The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  “Milt, it ain’t a colt’s—thet little track,” avowed John.

  “Why not—an’ what if it isn’t?” queried Dale.

  “Wal, it ain’t, because a colt always straggles back, an’ from one side to t’other. This little track keeps close to the big one. An’, by George! it was made by a led mustang.”

  John resembled Roy Beeman then with that leaping, intent fire in his gray eyes. Dale’s reply was to spur his horse into a trot and call sharply to the lagging cougar.

  When they turned into the broad, blossom-bordered road that was the only thoroughfare of Pine the sun was setting red and gold behind the mountains. The horses were too tired for any more than a walk. Natives of the village, catching sight of Dale and Beeman, and the huge gray cat following like a dog, called excitedly to one another. A group of men in front of Turner’s gazed intently down the road, and soon manifested signs of excitement. Dale and his comrade dismounted in front of Widow Cass’s cottage. And Dale called as he strode up the little path. Mrs. Cass came out. She was white and shaking, but appeared calm. At sight of her John Beeman drew a sharp breath.

  “Wal, now—” he began, hoarsely, and left off.

  “How’s Roy?” queried Dale.

  “Lord knows I’m glad to see you, boys! Milt, you’re thin an’ strange-lookin’. Roy’s had a little setback. He got a shock today an’ it throwed him off. Fever—an’ now he’s out of his head. It won’t do no good for you to waste time seein’ him. Take my word for it he’s all right. But there’s others as—For the land’s sakes, Milt Dale, you fetched thet cougar back! Don’t let him near me!”

  “Tom won’t hurt you, mother,” said Dale, as the cougar came padding up the path. “You were sayin’ somethin’—about others. Is Miss Helen safe? Hurry!”

  “Ride up to see her—an’ waste no more time here.”

  Dale was quick in the saddle, followed by John, but the horses had to be severely punished to force them even to a trot. And that was a lagging trot, which now did not leave Torn behind.

  The ride up to Auchincloss’s ranch-house seemed endless to Dale. Natives came out in the road to watch after he had passed. Stern as Dale was in dominating his feelings, he could not wholly subordinate his mounting joy to a waiting terrible anticipation of catastrophe. But no matter what awaited—nor what fateful events might hinge upon this nameless circumstance about to be disclosed, the wonderful and glorious fact of the present was that in a moment he would see Helen Rayner.

  There were saddled horses in the courtyard, but no riders. A Mexican boy sat on the porch bench, in the seat where Dale remembered he had encountered Al Auchincloss. The door of the big sitting-room was open. The scent of flowers, the murmur of bees, the pounding of hoofs came vaguely to Dale. His eyes dimmed, so that the ground, when he slid out of his saddle, seemed far below him. He stepped upon the porch. His sight suddenly cleared. A tight fullness at his throat made incoherent the words he said to the Mexican boy. But they were understood, as the boy ran back around the house. Dale knocked sharply and stepped over the threshold.

  Outside, John, true to his habits, was thinking, even in that moment of suspense, about the faithful, exhausted horses. As he unsaddled them he talked: “Fer soft an’ fat hosses, winterin’ high up, wal, you’ve done somethin’!”

  Then Dale heard a voice in another room, a step, a creak of the door. It opened. A woman in white appeared. He recognized Helen. But instead of the rich brown bloom and dark-eyed beauty so hauntingly limned on his memory, he saw a white, beautiful face, strained and quivering in anguish, and eyes that pierced his heart. He could not speak.

  “Oh! my friend—you’ve come!” she whispered.

  Dale put out a shaking hand. But she did not see it. She clutched his shoulders, as if to feel whether or not he was real, and then her arms went up round his neck.

  “Oh, thank God! I knew you would come!” she said, and her head sank to his shoulder.

  Dale divined what he had suspected. Helen’s sister had been carried off. Yet, while his quick mind grasped Helen’s broken spirit—the unbalance that was reason for this marvelous and glorious act—he did not take other meaning of the embrace to himself. He just stood there, transported, charged like a tree struck by lightning, making sure with all his keen senses, so that he could feel forever, how she was clinging round his neck, her face over his bursting heart, her quivering form close pressed to his.

  “It’s—Bo,” he said, unsteadily.

