The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  Next, old Kemp, the patriarch of the village, came and listened attentively. Wade seemed to have a strange magnetism, a magic tongue.

  He was small of stature, but wiry and muscular. His garments were old, soiled, worn. When he removed the wide-brimmed sombrero he exposed a remarkable face. It was smooth except for a drooping mustache, and pallid, with drops of sweat standing out on the high, broad forehead; gaunt and hollow-cheeked, with an enormous nose, and cavernous eyes set deep under shaggy brows. These features, however, were not so striking in themselves. Long, sloping, almost invisible lines of pain, the shadow of mystery and gloom in the deep-set, dark eyes, a sad harmony between features and expression, these marked the man’s face with a record no keen eye could miss.

  Wade told a terrible tale of gold and blood and death. It seemed to relieve him. His face changed, and lost what might have been called its tragic light, its driven intensity.

  His listeners shook their heads in awe. Hard tales were common in Colorado, but this one was exceptional. Two of the group left without comment. Old Kemp stared with narrow, half-recognizing eyes at the new-comer.

  “Wal! Wal!” ejaculated the innkeeper. “It do beat hell what can happen!… Stranger, will you put up your hosses an’ stay?”

  “I’m lookin’ for work,” replied Wade.

  It was then that mention was made of Bellounds sending to Meeker for hands.

  “Old Bill Bellounds thet settled Middle Park an’ made friends with the Utes,” said Wade, as if certain of his facts.

  “Yep, you have Bill to rights. Do you know him?”

  “I seen him once twenty years ago.”

  “Ever been to Middle Park? Bellounds owns ranches there,” said the innkeeper.

  “He ain’t livin’ in the Park now,” interposed Kemp. “He’s at White Slides, I reckon, these last eight or ten years. Thet’s over the Gore Range.”

  “Prospected all through that country,” said Wade.

  “Wal, it’s a fine part of Colorado. Hay an’ stock country—too high fer grain. Did you mean you’d been through the Park?”

  “Once—long ago,” replied Wade, staring with his great, cavernous eyes into space. Some memory of Middle Park haunted him.

  “Wal, then, I won’t be steerin’ you wrong,” said the innkeeper. “I like thet country. Some people don’t. An’ I say if you can cook or pack or punch cows or ’most anythin’ you’ll find a bunk with Old Bill. I understand he was needin’ a hunter most of all. Lions an’ wolves bad! Can you hunt?”

  “Hey?” queried Wade, absently, as he inclined his ear. “I’m deaf on one side.”

  “Are you a good man with dogs an’ guns?” shouted his questioner.

  “Tolerable,” replied Wade.

  “Then you’re sure of a job.”

  “I’ll go. Much obliged to you.”

  “Not a-tall. I’m doin’ Bellounds a favor. Reckon you’ll put up here tonight?”

  “I always sleep out. But I’ll buy feed an’ supplies,” replied Wade, as he turned to his horses.

  Old Kemp trudged down the road, wagging his gray head as if he was contending with a memory sadly failing him. An hour later when Bent Wade rode out of town he passed Kemp, and hailed him. The old-timer suddenly slapped his leg: “By Golly! I knowed I’d met him before!”

  Later, he said with a show of gossipy excitement to his friend the innkeeper, “Thet fellar was Bent Wade!”

  “So he told me,” returned the other.

  “But didn’t you never hear of him? Bent Wade?”

  “Now you tax me, thet name do ’pear familiar. But dash take it, I can’t remember. I knowed he was somebody, though. Hope I didn’t wish a gun-fighter or outlaw on Old Bill. Who was he, anyhow?”

