by Zane Grey
He watched for spring as a liberation, but not that he could leave the valley. He hated the cold, he grew weary of wind and snow; he imagined the warm sun, the park once more green with grass and bright with daisies, the return of birds and squirrels and deer to heir old haunts, would be the means whereby he could break this spell upon him. Then he might gradually return to past contentment, though it would never be the same.
But spring, coming early to Paradise Park, brought a fever to Dale’s blood—a fire of unutterable longing. It was good, perhaps, that this was so, because he seemed driven to work, climb, tramp, and keep ceaselessly on the move from dawn till dark. Action strengthened his lax muscles and kept him from those motionless, senseless hours of brooding. He at least need not be ashamed of longing for that which could never be his—the sweetness of a woman—a home full of light, joy, hope, the meaning and beauty of children. But those dark moods were sinkings into a pit of hell.
Dale had not kept track of days and weeks. He did not know when the snow melted off three slopes of Paradise Park. All he knew was that an age had dragged over his head and that spring had come. During his restless waking hours, and even when he was asleep, there seemed always in the back of his mind a growing consciousness that soon he would emerge from this trial, a changed man, ready to sacrifice his chosen lot, to give up his lonely life of selfish indulgence in lazy affinity with nature, and to go wherever his strong hands might perform some real service to people. Nevertheless, he wanted to linger in this mountain fastness until his ordeal was over—until he could meet her, and the world, knowing himself more of a man than ever before.
One bright morning, while he was at his camp-fire, the tame cougar gave a low, growling warning. Dale was startled. Tom did not act like that because of a prowling grizzly or a straying stag. Presently Dale espied a horseman riding slowly out of the straggling spruces. And with that sight Dale’s heart gave a leap, recalling to him a divination of his future relation to his kind. Never had he been so glad to see a man!
This visitor resembled one of the Beemans, judging from the way he sat his horse, and presently Dale recognized him to be John.
At this juncture the jaded horse was spurred into a trot, soon reaching the pines and the camp.
“Howdy, there, you ole b’ar-hunter!” called John, waving his hand.
For all his hearty greeting his appearance checked a like response from Dale. The horse was mud to his flanks and John was mud to his knees, wet, bedraggled, worn, and white. This hue of his face meant more than fatigue.
“Howdy, John?” replied Dale.
They shook hands. John wearily swung his leg over the pommel, but did not at once dismount. His clear gray eyes were wonderingly riveted upon the hunter.
“Milt—what ’n hell’s wrong?” he queried.
“Why?”
“Bust me if you ain’t changed so I hardly knowed you. You’ve been sick—all alone here!”
“Do I look sick?”
“Wal, I should smile. Thin an’ pale an’ down in the mouth! Milt, what ails you?”
“I’ve gone to seed.”
“You’ve gone off your head, jest as Roy said, livin’ alone here. You overdid it, Milt. An’ you look sick.”
“John, my sickness is here,” replied Dale, soberly, as he laid a hand on his heart.
“Lung trouble!” ejaculated John. “With thet chest, an’ up in this air?… Get out!”
“No—not lung trouble,” said Dale.
“I savvy. Had a hunch from Roy, anyhow.”
“What kind of a hunch?”
“Easy now, Dale, ole man.… Don’t you reckon I’m ridin’ in on you pretty early? Look at thet hoss!” John slid off and waved a hand at the drooping beast, then began to unsaddle him. “Wal, he done great. We bogged some comin’ over. An’ I climbed the pass at night on the frozen snow.”
“You’re welcome as the flowers in May. John, what month is it?”
“By spades! are you as bad as thet?… Let’s see. It’s the twenty-third of March.”
“March! Well, I’m beat. I’ve lost my reckonin’—an’ a lot more, maybe.”
“Thar!” declared John, slapping the mustang. “You can jest hang up here till my next trip. Milt, how’re your hosses?”
“Wintered fine.”
“Wal, thet’s good. We’ll need two big, strong hosses right off.”
“What for?” queried Dale, sharply. He dropped a stick of wood and straightened up from the camp-fire.
“You’re goin’ to ride down to Pine with me—thet’s what for.”
