by Zane Grey
“‘Come on, Prince,’ I called.
“That was the only time I ever knew of Prince hesitating to chase a lion. I had to coax him, for he didn’t like that narrow shelf. But, once started, he wouldn’t let me lead. The shelf was twenty feet wide, and close to the wall were lion tracks in the dust. A jutting corner of cliff wall hid my view. I peeped round it. On the other side the shelf narrowed and it climbed a little by broken steps. Prince passed the corner, looked back to see if I was coming, and went on. He looked back four times, and once he waited for me to come up with him.
“‘I’m with you, Prince,’ I kept calling.
“The shelf narrowed till it was scarcely three feet wide. Prince stopped barking, then looked back for me. A protruding corner shut me from sight of what lay beyond. Prince slipped round. I had to go sidewise and my fingers bit into the wall.
“To my surprise I found myself on the floor of a shallow wind-cave. The lion trail led straight across it and on. Prince went slower and slower.
“I rounded the next point, and crossed another shallow cave, and slipped by another corner to come upon a wonderful scene. The trail ended there. In the center of a wide shelf sat the great lion on his haunches, with his long tail lashing out over the precipice. When he saw us he turned round and walked the whole length of the shelf with his head bent over. He was looking for a place to jump. Then he stopped and bent his head so far over the abyss that I thought he would fall.
“All at once I thought of my camera, and at the same time forgot all about Hiram’s telling me never to take my eye off a cougar when al close quarters. I got my camera, opened it, and focused for about twenty-five feet.
“Then a wild yelp from Prince and a roar from the cougar brought me to my senses. The cat leaped ten feet and stood snarling horribly almost in my face. His lashing tail knocked little stones off the shelf. I pulled out my revolver and aimed, once, twice, but was afraid to shoot. If I wounded him he would knock us off the shelf.
“It was then I got scared and began to shake so I could scarcely keep my knees from sinking under me. But good old Prince was braver than I, and he had more sense. He faced the lion and bayed at him.
“‘Hold him, Prince, hold him,’ I yelled, and I took a backward step.
“The cougar put forward one big paw. His eyes were now purple blazes. I backed again and he stepped forward. Prince gave ground slowly. Once the lion flashed a yellow paw at him. It was frightful to see the wide-spread claws. In the terror of the moment I let the lion back me clear across the front of the wind-cave, where I saw, the moment it was too late, I should have taken advantage of more space to shoot him.
“The cougar was master of the situation. I kept backing step by step, and I saw the shelf narrowing under my feet. When I remembered the place where it would be impossible for me to back around I almost fainted. I stopped stock still and almost tottered over the precipice.
“Somehow Prince’s bravery gave me a kind of desperate strength at the last. The lion, taking slow, cat-like steps, backed Prince against my knees. The great brute was within his own length of me, so close that I smelt him. His eyes fascinated me. Hugging the wall with my body, I brought up the revolver, short-armed, and, straining every nerve, I aimed between those eyes and pulled the trigger.
“The cougar’s left eye seemed to vanish with the bellow of the revolver and the smell of powder. He uttered a hoarse howl, and rose straight up, towering over me, beating the wall heavily with his paws.
“I stood there, helpless with terror, forgetting my weapon, fearing only that the beast would fall over on me and brush me off the shelf. But in his death agony he bounded out from the wall, turned over and over, and went down out of sight.
“I had to sit down then. I was all in. The relief made me sick. I sat there with Prince’s head on my knees, and slowly got back my strength. Finally, when I tried to rise, my legs were still shaky and I felt as weak as if I were just up from a long sickness. Three times I tried to go round the narrow place. On the fourth I braced up and went around, and soon reached the turn of the wall.
“I was six hours in climbing out.… And I guess I’ve had enough cougar chasing to do me for a while.”
CHAPTER XX
AROUND THE CAMP-FIRE
“Wal, youngster,” began the old hunter, after a long silence, “I allus reckoned thet Prince was a great hound. An’ it’s only when a feller gits out alone with a dog an’ gits in lonesome or dangerous places thet he really knows how human a dog is.”
“Oh! it was grand of Prince to stay between Ken and the lion,” exclaimed Hal.