  “They call him Hell-Bent Wade. I seen him in Wyomin’, whar he were a stage-driver. But I never heerd who he was an’ what he was till years after. Thet was onct I dropped down into Boulder. Wade was thar, all shot up, bein’ nussed by Sam Coles. Sam’s dead now. He was a friend of Wade’s an’ knowed him fer long. Wal, I heerd all thet anybody ever heerd about him, I reckon. Accordin’ to Coles this hyar Hell-Bent Wade was a strange, wonderful sort of fellar. He had the most amazin’ ways. He could do anythin’ under the sun better’n anyone else. Bad with guns! He never stayed in one place fer long. He never hunted trouble, but trouble follered him. As I remember Coles, thet was Wade’s queer idee—he couldn’t shake trouble. No matter whar he went, always thar was hell. Thet’s what gave him the name Hell-Bent.… An’ Coles swore thet Wade was the whitest man he ever knew. Heart of gold, he said. Always savin’ somebody, helpin’ somebody, givin’ his money or time—never thinkin’ of himself a-tall.… When he began to tell thet story about Cripple Creek then my ole head begun to ache with rememberin’. Fer I’d heerd Bent Wade talk before. Jest the same kind of story he told hyar, only wuss. Lordy! but thet fellar has seen times. An’ queerest of all is thet idee he has how hell’s on his trail an’ everywhere he roams it ketches up with him, an’ thar he meets the man who’s got to hear his tale!”

  * * * *

  Sunset found Bent Wade far up the valley of White River under the shadow of the Flat Top Mountains. It was beautiful country. Grassy hills, with colored aspen groves, swelled up on his left, and across the brawling stream rose a league-long slope of black spruce, above which the bare red-and-gray walls of the range towered, glorious with the blaze of sinking sun. White patches of snow showed in the sheltered nooks. Wade’s gaze rested longest on the colored heights.

  By and by the narrow valley opened into a park, at the upper end of which stood a log cabin. A few cattle and horses grazed in an inclosed pasture. The trail led by the cabin. As Wade rode up a bushy-haired man came out of the door, rifle in hand. He might have been going out to hunt, but his scrutiny of Wade was that of a lone settler in a wild land.

  “Howdy, stranger!” he said.

  “Good evenin’,” replied Wade. “Reckon you’re Blair an’ I’m nigh the headwaters of this river?”

  “Yep, a matter of three miles to Trapper’s Lake.”

  “My name’s Wade. I’m packin’ over to take a job with Bill Bellounds.”

  “Git down an’ come in,” returned Blair. “Bill’s man stopped with me some time ago.”

  “Obliged, I’m sure, but I’ll be goin’ on,” responded Wade. “Do you happen to have a hunk of deer meat? Game powerful scarce comin’ up this valley.”

  “Lots of deer an’ elk higher up. I chased a bunch of more ’n thirty, I reckon, right out of my pasture this mornin’.”

  Blair crossed to an open shed near by and returned with half a deer haunch, which he tied upon Wade’s pack-horse.

  “My ole woman’s ailin’. Do you happen to hev some terbaccer?

  “I sure do—both smokin’ an’ chewin’, an’ I can spare more chewin’. A little goes a long ways with me.”

  “Wal, gimme some of both, most chewin’,” replied Blair, with evident satisfaction.

  “You acquainted with Bellounds?” asked Wade, as he handed over the tobacco.

  “Wal, yes, everybody knows Bill. You’d never find a whiter boss in these hills.”

  “Has he any family?”

  “Now, I can’t say as to thet,” replied Blair. “I heerd he lost a wife years ago. Mebbe he married ag’in. But Bill’s gittin’ along.”

  “Good day to you, Blair,” said Wade, and took up his bridle.

  “Good day an’ good luck. Take the right-hand trail. Better trot up a bit, if you want to make camp before dark.”

  Wade soon entered the spruce forest. Then he came to a shallow, roaring river. The horses drank the water, foaming white and amber around their knees, and then with splash and thump they forded it over the slippery rocks. As they cracked out upon the trail a covey of grouse whirred up into the low branches of spruce-trees. They were tame.

  “That’s somethin’ like,” said Wade. “First birds I’ve seen this fall. Reckon I can have stew any day.”

  He halted
his horse and made a move to dismount, but with his eyes on the grouse he hesitated. “Tame as chickens, an’ they sure are pretty.”

  Then he rode on, leading his pack-horse. The trail was not steep, although in places it had washed out, thus hindering a steady trot. As he progressed the forest grew thick and darker, and the fragrance of pine and spruce filled the air. A dreamy roar of water rushing over rocks rang in the traveler’s ears. It receded at times, then grew louder. Presently the forest shade ahead lightened and he rode out into a wide space where green moss and flags and flowers surrounded a wonderful spring-hole. Sunset gleams shone through the trees to color the wide, round pool. It was shallow all along the margin, with a deep, large green hole in the middle, where the water boiled up. Trout were feeding on gnats and playing on the surface, and some big ones left wakes behind them as they sped to deeper water. Wade had an appreciative eye for all this beauty, his gaze lingering longest upon the flowers.

