Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 865
“By jiminy! I take you up,” shouted Sims, “an’ I’ll say you are a good fellar, Ben Ide.”
The deal went through, Sim’s partners proving as eager as he, if not more so; and by midday, Ben had the satisfaction of seeing them ready to drive off toward Klamath Falls.
It struck him that Sims acted a little queer, now jubilant, and again preoccupied. He had something on his mind. Finally Moore arrived in a spring wagon with his family.
“Wal, look at that ragged little outfit,” declared Nevada, with sympathy. “Moore’s woman is cryin’ for very Joy. Ben, you done her a good turn.”
At the last, when the horses were out of the corral, headed north, Sims called Ben aside and leaned down from his saddle.
“Ide, soon as I sell my share an’ fix up papers for you I’m headin’ for the wheat country on the Big Bend, in Washington,” he said, low-voiced. “Will you keep it under your hat?”
“Why, sure!” replied Ben, feeling a surprise, more at Sim’s manner than at his disclosure.
“You’re goin’ strong for cattle hyar?” he went on.
“Yes, some day.”
“I want to be square with you. Moore’s wife is my sister. She was dyin’ hyar. An’ I reckon you’ve saved my bacon. Now if I put you wise to somethin’ will you give me your word never to tell?”
Ben extended his hand and Sims wrung it. He was pale, tense and his eyes glinted.
“I had to throw in with this cattle-thievin’ outfit thet hides in the mountains back of Silver Meadow. It was thet or starve. Wal, this outfit has a big cattleman backin’ it. Someone you’d never suspect. I had no use for them fellars an’ I was suspicious. So I spied on them. Now my hunch to you is this. Don’t throw in with anybody. Don’t trust any of these big dealers or ranchers. Don’t put any cattle in hyar till the thieves quit. An’ do a little spyin’ round on your own hook.”
With that Sims spurred his horse and galloped away across the dusty flat, leaving Ben standing there dumbfounded. Nevada strolled up from somewhere.
“What the devil was Sims tellin’ you?” he inquired casually, yet his keen glance scrutinised Ben.
“Nevada, I’m not at liberty to say, but it was a hell of a lot,” replied Ben, drawing his breath hard.
“Ahuh! Wal, pard, Modoc an’ I could tell you somethin’ aboot why these homesteaders was so darned glad to sell out an’ shake the dust of Tule Lake.”
“It’s an ill wind that blows nobody good,” rejoined Ben.
“Shore. An’ their loss is our gain. We’ve fallen into four hundred and eighty acres of the best land in this country. But, Ben, my boy rancher, we’ll let it lay fallow for a while. Savvy?”
“You’re a cute son-of-a-gun,” retorted Ben, regarding his friend with admiration, not guessing how much Nevada knew.
“Wal, if I do say it myself I reckon I’m a pretty good pard to tie to,” said Nevada, complacently.
“Best in the world,” returned Ben, eloquently. Then he added, quizzically: “That is, the best man pard.”
“You darned fickle, wild-goose-chasin’ Forlorn River hermit!” ejaculated Nevada, with infinite disgust. “No woman, not even Hettie, could ever make me say that.”
“Nevada, I’ll bet Hettie could make you do anything. But we’re getting mushy again Couple of fine industrious cowmen we’ll be unless—”
“Ben, the cattle business is a side bet with us. We’re goin’ to ketch, breed, raise, an’ sell hosses. Let’s ride over this four eighty of ours an’ see what we’re up against. Then to-morrow we’ll ride over to the lava beds and ice caves.”
Ben gave Nevada a quick, interrogating look. “Holding out on me, hey?” he flashed.
“Wal, not exactly,” drawled the cowboy. “I seen your haid was full of Ina Blaine. An’ I shore didn’t want to see that sweet little girl forgot all in a minnit.”
“Nevada, I’ll biff you one right on your long jaw,” declared Ben, half in earnest.
“In that case, then, I’ll have to elucidate. Day before yesterday Modoc spotted a big band of wild hosses. He was on the mountain yonder an’ saw the hosses down in the valley, making straight for the ice caves.”
“By thunder!” shouted Ben, in an instant all excitement. “What we’ve laid low for all these dry years!”
