by Zane Grey
He skirted the curve of the valley and led Bolly a little way up the wooded slope to a dense thicket of aspens in a hollow. This thicket encircled a patch of grass. Hare pressed the lithe aspens aside to admit Bolly and left her there free. He drew his rifle from its sheath and, after assuring himself that the mustang could not be seen or heard from below, he bent his steps diagonally up the slope.
Every foot of this ground he knew, and he climbed swiftly until he struck the mountain trail. Then, descending, he entered the cedars. At last he reached a point directly above the cliff-camp where he had spent so many days, and this he knew overhung the cabin built by Holderness. He stole down from tree to tree and slipped from thicket to thicket. The sun, red as blood, raised a bright crescent over the red wall; the soft mists of the valley began to glow and move; cattle were working in toward the spring. Never brushing a branch, never dislodging a stone, Hare descended the slope, his eyes keener, his ears sharper with every step. Soon the edge of the gray stone cliff below shut out the lower level of cedars. While resting he listened. Then he marked his course down the last bit of slanting ground to the cliff bench which faced the valley. This space was open, rough with crumbling rock and dead cedar brush—a difficult place to cross without sound. Deliberate in his choice of steps, very slow in moving, Hare went on with a stealth which satisfied even his intent ear. When the wide gray strip of stone drew slowly into the circle of his downcast gaze he sank to the ground with a slight trembling in all his limbs. There was a thick bush on the edge of the cliff; in three steps he could reach it and, unseen himself, look down upon the camp.
A little cloud or smoke rose lazily and capped a slender column of blue. Sounds were wafted softly upward, the low voices of men in conversation, a merry whistle, and then the humming of a tune. Hare’s mouth was dry and his temples throbbed as he asked himself what it was best to do. The answer came instantaneously as though it had lain just below the level of his conscious thought. “I’ll watch till Holderness walks out into sight, jump up with a yell when he comes, give him time to see me, to draw his gun—then kill him!”
Hare slipped to the bush, drew in a deep long breath that stilled his agitation, and peered over the cliff. The crude shingles of the cabin first rose into sight; then beyond he saw the corral with a number of shaggy mustangs and a great gray horse. Hare stared blankly. As in a dream he saw the proud arch of a splendid neck, the graceful wave of a white-crested mane.
“Silvermane!… My God!” he gasped, suddenly. “They caught him—after all!”
He fell backward upon the cliff and lay there with hands clinching his rifle, shudderingly conscious of a blow, trying to comprehend its meaning.
“Silvermane!…they caught him—after all!” he kept repeating; then in a flash of agonized understanding he whispered: “Mescal…Mescal!”
He rolled upon his face, shutting out the blue sky; his body stretched stiff as a bent spring released from its compress, and his nails dented the stock of his rifle. Then this rigidity softened to sobs that shook him from head to foot. He sat up, haggard and wild-eyed.
Silvermane had been captured, probably by rustlers waiting at the western edge of the sand-strip. Mescal had fallen into the hands of Snap Naab. But Mescal was surely alive and Snap was there to be killed; his long career of unrestrained cruelty was in its last day—something told Hare that this thing must and should be. The stern deliberation of his intent to kill Holderness, the passion of his purpose to pay his debt to August Naab, were as nothing compared to the gathering might of this new resolve; suddenly he felt free and strong as an untamed lion broken free from his captors.
From the cover of the bush he peered again over the cliff. The cabin with its closed door facing him was scarcely two hundred feet down from his hiding-place. One of the rustlers sang as he bent over the camp-fire and raked the coals around the pots; others lounged on a bench waiting for breakfast; some rolled out of their blankets; they stretched and yawned, and pulling on their boots made for the spring. The last man to rise was Snap Naab, and he had slept with his head on the threshold of the door. Evidently Snap had made Mescal a prisoner in the cabin, and no one could go in or out without stepping upon him. The rustler-foreman of Holderness’s company had slept with his belt containing two Colts, nor had he removed his boots. Hare noted these details with grim humor. Now the tall Holderness, face shining, gold-red beard agleam, rounded the cabin whistling. Hare watched the rustlers sit down to breakfast, and here and there caught a loud-spoken word, and marked their leisurely care-free manner. Snap Naab took up a pan of food and a cup of coffee, carried them into the cabin, and came out, shutting the door.
