Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  He closed her lips with a terrible kiss that made her sink limp and unleashed all the primitive hunger in him.

  “Shore we’re all alike,” he said, passionately, as he drew back to look at her. But where was the fury, the hate, the battle in her eyes? Even in his chaotic mind that query lodged. Yet he was too far gone. It was like falling over a precipice. “There!” he whispered, kissing her again. “Reckon Arlidge — did thet.”

  “Mercy! — Oh — Laramie — do I de-serve this — at your hands? Arlidge did not! I swear to you.”

  “Aw yu women! Yu proud white trash, as the niggers say! Yu Eastern tenderfeet — queenin’ it over us pore devils!”

  And he kissed her with a slowly lessening passion, with a sense of returning manhood. The moment came when, spent and shaking, he relinquished her lips. In the struggle she had sunk down upon the bales and he was on one knee, lifting his head. Her heavy eyelids were shut tight. The pearl-whiteness of her face a moment before had undergone a transformation. Even as he gazed a scarlet wave spread upward from her pulsing neck. He found that in his passion he had let go of her arms, and if he was not demented one was round his neck. He saw her left hand feeling a shaky way up his shoulder.

  “My — Gawd! . . . Hallie — forgive me! I didn’t know — what I was doin’.” The savage intent to insult and hurt her had wrought havoc — an incredible, insupportable transformation. He could not meet it. He could not realize. All he knew was that he must flee from something like an avalanche. As he released her it became plain that she did have hold of him. The action of rising lifted her with him. Then her hold broke, her arm came sliding down from his neck. That ended uncertainty for Laramie. She sank back upon the bales and her opening eyes, soft, strange, like midnight pools, fixed upon him accusingly. He leaped up and ran out of the barn.

  Half an hour later he rode up the draw ahead of Dakota and Charlie. Armed to the teeth, grim and cold and silent, he deceived these riders. But he knew himself to be distraught, to be haunted. He knew the tumult under his wet and panting breast. He knew that only tremendous exertion and bloody fight could restore his equilibrium, and he rode hard to meet him.

  Once out on the range, Laramie led at a brisk trot, keeping to the low country and making for a point east of Cedar Head. By this he hoped to avoid any upgrade until he rounded the promontory. This short cut took him out on the grassy range where cattle wearing the Peak Dot brand should have been abundant. But in the eight-mile ride he saw only a few lone steers, a small bunch of yearlings, some cows and calves. The rustlers had made a clean sweep of Lindsay’s stock. What easy picking, no doubt, for cattle-thieves like Gaines and Price! Arlidge and his rancher associate would never have been so unwise as to steal all a cattleman’s stock. They were big operators, and engaged in many legitimate deals to one that might look shady. No continued association could have existed between them and common rustlers, and cow-punchers gone crooked, such as Gaines and Price. Just so long as Lindsay ran any stock, this kind of rustling would continue until some drastic check had been administered. “About time we was rarin’,” muttered Laramie.

  Under White Bluff, Laramie and his two followers, working up a deep brushy draw, came across a waterhole the existence of which they had not known. It was fed by a spring which showed signs of having been visited often of late. This water, of course, was what made it possible for Gaines and his outfit to camp indefinitely up on the promontory.

  Laramie did not climb the ridge, but kept on up the slowly ascending draw to emerge several miles east and north of the cedars where he had left Lonesome and Ted. At this point he began to scrutinize the ground in search of their trail. Three — four miles or so he covered, with Dakota and Charlie spread out one on each side, without a sign of the trail he was hunting. They had turned north beyond the head of the draw toward the ridged and heaved-up range-land in that direction. Finally, Laramie halted to confer with his comrades.

  “We cain’t have crossed it,” he said. “But I’m plumb worried. Right heah we’re almost turnin’ toward the ranch.”

  “Boss, I’d say from the lay of the land an’ what’s ahead, any riders wantin’ to get away an’ hide would work north,” said Wind River Charlie.

  “Shore I figger the same,” replied Laramie, quick to appreciate that this Wyoming rider was one to listen to.

  “Lemme have your glass. I believe I see somethin’ red,” added Charlie, pointing. Upon receiving the field-glass he leveled it and adjusted it to his eyes. “Yep, there’s a bit of red scarf wavin’ from a bush.”

  “Ahuh. I see thet now. Wal, let’s rustle.”

