Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  Instinctively Bostil reached to pull it back.

  “My God! ... It’s goin’!” he whispered. “What have I done?”

  He — Bostil — who had made this Crossing of the Fathers more famous as Bostil’s Ford — he — to cut the boat adrift! The thing was inconceivable.

  The roar of the river rose weird and mournful and incessant, with few breaks, and these were marked by strange ripping and splashing sounds made as the bulges of water broke on the surface. Twenty feet out the boat floated, turning a little as it drifted. It seemed loath to leave. It held on the shore eddy. Hungrily, spitefully the little, heavy waves lapped it. Bostil watched it with dilating eyes. There! the current caught one end and the water rose in a hollow splash over the corner. An invisible hand, like a mighty giant’s, seemed to swing the boat out. It had been dark; now it was opaque, now shadowy, now dim. How swift this cursed river! Was there any way in which Bostil could recover his boat? The river answered him with hollow, deep mockery. Despair seized upon him. And the vague shape of the boat, spectral and instinct with meaning, passed from Bostil’s strained gaze.

  “So help me God, I’ve done it!” he groaned, hoarsely. And he staggered back and sat down. Mind and heart and soul were suddenly and exquisitely acute to the shame of his act. Remorse seized upon his vitals. He suffered physical agony, as if a wolf gnawed him internally.

  “To hell with Creech an’ his hosses, but where do I come in as a man?” he whispered. And he sat there, arms tight around his knees, locked both mentally and physically into inaction.

  The rising water broke the spell and drove him back. The river was creeping no longer. It swelled. And the roar likewise swelled. Bostil hurried across the flat to get to the rocky trail before he was cut off, and the last few rods he waded in water up to his knees.

  “I’ll leave no trail there,” he muttered, with a hard laugh. It sounded ghastly to him, like the laugh of the river.

  And there at the foot of the rocky trail he halted to watch and listen. The old memorable boom came to his ears. The flood was coming. For twenty-three years he had heard the vanguard boom of the Colorado in flood. But never like this, for in the sound he heard the strife and passion of his blood, and realized himself a human counterpart of that remorseless river. The moments passed and each one saw a swelling of the volume of sound. The sullen roar just below him was gradually lost in a distant roar. A steady wind now blew through the canyon. The great walls seemed to gape wider to prepare for the torrent. Bostil backed slowly up the trail as foot by foot the water rose. The floor of the amphitheater was now a lake of choppy, angry waves. The willows bent and seethed in the edge of the current. Beyond ran an uneven, bulging mass that resembled some gray, heavy moving monster. In the gloom Bostil could see how the river turned a corner of wall and slanted away from it toward the center, where it rose higher. Black objects that must have been driftwood appeared on this crest. They showed an instant, then flashed out of sight. The boom grew steadier, closer, louder, and the reverberations, like low detonations of thunder, were less noticeable because all sounds were being swallowed up.

  A harder breeze puffed into Bostil’s face. It brought a tremendous thunder, as if all the colossal walls were falling in avalanche. Bostil knew the crest of the flood had turned the corner above and would soon reach him. He watched. He listened, but sound had ceased. His ears seemed ringing and they hurt. All his body felt cold, and he backed up and up, with dead feet.

  The shadows of the canyon lightened. A river-wide froth, like a curtain, moved down, spreading mushroom-wise before it, a rolling, heaving maelstrom. Bostil ran to escape the great wave that surged into the amphitheater, up and up the rocky trail. When he turned again he seemed to look down into hell. Murky depths, streaked by pale gleams, and black, sinister, changing forms yawned beneath them. He watched with fixed eyes until once more the feeling of filled ears left him and an awful thundering boom assured him of actualities. It was only the Colorado in flood.

  CHAPTER XII

  BOSTIL SLEPT THAT night, but his sleep was troubled, and a strange, dreadful roar seemed to run through it, like a mournful wind over a dark desert. He was awakened early by a voice at his window. He listened. There came a rap on the wood.

  “Bostil! ... Bostil!” It was Holley’s voice.

  Bostil rolled off the bed. He had slept without removing any apparel except his boots.

  “Wal, Hawk, what d’ye mean wakin’ a man at this unholy hour?” growled Bostil.

  Holley’s face appeared above the rude sill. It was pale and grave, with the hawk eyes like glass. “It ain’t so awful early,” he said. “Listen, boss.”

