Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  That pleased me immensely. Whatever Hal was, he was not a fool. I noticed Jim Williams wore an expression as near akin to excitement as it was possible for that cool Texas ranger to wear. Perhaps in Jim’s mind, as in mine, the lad was being measured. Purcell, too, appeared to like the boy’s frankness.

  “I don’t know as I kin give you many tips,” he said. “Fact of the matter is you must try to stick on, that’s all. Just keep your toes in the stirrups, so you can git them out quick. Then squeeze him with your knees for all you’re worth...Wait! Make sure where you’re going...There!”

  Hal sat firmly in the saddle. Wings champed the bit and turned his head, then shook it, and suddenly lifting his hind hoofs he kicked viciously. We scattered and climbed the corral fence. When we turned round the pinto had come down on all fours and squared himself. With head down, humping his back, he proceeded to buck with startling quickness, and tossed Hal like a feather. The boy hit the ground with a thud, and slowly got up, considerably shaken. Then he went up to the mustang, now standing quietly.

  Quite a little crowd of villagers, mostly boys, had collected to see the fun, and some of the latter were inclined to make remarks at Hal’s expense. One of them, a boy I knew to be a rascal, poked his head between the bars of a gate, and yelled derisively at Hal, to the immense delight of the other lads. Hal eyed him a moment, but he did not say anything. This made the fellow all the bolder, for he climbed the fence, from which he directed more remarks.

  “Mr. Purcell,” said Hal to the rancher, “I hadn’t got ready that time. I wasn’t expecting it. Now how must I treat him? My way at home was to coax a pony, be decent to him.”

  “It’ll pay best in the end to be decent to a hoss,” replied Purcell. “Be kind, but firm, an’ use your spurs.”

  “I haven’t any spurs; I never used any.”

  “You’ll need them out here.”

  Hal mounted the pinto again. Wings wheeled about, pranced, stood up pawing the air, snorted, and then, dropping down, he began to run round the corral. He zigzagged against the fence, and slowing down he took short jumps, kicking at the same time. Then he squared himself again and lowered his head.

  “Look out, Kid!” yelled Ken.

  We all shouted warnings. Hal was prepared, and for the space of a few seconds, while the bucking pinto pounded a dusty circle in the corral, he kept his seat. But a new move, a sort of sidestepping buck, flung him against the fence, and he fell all in a heap. It was a hard fall, but the boy got up. A lump began to show on his chin, and blood, his knuckles, too, were bloody.

  “Lookie here, Redhead,” called out the smart youngster who was amusing his comrades by making fun of Hal. “Can’t you ride no better’n that? Haw! Haw! You can’t ride or nothin’, Redhead! Redhead!”

  “Say, Johnny, can you ride him?” asked Hal, coolly.

  “Yep, you bet.”

  “Come down and let me see you do it. I don’t believe you.”

  Johnny eyed Hal rather doubtfully. Hal looked very much interested, very friendly, but his eyes were cold and hard. The Western lad hesitated, and finally driven to it by the bantering of the other lads, he dropped off the fence. Vaulting into the saddle, he rode Wings round the corral, kept his seat easily while the pinto went through his tricks, and altogether gave an exhibition of riding which would have made most any Eastern lad green with envy.

  “You did ride him. I was wrong. I thought you couldn’t,” said Hal, walking slowly up to Johnny as he dismounted. “You’re a crack horseman.”

  Suddenly Hal leaped at the fellow, and at the same moment Ken yelled and tumbled off the fence. I was too amazed to move. Jim Williams’s mouth gaped and he stared in speechless delight.

  Hal had the youngster jammed against the fence and was banging him.

  “You called me redhead and tenderfoot and sloppy rider!” cried Hal, swinging his fists.

  Then Ken reached them, pulled Hal away, and rescued the already bewildered and bloody-nosed lad.

  “Dick, I knew it, I knew it,” said Ken, leading the lad out at the gate. “The minute Hal asked that boy to ride the mustang I knew what was up. I couldn’t say a word. Hal always makes me speechless.”

  Williams was shaking so that he rattled the top bar of the corral, and Purcell roared. If it had not been for the shame and distress in Ken’s face I would have yelled myself. For that bantering youngster had long ago earned my dislike, and I was glad to see him get a little of his just deserts.

