The Zane Grey Megapack, page 420
“Wal, I reckon I’d better tell you,” drawled Holley, as Slone hesitated, “thet Lucy wants to know if you beat up Joel an’ why you did.”
“Holley! Did she ask you to find out?”
“She sure did. The girl’s worried these days, Slone.… You see, you haven’t been around, an’ you don’t know what’s comin’ off.”
“Brackton was here today an’ he told me a good deal. I’m worried, too,” said Slone, dejectedly.
“Thet hoss of yours, Wildfire, he’s enough to make you hated in Bostil’s camp, even if you hadn’t made a fool of yourself, which you sure have.”
Slone dropped his head as admission.
“What Creech swears he seen you do to Miss Lucy, out there among the rocks, where you was hid with Wildfire—is there any truth in thet?” asked Holley, earnestly. “Tell me, Slone. Folks believe it. An’ it’s hurt you at the Ford. Bostil hasn’t heard it yet, an’ Lucy she doesn’t know. But I’m figgerin’ thet you punched Joel because he throwed it in your face.”
“He did, an’ I lambasted him,” replied Slone, with force.
“You did right. But what I want to know, is it true what Joel seen?”
“It’s true, Holley. But what I did isn’t so bad—so bad as he’d make it look.”
“Wal, I knowed thet. I knowed fer a long time how Lucy cares fer you,” returned the old rider, kindly.
Slone raised his head swiftly, incredulously. “Holley! You can’t be serious.”
“Wal, I am. I’ve been sort of a big brother to Lucy Bostil for eighteen years. I carried her in these here hands when she weighed no more ’n my spurs. I taught her how to ride—what she knows about hosses. An’ she knows more ’n her dad. I taught her to shoot. I know her better ’n anybody. An’ lately she’s been different. She’s worried an’ unhappy.”
“But Holley, all that—it doesn’t seem—”
“I reckon not,” went on Holley, as Slone halted. “I think she cares fer you. An’ I’m your friend, Slone. You’re goin’ to buck up ag’in some hell round here sooner or later. An’ you’ll need a friend.”
“Thanks—Holley,” replied Slone, unsteadily. He thrilled under the iron grasp of the rider’s hard hand.
“You’ve got another friend you can gamble on,” said Holley, significantly.
“Another! Who?”
“Lucy Bostil. An’ don’t you fergit thet. I’ll bet she’ll raise more trouble than Bostil when she hears what Joel Creech is tellin’. Fer she’s bound to hear it. Van Sickle swears he’s a-goin’ to tell her an’ then beat you up with a quirt.”
“He is, is he?” snapped Slone, darkly.
“I’ve a hunch Lucy’s guessed why you punched Joel. But she wants to know fer sure. Now, Slone, I’ll tell her why.”
“Oh, don’t!” said Slone, involuntarily.
“Wal, it’ll be better comin’ from you an’ me. Take my word fer thet. I’ll prepare Lucy. An’ she’s as good a scrapper as Bostil, any day.”
“It all scares me,” replied Slone. He did feel panicky, and that was from thoughts of what shame might befall Lucy. The cold sweat oozed out of every pore. What might not Bostil do? “Holley, I love the girl. So I—I didn’t insult her. Bostil will never understand. An’ what’s he goin’ to do when he finds out?”
“Wal, let’s hope you won’t git any wuss’n you give Joel.”
“Let Bostil beat me!” ejaculated Slone. “I think I’m willin—now—the—way I feel. But I’ve a temper, and Bostil rubs me the wrong way.”
“Wall leave your gun home, an’ fight Bostil. You’re pretty husky. Sure he’ll lick you, but mebbe you could give the old cuss a black eye.” Holley laughed as if the idea gave him infinite pleasure.
“Fight Bostil?… Lucy would hate me!” cried Slone.
“Nix! You don’t know thet kid. If the old man goes after you Lucy’ll care more fer you. She’s jest like him in some ways.” Holley pulled out a stubby black pipe and, filling and lighting it, he appeared to grow more thoughtful. “It wasn’t only Lucy thet sent me up here to see you. Bostil had been pesterin’ me fer days. But I kept fightin’ shy of it till Lucy got hold of me.”
“Bostil sent you? Why?”
“Reckon you can guess. He can’t sleep, thinkin’ about your red hoss. None of us ever seen Bostil have sich a bad case. He raised Sage King. But he’s always been crazy fer a great wild stallion. An’ here you come along—an’ your hoss jumps the King—an’ there’s trouble generally.”