  Bostil halted in the act of pulling on a boot. He looked at his man while he listened. The still air outside seemed filled with low boom, like thunder at a distance. Bostil tried to look astounded.

  “Hell! ... It’s the Colorado! She’s boomin’!”

  “Reckon it’s hell all right — for Creech,” replied Holley. “Boss, why didn’t you fetch them hosses over?”

  Bostil’s face darkened. He was a bad man to oppose — to question at times. “Holley, you’re sure powerful anxious about Creech. Are you his friend?”

  “Naw! I’ve little use fer Creech,” replied Holley. “An’ you know thet. But I hold for his hosses as I would any man’s.”

  “A-huh! An’ what’s your kick?”

  “Nothin’ — except you could have fetched them over before the flood come down. That’s all.”

  The old horse-trader and his right-hand rider looked at each other for a moment in silence. They understood each other. Then Bostil returned to the task of pulling on wet boots and Holley went away.

  Bostil opened his door and stepped outside. The eastern ramparts of the desert were bright red with the rising sun. With the night behind him and the morning cool and bright and beautiful, Bostil did not suffer a pang nor feel a regret. He walked around under the cottonwoods where the mocking-birds were singing. The shrill, screeching bray of a burro split the morning stillness, and with that the sounds of the awakening village drowned that sullen, dreadful boom of the river. Bostil went in to breakfast.

  He encountered Lucy in the kitchen, and he did not avoid her. He could tell from her smiling greeting that he seemed to her his old self again. Lucy wore an apron and she had her sleeves rolled up, showing round, strong, brown arms. Somehow to Bostil she seemed different. She had been pretty, but now she was more than that. She was radiant. Her blue eyes danced. She looked excited. She had been telling her aunt something, and that worthy woman appeared at once shocked and delighted. But Bostil’s entrance had caused a mysterious break in everything that had been going on, except the preparation of the morning meal.

  “Now I rode in on some confab or other, that’s sure,” said Bostil, good-naturedly.

  “You sure did, Dad,” replied Lucy, with a bright smile.

  “Wal, let me sit in the game,” he rejoined.

  “Dad, you can’t even ante,” said Lucy.

  “Jane, what’s this kid up to?” asked Bostil, turning to his sister.

  “The good Lord only knows!” replied Aunt Jane, with a sigh.

  “Kid? ... See here, Dad, I’m eighteen long ago. I’m grown up. I can do as I please, go where I like, and anything.... Why, Dad, I could get — married.”

  “Haw! haw!” laughed Bostil. “Jane, hear the girl.”

  “I hear her, Bostil,” sighed Aunt Jane.

  “Wal, Lucy, I’d just like to see you fetch some fool love-sick rider around when I’m feelin’ good,” said Bostil.

  Lucy laughed, but there was a roguish, daring flash in her eyes. “Dad, you do seem to have all the young fellows scared. Some day maybe one will ride along — a rider like you used to be — that nobody could bluff.... And he can have me!”

  “A-huh! ... Lucy, are you in fun?”

  Lucy tossed her bright head, but did not answer.

  “Jane, what’s got into her?” asked Bostil, appealing to his sis
ter.

  “Bostil, she’s in fun, of course,” declared Aunt Jane. “Still, at that, there’s some sense in what she says. Come to your breakfast, now.”

  Bostil took his seat at the table, glad that he could once more be amiable with his women-folk. “Lucy, to-morrow’ll be the biggest day Bostil’s Ford ever seen,” he said.

  “It sure will be, Dad. The biggest SURPRISING day the Ford ever had,” replied Lucy.

  “Surprisin’?”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “Who’s goin’ to get surprised?”

  “Everybody.”

  Bostil said to himself that he had been used to Lucy’s banter, but during his moody spell of days past he had forgotten how to take her or else she was different.

  “Brackton tells me you’ve entered a hoss against the field.”

  “It’s an open race, isn’t it?”

  “Open as the desert, Lucy,” he replied. “What’s this hoss Wildfire you’ve entered?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” taunted Lucy.

  “If he’s as good as his name you might be in at the finish.... But, Lucy, my dear, talkin’ good sense now — you ain’t a-goin’ to go up on some unbroken mustang in this big race?”

  “Dad, I’m going to ride a horse.”

  “But, Lucy, ain’t it a risk you’ll be takin’ — all for fun?”

  “Fun! ... I’m in dead earnest.”

