The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  Sooner or later, then, Jane heard the cracking of horses’ hoofs on the stones, and the sound came nearer and nearer. Silence intervened until Lassiter’s soft, jingling step assured her of his approach. When he appeared he was covered with blood.

  “All right, Jane,” he said. “I come back. An’ don’t worry.”

  With water from a canteen he washed the blood from his face and hands.

  “Jane, hurry now. Tear my scarf in two, en’ tie up these places. That hole through my hand is some inconvenient, worse ’n this at over my ear. There—you’re doin’ fine! Not a bit nervous—no tremblin’. I reckon I ain’t done your courage justice. I’m glad you’re brave jest now—you’ll need to be. Well, I was hid pretty good, enough to keep them from shootin’ me deep, but they was slingin’ lead close all the time. I used up all the rifle shells, an’ en I went after them. Mebbe you heard. It was then I got hit. Had to use up every shell in my own gun, an’ they did, too, as I seen. Rustlers an’ Mormons, Jane! An’ now I’m packin’ five bullet holes in my carcass, an’ guns without shells. Hurry, now.”

  He unstrapped the saddle-bags from the burros, slipped the saddles and let them lie, turned the burros loose, and, calling the dogs, led the way through stones and cedars to an open where two horses stood.

  “Jane, are you strong?” he asked.

  “I think so. I’m not tired,” Jane replied.

  “I don’t mean that way. Can you bear up?”

  “I think I can bear anything.”

  “I reckon you look a little cold an’ thick. So I’m preparin’ you.”

  “For what?”

  “I didn’t tell you why I jest had to go after them fellers. I couldn’t tell you. I believe you’d have died. But I can tell you now—if you’ll bear up under a shock?”

  “Go on, my friend.”

  “I’ve got little Fay! Alive—bad hurt—but she’ll live!”

  Jane Withersteen’s dead-locked feeling, rent by Lassiter’s deep, quivering voice, leaped into an agony of sensitive life.

  “Here,” he added, and showed her where little Fay lay on the grass.

  Unable to speak, unable to stand, Jane dropped on her knees. By that long, beautiful golden hair Jane recognized the beloved Fay. But Fay’s loveliness was gone. Her face was drawn and looked old with grief. But she was not dead—her heart beat—and Jane Withersteen gathered strength and lived again.

  “You see I jest had to go after Fay,” Lassiter was saying, as he knelt to bathe her little pale face. “But I reckon I don’t want no more choices like the one I had to make. There was a crippled feller in that bunch, Jane. Mebbe Venters crippled him. Anyway, that’s why they were holding up here. I seen little Fay first thing, en’ was hard put to it to figure out a way to get her. An’ I wanted hosses, too. I had to take chances. So I crawled close to their camp. One feller jumped a hoss with little Fay, an’ when I shot him, of course she dropped. She’s stunned an’ bruised—she fell right on her head. Jane, she’s comin’ to! She ain’t bad hurt!”

  Fay’s long lashes fluttered; her eyes opened. At first they seemed glazed over. They looked dazed by pain. Then they quickened, darkened, to shine with intelligence—bewilderment—memory—and sudden wonderful joy.

  “Muvver—Jane!” she whispered.

  “Oh, little Fay, little Fay!” cried Jane, lifting, clasping the child to her.

  “Now, we’ve got to rustle!” said Lassiter, in grim coolness. “Jane, look down the Pass!”

  Across the mounds of rock and sage Jane caught sight of a band of riders filing out of the narrow neck of the Pass; and in the lead was a white horse, which, even at a distance of a mile or more, she knew.

  “Tull!” she almost screamed.

  “I reckon. But, Jane, we’ve still got the game in our hands. They’re ridin’ tired hosses. Venters likely give them a chase. He wouldn’t forget that. An’ we’ve fresh hosses.”

  Hurriedly he strapped on the saddle-bags, gave quick glance to girths and cinches and stirrups, then leaped astride.

  “Lift little Fay up,” he said.

  With shaking arms Jane complied.

  “Get back your nerve, woman! This’s life or death now. Mind that. Climb up! Keep your wits. Stick close to me. Watch where your hoss’s goin’ en’ ride!”

