by Zane Grey
“I’m afraid it’s my—spine,” he said.
“But you raised your head once,” she replied. “If your back was—was broken or injured you couldn’t raise your head.”
“So I couldn’t. I guess I’m just knocked out. I was—pretty weak before Wildfire knocked me—off Nagger.”
“Wildfire?”
“That’s the red stallion’s name.”
“Oh, he’s named already?”
“I named him—long ago. He’s known on many a range.”
“Where?”
“I think far north of here. I—trailed him—days—weeks—months. We crossed the great cañon—”
“The Grand Cañon?”
“It must be that.”
“The Grand Cañon is down there,” said Lucy, pointing. “I live on it.… You’ve come a long way.”
“Hundreds of miles!… Oh, the ground I covered—that awful cañon country!… But I stayed with Wildfire. An’ I put a rope on him. An’ he got away.… An’ it was a boy—no—a girl who—saved him for me—an’ maybe saved my life, too!”
Lucy looked away from the dark, staring eyes. A light in them confused her.
“Never mind me. You say you were weak? Have you been ill?”
“No, miss. Just starved.… I starved on Wildfire’s trail.”
Lucy ran to her saddle and got the biscuits out of the pockets of her coat, and she ran back to the rider.
“Here. I never thought. Oh, you’ve had a hard time of it! I understand. That wonderful flame of a horse! I’d have stayed, too. My father was a rider once. Bostil. Did you ever hear of him?”
“Bostil. The name—I’ve heard.” Then the rider lay thinking, as he munched a biscuit. “Yes, I remember, but it was long ago. I spent a night with a wagon-train, a camp of many men and women, religious people, working into Utah. Bostil had a boat at the crossing of the Fathers.”
“Yes, they called the Ferry that.”
“I remember well now. They said Bostil couldn’t count his horses—that he was a rich man, hard on riders—an’ he’d used a gun more than once.”
Lucy bowed her head. “Yes, that’s my dad.”
The rider did not seem to see how he had hurt her.
“Here we are talking—wasting time,” she said. “I must start home. You can’t be moved. What shall I do?”
“That’s for you to say, Bostil’s daughter.”
“My name’s Lucy,” replied the girl, blushing painfully. “I mean I’ll be glad to do anything you think best.”
“You’re very good.”
Then he turned his face away. Lucy looked closely at him. He was indeed a beggared rider. His clothes and his boots hung in tatters. He had no hat, no coat, no vest. His gaunt face bore traces of what might have been a fine, strong comeliness, but now it was only thin, worn, wan, pitiful, with that look which always went to a woman’s heart. He had the look of a homeless rider. Lucy had seen a few of his wandering type, and his story was so plain. But he seemed to have a touch of pride, and this quickened her interest.
“Then I’ll do what I think best for you,” said Lucy.
First she unsaddled the black Nagger. With the saddle she made a pillow for the rider’s head, and she covered him with the saddle blanket. Before she had finished this task he turned his eyes upon her. And Lucy felt she would be haunted. Was he badly hurt, after all? It seemed probable. How strange he was!
“I’ll water the horses—then tie Wildfire here on a double rope. There’s grass.”
“But you can’t lead him,” replied the rider.
“He’ll follow me.”
“That red devil!” The rider shuddered as he spoke.
Lucy had some faint inkling of what a terrible fight that had been between man and horse. “Yes; when I found him he was broken. Look at him now.”
But the rider did not appear to want to see the stallion. He gazed up at Lucy, and she saw something in his eyes that made her think of a child. She left him, had no trouble in watering the horses, and haltered Wildfire among the willows on a patch of grass. Then she returned.
“I’ll go now,” she said to the rider.
“Where?”
“Home. I’ll come to-morrow, early, and bring someone to help you—”
“Girl, if you want to help me more—bring me some bread an’ meat. Don’t tell anyone. Look what a ragamuffin I am.… An’ there’s Wildfire. I don’t want him seen till I’m—on my feet again. I know riders.… That’s all. If you want to be so good—come.”
