by Zane Grey
The cowboys admitted some of Belding’s claims for Diablo, but they gave loyal and unshakable allegiance to Blanco Sol. As for Dick, he had to fight himself to keep out of arguments, for he sometimes imagined he was unreasonable about the horse. Though he could not understand himself, he knew he loved Sol as a man loved a friend, a brother. Free of heavy saddle and the clumsy leg shields, Blanco Sol was somehow all-satisfying to the eyes of the rangers. As long and big as Diablo was, Sol was longer and bigger. Also, he was higher, more powerful. He looked more a thing for action — speedier. At a distance the honorable scars and lumps that marred his muscular legs were not visible. He grazed aloof from the others, and did not cavort nor prance; but when he lifted his head to whistle, how wild he appeared, and proud and splendid! The dazzling whiteness of the desert sun shone from his coat; he had the fire and spirit of the desert in his noble head, its strength and power in his gigantic frame.
“Belding swears Sol never beat Diablo,” Dick was saying.
“He believes it,” replied Nell. “Dad is queer about that horse.”
“But Laddy rode Sol once — made him beat Diablo. Jim saw the race.”
Nell laughed. “I saw it, too. For that matter, even I have made Sol put his nose before Dad’s favorite.”
“I’d like to have seen that. Nell, aren’t you ever going to ride with me?”
“Some day — when it’s safe.”
“Safe!”
“I — I mean when the raiders have left the border.”
“Oh, I’m glad you mean that,” said Dick, laughing. “Well, I’ve often wondered how Belding ever came to give Blanco Sol to me.”
“He was jealous. I think he wanted to get rid of Sol.”
“No? Why, Nell, he’d give Laddy or Jim one of the whites any day.”
“Would he? Not Devil or Queen or White Woman. Never in this world! But Dad has lots of fast horses the boys could pick from. Dick, I tell you Dad wants Blanco Sol to run himself out — lose his speed on the desert. Dad is just jealous for Diablo.”
“Maybe. He surely has strange passion for horses. I think I understand better than I used to. I owned a couple of racers once. They were just animals to me, I guess. But Blanco Sol!”
“Do you love him?” asked Nell; and now a warm, blue flash of eyes swept his face.
“Do I? Well, rather.”
“I’m glad. Sol has been finer, a better horse since you owned him. He loves you, Dick. He’s always watching for you. See him raise his head. That’s for you. I know as much about horses as Dad or Laddy any day. Sol always hated Diablo, and he never had much use for Dad.”
Dick looked up at her.
“It’ll be — be pretty hard to leave Sol — when I go away.”
Nell sat perfectly still.
“Go away?” she asked, presently, with just the faintest tremor in her voice.
“Yes. Sometimes when I get blue — as I am to-day — I think I’ll go. But, in sober truth, Nell, it’s not likely that I’ll spend all my life here.”
There was no answer to this. Dick put his hand softly over hers; and, despite her half-hearted struggle to free it, he held on.
“Nell!”
Her color fled. He saw her lips part. Then a heavy step on the gravel, a cheerful, complaining voice interrupted him, and made him release Nell and draw back. Belding strode into view round the adobe shed.
“Hey, Dick, that darned Yaqui Indian can’t be driven or hired or coaxed to leave Forlorn River. He’s well enough to travel. I offered him horse, gun, blanket, grub. But no go.”
“That’s funny,” replied Gale, with a smile. “Let him stay — put him to work.”
“It doesn’t strike me funny. But I’ll tell you what I think. That poor, homeless, heartbroken Indian has taken a liking to you, Dick. These desert Yaquis are strange folk. I’ve heard strange stories about them. I’d believe ‘most anything. And that’s how I figure his case. You saved his life. That sort of thing counts big with any Indian, even with an Apache. With a Yaqui maybe it’s of deep significance. I’ve heard a Yaqui say that with his tribe no debt to friend or foe ever went unpaid. Perhaps that’s what ails this fellow.”
“Dick, don’t laugh,” said Nell. “I’ve noticed the Yaqui. It’s pathetic the way his great gloomy eyes follow you.”
“You’ve made a friend,” continued Belding. “A Yaqui could be a real friend on this desert. If he gets his strength back he’ll be of service to you, don’t mistake me. He’s welcome here. But you’re responsible for him, and you’ll have trouble keeping him from massacring all the Greasers in Forlorn River.”