  “She went riding yesterday—and—never—came—back!” replied Helen, brokenly.

  “I’ve seen her trail. She’s been taken into the woods. I’ll find her. I’ll fetch her back,” he replied, rapidly.

  With a shock she seemed to absorb his meaning. With another shock she raised her face—leaned back a little to look at him.

  “You’ll find her—fetch her back?”

  “Yes,” he answered, instantly.

  With that ringing word it seemed to Dale she realized how she was standing. He felt her shake as she dropped her arms and stepped back, while the white anguish of her face was flooded out by a wave of scarlet. But she was brave in her confusion. Her eyes never fell, though they changed swiftly, darkening with shame, amaze, and with feelings he could not read.

  “I’m almost—out of my head,” she faltered.

  “No wonder. I saw that.… But now you must get clear-headed. I’ve no time to lose.”

  He led her to the door.

  “John, it’s Bo that’s gone,” he called. “Since yesterday.… Send the boy to get me a bag of meat an’ bread. You run to the corral an’ get me a fresh horse. My old horse Ranger if you can find him quick. An’ rustle.”

  Without a word John leaped bareback on one of the horses he had just unsaddled and spurred him across the courtyard.

  Then the big cougar, seeing Helen, got up from where he lay on the porch and came to her.

  “Oh, it’s Tom!” cried Helen, and as he rubbed against her knees she patted his head with trembling hand. “You big, beautiful pet! Oh, how I remember! Oh, how Bo would love to—”

  “Where’s Carmichael?” interrupted Dale. “Out huntin’ Bo?”

  “Yes. It was he who missed her first. He rode everywhere yesterday. Last night when he came back he was wild. I’ve not seen him today. He made all the other men but Hal and Joe stay home on the ranch.”

  “Right. An’ John must stay, too,” declared Dale. “But it’s strange. Carmichael ought to have found the girl’s tracks. She was ridin’ a pony?”

  “Bo rode Sam. He’s a little bronc, very strong and fast.”

  “I come across his tracks. How’d Carmichael miss them?”

  “He didn’t. He found them—trailed them all along the north range. That’s where he forbade Bo to go. You see, they’re in love with each other. They’ve been at odds. Neither will give in. Bo disobeyed him. There’s hard ground off the north range, so he said. He was able to follow her tracks only so far.”

  “Were there any other tracks along with hers?”

  “No.”

  “Miss Helen, I found them ’way southeast of Pine up on the slope of the mountain. There were seven other horses makin’ that trail—when we run across it. On the way down we found a camp where men had waited. An’ Bo’s pony, led by a rider on a big horse, come into that camp from the east—maybe north a little. An’ that tells the story.”

  “Riggs ran her down—made off with her!” cried Helen, passionately. “Oh, the villain! He had men in waiting. That’s Beasley’s work. They were after me.”

  “It may not be just what you said, but that’s close enough. An’ Bo’s in a bad fix. You must face that an’ try to bear up under—fears of the worst.”

  “My friend! You will save her!”

  “I’ll fetch her back, alive or dead.”

  “Dead! Oh, my God!” Helen cried, and closed her eyes an instant, to open them burning black. “But Bo isn’t dead. I know that—I feel it. She’ll not die very easy. She�
�s a little savage. She has no fear. She’d fight like a tigress for her life. She’s strong. You remember how strong. She can stand anything. Unless they murder her outright she’ll live—a long time—through any ordeal.… So I beg you, my friend, don’t lose an hour—don’t ever give up!”

  Dale trembled under the clasp of her hands. Loosing his own from her clinging hold, he stepped out on the porch. At that moment John appeared on Ranger, coming at a gallop.

  “Nell, I’ll never come back without her,” said Dale. “I reckon you can hope—only be prepared. That’s all. It’s hard. But these damned deals are common out here in the West.”

  “Suppose Beasley comes—here!” exclaimed Helen, and again her hand went out toward him.

  “If he does, you refuse to get off,” replied Dale. “But don’t let him or his greasers put a dirty hand on you. Should he threaten force—why, pack some clothes—an’ your valuables—an’ go down to Mrs. Cass’s. An’ wait till I come back!”

  “Wait—till you—come back!” she faltered, slowly turning white again. Her dark eyes dilated. “Milt—you’re like Las Vegas. You’ll kill Beasley!”