“I’ll come,” replied Lucy, simply.
“Thank you. I owe you—a lot.… What did you say your name was?”
“Lucy—Lucy Bostil.”
“Oh, I forgot.… Are you sure you tied Wildfire good an’ tight?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I’ll go now. I hope you’ll be better to-morrow.”
Lucy hesitated, with her hand on the King’s bridle. She did not like to leave this young man lying there helpless on the desert. But what else could she do? What a strange adventure had befallen her! At the following thought that it was not yet concluded she felt a little stir of excitement at her pulses. She was so strangely preoccupied that she forgot it was necessary for her to have a step to mount Sage King. She realized it quickly enough when she attempted it. Then she led him off in the sage till she found a rock. Mounting, she turned him straight across country, meaning to cut out miles of travel that would have been necessary along her back-trail. Once she looked back. The rider was not visible; the black horse, Nagger, was out of sight, but Wildfire, blazing in the sun, watched her depart.
CHAPTER IX
Lucy Bostil could not control the glow of strange excitement under which she labored, but she could put her mind on the riding of Sage King. She did not realize, however, that she was riding him under the stress and spell of that excitement.
She had headed out to make a short cut, fairly sure of her direction, yet she was not unaware of the fact that she would be lost till she ran across her trail. That might be easy to miss and time was flying. She put the King to a brisk trot, winding through the aisles of the sage.
Soon she had left the monument region and was down on the valley floor again. From time to time she conquered a desire to look back. Presently she was surprised and very glad to ride into a trail where she saw the tracks she had made coming out. With much relief she turned Sage King into this trail, and then any anxiety she had felt left her entirely. But that did not mitigate her excitement. She eased the King into a long, swinging lope. And as he warmed to the work she was aroused also. It was hard to hold him in, once he got out of a trot, and after miles and miles of this, when she thought best to slow down he nearly pulled her arms off. Still she finally got him in hand. Then followed miles of soft and rough going, which seemed long and tedious. Beyond that was the home stretch up the valley, whose gradual slope could be seen only at a distance. Here was a straight, broad trail, not too soft nor too hard, and for all the years she could remember riders had tried out and trained their favorites on that course.
Lucy reached down to assure herself that the cinch was tight, then she pulled her sombrero down hard, slackened the bridle, and let the King go. He simply broke his gait, he was so surprised. Lucy saw him trying to look back at her, as if he could not realize that this young woman rider had given him a free rein. Perhaps one reason he disliked her had been always and everlastingly that tight rein. Like the wary horse he was he took to a canter, to try out what his new freedom meant.
“Say, what’s the matter with you?” called Lucy, disdainfully. “Are you lazy? Or don’t you believe I can ride you?”
Whereupon she dug him with her spurs. Sage King snorted. His action shifted marvelously. Thunder rolled from under his hoofs. And he broke out of that clattering roar into his fleet stride, where his hoof-beats were swift, regular, rhythmic.
Lucy rode him with teeth and fists clenched, bending low. After all, she thought, it was no trick to ride him. In that gait he w
as dangerous, for a fall meant death; but he ran so smoothly that riding him was easy and certainly glorious. He went so fast that the wind blinded her. The trail was only a white streak in blurred gray. She could not get her breath; the wind seemed to whip the air away from her. And then she felt the lessening of the tremendous pace. Sage King had run himself out and the miles were behind her. Gradually her sight became clear, and as the hot and wet horse slowed down, satisfied with his wild run, Lucy realized that she was up on the slope only a few miles from home. Suddenly she thought she saw something dark stir behind a sage-bush just ahead. Before she could move a hand at the bridle Sage King leaped with a frantic snort. It was a swerving, nimble, tremendous bound. He went high. Lucy was unseated, but somehow clung on, and came down with him, finding the saddle. And it seemed, while in the air, she saw a long, snaky, whipping loop of rope shoot out and close just where Sage King’s legs had been.
She screamed. The horse broke and ran. Lucy, righting herself, looked back to see Joel Creech holding a limp lasso. He had tried to rope the King.