After breakfast most of the rustlers set themselves to their various tasks. Hare watched them with the eyes of a lynx watching deer. Several men were arranging articles for packing, and their actions were slow to the point of laziness; others trooped down toward the corral. Holderness rolled a cigarette and stooped over the campfire to reach a burning stick. Snap Naab stalked to and fro before the door of the cabin. He alone of the rustler’s band showed restlessness, and more than once he glanced up the trail that led over the divide toward his father’s oasis. Holderness sent expectant glances in the other direction toward Seeping Springs. Once his clear voice rang out:
“I tell you, Naab, there’s no hurry. We’ll ride in tomorrow.”
A thousand thoughts flitted through Hare’s mind—a steady stream of questions and answers. Why did Snap look anxiously along the oasis trail? It was not that he feared his father or his brothers alone, but there was always the menace of the Navajos. Why was Holderness in no hurry to leave Silver Cup? Why did he lag at the spring when, if he expected riders from his ranch, he could have gone on to meet them, obviously saving time and putting greater distance between him and the men he had wronged? Was it utter fearlessness or only a deep-played game? Holderness and his rustlers, all except the gloomy Naab, were blind to the peril that lay beyond the divide. How soon would August Naab strike out on the White Sage trail? Would he come alone? Whether he came alone or at the head of his hard-riding Navajos he would arrive too late. Holderness’s life was not worth a pinch of the ashes he flecked so carelessly from his cigarette. Snap Naab’s gloom, his long stride, his nervous hand always on or near the butt of his Colt, spoke the keenness of his desert instinct. For him the sun had arisen red over the red wall. Had he harmed Mescal? Why did he keep the cabin door shut and guard it so closely?
While Hare watched and thought the hours sped by. Holderness lounged about and Snap kept silent guard. The rustlers smoked, slept, and moved about; the day waned, and the shadow of the cliff crept over the cabin. To Hare the time had been as a moment; he was amazed to find the sun had gone down behind Coconina. If August Naab had left the oasis at dawn he must now be near the divide, unless he had been delayed by a wind-storm at the strip of sand. Hare longed to see the roan charger come up over the crest; he longed to see a file of Navajos, plumes waving, dark mustangs gleaming in the red light, sweep down the stony ridge toward the cedars. “If they come,” he whispered, “I’ll kill Holderness and Snap and any man who tries to open that cabin door.”
So he waited in tense watchfulness, his gaze alternating between the wavy line of the divide and the camp glade. Out in the valley it was still daylight, but under the cliff twilight had fallen. All day Hare had strained his ears to hear the talk of the rustlers, and it now occurred to him that if he climbed down through the split in the cliff to the bench where Dave and George had always hidden to watch the spring he would be just above the camp. This descent involved risk, but since it would enable him to see the cabin door when darkness set in, he decided to venture. The moment was propitious, for the rustlers were bustling around, cooking dinner, unrolling blankets, and moving to and fro from spring and corral. Hare crawled back a few yards and along the cliff until he reached the split. It was a narrow steep crack which he well remembered. Going down was attended with two dangers—losing his hold, and the possible rat
tling of stones. Face foremost he slipped downward with the gliding, sinuous movement of a snake, and reaching the grassy bench he lay quiet. Jesting voices and loud laughter from below reassured him. He had not been heard. His new position afforded every chance to see and hear, and also gave means of rapid, noiseless retreat along the bench to the cedars. Lying flat he crawled stealthily to the bushy fringe of the bench.
A bright fire blazed under the cliff. Men were moving and laughing. The cabin door was open. Mescal stood leaning back from Snap Naab, struggling to release her hands.
“Let me untie them, I say,” growled Snap.
Mescal tore loose from him and stepped back. Her hands were bound before her, and twisting them outward, she warded him off. Her dishevelled hair almost hid her dark eyes. They burned in a level glance of hate and defiance. She was a little lioness, quivering with fiery life, fight in every line of her form.
