The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  “Wal, if I got the best of Bostil I’m willin’ to be thought bad. I’m the first feller to take him in.… An’ now, Miss Lucy, look over my sorrel.”

  Lucy Bostil did indeed have an eye for a horse. She walked straight up to the wild, shaggy mustang with a confidence born of intuition and experience, and reached a hand for his head, not slowly, nor yet swiftly. The mustang looked as if he was about to jump, but he did not. His eyes showed that he was not used to women.

  “He’s not well broken,” said Lucy. “Some Navajo has beaten his head in breaking him.”

  Then she carefully studied the mustang point by point.

  “He’s deceiving at first because he’s good to look at,” said Lucy. “But I wouldn’t own him. A saddle will turn on him. He’s not vicious, but he’ll never get over his scare. He’s narrow between the eyes—a bad sign. His ears are stiff—and too close. I don’t see anything more wrong with him.”

  “You seen enough,” declared Macomber. “An’ so you wouldn’t own him?”

  “You couldn’t make me a present of him—even on my birthday.”

  “Wal, now I’m sorry, for I was thinkin’ of thet,” replied Macomber, ruefully. It was plain that the sorrel had fallen irremediably in his estimation.

  “Macomber, I often tell Dad all you horse-traders get your deserts now and then. It’s vanity and desire to beat the other man that’s your downfall.”

  Lucy went away, with Van shouldering her box, leaving Macomber trying to return the banter of the riders. The good-natured raillery was interrupted by a sharp word from one of them.

  “Look! Darn me if thet ain’t a naked Indian comin’!”

  The riders whirled to see an apparently nude savage approaching, almost on a run.

  “Take a shot at thet, Bill,” said another rider. “Miss Lucy might see—No, she’s out of sight. But, mebbe some other woman is around.”

  “Hold on, Bill,” called Macomber. “You never saw an Indian run like thet.”

  Some of the riders swore, others laughed, and all suddenly became keen with interest.

  “Sure his face is white, if his body’s red!”

  The strange figure neared them. It was indeed red up to the face, which seemed white in contrast. Yet only in general shape and action did it resemble a man.

  “Damned if it ain’t Joel Creech!” sang out Bill Stark.

  The other riders accorded their wondering assent.

  “Gone crazy, sure!”

  “I always seen it comin’.”

  “Say, but ain’t he wild? Foamin’ at the mouth like a winded hoss!”

  Young Creech was headed down the road toward the ford across which he had to go to reach home. He saw the curious group, slowed his pace, and halted. His face seemed convulsed with rage and pain and fatigue. His body, even to his hands, was incased in a thick, heavy coating of red adobe that had caked hard.

  “God’s sake—fellers—” he panted, with eyes rolling, “take this—’dobe mud off me!… I’m dyin’!”

  Then he staggered into Brackton’s place. A howl went up from the riders and they surged after him.

  That evening after supper Bostil stamped in the big room, roaring with laughter, red in the face; and he astonished Lucy and her aunt to the point of consternation.

  “Now—you’ve—done—it—Lucy Bostil!” he roared.

  “Oh dear! Oh dear!” exclaimed Aunt Jane.

  “Done what?” asked Lucy, blankly.

  Bostil conquered his paroxysm, and, wiping his moist red face, he eyed Lucy in mock solemnity.

  “Joel!” whispered Lucy, who had a guilty conscience.

  “Lucy, I never heard the beat of it.… Joel’s smarter in some ways than we thought, an’ crazier in others. He had the sun figgered, but what’d he want to run through town for? Why, never in my life have I seen such tickled riders.”

  “Dad!” almost screamed Lucy. “What did Joel do?”

  “Wal, I see it this way. He couldn’t or wouldn’t wait for sundown. An’ he wasn’t hankerin’ to be burned. So he wallows in a ’dobe mud-hole an’ covers himself thick with mud. You know that ’dobe mud! Then he starts home. But he hadn’t figgered on the ’dobe gettin’ hard, which it did—harder ’n rock. An’ thet must have hurt more ’n sunburn. Late this afternoon he came runnin’ down the road, yellin’ thet he was dyin’. The boys had conniption fits. Joel ain’t over-liked, you know, an’ here they had one on him. Mebbe they didn’t try hard to clean him off. But the fact is not for hours did they get thet ’dobe off him. They washed an’ scrubbed an’ curried him, while he yelled an’ cussed. Finally they peeled it off, with his skin I guess. He was raw, an’ they say, the maddest feller ever seen in Bostil’s Ford!”

