Grey, Zane - Novel 27

  But Chane had another half-hour of leisurely working to and fro across his beat before the strenuous riding he anticipated became necessary. For some reason or other the wild horses did not run his way as much as toward that of the other riders. He kept watch on Chess and was amused at that boy’s undoubted troubles. Alonzo, however, had the widest stretch of valley, and by far the largest number of horses to contend with. In his daring dashes to turn back big droves he let many small bands pass across the line. Finally Chane saw a huge moving patch of black, many acres in extent, sweeping down upon the Mexican’s position. There must have been a thousand wild horses in that drove. Dust rose in yellow clouds similar to the trailing smoke of a prairie fire. Chane did not expect the Mexican to turn back that stampede. The white puffs of Alom zo’s gun showed against the green. Then as the horses swept on in a resistless tide Chane saw how Alonzo had to run for his life. He disappeared behind the moving level mass and showed no more.

  That incident was the last Chane had time to watch. Straggling twos and threes of mustangs engaged his attention. And presently he had to get into the race in earnest. The first band of horses that eluded the fleet Brutus told Chane the futility of hoping to head all the horses which raced toward him. He gave up such object and did not attempt the impossible.

  As Chane raced to and fro, firing his gun to frighten the horses that trooped toward him, the drive grew to be a rout toward the notch of the fence. Chane could not see it, but he appreciated the fact that it was now not many miles distant. Everywhere the valley floor appeared colorful and active with twinkling legs, bobbing heads, flying manes and tails. The air grew thick with dust, so that in some places a clear view could not be obtained. An intermittent trampling roar of hoofs mostly drowned the gun-shots of the riders. From time to time Chane heard faint shots, like spats, on both sides of him. But he never saw a rider.

  Brutus grew hot and wet, and a dusty lather collected on his chest and neck. Whenever a stallion passed near, Brutus would answer the wild whistling challenge. Bands of horses grew numerous and thick, making Chane’s task more difficult and dangerous. He might have turned more horses back if he had been more free with the use of his gun, but Chane had a grim excuse for saving ammunition. He knew presently it would be merciful to shoot with deadly intent.

  The drive aproached the flanges of the fence. Thousands of wild horses were being driven into a triangular space of comparatively small size. The roar of hoofs, the whistling and snorting, became incessant. A gray dusty haze made fast riding perilous. Chane had to peer through the gloom to protect Brutus. That drive indeed brought out the many and incomparable qualities of this horse. Many times Brutus equaled the keenness and caution of his rider.

  At length Chane found himself in a melee of running, plunging, maddened wild horses, criss-crossing the space in every direction. There came to be as many horses behind him as in front or on either side. They streaked by like specters. Then, despite dust-clogged nostrils, Chane caught the odor of blood. From this he concluded that he had reached the vicinity of the wire fence.

  Wheeling Brutus and slowing to a trot, Chane headed to the left, away from the increasingly thickening streams of horses. As far as he could tell, the riders had driven thousands of horses down into the notch of the trap. Pandemonium certainly reigned down in that pall of dust. Soon Chane rode out into clearer atmosphere where he could see, and found that his deductions were not far short of the mark. All the riders evidently had worked down into the triangle he had left. Still wild horses were numerous, running both ways. They were mad with terror.

  Chane at last came upon the left flange of the fence. It presented a grewsome spectacle, that part of it which was still standing. Bits of flesh and tufts of hair showed on the sagging wires, and many places red with blood. The top wire was gone entirely; sections of the fence had been laid flat or carried out of sight; posts were broken and leaning. Farther east along this flange the fence was intact, and here Chane began to encounter crippled and dying horses. Promptly he shot them. Brutus reacted strangely to this work: he did not balk or show unwillingness to go on, but he grew exceedingly nervous.

  Most of these wounded horses had been cut across the chest, great deep gaps from which the blood poured. It sickened Chane, yet relentlessly he rode on, until no more horses appeared along that flange of the fence. Upon riding back he saw the dust lifting, rolling away on the wind, and through the cloud a blood-red westering sun shone with weird sinister effect. Strings of horses were running north and west, away from that fatal notch. In the huge corral a dark mass of horses, acres in area, moved in close contact; and the whistling, snorting, squealing din was terrific.