  Somehow Jane mounted; somehow found strength to hold the reins, to spur, to cling on, to ride. A horrible quaking, craven fear possessed her soul. Lassiter led the swift flight across the wide space, over washes, through sage, into a narrow canyon where the rapid clatter of hoofs rapped sharply from the walls. The wind roared in her ears; the gleaming cliffs swept by; trail and sage and grass moved under her. Lassiter’s bandaged, blood-stained face turned to her; he shouted encouragement; he looked back down the Pass; he spurred his horse. Jane clung on, spurring likewise. And the horses settled from hard, furious gallop into a long-striding, driving run. She had never ridden at anything like that pace; desperately she tried to get the swing of the horse, to be of some help to him in that race, to see the best of the ground and guide him into it. But she failed of everything except to keep her seat the saddle, and to spur and spur. At times she closed her eyes unable to bear sight of Fay’s golden curls streaming in the wind. She could not pray; she could not rail; she no longer cared for herself. All of life, of good, of use in the world, of hope in heaven entered in Lassiter’s ride with little Fay to safety. She would have tried to turn the iron-jawed brute she rode, she would have given herself to that relentless, dark-browed Tull. But she knew Lassiter would turn with her, so she rode on and on.

  Whether that run was of moments or hours Jane Withersteen could not tell. Lassiter’s horse covered her with froth that blew back in white streams. Both horses ran their limit, were allowed slow down in time to save them, and went on dripping, heaving, staggering.

  “Oh, Lassiter, we must run—we must run!”

  He looked back, saying nothing. The bandage had blown from his head, and blood trickled down his face. He was bowing under the strain of injuries, of the ride, of his burden. Yet how cool and gay he looked—how intrepid!

  The horses walked, trotted, galloped, ran, to fall again to walk. Hours sped or dragged. Time was an instant—an eternity. Jane Withersteen felt hell pursuing her, and dared not look back for fear she would fall from her horse.

  “Oh, Lassiter! Is he coming?”

  The grim rider looked over his shoulder, but said no word. Fay’s golden hair floated on the breeze. The sun shone; the walls gleamed; the sage glistened. And then it seemed the sun vanished, the walls shaded, the sage paled. The horses walked—trotted—galloped—ran—to fall again to walk. Shadows gathered under shelving cliffs. The canyon turned, brightened, opened into a long, wide, wall-enclosed valley. Again the sun, lowering in the west, reddened the sage. Far ahead round, scrawled stone appeared to block the Pass.

  “Bear up, Jane, bear up!” called Lassiter. “It’s our game, if you don’t weaken.”

  “Lassiter! Go on—alone! Save little Fay!”

  “Only with you!”

  “Oh!—I’m a coward—a miserable coward! I can’t fight or think or hope or pray! I’m lost! Oh, Lassiter, look back! Is he coming? I’ll not—hold out—”

  “Keep your breath, woman, an’ ride not for yourself or for me, but for Fay!”

  A last breaking run across the sage brought Lassiter’s horse to a walk.

  “He’s done,” said the rider.

  “Oh, no—no!” moaned Jane.

  “Look back, Jane, look back. Three—four miles we’ve come across this valley, en’ no Tull yet in sight. Only a few more miles!”

  Jane looked back over the long stretch of sage, and found the narrow gap in the wall, out of which came a file of dark horses with a white horse in the lead. Sight of the riders acted upon Jane as a stimulant. The weight of cold, horrible terror lessened. And, gazing forward at the dogs, at Lassiter’s limping horse, at the blood on his face, at the rocks growing nearer, last at Fay’s golden hair
, the ice left her veins, and slowly, strangely, she gained hold of strength that she believed would see her to the safety Lassiter promised. And, as she gazed, Lassiter’s horse stumbled and fell.

  He swung his leg and slipped from the saddle.

  “Jane, take the child,” he said, and lifted Fay up. Jane clasped her arms suddenly strong. “They’re gainin’,” went on Lassiter, as he watched the pursuing riders. “But we’ll beat ’em yet.”

  Turning with Jane’s bridle in his hand, he was about to start when he saw the saddle-bag on the fallen horse.

  “I’ve jest about got time,” he muttered, and with swift fingers that did not blunder or fumble he loosened the bag and threw it over his shoulder. Then he started to run, leading Jane’s horse, and he ran, and trotted, and walked, and ran again. Close ahead now Jane saw a rise of bare rock. Lassiter reached it, searched along the base, and, finding a low place, dragged the weary horse up and over round, smooth stone. Looking backward, Jane saw Tull’s white horse not a mile distant, with riders strung out in a long line behind him. Looking forward, she saw more valley to the right, and to the left a towering cliff. Lassiter pulled the horse and kept on.

