by Zane Grey
make in his plans. Hare saw in mind Naab and his sons,
and the Navajos sweeping in pursuit to save him from the rustlers.
But the future must take care of itself, and he addressed all the
faculties at his command to cool consideration of the present. The strip
of sand under the Blue Star had to be crossed at night--a feat which
even the Navajos did not have to their credit. Yet Hare had no
shrinking; he had no doubt; he must go on. As he had been drawn to the
Painted Desert by a voiceless call, so now he was urged forward by
something nameless.
In the blackness of the night it seemed as if he were riding through a
vaulted hall swept by a current of air. The night had turned cold, the
stars had brightened icily, the rumble of the river had died away when
Bolly's ringing trot suddenly changed to a noiseless floundering walk.
She had come upon the sand. Hare saw the Blue Star in the cliff, and
once more loosed the rein on Bolly's neck. She stopped and champed her
bit, and turned her black head to him as if to intimate that she wanted
the guidance of a sure arm. But as it was not forthcoming she stepped
onward into the yielding sand.
With hands resting idly on the pommel Hare sat at ease in the saddle.
The billowy dunes reflected the pale starlight and fell away from him to
darken in obscurity. So long as the Blue Star remained in sight he kept
his sense of direction; when it had disappeared he felt himself lost.
Bolly's course seemed as crooked as the jagged outline of the cliffs.
She climbed straight up little knolls, descended them at an angle,
turned sharply at wind-washed gullies, made winding detours, zigzagged
levels that shone like a polished floor; and at last (so it seemed to
Hare) she doubled back on her trail. The black cliff receded over the
waves of sand; the stars changed positions, travelled round in the blue
dome, and the few that he knew finally sank below the horizon. Bolly
never lagged; she was like the homeward-bound horse, indifferent to
direction because sure of it, eager to finish the journey because now it
was short. Hare was glad though not surprised when she snorted and
cracked her iron-shod hoof on a stone at the edge of the sand. He smiled
with tightening lips as he rode into the shadow of a rock which he
recognized. Bolly had crossed the treacherous belt of dunes and washes
and had struck the trail on the other side.
The long level of wind-carved rocks under the cliffs, the ridges of the
desert, the miles of slow ascent up to the rough divide, the gradual
descent to the cedars--these stretches of his journey took the night
hours and ended with the brightening gray in the east. Within a mile of
Silver Cup Spring Hare dismounted, to tie folded pads of buckskin on
Bolly's hoofs. When her feet were muffled, he cautiously advanced on the
trail for the matter of a hundred rods or more; then sheered off to the
right into the cedars. He led Bolly slowly, without rattling a stone or
snapping a twig, and stopped every few paces to listen. There was no
sound other than the wind in the cedars. Presently, with a gasp, he
caught the dull gleam of a burned-out camp-fire. Then his movements
became as guarded, as noiseless as those of a scouting Indian. The dawn
broke over the red wall as he gained the trail beyond the spring.
He skirted the curve of the valley and led Bolly a little way up the
wooded slope to a dense thicket of aspens in a hollow. This thicket
encircled a patch of grass. Hare pressed the lithe aspens aside to admit
Bolly and left her there free. He drew his rifle from its sheath and,
after assuring himself that the mustang could not be seen or heard from
below, he bent his steps diagonally up the slope.
Every foot of this ground he knew, and he climbed swiftly until he
struck the mountain trail. Then, descending, he entered the cedars. At
last he reached a point directly above the cliff-camp where he had spent
so many days, and this he knew overhung the cabin built by Holderness.
He stole down from tree to tree and slipped from thicket to thicket. The
sun, red as blood, raised a bright crescent over the red wall; the soft
mists of the valley began to glow and move; cattle were working in
toward the spring. Never brushing a branch, never dislodging a stone,
Hare descended the slope, his eyes keener, his ears sharper with every
step. Soon the edge of the gray stone cliff below shut out the lower
level of cedars. While resting he listened. Then he marked his course
down the last bit of slanting ground to the cliff bench which faced the
valley. This space was open, rough with crumbling rock and dead cedar
brush--a difficult place to cross without sound. Deliberate in his
choice of steps, very slow in moving, Hare went on with a stealth which
satisfied even his intent ear. When the wide gray strip of stone drew
slowly into the circle of his downcast gaze he sank to the ground with a
slight trembling in all his limbs. There was a thick bush on the edge of
the cliff; in three steps he could reach it and, unseen himself, look
down upon the camp.
A little cloud or smoke rose lazily and capped a slender column of blue.
Sounds were wafted softly upward, the low voices of men in conversation,
a merry whistle, and then the humming of a tune. Hare's mouth was dry
and his temples throbbed as he asked himself what it was best to do. The
answer came instantaneously as though it had lain just below the level
of his conscious thought. "I'll watch till Holderness walks out into
sight, jump up with a yell when he comes, give him time to see me, to
draw his gun--then kill him!"