  Chane heard a spatting of gun-shots, out along the western flange of the fence, and as he neared the center of the notch he espied Utah riding in, manifestly from the merciful task of ending the misery of crippled mustangs. Chane’s heart was heavy and sore and there had risen in him a temper that boded ill.

  At length he reached the spot where Melberne and his riders formed a singular group. Some were still sitting their wet heaving horses; Chess hunched on the ground with his face in his hands; Captain Bunk was trying to walk; Alonzo was so pasted with froth from his horse as to be unrecognizable in feature; Miller was a dust-begrimed rider who would never have been taken for a white man. Utah came riding up, his gun in his hand, a black sternness on his lean face. Lough- bridge was jabbering like a wild man, beside himself, evidently, with the extraordinary success of the drive.

  “Seventeen hundred! More mebbe! Near two thousand horses trapped! We’ve struck a gold mine!” he shouted.

  Manerube received this acclaim as one his just due, but as he encountered Chane’s gaze his pompous air suffered a blight.

  Chane last bent a curious look upon Melberne. This was where the Texan must be judged. The leader of the outfit showed nothing of the feeling that characterized Loughbridge. He was weary, and heavy on his feet.

  “Well, Melberne, what do you think of your barbed- wire drive?” demanded Chane, in a voice full of scorn and curiosity.

  Melberne turned to disclose a gray face and gleaming eyes. He seemed another man. Savagely he cursed, and gave Chane no intelligible reply. But his profanity was expressive enough. It took the edge off Chane’s bitterness, as he replied:

  “Man, the worst is yet to come.”

  Chapter Eleven

  DUST found the weary riders approaching camp.

  Chane led the cavalcade, finding Brutus, as always, light of foot and eager to get home. The flickering camp fire shone like a pin point through the gathering darkness, growing larger and brighter as he rode on. At last Chane, announced by a shrill neigh from Brutus, entered the circle of firelight.

  The womenfolk, excited and anxious at his arrival, inquired as one voice the whereabouts of the men and if all was well.

  “They’ll be in soon. It’s been a tough day, and I reckon Brutus is the only horse not dead beat,” replied Chane as he wearily swung out of the saddle.

  “Good!” ejaculated Mrs. Melberne. “Hungry as bears you’ll all be. We’ll have supper ready right off.”

  Sue Melberne limped out of the shadow into the firelight. She was bareheaded and her eyes seemed unnaturally large and dark in her pale face.

  “Tell me—was it successful—the drive?” she asked, intensely.

  “Successful ? Yes, if you mean a big bunch of horses captured,” replied Chane, slowly.

  “I don’t mean numbers. Were they caught without crippling and torturing many?”

  “No. I’m sorry to say it was the bloodiest mess I ever saw,” returned Chane, grimly. “I wouldn’t tell you how many horses I shot—how they looked. We can never tell the number that broke through the barbed wire—to die lingering deaths down in the desert.”

  “Oh! I feared that!” said Sue, in distress. “How —how did dad take it?”

  “I’d rather not say what I think,” returned Chane, and led Brutus away into the grove to have a care fo
r him.

  A little later, when Chane went back to the camp fire, all the riders were in and more than ready for the bountiful supper spread by the women. Mostly they ate in silence and like famished wolves. Chane was as hungry as any of them, but he did not miss word or look that passed. He was curious to see the reaction of this day.

  Loughbridge, somewhat rested and with appetite satisfied, reverted again to the manner and expression which had so disgusted Chane at the end of the drive. Naturally, after supper, the talk waged vigorously, and opinions, deductions, forecasts were as many and varied as the personalities of the riders. Loughbridge was already raking in big profits from the drive. Manerube had taken upon himself the honors of a hero, and swaggered before the listening women. Chess sat hollow-eyed and raging, his voice lifted high. Melberne presented a queer contrast. He had not spoken a word, but he no longer seemed stultified and thick. Presently Manerube detached himself from the half-circle of men on one side of the camp fire and crossed to where the women sat listening. Ora obviously gave him the cold shoulder. Sue, however, began to question him eagerly.

  “You women go to bed,” spoke up Melberne, gruffly.