“Shore it’s a shame thet hound’ll hey to be killed by a cougar some day,” remarked Jim.
“I reckon now thet day’ll never come,” replied Hiram.
“Why? Shore you always said so.”
“Prince shall never put his nose to another cougar trail, an’ he’s goin’ back to Pennsylvania with the youngster.”
“Hiram! do you really mean to give him to me?” asked Ken, in glad surprise.
“Wal, I reckon so. I’ll miss him, but Ringer is comin’ on, an’ will lead the pack.”
“Hiram—it’s good of you—I’ll—” Ken left off and hugged Prince by way of reply, and the hound licked his face. For once Hal did not look jealous over Ken’s possession of something that he could not hope to rival for himself.
“Ken, if you have enough cougar hunting, what next?” I asked.
“The rest of my time here I’ll put in studying forestry, and I want you to help me. I declare, I’ve completely forgotten my work. But I’ll make it up. I’m a fine ranger, eh?”
“Wal, youngster, a ranger’s duties are many,” replied Hiram. “Now, if the Chief was to ask you about cougars, same as he asked you about forest-fires last summer, you could tell him a few things.”
“I guess I could,” declared Ken.
“Your time hasn’t been wasted, an’ now thet nobody has been hurt bad or any hosses or hounds killed I feel pretty happy about the hunt. From now on, while I’m hyar on the plateau, I’ll tree cougars an’ kill ’em, fer I’ve orders to clear the preserve of them, you know. Meantime you will be addin’ to your knowledge of trees, an’ Hal will be gittin’ well. I calkilate he ought not to ride down these trails fer two weeks. Thet will be long enough for his ankle to git strong. Then we’ll pack our cougars out to Kanab. An’ we’ve got to stop down in the brakes at our corral, an’ ketch our wild mustangs. We’ve most forgot them. It’ll be some fun—thet job.”
“Ken, are you going back to college this fall?” I asked.
“Yes, but I intend to get ahead of my term and take some time off—about January and February—to go South. I want to see the tropics, to study the jungle timber and vegetation.”
“Shore you’ll look up some trouble down there,” said Jim. “I’ve been in Mexican jungles, along the Rio Grande. Millions of things to shoot.”
“Ken, I’m going with you,” declared Hal. “You’re going to start in college,” said Ken, severely.
“Do you suppose I’d be any good in college with you somewhere in the jungle? Wait till I see father. He’ll let me go.”
“You’d have a fine chance ever getting to go to any wild place again—if I told him how you jumped over the rim of the Grand Canyon just to scare your brother and friends!”
“I didn’t—I didn’t,” denied Hal, vehemently. “I fell over—and I knocked some sense into me, too.… But, Ken, you’ll never tell the governor, will you?”
“Lad, I reckon Ken won’t give you away,” said Hiram. “Fer he an’ all of us believe thet adventure has taught you the difference between fun an’ foolhardiness. I’d trust you now, an’ if I would, surely your brother would.… Now, Leslie, you spring your little surprise on the boys.”
I turned to Ken and Hal, then hesitated.
“Hiram,” I said, “are you sure the Indian can’t understand English? I don’t want even a word of this to get to any ears but ours.”
&
nbsp; Ken Ward leaned forward, with his eyes suddenly flashing dark, and Hal sat up in glowing curiosity. Hiram sent the Navajo off to bunch the horses.
“Well, boys, it’s this,” I began. “Hiram and Jim and I are not going to sign contracts with the Forest Service for next year. We think we’ve got something a little better. We’ve found traces of gold down in the Canyon, and we believe there’s enough gold to pay us to go after it. And there are chances we may strike it rich.… So next summer we want you both to come out and go with us—after gold.”
Ken Ward uttered his ringing shout and Hal looked the wild joy that his speechless tongue could not utter. That was their answer.
“Wal, wal, somehow I kinder thought you’d like the idee,” said Hiram, as he filled his pipe. “We all want you to come bad. Thar’ll be some of the real thing—’specially if any of them no-good fellers like the one Ken licked git wind of our enterprise. Wal, I reckon we’d hey to fight. How about thet, Jim?”
“Shore, shore,” replied the Texan.
So the three of us talked and planned while Ken and Hal drank in every little word.