  Lucy was struggling between fear and mirth. She did not look sorry. “Oh! Oh! Oh, Dad!”

  “Wasn’t it great, Lucy?”

  “But what—will he—do?” choked Lucy.

  “Lord only knows. Thet worries me some. Because he never said a word about how he come to lose his clothes or why he had the ’dobe on him. An’ sure I never told. Nobody knows but us.”

  “Dad, he’ll do something terrible to me!” cried Lucy, aghast at her premonition.

  CHAPTER III

  The days did not pass swiftly at Bostil’s Ford. And except in winter, and during the spring sand-storms, the lagging time passed pleasantly. Lucy rode every day, sometimes with Van, and sometimes alone. She was not over-keen about riding with Van—first, because he was in love with her; and secondly, in spite of that, she could not beat him when he rode the King. They were training Bostil’s horses for the much-anticipated races.

  At last word arrived from the Utes and Navajos that they accepted Bostil’s invitation and would come in force, which meant, according to Holley and other old riders, that the Indians would attend about eight hundred strong.

  “Thet old chief, Hawk, is comin’,” Holley informed Bostil. “He hasn’t been here fer several years. Recollect thet bunch of colts he had? They’re bosses, not mustangs.… So you look out, Bostil!”

  No rider or rancher or sheepman, in fact, no one, ever lost a chance to warn Bostil. Some of it was in fun, but most of it was earnest. The nature of events was that sooner or later a horse would beat the King. Bostil knew that as well as anybody, though he would not admit it. Holley’s hint made Bostil look worried. Most of Bostil’s gray hairs might have been traced to his years of worry about horses.

  The day he received word from the Indians he sent for Brackton, Williams, Muncie, and Creech to come to his house that night. These men, with Bostil, had for years formed in a way a club, which gave the Ford distinction. Creech was no longer a friend of Bostil’s, but Bostil had always been fair-minded, and now he did not allow his animosities to influence him. Holley, the veteran rider, made the sixth member of the club.

  Bostil had a cedar log blazing cheerily in the wide fireplace, for these early spring nights in the desert were cold.

  Brackton was the last guest to arrive. He shuffled in without answering the laconic greetings accorded him, and his usually mild eyes seemed keen and hard.

  “John, I reckon you won’t love me fer this here I’ve got to tell you, tonight specially,” he said, seriously.

  “You old robber, I couldn’t love you anyhow,” retorted Bostil. But his humor did not harmonize with the sudden gravity of his look. “What’s up?”

  “Who do you suppose I jest sold whisky to?”

  “I’ve no idea,” replied Bostil. Yet he looked as if he was perfectly sure.

  “Cordts!… Cordts, an’ four of his outfit. Two of them I didn’t know. Bad men, judgin’ from appearances, let alone company. The others was Hutchinson an’—Dick Sears.”

  “Dick Sears!” exclaimed Bostil.

  Muncie and Williams echoed Bostil. Holley appeared suddenly interested. Creech alone showed no surprise.

  “But Sears is dead,” added Bostil.

  “He was dead—we thought,” replied Brackton, with a grim
laugh. “But he’s alive again. He told me he’d been in Idaho fer two years, in the gold-fields. Said the work was too hard, so he’d come back here. Laughed when he said it, the little devil! I’ll bet he was thinkin’ of thet wagon-train of mine he stole.”

  Bostil gazed at his chief rider.

  “Wal, I reckon we didn’t kill Sears, after all,” replied Holley. “I wasn’t never sure.”

  “Lord! Cordts an’ Sears in camp,” ejaculated Bostil, and he began to pace the room.

  “No, they’re gone now,” said Brackton.

  “Take it easy, boss. Sit down,” drawled Holley. “The King is safe, an’ all the racers. I swear to thet. Why, Cordts couldn’t chop into thet log-an’-wire corral if he an’ his gang chopped all night! They hate work. Besides, Farlane is there, an’ the boys.”

  This reassured Bostil, and he resumed his chair. But his hand shook a little.

  “Did Cordts have anythin’ to say?” he asked.

  “Sure. He was friendly an’ talkative,” replied Brackton. “He came in just after dark. Left a man I didn’t see out with the hosses. He bought two big packs of supplies, an’ some leather stuff, an’, of course, ammunition. Then some whisky. Had plenty of gold an’ wouldn’t take no change. Then while his men, except Sears, was carryin’ out the stuff, he talked.”

