Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  He could not speak.

  “I thought I would. And it was a sickening, terrible blow. But before that same night was over knew I couldn’t hate you. And I believe, even if I hadn’t learned what changed it all, I would have forgiven you — some day.

  “What changed, all?”

  “What Dad told me.”

  “Thiry — have mercy!”

  “Ash was not my brother,” she said in a smothered voice.

  Rising, Thiry slipped to the floor on her knees, and leaned upon her elbows, clasping his hands, regarding him with remorseful tenderness. “My brother Range beat the others home that night, with the news of the fight. I had my terrible black hours. I knew we were ruined — that Ash in some way had brought it about. Perhaps my love for him turned then. But I want you to know that even then believing Ash my brother I’d have forgiven you in time. I know it. After the agony was spent I was learning how deathlessly I loved you. Sometime in the night, late, Dad came to me. He told me not to take it too hard — not to visit the sins of others upon your head. You had been driven to kill Ash. Someone had to do it, for the good of all, and no one but you could.

  “Then came the story, torn from his most secret heart. Ash was not his son, but the illegitimate son of a girl he had loved long ago, who abandoned and dying, gave him her child. Dad said he was what his father had been. Next day I went to mother, and she corroborated dad’s story. It seemed I was delivered from hellish bonds.”

  “Thiry, darlin’ — there must be somethin’ in prayer,” cried Rock.

  “I was to learn how you had bought Slagle’s silence — how you persuaded Dabb and Lincoln to force Hesbitt to settle out of court — oh, how from the very beginning you had meant good by all of us! Yet I could not drag myself to you. It took time. I had such dreadful fear of seeing you lying in danger of death, bloody, pale with awful eyes that would have accused me. Oh, I suffered! But now I’m here — on my knees.”

  “Please get up,” said Rock, lifting her to a seat beside him.

  “Now will you accept Dabb’s offer and take me back to Sunset Pass?” she asked.

  “Yes, Thiry, if you will have it so,” he replied. “If you love me that well.”

  She gave him passionate proof of that “Dear, Dad told me you were one of the marked men of the ranges. Our West is in the making. Such men as Ash — and those others you—”

  Sol Winter came in. He beamed down upon them. “Son an’ lass, I’m glad to see you holden’ each other thet way — as if now you’d never let go. For I’ve grown old on the frontier, an’ I’ve seen but little of the love you have for each other. We Westerners are a hard pioneering outfit. I see in you, an Allie, an’ some more of our young friends, a leanin’ more to finer, better things.”

  THE END

  Arizona Ames

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHAPTER XV

  CHAPTER XVI

  CHAPTER I

  IT WAS NOVEMBER in the Tonto Basin.

  From Mescal Ridge the jagged white teeth of the ranges pierced the blue sky on three horizons — to the west the wild ragged Mazatzals; to the south the lofty symmetrical Four Peaks; and far away to the east the dim blue-white Sierra Ancas. Behind and above Mescal Ridge — forbiddingly close the rarefied atmosphere made it — towered the black-fringed, snow-belted rim of the Mogallan Mesa, blocking the whole north with its three hundred miles of bold promontories and purple canyons.

  But though it was winter on the heights, down on the innumerable ridges of the Basin, which slanted like the ribs of a colossal washboard, late fall lingered. In sheltered nooks, deep down where the sun could reach through gaps, sycamores shone with green-gold leaves, and oaks smoldered in rich bronze, standing out vividly from the steel-gray shaggy slopes. Tonto Creek wound down between them, a shining strip of water, here white in rushing rapids and there circling in green eddies or long leaf-spotted pools. The ridge tops waved away from Mescal Ridge, a sea of evergreen, pine and spruce and cedar and piñon, a thick dark mantle in the distance, but close at hand showing bare spots, gray rocks and red cliffs, patches of brown pine needles, scarlet sumac and blue juniper.

  Mescal Ridge was high and long and winding and rough, yet its crest curved gracefully, open and bare, covered by many acres of silver grass, where flourished abundantly the short, spiked, pale-green clusters of cactus — mescal, which gave the ridge its name. The tips of mescal leaves narrowed to hard black thorns, much dreaded by cattle and horses. Like the thorns of the cholla cactus, these mescal points broke off in flesh and worked in. Mescal, both in its deadly thorns and the liquor distilled from its heart, typified the hard and acrid nature of the Tonto.