“Holley, do you think Wildfire can beat Sage King?” asked Slone, eagerly.
“Reckon I do. Lucy says so, an’ I’ll back her any day. But, son, I ain’t paradin’ what I think. I’d git in bad myself. Farlane an’ the other boys, they’re with Bostil. Van he’s to blame fer thet. He’s takin’ a dislike to you, right off. An’ what he tells Bostil an’ the boys about thet race don’t agree with what Lucy tells me. Lucy says Wildfire ran fiery an’ cranky at the start. He wanted to run round an’ kill the King instead of racin’. So he was three lengths behind when Macomber dropped the flag. Lucy says the King got into his stride. She knows. An’ there Wildfire comes from behind an’ climbs all over the King!… Van tells a different story.”
“It came off just as Lucy told you,” declared Slone. “I saw every move.”
“Wal, thet’s neither here nor there. What you’re up ag’in is this. Bostil is sore since you called him. But he holds himself in because he hasn’t given up hope of gittin’ Wildfire. An’, Slone, you’re sure wise, ain’t you, thet if Bostil doesn’t buy him you can’t stay on here?”
“I’m wise. But I won’t sell Wildfire,” replied Slone, doggedly.
“Wal, I’d never wasted my breath tellin’ you all this if I hadn’t figgered about Lucy. You’ve got her to think of.”
Slone turned on Holley passionately. “You keep hintin’ there’s a hope for me, when I know there’s none!”
“You’re only a boy,” replied Holley. “Son, where there’s life there’s hope. I ain’t a-goin’ to tell you agin thet I know Lucy Bostil.”
Slone could not stand nor walk nor keep still. He was shaking from head to foot.
“Wildfire’s not mine to sell. He’s Lucy’s!” confessed Slone.
“The devil you say!” ejaculated Holley, and he nearly dropped his pipe.
“I gave Wildfire to her. She accepted him. It was done. Then—then I lost my head an’ made her mad.… An’—she said she’d ride him in the race, but wouldn’t keep him. But he is hers.”
“Oho! I see. Slone, I was goin’ to advise you to sell Wildfire—all on account of Lucy. You’re young an’ you’d have a big start in life if you would. But Lucy’s your girl an’ you give her the hoss.… Thet settles thet!”
“If I go away from here an’ leave Wildfire for Lucy—do you think she could keep him? Wouldn’t Bostil take him from her?”
“Wal, son, if he tried thet on Lucy she’d jump Wildfire an’ hit your trail an’ hang on to it till she found you.”
“What’ll you tell Bostil?” asked Slone, half beside himself.
“I’m consarned if I know,” replied Holley. “Mebbe I’ll think of some idee. I’ll go back now. An’ say, son, I reckon you’d better hang close to home. If you meet Bostil down in the village you two’d clash sure. I’ll come up soon, but it’ll be after dark.”
“Holley, all this is—is good of you,” said Slone. “I—I’ll—”
“Shut up, son,” interrupted the rider, dryly. “Thet’s your only weakness, so far as I can see. You say too much.”
Holley started down then, his long, clinking spurs digging into the steep path. He left Slone a prey to deep thoughts at once anxious and dreamy.
Next day Slone worked hard all day, looking forward to nightfall, expecting that Holley would come up. He tried to resist the sweet and tantalizing anticipation of a message from Lucy, but in vain. The rider had immeasurably uplifted Slone’s hope that Lucy, at least, cared for him. Not for a moment all day could Slone drive away the hope. At twilight he was too eager to eat—too obsessed to see the magnificent sunset. But Holley did not come, and Slone went to bed late, half sick with disappointment.
The next day was worse. Slone found work irksome, yet he held to it. On the third day he rested and dreamed, and grew doubtful again, and then moody. On the fourth day Slone found he needed supplies that he must obtain from the store. He did not forget Holley’s warning, but he disregarded it, thinking there would scarcely be a chance of meeting Bostil at midday.
There were horses standing, bridles down, before Brackton’s place, and riders lounging at the rail and step. Some of these men had been pleasant to Slone on earlier occasions. This day they seemed not to see him. Slone was tingling all over when he went into the store. Some deviltry was afoot! He had an angry thought that these riders could not have minds of their own. Just inside the door Slone encountered Wetherby, the young rancher from Durango. Slone spoke, but Wetherby only replied with an insolent stare. Slone did not glance at the man to whom Wetherby was talking. Only a few people were inside the store, and Brackton was waiting upon them. Slone stood back a little in the shadow. Brackton had observed his entrance, but did not greet him. Then Slone absolutely knew that for him the good will of Bostil’s Ford was a thing of the past.
