Grey, Zane - Novel 27

by Wild-Horse Mesa

  “I wouldn’t regard it as—sacrifice,” she whispered.

  “But it is. It’d be wrong. It’d be a crime against your womanhood. I couldn’t accept it. Besides, you’re doing wrong to tempt me. I’m only a poor lonely rider. I’ve always been hungry for a woman. And I’ve never had one. . . . It’s doubly wrong, I tell you.”

  Chane stamped up and down the narrow place behind the rock. Hard violent action in the open had been his life: he brought it to bear on the conflict in his breast. With a black, hot, tearing wrench he got rid of the spell.

  “Sue, I brought this—on myself,” he said, gentle of tone, though his voice broke. “I wanted to hear you beg for Panquitch. I wanted you to be close to me. It was madness. All the time I was lying. For the moment you asked me to free Panquitch I meant to do it. You helped me catch him. You can free him.”

  Sue walked straight to him, closer than before, almost into his arms. The poise of head, the radiance of face, the eloquence of eye—these had vanished and she seemed stranger than before, a pale thing reaching for him.

  “That will make me happy, but only—if I can pay —my debt,” she faltered.

  “What do you mean?” demanded Chane, harshly.

  “If you free Panquitch you must make me—your wife.”

  “Are you out of your head or lying to me?”

  “Both,” she whispered, and fell against him.

  Chane clasped her in his arms, and held her closer and closer, sure in his bewilderment of only one thing, that if she persisted she would break him down. But now she was in his arms. Her head drooped so that he could not see her face, but she was stirring, turning to him, sinking on his breast. Never could he let her go now! It was all so astounding. His mind and body now seemed to leap to the sweetness of possession. The golden amber sunlight of the canyon moved about him like a glory of lightning, and it was certain that thunders filled his ears. He was realizing what he could not believe. The stunning truth was that Sue Melberne lay in his arms, strangely willing. That was enough for his hungry heart, but his conscience stormed at him. Then, last of all, he felt as in a dream Sue’s arms go up round his neck and fasten there.

  “My God!” ... he gasped. “Sue, this can’t be for Panquitch.”

  Her face came up, white like a flower, wet with tears. But strain and strife were gone.

  “If you had any sense you’d have known I—I loved you!”

  “Sue Melberne!”

  “Now, my wild-horse hunter, take your rope off Panquitch—and put it on me,” she replied, and raised her lips to his.

  A little later Chane took the rope out of Chess’s hands and held it to Sue. Then he knelt to slip off the noose of the other lasso, the one that was tied to the saddle on Brutus. Swiftly Chane stripped this from the stallion.

  “Hey! What you doing?” yelled Chess, in amazement. “He’s come to. The son-of-a-gun will be on his feet in a jiffy.”

  Chane apparently took no note of Chess’s concern. This moment was full of unutterable joy in that he was making Sue happy and slipping his rope off Panquitch—freeing the last wild horse he would ever capture. Bending over the stallion he loosed the knot round the forelegs.

  “Pull it—easy,” he called to Sue.

  Chess actually leaped up in the air, to come down with cracking boots.

  “What—the—hell!” he cried, piercingly.

  Sue drew the lasso taut, and slid it gently from the stallion. He gave a fierce snort. Then he raised his head. Actually he looked at his legs, and then with muscles knotting all over his body he heaved hard and got up. He was free and he knew it. Hate and fear flamed in his bloodshot eyes. Chane thrilled when he met that look and knew in his soul what he was giving up. Panquitch stood for a moment, with his breaths audible. Thus Chane saw him close, standing unfettered, in all his magnificent and matchless beauty. Indeed, he was a lion of wild horses. Perfect in build, perfect in color, the rarest combination and the only one Chane had ever seen in a tawny shade of yellow, with flowing mane and tail black as night. He had not a scar, not a blemish, not a fault. He represented the supreme handiwork of nature—a creature too beautiful, too proud, too noble, too wild for the yoke of man.

  Panquitch shook himself and moved away. He was still weak, but his spirit showed in his prance. He snorted fiercely at Brutus. And Brutus returned the challenge.

  “Run—oh, Panquitch, run!” cried Sue, with rich and mellow sweetness in her voice.