Meanwhile the camp-fire died down to a small red blaze and the shadows darkened under the pines. Prince went to sleep with his head on his new master’s knees. From the captive lions came an occasional soft-padded, stealthy step and a low growl and a clink of chain. The wind began to moan. A twig snapped, and the lithe figure of the Indian strode out of the forest gloom.
“Sleep-ie, Navvy?” asked Ken.
“Moocho,” answered the Navajo.
Then he began to prepare his bed for the night. Selecting a spot close to the campfire, he dug out a little pit in the pine-needles and threw a blanket over it. He kicked off his shoes, lay down and curled up with his back and the soles of his bare feet toward the heat. It seemed to me that the moment he had pulled his other scant blanket over his shoulders he went to sleep.
The red light of the dying fire shone on his dusky face and tangled black hair. Ken Ward watched him, and so did Hal. Lying there, covered with his old blanket, there was Indian enough and wildness enough about him to suit any boy. By and by, as we all sat silent, Navvy began to mumble in his sleep.
“Shore I’ll hey to scalp thet Injun yet,” declared Jim.
“Dog-gone me if he ain’t got a nightmare!” ejaculated Hiram.
“No, I think he’s dreaming of the adventures we’ll have next summer,” said Ken Ward.
Ken’s idea pleased me. And long after the others had gone to bed, no doubt to dream with the Indian, I sat wide awake beside the ruddy embers, and dreamed, too, of the summer to come. It would be a wild trip—that hunt for gold down in the canyon. With Ken Ward along it would be sure to develop dangers; and with Hal Ward along it would be sure to develop amazing situations.
So I dreamed on till the fire burned out, and the blackness gathered thick, and the wind roared in the pines.
THE HORSES OF BOSTIL’S FORD (1912)
Bostil himself was half horse. The half of him that was human he divided between love of his fleet racers and his daughter Lucy.
He had seen ten years of hard riding on that wild Utah border, where a horse meant all the world to a man; and then lucky strikes of water and gold on the vast plateau wilderness north of the Rio Virgin had made him richer than he knew. His ranges beyond Bostil’s Ford were practically boundless, his cattle numberless, and, many as were his riders, he always had need of more.
In those border days every rider loved his horse as a part of himself. If there was a difference between any rider of the sage and Bostil, it was that, as Bostil had more horses, so he had more love.
If he had any unhappiness, it was because he could not buy Wildfire and Nagger, thoroughbreds belonging to one Lamar, a poor daredevil rider who would not have parted with them for all the gold in the uplands. And Lamar had dared to cast longing eyes at Lucy. When he clashed with Bostil he avowed his love, and offered to stake his horses and his life against the girl’s hand, deciding the wager by a race between Wildfire and the rancher’s great gray, Sage King.
Among the riders, when they sat around their camp-fires, there had been much speculation regarding the outcome of such a race. There never had been a race, and never would be, so the riders gossiped, unless Lamar were to ride off with Lucy. In that case there would be the grandest race ever run on the uplands, with the odds against Wildfire only if he carried double.
If Lamar put Lucy up on Wildfire, and he rode Nagger, there would be another story. Lucy was a slip of a girl, born on a horse, and could ride like a burr sticking in a horse’s mane. With Wildfire she would run away from anyone on Sage King—which for Bostil would be a double tragedy, equally in the loss of his daughter and the beating of his favorite. Then such a race was likely to end in heartbreak for all concerned, because the Sage King would outrun Nagger, and that would bring riders within gunshot.
Bostil swore by all the gods that the King was the swiftest horse in the wild upland of wonderful horses. He swore that the gray could look back over his shoulder and run away from Nagger, and that he could kill Wildfire on his feet. That poor beggar Lamar’s opinion of his steeds was as preposterous as his love for Lucy!
Now, Bostil had a great fear which made him ever restless, ever watchful. That fear was of Cordts, the rustler. Cordts hid back in the untrodden ways. He had fast horses, faithful followers, gold for the digging, cattle by the thousand, and women when he chose to ride off with them. He had always had what he wanted—except one thing. That was a horse. That horse was the Sage King,
Cordts was a gunman, outlaw, rustler, a lord over the free ranges; but, more than all else, he was a rider. He knew a horse. He was as much horse as Bostil. He was a prince of rustlers, who thought a horse-thief worse than a dog; but he intended to become a horse-thief. He had openly declared it. The passion he had conceived for Sage King was the passion of a man for an unattainable woman. He swore that he would never rest—that he would not die till he owned the King; so Bostil had reason for his great fear.