“You bet. Water all gone on this range. Them wild hosses are sick of drinkin’ out of this mud-hole. An’ Forlorn River above your spring is growin’ green an’ bitter. There’s cold, clear water down in them ice caves. Modoc tells how his people used to trap hosses there. An’, as you say, we’ve been layin’ low for the chance.”
“Of all the luck! You knew this when you jumped on me with both spurs — driving me to sell my horses?”
“Shore. I just wanted to see how much of a sport you was.”
“Did Modoc see California Red?” asked Ben, eagerly.
“No, but I shore did,” replied Nevada, quickening to the excitement of his friend. “I was ridin’ north six or eight miles above heah, lookin’ for tracks. I climbed pretty high, an’ swingin’ round a curve I run plumb into Red. He had a small bunch with him, mostly mares. They were travellin’ north. Say, when he seen me! W’hoopee! Talk aboot your red streak. Closest I ever was to him. I watched him out of sight. An’ I’m shore he was makin’ for that high black range.”
“Good! Out of the way for this summer,” exclaimed Ben, with gratification. “That leaves us time to work. We’ll catch Red when the snow drives him down out of the hills.”
“Ben, you’re gettin’ real human sense. I declare failin’ in love all over again.... Hold on! Ouch! — I’ll take it back.”
“You’d better. Come on, now. Let’s ride this four eighty, as you call it.”
It required no great acumen for Ben to realise that they had secured a remarkable bargain in the homesteads. There were fully three hundred acres of level land, a grey loam very productive under normal rainfall. This did not include the area of Mule Deer Lake, which was now a ghastly yellow basin, with a small circle of muddy water left in the centre. The mouth of Moore’s canyon proved an ideal site for a dam. A wall thirty feet high and two hundred in length would dam up a lake of large dimensions, storing water enough for years. Irrigation in that warm protected bowl would make it a paradise. What an oversight on the part of these homesteaders! Ben and Nevada were highly elated and talked like boys and planned like ranchers with means. Yet the evidence was there to see. Ben realised he had bought a magnificent ranch for a bunch of horses. What would his father say to that? What would Ina Blaine think when some day she saw this sage-sloped valley green and verdant? Ben’s heart beat with unwonted vigour. His luck had turned. He was on the track of something that would surprise those hard-fisted grasping ranchers back at Tule Lake. But he reflected he would never abandon his homestead on Forlorn River.
Toward sunset of the following day Ben and Nevada, with Modoc behind driving the pack animals, were approaching the wild region known as the lava beds. Miles of sage flat led to the forest of pine that rose in undulating steps to the bare, grey cinder slope and black lava ridge and dome of the mountain. In the foreground the pine trees showed faintly yellow, gradually losing that hue for a healthy green.
At the edge of the forest Ben called a halt to make dry camp. One out of every three pine? trees appeared to be dying. The pine-needle foliage was sear and yellow. Six years of drought had doomed many of these noble trees. The forest was extremely dry and almost suffocatingly odorous.
During the day the men had crossed the track of the band of wild horses; arid while busy with the camp duties, arid after supper round the fire, their sole topic of conversation related to the chase. Next morning they were on their way before sunrise, slowly climbing and working somewhat to the west.
When the sun rose to blaze into the open forest Ben thought he had never seen so beautiful, so dry, and so dead a place. Not a sound, not a living creature! The trees were yellow pines, large, stately, and widely separated. A thin bleached white grass stood above the strange volcanic soil. It was no less than grey granulated pumic stone, soft and springy, so light that clouds of white dust puffed up from every step of horse. The travel was therefore slow and tedious. Under the pines, where a mat of brown needles covered this treacherous ground, the travel was easier. On all sides there was a rain of dead pine needles falling from the starved trees, sifting, floating, glinting down in a weird silence.
Modoc, who took the lead, kept to the base of the grey slope, now working westward. Through openings in the forest a red cinder mountain stood up against the blue sky. It had a fringe of pines. The fine dust that puffed up from under the hoofs of the horses was hard on both man and beast. It clogged the nostrils. It choked. It had a smarting, constricting power, like that of alkali.
