Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 492
That behind them, the horses gathered heart and worked on to the edge of the steep descent, where they had all they could do to hold back from sliding and rolling. Fast time was made on this slope, at the bottom of which began a dense forest with snow still deep in places and windfalls hard to locate. The men here performed Herculean labors, but they got through to a park where the snow was gone. The ground, however, soft and boggy, in places was more treacherous than the snow; and the travelers had to skirt the edge of the park to a point opposite, and then go on through the forest. When they reached bare and solid ground, just before dark that night, it was high time, for the horses were ready to drop, and the men likewise.
Camp was made in an open wood. Darkness fell and the men were resting on bough beds, feet to the fire, with Tom curled up close by, and the horses still drooping where they had been unsaddled. Morning, however, discovered them grazing on the long, bleached grass. John shook his head when he looked at them.
“You reckoned to make Pine by nightfall. How far is it — the way you’ll go?”
“Fifty mile or thereabouts,” replied Dale.
“Wal, we can’t ride it on them critters.”
“John, we’d do more than that if we had to.”
They were saddled and on the move before sunrise, leaving snow and bog behind. Level parks and level forests led one after another to long slopes and steep descents, all growing sunnier and greener as the altitude diminished. Squirrels and grouse, turkeys and deer, and less tame denizens of the forest grew more abundant as the travel advanced. In this game zone, however, Dale had trouble with Tom. The cougar had to be watched and called often to keep him off of trails.
“Tom doesn’t like a long trip,” said Dale. “But I’m goin’ to take him. Some way or other he may come in handy.”
“Sic him onto Beasley’s gang,” replied John. “Some men are powerful scared of cougars. But I never was.”
“Nor me. Though I’ve had cougars give me a darn uncanny feelin’.”
The men talked but little. Dale led the way, with Tom trotting noiselessly beside his horse. John followed close behind. They loped the horses across parks, trotted through the forests, walked slow up what few inclines they met, and slid down the soft, wet, pine-matted descents. So they averaged from six to eight miles an hour. The horses held up well under that steady travel, and this without any rest at noon.
Dale seemed to feel himself in an emotional trance. Yet, despite this, the same old sensorial perceptions crowded thick and fast upon him, strangely sweet and vivid after the past dead months when neither sun nor wind nor cloud nor scent of pine nor anything in nature could stir him. His mind, his heart, his soul seemed steeped in an intoxicating wine of expectation, while his eyes and ears and nose had never been keener to register the facts of the forest-land. He saw the black thing far ahead that resembled a burned stump, but he knew was a bear before it vanished; he saw gray flash of deer and wolf and coyote, and the red of fox, and the small, wary heads of old gobblers just sticking above the grass; and he saw deep tracks of game as well as the slow-rising blades of bluebells where some soft-footed beast had just trod. And he heard the melancholy notes of birds, the twitter of grouse, the sough of the wind, the light dropping of pine-cones, the near and distant bark of squirrels, the deep gobble of a turkey close at hand and the challenge from a rival far away, the cracking of twigs in the thickets, the murmur of running water, the scream of an eagle and the shrill cry of a hawk, and always the soft, dull, steady pads of the hoofs of the horses.
The smells, too, were the sweet, stinging ones of spring, warm and pleasant — the odor of the clean, fresh earth cutting its way through that thick, strong fragrance of pine, the smell of logs rotting in the sun, and of fresh new grass and flowers along a brook of snow-water.
“I smell smoke,” said Dale, suddenly, as he reined in, and turned for corroboration from his companion.
John sniffed the warm air.
“Wal, you’re more of an Injun than me,” he replied, shaking his head.
They traveled on, and presently came out upon the rim of the last slope. A long league of green slanted below them, breaking up into straggling lines of trees and groves that joined the cedars, and these in turn stretched on and down in gray-black patches to the desert, that glittering and bare, with streaks of somber hue, faded in the obscurity of distance.
The village of Pine appeared to nestle in a curve of the edge of the great forest, and the cabins looked like tiny white dots set in green.
