by Zane Grey
She hesitated. She knew there was another horse, very likely at the other end of that lasso. Probably a rider had been thrown, perhaps killed. Certainly a horse had been hurt. Then on the moment rang out the same neigh of agony, only weaker and shorter. Lucy no longer feared an ambush. That was a cry which could not be imitated by a man or forced from a horse. There was probably death, certainly suffering, near at hand. She spurred the King on.
There was a little slope to descend, a wash to cross, a bench to climb—and then she rode up to the black horse. Sage King needed harder treatment than Lucy had ever given him.
“What’s wrong with you?” she demanded, pulling him down. Suddenly, as she felt him tremble, she realized that he was frightened. “That’s funny!” Then when she got him quiet she looked around.
The black horse was indeed huge. His mane, his shaggy flanks, were lathered as if he had been smeared with heavy soap-suds. He raised his head to look at her. Lucy, accustomed to horses all her life, saw that this one welcomed her arrival. But he was almost ready to drop.
Two taut lassoes stretched from the pommel of his saddle down a little into a depression full of brush and cactus and rocks. Then Lucy saw a red horse. He was down in a bad position. She heard his low, choking heaves. Probably he had broken legs or back. She could not bear to see a horse in pain. She would do what was possible, even to the extent of putting him out of his misery, if nothing else could be done. Yet she scanned the surroundings closely, and peered into the bushes and behind the rocks before she tried to urge Sage King closer. He refused to go nearer, and Lucy dismounted.
The red horse was partly hidden by overbending brush. He had plunged into a hole full of cactus. There was a hackamore round his nose and a tight noose round his neck. The one round his neck was also round his forelegs. And both lassoes were held taut by the black horse. A torn and soiled rider’s scarf hung limp round the red horse’s nose, kept from falling off by the hackamore.
“A wild horse, a stallion, being broken!” exclaimed Lucy, instantly grasping the situation. “Oh! where’s the rider?”
She gazed around, ran to and fro, glanced down the little slope, and beyond, but she did not see anything resembling the form of a man. Then she ran back.
Lucy took another quick look at the red stallion. She did not believe either his legs or back were hurt. He was just played out and tangled and tied in the ropes, and could not get up. The shaggy black horse stood there braced and indomitable. But he, likewise, was almost ready to drop. Looking at the condition of both horses and the saddle and ropes, Lucy saw what a fight there had been, and a race! Where was the rider? Thrown, surely, and back on the trail, perhaps dead or maimed.
Lucy went closer to the stallion so that she could almost touch him. He saw her. He was nearly choked. Foam and blood wheezed out with his heaves. She must do something quickly. And in her haste she pricked her arms and shoulders on the cactus.
She led the black horse closer in, letting the ropes go, slack. The black seemed as glad of that release as she was. What a faithful brute he looked! Lucy liked his eyes.
Then she edged down in among the cactus and brush. The red horse no longer lay in a strained position. He could lift his head. Lucy saw that the noose still held tight round his neck. Fearlessly she jerked it loose. Then she backed away, but not quite out of his reach. He coughed and breathed slowly, with great heaves. Then he snorted.
“You’re all right now,” said Lucy, soothingly. Slowly she reached a hand toward his head. He drew it back as far as he could. She stepped around, closer, and more back of him, and put a hand on him, gently, for an instant. Then she slipped out of the brush and, untying one lasso from the pommel, she returned to the horse and pulled it from round his legs. He was free now, except the hackamore, and that rope was slack. Lucy stood near him, watching him, talking to him, waiting for him to get up. She could not be sure he was not badly hurt till he stood up. At first he made no efforts to rise. He watched Lucy, less fearfully, she imagined. And she never made a move. She wanted him to see, to understand that she had not hurt him and would not hurt him. It began to dawn upon her that he was magnificent.
Finally, with a long, slow heave he got to his feet. Lucy led him out of the hole to open ground. She seemed somehow confident. There occurred to her only one way to act.
“A little horse sense, as Dad would say,” she soliloquized, and then, when she got him out of the brush, she stood thrilled and amazed.