Familiarly then came back to Dale the quiet, intent suggestiveness of the Beemans in moments foreboding trial.
At this certain assurance of John’s, too significant to be doubted, Dale’s thought of Pine gave slow birth to a strange sensation, as if he had been dead and was vibrating back to life.
“Tell what you got to tell!” he broke out.
Quick as a flash the Mormon replied: “Roy’s been shot. But he won’t die. He sent for you. Bad deal’s afoot. Beasley means to force Helen Rayner out an’ steal her ranch.”
A tremor ran all through Dale. It seemed another painful yet thrilling connection between his past and this vaguely calling future. His emotions had been broodings dreams, longings. This thing his friend said had the sting of real life.
“Then old Al’s dead?” he asked.
“Long ago—I reckon around the middle of February. The property went to Helen. She’s been doin’ fine. An’ many folks say it’s a pity she’ll lose it.”
“She won’t lose it,” declared Dale. How strange his voice sounded to his own ears! It was hoarse and unreal, as if from disuse.
“Wal, we-all have our idees. I say she will. My father says so. Carmichael says so.”
“Who’s he?”
“Reckon you remember thet cow-puncher who came up with Roy an’ Auchincloss after the girls—last fall?”
“Yes. They called him Las—Las Vegas. I liked his looks.”
“Humph! You’ll like him a heap when you know him. He’s kept the ranch goin’ for Miss Helen all along. But the deal’s comin’ to a head. Beasley’s got thick with thet Riggs. You remember him?”
“Yes.”
“Wal, he’s been hangin’ out at Pine all winter, watchin’ for some chance to get at Miss Helen or Bo. Everybody’s seen thet. An’ jest lately he chased Bo on hossback—gave the kid a nasty fall. Roy says Riggs was after Miss Helen. But I think one or t’other of the girls would do thet varmint. Wal, thet sorta started goin’s-on. Carmichael beat Riggs an’ drove him out of town. But he come back. Beasley called on Miss Helen an’ offered to marry her so’s not to take the ranch from her, he said.”
Dale awoke with a thundering curse.
“Shore!” exclaimed John. “I’d say the same—only I’m religious. Don’t thet beady-eyed greaser’s gall make you want to spit all over yourself? My Gawd! but Roy was mad! Roy’s powerful fond of Miss Helen an’ Bo.… Wal, then, Roy, first chance he got, braced Beasley an’ give him some straight talk. Beasley was foamin’ at the mouth, Roy said. It was then Riggs shot Roy. Shot him from behind Beasley when Roy wasn’t lookin’! An’ Riggs brags of bein’ a gun-fighter. Mebbe thet wasn’t a bad shot for him!”
“I reckon,” replied Dale, as he swallowed hard. “Now, just what was Roy’s message to me?”
“Wal, I can’t remember all Roy said,” answered John, dubiously. “But Roy shore was excited an’ dead in earnest. He says: ‘Tell Milt what’s happened. Tell him Helen Rayner’s in more danger than she was last fall. Tell him I’ve seen her look away acrost the mountains toward Paradise Park with her heart in her eyes. Tell him she needs him most of all!’”
Dale shook all over as with an attack of ague. He was seized by a whirlwind of passionate, terrible sweetness of sensation, when what he wildly wanted was to curse Roy and John for their simple-minded conclusions.
“Roy’s—crazy!” panted Dale.
“Wal, now, M
ilt—thet’s downright surprisin’ of you. Roy’s the level-headest of any fellars I know.”
“Man! if he made me believe him—an’ it turned out untrue—I’d—I’d kill him,” replied Dale.
“Untrue! Do you think Roy Beeman would lie?”
“But, John—you fellows can’t see my case. Nell Rayner wants me—needs me!… It can’t be true!”
“Wal, my love-sick pard—it jest is true!” exclaimed John, feelingly. “Thet’s the hell of life—never knowin’. But here it’s joy for you. You can believe Roy Beeman about women as quick as you’d trust him to track your lost hoss. Roy’s married three girls. I reckon he’ll marry some more. Roy’s only twenty-eight an’ he has two big farms. He said he’d seen Nell Rayner’s heart in her eyes, lookin’ for you—an’ you can jest bet your life thet’s true. An’ he said it because he means you to rustle down there an’ fight for thet girl.”