  But the stallion did not run. His slow action was that of a spent horse. Keeping to the middle of the canyon, he trotted on, by the sand patch where lately he had pranced so proudly, by the cottonwood grove and the wavy slope of rock, and on, out of sight.

  Then Chess exploded. He cursed, he raved, he glared, not for a full moment becoming intelligible.

  “You let him go! Panquitch, the greatest wild horse in the world. You had him. You could have given him to me. I’ve no great horse, like Brutus. I always wanted one. . . . Let him go for Manerube to rope! Or some damned lucky rider who’ll happen on him before he recovers. . . . Oh, you’re locoed. The two of you. Sue, you’re a sentimental fool. Chane, you’re a damn fool. ... I could cry. Chane, whatever has eome over you?”

  “Chess, I reckon I’m no longer boss of the Weymer outfit,” replied Chane, striving to keep undue pride and joy out of his words, but failing utterly.

  “Hey?” ejaculated Chess, as if he had been struck.

  His mouth opened wide, likewise his eyes, and he made a picture of stupidity and incredulity.

  “Little Boy Blue, I’m sure going to be your sister,” said Sue, with all of gladness.

  Suddenly transfigured with rapture, Chess made at them.

  Chapter Sixteen

  CHANE strode up the canyon as one in a dream, leading Brutus, with Sue in the saddle. From time to time he looked back to see if she were a reality. Her dark eyes shone, her lips were parted. There was a smile on her face, an exquisite light, a spirit that must be the love she had confessed. Life had become immeasurably full and sweet for him.

  Chess had passed from every manner of congratulation, boastfulness as to his bringing about this match, delight in Chane’s good fortune, back to his former despair at the loss of Panquitch.

  “Now you two have each other, you don’t care for nothing,” he growled, with finality, and forged on ahead to leave them alone.

  It appeared to be about the middle of the afternoon when the amber light of the canyon began to tinge with purple. The breeze had ceased and the air was warm. Less tremendous grew the looming walls, wider the stream of blue sky overhead, lower the rims, and therefore the oppressiveness began to wane, and the sense of overpowering weight and silence.

  In many places showed the fresh tracks of the wild horses, last of which were those of Panquitch. He was following his band, on the way to the uplands. Chane would have preferred that they had turned off at the wavy slope below and were now safe under the lee of Wild Horse Mesa. Panquitch, in his spent condition, would hardly be able to escape a fast rider.

  Still, Chane’s exalted mind could not harbor misgiving, or doubt, or anxiety, not on this day in which he had been lifted to the kingdom of happiness.

  Chess strode on with his head bent, his gaze on the tracks of Panquitch, and he passed out of sight round a bend in the canyon.

  Many times Chane halted to let Brutus come abreast of him, so that he could look up at Sue or touch her. And all at once something which had been forming in his mind coalesced into an insupportable query.

  “Sue, when will you marry me?”

  She laughed happily. “Why, we’ve only just become engaged,” she replied, roguishly.

  “Darling, this is the wild canyon country of Utah,” he protested. “People only stay engaged in cities or settlements.”

  “We’ll really be pioneers, won’t we?”

  “Yes. But I shall always see that you go into civilization every summer, for a visit. ... Tell me, how long must I wait?”

  A
rosy glow vied with the gold of Sue’s warm cheek.

  “Surely until Uncle Jim comes,” she said, shyly.

  “Your uncle! I remember now—he’s a preacher. And he may come yet this fall, certain in the spring?”

  “I wish I could fib to you,” returned Sue, “and say spring. But dad is sure Uncle Jim will come by Thanksgiving.”

  He pressed her hand, unable to utter his profound joy and gratitude. Then he took up the bridle and strode on, leading Brutus. He saw the widening canyon, the sand bars cut up by many hoofs, the lowering rims, the shallow brook, yet he was not conscious of them, for he walked as one in a trance.

  The time came when ahead the canyon made a curve into brighter light. Beyond this point was the junction of the four canyons where camp had been made. As Chane turned the corner Brutus shied so violently that he tore the bridle from Chane’s grasp.

  “Hands up, Weymer,” called a rough, husky voice.

  Chane’s dream was rudely shattered. More than once he had heard the ominous note which rang now in his ears. He was unarmed. He raised his hands, and at the same instant he saw a dark-bearded man, with leveled gun, stride from behind the cliff.