“All right, don’t eat then—starve!” said Snap.
“I’ll starve before I eat what you give me.”
The rustlers laughed. Holderness blew out a puff of smoke and smiled. Snap glowered upon Mescal and then upon his amiable companions. One of them, a ruddy-faced fellow, walked toward Mescal.
“Cool down, Snap, cool down,” he said. “We’re not goin’ to stand for a girl starvin’. She ain’t eat a bite yet. Here, Miss, let me untie your hands—there.… Say! Naab, damn you, her wrists are black an’ blue!”
“Look out! Your gun!” yelled Snap.
With a swift movement Mescal snatched the man’s Colt from its holster and was raising it when he grasped her arm. She winced and dropped the weapon.
“You little Indian devil!” exclaimed the rustler, in a rapt admiration. “Sorry to hurt you, an’ more’n sorry to spoil your aim. Thet wasn’t kind to throw my own gun on me, jest after I’d played the gentleman, now, was it?”
“I didn’t—intend—to shoot—you,” panted Mescal.
“Naab, if this’s your Mormon kind of wife—excuse me! Though I ain’t denyin’ she’s the sassiest an’ sweetest little cat I ever seen!”
“We Mormons don’t talk about our women or hear any talk,” returned Snap, a dancing fury in his pale eyes. “You’re from Nebraska?”
“Yep, jest a plain Nebraska rustler, cattle-thief, an’ all round no-good customer, though I ain’t taken to houndin’ women yet.”
For answer Snap Naab’s right hand slowly curved upward before him and stopped taut and inflexible, while his strange eyes seemed to shoot sparks.
“See here, Naab, why do you want to throw a gun on me?” asked the rustler, coolly. “Haven’t you shot enough of your friends yet? I reckon I’ve no right to interfere in your affairs. I was only protestin’ friendly like, for the little lady. She’s game, an’ she’s called your hand. An’ it’s not a straight hand. Thet’s all, an’ damn if I care whether you are a Mormon or not. I’ll bet a hoss Holderness will back me up.”
“Snap, he’s right,” put in Holderness, smoothly. “You needn’t be so touchy about Mescal. She’s showed what little use she’s got for you. If you must rope her around like you do a mustang, be easy about it. Let’s have supper. Now, Mescal, you sit here on the bench and behave yourself. I don’t want you shooting up my camp.”
Snap turned sullenly aside while Holderness seated Mescal near the door and fetched her food and drink. The rustlers squatted round the camp-fire, and conversation ceased in the business of the meal.
To Hare the scene had brought a storm of emotions. Joy at the sight of Mescal, blessed relief to see her unscathed, pride in her fighting spirit—these came side by side with gratitude to the kind Nebraska rustler, strange deepening insight into Holderness’s game, unextinguishable white-hot hatred of Snap Naab. And binding all was the ever-mounting will to rescue Mescal, which was held in check by an inexorable judgment; he must continue to wait. And he did wait with blind faith in the something to be, keeping ever in mind the last resort—the rifle he clutched with eager hands. Meanwhile the darkness descended, the fire sent forth a brighter blaze, and the rustlers finished their supper. Mescal arose and stepped across the threshold of the cabin door.
“Hold on!” ordered Snap, as he approached with swift strides. “Stick out your hands!”
Some of the rustlers grumbled; and one blurted out: “Aw no, Snap, don’t tie her up—no!”
“Who says no?” hissed the Mormon, with snapping teeth. As he wheeled upon them his Colt seemed to leap forward, and suddenly quivered at arm’s-length, gleaming in the ruddy fire-rays.
Holderness laughed in the muzzle of the weapon. “Go ahead, Snap, tie up your lady love. What a tame little wife she’s going to make you! Tie her up, but do it without hurting her.”
The rustlers growled or laughed at their leader’s order. Snap turned to his task. Mescal stood in the doorway and shrinkingly extended her clasped hands. Holderness whirled to the fire with a look which betrayed his game. Snap bound Mescal’s hands securely, thrust her inside the cabin, and after hesitating for a long moment, finally shut the door.