“Look there,” said Dale, pointing.
Some miles to the right a gray escarpment of rock cropped out of the slope, forming a promontory; and from it a thin, pale column of smoke curled upward to be lost from sight as soon as it had no background of green.
“Thet’s your smoke, shore enough,” replied John, thoughtfully. “Now, I jest wonder who’s campin’ there. No water near or grass for hosses.”
“John, that point’s been used for smoke signals many a time.”
“Was jest thinkin’ of thet same. Shall we ride around there an’ take a peek?”
“No. But we’ll remember that. If Beasley’s got his deep scheme goin’, he’ll have Snake Anson’s gang somewhere close.”
“Roy said thet same. Wal, it’s some three hours till sundown. The hosses keep up. I reckon I’m fooled, for we’ll make Pine all right. But old Tom there, he’s tired or lazy.”
The big cougar was lying down, panting, and his half-shut eyes were on Dale.
“Tom’s only lazy an’ fat. He could travel at this gait for a week. But let’s rest a half-hour an’ watch that smoke before movin’ on. We can make Pine before sundown.”
When travel had been resumed, half-way down the slope Dale’s sharp eyes caught a broad track where shod horses had passed, climbing in a long slant toward the promontory. He dismounted to examine it, and John, coming up, proceeded with alacrity to get off and do likewise. Dale made his deductions, after which he stood in a brown study beside his horse, waiting for John.
“Wal, what ‘d you make of these here tracks?” asked that worthy.
“Some horses an’ a pony went along here yesterday, an’ to-day a single horse made, that fresh track.”
“Wal, Milt, for a hunter you ain’t so bad at hoss tracks,” observed John, “But how many hosses went yesterday?”
“I couldn’t make out — several — maybe four or five.”
“Six hosses an’ a colt or little mustang, unshod, to be strict-correct. Wal, supposin’ they did. What ‘s it mean to us?”
“I don’t know as I’d thought anythin’ unusual, if it hadn’t been for that smoke we saw off the rim, an’ then this here fresh track made along to-day. Looks queer to me.”
“Wish Roy was here,” replied John, scratching his head. “Milt, I’ve a hunch, if he was, he’d foller them tracks.”
“Maybe. But we haven’t time for that. We can backtrail them, though, if they keep clear as they are here. An’ we’ll not lose any time, either.”
That broad track led straight toward Pine, down to the edge of the cedars, where, amid some jagged rocks, evidences showed that men had camped there for days. Here it ended as a broad trail. But from the north came the single fresh track made that very day, and from the east, more in a line with Pine, came two tracks made the day before. And these were imprints of big and little hoofs. Manifestly these interested John more than they did Dale, who had to wait for his companion.
“Milt, it ain’t a colt’s — thet little track,” avowed John.
“Why not — an’ what if it isn’t?” queried Dale.
“Wal, it ain’t, because a colt always straggles back, an’ from one side to t’other. This little track keeps close to the big one. An’, by George! it was made by a led mustang.”
John resembled Roy Beeman then with that leaping, intent fire in his gray eyes. Dale’s reply was to spur his horse into a trot and call sharply to the lagging cougar.
When they turned into the broad, blossom-bordered road that was the only thoroughfare of Pine the sun was setting red and gold behind the mountains. The horses were too tired for any more than a walk. Natives of the village, catching sight of Dale and Beeman, and the huge gray cat following like a dog, called excitedly to one another. A group of men in front of Turner’s gazed intently down the road, and soon manifested signs of excitement. Dale and his comrade dismounted in front of Widow Cass’s cottage. And Dale called as he strode up the little path. Mrs. Cass came out. She was white and shaking, but appeared calm. At sight of her John Beeman drew a sharp breath.
“Wal, now—” he began, hoarsely, and left off.
“How’s Roy?” queried Dale.
“Lord knows I’m glad to see you, boys! Milt, you’re thin an’ strange-lookin’. Roy’s had a little setback. He got a shock to-day an’ it throwed him off. Fever — an’ now he’s out of his head. It won’t do no good for you to waste time seein’ him. Take my word for it he’s all right. But there’s others as — For the land’s sakes, Milt Dale, you fetched thet cougar back! Don’t let him near me!”