  “Up they are,” he said, and ground his teeth in sudden impotent anger. Then he recognized the man. “Howdy, Slack.”

  “Same to you, Weymer,” replied the other, sidling round in front of Chane toward Brutus.

  “Reckon you see I’m not packing a gun.”

  “Yep, I shore was glad you wasn’t wearin’ any hardware. But just keep your hands up an’ a respectable distance. I’m a distrustful fellar,” replied Slack, and presently, getting within reach of Brutus, he secured the bridle.

  Chane’s line of vision, as he stood rigidly, did not include Sue, until Slack led Brutus forward. Then she appeared, white of face and mute in her fear. Manifestly she had no thought of herself, but of the gun Slack held leveled at Chane.

  “Mosey on in front, Weymer,” ordered the outlaw.

  Chane had no choice but to comply. He had been in such situations before, and this one would not have greatly perturbed him if Sue had not been there. He lowered his hands and strode on towards the camp, intensely curious to see if what he found there would be identical with what he expected.

  The triangular space of intersecting canyons presently came unobstructed to his view. A camp fire was burning, and several men surrounded it, one of them sitting. Even at considerable distance Chane recognized the hard lean face of Bud McPherson.

  Chess sat on a stone to one side, with his hands tied behind his back. Melberne did not appear to be present.

  “Oh, there’s Panquitch!” burst out Sue, in shrill distress.

  Chane, shocked at Sue’s exclamation, saw a number of horses, all saddled, standing bridles down, to the left of the camp-fire group.

  “Look! Look!” cried Sue, as if choking.

  As Chane did not know where she was looking and did not care to take too many risks with Slack, he shifted his gaze in search of the stallion.

  “Chane! Look!” screamed Sue, this time with fury and horror.

  “Manerube! Manerube! he’s got a rope on Panquitch!”

  The content of her words flashed on Chane just as he espied Manerube hanging to two lassoes that were fast on Panquitch. The great stallion was holding back with a spirit vastly in excess of his strength.

  Many as had been the bitter moments of Chane’s life, that was the bitterest. Sue’s cry of anguish rang in his ears. The wild horse which she had loved and freed was now in the power of a hated rider. It was a blow that to Chane struck home acutely. Panquitch, spent from his fight in the canyon pool, and expending what little strength he had left to catch up with his band, had fallen easily into Manerube’s clutches. The cheap and arrogant rider probably had not even credited his capture to the weakened condition of the stallion. He was crowing like a game cock over his prize, with his braggart’s and bully’s air more pronounced than ever. He whipped the ropes that secured Panquitch, making the horse flinch. The effect of this on Chane was to distort his vision with passion and hate, so that it seemed for a moment he was gazing through a blood-red haze.

  “Oh-h!” cried Sue, now deep and poignantly. “He’s hurting Panquitch. I won’t stand it.”

  “Sue, keep still,” ordered Chane, sharply. “We can do nothing.”

  “Hyar, you squallin’ bobcat,” growled Slack, “stop walkin’ your hoss on my heels.”

  They reached the camp fire, with Chane a little in the lead. One of the other men, whose face was familiar but whose name Chane could not recall, drew a gun and pointed it at him.

  “Bill, he ain’t got no gun, but your idee is correct,” drawled Slack, and turning to Sue he laid a rough and meaning hand upon her, which she repulsed in anger. Then Slack swore at her and pulled her out of the saddle

  “Say, wench, if you know when you’re well off, you’ll be sweet instead of catty,” he declared.

  On the moment, when the other men were hawhawing at Slack’s sally, Chane happened to catch Sue’s eye and conveyed to her in one glance the peril of the situation.

  “Howdy, Weymer,” said Bud McPherson, coolly. “I’m savin’ some of your good grub.”

  “Howdy, Bud. It’s a habit of yours to help yourself to other people’s property,” rejoined Chane. This outlaw was the most dangerous of the group, Chane decided, though he knew little of the two strangers who had followed Manerube from Wund. But McPherson, though a horse thief and a bad man, had elements that Manerube and the others did not show. He was not little.

  Back of the camp fire, near where Chess sat bowed and disconsolate, crouched another man, also tied, and he appeared a pretty worn and miserable object. Chane at last recognized the unshaven and haggard face.