As the hunters progressed, getting higher all the time, the characteristics peculiar to this lava-bed country appeared to be magnified in every detail. The pine trees grew immense; the grey ridges of pumice sloped up, too steep for a horse to climb without effort; out of this strange medium the pines sprang; and the brown of trunks, the green and red of foliage, against that soft, pearly, grey background, was strikingly beautiful.
Toward noon Modoc worked down a little, coming to the parklike slope of a great canyon, across which loomed the steep red cinder cone. Here there began to be manifested harsher evidences of the volcanic power that had dominated the region in ages past. Outcroppings of bronze and black lava showed here and there under the pines. These increased in size and number, and presently it was noticeable that a thin layer of pumice covered a tremendous stratum of lava.
At length Ben reached a point where he could see down out of the forest to a vast belt of lava beds below. Miles and miles of ghastly ragged lava rolled away toward the grey expanse of sage. In colour it was blue, black, red, like rusty iron, seamed and fissured, caked and broken, a rough file-surfaced place over which travel was almost impossible.
Modoc soon led into the region of the ice caves. Huge holes gaped abruptly; black vacant apertures stared from under ledges; windows of mysterious depths showed right out of the grey pumice. Each and every cavern was a blow hole that had formed in the cooling lava. It was an uncanny region where riding a horse did not feel safe. Some of the holes were fifty feet deep and twice as long, black and jagged-walled, brush-filled, with the dark doors of caves somewhere at the bottom. Every one of them led into a cave. And down in these caves there was always supposed to be ice, from which cold crystal water flowed.
As to this latter fact, however, it transpired that Modoc had his doubts. He dismounted beside several holes and laboriously descended to seek water. At last he found one. But the water was not accessible for a horse, and must be drawn up with rope and bucket. Here camp was pitched. Modoc slipped away on foot to see if he could locate the wild horses. Along this canyon slope the bleached grass grew in sufficient quantity to furnish feed. Ben could not help but believe a lucky star was rising for him. Upon Modoc’s return he was sure. The Indian wore a smile.
“Good — most dry time — ever see,” he panted. “Find old Modoc cave — trail — water..., We make trap — catch plenty horse.”
CHAPTER VI
BEN AND NEVADA were intensely eager to see the trap Modoc spoke of with such assurance, but they were advised by the Indian to wait until a more favourable time. What little wind there was appeared to favour the horses. Toward late afternoon, however, it veered to the west and freshened a little. Whereupon Modoc took up an axe and some large nails, and bidding his comrades follow he set off on foot.
Modoc led them down out of the forest upon the lava. Like a tumultuous iron-crusted sea it waved and billowed before them, presenting a most sinister aspect. Once molten, it was now hard as steel, and broken into every conceivable manner of split, fissure, crack, cave, and cavern, coloured in rusty drab lanes. Pine trees, saplings, and brush grew marvellously right out of the crevices, apparently without earth as sustenance and foundation for their roots. Many of the pines had lately died, and as many more were beginning to turn yellow at the tops, betraying starvation by thirst.
As the hunters with difficulty progressed westward, the violence of the lava stream gradually smoothed out, but the great blow-holes grew larger and more numerous. Ben peered into caves huge enough to hide a church. The whole stratum of lava appeared to be honeycombed into a labyrinthine maze of holes, passages, caves.
At length Modoc halted on the brushy tree-bordered rim of, the largest depression Ben had seen. It was over an acre in extent, precipitous on three sides, and shelving very roughly on the fourth side. Deep and flat-floored, it formed a remarkable natural corral. Ben’s sharp eye was quick to note where a trail had been worn, narrow and sharp and steep at the rim, and gradually growing broader and easier of descent until it resembled a road. It led into a gigantic cavern.
“Geemanee!” ejaculated Nevada. “Made to order!”
“Modoc, the water’s down in that cave,” asserted Ben, eagerly, pointing.
“Big hole full water. No bottom. Ice all over,” replied the Indian.
“By golly! Nevada, we’re rich. Let’s go round to the head of that trail and have a look.”
