Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  “Do I ride him — well?” she asked, softly.

  “I could never ride him so well.”

  “Oh, Lin — you just want to please me. Why, Van couldn’t ride with you.”

  “I don’t care, Lucy,” replied Slone, stoutly. “You rode this horse perfect. I’ve found fault with you on the King, on your mustangs, an’ on this black horse Sarch. But on Wildfire! You grow there.”

  “What will Dad say, and Farlane, and Holley, and Van? Oh, I’ll crow over Van,” said Lucy. “I’m crazy to ride Wildfire out before all the Indians and ranchers and riders, before the races, just to show him off, to make them stare.”

  “No, Lucy. The best plan is to surprise them all. Enter your horse for the race, but don’t show up till all the riders are at the start.”

  “Yes, that’ll be best.... And, Lin, only five days more — five days!”

  Her words made Slone thoughtful, and Lucy, seeing that, straightway grew thoughtful, too.

  “Sure — only five days more,” repeated Slone, slowly.

  His tone convinced Lucy that he meant to speak again as he had spoken once before, precipitating the only quarrel they had ever had.

  “Does ANY ONE at Bostil’s Ford know you meet me out here?” he asked, suddenly.

  “Only Auntie. I told her the other day. She had been watching me. She thought things. So I told her.”

  “What did she say?” went on Slone, curiously.

  “She was mad,” replied Lucy. “She scolded me. She said.... But, anyway, I coaxed her not to tell on me.”

  “I want to know what she said,” spoke up the rider, deliberately.

  Lucy blushed, and it was a consciousness of confusion as well as Slone’s tone that made her half-angry.

  “She said when I was found out there’d be a — a great fuss at the Ford. There would be talk. Auntie said I’m now a grown-up girl.... Oh, she carried on! ... Bostil would likely shoot you. And if he didn’t some of the riders would.... Oh, Lin, it was perfectly ridiculous the way Auntie talked.”

  “I reckon not,” replied Slone. “I’m afraid I’ve done wrong to let you come out here.... But I never thought. I’m not used to girls. I’ll — I’ll deserve what I get for lettin’ you came.”

  “It’s my own business,” declared Lucy, spiritedly. “And I guess they’d better let you alone.”

  Slone shook his head mournfully. He was getting one of those gloomy spells that Lucy hated. Nevertheless, she felt a stir of her pulses.

  “Lucy, there won’t be any doubt about my stand — when I meet Bostil,” said Slone. Some thought had animated him.

  “What do you mean?” Lucy trembled a little.

  There was a sternness about Slone, a dignity that seemed new. “I’ll ask him to — to let you marry me.”

  Lucy stared aghast. Slone appeared in dead earnest.

  “Nonsense!” she exclaimed, shortly.

  “I reckon the possibility is — that,” replied Slone, bitterly, “but my motive isn’t.”

  “It is. Why, you’ve known me only a few days.... Dad would be mad. Like as not he’d knock you down.... I tell you, Lin, my dad is — is pretty rough. And just at this time of the races.... And if Wildfire beats the King! ... Whew!”

  “WHEN Wildfire beats the King, not IF,” corrected Slone.

  “Dad will be dangerous,” warned Lucy. “Please don’t — don’t ask him that. Then everybody would know I — I — you — you—”

  “That’s it. I want everybody at your home to know.”

  “But it’s a little place,” flashed Lucy. “Every one knows me. I’m the only girl. There have been — other fellows who.... And oh! I don’t want you made fun of!”

  “Why?” he asked.

  Lucy turned away her head without answering. Something deep within her was softening her anger. She must fight to keep angry; and that was easy enough, she thought, if she could only keep in mind Slone’s opposition to her. Strangely, she discovered that it had been sweet to find him always governed by her desire or will.

  “Maybe you misunderstand,” he began, presently. And his voice was not steady. “I don’t forget I’m only — a beggarly rider. I couldn’t have gone into the Ford at all — I was such a ragamuffin—”

  “Don’t talk like that!” interrupted Lucy, impatiently.

  “Listen,” he replied. “My askin’ Bostil for you doesn’t mean I’ve any hope. ... It’s just I want him an’ everybody to know that I asked.”