  Bostil liked the look of her then. She had paled a little; her eyes blazed; she was intense. His question had brought out her earnestness, and straightway Bostil became thoughtful. If Lucy had been a boy she would have been the greatest rider on the uplands; and even girl as she was, superbly mounted, she would have been dangerous in any race.

  “Wal, I ain’t afraid of your handlin’ of a hoss,” he said, soberly. “An’ as long as you’re in earnest I won’t stop you. But, Lucy, no bettin’. I won’t let you gamble.”

  “Not even with you?” she coaxed.

  Bostil stared at the girl. What had gotten into her? “What’ll you bet?” he, queried, with blunt curiosity.

  “Dad, I’ll go you a hundred dollars in gold that I finish one — two — three.”

  Bostil threw back his head to laugh heartily. What a chip of the old block she was! “Child, there’s some fast hosses that’ll be back of the King. You’d be throwin’ away money.”

  Blue fire shone in his daughter’s eyes. She meant business, all right, and Bostil thrilled with pride in her.

  “Dad, I’ll bet you two hundred, even, that I beat the King!” she flashed.

  “Wal, of all the nerve!” ejaculated Bostil. “No, I won’t take you up. Reckon I never before turned down an even bet. Understand, Lucy, ridin’ in the race is enough for you.”

  “All right, Dad,” replied Lucy, obediently.

  At that juncture Bostil suddenly shoved back his plate and turned his face to the open door. “Don’t I hear a runnin’ hoss?”

  Aunt Jane stopped the noise she was making, and Lucy darted to the door. Then Bostil heard the sharp, rhythmic hoof-beats he recognized. They shortened to clatter and pound — then ceased somewhere out in front of the house.

  “It’s the King with Van up,” said Lucy, from the door. “Dad, Van’s jumped off — he’s coming in ... he’s running. Something has happened.... There are other horses coming — riders — Indians.”

  Bostil knew what was coming and prepared himself. Rapid footsteps sounded without.

  “Hello, Miss Lucy! Where’s Bostil?”

  A lean, supple rider appeared before the door. It was Van, greatly excited.

  “Come in, boy,” said Bostil. “What’re you flustered about?”

  Van strode in, spurs jangling, cap in hand. “Boss, there’s — a sixty-foot raise — in the river!” Van panted.

  “Oh!” cried Lucy, wheeling toward her father.

  “Wal, Van, I reckon I knowed thet,” replied Bostil. “Mebbe I’m gettin’ old, but I can still hear.... Listen.”

  Lucy tiptoed to the door and turned her head sidewise and slowly bowed it till she stiffened. Outside were, sounds of birds and horses and men, but when a lull came it quickly filled with a sullen, low boom.

  “Highest flood we — ever seen,” said Van.

  “You’ve been down?” queried Bostil, sharply.

  “Not to the river,” replied Van. “I went as far as — where the gulch opens — on the bluff. There was a string of Navajos goin’ down. An’ some comin’ up. I stayed there watchin’ the flood, an’ pretty soon Somers come up the trail with Blakesley an’ Brack an’ some riders.... An’ Somers hollered out, ‘The boat’s gone!’”

  “Gone!” exclaimed Bostil, his loud cry showing consternation.

  “Oh, Dad! Oh, Van!” cried Lucy, with eyes wide and lips parted.

  “Sure she’s gone. An’ the whole place down there — where the willows was an’ the sand-bar — it was deep under water.”

  “What will become of Creech’s horses?” asked Lucy, breathlessly.

  “My God! ain’t it a shame!” went on Bostil, and he could have laughed aloud at his hypocrisy. He felt Lucy’s blue eyes riveted upon his face.

  “Thet’s what we all was sayin’,” went on Van. “While we was watchin’ the awful flood an’ listenin’ to the deep bum — bum — bum of rollin’ rocks some one seen Creech an’ two Piutes leadin’ the hosses up thet trail where the slide was. We counted the hosses — nine. An’ we saw the roan shine blue in the sunlight.”

  “Piutes with Creech!” exclaimed Bostil, the deep gloom in his eyes lighting. “By all thet’s lucky! Mebbe them Indians can climb the hosses out of thet hole an’ find water an’ grass enough.”

  “Mebbe,” replied Van, doubtfully. “Sure them Piutes could if there’s a chance. But there ain’t any grass.”

  “It won’t take much grass travelin’ by night.”