“I’ll—go,” said Dale, in a shaky whisper, as he sat down on a pine log near the fire. He stared unseeingly at the bluebells in the grass by his feet while storm after storm possessed his breast. They were fierce and brief because driven by his will. In those few moments of contending strife Dale was immeasurably removed from that dark gulf of self which had made his winter a nightmare. And when he stood erect again it seemed that the old earth had a stirring, electrifying impetus for his feet. Something black, bitter, melancholy, and morbid, always unreal to him, had passed away forever. The great moment had been forced upon him. He did not believe Roy Beeman’s preposterous hint regarding Helen; but he had gone back or soared onward, as if by magic, to his old true self.
Mounted on Dale’s strongest horses, with only a light pack, an ax, and their weapons, the two men had reached the snow-line on the pass by noon that day. Tom, the tame cougar, trotted along in the rear.
The crust of the snow, now half thawed by the sun, would not hold the weight of a horse, though it upheld the men on foot. They walked, leading the horses. Travel was not difficult until the snow began to deepen; then progress slackened materially. John had not been able to pick out the line of the trail, so Dale did not follow his tracks. An old blaze on the trees enabled Dale to keep fairly well to the trail; and at length the height of the pass was reached, where the snow was deep. Here the horses labored, plowing through foot by foot. When, finally, they sank to their flanks, they had to be dragged and goaded on, and helped by thick flat bunches of spruce boughs placed under their hoofs. It took three hours of breaking toil to do the few hundred yards of deep snow on the height of the pass. The cougar did not have great difficulty in following, though it was evident he did not like such traveling.
That behind them, the horses gathered heart and worked on to the edge of the steep descent, where they had all they could do to hold back from sliding and rolling. Fast time was made on this slope, at the bottom of which began a dense forest with snow still deep in places and windfalls hard to locate. The men here performed Herculean labors, but they got through to a park where the snow was gone. The ground, however, soft and boggy, in places was more treacherous than the snow; and the travelers had to skirt the edge of the park to a point opposite, and then go on through the forest. When they reached bare and solid ground, just before dark that night, it was high time, for the horses were ready to drop, and the men likewise.
Camp was made in an open wood. Darkness fell and the men were resting on bough beds, feet to the fire, with Tom curled up close by, and the horses still drooping where they had been unsaddled. Morning, however, discovered them grazing on the long, bleached grass. John shook his head when he looked at them.
“You reckoned to make Pine by nightfall. How far is it—the way you’ll go?”
“Fifty mile or thereabouts,” replied Dale.
“Wal, we can’t ride it on them critters.”
“John, we’d do more than that if we had to.”
They were saddled and on the move before sunrise, leaving snow and bog behind. Level parks and level forests led one after another to long slopes and steep descents, all growing sunnier and greener as the altitude diminished. Squirrels and grouse, turkeys and deer, and less tame denizens of the forest grew more abundant as the travel advanced. In this game zone, however, Dale had trouble with Tom. The cougar had to be watched and called often to keep him off of trails.
“Tom doesn’t like a long trip,” said Dale. “But I’m goin’ to take him. Some way or other he may come in handy.”
“Sic him onto Beasley’s gang,” replied John. “Some men are powerful scared of cougars. But I never was.”
“Nor me. Though I’ve had cougars give me a darn uncanny feelin’.”
The men talked but little. Dale led the way, with Tom trotting noiselessly beside his horse. John followed close behind. They loped the horses across parks, trotted through the forests, walked slow up what few inclines they met, and slid down the soft, wet, pine-matted descents. So they averaged from six to eight miles an hour. The horses held up well under that steady travel, and this without any rest at noon.