  “But Dad — everybody will think that YOU think there’s reason — why — I — why, you OUGHT to ask,” burst out Lucy, with scarlet face.

  “Sure, that’s it,” he replied.

  “But there’s no reason. None! Not a reason under the sun,” retorted Lucy, hotly. “I found you out here. I did you a — a little service. We planned to race Wildfire. And I came out to ride him.... That’s all.”

  Slone’s dark, steady gaze disconcerted Lucy. “But, no one knows me, and we’ve been alone in secret.”

  “It’s not altogether — that. I — I told Auntie,” faltered Lucy.

  “Yes, just lately.”

  “Lin Slone, I’ll never forgive you if you ask Dad that,” declared Lucy, with startling force.

  “I reckon that’s not so important.”

  “Oh! — so you don’t care.” Lucy felt herself indeed in a mood not comprehensible to her. Her blood raced. She wanted to be furious with Slone, but somehow she could not wholly be so. There was something about him that made her feel small and thoughtless and selfish. Slone had hurt her pride. But the thing that she feared and resented and could not understand was the strange gladness Slone’s declaration roused in her. She tried to control her temper so she could think. Two emotions contended within her — one of intense annoyance at the thought of embarrassment surely to follow Slone’s action, and the other a vague, disturbing element, all sweet and furious and inexplicable. She must try to dissuade him from approaching her father.

  “Please don’t go to Dad.” She put a hand on Slone’s arm as he stood close up to Wildfire.

  “I reckon I will,” he said.

  “Lin!” In that word there was the subtle, nameless charm of an intimacy she had never granted him until that moment. He seemed drawn as if by invisible wires. He put a shaking hand on hers and crushed her gauntleted fingers. And Lucy, in the current now of her woman’s need to be placated if not obeyed, pressed her small hand to his. How strange to what lengths a little submission to her feeling had carried her! Every spoken word, every movement, seemed to exact more from her. She did not know herself.

  “Lin! ... Promise not to — speak to Dad!”

  “No.” His voice rang.

  “Don’t give me away — don’t tell my Dad!”

  “What?” he queried, incredulously.

  Lucy did not understand what. But his amazed voice, his wide-open eyes of bewilderment, seemed to aid her into piercing the maze of her own mind. A hundred thoughts whirled together, and all around them was wrapped the warm, strong feeling of his hand on hers. What did she mean that he would tell her father? There seemed to be a deep, hidden self in her. Up out of these depths came a whisper, like a ray of light, and it said to her that there was more hope for Lin Slone than he had ever had in one of his wildest dreams.

  “Lin, if you tell Dad — then he’ll know — and there WON’T be any hope for you!” cried Lucy, honestly.

  If Slone caught the significance of her words he did not believe it.

  “I’m goin’ to Bostil after the race an’ ask him. That’s settled,” declared Slone, stubbornly.

  At this Lucy utterly lost her temper. “Oh! you — you fool!” she cried.

  Slone drew back suddenly as if struck, and a spot of dark blood leaped to his lean face. “No! It seems to me the right way.”

  “Right or wrong there’s no sense in it — because — because. Oh! can’t you see?”

  “I see more than I used to,” he replied. “I was a fool over a horse. An’ now I�
�m a fool over a girl.... I wish you’d never found me that day!”

  Lucy whirled in the saddle and made Wildfire jump. She quieted him, and, leaping off, threw the bridle to Slone. “I won’t ride your horse in the race!” she declared with sudden passion. She felt herself shaking all over.

  “Lucy Bostil, I wish I was as sure of Heaven as I am you’ll be up on Wildfire in that race,” he said.

  “I won’t ride your horse.”

  “MY horse. Oh, I see.... But you’ll ride Wildfire.”

  “I won’t.”

  Slone suddenly turned white, and his eyes flashed dark fire. “You won’t be able to help ridin’ him any more than I could help it.”

  “A lot you know about me, Lin Slone!” returned Lucy, with scorn. “I can be as — as bull-headed as you, any day.”

  Slone evidently controlled his temper, though his face remained white. He even smiled at her.

