Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  “I don’t understand,” said Hal. “These were Spanish warriors in helmets and breasts plates like the men with Cortez in Mexico and Pizarro in South America. What brought them to such an out-of-the-way place as this?”

  “It’s a romance,” replied Ken, earnestly; “but it’s a true one, and it goes back to the search for a way to the treasures of the Far East, which led to Columbus’ discovery of Cat or San Salvador Island in the West Indies, and then to the Spanish occupancy of Cuba, and to the gold-hunts of De Soto in our South and Pizarro in South America.”

  “I don’t see the connection,” grumbled Hal.

  “You will in a minute. You see when the Spaniards were settled in Cuba in the early sixteenth century they kept on looking for two things — gold and a water route to Cathay or China and the Spice Islands of the East. Now, in 1528 a Spanish expedition under Narvaez came to grief in Florida. A few survivors made their way across the Gulf of Mexico, and finally four who were left were captured by the Indians a little west of the mouth of the Mississippi. For years they were captives among the Indians of eastern Texas and western Louisiana. They made many long journeys, and their leader, Alvar Nunez Cabeza de Vaca, gained some favors by acting as medicine man. But at last they escaped. They traveled across Texas and northern Mexico, and in 1536 succeeded in reaching the northern outpost of Spain in Mexico, at Culiacan, in Sinaloa.”

  “That must have been the first time a white man crossed this continent,” broke in Hal.

  “Yes, Alvar Nuñez Cabeza de Vaca was the first to cross the continent. He was the first white man to see the buffalo, and another thing he did was to bring hack stories of wonderful towns filled with riches of which the Indians had told him. Stories like this had reached the Spaniards before. Within three years a priest, Fray Marcos de Niza, taking one of Alvar Nunez Cabeza de Vaca’s followers, started north to find the Seven Cities of Cibola. He probably did find the Pueblos of Zuni, but he brought back exaggerated stories. Such stories, especially one of Quivira, an Indian treasure city, led Mendoza, the Viceroy of Mexico, to organize a search expedition which was commanded by Coronado, the Governor of New Galicia. He started north in 1540 with over three hundred soldiers and over a thousand Indian allies and Indian and negro servants. He captured Zuni, although he didn’t find any gold. He wintered there and sent out exploring parties, and one of them, to come back to my starting-point, found the Grand Cañon.”

  “Did the Spaniards get down into the Grand Cañon?” asked Hal.

  “They tried to. Some of the men with Cardenas climbed down a long way with Indian guides. They said that some rocks on the sides of the cliffs which seemed the size of a man from above proved to be larger than the great tower at Seville when they reached them. But they could not go on to the bottom. They estimated the width of the Cañon at the top at three or four leagues.”

  “But,” said Hal, “didn’t the Spaniards ever reach the river itself?”

  “I should say they did,” replied Ken. “Listen. In 1539 some ships commanded by Don Francisco de Ulloa evidently reached the mouth of the river. When Coronado started the next year, the Viceroy sent out another fleet commanded by Don Fernando de Alarcon. This fleet was to go north along the Mexican coast, and as they knew nothing of the geography of the region they thought Coronado and Alarcon would not be far apart and could keep in touch. Alarcon not only reached the mouth of the Colorado, but he ascended the river in boats for eighty-five leagues and called it the Rio de Buena Guia. Also Melchior Diaz, who led an exploring party sent out by Coronado, went across Arizona to the Gulf of California, crossing the Colorado River.”

  “Where did you get all this?” asked Dick, abruptly, and then, as Ken held up a small book, “Oh! you’ve been reading up. But my histories never told me this. What is that?”

  “That,” said Ken, “is Castañeda’s ‘Relations,’ or Journal, and Castañeda was an educated private soldier with Coronado who was the historian of the journey, in order that there might be a full report for the Viceroy of Mexico and the Emperor-King of Spain. It has been translated and explained by Mr. G. P. Winship, and other scholars, like Bandelier, have helped to make the Spanish explorations known. Cabeza de Vaca wrote a full account of his wanderings, like many other adventurous Spaniards.”

  “Oh! What became of Coronado finally?” asked Hal.

  “His expedition journeyed from Zuni eastward, entered Kansas, and probably reached the northeasterly part of the State.”

  “How about the golden Quivira?” asked Hal.