  Then I saw Hal look through the fence at all the strange lads. He was certainly the coolest piece of audacity I ever saw.

  “I wasn’t born in a saddle, see?” he said. “At that I’ll bet in a month I can ride with any of you. But there’s one thing I can do right now — so don’t any of you call me redhead again.”

  “Hal, shut up, and come out of there,” called Ken.

  “Not on your life,” replied Hal, promptly. “I’m going to ride this iron-jawed mustang or — or—”

  Hal did not complete the sentence, but his look was expressive enough.

  Jim Williams leisurely dropped off the fence into the corral. While removing his spurs he looked up at Ken, and his eyes twinkled.

  “See here, Ken, you’re doin’ a powerful lot of fussin’ about this kid brother. You leave him to me.”

  That from Williams occasioned me immeasurable relief, and though Ken still looked doubtful there was much gladness and gratitude in his surprised glance.

  Jim sauntered over toward the center of the corral, swinging his spurs.

  “Kid, I reckon you an’ me had better strike up a pardnership in ridin’ pintoes, an’ all sich little matters appertainin’ to the range.”

  Jim changed the strap lengths on his spurs and handed them to Hal.

  “Put these on,” he said. “I reckon they’re too long for you, an’ mebbe ‘11 trip you up when you walk. But they’re what you need on horseback.”

  Hal adjusted the spurs, and took a few awkward steps, digging up the ground with the big rowels.

  “They’ll be as hard on me as on the pony,” he said.

  Jim captured Wings, and tightened saddle-girths, shortened stirrups, and, slipping off the bridle, let the pinto go.

  “Now, kid, listen. These Western hosses an’ mustangs can size up a man, an’ take advantage of him. You’ve got to be half hoss yourself to know all their tricks. The trouble with you jest now was thet Wings seen you was scared of him. You mustn’t let a hoss see that. You must be natural, easy, an’ firm. You must be master. Take the bridle an’ go up to Wings, on the left side. Never again try to straddle a hoss from the right side. Don’t coax him, an’ don’t yell at him. If you say anythin’, mean bizness. When you get him in a corner go right up, not too quick or too slow, an’ reach out to put on the bridle as if you’d done it all your life. When you get it on draw the reins back over his head reasonable tight an’ hold them with your left hand, at the same time takin’ a good grip on his mane. Turn the stirrup an’ slip your left toe in, grab the pommel with right hand, an’ swing up. Start him off then an’ let him know who’s boss. If he wants to go one way make him go the other. Don’t be afraid to stick the spurs into him. You’re too gentle with a hoss. Thet’ll never do in this country. These sage-brush hosses ain’t Eastern hosses. Make up your mind to ride him now. He’ll see it. An’ if he bucks soak him with the spurs till he stops or throws you. An’ if he throws you get up an’ go after him again.”

  “All right,” replied Hal, soberly. And picking up the bridle he went toward Wings.

  The pinto squared around and eyed Hal as curiously as if he had actually heard the advice tendered by the Texan. Probably he heard the clinking spurs and knew what they meant. With a snort he jumped and began to run round the corral. Hal slowly closed in on him, and at length got him in a corner. And here Hal showed that he could obey coaching as readily as Ken. Walking directly up to the pinto, he bridled him, and with quick, decisive action leaped astride.

  Then he spurred
Wings. The pinto bolted, and in his plunging scattered dust and gravel. Not liking the spurs, he settled into a run. Hal was now more at ease in the saddle. It was not so much confidence as desperation. Perhaps the shortened stirrups helped him to a firmer leg-hold. At any rate, he rode gracefully and appeared to good advantage. He pulled Wings, and when the fiery pinto snorted and tossed his head and preferred his own way a touch of spur made him turn round. In this manner Hal ran Wings along the corral fence, across the open space, to and fro, successfully turning him at will. Then as he let up the pinto wheeled and spread his legs and tried to get his head down.

  “Hold him up!” yelled Purcell.

  “Now’s the time, kid!” added Jim Williams. “Soak him with the spurs!”

  Hal could not keep the pinto from getting his head down or from beginning to buck, but he managed to use the long spurs. That made a difference. It broke Wing’s action. He did not seem to be able to get to going. He had to break and bolt, then square himself again, and try to buck.