  Dale heard his own laugh, very cold and strange, foreign to his ears. A grim, deadly hate of Beasley vied with the tenderness and pity he felt for this distressed girl. It was a sore trial to see her leaning there against the door—to be compelled to leave her alone. Abruptly be stalked off the porch. Tom followed him. The black horse whinnied his recognition of Dale and snorted at sight of the cougar. Just then the Mexican boy returned with a bag. Dale tied this, with the small pack, behind the saddle.

  “John, you stay here with Miss Helen,” said Dale. “An’ if Carmichael comes back, keep him, too! An’ tonight, if anyone rides into Pine from the way we come, you be sure to spot him.”

  “I’ll do thet, Milt,” responded John.

  Dale mounted, and, turning for a last word to Helen, he felt the words of cheer halted on his lips as he saw her standing white and broken-hearted, with her hands to her bosom. He could not look twice.

  “Come on there, you Tom,” he called to the cougar. “Reckon on this track you’ll pay me for all my trainin’ of you.”

  “Oh, my friend!” came Helen’s sad voice, almost a whisper to his throbbing ears. “Heaven help you—to save her! I—”

  Then Ranger started and Dale heard no more. He could not look back. His eyes were full of tears and his breast ached. By a tremendous effort he shifted that emotion—called on all the spiritual energy of his being to the duty of this grim task before him.

  He did not ride down through the village, but skirted the northern border, and worked round to the south, where, coming to the trail he had made an hour past, he headed on it, straight for the slope now darkening in the twilight. The big cougar showed more willingness to return on this trail than he had shown in the coming. Ranger was fresh and wanted to go, but Dale held him in.

  A cool wind blew down from the mountain with the coming of night. Against the brightening stars Dale saw the promontory lift its bold outline. It was miles away. It haunted him, strangely calling. A night, and perhaps a day, separated him from the gang that held Bo Rayner prisoner. Dale had no plan as yet. He had only a motive as great as the love he bore Helen Rayner.

  Beasley’s evil genius had planned this abduction. Riggs was a tool, a cowardly knave dominated by a stronger will. Snake Anson and his gang had lain in wait at that cedar camp; had made that broad hoof track leading up the mountain. Beasley had been there with them that very day. All this was as assured to Dale as if he had seen the men.

  But the matter of Dale’s recovering the girl and doing it speedily strung his mental strength to its highest pitch. Many outlines of action flashed through his mind as he rode on, peering keenly through the night, listening with practised ears. All were rejected. And at the outset of every new branching of thought he would gaze down at the gray form of the cougar, long, graceful, heavy, as he padded beside the horse. From the first thought of returning to help Helen Rayner he had conceived an undefined idea of possible value in the qualities of his pet. Tom had performed wonderful feats of trailing, but he had never been tried on men. Dale believed he could make him trail anything, yet he had no proof of this. One fact stood out of all Dale’s conjectures, and it was that he had known men, and brave men, to fear cougars.

  Far up on the slope, in a little hollow where water ran and there was a little grass for Ranger to pick, Dale haltered him and made ready to spend the night. He was sparing with his food, giving Tom more than he took himself. Curled close up to Dale, the big cat went to sleep.

  But Dale lay awake for long.

  The night was still, with only a faint moan of wind on this sheltered slope. Dale saw hope in the stars. He did not seem to have promised himself or Helen that he could save her sister, and then her property. He seemed to have stated something unconsciously settled, outside of his thinking. Strange how this certainty was not vague, yet irreconcilable with any plans he created! Behind it, somehow nameless with inconceivable power, surged all his wonderful knowledge of forest, of trails, of scents, of night, of the nature of men lying down to sleep in the dark, lonely woods, of the nature of this great cat that lived its every action in accordance with his will.

  He grew sleepy, and gradually his mind stilled, with his last conscious thought a portent that he would awaken to accomplish his desperate task.

  CHAPTER XX

  Young Burt possessed the keenest eyes of any man in Snake Anson’s gang, for which reason he was given the post as lookout from the lofty promontory. His instructions were to keep sharp watch over the open slopes below and to report any sight of a horse.