  “The only Quivira they found was a wretched little village, probably of the Wichita Indians, in Kansas. But here is a dramatic thing. While Coronado was up there in Kansas with his fine expedition, poor De Soto, who had fought his way from Florida to the Mississippi, had crossed the river, and was distant only a journey of a few days for an Indian runner — in fact, it is related that Coronado heard of some white men there in the heart of this strange country and sent a messenger to find them, who failed. Now here’s the thing that strikes me. At that early day, in the summer of 1541, two Spanish expeditions, one starting from Florida, and one from Mexico, practically traversed the breadth of our continent, and nearly met in eastern Kansas. We always hear of the Jamestown colony and the Pilgrims; but think of the Spaniards crossing the continent twice in the first half of the century before Jamestown.”

  “It’s a great story,” said Hal. “I hope Coronado got some reward.”

  “Not much,” Ken snapped out. “First, he fe 11 from his horse and was badly hurt. Secondly, he had found no gold. That was the important thing. So he reached the City of Mexico in the spring of 1542, ‘very sad and very weary, completely worn out and shamefaced.’”

  “Didn’t he get any credit for his discoveries?”

  “Not a particle. Yet he had made known to Europeans a vast territory extending from the mouth of the Colorado River to the Grand Cañon, and stretching east nearly to the Mississippi and north to Nebraska.”

  “What became of him?”

  “He was so coldly received by the Viceroy,” answered Ken, “that he resigned as Governor of New Galicia and retired to his estate in Spain, where he died.”

  “It’s a wonderful story,” said Hal.

  “There’s nothing better in the exploration of this country,” Ken agreed. “But, Hal, I’ve talked myself out and it’s time to do something else.”

  CHAPTER XIV - HIRAM BENT’S STORY

  HOW OLD HIRAM Bent was no one knew, and he probably did not know himself. But his life of Western adventure had included Indian-fighting and buffalo-hunting in the early days, and once in a while he could be persuaded to talk of wild life on the plains. Something that he said made us demand a story, and at last he began:

  “Youngsters, this narrer escape I had happened way down in the northwest corner of Texas. Jim must know jest about whar it was.

  “I was tryin’ to overhaul a shifty herd of buffalo, an’ had rid mebbe forty or fifty mile thet day. As I was climbin’ a slope I saw columns of dust risin’ beyond the ridge, an’ they told me the direction the herd was takin’. When I got on top I made out far ahead a lone sentinel of the herd standin’ out sharp an’ black against the sky line.

  “When the wary old buffalo disappeared I hed cause to grumble. For there wasn’t much chance of me overhaulin’ the herd. Still I kept spurrin’ my hoss. He plunged down the ridge with a weakenin’ stride, an’ I knew he was most done. But he was game an’ kept on. Presently I saw the flyin’ buffalo, a black movin’ mass half hid by clouds of whitish dust. They were a mile or more ahead an’ I thought if I could git out of the rough ground I might head them. Jest below me were piles of yellow rock an’ clumps of dwarf trees, an’ green thet I reckoned was cottonwoods. My hoss ran down into a low hollow, an’ afore I knowed what was up all about me was movin’ objects, red an’ brown an’ black. I pulled up my snortin’ hoss right in the midst of a band of Comanches.

  “One glance showed me half-naked redskins slippin�
�� from tree to tree, springin’ up all around with half-leveled rifles. I felt the blood rush to my heart an’ leave my body all cold an’ heavy. There wasn’t much chance them days of escapin’ from Comanches. But my mind worked fast. I hed one chance, mebbe half a chance, but it was so hopeless thet even as I thought of it I hed a gloomy feelin’ clamp down on me. I leaped off my hoss, threw the bridle over my arm, an’ with bearin’ as natural as if my comin’ was intended I went toward the Injuns.

  “The half-leveled rifles dropped, an’ the strung bows slowly straightened, an’ deep grunts told of the surprise of the Comanches.

  “‘Me talk big chief,’ I said, wavin’ my hand as if I was not one to talk to braves.

  “One redskin pointed with a long arm. Then the line opened an’ let me through with my hoss. It was a large camp of huntin’ Comanches. Buffalo meat and robes were dryin’ in the sun. Swarms of buzzin’ flies showed the fresh kill. Covered fires gave vent to thin wisps of smoke; worn rifles gleamed in the sun, an’ bows smooth an’ oily from use littered the grass. But there were no wigwams or squaws.