Presently Brackton was at leisure, but he showed no disposition to attend to Slone’s wants. Then Slone walked up to the counter and asked for supplies.
“Have you got the money?” asked Brackton, as if addressing one he would not trust.
“Yes,” replied Slone, growing red under an insult that he knew Wetherby had heard.
Brackton handed out the supplies and received the money, without a word. He held his head down. It was a singular action for a man used to dealing fairly with every one. Slone felt outraged. He hurried out of the place, with shame burning him, with his own eyes downcast, and in his hurry he bumped square into a burly form. Slone recoiled—looked up. Bostil! The old rider was eying him with cool speculation.
“Wal, are you drunk?” he queried, without any particular expression.
Yet the query was to Slone like a blow. It brought his head up with a jerk, his glance steady and keen on Bostil’s.
“Bostil, you know I don’t drink,” he said.
“A-huh! I know a lot about you, Slone.… I heard you bought Vorhees’s place, up on the bench.”
“Yes.”
“Did he tell you it was mortgaged to me for more’n it’s worth?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Did he make over any papers to you?”
“No.”
“Wal, if it interests you I’ll show you papers thet proves the property’s mine.”
Slone suffered a pang. The little home had grown dearer and dearer to him.
“All right, Bostil. If it’s yours—it’s yours,” he said, calmly enough.
“I reckon I’d drove you out before this if I hadn’t felt we could make a deal.”
“We can’t agree on any deal, Bostil,” replied Slone, steadily. It was not what Bostil said, but the way he said it, the subtle meaning and power behind it, that gave Slone a sense of menace and peril. These he had been used to for years; he could meet them. But he was handicapped here because it seemed that, though he could meet Bostil face to face, he could not fight him. For he was Lucy’s father. Slone’s position, the impotence of it, rendered him less able to control his temper.
“Why can’t we?” demanded Bostil. “If you wasn’t so touchy we could. An’ let me say, young feller, thet there’s more reason now thet you do make a deal with me.”
“Deal? What about?”
“About your red hoss.”
“Wildfire!… No deals, Bostil,” returned Slone, and made as if to pass him.
The big hand that forced Slone back was far from gentle, and again he felt the quick rush of blood.
“Mebbe I can tell you somethin’ thet’ll make you sell Wildfire,” said Bostil.
“Not if you talked yourself dumb!” flashed Slone. There was no use to try to keep cool with this Bostil, if he talked horses. “I’ll race Wildfire against the King. But no more.”
“Race! Wal, we don’t run races around here without stakes,” replied Bostil, with deep scorn. “An’ what can you bet? Thet little dab of prize money is gone, an’ wouldn’t be enough to meet me. You’re a strange one in these parts. I’ve pride an’ reputation to uphold. You brag of racin’ with me—an’ you a beggarly rider!… You wouldn’t have them clothes an’ boots if my girl hadn’t fetched them to you.”
The riders behind Bostil laughed. Wetherby’s face was there in the door, not amused, but hard with scorn and something else. Slone felt a sickening, terrible gust of passion. It fairly shook him. And as the wave subsided the quick cooling of skin and body pained him like a burn made with ice.
“Yes, Bostil, I’m what you say,” responded Slone, and his voice seemed to fill his ears. “But you’re dead wrong when you say I’ve nothin’ to bet on a race.”
“An’ what’ll you bet?”
“My life an’ my horse!”
The riders suddenly grew silent and intense. Bostil vibrated to that. He turned white. He more than any rider on the uplands must have felt the nature of that offer.
“Ag’in what?” he demanded, hoarsely.
“Your daughter Lucy!”
One instant the surprise held Bostil mute and motionless. Then he seemed to expand. His huge bulk jerked into motion and he bellowed like a mad bull.
Slone saw the blow coming, made no move to avoid it. The big fist took him square on the mouth and chin and laid him flat on the ground. Sight failed Slone for a little, and likewise ability to move. But he did not lose consciousness. His head seemed to have been burst into rays and red mist that blurred his eyes. Then these cleared away, leaving intense pain. He started to get up, his brain in a whirl. Where was his gun? He had left it at home. But for that he would have killed Bostil. He had already killed one man. The thing was a burning flash—then all over! He could do it again. But Bostil was Lucy’s father!