“It’s funny about a woman, now, ain’t it?” said Nebraska, confidentially, to a companion. “One minnit she’ll snatch you bald-headed; the next, she’ll melt in your mouth like sugar. An’ I’ll be darned if the changeablest one ain’t the kind to hold a feller longest. But it’s hell. I was married onct. Not any more for mine! A pal I had used to say thet whiskey riled him, thet rattlesnake pisen het up his blood some, but it took a woman to make him plumb bad. Damn if it ain’t so. When there’s a woman around there’s somethin’ allus comin’ off.”
But the strain, instead of relaxing, became portentous. Holderness suddenly showed he was ill at ease; he appeared to be expecting arrivals from the direction of Seeping Springs. Snap Naab leaned against the side of the door, his narrow gaze cunningly studying the rustlers before him. More than any other he had caught a foreshadowing. Like the desert-hawk he could see afar. Suddenly he pressed back against the door, half opening it while he faced the men.
“Stop!” commanded Holderness. The change in his voice was as if it had come from another man. “You don’t go in there!”
“I’m going to take the girl and ride to White Sage,” replied Naab, in slow deliberation.
“Bah! You say that only for the excuse to get into the cabin with her. You tried it last night and I blocked you. Shut the door, Naab, or something’ll happen.”
“There’s more going to happen than ever you think of, Holderness. Don’t interfere now, I’m going.”
“Well, go ahead—but you won’t take the girl!”
Snap Naab swung off the step, slamming the door behind him.
“So-ho!” he exclaimed, sneeringly. “That’s why you’ve made me foreman, eh?” His claw-like hand moved almost imperceptibly upward while his pale eyes strove to pierce the strength behind Holderness’s effrontery. The rustler chief had a trump card to play; one that showed in his sardonic smile.
“Naab, you don’t get the girl.”
“Maybe you’ll get her?” hissed Snap.
“I always intended to.”
Surely never before had passion driven Snap’s hand to such speed. His Colt gleamed in the camp-fire light. Click! Click! Click! The hammer fell upon empty chambers.
“H—l!” he shrieked.
Holderness laughed sarcastically.
“That’s where you’re going!” he cried. “Here’s to Naab’s trick with a gun—Bah!” And he shot his foreman through the heart.
Snap plunged upon his face. His hands beat the ground like the shuffling wings of a wounded partridge. His fingers gripped the dust, spread convulsively, straightened, and sank limp.
Holderness called through the door of the cabin. “Mescal, I’ve rid you of your would-be husband. Cheer-up!” Then, pointing to the fallen man, he said to the nearest bystanders: “Some of you drag that out for the coyotes.”
The first fellow who bent over Snap happened to be the Nebraska rustler, and he curiously opened the breec
h of the six-shooter he picked up. “No shells!” he said. He pulled Snap’s second Colt from his belt, and unbreeched that. “No shells! Well, damn me!” He surveyed the group of grim men, not one of whom had any reply.
Holderness again laughed harshly, and turning to the cabin, he fastened the door with a lasso.
It was a long time before Hare recovered from the startling revelation of the plot which had put Mescal into Holderness’s power. Bad as Snap Naab had been he would have married her, and such a fate was infinitely preferable to the one that now menaced her. Hare changed his position and settled himself to watch and wait out the night. Every hour Holderness and his men tarried at Silver Cup hastened their approaching doom. Hare’s strange prescience of the fatality that overshadowed these men had received its first verification in the sudden taking off of Snap Naab. The deep-scheming Holderness, confident that his strong band meant sure protection, sat and smoked and smiled beside the camp-fire. He had not caught even a hint of Snap Naab’s suggested warning. Yet somewhere out on the oasis trail rode a man who, once turned from the saving of life to the lust to kill, would be as immutable as death itself. Behind him waited a troop of Navajos, swift as eagles, merciless as wolves, desert warriors with the sunheated blood of generations in their veins. As Hare waited and watched with all his inner being cold, he could almost feel pity for Holderness. His doom was close. Twice, when the rustler chief had sauntered nearer to the cabin door, as if to enter, Hare had covered him with the rifle, waiting, waiting for the step upon the threshold. But Holderness always checked himself in time, and Hare’s finger eased its pressure upon the trigger.