“Oh, what a wild, beautiful horse! What a giant! He’s bigger than the King. Oh, if Dad could see him!”
The red stallion did not appear to be hurt. The twitching of his muscles must have been caused by the cactus spikes embedded in him. There were drops of blood all over one side. Lucy thought she dared to try to pull these thorns out. She had never in her life been afraid of any horse. Farlane, Holley, all the riders, and her father, too, had tried to make her realize the danger in a horse, sooner or later. But Lucy could not help it; she was not afraid; she believed that the meanest horse was actuated by natural fear of a man; she was not a man and she had never handled a horse like a man. This red stallion showed hate of the black horse and the rope that connected them; he showed some spirit at the repeated blasts of Sage King. But he showed less fear of her.
“He has been a proud, wild stallion,” mused Lucy. “And he’s now broken—terribly broken—all but ruined.”
Then she walked up to him naturally and spoke softly, and reached a hand for his shoulder.
“Whoa, Reddy. Whoa now.… There. That’s a good fellow. Why, I wouldn’t rope you or hit you. I’m only a girl.”
He drew up, made a single effort to jump, which she prevented, and then he stood quivering, eying her, while she talked soothingly, and patted him and looked at him in the way she had found infallible with most horses. Lucy believed horses were like people, or easier to get along with. Presently she gently pulled out one of the cactus spikes. The horse flinched, but he stood. Lucy was slow, careful, patient, and dexterous. The cactus needles were loose and easily removed or brushed off. At length she got him free of them, and was almost as proud as she was glad. The horse had gradually dropped his head; he was tired and his spirit was broken.
“Now, what shall I do?” she queried. “I’ll take the back trail of these horses. They certainly hadn’t been here long before I saw them. And the rider may be close. If not I’ll take the horses home.”
She slipped the noose from the stallion’s head, leaving the hackamore, and, coiling the loose lasso, she hung it over the pommel of the black’s saddle. Then she took up his bridle.
“Come on,” she called.
The black followed her, and the stallion, still fast to him by the lasso Lucy had left tied, trooped behind with bowed head. Lucy was elated. But Sage King did not like the matter at all. Lucy had to drop the black’s bridle and catch the King, and then ride back to lead the other again.
A broad trail marked the way the two horses had come, and it led off to the left, toward where the monuments were thickest, and where the great sections of wall stood, broken and battlemented. Lucy was hard put to it to hold Sage King, but the horses behind plodded along. The black horse struck Lucy as being an ugly, but a faithful and wonderful animal. He understood everything. Presently she tied the bridle she was leading him by to the end of her own lasso, and thus let him drop back a few yards, which lessened the King’s fretting.
Intent on the trail, Lucy failed to note time or distance till the looming and frowning monuments stood aloft before her. What weird effect they had! Each might have been a colossal statue left there to mark the work of the ages. Lucy realized that the whole vast valley had once been solid rock, just like the monuments, and through the millions of years the softer parts had eroded and weathered and blown away—gone with the great sea that had once been there. But the beauty, the solemnity, the majesty of these monuments fascinated her most. She passed the first one, a huge square butte, and then the second, a ragged, thin, d
ouble shaft, and then went between two much alike, reaching skyward in the shape of monstrous mittens. She watched and watched them, sparing a moment now and then to attend to the trail. She noticed that she was coming into a region of grass, and faint signs of water in the draws. She was getting high again, not many miles now from the wall of rock.
All at once Sage King shied, and Lucy looked down to see a man lying on the ground. He lay inert. But his eyes were open—dark, staring eyes. They moved. And he called. But Lucy could not understand him.
In a flash she leaped off the King. She ran to the prostrate man—dropped to her knees.
“Oh!” she cried. His face was ghastly. “Oh! are you—you badly hurt?”
“Lift me—my head,” he said, faintly.
She raised his head. What a strained, passionate, terrible gaze he bent upon the horses.
“Boy, they’re mine—the black an’ the red!” he cried.
“They surely must be,” replied Lucy. “Oh! tell me. Are you hurt?”
