Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  “Wal,” said Nevada, after an equally long gaze, “not so much stock as I figgered we’d see. Pretty dry down there. Ben, do you reckon there’s cattle an’ hosses up the draws, grazin’ on trees?”

  “They sure are, unless they’re dead,” replied Ben, shortly.

  “Or stolen,” supplemented Nevada. “I’ll gamble on that. Ben, if the rains don’t come this fall all the stock in there will die.”

  “Don’t say if. The rains must come. Nature may be cruel, but not utterly ruthless.... Nevada, I rather expected we could sight Blaine’s outfit or some cowboys.”

  “Nary a sign. Reckon Blaine is somewheres north of the Meadow. There’s some good little homesteads along the river. Shore doesn’t look like a river up heah, huh? She’s dry, Ben, dry as sand.”

  “Shall we ride on to Silver Canyon?” queried Ben.

  “Hold your hosses, Benjamin,” drawled Nevada. “It’s pretty far, an’ we ought to have the Indian. Let him ride one side of the canyon an’ we’ll ride the other.”

  “Couldn’t you and I split up and do that?” impatiently asked Ben.

  “Reckon we could. But would it be good sense when we’re huntin’ rustlers? Besides, I’ll be darned if I know where Silver is from heah.”

  “I do, but it’ll take a climb. Perhaps we’d better go back to camp. Modoc ought to be in to-night.”

  But Ben was mistaken. The Indian did not put in an appearance, and when, morning came with him still absent, Ben began to worry. All day they watched and waited. By sunset they knew something unusual had happened to their faithful ally. Ben made vain conjectures.

  “I lay it to Setter,” said Nevada, broodingly.

  “Bet you’re right,” declared Ben, leaping up. “I never thought of Setter. If he met Modoc in Hammell he’d stop him sure.”

  “Wal, he’d try damn hard. But that Injun ain’t so easy to stop. Let’s don’t give up yet, Ben.”

  A little after dark Modoc rode into the bright camp fire circle and slipped off a saddleless horse. He had ridden bareback. “How! Heap hungry,” he said, with a grin.

  “Plenty grub, Modoc, but let us warm it up. What’s happened?”

  “Setter lock me up in Hammell jail,” replied Modoc. “Me break out, find hoss, come camp.”

  “Ben, what’d I tell you?” demanded Nevada, ringingly, with fire in his eye.

  “Well? Setter arrested you! What for?”

  “Me ask jail-man. He laugh. Say long time ago me got drunk — fight in saloon.”

  Ben felt so relieved to hear the charge that he laughed while Nevada cursed.

  “Modoc, did you ever have two fights in Hammell?”

  “No; me fight one time. Me no drunk. They drunk. They beat me — throw me out. Same time you found me.”

  “I remember. Setter — the d —— low-down skunk! That’s all he could hatch up. Nevada, I’m surprised at Setter. He’s clumsy. He must think we are outcasts, without a friend in the world. That there’s no justice in California.”

  “Wal, I reckon he just put another nail in his coffin,” drawled Nevada. “I’ll look after Modoc’s hoss. Lucky we fetched an extra saddle.”

  “Modoc, did you see Frisbie?” queried Ben, suddenly remembering the important mission upon which he had sent the Indian.

  “Yes. He glad. Sent lot cowboys.”

  “Good. That settles that.... I’m glad you broke jail. I’d have done it myself.... Now, Modoc, we’ve got a big job on hand. To-morrow you guide us to where you saw Hall’s outfit. If we find them — well, we will make our plans then.”

  Ben’s first peep over the rim of Silver Canyon was something he felt he would never forget. He had been familiar only with the lower reaches of this wild canyon, where it appeared more like a valley. From this point, to which he and Nevada had been directed by Modoc, he saw into a deep sage and rock-walled gorge with a beautiful broad winding green line of trees at the bottom. A branch of the canyon, opening on the opposite side, appeared even more verdant. It was full of morning haze, like autumn smoke. The main canyon headed up in a notch or saddle, astonishingly accessible, seen now from this point; and over this pass Modoc believed the rustlers drove their stolen stock down into another country. Ben felt convinced the moment he studied the lie of the land. What a wonderful place for thieves to work and hide! It was not clear to him yet how they got the cattle over the rough ridge if they did so at all. Nevada inclined to the opinion that they boldly drove cattle up the whole length of the canyon. If this theory was correct the cowboys had not, for some strange reason, cared to track them. For that would have been easy for even novices at trailing. The canyon, however, afforded most effective places for ambush where a few determined men with rifles could hold back ten times their number.