  Little Fay lay in her arms with wide-open eyes—eyes which were still shadowed by pain, but no longer fixed, glazed in terror. The golden curls blew across Jane’s lips; the little hands feebly clasped her arm; a ghost of a troubled, trustful smile hovered round the sweet lips. And Jane Withersteen awoke to the spirit of a lioness.

  Lassiter was leading the horse up a smooth slope toward cedar trees of twisted and bleached appearance. Among these he halted.

  “Jane, give me the girl en’ get down,” he said. As if it wrenched him he unbuckled the empty black guns with a strange air of finality. He then received Fay in his arms and stood a moment looking backward. Tull’s white horse mounted the ridge of round stone, and several bays or blacks followed. “I wonder what he’ll think when he sees them empty guns. Jane, bring your saddle-bag and climb after me.”

  A glistening, wonderful bare slope, with little holes, swelled up and up to lose itself in a frowning yellow cliff. Jane closely watched her steps and climbed behind Lassiter. He moved slowly. Perhaps he was only husbanding his strength. But she saw drops of blood on the stone, and then she knew. They climbed and climbed without looking back. Her breast labored; she began to feel as if little points of fiery steel were penetrating her side into her lungs. She heard the panting of Lassiter and the quicker panting of the dogs.

  “Wait—here,” he said.

  Before her rose a bulge of stone, nicked with little cut steps, and above that a corner of yellow wall, and overhanging that a vast, ponderous cliff.

  The dogs pattered up, disappeared round the corner. Lassiter mounted the steps with Fay, and he swayed like a drunken man, and he too disappeared. But instantly he returned alone, and half ran, half slipped down to her.

  Then from below pealed up hoarse shouts of angry men. Tull and several of his riders had reached the spot where Lassiter had parted with his guns.

  “You’ll need that breath—mebbe!” said Lassiter, facing downward, with glittering eyes.

  “Now, Jane, the last pull,” he went on. “Walk up them little steps. I’ll follow an’ steady you. Don’t think. Jest go. Little Fay’s above. Her eyes are open. She jest said to me, ‘Where’s muvver Jane?’”

  Without a fear or a tremor or a slip or a touch of Lassiter’s hand Jane Withersteen walked up that ladder of cut steps.

  He pushed her round the corner of the wall. Fay lay, with wide staring eyes, in the shade of a gloomy wall. The dogs waited. Lassiter picked up the child and turned into a dark cleft. It zigzagged. It widened. It opened. Jane was amazed at a wonderfully smooth and steep incline leading up between ruined, splintered, toppling walls. A red haze from the setting sun filled this passage. Lassiter climbed with slow, measured steps, and blood dripped from him to make splotches on the white stone. Jane tried not to step in his blood, but was compelled, for she found no other footing. The saddle-bag began to drag her down; she gasped for breath, she thought her heart was bursting. Slower, slower yet the rider climbed, whistling as he breathed. The incline widened. Huge pinnacles and monuments of stone stood alone, leaning fearfully. Red sunset haze shone through cracks where the wall had split. Jane did not look high, but she felt the overshadowing of broken rims above. She felt that it was a fearful, menacing place. And she climbed on in heartrending effort. And she fell beside Lassiter and Fay at the top of the incline in a narrow, smooth divide.

  He staggered to his feet—staggered to a huge, leaning rock that rested on a small pedestal. He put his hand on it—the hand that had been shot through—and Jane saw blood drip from the ragged hole. Then he fell.

  “Jane—I—can’t—do—it!” he whispered.

  “What?”

  “Roll the—stone!… All my—life I’ve loved—to roll stones—en’ now I—can’t!”

  “What of it? You talk strangely. Why roll that stone?”

  “I planned to—fetch you here—to roll this stone. See! It’ll smash the crags—loosen the walls—close the outlet!”

  As Jane Withersteen gazed down that long incline, walled in by crumbling cliffs, awaiting only the slightest jar to make them fall asunder, she saw Tull appear at the bottom and begin to climb. A rider followed him—another—and another.

  “See! Tull! The riders!”

  “Yes—they’ll get us—now.”

  “Why? Haven’t you strength left to roll the stone?”

  “Jane—it ain’t that—I’ve lost my nerve!”

  “You!… Lassiter!”