“Boy! did you catch them—fetch them back—lookin’ for me?”
“I sure did.”
“You caught-that red devil—an’ fetched him—back to me?” went on the wondering, faint voice. “Boy—oh—boy!”
He lifted a long, ragged arm and pulled Lucy down. The action amazed her equally as his passion of gratitude. He might have been injured, but he had an arm of iron. Lucy was powerless. She felt her face against his—and her breast against his. The pounding of his heart was like blows. The first instant she wanted to laugh, despite her pity. Then the powerful arm—the contact affected her as nothing ever before. Suppose this crippled rider had taken her for a boy—She was not a boy! She could not help being herself. And no man had ever put a hand on her. Consciousness of this brought shame and anger. She struggled so violently that she freed herself. And he lay back.
“See here—that’s no way to act—to hug—a person,” she cried, with flaming cheeks.
“Boy, I—”
“I’m not a boy. I’m a girl.”
“What!”
Lucy tore off her sombrero, which had been pulled far forward, and this revealed her face fully, and her hair came tumbling down. The rider gazed, stupefied. Then a faint tinge of red colored his ghastly cheeks.
“A girl!… Why—why ’scuse me, miss. I—I took you—for a boy.”
He seemed so astounded, he looked so ashamed, so scared, and withal, so haggard and weak, that Lucy immediately recovered her equanimity.
“Sure I’m a girl. But that’s no matter.… You’ve been thrown. Are you hurt?”
He smiled a weak assent.
“Badly?” she queried. She did not like the way he lay—so limp, so motionless.
“I’m afraid so. I can’t move.”
“Oh!… What shall I do?”
“Can you—get me water?” he whispered, with dry lips.
Lucy flew to her horse to get the small canteen she always carried. But that had been left on her saddle, and she had ridden Van’s. Then she gazed around. The wash she had crossed several times ran near where the rider lay. Green grass and willows bordered it. She ran down and, hurrying along, searched for water. There was water in places, yet she had to go a long way before she found water that was drinkable. Filling her sombrero, she hurried back to the side of the rider. It was difficult to give him a drink.
“Thanks, miss,” he said, gratefully. His voice was stronger and less hoarse.
“Have you any broken bones?” asked Lucy.
“I don’t know. I can’t feel much.”
“Are you in pain?”
“Hardly. I feel sort of thick.”
Lucy, being an intelligent girl, born in the desert and used to its needs, had not often encountered a situation with which she was unable to cope.
“Let me feel if you have any broken bones.… That arm isn’t broken, I’m positive.”
The rider smiled faintly again. How he stared with his strained, dark eyes! His face showed ghastly through the thin, soft beard and the tan. Lucy found his right arm badly bruised, but not broken. She made sure his collar-bones and shoulder-blades were intact. Broken ribs were harder to locate; still, as he did not feel pain from pressure, she concluded there were no fractures there. With her assistance he moved his legs, proving no broken bones there.
“I’m afraid it’s my—spine,” he said.
“But you raised your head once,” she replied. “If your back was—was broken or injured you couldn’t raise your head.”
“So I couldn’t. I guess I’m just knocked out. I was—pretty weak before Wildfire knocked me—off Nagger.”
“Wildfire?”
“That’s the red stallion’s name.”
“Oh, he’s named already?”
“I named him—long ago. He’s known on many a range.”
“Where?”
“I think far north of here. I—trailed him—days—weeks—months. We crossed the great canyon—”
“The Grand Canyon?”
“It must be that.”
“The Grand Canyon is down there,” said Lucy, pointing. “I live on it.… You’ve come a long way.”
“Hundreds of miles!… Oh, the ground I covered that awful canyon country!… But I stayed with Wildfire. An’ I put a rope on him. An’ he got away.… An’ it was a boy—no—a girl who—saved him for me—an’ maybe saved my life, too!”
Lucy looked away from the dark, staring eyes. A light in them confused her.
“Never mind me. You say you were weak? Have you been ill?”
“No, miss, just starved.… I starved on Wildfire’s trail.”