  “Pard, I see cattle,” whispered Nevada, who was using the glass. “By thunder!... An’ I’m a son-of-a-gun if they aren’t wearin’ the Ai brand. A number one, the cowboys say. Amos Ide! Your dad.”

  Ben was so amazed and excited that it took moments for him to verify Nevada’s statements. But at length the glass proved these beyond all doubts.

  “Heavens!” he gasped, staring at Nevada.

  That worthy was smiling at him.

  “Shore luck’s comin’ our way. What do you think of Modoc now?”

  “Nevada, let’s ride further on, so we can see past this bluff that sticks out.”

  “Reckon we ought to be careful,” warned his companion. “If that Hall outfit sights us, it’ll spoil our plan.”

  But Ben was eager to reconnoitre, believing that because of the distance it would be safe. They rode back off the rim, around rough broken rock, through brush and patches of cedar, to another open stretch. Here they sighted upward of two hundred head of cattle, grazing along a slope and on into the green timber.

  “Look!” whispered Nevada, suddenly. “Smoke!... Down this way, Ben.”

  “I see. That’s from a camp fire,” replied Ben, excitedly. “Shore it is.... An’, Ben, it reminds me that Modoc told us to keep watchin’ across the canyon for him. We plumb forgot. Gimme the glass. Shore he could see us when we couldn’t see him.”

  Nevada levelled the glass and took careful survey of the opposite side, beginning well up toward a point above the cattle. Ben watched in a mounting suspense. Suddenly the cowboy steadied the glass, fixed it, and remained motionless.

  “I see Modoc... Straight across — back from the rim. The darned Injun sees us. Talk aboot eyesight!... Ben; he’s wavin’ us back from the rim — pointin’ down.... Hell! he means Hall’s outfit has seen us — or they’re goin’ to. Let’s get back pronto.”

  Quickly they rode back out of sight from possible gazers in the depths of the canyon. Then, dismounting, they located Modoc again. Ben took the glass and soon satisfied himself that the Indian was trying to communicate important information. Ben watched closely. Modoc’s signs were emphatic and picturesque. Most of his gestures indicated something unusual going on down below.

  “Nevada, I believe Modoc means they’ve seen us. He points down — down — then sweeps his arm away. Let’s crawl to the rim.”

  Cautiously they wormed their way to a point behind some brush where, lying flat, they could look over without fear of being seen. But a long keen scrutiny of slopes, weathered rocks, and green groves of trees failed to reward them with any more than the pale column of blue smoke. When again Ben searched the rim opposite for Modoc, he finally caught a glimpse of him riding away into the timber.

  “Modoc’s riding off, Nevada. What you make of that?”

  “Darn if I know what. I’m afraid they seen us. Reckon we’ll find out pronto. ‘Cause they won’t know who or how many men are after them. Shore they wouldn’t risk headin’ out that canyon pass, an’ it’s a safe bet they won’t stay down there.”

  “Oh, it’s too bad if we let them see us,” said Ben, poignantly. “I’m to blame. I was in too big a hurry.”

  Then they watched in silence for several more moments, which for Be
n were fraught with growing bitter regret. What an opportunity! It sickened him to think of failure. They must go on despite this blunder.

  “By golly! I see them, Ben!” whispered Nevada, excitedly, stretching a long finger. “Right under us — that thin place — where you can see through the trees.... Look sharp. One — two — three — four riders.... An’ a pack-hoss. They shore throwed that pack quick, unless they was ready.... Do you see, Ben?”

  “Yes. I’ve counted five men, but only one pack. Nevada, they’re in a hurry.”

  “Shore. They seen us an’ they scared. You can always tell men that are runnin’ away. Least I can, ‘cause I’ve been there myself.”

  “What’s to be done?” sharply rejoined Ben. “Let’s head them off.”

  “Cain’t do it from this side. Bet a million they’ll go down that branch canyon. If they do, Modoc will sure keep tabs on them.”

  “Maybe it’s not so bad, after all.”