  “I wanted to roll it—meant to—but I—can’t. Venters’s valley is down behind here. We could—live there. But if I roll the stone—we’re shut in for always. I don’t dare. I’m thinkin’ of you!”

  “Lassiter! Roll the stone!” she cried.

  He arose, tottering, but with set face, and again he placed the bloody hand on the Balancing Rock. Jane Withersteen gazed from him down the passageway. Tull was climbing. Almost, she thought, she saw his dark, relentless face. Behind him more riders climbed. What did they mean for Fay—for Lassiter—for herself?

  “Roll the stone!… Lassiter, I love you!”

  Under all his deathly pallor, and the blood, and the iron of seared cheek and lined brow, worked a great change. He placed both hands on the rock and then leaned his shoulder there and braced his powerful body.

  Roll the stone!

  It stirred, it groaned, it grated, it moved, and with a slow grinding, as of wrathful relief, began to lean. It had waited ages to fall, and now was slow in starting. Then, as if suddenly instinct with life, it leaped hurtingly down to alight on the steep incline, to bound more swiftly into the air, to gather momentum, to plunge into the lofty leaning crag below. The crag thundered into atoms. A wave of air—a splitting shock! Dust shrouded the sunset red of shaking rims; dust shrouded Tull as he fell on his knees with uplifted arms. Shafts and monuments and sections of wall fell majestically.

  From the depths there rose a long-drawn rumbling roar. The outlet to Deception Pass closed forever.

  TIGRE (1913)

  “Yes, I’ve a power over animals. Look at Tigre there! But the old women in Micas say I’ve found one wild thing I’ll never tame.”

  “And that, señor?” asked Muella.

  “My young and pretty wife.”

  She tossed her small head, so that her black curls rippled in the sunlight, and the silver rings danced in her ears.

  “Bernardo, I’m not a parrot to have my tongue slit, or a monkey to be taught tricks, or a jungle cat to be trained. I’m a woman, and—”

  “Yes—and I am old,” he interrupted bitterly. “Look, Muella— there on the Micas trail!”

  “It’s only Augustine, your vaquero.”

  “Watch him!” replied Bernardo.

  Muella watched the lithe figure of a man striding swiftly along the trail. He was not going to drive cattle up to the corrals,
for in that case he would have been riding a horse. He was not going toward the huts of the other herders. He faced the jungle into which ran the Micas trail.

  Surely he could not be on his way to Micas! The afternoon was far advanced and the village many miles away. No vaquero ever trusted himself to the dangers of the jungle at night. Even Augustine, the boldest and strongest of Bernardo’s many herders, would scarcely venture so much. Yet Augustine kept on down the trail, passed the thatched bamboo fence, went through the grove of palms, and disappeared in the green wall of jungle.

  “He’s gone!” cried Bernardo. “Muella, I sent Augustine away.”

  She saw a dull red in her husband’s cheeks, a dark and sinister gleam in his eyes; and her surprise yielded to misgiving.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “He loved you.”

  “No! No! Bernardo, if that’s why you sent him away, you’ve wronged him. Of all your vaqueros, Augustine alone never smiled at me—he cared nothing for me.”

  “I say he loved you,” returned Bernardo hoarsely.

  “Bernardo, you are unjust!”

  “Would you lie to me? I know he loves you. Girl, confess that you love him. Tell it! I won’t bear this doubt another day!”

  Muella stood rigid in his grasp, her eyes blazing the truth that her lips scorned to speak.

  “I’ll make you tell!” he shouted, and ran to a cage of twisted vines and bamboo poles.

  As he fumbled with the fastening of a door, his brown hands shook. A loud purr, almost a cough, came from the cage; then an enormous jaguar stepped out into the sunlight.

  “Now, girl, look at Tigre!”

  Tigre was of huge build, graceful in every powerful line of his yellow, black-spotted body, and beautiful. Still, he was terrible of aspect. His massive head swung lazily; his broad face had one set expression of brute ferocity.

  The eyes of any jaguar are large, yellow, cold, pale, cruel, but Tigre’s were frightful. Every instant they vibrated, coalesced, focused, yet seemed always to hold a luminous, far-seeing stare. It was as if Tigre was gazing beyond the jungle horizon to palm-leaf lairs which he had never seen, but which he knew by instinct. And then it was as if a film descended to hide their tawny depths. Tigre’s eyes changed—they were always changing, only there was not in them the life of vision; for the jaguar was blind.