Slone gathered up the packages of supplies, and without looking at the men he hurried away. He seemed possessed of a fury to turn and run back. Some force, like an invisible hand, withheld him. When he reached the cabin he shut himself in, and lay on his bunk, forgetting that the place did not belong to him, alive only to the mystery of his trouble, smarting with the shame of the assault upon him. It was dark before he composed himself and went out, and then he had not the desire to eat. He made no move to open the supplies of food, did not even make a light. But he went out to take grass and water to the horses. When he returned to the cabin a man was standing at the porch. Slone recognized Holley’s shape and then his voice.
“Son, you raised the devil today.”
“Holley, don’t you go back on me!” cried Slone. “I was driven!”
“Don’t talk so loud,” whispered the rider in return. “I’ve only a minnit.… Here—a letter from Lucy.… An’, son, don’t git the idee thet I’ll go back on you.”
Slone took the letter with trembling fingers. All the fury and gloom instantly fled. Lucy had written him! He could not speak.
“Son, I’m double-crossin’ the boss, right this minnit!” whispered Holley, hoarsely. “An’ the same time I’m playin’ Lucy’s game. If Bostil finds out he’ll kill me. I mustn’t be ketched up here. But I won’t lose track of you—wherever you go.”
Holley slipped away stealthily in the dusk, leaving Slone with a throbbing heart.
“Wherever you go!” he echoed. “Ah! I forgot! I can’t stay here.”
Lucy’s letter made his fingers tingle—made them so hasty and awkward that he had difficulty in kindling blaze enough to see to read. The letter was short, written in lead-pencil on the torn leaf of a ledger. Slone could not read rapidly—those years on the desert had seen to that—and his haste to learn what Lucy said bewildered him. At first all the words blurred:
“Come at once to the bench in the cottonwoods. I’ll meet you there. My heart is breaking. It’s a lie—a lie—what they say. I’ll swear you were with me the night the boat was cut adrift. I know you didn’t do that. I know who.… Oh, come! I will stick to you. I will run off with you. I love you!”
CHAPTER XV
Slone’s heart leaped to his throat, and its beating choked his utterances of rapture and amaze and dread. But rapture dominated the other emotions. He could scarcely control the impulse to run to meet Lucy, without a single cautious thought.
He put the precious letter inside his blouse, where it seemed to warm his breast. He buckled on his gun-belt, and, extinguishing the light, he hurried out.
A crescent moon had just tipped the bluff. The village lanes and cabins and trees lay silver in the moon-light. A lonesome coyote barked in the distance. All else was still. The air was cool, sweet, fragrant. There appeared to be a glamour of light, of silence, of beauty over the desert.
Slone kept under the dark lee of the bluff and worked around so that he could be above the village, where there was little danger of meeting anyone. Yet presently he had to go out of the shadow into the moon-blanched lane. Swift and silent as an Indian he went along, keeping in the shade of what trees there were, until he came to the grove of cottonwoods. The grove was a black mystery lanced by silver rays. He slipped in among the trees, halting every few steps to listen. The action, the realization had helped to make him cool, to steel him, though never before in his life had he been so exalted. The pursuit and capture of Wildfire, at one time the desire of his heart, were as nothing to this. Love had called him—and life—and he knew death hung in the balance. If Bostil found him seeking Lucy there would be blood spilled. Slone quaked at the thought, for the cold and ghastly oppression following the death he had meted out to Sears came to him at times. But such thoughts were fleeting; only one thought really held his mind—and the one was that Lucy loved him, had sent strange, wild, passionate words to him.
He found the narrow path, its white crossed by slowly moving black bars of shadow, and stealthily he followed this, keen of eye and ear, stopping at every rustle. He well knew the bench Lucy had mentioned. It was in a remote corner of the grove, under big trees near the spring. Once Slone thought he had a glimpse of white. Perhaps it was only moonlight. He slipped on and on, and when beyond the branching paths that led toward the house he breathed freer. The grove appeared deserted. At last he crossed the runway from the spring, smelled the cool, wet moss and watercress, and saw the big cottonwood, looming dark above the other trees. A patch of moonlight brightened a little glade just at the edge of dense shade cast by the cottonwood. Here the bench stood. It was empty!