“Tom won’t hurt you, mother,” said Dale, as the cougar came padding up the path. “You were sayin’ somethin’ — about others. Is Miss Helen safe? Hurry!”
“Ride up to see her — an’ waste no more time here.”
Dale was quick in the saddle, followed by John, but the horses had to be severely punished to force them even to a trot. And that was a lagging trot, which now did not leave Torn behind.
The ride up to Auchincloss’s ranch-house seemed endless to Dale. Natives came out in the road to watch after he had passed. Stern as Dale was in dominating his feelings, he could not wholly subordinate his mounting joy to a waiting terrible anticipation of catastrophe. But no matter what awaited — nor what fateful events might hinge upon this nameless circumstance about to be disclosed, the wonderful and glorious fact of the present was that in a moment he would see Helen Rayner.
There were saddled horses in the courtyard, but no riders. A Mexican boy sat on the porch bench, in the seat where Dale remembered he had encountered Al Auchincloss. The door of the big sitting-room was open. The scent of flowers, the murmur of bees, the pounding of hoofs came vaguely to Dale. His eyes dimmed, so that the ground, when he slid out of his saddle, seemed far below him. He stepped upon the porch. His sight suddenly cleared. A tight fullness at his throat made incoherent the words he said to the Mexican boy. But they were understood, as the boy ran back around the house. Dale knocked sharply and stepped over the threshold.
Outside, John, true to his habits, was thinking, even in that moment of suspense, about the faithful, exhausted horses. As he unsaddled them he talked: “Fer soft an’ fat hosses, winterin’ high up, wal, you’ve done somethin’!”
Then Dale heard a voice in another room, a step, a creak of the door. It opened. A woman in white appeared. He recognized Helen. But instead of the rich brown bloom and dark-eyed beauty so hauntingly limned on his memory, he saw a white, beautiful face, strained and quivering in anguish, and eyes that pierced his heart. He could not speak.
“Oh! my friend — you’ve come!” she whispered.
Dale put out a shaking hand. But she did not see it. She clutched his shoulders, as if to feel whether or not he was real, and then her arms went up round his neck.
“Oh, thank God! I knew you would come!” she said, and her head sank to his shoulder.
Dale divined what he had suspected. Helen’s sister had been carried off. Yet, while his quick mind grasped Helen’s broken spirit — the unbalance that was reason for this marvelous and glorious act — he did not take other meaning of the embrace to himself. He just stood there, transported, charged like a tree struck by lightning, making sure with all his keen senses, so that he could feel forever, how she was clinging round his neck, her face over his bursting heart, her quivering form close pressed to his.
“It’s — Bo,” he said, unsteadily.
“She went riding yesterday — and — never — came — back!” replied Helen, brokenly.
“I’ve seen her trail. She’s been taken into the woods. I’ll find her. I’ll fetch her back,” he replied, rapidly.
With a shock she seemed to absorb his meaning. With another shock she raised her face — leaned back a little to look at him.
“You’ll find her — fetch her back?”
“Yes,” he answered, instantly.
With that ringing word it seemed to Dale she realized how she was standing. He felt her shake as she dropped her arms and stepped back, while the white anguish of her face was flooded out by a wave of scarlet. But she was brave in her confusion. Her eyes never fell, though they changed swiftly, darkening with shame, amaze, and with feelings he could not read.
“I’m almost — out of my head,” she faltered.
“No wonder. I saw that.... But now you must get clear-headed. I’ve no time to lose.”
He led her to the door.
“John, it’s Bo that’s gone,” he called. “Since yesterday.... Send the boy to get me a bag of meat an’ bread. You run to the corral an’ get me a fresh horse. My old horse Ranger if you can find him quick. An’ rustle.”
Without a word John leaped bareback on one of the horses he had just unsaddled and spurred him across the courtyard.