  In a few moments they were passing from hand to hand a piece of handkerchief, taken from a high sage-brush, which Laramie identified as belonging to Lonesome.

  “An’ heah’s their trail, plain as print.”

  It was about mid-afternoon, and Laramie began to have misgivings about catching up with Lonesome and Tracks that day. Still, the trail was now easy to follow at a canter for long distances, and always at a trot. They covered ten miles in less than two hours. After that the roughening of the country into which the trail entered slowed travel to a walk.

  By sunset they entered a long oval swale through which a deep cut meandered. The slopes on each side were heavily brushed. Antelope were plentiful, and jack-rabbits scurried through the sage. At the upper reach of this long swale they found water running over the shallow sandy bed.

  “Wal, I reckon we’d better camp heah,” said Laramie, thoughtfully. “It’s about dark. An’ we might not find grass an’ water ahaid.”

  “We’ll do all the better tomorrow. I’d say we was around three hours behind Mulhall an’ Williams,” rejoined Wind River Charlie.

  “In thet case we’ll shore ketch up with them before tomorrow night. The thing is — will they ketch up with Gaines?”

  “I’d gamble on it.”

  “So’ll I. . . . Gawd! though, I wish it was tonight! To think of thet kid. . . .

  “It’s tough, boss. But she’s a game an’ smart kid. Mebbe she’ll soft-soap Gaines, playin’ for time.”

  “Smart? Wal, I reckon. But Gaines mightn’t be easy to fool. Funny I didn’t savvy him sooner. Aw, I was loco myself. I ought to have shot him thet day.”

  “No use cryin’ over spilled milk, Laramie,” replied Charlie. “I’ve a hunch how you feel. But I think, with Mulhall out ahead of us, fightin’ mad, an’ with Williams trackin’ thet bunch, we’re goin’ to save the girl.”

  “Alive — yes. But. . . . Dakota, water an’ grain the hawses. Then hobble them. Charlie, you fix a snack of grub. I’ll pack in some firewood.”

  Darkness fell upon the riders eating their meager meal around a ruddy fire of red coals. The heat of the day was gone. A cool night breeze rustled the cedars. Coyotes had begun their yelping quest. A lonesome owl hooted, and frogs were trilling from the watercourse.

  Soon Laramie left his smoking comrades, and repairing to a near-by cedar he spread his saddle blankets wet side down, and with his saddle for a pillow stretched himself for rest, if not slumber.

  He should have fallen asleep at once. But Laramie Nelson had departed from the way of peace and serenity. Even with Indians on his trail or a brush with rustlers at hand he had never been so disturbed. He strained to find the old cool, easy, all-solving mind. The conditions of the hour were familiar, and it felt so good to realize that. The stars blinked white overhead; the cedars whispered to him; his old friends the coyotes were wailing their wild music; the dry sweet night breath of the lonely range blew over him; the thump of hobbled horses came reassuringly to his ears. Once more he was out on the trail. He had not even removed his spurs. Tomorrow, surely, he would gain freedom from this oppressed heart, from whirling thoughts, from sweet and agonizing memories.

  But just now he was helpless, at the mercy of the solitude and loneliness he loved so well and knew he needed so much. The action of the day was past. And ruthless memory, with remorse and exultation, with misery and ec
stasy, worked its will.

  If he had to die right there, or at longest in the morrow’s fight, he could not have been sorry that he had kissed Hallie Lindsay. At the worst those kisses would not cost her more than a moment’s disgust, an hour’s fury. But for him there had been something all-satisfying, a fulfillment of he knew not what. He had yielded to longing, surely, but still he had done the thing with eyes open and with a purpose other than selfish. He had felt it a duty to swerve that clear-eyed, keen-minded young woman away from the appalling facts of her sister’s peril. That had not given rise to his regret. It had come from a dismaying, unbelievable, unforgettable fact that Hallie had struck him across his violating lips, and then presently, precisely for the same offense multiplied, she had put her arm around his neck. The thing was incredible. Had she? Was that not his bewildered fancy? It did not seem logical, reasonable, possible that any girl, much less Hallie, could hit a man with all her might for kissing her and then embrace him for doing it again. But there it was. Her left arm had been clear up around his neck, and her right hand had been creeping up. He had seen it. He had felt her cool quivering fingers on his hot neck. Well, what then?