Hare slipped to the bush, drew in a deep long breath that stilled his
agitation, and peered over the cliff. The crude shingles of the cabin
first rose into sight; then beyond he saw the corral with a number of
shaggy mustangs and a great gray horse. Hare stared blankly. As in a
dream he saw the proud arch of a splendid neck, the graceful wave of a
white-crested mane.
"Silvermane!... My God!" he gasped, suddenly. "They caught him--after
all!"
He fell backward upon the cliff and lay there with hands clinching his
rifle, shudderingly conscious of a blow, trying to comprehend its
meaning.
"Silvermane!... they caught him--after all!" he kept repeating; then in
a flash of agonized understanding he whispered: "Mescal... Mescal!"
He rolled upon his face, shutting out the blue sky; his body stretched
stiff as a bent spring released from its compress, and his nails dented
the stock of his rifle. Then this rigidity softened to sobs that shook
him from head to foot. He sat up, haggard and wild-eyed.
Silvermane had been captured, probably by rustlers waiting at the
western edge of the sand-strip. Mescal had fallen into the hands of Snap
Naab. But Mescal was surely alive and Snap was there to be killed; his
long career of unrestrained cruelty was in its last day--something told
Hare that this thing must and should be. The stern deliberation of his
intent to kill Holderness, the passion of his purpose to pay
his debt to
August Naab, were as nothing compared to the gathering might of this new
resolve; suddenly he felt free and strong as an untamed lion broken free
from his captors.
From the cover of the bush he peered again over the cliff. The cabin
with its closed door facing him was scarcely two hundred feet down from
his hiding-place. One of the rustlers sang as he bent over the camp-fire
and raked the coals around the pots; others lounged on a bench waiting
for breakfast; some rolled out of their blankets; they stretched and
yawned, and pulling on their boots made for the spring. The last man to
rise was Snap Naab, and he had slept with his head on the threshold of
the door. Evidently Snap had made Mescal a prisoner in the cabin, and no
one could go in or out without stepping upon him. The rustler-foreman of
Holderness's company had slept with his belt containing two Colts, nor
had he removed his boots. Hare noted these details with grim humor. Now
the tall Holderness, face shining, gold-red beard agleam, rounded the
cabin whistling. Hare watched the rustlers sit down to breakfast, and
here and there caught a loud-spoken word, and marked their leisurely
care-free manner. Snap Naab took up a pan of food and a cup of coffee,
carried them into the cabin, and came out, shutting the door.
After breakfast most of the rustlers set themselves to their various
tasks. Hare watched them with the eyes of a lynx watching deer. Several
men were arranging articles for packing, and their actions were slow to
the point of laziness; others trooped down toward the corral. Holderness
rolled a cigarette and stooped over the campfire to reach a burning
stick. Snap Naab stalked to and fro before the door of the cabin. He
alone of the rustler's band showed restlessness, and more than once he
glanced up the trail that led over the divide toward his father's oasis.
Holderness sent expectant glances in the other direction toward Seeping
Springs. Once his clear voice rang out:
"I tell you, Naab, there's no hurry. We'll ride in tomorrow."
A thousand thoughts flitted through Hare's mind--a steady stream of
questions and answers. Why did Snap look anxiously along the oasis
trail? It was not that he feared his father or his brothers alone, but
there was always the menace of the Navajos. Why was Holderness in no
hurry to leave Silver Cup? Why did he lag at the spring when, if he
expected riders from his ranch, he could have gone on to meet them,
obviously saving time and putting greater distance between him and the
men he had wronged? Was it utter fearlessness or only a deep-played
game? Holderness and his rustlers, all except the gloomy Naab, were
blind to the peril that lay beyond the divide. How soon would August
Naab strike out on the White Sage trail? Would he come alone? Whether he
came alone or at the head of his hard-riding Navajos he would arrive too
late. Holderness's life was not worth a pinch of the ashes he flecked so
carelessly from his cigarette. Snap Naab's gloom, his long stride, his
nervous hand always on or near the butt of his Colt, spoke the keenness
of his desert instinct. For him the sun had arisen red over the red
wall. Had he harmed Mescal? Why did he keep the cabin door shut and
guard it so closely?
While Hare watched and thought the hours sped by. Holderness lounged
about and Snap kept silent guard. The rustlers smoked, slept, and moved
about; the day waned, and the shadow of the cliff crept over the cabin.
To Hare the time had been as a moment; he was amazed to find the sun had
gone down behind Coconina. If August Naab had left the oasis at dawn he
must now be near the divide, unless he had been delayed by a wind-storm
at the strip of sand. Hare longed to see the roan charger come up over
the crest; he longed to see a file of Navajos, plumes waving, dark
mustangs gleaming in the red light, sweep down the stony ridge toward
the cedars. "If they come," he whispered, "I'll kill Holderness and Snap
and any man who tries to open that cabin door."