  “You are Bostil’s daughter,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “You are blood an’ bone, heart an’ soul a rider, if any girl ever was. You’re a wonder with a horse — as good as any man I ever saw. You love Wildfire. An’ look — how strange! That wild stallion — that killer of horses, why he follows you, he whistles for you, he runs like lightnin’ for you; he LOVES you.”

  Slone had attacked Lucy in her one weak point. She felt a force rending her. She dared not look at Wildfire. Yes — all, that was true Slone had said. How desperately hard to think of forfeiting the great race she knew she could win!

  “Never! I’ll never ride your Wildfire AGAIN!” she said, very, low.

  “MINE! ... So that’s the trouble. Well, Wildfire won’t be mine when you ride the race.”

  “What do you mean?” demanded Lucy. “You’ll sell him to Bostil.... Bah! you couldn’t ...”

  “Sell Wildfire! — after what it cost me to catch an’ break him? ... Not for all your father’s lands an’ horses an’ money!”

  Slone’s voice rolled out with deep, ringing scorn. And Lucy, her temper quelled, began to feel the rider’s strength, his mastery of the situation, and something vague, yet splendid about him that hurt her.

  Slone strode toward her. Lucy backed against the cedar-tree and could go no farther. How white he was now! Lucy’s heart gave a great, fearful leap, for she imagined Slone intended to take her in his arms. But he did not.

  “When you ride — Wildfire in that — race he’ll be — YOURS!” said Slone, huskily.

  “How can that be?” questioned Lucy, in astonishment.

  “I give him to you.”

  “You — give — Wildfire — to me?” gasped Lucy.

  “Yes. Right now.”

  The rider’s white face and dark eyes showed the strain of great and passionate sacrifice.

  “Lin Slone! ... I can’t — understand you.”

  “You’ve got to ride Wildfire in that race. You’ve got to beat the King.... So I give Wildfire to you. An’ now you can’t help but ride him.”

  “Why — why do you give him — to me?” faltered Lucy.

  All her pride and temper had vanished, and she seemed lost in blankness.

  “Because you love Wildfire. An’ Wildfire loves you.... If that isn’t reason enough — then ... because I love him — as no rider ever loved a horse.... An’ I love you as no man ever loved a girl!”

  Slone had never before spoken words of love to Lucy. She dropped her head. She knew of his infatuation. But he had always been shy except once when he had been bold, and that had caused a quarrel. With a strange pain at her breast Lucy wondered why Slone had not spoken that way before? It made as great a change in her as if she had been born again. It released something. A bolt shot back in her heart. She knew she was quivering like a leaf, with no power to control her muscles. She knew if she looked up then Slone might see the depths of her soul. Even with her hands shutting out the light she thought the desert around had changed and become all mellow gold and blue and white, radiant as the moonlight of dreams — and that the monuments soared above them grandly, and were beautiful and noble, like the revelations of love and joy to her. And suddenly she found herself sitting at the foot of the cedar, weeping, with tear-wet hands over her face.

  “There’s nothin’ to — to cry about,” Slone was saying. “But I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

  “Will — you — please — fetch Sarch?” asked Lucy, tremulously.

  While Slone went for the horse and saddled him Lucy composed herself outwardly. And she had two very strong desires — one to tell Slone something, and the other to run. She decided she would do both together.

  Slone brought Sarchedon. Lucy put on her gauntlets, and, mounting the horse, she took a moment to arrange her skirts before she looked down at Slone. He was now pale, rather than white, and instead of fire in his eyes there was sadness. Lucy felt the swelling and pounding of her heart — and a long, delicious shuddering thrill that ran over her.

  “Lin, I won’t take Wildfire,” she said.

  “Yes, you will. You can’t refuse. Remember he’s grown to look to you. It wouldn’t be right by the horse.”

  “But he’s all you have in the world,” she protested. Yet she knew any protestations would be in vain.

  “No. I have good old faithful Nagger.”

  “Would you go try to hunt another wild stallion — like Wildfire?” asked Lucy, curiously. She was playing with the wonderful sweet consciousness of her power to render happiness when she chose.