  * * * * *

  Old Cappy Tanner, trapper, had driven his seven burros in from the south this year; and this time he was later than on any other of the many autumns he had returned to the Tonto. His last two trapping seasons had been prosperous ones, which accounted partly for his late arrival. He had tarried in Prescott and Maricopa to buy presents for his good friends, the Ames family. For Tanner that had been a labor of love, but nevertheless a most perplexing one.

  Three miles west of Tonto Creek the trail to Mescal Ridge left the road. Cappy turned into it, glad to reach the last leg of his long tramp. Every giant pine seemed to greet him. He knew them all, and the logs, and the checker-barked junipers, and even the manzanita bushes, bare this year of their yellow berries. No cattle or horse tracks showed in the grass-grown trail. That surprised him. There had been no rain along there for weeks, and if any hoofs had stepped on this trail lately the tracks would have shown.

  Cappy sat down against a huge pine to rest and to eat a little bread and meat. The sun shone hot and the shade was pleasant. His burros began to graze on the long grass. It occurred to him that he had rested often on the six weeks’ walk north. He seemed to realize he was a little slower than last year.

  The old familiar sough of the wind in the pines was music to him, and the sweet, dry, pungent odor of the evergreens was medicine. What soothing relief and rest after the desert! Cappy watched the burros, the slow shadows of the pine boughs, the squalling blue jays. He had been six months away from the Tonto, and the preceding night, at the tavern in Shelby, he had listened to disturbing gossip that involved his friends and their neighbors, the Tates.

  It had occupied his mind all during the eighteen-mile journey from Shelby; to such significance that he had not stopped at Spring Valley to pay his respects to the Tates, an omission they would be sure to note.

  “Reckon thet Pleasant Valley war left bitter feelin’ which never will die out,” soliloquized Tanner, wagging his head sadly. He had been in the Tonto during the climax of the terrible feud among cattlemen, sheepmen, and rustlers; and he had seen it end in extermination of every faction. But the heritage of bad blood had descended on the few families left in that wild north section of the Tonto Basin.

  Having finished his lunch and rested, Tanner resumed his journey, growing more at ease as he drew farther from the road, deeper into the forest. When he began to catch glimpses of deer and flocks of wild turkeys, and to see where bears had broken the branches of the junipers to feed off the berries, he knew he was getting near home.

  At length the trail led out of the deep shade of the forest into open sunlight, that shone on rough oak ridges, with dense thickets in the gulches between. The trail headed many draws all sloping down in the same direction. Here and there glimpses of the rough canyon country framed themselves in notches of the ridges — wild dark purple canyon, powerfully suggestive of the haunts of bear and panther.

  He turned abruptly round an oak-thicke
ted corner to emerge on the high slope of Tonto Canyon. The scene was magnificent, lonely and wild and rugged in the extreme. A melodious murmur of running water made memory active. How would he find the Ameses — Nesta and Rich and the younger twins?

  The deep canyon yawned narrow and blue, with rough rock slopes and patches of spruce and oak on the opposite side; and it deepened and constricted to dark bronze walls leading into the gloomy and inaccessible chasm called Hell Gate. When the hounds pursued a bear down that canyon the chase ended. Bears would take to the deep pools and rapids where no dogs could follow.

  The whole length of Mescal Ridge stretched away before Tanner’s eager gaze. Silver and black and green, a mighty hog-back among all those Tonto ridges, it lay somewhat below Tanner, open to his gaze. Cattle and deer dotted the gray patches of grass. This was the range where the Ames family ran the few cattle they owned, and it struck Tanner that their stock had increased, if all he saw belonged to them.

  He strode on down, then, and for some time lost the beautiful panorama. When again he came out upon a jutting point of the trail he was halfway down, and could see the colorful flat nestling under the beetling brow of Mescal Ridge. The log cabin shone brown and tiny beside the three great spruce trees; patches of the garden, like green and gray squares, led to the cornfield, where horses browsed on the stalks; the rail fences, which Tanner had helped Rich Ames to build, were now overgrown with wine-colored vines.

  The old trapper showed the same eagerness that animated his burros, and strode swiftly down the remaining zigzag stretches of the trail, out across the sandy, oak-shaded flat to the creek. The water was low and sycamore leaves floated with the swift current. Cappy went above the ford where his burros were drinking, and throwing aside his hat he stretched himself on a flat rock and drank his fill.