  “Ben, in a minute they’ll pass even with us,” returned Nevada, forcibly. “I’ve an idea. They don’t know how many there are of us. Let’s empty both our Winchesters, then our guns, fast an’ jerky like. It’s ‘most a thousand yards down there. We cain’t hit nothin’. But heahin’ a lot of bullets will make them think there’s a whole outfit of sheriffs an’ cowboys. That’ll scare them bad. An’ we’ll stick to their tracks.”

  “Come on,” replied Ben, cocking his rifle.

  When the dark figures of horsemen showed through the thinned-out place in the timber below, Ben and Nevada fired a volley of thirty-two shots in a very few seconds. The walls of the canyon gave the reports a strange thundering volume.

  “Look at ’em run!” exulted Nevada, in grim satisfaction, holding aloft his smoking gun. “Out of sight already. Scared. By golly! it worked. Now let’s watch. Bet they run down that branch canyon.”

  “Nevada, wasn’t that great?” whispered Ben, huskily, as he laid his gun down to cool. “I swear I hit one of them. He lurched in his saddle.”

  “Wal, it ain’t likely, but you might of. Shore I hope so. Now look sharp.”

  In a few moments they were rewarded by sight of a string of riders scattered over some distance, entering the mouth of the branch canyon. A pack-horse, running wild, furnished proof of the difficulties the rustlers were having.

  “Left their beds behind,” said Nevada, gleefully. “Reckon Bill Hall has had such an easy time that he forgot what bullets sounded like. Look at ’em go. Someone behind the pack-hoss now.”

  The riders disappeared over a rise in the grassy slope of the canyon mouth, and soon reappeared on an open level into the canyon. Suddenly a heavy rifle report rang out, from the wall above them.

  “You heah that? Modoc’s forty-five!” cried Nevada, beside himself with delight. “He figgered us, an’ he waited till they got by.... Bow! — Bang! — Spow! Listen to that big gun! Sounds like a cannon. An’ say, boy, where’s the rustlers?”

  “They broke and run,” replied Ben, just as excited as Nevada. “Listen to Modoc shoot!... Six — seven — eight — nine — ten! And now the echoes in that narrow canyon! Can’t tell the difference.”

  “We shore made a hell of a racket,” replied Nevada. “They’re runnin’ like a lot of scared jack rabbits. Bet they think there’s an outfit on each side of the canyon.”

  “It was fun, by gosh! and maybe it was good,” declared Ben. “But what next?”

  “Back to camp for us,” answered Nevada, rising. “Let’s load our guns just for luck. An empty gun ain’t much use. It’s a long ride back to camp. We cain’t do nothin’ with these cattle down heah. But, Ben, mebbe we’ll have to prove things. Gimme your scarf. It’s got your initials on. I’ll tie it heah, so if need be we can prove we sighted your dad’s cattle from this point. Least we can show we was heah. An’ you bet if we was rustlin’ them cattle we’d be down there.”

  “Nevada, they’ve left some of their outfit in camp, sure and certain. Oughtn’t we get it?”

  “No time. That’d take a whole day. Shore we want to rustle back to camp an’ have light packs ready so when Modoc comes we can leave pronto. Wonder where that branch canyon runs. Might be good for us, an’ might be bad. Modoc will know. But one thing shore. Bill an’ his gang are makin’ for low country where water’s scarce. He’s goin’ to be out of luck.”

  It took three hours of hard riding to get down to the valley where they had crossed from the other side. Cattle tracks appeared more significant now. Probably Hall had not massed his stolen stock into a herd until he got into the canyon.

  Ben and Nevada rode up the far slope, and surmounting it they took the crest of it and went down till they had to cross another canyon and another ridge; and this kind of hard going continued for miles, at last to lead out upon the descent to their camp, which they reached at dark.

  Modoc was there, with a warm supper waiting, the horses fed, and part of the outfit packed.

  “Injun son-of-gun!” was Nevada’s lusty encomium.

  Ben shook hands with Modoc in a manner that made speech unnecessary. Nevada, however, was seldom deprived of the power to talk.

  “Modoc, we shore was a couple of wooden-haided scouts,” he said, scornfully. “Ben for givin’ us away an’ me for lettin’ him do it. But it happened so darn quick, soon as we hit that part of the canyon where it haids out to the pass. Wal, I’m damn sorry, for you did a wonderful job.”