  His wife obediently left the group, but Mrs. Loughbridge and Ora paid no attention to him, and if Sue heard she gave no sign. She stood looking up at Manerube with an interest which could very easily be misunderstood.

  “Sue, I told you to go to bed,” called Melberne, sharply.

  “But I’m not sleepy,” protested Sue. “I want to hear all about—”

  “Go to bed!” interrupted her father, in a voice that Chane had never before heard him use, and he swore at her.

  “Why—dad!” faltered Sue, shocked out of her usual independent spirit.

  “You seem to take it for granted there’s only one man heah,” replied Melberne, sarcastically. “The rest of us were aboot when it happened, I reckon.”

  Sue’s pale face flamed, and turning away without another word she limped into the shadow.

  Chane felt sorry for her, that she should be so pointedly reprimanded by her father before them all, but the significance of the incident made his heart beat quickly. The situation grew more to his liking. Sooner or later he would find himself vindicated.

  “Loughbridge, listen heah,” said Melberne, deliberately. “You remember our deal. I lent you the money for this outfit an’ you were to pay me half out of your share of the proceeds of our wild-horse huntin’.”

  “Yes, I reckon thet was the deal,” replied the other, somewhat wonderingly.

  “Wal, on condition I boss this outfit I’ll consider your debt paid right heah. How about it?”

  “Suits me fine, Mel,” returned Loughbridge, with his greedy smile.

  “Ahuh! All right, it’s settled,” went on Melberne, and then turned to Manerube. “You said we’d divide the outfit into two squads for this ropin’ an’ hawg-tyin’ stunt tomorrow. Now I’m tellin’ you to pick your men.”

  “All I need is some help,” said Manerube. “I’ll do the roping and tying. My men will be Loughbridge, Miller, Alonzo, and Utah.”

  “Nope, you’re wrong, Mister Manerube,” retorted Utah, coolly. “I wouldn’t be on your side.”

  “Utah, you’ll take orders,” said Melberne, testily.

  “Shore, but not from him. An’ if you say for me to go on his side, I quit.”

  “Manerube, pick another man,” returned the leader.

  “Bonny,” said Manerube, shortly.

  “Wal, that leaves me, Utah, Captain Bunk, an’ the Weymers. Jake can stay in camp,” said Melberne, reflectively. After a moment he addressed Chane. “I reckon you ought to take charge of our squad?”

  There seemed to be a good deal more in Melberne’s mind than he saw fit to speak.

  “If you think so I’ll do it,” replied Chane, slowly.

  “I’m thankin’ you,” said Melberne. “Now, men, you’d better turn in, as I’ll call you aboot three o’clock.”

  Whereupon he left the fire. Chane followed him. Melberne did not walk like a man with hopeful prospects. Chane caught up with him and strode beside him into the grove until they reached a point where Chane’s way led to the left.

  “Melberne,” said Chane as they both halted, “I know how you feel. This drive looks bad. It is bad. And I told you, the worst is yet to come. But I reckoned you’d put too much store on the success of catching large numbers of wild horses for the market. You’ve just followed wrong hunches. This deal will likely lose you money. It’ll do worse than that. It’ll hurt you, because you’re a man with human feelings. But it’s nothing to discourage you as to the future. You’ll do well in Utah. The country has great possibilities that men such as you will develop. So don’t worry. This barbed-wire mess will be over in a few days. You’ll soon get things straight.”

  “Say, Weymer, are you giving me a good hunch?” inquired Melberne.

  “Hardly. I see you’re a little down tonight, and I just wanted you to know I understood.”

  “Ahuh! Wal, mebbe you do,” responded Melberne, heavily, and went his way under the cottonwoods.

  It was one thing for Melberne to say he would rout everybody out at three o’clock next morning and another to accomplish it. As the matter transpired, Chane was the early riding riser who called the men and built the fire and went out after the horses. All these except Brutus had been left in the corral at the far end of the grove. In the darkness Chane had difficulty locating Brutus. Instead of being found, he answered Chape’s whistles and made it easy for Chane, though he did not come in of his own accord. Chane led Brutus back through the grove and gave him a double handful of grain.

  “Chess, wake up. You’re late,” called Chane.