  “No more horse-huntin’ for me,” declared Slone. “An’ as for findin’ one like Wildfire — that’d never be.”

  “Suppose I won’t accept him?”

  “How could you refuse? Not for me but for Wildfire’s sake! ... But if you could be mean an’ refuse, why, Wildfire can go back to the desert.”

  “No!” exclaimed Lucy.

  “I reckon so.”

  Lucy paused a moment. How dry her tongue seemed! And her breathing was labored! An unreal shimmering gleam shone on all about her. Even the red stallion appeared enveloped in a glow. And the looming monuments looked down upon her, paternal, old, and wise, bright with the color of happiness.

  “Wildfire ought to have several more days’ training — then a day of rest — and then the race,” said Lucy, turning again to look at Slone.

  A smile was beginning to change the hardness of his face. “Yes, Lucy,” he said.

  “And I’ll HAVE to ride him?”

  “You sure will — if he’s ever to beat the King.”

  Lucy’s eyes flashed blue. She saw the crowd — the curious, friendly Indians — the eager riders — the spirited horses — the face of her father — and last the race itself, such a race as had never been ran, so swift, so fierce, so wonderful.

  “Then Lin,” began Lucy, with a slowly heaving breast, “if I accept Wildfire will you keep him for me — until ... and if I accept him, and tell you why, will you promise to say—”

  “Don’t ask me again!” interrupted Slone, hastily. “I WILL speak to Bostil.”

  “Wait, will you ... promise not to say a word — a single word to ME — till after the race?”

  “A word — to you! What about?” he queried, wonderingly. Something in his eyes made Lucy think of the dawn.

  “About — the — Because — Why, I’m — I’ll accept your horse.”

  “Yes,” he replied, swiftly.

  Lucy settled herself in the saddle and, shortening the bridle, she got ready to spur Sarchedon into a bolt.

  “Lin, I’ll accept Wildfire because I love you.”

  Sarchedon leaped forward. Lucy did not see Slone’s face nor hear him speak. Then she was tearing through the sage, out past the whistling Wildfire, with the wind sweet in her face. She did not look back.

  CHAPTER XI

  ALL THROUGH MAY there was an idea, dark and sinister, growing in Bostil’s mind. Fiercely at first he had rejected it as utterly unworthy of the man he was. But it returned. It would not be denied. It was fostered by si
ngular and unforeseen circumstances. The meetings with Creech, the strange, sneaking actions of young Joel Creech, and especially the gossip of riders about the improvement in Creech’s swift horse — these things appeared to loom larger and larger and to augment in Bostil’s mind the monstrous idea which he could not shake off. So he became brooding and gloomy.

  It appeared to be an indication of his intense preoccupation of mind that he seemed unaware of Lucy’s long trips down into the sage. But Bostil had observed them long before Holley and other riders had approached him with the information.

  “Let her alone,” he growled to his men. “I gave her orders to train the King. An’ after Van got well mebbe Lucy just had a habit of ridin’ down there. She can take care of herself.”

  To himself, when alone, Bostil muttered: “Wonder what the kid has looked up now? Some mischief, I’ll bet!”

  Nevertheless, he did not speak to her on the subject. Deep in his heart he knew he feared his keen-eyed daughter, and during these days he was glad she was not in evidence at the hours when he could not very well keep entirely to himself. Bostil was afraid Lucy might divine what he had on his mind. There was no one else he cared for. Holley, that old hawk-eyed rider, might see through him, but Bostil knew Holley would be loyal, whatever he saw.

  Toward the end of the month, when Somers returned from horse-hunting, Bostil put him and Shugrue to work upon the big flatboat down at the crossing. Bostil himself went down, and he walked — a fact apt to be considered unusual if it had been noticed.

  “Put in new planks,” was his order to the men. “An’ pour hot tar in the cracks. Then when the tar dries shove her in ... but I’ll tell you when.”

  Every morning young Creech rowed over to see if the boat was ready to take the trip across to bring his father’s horses back. The third morning of work on the boat Bostil met Joel down there. Joel seemed eager to speak to Bostil. He certainly was a wild-looking youth.