  “Stick on, Hal!” I yelled. “If you stay with him now you’ll have him beat.”

  We all yelled, and Ken Ward danced around in great danger of being ridden down by the furious pinto. Like a burr Hal stuck on. There were moments when he wabbled in the saddle, lurched one way and then another, and again bounced high. Once we made sure it was to be a victory for the pinto, but Hal luckily and wonderfully regained his seat. And after that by degrees he appeared to get a surer, easier swing, while Wings grew tired of bucking and more tired of being spurred.

  Purcell jumped into the corral and began to throw down the bars of the gate.

  “Kid, run him out now!” shouted Jim. “Drive him good an’ hard! Make him see who’s boss!”

  Wings did not want to leave the corral, and Hal, in pulling him, lifted him off his forefeet. Another touch of spurs sent the pinto through the gate. Hal spurred him down the road.

  We watched Wings going faster and faster, gradually settling into an even gait, till he was on a dead run.

  “Thet pinto has wings, all right,” remarked Jim. “Purcell named him some ways near right. An’ between us the kid’s no slouch in the saddle. He won’t have thet little fire-eatin’ hoss broke all in a minnit, but he’ll be able to ride him. An’ thet’ll let us hit the trail.”

  CHAPTER III - OFF FOR COCONINA

  THE NAVAJO INDIAN whom I had engaged through Purcell did not show up till we were packing next morning. He was a copper-skinned, raven-haired, beady-eyed desert savage. When Ken and Hal had finished breakfast I called them out of the cottage to meet him.

  “Here, boys, shake hands with Navvy. Here, Navvy, shake with heap big brother — heap little brother.”

  “Me savvy,” said the Indian, extending his hand to Ken. “How.”

  Then he turned to Hal. “How.”

  Hal, following Ken, gingerly shook hands with Navvy. From the look of the lad he was all at sea, and plainly disappointed. No doubt in his mind dwelt images and fancies of picturesque plumed Indians, such as he had evolved from Western tales. Indeed Navvy would have been a disappointment to a most unromantic boy, let alone one as imaginative and full of wild ideas as Hal was. Navvy’s slouch hat and torn shirt and blue jeans, some white man’s cast-off apparel, were the things that disillusioned Hal. And I saw that he turned once more to his pinto. A new saddle and bridle, spurs, chaps, lasso, canteen, quirt, a rifle and a scabbard, and a slicker — these with spirited Wings were all-satisfying and gave him back his enchantment.

  “Where’ll the Indian ride?” asked Purcell.

  “Why, he can climb on the stallion,” I replied.

  Purcell’s stallion Marc was a magnificent bay, very heavy and big-boned. We had strapped a blanket on him and roped some sacks of oats over that. The other pack-horses were loaded with all they could carry.

  “He can climb on, I reckon, but he’ll darn soon git off,” remarked Purcell, dryly.

  “Then he’ll have to walk,” I rejoined.

  “That’ll be best,” said Purcell, much relieved. “Leslie, have a care of Marc. You’ll strike some all-fired bad trails in the Cañon, where many a hoss has slipped an’ gone over. Don’t drive Marc or pull him. Just coax him a little.”

  “All right, Purcell. We’ll be careful...Now, boys. We’re late starting, and it’s thirty miles to the first water.”

  I led the train, driving our pack horses before me. Navvy came next, leading Marc. Ken was third, and Jim, with a watchful eye on Hal and the pinto, brought up the rear.

  The few miles of good road between Kanab and Fredonia, another little hamlet, we made at a jog trot, doing the distance in something over an hour. Outside of Fredonia we hit the trail, and went down and down into the red washes, and, over the sage speckled flats. It grew dusty and hot. About noon we reached the first slow roll of rising ridge, and from there on it was climb. More than once I looked back, and more than once I saw Hal having trouble with his pinto. Once Wings, as if he really had wings, flew off across a flat, and spilled Hal into the sage. Navvy got tired walking and climbed up on the grain-sacks on Marc, but he did not stay there very long. Then my pack horse made trouble for me by shying at a rattlesnake and getting off the trail. The time passed swiftly, as it always passed when we were on the move, and we reached the first cedars about three o’clock. Here I saw that our train was stretched out over a mile in length. Navvy was having a little ride on Marc, but Ken limped along before his mustang, and Hal changed from side to side, from leg to leg, in his saddle. The boys were beginning to show soreness from riding.