Then the big cougar, seeing Helen, got up from where he lay on the porch and came to her.
“Oh, it’s Tom!” cried Helen, and as he rubbed against her knees she patted his head with trembling hand. “You big, beautiful pet! Oh, how I remember! Oh, how Bo would love to—”
“Where’s Carmichael?” interrupted Dale. “Out huntin’ Bo?”
“Yes. It was he who missed her first. He rode everywhere yesterday. Last night when he came back he was wild. I’ve not seen him to-day. He made all the other men but Hal and Joe stay home on the ranch.”
“Right. An’ John must stay, too,” declared Dale. “But it’s strange. Carmichael ought to have found the girl’s tracks. She was ridin’ a pony?”
“Bo rode Sam. He’s a little bronc, very strong and fast.”
“I come across his tracks. How’d Carmichael miss them?”
“He didn’t. He found them — trailed them all along the north range. That’s where he forbade Bo to go. You see, they’re in love with each other. They’ve been at odds. Neither will give in. Bo disobeyed him. There’s hard ground off the north range, so he said. He was able to follow her tracks only so far.”
“Were there any other tracks along with hers?”
“No.”
“Miss Helen, I found them ‘way southeast of Pine up on the slope of the mountain. There were seven other horses makin’ that trail — when we run across it. On the way down we found a camp where men had waited. An’ Bo’s pony, led by a rider on a big horse, come into that camp from the east — maybe north a little. An’ that tells the story.”
“Riggs ran her down — made off with her!” cried Helen, passionately. “Oh, the villain! He had men in waiting. That’s Beasley’s work. They were after me.”
“It may not be just what you said, but that’s close enough. An’ Bo’s in a bad fix. You must face that an’ try to bear up under — fears of the worst.”
“My friend! You will save her!”
“I’ll fetch her back, alive or dead.”
“Dead! Oh, my God!” Helen cried, and closed her eyes an instant, to open them burning black. “But Bo isn’t dead. I know that — I feel it. She’ll not die very easy. She’s a little savage. She has no fear. She’d fight like a tigress for her life. She’s strong. You remember how strong. She can stand anything. Unless they murder her outright she’ll live — a long time — through any ordeal.... So I beg you, my friend, don’t lose an hour — don’t ever give up!”
Dale trembled under the clasp of her hands. Loosing his own from her clinging hold, he stepped out on the porch. At that moment John appeared on Ranger, coming at a gallop.
“Nell, I’ll never come back without her,” said Dale. “I reckon you can hope — only be prepared. That’s all. It’s hard. But these damned deals are common out here in the West.”
“Suppose Beasley comes — here!” exclaimed Helen, and again her hand went out toward him.
“If he does, you refuse to get off,” replied Dale. “But don’t let him or his greasers put a dirty hand on you. Should he threaten force — why, pack some clothes — an’ your valuables — an’ go down to Mrs. Cass’s. An’ wait till I come back!”
“Wait — till you — come back!” she faltered, slowly turning white again. Her dark eyes dilated. “Milt — you’re like Las Vegas. You’ll kill Beasley!”
Dale heard his own laugh, very cold and strange, foreign to his ears. A grim, deadly hate of Beasley vied with the tenderness and pity he felt for this distressed girl. It was a sore trial to see her leaning there against the door — to be compelled to leave her alone. Abruptly be stalked off the porch. Tom followed him. The black horse whinnied his recognition of Dale and snorted at sight of the cougar. Just then the Mexican boy returned with a bag. Dale tied this, with the small pack, behind the saddle.
“John, you stay here with Miss Helen,” said Dale. “An’ if Carmichael comes back, keep him, too! An’ to-night, if any one rides into Pine from the way we come, you be sure to spot him.”
“I’ll do thet, Milt,” responded John.
Dale mounted, and, turning for a last word to Helen, he felt the words of cheer halted on his lips as he saw her standing white and broken-hearted, with her hands to her bosom. He could not look twice.
“Come on there, you Tom,” he called to the cougar. “Reckon on this track you’ll pay me for all my trainin’ of you.”