Lucy ran to her saddle and got the biscuits out of the pockets of her coat, and she ran back to the rider.
“Here. I never thought. Oh, you’ve had a hard time of it! I understand. That wonderful flame of a horse! I’d have stayed, too. My father was a rider once. Bostil. Did you ever hear of him?”
“Bostil. The name—I’ve heard.” Then the rider lay thinking, as he munched a biscuit. “Yes, I remember, but it was long ago. I spent a night with a wagon-train, a camp of many men and women, religious people, working into Utah. Bostil had a boat at the crossing of the Fathers.”
“Yes, they called the Ferry that.”
“I remember well now. They said Bostil couldn’t count his horses—that he was a rich man, hard on riders—an’ he’d used a gun more than once.”
Lucy bowed her head. “Yes, that’s my dad.”
The rider did not seem to see how he had hurt her.
“Here we are talking—wasting time,” she said. “I must start home. You can’t be moved. What shall I do?”
“That’s for you to say, Bostil’s daughter.”
“My name’s Lucy,” replied the girl, blushing painfully, “I mean I’ll be glad to do anything you think best.”
“You’re very good.”
Then he turned his face away. Lucy looked closely at him. He was indeed a beggared rider. His clothes and his boots hung in tatters. He had no hat, no coat, no vest. His gaunt face bore traces of what might have been a fine, strong comeliness, but now it was only thin, worn, wan, pitiful, with that look which always went to a woman’s heart. He had the look of a homeless rider. Lucy had seen a few of his wandering type, and his story was so plain. But he seemed to have a touch of pride, and this quickened her interest.
“Then I’ll do what I think best for you,” said Lucy.
First she unsaddled the black Nagger. With the saddle she made a pillow for the rider’s head, and she covered him with the saddle blanket. Before she had finished this task he turned his eyes upon her. And Lucy felt she would be haunted. Was he badly hurt, after all? It seemed probable. How strange he was!
“I’ll water the horses—then tie Wildfire here on a double rope. There’s grass.”
“But you can’t lead him,” replied the rider.
“He’ll follow me.”
“That red devil!” The rider shuddered as he spoke.
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Lucy had some faint inkling of what a terrible fight that had been between man and horse. “Yes; when I found him he was broken. Look at him now.”
But the rider did not appear to want to see the stallion. He gazed up at Lucy, and she saw something in his eyes that made her think of a child. She left him, had no trouble in watering the horses, and haltered Wildfire among the willows on a patch of grass. Then she returned.
“I’ll go now,” she said to the rider.
“Where?”
“Home. I’ll come back tomorrow, early, and bring someone to help you—”
“Girl, if you want to help me more—bring me some bread an’ meat. Don’t tell anyone. Look what a ragamuffin I am.… An’ there’s Wildfire. I don’t want him seen till I’m—on my feet again. I know riders.… That’s all. If you want to be so good—come.”
“I’ll come,” replied Lucy, simply.
“Thank you. I owe you—a lot.… What did you say your name was?”
“Lucy—Lucy Bostil.”
“Oh, I forgot.… Are you sure you tied Wildfire good an’ tight?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I’ll go now. I hope you’ll be better tomorrow.”
Lucy hesitated, with her hand on the King’s bridle. She did not like to leave this young man lying there helpless on the desert. But what else could she do? What a strange adventure had befallen her! At the following thought that it was not yet concluded she felt a little stir of excitement at her pulses. She was so strangely preoccupied that she forgot it was necessary for her to have a step to mount Sage King. She realized it quickly enough when she attempted it. Then she led him off in the sage till she found a rock. Mounting, she turned him straight across country, meaning to cut out miles of travel that would have been necessary along her back-trail. Once she looked back. The rider was not visible; the black horse, Nagger, was out of sight, but Wildfire, blazing in the sun, watched her depart.
CHAPTER IX
Lucy Bostil could not control the glow of strange excitement under which she labored, but she could put her mind on the riding of Sage King. She did not realize, however, that she was riding him under the stress and spell of that excitement.