  There was absolutely no doubt as to his mental aberration. But had she been crazy, too? If such an act were possible it could mean only one thing — that his violence had overcome her on the moment, and not only had she surrendered to him, but had been about to respond with a woman’s love.

  Laramie had his bitter battle here. He could not believe the evidences of his own senses. He had been mistaken. If she had caught hold of him it must have been in the frenzy of repulse. “But I’ll never — never know!” he whispered, poignantly, to himself. “My Gawd! why didn’t I wait to see? . . . Then, if it’d been true . . .”

  Thus he tortured himself. But in the long run, when the night was far advanced, he persuaded himself that his perceptions had been as faulty as his reasoning. There was left then only the certainty that the sweetness of her lips had been his — that he had spent his honest passionate only love upon them — that in his heart he knew he had offered her no insult, and as time passed she might come to realize it. Here ensued the break between his wretchedness and the still small voice of renunciation. With that over, Laramie Nelson began to come to himself. In the future he might dream over his only love-affair and pity himself and wallow in sentiment. But now he had to call on all that the ranges had made him, to take Lenta home at least alive, and to weave a bloody trail around Spanish Peaks Ranch, so that these fine good Lindsays could settle down to the happiness they deserved. Then he would ride away as he had often ridden before. When all that had worked itself out inevitably in Laramie’s mind, he found himself again. And he went to sleep.

  Wind River Charlie awakened him in the gray dawn. A fire was crackling. Dakota appeared riding bareback, driving in the horses. Jays were squalling in the cedars. Laramie arose as if many nights had elapsed since he had lain down. There was very little talk, and that was only commonplace. They ate, saddled, mounted, and rode out in a silence that boded ill to the objects of their pursuit.

  An hour later, at sunrise, they climbed high to see the foothills of the Rockies scarce two days’ ride to the west. Laramie calculated they were forty-odd miles from Spanish Peaks Ranch, and therefore east of the range used by Allen and Arlidge. It was new country to Laramie. Dakota claimed to have been in there once, and knew they were not far, as a crow flies, from the squatter’s cabin where Williams and Laramie had trailed the stolen horses, and had stumbled upon, as well, some of Lindsay’s stock.

  The plain trail led on to the north, and kept to the levels. High ridges and narrow valleys alternated here, and gradually augmented their characteristics. Cattle began to show in impressive numbers, but they were so wild that Laramie, without departing from the trail, could not read their brands. They passed an old log cabin. The hill tops here showed a sparse growth of pines. The white flags of deer moved up every slope. Grass and water grew abundant. At length the riders crossed a wide cattle road running east and west. The fresh tracks pointed west, proving that the last herd had been driven toward the uplands.

  “What yu make of thet?” asked Laramie of Wind River Charlie, remembering the rider’s questionable standing with Arlidge.

  “It’s a big country, boss,” replied Charlie, evasively. “There’s a hundred thousand odd head of stock range in here, not countin’ what’s movin’.”

  “Ahuh. But rustlers wouldn’t be drivin’ big herds to Denver. I’d reckon all stock in any quantity would be sent east, down on the Kansas an’ Nebraskie ranges.”

  “Boss, it’s my hunch you’ll clear up some of them knotty questions this hunt,” was all the rider would vouchsafe. But it was enough for Laramie.

  Noonday brought the pursuers to a puzzling halt. The trail split at the juncture of two valleys, where a low pass between high hills afforded a magnificent view of wild country, marked by cattle dotting the gray-green levels, and patches of black timber, and threads of shining water. Laramie was quick to discover that additional horse tracks had been added to the trail. Gaines had met some more of his outfit here or certainly had encountered three, possibly more riders. At any rate, the trail split. The pursuers were puzzled until Laramie’s roving eye caught sight of another strip of Lonesome’s red scarf. It waved high from a cedar branch, where it had been tied by a rider standing on his saddle. That appeared to be the reason they had not espied it at once. Again Wind River Charlie proved his worth, as well as his experience in trailing fugitive riders.

  “Look, boss. Two sticks fresh cut, one pointin’ down thet draw an’ the other down this one.”