Ben had heard from the Indian how the Modocs used to lie in ambush around this cave, watch at night for the wild horses to go down to drink, then run and block the narrow place where the trail led over the rim. How absurdly simple the trap! The moment Ben laid eyes upon the head of the trail he felt almost shame to be guilty of catching wild horses so easily. There were, however, two great difficulties. One was that only in rarely occurring, extremely dry seasons were the wild horses driven to this extremity. And secondly, after they were trapped in the cave, to get them out safely was a hazardous and strenuous undertaking. That did not in the least daunt Ben; he had a way with horses, and as for Nevada, the cowboy was incomparable with a lasso.
Modoc shuffled away to begin chopping down saplings. When Ben had gazed his fill at that fascinating trap he ‘drew Nevada away with him to help the Indian. They built a gate, so heavy that they had difficulty in carrying it to the objective point, where they partially hid it under brush. Two great boulders of lava, one on each side of the trail, attested to their use as anchors for trap-gates in the past.
“Doggone!” ejaculated Nevada, after heaving one of the boulders into better place. “Is this all the work we have to do? Shame to take the money!”
“The worst is to come,” replied Ben, in grim satisfaction. “You mean gettin’ the hosses up out of there an’ movin’ them, after we do ketch them?” queried Nevada.
“I sure do. It’ll be the toughest job we ever tackled.” Whereupon the cowboy subsided, and lost his enthusiasm in thoughtfulness. On the return to camp Modoc explained one of the methods adopted by the Indians for capturing the horses after they had been trapped. It was to let one or two out of the gate at a time and rope them. But Ben could not accept this plan as practical for him. The Indians wanted only a few horses, while he wanted many. It would take time to capture them.
“Well, let’s wait till we see how many we trap and how good they are,” decided Ben, finally.
“Reckon I figger same way,” replied Nevada. “I’ve an idea, though, an’ it’s pretty dam slick.”
They hurried through with their camp chores, and before daylight had failed they were snugly hidden on a high point of lava near the cave. Modoc had located the trail used by the horses coming in to drink, and had chosen the hiding-place with keen regard to the direction of the wind.
Their plan was to take turns at sleeping and watching. Ben chose the early watch, and while his comrades rolled in their blankets he composed himself to a task full of infinite joy for him.
Night fell black. One by one stars appeared in the sky. A cool wind with a breath of snow came down from the lava heights. At intervals sounds of the wilderness broke the silence; and of these the honking of wild geese thrilled him most. They passed very high overhead, bound to the far north, late in their pilgrimage. From the flat country toward Mule Deer Lake the sharp staccato notes of coyotes pierced the loneliness. Then from a far ridge pealed down the wild mourn of a wolf. An owl hooted weirdly. Next Ben heard the slow, shuffling, scratching progress of a porcupine working across the lava near at hand. Then followed a swift, silky rush of wild fowl flying low. The rustling of brush, the snapping of twigs, the rolling of bits of lava, the faint cracking of hoofs on hard substance acquainted Ben with the fact that deer were going down into the cave to drink. Also he caught the soft padded footsteps of a heavier animal.
These sounds of the wild were as familiar to Ben as the voices of his comrades. Yet he never tired of them. There was something about them which he could not understand. But love of them had always been in him. And this kind of a lonely vigil seemed full and all-satisfying.
Ben chose not to wake his comrades, except once to shake Nevada, who was blissfully snoring. He did not need sleep; he did not care to miss any of this night. It came to him, finally, that there was something extraordinarily more beautiful about it all — the velvet blue sky, the white stars, the silver forecast of the moon behind the black ridge, the night with its rare, wild sounds, the peace of the wilderness, the glory of the solitude. And he divined that his love for Ina Blaine was responsible for this. At that hour he felt only exaltation. Unhappiness could not abide in him. The overmastering love that had grown so suddenly was something great in his heart, too splendid a privilege, too profound a gift ever to hurt him again. At such an hour, in such a place, he could feel the mystery and significance of his life.
The moon soared white and grand above the mountains and the black mantle that had obscured the billowy lava beds seemed lifted away. The soft night wind all but died away, and the wild sounds ceased. The majesty of utter solitude held full sway until Ben’s rapt abstraction broke to the crack of hard hoofs on hard rock. A suffocating excitement gripped Ben. The wild horses were coming to drink! Long past midnight it was. He waited a moment to revel in his strange joy before awakening his companions.
