for Dene or any other man. You forget your religion. I see my duty to God.”
“Yes, August Naab, I know,” replied the little man, bitterly. “You would cast the Scriptures in my teeth, and liken this man to one who went down from Jerusalem to Jericho and fell among thieves. But I’ve suffered enough at the hands of Dene.”
The formal speech, the Biblical references, recalled to the reviving Hare that he was still in the land of the Mormons. As he lay there the strange words of the Mormons linked the hard experience of the last few days with the stern reality of the present.
“Martin Cole, I hold to the spirit of our fathers,” replied Naab, like one reading from the Old Testament. “They came into this desert land to worship and multiply in peace. They conquered the desert; they prospered with the years that brought settlers, cattle-men, sheep-herders, all hostile to their religion and their livelihood. Nor did they ever fail to succor the sick and unfortunate. What are our toils and perils compared to theirs? Why should we forsake the path of duty, and turn from mercy because of a cut-throat outlaw? I like not the sign of the times, but I am a Mormon; I trust in God.”
“August Naab, I am a Mormon too,” returned Cole, “but my hands are stained with blood. Soon yours will be if you keep your water-holes and your cattle. Yes, I know. You’re strong, stronger than any of us, far off in your desert oasis, hemmed in by walls, cut off by canyons, guarded by your Navajo friends. But Holderness is creeping slowly on you. He’ll ignore your water rights and drive your stock. Soon Dene will steal cattle under your very eyes. Don’t make them enemies.”
“I can’t pass by this helpless man,” rolled out August Naab’s sonorous voice.
Suddenly, with livid face and shaking hand, Cole pointed westward. “There! Dene and his band! See, under the red wall; see the dust, not ten miles away. See them?”
The desert, gray in the foreground, purple in the distance, sloped to the west. Eyes keen as those of hawks searched die waste, and followed the red mountain rampart, which, sheer in bold height and processional in its craggy sweep, shut out the north. Far away little puffs of dust rose above the white sage, and creeping specks moved at a snail’s pace.
“See them? Ah! then look, August Naab, look in the heavens above for my prophecy,” cried Cole, fanatically. “The red sunset — the sign of the times — blood!”
A broad bar of dense black shut out the April sky, except in the extreme west, where a strip of pale blue formed background for several clouds of striking color and shape. They alone, in all that expanse, were dyed in the desert’s sunset crimson. The largest projected from behind the dark cloud-bank in the shape of a huge fist, and the others, small and round, floated below. To Cole it seemed a giant hand, clutching, with inexorable strength, a bleeding heart. His terror spread to his companions as they stared.
Then, as light surrendered to shade, the sinister color faded; the tracing of the closed hand softened; flush and glow paled, leaving the sky purple, as if mirroring the desert floor. One golden shaft shot up, to be blotted out by sudden darkening change, and the sun had set.
“That may be God’s will,” said August Naab. “So be it. Martin Cole, take your men and go.”
There was a word, half oath, half prayer, and then rattle of stirrups, the creak of saddles, and clink of spurs, followed by the driving rush of fiery horses. Cole and his men disappeared in a pall of yellow dust.
A wan smile lightened John Hare’s face as he spoke weakly: “I fear your — generous act — can’t save me . . . may bring you harm. I’d rather you left me — seeing you have women in your party.”
“Don’t try to talk yet,” said August Naab. “You’re faint. Here — drink.” He stooped to Hare, who was leaning against a sage-bush, and held a flask to his lips. Rising, he called to his men: “Make camp, sons. We’ve an hour before the outlaws come up, and if they don’t go round the sand-dune we’ll have longer.”