  “Wild woods is the place for me,” he soliloquized, as the cool wind fanned his cheeks and the sweet tang of evergreen tingled his nostrils. “But sure I’m most haunted in these lonely, silent places.”

  Bent Wade had the look of a haunted man. Perhaps the consciousness he confessed was part of his secret.

  Twilight had come when again he rode out into the open. Trapper’s Lake lay before him, a beautiful sheet of water, mirroring the black slopes and the fringed spruces and the flat peaks. Over all its gray, twilight-softened surface showed little swirls and boils and splashes where the myriads of trout were rising. The trail led out over open grassy shores, with a few pines straggling down to the lake, and clumps of spruces raising dark blurs against the background of gleaming lake. Wade heard a sharp crack of hoofs on rock, and he knew he had disturbed deer at their drinking; also he heard a ring of horns on the branch of a tree, and was sure an elk was slipping off through the woods. Across the lake he saw a camp-fire and a pale, sharp-pointed object that was a trapper’s tent or an Indian’s tepee.

  Selecting a camp-site for himself, he unsaddled his horse, threw the pack off the other, and, hobbling both animals, he turned them loose. His roll of bedding, roped in canvas tarpaulin, he threw under a spruce-tree. Then he opened his oxhide-covered packs and laid out utensils and bags, little and big. All his movements were methodical, yet swift, accurate, habitual. He was not thinking about what he was doing. It took him some little time to find a suitable log to split for fire-wood, and when he had started a blaze night had fallen, and the light as it grew and brightened played fantastically upon the isolating shadows.

  Lid and pot of the little Dutch oven he threw separately upon the sputtering fire, and while they heated he washed his hands, mixed the biscuits, cut slices of meat off the deer haunch, and put water on to boil. He broiled his meat on the hot, red coals, and laid it near on clean pine chips, while he waited for bread to bake and coffee to boil. The smell of wood-smoke and odorous steam from pots and the fragrance of spruce mingled together, keen, sweet, appetizing. Then he ate his simple meal hungrily, with the content of the man who had fared worse.

  After he had satisfied himself he washed his utensils and stowed them away, with the bags. Whereupon his movements acquired less dexterity and speed. The rest hour had come. Still, like the long-experienced man in the open, he looked around for more to do, and his gaze fell upon his weapons, lying on his saddle. His rifle was a Henry—shiny and smooth from long service and care. His small gun was a Colt’s 45. It had been carried in a saddle holster. Wade rubbed the rifle with his hands, and then with a greasy rag which he took from the sheath. After that he held the rifle to the heat of the fire. A squall of rain had overtaken him that day, wetting his weapons. A subtle and singular difference seemed to show in the way he took up the Colt’s. His action was slow, his look reluctant. The small gun was not merely a thing of steel and powder and ball. He dried it and rubbed it with care, but not with love, and then he stowed it away.

  Next Wade unrolled his bed under the spruce, with one end of the tarpaulin resting on the soft mat of needles. On top of that came the two woolly sheepskins, which he used to lie upon, then his blankets, and over all the other end of the tarpaulin.

  This ended his tasks for the day. He lighted his pipe and composed himself beside the camp-fire to smoke and rest awhile before going to bed. The silence of the wilderness enfolded lake and shore; yet presently it came to be a silence accentuated by near and distant sounds, faint, wild, lonely—the low hum of falling water, the splash of tiny waves on the shore, the song of insects, and the dismal hoot of owls.

  “Bill Bellounds—an’ he needs a hunter,” soliloquized Bent Wade, with gloomy, penetrating eyes, seeing far through the red embers. “That will suit me an’ change my luck, likely. Livin’ in the woods, away from people—I could stick to a job like that.… But if this White Slides is close to the old trail I’ll never stay.”

  He sighed, and a darker shadow, not from flickering fire, overspread his cadaverous face. Eighteen years ago he had driven the woman he loved away from him, out into the world with her baby girl. Never had he rested beside a camp-fire that that old agony did not recur! Jealous fool! Too late he had discovered his fatal blunder; and then had begun a search over Colorado, ending not a hundred miles across the wild mountains from where he brooded that lonely hour—a search ended by news of the massacre of a wagon-train by Indians.