  “Go on. Tell me,” said Bostil.

  “Wal, he’d been out north of Durango an’ fetched news. There’s wild talk back there of a railroad goin’ to be built some day, joinin’ east an’ west. It’s interestin’, but no sense to it. How could they build a railroad through thet country?”

  “North it ain’t so cut up an’ lumpy as here,” put in Holley.

  “Grandest idea ever thought of for the West,” avowed Bostil. “If thet railroad ever starts we’ll all get rich.… Go on, Brack.”

  “Then Cordts said water an’ grass was peterin’ out back on the trail, same as Red Wilson said last week. Finally he asked, ‘How’s my friend Bostil?’ I told him you was well. He looked kind of thoughtful then, an’ I knew what was comin’.… ‘How’s the King?’ ‘Grand’ I told him—‘grand.’ ‘When is them races comin’ off?’ I said we hadn’t planned the time yet, but it would be soon—inside of a month or two. ‘Brackton,’ he said, sharp-like, ‘is Bostil goin’ to pull a gun on me at sight?’ ‘Reckon he is,’ I told him. ‘Wal, I’m not powerful glad to know thet.… I hear Creech’s blue hoss will race the King this time. How about it?’ ‘Sure an’ certain this year. I’ve Creech’s an’ Bostil’s word for thet.’ Cordts put his hand on my shoulder. You ought to ’ve seen his eyes!…’I want to see thet race.… I’m goin’ to.’ ‘Wal,’ I said, ‘you’ll have to stop bein’—You’ll need to change your bizness.’ Then, Bostil, what do you think? Cordts was sort of eager an’ wild. He said thet was a race he jest couldn’t miss. He swore he wouldn’t turn a trick or let a man of his gang stir a hand till after thet race, if you’d let him come.”

  A light flitted across Bostil’s face.

  “I know how Cordts feels,” he said.

  “Wal, it’s a queer deal,” went on Brackton. “Fer a long time you’ve meant to draw on Cordts when you meet. We all know thet.”

  “Yes, I’ll kill him!” The light left Bostil’s face. His voice sounded differently. His mouth opened, drooped strangely at the corners, then shut in a grim, tense line. Bostil had killed more than one man. The memory, no doubt, was haunting and ghastly.

  “Cordts seemed to think his word was guarantee of his good faith. He said he’d send an Indian in here to find out if he can come to the races. I reckon, Bostil, thet it wouldn’t hurt none to let him come. An’ hold your gun hand fer the time he swears he’ll be honest. Queer deal, ain’t it, men? A hoss-thief turnin’ honest jest to see a race! Beats me! Bostil, it’s a cheap way to get at least a little honesty from Cordts. An’ refusin’ might rile him bad. When all’s said Cordts ain’t as bad as he could be.”

  “I’ll let him come,” replied Bostil, breathing deep. “But it’ll be hard to see him, rememberin’ how he’s robbed me, an’ what he’s threatened. An’ I ain’t lettin’ him come to bribe a few weeks’ decency from him. I’m doin’ it for only one reason.… Because I know how he loves the King—how he wants to see the King run away from the field thet day! Thet’s why!”

  There was a moment of silence, during which all turned to Creech. He was a stalwart man, no longer young, with a lined face, deep-set, troubled eyes, and white, thin beard.

  “Bostil, if Cordts loves the King thet well, he’s in fer heartbreak,” said Creech, with a ring in his voice.

  Down crashed Bostil’s heavy boots and fire flamed in his gaze. The other men laughed, and Brackton interposed:

  “Hold on, you boy riders!” he yelled. “We ain’t a-goin’ to have any arguments like thet.… Now, Bostil, it’s settled, then? You’ll let Cordts come?”

  “Glad to have him,” replied Bostil.

  “Good. An’ now mebbe we’d better get down to the bizness of this here meetin’.”

  They seated themselves around the table, upon which Bostil laid an old and much-soiled ledger and a stub of a lead-pencil.

  “First well set the time,” he said, with animation, “an’ then pitch into details.… What’s the date?”

  No one answered, and presently they all looked blankly from one to the other.

  “It’s April, ain’t it?” queried Holley.

  That assurance was as close as they could get to the time of year.

  “Lucy!” called Bostil, in a loud voice.

