by Zane Grey
The stallion might have been fast in quicksand, up to his body, for all the movement he could make. He could move only his head. He held that up, his eyes wild, showing the whites, his foaming mouth wide open, his teeth gleaming. A sound like a scream rent the air. Terrible fear and hate were expressed in that piercing neigh. And shaggy, wet, dusty red, with all of brute savageness in the look and action of his head, he appeared hideous.
As Slone leaped within roping distance the avalanche slipped a foot or two, halted, slipped once more, and slowly started again with that low roar. He did not care whether it slipped or stopped. Like a wolf he leaped closer, whirling his rope. The loop hissed round his head and whistled as he flung it. And when fiercely he jerked back on the rope, the noose closed tight round Wildfire’s neck.
“By God—I—got—a rope—on him!” cried Slone, in hoarse pants.
He stared, unbelieving. It was unreal, that sight—unreal like the slow, grinding movement of the avalanche under him. Wildfire’s head seemed a demon head of hate. It reached out, mouth agape, to bite, to rend. That horrible scream could not be the scream of a horse.
Slone was a wild-horse hunter, a rider, and when that second of incredulity flashed by, then came the moment of triumph. No moment could ever equal that one, when he realized he stood there with a rope around that grand stallion’s neck. All the days and the miles and the toil and the endurance and the hopelessness and the hunger were paid for in that moment. His heart seemed too large for his breast.
“I tracked—you!” he cried, savagely. “I stayed—with you!… An’ I got a rope—on you! An’—I’ll ride you—you red devil!”
The passion of the man was intense. That endless, racking pursuit had brought out all the hardness the desert had engendered in him. Almost hate, instead of love, spoke in Slone’s words. He hauled on the lasso, pulling the stallion’s head down and down. The action was the lust of capture as well as the rider’s instinctive motive to make the horse fear him. Life was unquenchably wild and strong in that stallion; it showed in the terror which made him hideous. And man and beast somehow resembled each other in that moment which was inimical to noble life.
The avalanche slipped with little jerks, as if treacherously loosing its hold for a long plunge. The line of fire below ate at the bleached grass and the long column of smoke curled away on the wind.
Slone held the taut lasso with his left hand, and with the right he swung the other rope, catching the noose round Wildfire’s nose. Then letting go of the first rope he hauled on the other, pulling the head of the stallion far down. Hand over hand Slone closed in on the horse. He leaped on Wildfire’s head, pressed it down, and, holding it down on the sand with his knees, with swift fingers he tied the noose in a hackamore—an improvised halter. Then, just as swiftly, he bound his scarf tight round Wildfire’s head, blindfolding him.
“All so easy!” exclaimed Slone, under his breath. “Lord! who would believe it!… Is it a dream?”
He rose and let the stallion have a free head.
“Wildfire, I got a rope on you—an’ a hackamore—an’ a blinder,” said Slone. “An’ if I had a bridle I’d put that on you.… Who’d ever believe you’d catch yourself, draggin’ in the sand?”
Slone, finding himself falling on the sand, grew alive to the augmented movement of the avalanche. It had begun to slide, to heave and bulge and crack. Dust rose in clouds from all around. The sand appeared to open and let him sink to his knees. The rattle of gravel was drowned in a soft roar. Then he shot down swiftly, holding the lassoes, keeping himself erect, and riding as if in a boat. He felt the successive steps of the slope, and then the long incline below, and then the checking and rising and spreading of the avalanche as it slowed down on the level. All movement then was checked violently. He appeared to be half buried in sand. While he struggled to extricate himself the thick dust blew away and settled so that he could see. Wildfire lay before him, at the edge of the slide, and now he was not so deeply embedded as he had been up on the slope. He was struggling and probably soon would have been able to get out. The line of fire was close now, but Slone did not fear that.
At his shrill whistle Nagger bounded toward him, obedient, but snorting, with ears laid back. He halted. A second whistle started him again. Slone finally dug himself out of the sand, pulled the lassoes out, and ran the length of them toward Nagger. The black showed both fear and fight. His eyes rolled and he half shied away.
“Come on!” called Slone, harshly.
He got a hand on the horse, pulled him round, and, mounting in a flash, wound both lassoes round the pommel of the saddle.