  “Shore do. Thet’s old cowman makin’ Injun sign. Wal, one outfit went this way an’ the other thet way. Reckon Lonesome an’ Tracks split heah. So will we. I’ll take the left trail. Yu boys take thet to the right. It’s a stumper to see which outfit had the girl. We jest cain’t. But same as Lonesome an’ Ted — we’ll take no chances.

  “It weakens us, boss, same as it does them. But we can’t do nothin’ else.”

  “Wal, we’re losin’ time an’ this trail is gettin’ hot. Mebbe yu will meet Ted or Lonesome back-trailin’. Mebbe I will. We’re trackin’ them an’ they’re trackin’ Gaines. This other outfit has throwed them off. But they’ll nose it out. Rustle now, an’ for Gawd’s sake use yore haids an’ yore guns if yu come on Gaines’ outfit with the girl.”

  Laramie had not proceeded far when Charlie hailed him.

  “Boss, here’s a juniper bush broke off fresh at the top.”

  Waving an encouraging hand, Laramie turned to his task. Soon his way led into a narrow aisle of grassy descent between wooded slopes. He could follow the trail by the different shading and shape of the grass that had been parted and trod upon. Presently he espied the top of an oak shrub leaning over distorted and striking. It had been rudely wrenched, and not so long ago. Either Lonesome or Ted had passed that point.

  Laramie searched the long gray valley below for dust clouds made by riders. Cattle appeared numerous, but there were no moving knots of riders or tell-tale streaks of dust rising. To his amaze he found he had over-ridden any signs. He wheeled to return and sighted another mutilated bush before he reached an abrupt sheering of the trail up the slope. He followed, pondering this change. It looked queer. But he was not surprised. The tracks of rustlers and outlaws left crooked, wandering trails.

  This slope was easy of ascent, open in places, thicketed in others, with scrub oak and jack pines growing at intervals. The trail doubled back in a long slant over the ridge toward the other valley. Laramie made a deduction. The outfit that had turned back here surely had done so to spy upon the other which had taken the valley to the right. Laramie grew certain of this, and once on top he absolutely knew it. Mounted horses had been halted time and again under trees on the verge of the slope. Laramie could read the minds of men of the open in the signs they left on the ground. Gaines and his men with the girl had not been accountable for this trail.
It belonged to an outfit that had reason to spy upon Gaines, to follow him, or more likely to head him off for purposes of ambush.

  This valley below was a whole range in itself. It must have been thirty miles long to where the hills converged again. The floor was narrow just beneath and covered with a scattered growth of cedar, but miles farther on it opened to wide gray space. Cattle were far less numerous than in the valley behind Laramie.

  A well-defined, hard-packed trail led on the crest of the ridge to the north. Riders who had reason to watch must frequent it. And the tracks Laramie was hot on worked below along the edge where the slope began. Presently they ploughed off the rim in great fresh furrows and went straight down.

  “Wal, I’m a son-of-a-gun!” ejaculated Laramie. “I wonder how long it took Ted or Lonesome to figger this. Not much longer, I’m gamblin’. He’d make pronto for thet other trail. . . . But if this heah outfit is aimin’ to haid off Gaines, why shouldn’t I beat them to it?”

  Laramie tried to shake the idea. It would not shake. Weight strengthened it with the evidences of former inspirations. He gazed up at the sun. Already westering! Could he afford to trust to any old instinct? This deal was not his, but Lonesome’s. And the abducted girl was Hallie’s sister. Nevertheless, a strong impulse, cold and inscrutable, took possession of him. It quickened and directed his calculations. Four hours at the most would see Gaines come to a halt for the night. The outfit that had turned to trail him knew this and where he would make camp.

  Suddenly Laramie bethought himself of the field-glass tied to the horn of his saddle. Securing this, he leaped off to steady himself against a tree and search the valley. He began at the right. The distance was far for a naked eye, but with the glass he could command all of it. Cattle, deer, antelope passed under his range of magnified vision. And the last band of antelope was on the move. But Laramie could not make out any other moving objects directly under him.

  Whereupon he took a comprehensive sweep of the valley where it widened to the north. Grassy barrens merged into alkali flats. Out there no live object showed. The far side of the valley yielded nothing. Then beginning far to the left, and along the line where the timber met the sage, Laramie studied the land minutely. Eight or ten miles down he sighted a log cabin close to the wall of green, or a square rock that closely resembled a cabin. From there toward him for several miles the green and gray level appeared lonely.