  She came running in, anxious, almost alarmed.

  “Goodness! you made us jump! What on earth is the matter?”

  “Lucy, we want to know the date,” replied Bostil.

  “Date! Did you have to scare Auntie and me out of our wits just for that?”

  “Who scared you? This is important, Lucy. What’s the date?”

  “It’s a week today since last Tuesday,” answered Lucy, sweetly.

  “Huh! Then it’s Tuesday again,” said Bostil, laboriously writing it down. “Now, what’s the date?”

  “Don’t you remember?”

  “Remember? I never knew.”

  “Dad!… Last Tuesday was my birthday—the day you did not give me a horse!”

  “Aw, so it was,” rejoined Bostil, confused at her reproach. “An’ thet date was—let’s see—April sixth.… Then this is April thirteenth. Much obliged, Lucy. Run back to your aunt now. This hoss talk won’t interest you.”

  Lucy tossed her head. “I’ll bet I’ll have to straighten out the whole thing.” Then with a laugh she disappeared.

  “Three days beginnin—say June first. June first—second, an’ third. How about thet for the races?”

  Everybody agreed, and Bostil laboriously wrote that down. Then they planned the details. Purses and prizes, largely donated by Bostil and Muncie, the rich members of the community, were recorded. The old rules were adhered to. Any rider or any Indian could enter any horse in any race, or as many horses as he liked in as many races. But by winning one race he excluded himself from the others. Bostil argued for a certain weight in riders, but the others ruled out this suggestion. Special races were arranged for the Indians, with saddles, bridles, blankets, guns as prizes.

  All this appeared of absorbing interest to Bostil. He perspired freely. There was a gleam in his eye, betraying excitement. When it came to arranging the details of the big race between the high-class racers, then he grew intense and harder to deal with. Many points had to go by vote. Muncie and Williams both had fleet horses to enter in this race; Holley had one; Creech had two; there were sure to be several Indians enter fast mustangs; and Bostil had the King and four others to choose from. Bostil held out stubbornly for a long race. It was well known that Sage King was unbeatable in a long race. If there were any chance to beat him it must be at short distance. The vote went against Bostil, much to his chagrin, and the great race was set down for two miles.

  “But two mil
es!… Two miles!” he kept repeating. “Thet’s Blue Roan’s distance. Thet’s his distance. An’ it ain’t fair to the King!”

  His guests, excepting Creech, argued with him, explained, reasoned, showed him that it was fair to all concerned. Bostil finally acquiesced, but he was not happy. The plain fact was that he was frightened.

  When the men were departing Bostil called Creech back into the sitting-room. Creech appeared surprised, yet it was evident that he would have been glad to make friends with Bostil.

  “What’ll you take for the roan?” Bostil asked, tersely,’ as if he had never asked that before.

  “Bostil, didn’t we thresh thet out before—an’ fell out over it?” queried Creech, with a deprecating spread of his hands.

  “Wal, we can fall in again, if you’ll sell or trade the hoss.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

  “You need money an’ hosses, don’t you?” demanded Bostil, brutally. He had no conscience in a matter of horse-dealing.

  “Lord knows, I do,” replied Creech.

  “Wal, then, here’s your chance. I’ll give you five hundred in gold an’ Sarchedon to boot.”

  Creech looked as if he had not heard aright. Bostil repeated the offer.

  “No,” replied Creech.

  “I’ll make it a thousand an’ throw Plume in with Sarch,” flashed Bostil.

  “No!” Creech turned pale and swallowed hard.

  “Two thousand an’ Dusty Ben along with the others?” This was an unheard-of price to pay for any horse. Creech saw that Bostil was desperate. It was an almost overpowering temptation. Evidently Creech resisted it only by applying all his mind to the thought of his clean-limbed, soft-eyed, noble horse.

  Bostil did not give Creech time to speak. “Twenty-five hundred an’ Two Face along with the rest!”

  “My God, Bostil—stop it! I can’t part with Blue Roan. You’re rich an’ you’ve no heart. Thet I always knew. At least to me you never had, since I owned them two racers. Didn’t I beg you, a little time back, to lend me a few hundred? To meet thet debt? An’ you wouldn’t, unless I’d sell the hosses. An’ I had to lose my sheep. Now I’m a poor man—gettin’ poorer all the time. But I won’t sell or trade Blue Roan, not for all you’ve got!”