The probability of a visit from the raiders, and a dash bolder than usual on the outskirts of a ranch, led Belding to build a new corral. It was not sightly to the eye, but it was high and exceedingly strong. The gate was a massive affair, swinging on huge hinges and fastening with heavy chains and padlocks. On the outside it had been completely covered with barb wire, which would make it a troublesome thing to work on in the dark.
At night Belding locked his white horses in this corral. The Papago herdsman slept in the adobe shed adjoining. Belding did not imagine that any wooden fence, however substantially built, could keep determined raiders from breaking it down. They would have to take time, however, and make considerable noise; and Belding relied on these facts. Belding did not believe a band of night raiders would hold out against a hot rifle fire. So he began to make up some of the sleep he had lost. It was noteworthy, however, that Ladd did not share Belding’s sanguine hopes.
Jim Lash rode in, reporting that all was well out along the line toward the Sonoyta Oasis. Days passed, and Belding kept his rangers home. Nothing was heard of raiders at hand. Many of the newcomers, both American and Mexican, who came with wagons and pack trains from Casita stated that property and life were cheap back in that rebel-infested town.
One January morning Dick Gale was awakened by a shrill, menacing cry. He leaped up bewildered and frightened. He heard Belding’s booming voice answering shouts, and rapid steps on flagstones. But these had not awakened him. Heavy breaths, almost sobs, seemed at his very door. In the cold and gray dawn Dick saw something white. Gun in hand, he bounded across the room. Just outside his door stood Blanco Sol.
It was not unusual for Sol to come poking his head in at Dick’s door during daylight. But now in the early dawn, when he had been locked in the corral, it meant raiders — no less. Dick called softly to the snorting horse; and, hurriedly getting into clothes and boots, he went out with a gun in each hand. Sol was quivering in every muscle. Like a dog he followed Dick around the house. Hearing shouts in the direction of the corrals, Gale bent swift steps that way.
He caught up with Jim Lash, who was also leading a white horse.
“Hello, Jim! Guess it’s all over but the fireworks,” said Dick.
“I cain’t say just what has come off,” replied Lash. “I’ve got the Bull. Found him runnin’ in the yard.”
They reached the corral to find Belding shaking, roaring like a madman. The gate was open, the corral was empty. Ladd stooped over the ground, evidently trying to find tracks.
“I reckon we might jest as well cool off an’ wait for daylight,” suggested Jim.
“Shore. They’ve flown the coop, you can gamble on that. Tom, where’s the Papago?” said Ladd.
“He’s gone, Laddy — gone!”
“Double-crossed us, eh? I see here’s a crowbar lyin’ by the gatepost. That Indian fetched it from the forge. It was used to pry out the bolts an’ steeples. Tom, I reckon there wasn’t much time lost forcin’ that gate.”
Belding, in shirt sleeves and barefooted, roared with rage. He said he had heard the horses running as he leaped out of bed.
“What woke you?” asked Laddy.
“Sol. He came whistling for Dick. Didn’t you hear him before I called you?”
“Hear him! He came thunderin’ right under my window. I jumped up in bed, an’ when he let out that blast Jim lit square in the mi
ddle of the floor, an’ I was scared stiff. Dick, seein’ it was your room he blew into, what did you think?”
“I couldn’t think. I’m shaking yet, Laddy.”
“Boys, I’ll bet Sol spilled a few raiders if any got hands on him,” said Jim. “Now, let’s sit down an’ wait for daylight. It’s my idea we’ll find some of the hosses runnin’ loose. Tom, you go an’ get some clothes on. It’s freezin’ cold. An’ don’t forget to tell the women folks we’re all right.”
Daylight made clear some details of the raid. The cowboys found tracks of eight raiders coming up from the river bed where their horses had been left. Evidently the Papago had been false to his trust. His few personal belongings were gone. Lash was correct in his idea of finding more horses loose in the fields. The men soon rounded up eleven of the whites, all more or less frightened, and among the number were Queen and Blanca Mujer. The raiders had been unable to handle more than one horse for each man. It was bitter irony of fate that Belding should lose his favorite, the one horse more dear to him than all the others. Somewhere out on the trail a raider was fighting the iron-jawed savage Blanco Diablo.