  “I went forward watched by many cunnin’ eyes, an’ made straight for a cottonwood-tree, whar a long trailin’ head-dress of black-barred eagle feathers hung from a branch. The chief was there restin’. I was expectin’ an’ dreadin’ to see a short square Injun, an old chief I knew an’ who had reason to know me. But instead I saw a splendid young redskin, tall an’ muscular, an’ of sullen look.

  “‘How,’ I said.

  “‘How,’ he replied.

  “Then we locked eyes. I was cold an’ quiet, hidin’ my fear an’ hope. An’ the Injun showed in his piercin’ glance suspicion thet would hey been astonishment in any one save a redskin. Thet Injun hed a pair of eyes that showed the very soul of lifelong hatred.

  “‘Ugh!’ he exclaimed. ‘White man — buffalo-killer — lose trail. Me know white man!’

  “I would have liked to deny my reputation. But thet would hey been the worst thing for me.

  “‘No lose trail — come swap pony,’ I said.

  “‘Heap lie!’ he replied, in scorn.

  “‘Big chief brave — now,’ I taunted, an’ swept my arm round the camp. I knew the Injun nature. The chief lifted his head with a motion that said ‘No.’ The Comanche cared for nothin’ but courage an’ endurance. He was faced in his home by a defenseless hunter. No doubt he felt the call of his blood. It was his law that he couldn’t tomahawk me or order me shot an’ scalped till he hed made me show fear. An’ thar was my hope. The Comanche hed to see fear in me, or sense it, before he could kill me.

  “I looked as if I didn’t know what fear was. I jest made myself stone. In this was all the little hope I hed of life. The redskin hed to be made believe I had rid into his camp, feelin’ no fear of death, recognizin’ no cause for it, an’ holdin’ myself safe. Now the redskin believed in the supernatural, in the unseen force of nature leaguin’ itself with the brave, an’ givin’ man a god-like spirit. Years of bloody warfare had driven the redskin back from the frontiers, made him a savage whar once no doubt he was noble, but fire an’ strife an’ blood couldn’t stamp out thet belief.

  “‘Swap pony,’ I said again, an’ showed silver I would include in the trade.

  “‘How much?’ he asked.

  “‘Heap much,’ I answered.

  “He held out a brown lean hand for the silver, an’ threw it straight back in my face. The hard silver cut an’ bruised me; blood flowed from cuts, but I didn’t move a muscle, an’ kept a cool gaze level with the dark hot eyes of the redskin.

  “Thet flingin’ of the silver was a young chiefs undignified passion toward a prisoner who hed become prisoner without effort or risk for any warrior. No honor was thar in me, no glory in insult to me. I caught my advantage, an’ became cooler an’ stonier than ever, an’ put a little contempt in my looks.

  “A sudden yell from him brought his band runnin’ an’ leapin’. They grunted an’ let out deep savage cries. A circle formed round us, a circle of bronzed, scarred warriors, an’ I felt my time was near. They all knew me, not so much because I hed fought them, but because I was a great buffalo-killer, an’ they hated me for thet. More than any other hunter I made meat scarce at their camp-fires. Their meanin’ eyes roved from chief to me, spellin’ sentences of iron an’ torture an’ death.

  “The Comanche took from one of his braves a long black bow as tall as himself, an’ a long feathered an’ barbed arrow. He leaned toward me, an’ his look was so keen thet I felt it would read my soul.

  “‘White hunter lie — no want swap pony — hunt buffalo — no smell Indian smoke.’

  “I kept silence an’ never let my gaze flicker from his. Thet was all I could do. No word, no move could help me now. I summoned all I had left of courage, an’ tried in a flash to think of all the tight places I hed been in before.

  “White hunter lie!’ repeated the Comanche.

  “Then with slow an’ deliberate motion, never lowerin’ his burnin’ gaze, he fitted the arrow to the bow an’ slowly stretchin’ his arms he shot the arrow at my foot.

  “I felt it graze me and heard the light thud as it entered the ground. I twitched inwardly an’ a chill crept up from my foot. But I made no outward motion, not a flick of an eyelash.

  “‘White hunter lie!’