  “No cause for sorry. Heap good,” replied Modoc, with his gleaming grin.

  “What you mean?” shrilly queried the cowboy, his face lighting.

  “Hall take wrong canyon. Best way out down big canyon. He thinks lots men shoot — ride — hold ’em up. So he take little canyon. No way out till Mule Deer Lake. More twenty miles. Rough like lava beds. Hard on hoss. No water. No grass. Hall be more bad off when reach Mule Deer Lake. He be close ranch, but no dare go. Have go Modoc caves for water. We track ’em — ketch ’em like hosses.”

  That was a very lengthy speech for the Indian, who never used unnecessary words. The importance of it, however, and the satisfaction he evinced, must have been accountable. Ben had never before heard anything from Modoc to compare with this for length and content. He had never known the Indian to make a single blunder in calculations that pertained to matters of the wild country. He had stated he would find the rustlers; now he avowed they would catch them. For lack of suitable expression Ben smacked the Indian’s shoulder with a strong hand.

  “One Hall man crippled,” announced Modoc. “You must shot him. He got behind. Me see ’em look back — yell — make sign he come quick. But he no ride fast long.”

  At this juncture Nevada nearly knocked the breath out of Ben.

  “Had a hunch — this very minnit,” he yelled. “We’re goin’ to get Hall daid or alive. No matter which. If we kill him we can prove he stole your dad’s cattle.”

  “Let’s cool off — eat supper — see what’s to do,” replied Ben. “We go quick,” said the Indian, quietly. “Take extra hoss — lots grub — lots water — lots grain.”

  “Modoc, old chief, you an’ me belong to the same tribe of trackers,” returned Nevada. “An’ we’re shore goin’ to track that outfit day an’ night.”

  “Leave the rest of our horses and outfit here?” queried Ben, dubiously. “I don’t like that.”

  “Neither do I. But we gotta do it, Ben. Reckon we don’t run much risk, way up heah. I’ll tie Blacky on a long rope on the best bit of grass an’ water heah. The other hosses will hang round.”

  Between them they overruled Ben’s reluctance and unaccountable sense of calamity. Finally he analysed it as a personal and intimate reaction regarding the beautiful wild stallion. When he was persuaded of this he acquiesced readily, wondering at his strange contradictions of nature. Would he not make a terrible blunder some day through his passion for wild horses?

  In less than an hour they were in the saddle, Modoc leading the way, with Ben and Nevada attending to pack-horses and extra saddle horses. T
hey carried two ten-gallon water bags for the animals and a smaller one for their own needs. Ben felt assured they could make a trip to the Modoc caves without grave risk.

  During the early part of the night the travel was slow, but as soon as the moon rose they made up for lost time. Modoc had departed from the trails, and Ben did not know where he was, except that the stars said westward. The hours passed swiftly like the miles and before Ben realised either time or distance the stars had faded, the moon was paling in the grey of dawn. When daylight came Ben looked down upon the dreary scene of the drab basin where Mule Deer Lake gleamed with its colour like an evil eye.

  At the foot of the slope Ben and Nevada halted while the Indian rode out to cross the canyon mouth in search of tracks. He did not get half-way across before he waved his arm, then pointed toward the sheet of green-and-yellow water. Ben and Nevada headed their horses in the direction, soon to become aware of a rank odour of rotting flesh. Presently they espied carcases scattered here and there around the lake, and upon closer view were amazed to see that they were deer. Driven by terrible thirst, the deer had drunk freely of this poison water and had foundered and died.

  Modoc pointed to horses’ tracks leading to the edge of the vile pond at one point and another, as if different horses had approached the water only to turn or be dragged away.

  “No hoss drink,” said Modoc, and he trotted round the lake to find the tracks of Hall’s outfit heading north. They had passed the lake not many hours before. Ben argued that it might be as well for them to travel a little slower, so as to give the outlaws no inkling that they were so closely pursued. Whereupon they rested in the first patch of sage, ate something themselves, gave the horses grain and water, and changed saddles. Soon they were on the move again with the dry fragrant sage and pine-scented wind in their faces and the green-stepping forest rising before them.

  At sundown they made camp in the pines.

  “Can we trail them over the pumice and the pine needles?” queried Ben, ever anxious.