  “Loughbridge!” he ejaculated, in both amaze and satisfaction. “Well, what’re you hawg-tied for? Reckoned you’d thrown in with this outfit.”

  “Weymer, I was fooled worse’n Melberne,” said Loughbridge. “I took Manerube at his brag I had no idea he was a hoss thief—”

  “Stop your gab!” yelled Manerube, stridently. “You’re a white-livered liar. I’m not a horse thief.”

  “Bud, give it to me straight,” said Chane. “What’s the deal with Loughbridge?”

  "Wal, it ain’t so clear to me,” replied McPherson, wiping his mouth and scant beard and rising to his feet. “Somebody gimme a smoke. . . . Fact is, Weymer, I. wasn’t keen on havin’ this man thrown in with us. Wal, when he found out our plan to appropriate Mel- berne’s stock-—which shore come out at this camp—he hedged an’ began to blunter. You know I never argue. So we just put a halter on him.”

  “Where’s Melberne?” added Chane.

  “Shore you ought to know. We’re waitin’ fer him.”

  “Then what?” demanded Chane.

  “Weymer, you alius was a hell-bent-pronto hormbre,” declared McPherson, with good humor. “Reckon you want to know bad what the deal is. Wal, I’ll tell you. We’ve been loafin’ in camp waitin’ for you-all to ketch the last bunch of hosses before fall set in cold. Then we seen them two Piutes prowlin’ around, an’ we figgered they’d fetched you another bunch of mustangs. Wal, the deal is hyar. When Melberne comes we’ll rustle back to his homestead an’ relieve you-all of considerable hoss wranglin’ an’ feedin’ this winter.”

  “Then, next summer, you’ll look us up again,” asserted Chane, with sarcasm.

  “Haw! haw! You shore hit it plumb center,” rejoined the ruffian.

  “Bud, you’re no fool,” said Chane, seriously. “You can’t keep up this sort of thing. Somebody will kill you. Why don’t you cut loose from these two-bit wranglers you’ve been riding with? I’ve known horse thieves to go back to honest ranching. It paid.” McPherson had no guffaw or badinage for this speech of Chane’s. It went home. His frankness relieved Chane. McPherson would hardly resort to blood-spilling unless thwarted or cornered. Chane felt greatest anxiety on behalf of Sue. The outlaw leader, however, had never stru
ck Chane as being a man to mistreat women, white or red. Slack was vicious, but under control of McPherson. It narrowed down to Manerube.

  This individual swaggered into the camp circle. He had stretched two ropes on Panquitch, in opposite directions, and for the time being the great stallion was tractable. Manerabe’s blond face showed heat, not all of excitement. He shot a malignant glance at Chane, and leered. The true nature of the man came out when he was on the side in control. As he turned to look Sue up and down, Chane saw the surge of blood ridge his neck. Chane also saw a whisky flask in his hip pocket and a gun in his belt.

  “Bud, I heard you weren’t boss of your outfit,” said Chane, whose wits were active.

  “Huh! The hell you did. When an’ whar did you hear thet?”

  “Reckon it was in Wund, when we drove Melberne’s horses in.”

  “Wal, you heerd wrong,” replied McPherson, gruffly, and his glance fell on Manerube with a glint that surely fanned a flame of cunning in Chane’s mind.

  “Bud, I trapped Panquitch in a deep hole down in the canyon,” went on Chane. “It was a dirty trick to play on such a horse. I roped him. We had an awful time. He nearly drowned Brutus and me. But we got him out. And then—-what do you think?”

  “I’ve no idee, Weymer,” returned the outlaw, eagerly. He had the true rider’s love for a horse, the true wrangler’s ambition and pride. Only adverse circumstances had made him a thief. Chane knew how to work on his feelings.

  “Bud, I let Panquitch go free!” declared Chane, impressively.

  “Aw now, Weymer, you can’t expect me to believe thet,” said McPherson, with a broad smile.

  “I swear it’s true.”

  “But you’re a wild-hoss wrangler. I’ve heerd of you for years,” declared the outlaw, incredulously.

  “I was. But no more. Bud, I’m giving it to you straight. Panquitch was the last wild horse I’ll ever rope. I let him go free.”

  “But what fer? You darned locoed liar!” shouted McPherson, getting red in the face.