The blood of her father was aroused in Lucy. She thought of the horse—not herself. If the King had not been so keen-sighted, so swift, he would have gone down with a broken leg. Lucy never in her life had been so furious.
Joel shook his fist at her and yelled, “I’d ‘a’ got you—on any other hoss!”
She did not reply, though she had to fight herself to keep from pulling her gun and shooting at him. She guided the running horse back into the trail, rapidly leaving Creech out of sight.
“He’s gone crazy, that’s sure,” said Lucy. “And he means me harm!”
She ran the King clear up to the corrals, and he was still going hard when she turned down the lane to the barns. Then she pulled him in.
Farlane was there to meet her. She saw no other riders and was glad.
“Wal, Miss Lucy, the King sure looks good,” said Farlane, as she jumped off and flung him the bridle. “He’s just had about right, judgin’.… Say, girl, you’re all pale! Oh, say, you wasn’t scared of the King, now?”
“No,” replied Lucy, panting.
“Wal, what’s up, then?” The rider spoke in an entirely different voice, and into his clear, hazel eyes a little dark gleam shot.
“Joel Creech waylaid me out in the sage—and—and tried to catch me.” Lucy checked herself. It might not do to tell how Joel had tried to catch her.
“He did? An’ you on the King!” Farlane laughed, as if relieved. “Wal, he’s tried thet before, Miss Lucy. But when you was up on the gray—thet shows Joel’s crazy, sure.”
“He sure is. Farlane, I—I am mad!”
“Wal, cool off, Miss Lucy. It ain’t nothin’ to git set up about. An’ don’t tell the old man.”
“Why not?” demanded Lucy.
“Wal, because he’s in a queer sort of bad mood lately. It wouldn’t be safe. He hates them Creeches. So don’t tell him.”
“All right, Farlane. I won’t. Don’t you tell, either,” replied Lucy, soberly.
“Sure I’ll keep mum. But if Joel doesn’t watch out I’ll put a crimp in him myself.”
Lucy hurried away down the lane and entered the house without meeting anyone. In her room she changed her clothes and lay down to rest and think.
Strangely enough, Lucy might never have encountered Joel Creech out in the sage, for all the thought she gave him. Her mind was busy with the crippled rider. Who was he? Where was he from? What strange passion he had shown over the recovery of that wonderful red horse! Lucy could not forget the feeling of his iron arm when he held her in a kind of frenzied gratitude. A wild upland rider, living only for a wild horse! How like Indians some of these riders! Yet this fellow had seemed different from most of the uncouth riders she had known. He spoke better. He appeared to have had some little schooling. Lucy did not realize that she was interested in him. She thought she was sorry for him and interested in the stallion. She began to compare Wildfire with Sage King, and if she remembered rightly Wildfire, even in his disheveled state, had appeared a worthy rival of the King. What would Bostil say at sight of that flame-colored stallion? Lucy thrilled.
Later she left her room to see if the hour was opportune for her plan to make up a pack of supplies for the rider. Her aunt was busy in the kitchen, and Bostil had not come in. Lucy took advantage of the moment to tie up a pack and carry it to her room. Somehow the task pleased her. She recalled the lean face of the rider. And that recalled his ragged appearance. Why not pack up an outfit of clothes? Bostil had a stock-room full of such accessories for his men. Then Lucy, glowing with the thought, hurried to Bostil’s stock-room, and with deft hands and swift judgment selected an outfit for the rider, even down to a comb and razor. All this she carried quickly to her room, where in her thoughtfulness she added a bit of glass from a broken mirror, and soap and a towel. Then she tied up a second pack.
Bostil did not come home to supper, a circumstance that made Lucy’s aunt cross. They ate alone, and, waiting awhile, were rather late in clearing away the table. After this Lucy had her chance in the dusk of early evening, and she carried both packs way out into the sage and left them near the trail.
“Hope a coyote doesn’t come along,” she said. That possibility, however, did not worry her as much as getting those packs up on the King. How in the world would she ever do it?