“I reckon we’re some lucky,” observed Jim Lash.
“Lucky ain’t enough word,” replied Ladd. “You see, it was this way. Some of the raiders piled over the fence while the others worked on the gate. Mebbe the Papago went inside to pick out the best hosses. But it didn’t work except with Diablo, an’ how they ever got him I don’t know. I’d have gambled it’d take all of eight men to steal him. But Greasers have got us skinned on handlin’ hosses.”
Belding was unconsolable. He cursed and railed, and finally declared he was going to trail the raiders.
“Tom, you just ain’t agoin’ to do nothin’ of the kind,” said Ladd coolly.
Belding groaned and bowed his head.
“Laddy, you’re right,” he replied, presently. “I’ve got to stand it. I can’t leave the women and my property. But it’s sure tough. I’m sore way down deep, and nothin’ but blood would ever satisfy me.”
“Leave that to me an’ Jim,” said Ladd.
“What do you mean to do?” demanded Belding, starting up.
“Shore I don’t know yet.... Give me a light for my pipe. An’ Dick, go fetch out your Yaqui.”
CHAPTER VIII
THE RUNNING OF BLANCO SOL
THE YAQUI’S STRANGE dark glance roved over the corral, the swinging gate with its broken fastenings, the tracks in the road, and then rested upon Belding.
“Malo,” he said, and his Spanish was clear.
“Shore Yaqui, about eight bad men, an’ a traitor Indian,” said Ladd.
“I think he means my herder,” added Belding. “If he does, that settles any doubt it might be decent to have — Yaqui — malo Papago — Si?”
The Yaqui spread wide his hands. Then he bent over the tracks in the road. They led everywhither, but gradually he worked out of the thick net to take the trail that the cowboys had followed down to the river. Belding and the rangers kept close at his heels. Occasionally Dick lent a helping hand to the still feeble Indian. He found a trampled spot where the raiders had left their horses. From this point a deeply defined narrow trail led across the dry river bed.
Belding asked the Yaqui where the raiders would head for in the Sonora Desert. For answer the Indian followed the trail across the stream of sand, through willows and mesquite, up to the level of rock and cactus. At this point he halted. A sand-filled, almost obliterated trail led off to the left, and evidently went round to the east of No Name Mountains. To the right stretched the road toward Papago Well and the Sonoyta Oasis. The trail of the raiders took a southeasterly course over untrodden desert. The Yaqui spoke in his own tongue, then in Spanish.
“Think he means slow march,” said Belding. “Laddy, from the looks of that trail the Greasers are having trouble with the horses.”
“Tom, shore a boy could see that,” replied Laddy. “Ask Yaqui to tell us where the raiders are headin’, an’ if there’s water.”
It was wonderful to see the Yaqui point. His dark hand stretched, he sighted over his stretched finger at a low white escarpment in the distance. Then with a stick he traced a line in the sand, and then at the end of that another line at right angles. He made crosses and marks and holes, and as he drew the rude map he talked in Yaqui, in Spanish; with a word here and there in English. Belding translated as best he could. The raiders were heading southeast toward the railroad that ran from Nogales down into Sonora. It was four days’ travel, bad trail, good sure waterhole one day out; then water not sure for two days. Raiders traveling slow; bothered by too many horses, not looking for pursuit; were never pursued, could be headed and ambushed that night at the first waterhole, a natural trap in a valley.
The men returned to the ranch. The rangers ate and drank while making hurried preparations for travel. Blanco Sol and the cowboys’ horses were fed, watered, and saddled. Ladd again refused to ride one of Belding’s whites. He was quick and cold.
“Get me a long-range rifle an’ lots of shells. Rustle now,” he said.
“Laddy, you don’t want to be weighted down?” protested Belding.
“Shore I want a gun that’ll outshoot the dinky little carbines an’ muskets used by the rebels. Trot one out an’ be quick.”
“I’ve got a .405, a long-barreled heavy rifle that’ll shoot a mile. I use it for mountain sheep. But Laddy, it’ll break that bronch’s back.”
“His back won’t break so easy.... Dick, take plenty of shells for your Remington. An’ don’t forget your field glass.”