“Haul him out, Nagger, old boy!” cried Slone, and he dug spurs into the black.
One plunge of Nagger’s slid the stallion out of the sand. Snorting, wild, blinded, Wildfire got up, shaking in every limb. He could not see his enemies. The blowing smoke, right in his nose, made scent impossible. But in the taut lassoes he sensed the direction of his captors. He plunged, rearing at the end of the plunge, and struck out viciously with his hoofs. Slone, quick with spur and bridle, swerved Nagger aside and Wildfire, off his balance, went down with a crash. Slone dragged him, stretched him out, pulled him over twice before he got forefeet planted. Once up, he reared again, screeching his rage, striking wildly with his hoofs. Slone wheeled aside and toppled him over again.
“Wildfire, it’s no fair fight,” he called, grimly. “But you led me a chase.… An’ you learn right now I’m boss!”
Again he dragged the stallion. He was ruthless. He would have to be so, stopping just short of maiming or killing the horse, else he would never break him. But Wildfire was nimble. He got to his feet and this time he lunged out. Nagger, powerful as he was, could not sustain the tremendous shock, and went down. Slone saved himself with a rider’s supple skill, falling clear of the horse, and he leaped again into the saddle as Nagger pounded up. Nagger braced his huge frame and held the plunging stallion. But the saddle slipped a little, the cinches cracked. Slone eased the strain by wheeling after Wildfire.
The horses had worked away from the fire, and Wildfire, free of the stifling smoke, began to break and lunge and pitch, plunging round Nagger in a circle, running blindly, but with unerring scent. Slone, by masterly horsemanship, easily avoided the rushes, and made a pivot of Nagger, round which the wild horse dashed in his frenzy. It seemed that he no longer tried to free himself. He lunged to kill.
“Steady, Nagger, old boy!” Slone kept calling. “He’ll never get at you.… If he slips that blinder I’ll kill him!”
The stallion was a fiend in his fury, quicker than a panther, wonderful on his feet, and powerful as an ox. But he was at a disadvantage. He could not see. And Slone, in his spoken intention to kill Wildfire should the scarf slip, acknowledged that he never would have a chance to master the stallion. Wildfire was bigger, faster, stronger than Slone had believed, and as for spirit, that was a grand and fearful thing to see.
The soft sand in the pass was plowed deep before Wildfire paused in his mad plunges. He was wet and heaving. His red coat seemed to blaze. His mane stood up and his ears lay flat.
Slone uncoiled the lassoes from the pommel and slacked them a little. Wildfire stood up, striking at the air, snorting fiercely. Slone tried to wheel Nagger in close behind the stallion. Both horse and man narrowly escaped the vicious hoofs. But Slone had closed in. He took a desperate chance and spurred Nagger in a single leap as Wildfire reared again. The horses collided. Slone hauled the lassoes tight. The impact threw Wildfire off his balance, just as Slone had calculated, and as the stallion plunged down on four feet Slone spurred Nagger close against him. Wildfire was a little in the lead. He could only half rear now, for the heaving, moving Nagger always against him, jostled him down, and Slone’s iron arm hauled on the short ropes. When Wildfire turned to bite, Slone knocked the vicious nose back with a long swing of his fist.
Up the pass the horses plunged. With a rider’s wild joy Slone saw the long green-and-gray valley, and
the isolated monuments in the distance. There, on that wide stretch, he would break Wildfire. How marvelously luck had favored him at the last!
“Run, you red devil!” Slone called. “Drag us around now till you’re done!”
They left the pass and swept out upon the waste of sage. Slone realized, from the stinging of the sweet wind in his face, that Nagger was being pulled along at a tremendous pace. The faithful black could never have made the wind cut so. Lower the wild stallion stretched and swifter he ran, till it seemed to Slone that death must end that thunderbolt race.
CHAPTER VIII
Lucy Bostil had called twice to her father and he had not answered. He was out at the hitching-rail, with Holley, the rider, and two other men. If he heard Lucy he gave no sign of it. She had on her chaps and did not care to go any farther than the door where she stood.
“Somers has gone to Durango an’ Shugrue is out huntin’ hosses,” Lucy heard Bostil say, gruffly.
“Wal now, I reckon I could handle the boat an’ fetch Creech’s hosses over,” said Holley.