  “I’m—asleep,” mumbled Chess.

  “Roll out and get your horse. Breakfast’s ’most ready.”

  “I’m dead. Aw, Chane, do I have to help murder those poor ponies?”

  “Boy, you’ve got to help me make it as easy as possible for them. Melberne has made me boss of our squad.”

  “I forgot. Sure that’s different,” returned Chess as he rolled out of his blankets, dressed except for his boots.

  Chane found a bustle round the camp fire. Jake was cook, with several assistants. Melberne had a quick, serious manner.

  “What’ll we need?” he asked Chane.

  “Lots of soft rope. Saddlebags for grub and water bags for water. It’ll be a twenty-hour day. And don’t let any fellow forget his gloves!”

  Chane’s squad of five rode out of camp into the dark hour before dawn while Manerube’s men were getting ready. The air was cold, the ground gray with frost, the sky steely blue lighted by white stars. The silent grim men might have been bent on a deadly scouting mission. Chane led at a brisk lope, and when the first streaks of morning brightened the east he drew rein before the huge trap corrals. A whistling and trampling roar attested to the fact that the wild horses had not broken the fence.

  “We’ll wait for the other gang,” said Chane. “Reckon we’d better throw off our saddles. It’ll be noon before we get ready to ride.”

  The men unsaddled, haltered their horses, uncoiled and recoiled their lassoes, and lastly cut the short lengths of soft rope designated as necessary by Chane. When this was done the other squad rode up.

  “You fellars get a hustle on,” said Melberne.

  “No rush,” replied Manerube. “Are any of you fellows betting we don’t tie up two horses to your one?”

  “Manerube, this is a gambling matter for me, but not for you,” retorted Melberne, significantly.

  “Now, boys,” said Chane, “crawl under the wires. We’ll go round to the empty corral.”

  Two corrals had been constructed, one a quarter of a mile in diameter, which now contained the seventeen hundred wild horses, the other smaller in size, and with a fifty-foot gate of poles and wires.

  “Boys, here’s our system,” said Chane, when his men gathered round him inside the empty corral. “We’ll open the gate and let in
ten or a dozen or twenty horses. They won’t need to be driven in yet a while. Keep out of their road. Some wild horses are bad. I’ll do the roping. When I throw a horse you all make a dive to hold him down. Melberne, you’re the heaviest. You sit on his head. Chess, you hold one front foot while I tie up the other. Utah, you know the game. I’m asking you to look out for Cap till he gets the hang of it.”

  Manerube’s squad now appeared in the gray gloom of the morning, and all approached the wide gate. When it had been released at the fastening it was swung open wide. Horses were thick in the gray obscurity of the larger corral, but evidently the dim light did not prevent them from seeing well. Soon a wild leader shot through like an arrow from a bow, to be followed by several passing swift as flashes, and then by a string of them, whistling and plunging.

  “Enough. Shut the gate!” yelled Chane. They were just in time to stop a stampede. “Now follow me round,” added Chane, and broke into a run toward the dim shapes of the wild horses. Chane swung his lasso as he ran. Its use was an old story to him. As a boy he could rope the sombrero off a cowboy’s head as dexterously as it might have been snatched by hand.

  “Chase them past me,” yelled Chane. “Chess, you stick by me to lend a hand. If a horse gets the jerk on me instead of me getting it on him, I’m liable to be yanked out of my boots.”

  A group of wild horses broke up and scattered, running everywhere. Chane ran forward, to one side, swinging a wide loop round his head. In the dim gray he had to guess at distance. But this roping was as much a feeling with Chane as an action. Several horses raced past. At the fourth, a lean wild bay, clearly outlined against the gray, Chane cast his lasso. He did not need to see the horse run into the loop.'' Bracing himself, Chane gave a sudden powerful jerk just as the noose went taut round the forelegs of this horse. It was in the middle of his leap, and he went down heavily.

  “Quick!” yelled Chane to his comrades as hand over hand he closed in on his quarry. Melberne plunged down on the head of the prostrate horse. Utah was almost as quick at his flanks. Captain Bunk fell on the middle of the horse. “Good! Hold hard,” shouted Chane. “I got both his legs.”