In less than an hour after the time of the raid the three rangers, heavily armed and superbly mounted on fresh horses, rode out on the trail. As Gale turned to look back from the far bank of Forlorn River, he saw Nell waving a white scarf. He stood high in his stirrups and waved his sombrero. Then the mesquites hid the girl’s slight figure, and Gale wheeled grim-faced to follow the rangers.
They rode in single file with Ladd in the lead. He did not keep to the trail of the raiders all the time. He made short cuts. The raiders were traveling leisurely, and they evinced a liking for the most level and least cactus-covered stretches of ground. But the cowboy took a bee-line course for the white escarpment pointed out by the Yaqui; and nothing save deep washes and impassable patches of cactus or rocks made him swerve from it. He kept the broncho at a steady walk over the rougher places and at a swinging Indian canter over the hard and level ground. The sun grew hot and the wind began to blow. Dust clouds rolled along the blue horizon. Whirling columns of sand, like water spouts at sea, circled up out of white arid basins, and swept away and spread aloft before the wind. The escarpment began to rise, to change color, to show breaks upon its rocky face.
Whenever the rangers rode out on the brow of a knoll or ridge or an eminence, before starting to descend, Ladd required of Gale a long, careful, sweeping survey of the desert ahead through the field glass. There were streams of white dust to be seen, streaks of yellow dust, trailing low clouds of sand over the glistening dunes, but no steadily rising, uniformly shaped puffs that would tell a tale of moving horses on the desert.
At noon the rangers got out of the thick cactus. Moreover, the gravel-bottomed washes, the low weathering, rotting ledges of yellow rock gave place to hard sandy rolls and bare clay knolls. The desert resembled a rounded hummocky sea of color. All light shades of blue and pink and yellow and mauve were there dominated by the glaring white sun. Mirages glistened, wavered, faded in the shimmering waves of heat. Dust as fine as powder whiffed up from under the tireless hoofs.
The rangers rode on and the escarpment began to loom. The desert floor inclined perceptibly upward. When Gale got an unobstructed view of the slope of the escarpment he located the raiders and horses. In another hour’s travel the rangers could see with naked eyes a long, faint moving streak of black and white dots.
“They’re headin’ for that yellow pass,” said Ladd, pointing to a break in the eastern end of the
escarpment. “When they get out of sight we’ll rustle. I’m thinkin’ that waterhole the Yaqui spoke of lays in the pass.”
The rangers traveled swiftly over the remaining miles of level desert leading to the ascent of the escarpment. When they achieved the gateway of the pass the sun was low in the west. Dwarfed mesquite and greasewood appeared among the rocks. Ladd gave the word to tie up horses and go forward on foot.
The narrow neck of the pass opened and descended into a valley half a mile wide, perhaps twice that in length. It had apparently unscalable slopes of weathered rock leading up to beetling walls. With floor bare and hard and white, except for a patch of green mesquite near the far end it was a lurid and desolate spot, the barren bottom of a desert bowl.
“Keep down, boys” said Ladd. “There’s the waterhole an’ hosses have sharp eyes. Shore the Yaqui figgered this place. I never seen its like for a trap.”
Both white and black horses showed against the green, and a thin curling column of blue smoke rose lazily from amid the mesquites.
“I reckon we’d better wait till dark, or mebbe daylight,” said Jim Lash.
“Let me figger some. Dick, what do you make of the outlet to this hole? Looks rough to me.”
With his glass Gale studied the narrow construction of walls and roughened rising floor.
“Laddy, it’s harder to get out at that end than here,” he replied.
“Shore that’s hard enough. Let me have a look.... Well, boys, it don’t take no figgerin’ for this job. Jim, I’ll want you at the other end blockin’ the pass when we’re ready to start.”
“When’ll that be?” inquired Jim.
“Soon as it’s light enough in the mornin’. That Greaser outfit will hang till to-morrow. There’s no sure water ahead for two days, you remember.”
“I reckon I can slip through to the other end after dark,” said Lash, thoughtfully. “It might get me in bad to go round.”
The rangers stole back from the vantage point and returned to their horses, which they untied and left farther round among broken sections of cliff. For the horses it was a dry, hungry camp, but the rangers built a fire and had their short though strengthening meal.