Bostil raised an impatient hand, as if to wave aside Holley’s assumption.
Then one of the other two men spoke up. Lucy had seen him before, but did not know his name.
“Sure there ain’t any need to rustle the job. The river hain’t showed any signs of risin’ yet. But Creech is worryin’. He allus is worryin’ over them hosses. No wonder! Thet Blue Roan is sure a hoss. Yesterday at two miles he showed Creech he was a sight faster than last year. The grass is gone over there. Creech is grainin’ his stock these last few days. An’ thet’s expensive.”
“How about the flat up the cañon?” queried Bostil. “Ain’t there any grass there?”
“Reckon not. It’s the dryest spell Creech ever had,” replied the other. “An’ if there was grass it wouldn’t do him no good. A landslide blocked the only trail up.”
“Bostil, them hosses, the racers special, ought to be brought acrost the river,” said Holley, earnestly. He loved horses and was thinking of them.
“The boat’s got to be patched up,” replied Bostil, shortly.
It occurred to Lucy that her father was also thinking of Creech’s thoroughbreds, but not like Holley. She grew grave and listened intently.
There was an awkward pause. Creech’s rider, whoever he was, evidently tried to conceal his anxiety. He flicked his boots with a quirt. The boots were covered with wet mud. Probably he had crossed the river very recently.
“Wal, when will you have the hosses fetched over?” he asked, deliberately. “Creech’ll want to know.”
“Just as soon as the boat’s mended,” replied Bostil. “I’ll put Shugrue on the job to-morrow.”
“Thanks, Bostil. Sure, thet’ll be all right. Creech’ll be satisfied,” said the rider, as if relieved. Then he mounted, and with his companion trotted down the lane.
The lean, gray Holley bent a keen gaze upon Bostil. But Bostil did not notice that; he appeared preoccupied in thought.
“Bostil, the dry winter an’ spring here ain’t any guarantee thet there wasn’t a lot of snow up in the mountains.”
Holley’s remark startled Bostil.
“No—it ain’t—sure,” he replied.
“An’ any morning’ along now we might wake up to hear the Colorado boomin’,” went on Holley, significantly.
Bostil did not reply to that.
“Creech hain’t lived over there so many years. What’s he know about the river? An’ fer that matter, who knows anythin’ sure about thet hell-bent river?”
“It ain’t my business thet Creech lives over there riskin’ his stock every spring,” replied Bostil, darkly.
Holley opened his lips to speak, hesitated, looked away from Bostil, and finally said, “No, it sure ain’t.” Then he turned and walked away, head bent in sober thought.
Bostil came toward the open door where Lucy stood. He looked somber. At her greeting he seemed startled.
“What?” he said.
“I just said, ‘Hello, Dad,’” she replied, demurely. Yet she thoughtfully studied her father’s dark face.
“Hello yourself.… Did you know Van got throwed an’ hurt?”
“Yes.”
Bostil swore under his breath. “There ain’t any riders on the range thet can be trusted,” he said, disgustedly. “They’re all the same. They like to get in a bunch an’ jeer each other an’ bet. They want mean hosses. They make good hosses buck. They haven’t any use for a horse thet won’t buck. They all want to give a hoss a rakin’ over.… Think of thet fool Van gettin’ throwed by a two-dollar Ute mustang. An’ hurt so he can’t ride for days! With them races comin’ soon! It makes me sick.”
“Dad, weren’t you a rider once?” asked Lucy.
“I never was thet kind.”
“Van will be all right in a few days.”
“No matter. It’s bad business. If I had any other rider who could handle the King I’d let Van go.”
“I can get just as much out of the King as Van can,” said Lucy, spiritedly.
“You!” exclaimed Bostil. But there was pride in his glance.
“I know I can.”
“You never had any use for Sage King,” said Bostil, as if he had been wronged.
“I love the King a little, and hate him a lot,” laughed Lucy.
“Wal, I might let you ride at thet, if Van ain’t in shape,” rejoined her father.
“I wouldn’t ride him in the race. But I’ll keep him in fine fettle.”
“I’ll bet you’d like to see Sarch beat him,” said Bostil, jealously.
“Sure I would,” replied Lucy, teasingly. “But, Dad, I’m afraid Sarch never will beat him.”