  The sun had set when we made the head of Nail Gulch. Here a spring and a cabin awaited us, also a little browse for the horses.

  “I’ve got a lame knee, all right,” remarked Ken. “Thought I was in good shape.”

  “No matter how hard you are it’ll take three days or more to break you in,” I said.

  Hal came straggling along behind Jim. He fell off his pinto and just flopped over against a cedar.

  “Gee! but ain’t it great! Ken, look at those cliffs!”

  “Wait a couple of days, Hal. Then I’ll show you some cliffs,” I said.

  It took Jim and me only a little time to unpack, build a fire in the cabin, bake biscuits, and get a good supper. Navvy led the horses to water, hobbled them and turned them loose. Then we had our meal. Ken and Hal were supremely happy, but too tired to be jolly. Darkness found them both asleep, and Hal threshed about as if he were having wild dreams.

  At daybreak Navvy awakened me coming in with the horses. It began to appear that the Indian would be a welcome addition to our party. Finding the horses in the morning was work for me, and sometimes long and arduous work. And Jim, rolling out of his blanket and blinking his eyes, drawled: “Wal, pretty fair for an Injun, pretty fair!”

  The boys heard us, and roused themselves, bright and eager, though so stiff they could scarcely stand erect. In an hour we had breakfasted, packed, and were in the saddle. This morning Wings did not seem to be so frisky.

  “Boys, to-day will be a drill and no mistake,” I told them. “Ride as long as you can stand it, then walk a bit...Here! Look over the far side of the gulch. See that long black-fringed line with the patches of snow? That’s Buckskin Mountain. To-night we’ll camp under the pines. And Ken, there’re pine-trees on Buckskin that dwarf those in Penetier.”

  We struck out into the trail, and then began a long, tedious, uninteresting ride. Nail Gulch was narrow, and shut in the view. Low bare stone walls and cedar slopes extended for miles and miles. It was a gradual ascent all the way, but this did not grow perceptible until about noon. I laughed to see Ken and Hal fall off their saddles, hobble along for a while, then wearily mount again, presently to repeat the performance. The air grew cooler, making gloves comfortable. About three o’clock the gulch began to lose its walls, and we reached the first pines. They were not large, and straggled over the widening gulch, but as we climbed the trail they grew more numerous. The early shades of night enveloped u
s as we rode out of the gulch into the level forest.

  Here and there patches of snow gleamed through the gloom. This solved the question of water, and we made camp at once. A blazing fire soon warmed us. We had a hearty supper of bacon, hot biscuits, coffee, and canned vegetables. Ken and Hal were so tired and sore that they could scarcely move, but that did not affect their appetites. Then we sat around the campfire.

  By this time the forest was black and the wind roared through the pines. It was not new to Ken, but Hal showed what it meant to him. I fancied him even more sensitive to impressions than Ken, but he was not so apt to express his feelings. In fact Hal seemed a silent lad, or else he had not yet found his tongue. Wonderful thoughts, I knew, were teeming in his mind. His big eyes glowed. He watched the camp-fire, and looked out into the dark gloom of the forest, and then back at Jim, then at the impassive Navajo. He listened to the wind and to the bells on the horses.

  “Where’s our tent?” he asked, suddenly. “We don’t use no tents,” replied Jim. “We spread a tarp—”

  “What’s that?”

  “Why, a tarpaulin, you know, a big piece of canvas. Wal, we spread one of them on the ground, roll in our blankets, an’ pull the other end of the tarp up over.”

  Then a little while afterward Hal broke silence again.

  “I hear something; what is it?” he asked, breathlessly, starting up.

  We all listened while the fire sputtered. A lull came in the roar of the wind through the pines, and then from far off in the forest a wild, high-pitched yelp.

  “Kid, that’s a coyote,” replied Ken, slapping Hal on the knee. “Don’t you remember I told you about coyotes?...Listen!”

  Hal said no more that evening, yet when I was sleepy and ready to turn in he still sat up, alert, watchful, intent on the strangeness and wildness of the forest. It was a treat to see him when Navvy rolled in a blanket with feet to the fire.

  “Sleepie — me,” said the Indian.

  That was his good-night to us.