  A cedar fire with green boughs on top of dead wood sent up a long, pale column of smoke. This signal-fire had been kept burning since sunrise.

  The preceding night camp had been made on a level spot in the cedars back of the promontory. But manifestly Anson did not expect to remain there long. For, after breakfast, the packs had been made up and the horses stood saddled and bridled. They were restless and uneasy, tossing bits and fighting flies. The sun, now half-way to meridian, was hot and no breeze blew in that sheltered spot.

  Shady Jones had ridden off early to fill the water-bags, and had not yet returned. Anson, thinner and scalier and more snakelike than ever, was dealing a greasy, dirty deck of cards, his opponent being the square-shaped, black-visaged Moze. In lieu of money the gamblers wagered with cedar-berries, each of which berries represented a pipeful of tobacco. Jim Wilson brooded under a cedar-tree, his unshaven face a dirty dust-hue, a smoldering fire in his light eyes, a sullen set to his jaw. Every little while he would raise his eyes to glance at Riggs, and it seemed that a quick glance was enough. Riggs paced to and fro in the open, coatless and hatless, his black-broadcloth trousers and embroidered vest dusty and torn. An enormous gun bumped awkwardly in its sheath swinging below his hip. Riggs looked perturbed. His face was sweating freely, yet it was far from red in color. He did not appear to mind the sun or the flies. His eyes were staring, dark, wild, shifting in gaze from everything they encountered. But often that gaze shot back to the captive girl sitting under a cedar some yards from the man.

  Bo Rayner’s little, booted feet were tied together with one end of a lasso and the other end trailed off over the ground. Her hands were free. Her riding-habit was dusty and disordered. Her eyes blazed defiantly out of a small, pale face.

  “Harve Riggs, I wouldn’t be standing in those cheap boots of yours for a million dollars,” she said, sarcastically. Riggs took no notice of her words.

  “You pack that gun-sheath wrong end out. What have you got the gun for, anyhow?” she added, tauntingly.

  Snake Anson let out a hoarse laugh and Moze’s black visage opened in a huge grin. Jim Wilson seemed to drink in the girl’s words. Sullen and somber, he bent his lean head, very still, as if listening.

  “You’d better shut up,” said Riggs, darkly.

  “I will not shut up,” declared
Bo.

  “Then I’ll gag you,” he threatened.

  “Gag me! Why, you dirty, low-down, two-bit of a bluff!” she exclaimed, hotly, “I’d like to see you try it. I’ll tear that long hair of yours right off your head.”

  Riggs advanced toward her with his hands clutching, as if eager to throttle her. The girl leaned forward, her face reddening, her eyes fierce.

  “You damned little cat!” muttered Riggs, thickly. “I’ll gag you—if you don’t stop squallin’.”

  “Come on. I dare you to lay a hand on me.… Harve Riggs, I’m not the least afraid of you. Can’t you savvy that? You’re a liar, a four-flush, a sneak! Why, you’re not fit to wipe the feet of any of these outlaws.”

  Riggs took two long strides and bent over her, his teeth protruding in a snarl, and he cuffed her hard on the side of the head.

  Bo’s head jerked back with the force of the blow, but she uttered no cry.

  “Are you goin’ to keep your jaw shut?” he demanded, stridently, and a dark tide of blood surged up into his neck.

  “I should smile I’m not,” retorted Bo, in cool, deliberate anger of opposition. “You’ve roped me—and you’ve struck me! Now get a club—stand off there—out of my reach—and beat me! Oh, if I only knew cuss words fit for you—I’d call you them!”

  Snake Anson had stopped playing cards, and was watching, listening, with half-disgusted, half-amused expression on his serpent-like face. Jim Wilson slowly rose to his feet. If anyone had observed him it would have been to note that he now seemed singularly fascinated by this scene, yet all the while absorbed in himself. Once he loosened the neck-band of his blouse.

  Riggs swung his arm more violently at the girl. But she dodged.

  “You dog!” she hissed. “Oh, if I only had a gun!”

  Her face then, with its dead whiteness and the eyes of flame, held a tragic, impelling beauty that stung Anson into remonstrance.

  “Aw, Riggs, don’t beat up the kid,” he protested. “Thet won’t do any good. Let her alone.”

  “But she’s got to shut up,” replied Riggs.