  That was Bent Wade’s secret.

  And no earthly sufferings could have been crueler than his agony and remorse, as through the long years he wandered on and on. The very good that he tried to do seemed to foment evil. The wisdom that grew out of his suffering opened pitfalls for his wandering feet. The wildness of men and the passion of women somehow waited with incredible fatality for that hour when chance led him into their lives. He had toiled, he had given, he had fought, he had sacrificed, he had killed, he had endured for the human nature which in his savage youth he had betrayed. Yet out of his supreme and endless striving to undo, to make reparation, to give his life, to find God, had come, it seemed to Wade in his abasement, only a driving torment.

  But though his thought and emotion fluctuated, varying, wandering, his memory held a fixed and changeless picture of a woman, fair and sweet, with eyes of nameless blue, and face as white as a flower.

  “Baby would have been—let’s see—’most nineteen years old now—if she’d lived,” he said. “A big girl, I reckon, like her mother.… Strange how, as I grow older, I remember better!”

  The night wind moaned through the spruces; dark clouds scudded across the sky, blotting out the bright stars; a steady, low roar of water came from the outlet of the lake. The camp-fire flickered and burned out, so that no sparks blew into the blackness, and the red embers glowed and paled and crackled. Wade at length got up and made ready for bed. He threw back tarpaulin and blankets, and laid his rifle alongside where he could cover it. His coat served for a pillow and he put the Colt’s gun under that; then pulling off his boots, he slipped into bed, dressed as he was, and, like all men in the open, at once fell asleep.

  For Wade, and for countless men like him, who for many years had roamed the West, this sleeping alone in wild places held both charm and peril. But the fascination of it was only a vague realization, and the danger was laughed at.

  Over Bent Wade’s quiet form the shadows played, the spruce boughs waved, the piny needles rustled down, the wind moaned louder as the night advanced. By and by the horses rested from their grazing; the insects ceased to hum; and the continuous roar of water dominated the solitude. If wild animals passed Wade’s camp they gave it a wide berth.

  * * * *

  Sunrise found Wade on the trail, climbing high up above the lake, making for the pass over the range. He walked, leading his horses up a zigzag trail that bore the tracks of recent travelers. Although this country was sparsely settled, yet there were men always riding from camp to camp or from one valley town to another. Wade never tarried on a well-trodden trail.

  As
he climbed higher the spruce-trees grew smaller, no longer forming a green aisle before him, and at length they became dwarfed and stunted, and at last failed altogether. Soon he was above timber-line and out upon a flat-topped mountain range, where in both directions the land rolled and dipped, free of tree or shrub, colorful with grass and flowers. The elevation exceeded eleven thousand feet. A whipping wind swept across the plain-land. The sun was pale-bright in the east, slowly being obscured by gray clouds. Snow began to fall, first in scudding, scanty flakes, but increasing until the air was full of a great, fleecy swirl. Wade rode along the rim of a mountain wall, watching a beautiful snow-storm falling into the brown gulf beneath him. Once as he headed round a break he caught sight of mountain-sheep cuddled under a protecting shelf. The snow-squall blew away, like a receding wall, leaving grass and flowers wet. As the dark clouds parted, the sun shone warmer out of the blue. Gray peaks, with patches of white, stood up above their black-timbered slopes.

  Wade soon crossed the flat-topped pass over the range and faced a descent, rocky and bare at first, but yielding gradually to the encroachment of green. He left the cold winds and bleak trails above him. In an hour, when he was half down the slope, the forest had become warm and dry, fragrant and still. At length he rode out upon the brow of a last wooded bench above a grassy valley, where a bright, winding stream gleamed in the sun. While the horses rested Wade looked about him. Nature never tired him. If he had any peace it emanated from the silent places, the solemn hills, the flowers and animals of the wild and lonely land.

  A few straggling pines shaded this last low hill above the valley. Grass grew luxuriantly there in the open, but not under the trees, where the brown needle-mats jealously obstructed the green. Clusters of columbines waved their graceful, sweet, pale-blue flowers that Wade felt a joy in seeing. He loved flowers—columbines, the glory of Colorado, came first, and next the many-hued purple asters, and then the flaunting spikes of paint-brush, and after them the nameless and numberless wild flowers that decked the mountain meadows and colored the grass of the aspen groves and peeped out of the edge of snow fields.