So he waited in tense watchfulness, his gaze alternating between the
wavy line of the divide and the camp glade. Out in the valley it was
still daylight, but under the cliff twilight had fallen. All day Hare
had strained his ears to hear the talk of the rustlers, and it now
occurred to him that if he climbed down through the split in the cliff
to the bench where Dave and George had always hidden to watch the spring
he would be just above the camp. This descent involved risk, but since
it would enable him to see the cabin door when darkness set in, he
decided to venture. The moment was propitious, for the rustlers were
bustling around, cooking dinner, unrolling blankets, and moving to and
fro from spring and corral. Hare crawled back a few yards and along the
cliff until he reached the split. It was a narrow steep crack which he
well remembered. Going down was attended with two dangers--losing his
hold, and the possible rattling of stones. Face foremost he slipped
downward with the gliding, sinuous movement of a snake, and reaching the
grassy bench he lay quiet. Jesting voices and loud laughter from below
reassured him. He had not been heard. His new position afforded every
chance to see and hear, and also gave means of rapid, noiseless retreat
along the bench to the cedars. Lying flat he crawled stealthily to the
bushy fringe of the bench.
A bright fire blazed under the cliff. Men were moving and laughing. The
cabin door was open. Mescal stood leaning back from Snap Naab,
struggling to release her hands.
"Let me untie them, I say," growled Snap.
Mescal tore loose from him and stepped back. Her hands were bound before
her, and twisting them outward, she warded him off. Her dishevelled hair
almost hid her dark eyes. They burned in a level glance of hate and
defiance. She was a little lioness, quivering with fiery life, fight in
every line of her form.
"All right, don't eat then--starve!" said Snap.
"I'll starve before I eat what you give me."
The rustlers laughed. Holderness blew out a puff of smoke and smiled.
Snap glowered upon Mescal and then upon his amiable companions. One of
them, a ruddy-faced fellow, walked toward Mescal.
"Cool down, Snap, cool down," he said. "We're not goin' to stand for a
girl starvin'. She ain't eat a bite yet. Here, Miss, let me untie your
hands--there. . . . Say! Naab, d--n you, her wrists are black an' blue!"
"Look out! Your gun!" yelled Snap.
With a swift movement Mescal snatched the man's Colt from its holster
and was raising it when he grasped her arm. She winced and dropped the
weapon.
"You little Indian devil!" exclaimed the rustler, in a rapt admiration.
"Sorry to hurt you, an' more'n sorry to spoil your aim. Thet wasn't kind
to throw my own gun on me, jest after I'd played the gentleman, now, was
it?"
"I didn't--intend--to shoot--you," panted Mescal.
"Naab, if this's your Mormon kind of wife--excuse me! Though I ain't
denyin' she's the sassiest an' sweetest little cat
I ever seen!"
"We Mormons don't talk about our women or hear any talk," returned Snap,
a dancing fury in his pale eyes. "You're from Nebraska?"
"Yep, jest a plain Nebraska rustler, cattle-thief, an' all round no-good
customer, though I ain't taken to houndin' women yet."
For answer Snap Naab's right hand slowly curved upward before him and
stopped taut and inflexible, while his strange eyes seemed to shoot
sparks.
"See here, Naab, why do you want to throw a gun on me?" asked the
rustler, coolly. "Haven't you shot enough of your friends yet? I reckon
I've no right to interfere in your affairs. I was only protestin'
friendly like, for the little lady. She's game, an' she's called your
hand. An' it's not a straight hand. Thet's all, an' d--n if I care
whether you are a Mormon or not. I'll bet a hoss Holderness will back me
up."
"Snap, he's right," put in Holderness, smoothly. "You needn't be so
touchy about Mescal. She's showed what little use she's got for you. If
you must rope her around like you do a mustang, be easy about it. Let's
have supper. Now, Mescal, you sit here on the bench and behave yourself.
I don't want you shooting up my camp."
Snap turned sullenly aside while Holderness seated Mescal near the door
and fetched her food and drink. The rustlers squatted round the camp-
fire, and conversation ceased in the business of the meal.
To Hare the scene had brought a storm of emotions. Joy at the sight of
Mescal, blessed relief to see her unscathed, pride in her fighting
spirit--these came side by side with gratitude to the kind Nebraska
rustler, strange deepening insight into Holderness's game,
unextinguishable white-hot hatred of Snap Naab. And binding all was the
ever-mounting will to rescue Mescal, which was held in check by an
inexorable judgment; he must continue to wait. And he did wait with
blind faith in the something to be, keeping ever in mind the last
resort--the rifle he clutched with eager hands. Meanwhile the darkness
descended, the fire sent forth a brighter blaze, and the rustlers
finished their