Bostil grunted. “See here. I don’t want any weight up on the King. You take him out for a few days. An’ ride him! Savvy thet?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Give him miles an’ miles—an’ then comin’ home, on good trails, ride him for all your worth.… Now, Lucy, keep your eye open. Don’t let anyone get near you on the sage.”
“I won’t.… Dad, do you still worry about poor Joel Creech?”
“Not Joel. But I’d rather lose all my stock than have Cordts or Dick Sears get within a mile of you.”
“A mile!” exclaimed Lucy, lightly, though a fleeting shade crossed her face. “Why, I’d run away from him, if I was on the King, even if he got within ten yards of me.”
“A mile is close enough, my daughter,” replied Bostil. “Don’t ever forget to keep your eye open. Cordts has sworn thet if he can’t steal the King he’ll get you.”
“Oh! He prefers the horse to me.”
“Wal, Lucy, I’ve a sneakin’ idea thet Cordts will never leave the uplands unless he gets you an’ the King both.”
“And, Dad—you consented to let that horse-thief come to our races?” exclaimed Lucy, with heat.
“Why not? He can’t do any harm. If he or his men get uppish, the worse for them. Cordts gave his word not to turn a trick till after the races.”
“Do you trust him?”
“Yes. But his men might break loose, away from his sight. Especially thet Dick Sears. He’s a bad man. So be watchful whenever you ride out.”
As Lucy went down toward the corrals she was thinking deeply. She could always tell, woman-like, when her father was excited or agitated. She remembered the conversation between him and Creech’s rider. She remembered the keen glance old Holley had bent upon him. And mostly she remembered the somber look upon his face. She did not like that. Once, when a little girl, she had seen it and never forgotten it, nor the thing that it was associated with—something tragical which had happened in the big room. There had been loud, angry voices of men—and shots—and then the men carried out a long form covered with a blanket. She loved her father, but there was a side of him she feared. And somehow related to that side was his hardness toward Creech and his intolerance of any rider owning a fast horse and his obsession in regard to his own racers. Lucy had often tanta
lized her father with the joke that if it ever came to a choice between her and his favorites they would come first. But was it any longer a joke? Lucy felt that she had left childhood behind with its fun and fancies, and she had begun to look at life thoughtfully.
Sight of the corrals, however, and of the King prancing around, drove serious thoughts away. There were riders there, among them Farlane, and they all had pleasant greetings for her.
“Farlane, Dad says I’m to take out Sage King,” announced Lucy.
“No!” ejaculated Farlane, as he pocketed his pipe.
“Sure. And I’m to ride him. You know how Dad means that.”
“Wal, now, I’m doggoned!” added Farlane, looking worried and pleased at once. “I reckon, Miss Lucy, you—you wouldn’t fool me?”
“Why, Farlane!” returned Lucy, reproachfully. “Did I ever do a single thing around horses that you didn’t want me to?”
Farlane rubbed his chin beard somewhat dubiously. “Wal, Miss Lucy, not exactly while you was around the hosses. But I reckon when you onct got up, you’ve sorta forgot a few times.”
All the riders laughed, and Lucy joined them.
“I’m safe when I’m up, you know that,” she replied.
They brought out the gray, and after the manner of riders who had the care of a great horse and loved him, they curried and combed and rubbed him before saddling him.
“Reckon you’d better ride Van’s saddle,” suggested Farlane. “Them races is close now, an’ a strange saddle—”
“Of course. Don’t change anything he’s used to, except the stirrups,” replied Lucy.
Despite her antipathy toward Sage King, Lucy could not gaze at him without all a rider’s glory in a horse. He was sleek, so graceful, so racy, so near the soft gray of the sage, so beautiful in build and action. Then he was the kind of a horse that did not have to be eternally watched. He was spirited and full of life, eager to run, but when Farlane called for him to stand still he obeyed. He was the kind of a horse that a child could have played around in safety. He never kicked. He never bit. He never bolted. It was splendid to see him with Farlane or with Bostil. He did not like Lucy very well, a fact that perhaps accounted for Lucy’s antipathy. For that matter, he did not like any woman. If he had a bad trait, it came out when Van rode him, but all the riders, and Bostil, too, claimed that Van was to blame for that.