  “Augh!” he exclaimed, as he got up, wiping his wet beard. Tonto Creek! Snow water that flowed through granite! It took a desert man, or a trapper long away from the rocky hills, to appreciate fully that pure, cold, clear water.

  Beyond the ford the trail led along the bank which sloped up to the flat and around to the three spruce trees and the moss-greened cabin. Dogs heralded Tanner’s arrival, not by any means in a welcoming manner. But upon recognizing the trapper they quieted down and the big red leader condescended to wag his tail. Then shrill girlish shrieks attested further to Tanner’s arrival. Two young girls came tearing out, their bright hair flying.

  “Oh, Uncle Cappy!” they screamed in unison, and made at him, breathless, wild with the delight of lonesome souls at the advent of a beloved friend.

  “Wal! Wal! — Mescal an’ Manzanita! — I shore am glad to see you. . . . How you have growed!”

  “It’s been so — so long,” panted the one he took for Mescal, as she clung to him.

  “We — we was afraid you wasn’t never comin’,” added Manzanita.

  The twins were six years old, if Cappy’s memory served him well. It had been one of Cappy’s proud boasts that he could distinguish which was Mescal and which was Manzanita, but he did not dare risk it yet. How the warmth of their flashing blue eyes thrilled him, and the rose bloom in the brown cheeks and the parted red lips! Cappy feared his eyes were not so good as they used to be, or maybe they had dimmed for the moment.

  “Wal, now, girls, you knowed I’d come back,” replied Tanner, reprovingly.

  “Mother always said you would,” replied one of the twins.

  “An’ Rich he’d always laugh an’ tell as you couldn’t stay away from Mescal Ridge,” added the other.

  “Rich is shore right. Wal, how are you-all?”

  “Mother is well. We’re all fine. But Nesta is away visitin’. She’ll be back today, an’ won’t she be glad? . . . Rich is out huntin’ with Sam.”

  “Sam who?” queried Cappy, remembering that Rich seldom hunted with anyone.

  “Sam Playford. He’s been here since last spring. Homesteaded up the creek near Doubtful. Rich is with him a lot. We all like him fine, Uncle Cappy. He’s terrible sweet on Nesta.”

  “Ahuh! Small wonder. An’ is Nesta sweet on him?”

  “Mother says she is an’ Rich says she isn’t,” laughed Mescal.

  “Humph! What does Nesta say?” asked Cappy, conscious of misgivings.

  “Nesta! You know her. She tosses her head,” replied Manzanita.

  “But she did like Sam,” protested Mescal, seriously. “We saw her let Sam kiss her.”

  “That was ages ago, Manzi.” When she spoke this name, Cappy realized he had taken Mescal for Manzanita. “Lee Tate is runnin’ her hard now, uncle.”

  “No! — Lee Tate?” returned the old trapper, incredulously.

  “Yes. It was a secret,” said Mescal, most seriously. “But Rich found Nesta out. . . . An’ say, didn’t he lay into her! It didn’t do no good. Nesta is as crazy as a young hen-turkey, so mother says.”

  “Wal, wal, this is news,” rejoined Tanner, thoughtfully, as he kept looking toward the cabin. “Where’s Tommy? I reckoned I’d see him first off.”

  Mescal’s blue eyes darkened and dimmed with tears. Manzanita averted her face. And then something struck cold at the old trapper’s heart.

  “Tommy’s dead,” whispered Mescal.

  “Aw, no!” burst out Cappy, poignantly.

  “Yes. It was in June. He fell off the rocks. Hurt himself. Rich an’ Nesta weren’t home. We couldn’t get a doctor. An’ he died.”

  “Lord! I’m sorry!” exclaimed the trapper.

  “It hurt us all — an’ near broke Rich’s heart.”

  At this juncture the mother of the girls appeared on the cabin porch, wiping flour from her strong brown arms. She was under forty and still handsome, fair-haired, tall and strong, a pioneer woman whom the recent Tonto war had made a widow.

  “If it ain’t Uncle Cappy!” she ejaculated, warmly. “I wondered what-all the twins was yelling at. Then I seen the burros. . . . Old timer, you’re welcome as mayflowers.”

  “Thanks, an’ you’re shore lookin’ fine, Mrs. Ames,” replied Cappy, shaking her hand. “I’m awful glad to get back to Mescal Ridge. It’s about the only home I ever had — of late years, anyhow. . . . Thet about Tommy digs me deep. . . . I — I’m shore surprised an’ sorry.”