  “So lots of the boys say. But the Navajos they shook their heads. An’ Farlane an’ Holley, why, they jest held up their hands.”

  “With them Indians Creech has a chance to get his hosses out,” declared Bostil. He was sure of his sincerity, but he was not certain that his sincerity was not the birth of a strange, sudden hope. And then he was able to meet the eyes of his daughter. That was his supreme test.

  “Oh, Dad, why, why didn’t you hurry Creech’s horses over?” said Lucy, with her tears falling.

  Something tight within Bostil’s breast seemed to ease and lessen. “Why didn’t I? ... Wal, Lucy, I reckon I wasn’t in no hurry to oblige Creech. I’m sorry now.”

  “It won’t be so terrible if he doesn’t lose the horses,” murmured Lucy.

  “Where’s young Joel Creech?” asked Bostil.

  “He stayed on this side last night,” replied Van. “Fact is, Joel’s the one who first knew the flood was on. Some one said he said he slept in the canyon last night. Anyway, he’s ravin’ crazy now. An’ if he doesn’t do harm to some one or hisself I’ll miss my guess.”

  “A-huh!” grunted Bostil. “Right you are.”

  “Dad, can’t anything be done to help Creech now?” appealed Lucy, going close to her father.

  Bostil put his arm around her and felt immeasurably relieved to have the golden head press close to his shoulder. “Child, we can’t fly acrost the river. Now don’t you cry about Creech’s hosses. They ain’t starved yet. It’s hard luck. But mebbe it’ll turn out so Creech’ll lose only the race. An’, Lucy, it was a dead sure bet he’d have lost thet anyway.”

  Bostil fondled his daughter a moment, the first time in many a day, and then he turned to his rider at the door. “Van, how’s the King?”

  “Wild to run, Bostil, jest plumb wild. There won’t be any hoss with the ghost of a show to-morrow.”

  Lucy raised her drooping head. “Is THAT so, Van Sickle? ... Listen here. If you and Sage King don’t get more wild running to-morrow than you ever had I’ll never ride again!” With this retort Lucy left the room.

  Van stared at the door and then at Bo
stil. “What’d I say, Bostil?” he asked, plaintively. “I’m always r’ilin’ her.”

  “Cheer up, Van. You didn’t say much. Lucy is fiery these days. She’s got a hoss somewhere an’ she’s goin’ to ride him in the race. She offered to bet on him — against the King! It certainly beat me all hollow. But see here, Van. I’ve a hunch there’s a dark hoss goin’ to show up in this race. So don’t underrate Lucy an’ her mount, whatever he is. She calls him Wildfire. Ever see him?”

  “I sure haven’t. Fact is, I haven’t seen Lucy for days an’ days. As for the hunch you gave, I’ll say I was figurin’ Lucy for some real race. Bostil, she doesn’t MAKE a hoss run. He’ll run jest to please her. An’ Lucy’s lighter ‘n a feather. Why, Bostil, if she happened to ride out there on Blue Roan or some other hoss as fast I’d — I’d jest wilt.”

  Bostil uttered a laugh full of pride in his daughter. “Wal, she won’t show up on Blue Roan,” he replied, with grim gruffness. “Thet’s sure as death.... Come on out now. I want a look at the King.”

  Bostil went into the village. All day long he was so busy with a thousand and one things referred to him, put on him, undertaken by him, that he had no time to think. Back in his mind, however, there was a burden of which he was vaguely conscious all the time. He worked late into the night and slept late the next morning.

  Never in his life had Bostil been gloomy or retrospective on the day of a race. In the press of matters he had only a word for Lucy, but that earned a saucy, dauntless look. He was glad when he was able to join the procession of villagers, visitors, and Indians moving out toward the sage.

  The racecourse lay at the foot of the slope, and now the gray and purple sage was dotted with more horses and Indians, more moving things and colors, than Bostil had ever seen there before. It was a spectacle that stirred him. Many fires sent up blue columns of smoke from before the hastily built brush huts where the Indians cooked and ate. Blankets shone bright in the sun; burros grazed and brayed; horses whistled piercingly across the slope; Indians lolled before the huts or talked in groups, sitting and lounging on their ponies; down in the valley, here and there, were Indians racing, and others were chasing the wiry mustangs. Beyond this gay and colorful spectacle stretched the valley, merging into the desert marked so strikingly and beautifully by the monuments.