Dale seemed to feel himself in an emotional trance. Yet, despite this, the same old sensorial perceptions crowded thick and fast upon him, strangely sweet and vivid after the past dead months when neither sun nor wind nor cloud nor scent of pine nor anything in nature could stir him. His mind, his heart, his soul seemed steeped in an intoxicating wine of expectation, while his eyes and ears and nose had never been keener to register the facts of the forest-land. He saw the black thing far ahead that resembled a burned stump, but he knew was a bear before it vanished; he saw gray flash of deer and wolf and coyote, and the red of fox, and the small, wary heads of old gobblers just sticking above the grass; and he saw deep tracks of game as well as the slow-rising blades of bluebells where some soft-footed beast had just trod. And he heard the melancholy notes of birds, the twitter of grouse, the sough of the wind, the light dropping of pine-cones, the near and distant bark of squirrels, the deep gobble of a turkey close at hand and the challenge from a rival far away, the cracking of twigs in the thickets, the murmur of running water, the scream of an eagle and the shrill cry of a hawk, and always the soft, dull, steady pads of the hoofs of the horses.
The smells, too, were the sweet, stinging ones of spring, warm and pleasant—the odor of the clean, fresh earth cutting its way through that thick, strong fragrance of pine, the smell of logs rotting in the sun, and of fresh new grass and flowers along a brook of snow-water.
“I smell smoke,” said Dale, suddenly, as he reined in, and turned for corroboration from his companion.
John sniffed the warm air.
“Wal, you’re more of an Injun than me,” he replied, shaking his head.
They traveled on, and presently came out upon the rim of the last slope. A long league of green slanted below them, breaking up into straggling lines of trees and groves that joined the cedars, and these in turn stretched on and down in gray-black patches to the desert, that glittering and bare, with streaks of somber hue, faded in the obscurity of distance.
The village of Pine appeared to nestle in a curve of the edge of the great forest, and the cabins looked like tiny white dots set in green.
“Look there,” said Dale, pointing.
Some miles to the right a gray escarpment of rock cropped out of the slope, forming a promontory; and from it a thin, pale column of smoke curled upward to be lost from sight as soon as it had no background of green.
“Thet’s your smoke, shore enough,” replied John, thoughtfully. “Now, I jest wonder who’s campin’ there. No water near or grass for hosses.”
“John, that point’s been used for smoke signals many a time.”
“Was jest thinkin’ of thet same. Shall we ride around there an’ take a peek?”
“No. But we’ll remember that. If Beasley’s got his deep scheme goin’, he’ll have Snake Anson’s gang somewhere close.”
“Roy said thet same. Wal, it’s some three hours till sundown. The hosses keep up. I reckon I’m fooled, for
we’ll make Pine all right. But old Tom there, he’s tired or lazy.”
The big cougar was lying down, panting, and his half-shut eyes were on Dale.
“Tom’s only lazy an’ fat. He could travel at this gait for a week. But let’s rest a half-hour an’ watch that smoke before movin’ on. We can make Pine before sundown.”
When travel had been resumed, half-way down the slope Dale’s sharp eyes caught a broad track where shod horses had passed, climbing in a long slant toward the promontory. He dismounted to examine it, and John, coming up, proceeded with alacrity to get off and do likewise. Dale made his deductions, after which he stood in a brown study beside his horse, waiting for John.
“Wal, what ’d you make of these here tracks?” asked that worthy.
“Some horses an’ a pony went along here yesterday, an’ today a single horse made, that fresh track.”
“Wal, Milt, for a hunter you ain’t so bad at hoss tracks,” observed John, “But how many hosses went yesterday?”
“I couldn’t make out—several—maybe four or five.”
“Six hosses an’ a colt or little mustang, unshod, to be strict-correct. Wal, supposin’ they did. What’s it mean to us?”
“I don’t know as I’d thought anythin’ unusual, if it hadn’t been for that smoke we saw off the rim, an’ then this here fresh track made along today. Looks queer to me.”
“Wish Roy was here,” replied John, scratching his head. “Milt, I’ve a hunch, if he was, he’d foller them tracks.”
“Maybe. But we haven’t time for that. We can backtrail them, though, if they keep clear as they are here. An’ we’ll not lose any time, either.”
That broad track led straight toward Pine, down to the edge of the cedars, where, amid some jagged rocks, evidences showed that men had camped there for days. Here it ended as a broad trail. But from the north came the single fresh track made that very day, and from the east, more in a line with Pine, came two tracks made the day before. And these were imprints of big and little hoofs. Manifestly these interested John more than they did Dale, who had to wait for his companion.