  “It wouldn’t have been so hard for us if he’d been killed outright,” she rejoined, sadly. “But the hell of it was he might have been saved if we could have got him out.”

  “Wal — wal! . . . I reckon I’d better move along. I’ve fetched some things for you-all. I’ll drop them off here, then go on to my cabin, an’ soon as I unpack I’ll come back.”

  “An’ have supper. Rich will be back an’ mebbe Nesta.”

  “You bet I’ll have supper,” returned Cappy. Then he loosened a pack from one of the burros, and carrying it to the porch he deposited it there. The twins, radiantly expectant, hung mutely upon his movements.

  “See hyar, Mescal Ames,” declared Cappy, shaking a horny finger at one of the glowing faces, “if you — —”

  “But I’m Manzi, Uncle Cappy,” interrupted the girl, archly.

  “Aw — so you are,” went on Cappy, discomfited.

  “You’ve forgotten the way to tell us,” interposed Mescal, gayly.

  “Wal, I reckon so. . . . But no matter, I’ll remember soon. . . . An’ see hyar, Manzi, an’ Mescal — don’t you dare open this pack.”

  “But, uncle, you’ll be so long!” wailed the twins together.

  “No I won’t, either. Not an hour. Promise you’ll wait. Why, girls, I wouldn’t miss seein’ your faces when I undo thet pack — not for a whole winter’s trappin’.”

  “We’ll promise — if you’ll hurry back.”

  Mrs. Ames vowed she would have to fight temptation herself and besought him to make haste.

  “I’ll not be long,” called Tanner, and slapping the tired burros out of the shade he headed them into the trail.

  At the end of the clearing, the level narrowed to a strip of land, high above t
he creek, and the trail led under huge pines and cone-shaped spruces and birches to a shady leaf-strewn opening in the rocky bluff, from which a tiny stream flowed in cascades and deep brown pools. This was a gateway to a high-walled canyon, into which the sun shone only part of the day. It opened out above the break in the bluff into a miniature valley, isolated and lonely, rich in evergreens, and shadowed by stained cliffs and mossy ledges.

  Cappy arrived at his little log cabin with a sense of profound gratitude.

  “By gum! I’m glad to be home,” he said, as if the picturesque little abode had ears. He had built this house three years before, aided now and then by Rich Ames. Before that time he had lived up at the head of Doubtful Canyon, where that “rough Jasper,” as Rich called it, yawned black and doubtful under the great wall of the mesa.

  Throwing packs, he strapped bells on the burros, and giving them a slap he called cheerily: “Get out an’ rustle, you tin-can-label-eatin’ flop-ears! You’ve got a long rest, an’ if you’ve sense you’ll stay in the canyon.”

  The door of the cabin was half ajar. Cappy pushed it all the way open. An odor of bear assailed his nostrils. Had he left a bearskin there, or had Rich Ames, in his absence? No, the cabin walls and floor were uncovered. But his trained eyes quickly detected a round depression in the thick mat of pine needles that covered his bough couch. A good-sized bear must have used it for a bed. In the dust of the floor bear tracks showed distinctly, and the left hind foot was minus a toe. Cappy recognized that track. The bear that had made it had once blundered into one of Cappy’s fox traps, had broken the trap and left part of his foot in it.

  “Wal, the son-of-a-gun!” ejaculated the old trapper. “Addin’ insult to injury. I’ll jest bet he knowed this was my cabin. . . . Wonder why Rich didn’t shoot him.”

  Cappy swept out, carried his packs inside, and opening one of them he took out his lantern and fuel, cooking utensils, and camp tools, which he put in their places. Then he unrolled his bed of blankets and spread it on the couch. “Reckon I won’t light no fire tonight, but I’ll fix one ready, anyhow,” he decided, and repairing to his woodpile he discovered very little left of the dry hardwood that he had cut the winter before. Rich Ames, the lonely fire-gazer, had been burning it! Presently Cappy was ready to go back to the Ames’ cabin. But he bethought himself of his unkempt appearance. That was because he remembered Nesta Ames. So he tarried to remedy the defect. He shaved, washed, and put on a new flannel shirt of gorgeous hue, which he had purchased solely to dazzle the color-loving Nesta. Then he sallied forth.