She hurried back to the house, stealthily keeping to the shadow of the cottonwoods, for she would have faced an embarrassing situation if she had met her father, even had he been in a good humor. And she reached the sitting-room unobserved. The lamps had been lighted and a log blazed on the hearth. She was reading when Bostil entered.
“Hello, Lucy!” he said.
He looked tired, and Lucy knew he had been drinking, because when he had been he never offered to kiss her. The strange, somber shade was still on his face, but it brightened somewhat at sight of her. Lucy greeted him as always.
“Farlane tells me you handled the King great—better’n Van has worked him lately,” said Bostil. “But don’t tell him I told you.”
That was sweet praise from Farlane. “Oh, Dad, it could hardly be true,” expostulated Lucy. “Both you and Farlane are a little sore at Van now.”
“I’m a lot sore,” replied Bostil, gruffly.
“Anyway, how did Farlane know how I handled Sage King?” queried Lucy.
“Wal, every hair on a hoss talks to Farlane, so Holley says.… Lucy, you take the King out every day for a while. Ride him now an’ watch out! Joel Creech was in the village to-day. He sure sneaked when he seen me. He’s up to some mischief.”
Lucy did not want to lie and she did not know what to say. Presently Bostil bade her good night. Lucy endeavored to read, but her mind continually wandered back to the adventure of the day.
* * *
Next morning she had difficulty in concealing her impatience, but luck favored her. Bostil was not in evidence, and Farlane, for once, could spare no more time than it took to saddle Sage King. Lucy rode out into the sage, pretty sure that no one watched her.
She had hidden the packs near the tallest bunch of greasewood along the trail; and when she halted behind it she had no fear of being seen from the corrals. She got the packs. The light one was not hard to tie back of the saddle, but the large one was a very different matter. She decided to carry it in front. There was a good-sized rock near, upon which she stepped, leading Sage King alongside; and after an exceedingly trying moment she got up, holding the pack. For a wonder Sage King behaved well.
Then she started off, holding the pack across her lap, and she tried the King’s several gaits to see which one would lend itself more comfortably to the task before her. The trouble was that Sage King had no slow gait, even his walk was fast. And Lucy was compelled to hold him into that. She wanted to hurry, but that seemed out of the question. She tried to keep from gazing out toward the monuments, because they were so far away.
How would she find the crippled rider? It flashed into
her mind that she might find him dead, and this seemed horrible. But her common sense persuaded her that she would find him alive and better. The pack was hard to hold, and Sage King fretted at the monotonous walk. The hours dragged. The sun grew hot. And it was noon, almost, when she reached the point where she cut off the trail to the left. Thereafter, with the monuments standing ever higher, and the distance preceptibly lessening, the minutes passed less tediously.
At length she reached the zone of lofty rocks, and found them different, how, she could not tell. She rode down among them, and was glad when she saw the huge mittens—her landmarks. At last she espied the green-bordered wash and the few cedar trees. Then a horse blazed red against the sage and another shone black. That sight made Lucy thrill. She rode on, eager now, but moved by the strangeness of the experience.
Before she got quite close to the cedars she saw a man. He took a few slow steps out of the shade. His back was bent. Lucy recognized the rider, and in her gladness to see him on his feet she cried out. Then, when Sage King reached the spot, Lucy rolled the pack off to the ground.
“Oh, that was a job!” she cried.
The rider looked up with eyes that seemed keener, less staring than she remembered. “You came?… I was afraid you wouldn’t,” he said.
“Sure I came.… You’re better—not badly hurt?” she said, gravely. “I—I’m so glad.”
“I’ve got a crimp in my back, that’s all.”
Lucy was quick to see that after the first glance at her he was all eyes for Sage King. She laughed. How like a rider! She watched him, knowing that presently he would realize what a horse she was riding. She slipped off and threw the bridle, and then, swiftly untying the second pack, she laid it down.
The rider, with slow, painful steps and bent back, approached Sage King and put a lean, strong, brown hand on him, and touched him as if he wished to feel if he were real. Then he whistled softly. When he turned to Lucy his eyes shone with a beautiful light.