One morning, as was sometimes the rancher’s custom, he ordered the racers to be brought from the corrals and turned loose, in the alfalfa fields near the house. Bostil loved to watch them graze; but ever he saw that the riders were close at hand, and that the horses did not graze too close to the sage.
He sat back and gloried in the sight. He owned a thousand horses; near at hand was a field full of them, fine and mettlesome and racy; but Bostil had eyes only for the six blooded favorites. There was Plume, a superb mare that got her name from the way her mane swept in the wind when she was on the run; there were Bullet, huge, rangy, leaden in color, and Two-Face, sleek and glossy and cunning; there was the black stallion Sarchedon, and close to him the bay Dusty Ben; and lastly Sage King, the color of the upland sage, a horse proud and wild and beautiful.
“Where’s Lucy?” presently asked Bostil. As he divided his love, so he divided his anxiety.
Some rider had seen Lucy riding off, with her golden hair flying in the breeze.
“She’s got to keep out of the sage,” growled Bostil. “Where’s my glass? I want to take a look out there. Where’s my glass?”
The glass could not be found.
“What’re those specks in the sage? Antelope?”
“I reckon thet’s a bunch of hosses,” replied a hawk-eyed rider.
“Huh! I don’t like it. Lucy oughtn’t to be ridin’ ’round alone. If she meets Lamar again, I’ll rope her in a corral!”
Another rider drew Bostil’s attention from the gray waste of rolling sage.
“Bostil, look! Look at the King! He smells somethin’—he’s lookin’ for somethin’! So does Sarch!”
“Yes,” replied the rancher. “Better drive them up. They’re too close to the sage.”
Sage King whistled shrilly and began to prance.
“What in the—” muttered Bostil.
Suddenly up out of the alfalfa sprang a dark form. Like a panther it leaped at the horse and caug
ht his mane. Snorting wildly, Sage King reared aloft and plunged. The dark form swung up. It was a rider, and cruelly he spurred the racer.
Other dark forms rose almost as swiftly and leaped upon the other plunging horses. There was a violent, pounding shock of frightened’ horses bunching into action. With a magnificent bound, Sage King got clear of the tangle and led the way.
Like Indians, the riders hung low and spurred. In a single swift moment they had the horses tearing into the sage.
“Rustlers! Cordts! Cordts!” screamed Bostil. “He sneaked up in the sage! Quickmen—rifles, rifles! No! No! Don’t shoot! You might kill a horse! Let them go. They’ll get the girl, too—there must be more rustlers in the sage—they’ve got her now! There they go! Gone! Gone! All that I loved!”
II
At almost the exact hour of the rustling of the racers, Lucy Bostil was with Jim Lamar at their well-hidden rendezvous on a high, cedared slope some eight or ten miles from the ranch. From an opening in the cedars they could see down across the gray sage to the alfalfa fields, the corrals, and the house. In Lucy’s lap, with her gauntlets, lay the field-glass that Bostil’s riders could not find; and close by, halted under a cedar, Lucy’s pinto tossed his spotted head at Lamar’s magnificent horses.
“You uphappy boy!” Lucy was saying. “I love you; but, Jim, I can’t meet you any more like this. It’s not playing square with Dad.”
“Lucy, if you give it up, you don’t love me,” he protested.
“I do love you.”
“Well, then—”
He leaned over her. Lucy’s long lashes drooped and warm color flushed her face as she shyly lifted it to give the proof exacted by her lover.
They were silent a moment, and she lay with her head on his breast. A soft wind moaned through the cedars, and bees hummed in the patches of pale lavender daisies. The still air was heavily laden with the fragrance of the sage.
Lamar gently released her, got up, and seemed to be shaking off a kind of spell.
“Lucy, I know you mustn’t meet me any more. But oh, Lord, Lord, I do love you so! I had nothing in the world but the hope of seeing you, and now that’ll be gone. I’ll be such a miserable beggar!”