  “Thet was the redskin’s stumblin’-block. He couldn’t believe that any white hunter, much less me, would dare to come before him an’ all his braves, an’ ask to swap ponies. His crafty mind told him it couldn’t be true. An’ every beat of his heart throbbed to make me show it. Selectin’ another arrow he set the feathered notch against the rawhide cord — an’ twang!...The sharp point bit into the leather of my boot, an’ buried itself half length.

  “Thet Comanche’s gaze became the hardest thing I ever stood. He looked clear through me for signs of weakenin’. I saw the cold gleam of somethin’ hangin’ in the balance, an’ I matched white courage against red cunnin’. His eyelids shut down till they was mere slits over black blazes, an’ the veins over his temples swelled an’ beat. Still, he had command of himself, an’ his movements were as slow as the torture he promised. Again he reached for an arrow, notched it, drew it, paused while he called me liar, then shot it. A knife-blade couldn’t hey been wedged between thet arrow an’ my foot. Then, one after another, slow an’ cruel, he shot twelve arrows, an’ penned my foot in a little circle of feathered shafts.

  “With thet he stopped to eye me for a little. Suddenly, as quick as he hed been slow, he shot an arrow straight through my boot, pinnin’ my foot to the ground.

  “It burned like a red-hot bar of iron.

  “‘Heap lie!’ he yelled, in a voice of thunder.

  “Again he leaned forward to search my face for a shade of fear. But the pain upheld me, an’ he couldn’t scare me. Then he sprang erect to straighten the long bow in line with his eye. He lifted the bow so that the murderous arrow-head of flint pointed at my heart. An’ his eye pierced me. Slow — slow as a fiend he began to bend the bow. It was thick an’ heavy, an’ hed been seasoned an’ strung when firearms were unknown to the redskins. It was such a bow as only a great chief could own, an’ one thet only a powerful arm could bend. An’ this chief bent it slowly, more an’ more every second, till, makin’ a perfect curve, it quivered an’ vibrated with the strain. The circle of Injuns parted from behind me. Once loosened thet arrow would never have stopped in my body.

  “I knew either the Injun or I must soon give way under thet ordeal. But it was my life at stake, an’ he began to weaken first. He began to tremble.

  “‘Swap pony’ — lie!” he said.

  “Somehow I hed it in me then to laugh. “The Comanche kept his look of pride an’ hatred. Then, raisin’ the bow, he shot the arrow in a wonderful flight out of sight over the ridge.

  “‘Waugh! Waugh!’ he cried in disgust, an’ threw down the bow. He couldn’t frighten me, therefore he wouldn’t kill me.

  “‘Brave lie!�
� A kind of light seemed to clear his angry face. He waved his long arm toward the ridge an’ the east, an’ then, turnin’ his back on me, went among the cottonwoods. The other warriors went after him, leavin’ my way open. Thet was how even the Comanches honored courage.

  “I pulled the arrows from the ground, an’ last the one thet held my foot like a red-hot spike. Leadin’ my hoss I limped out of camp, an’ climbed the ridge. When I got out of sight I took off my boot to see how bad I was hurt. Thet thar arrow went between my toes, jest grazin’ them an’ hardly drawin’ blood! I hed been so scared I thought my foot was shot half off...But all the same, thet was the narrerest escape Hiram Bent ever had!”

  CHAPTER XV - WILD MUSTANGS

  ONE MORNING NAVVY came in with the horses and reported that Wings had broken his hobbles and gone off with a band of wild mustangs. We were considerably put out about it, especially as Hal took the loss much to heart. Hiram asked the Navajo whether the marauding band were really mustangs or the wild horses we had seen on the plateau. And Navvy grinned at the idea of his making a mistake over tracks.

  “Shore thought there wasn’t no mustangs up here,” commented Jim.

  “Thar wasn’t when we come up,” replied Hiram. “They jest trotted down off Buckskin, climbed up hyar an’ coaxed Wings off. Wild mustangs do thet a lot, an’ so do wild hosses fer thet matter. The mountain’s full of them. We’re all the time havin’ trouble with our hosses. Now a hoss thet’s well broke an’ tame an’ even used to haulin’ a wagon will git crazy the minnit he smells them wild hosses. An’ he’ll git like a fox, an’ he’ll hide in the cedars when you track him, an’ dog-gone me if I don’t believe he’ll try to hide his tracks.”