by Zane Grey
“Thad, this here pard of mine is steppin’ too high,” complained Tine. “Every night Sue gives him lessons in readin’, writin’, an’ Heaven knows what else.”
“What’s the big plan?” inquired Thad, with his hand going to Nels’s shoulder.
“Wal, I’ve promised to go with McKay on the deer drive,” replied Nels. “My bosses—I’ve sure got two now, one who pays me wages an’ another who takes them away from me—they want me to help McKay. After that, Sue an’ I are goin’ to get married. We’re to take a little trip to southern Arizona. Miss Clay will join us at Tucson, an’ then we’ll do much the same down there as we’ve been doin’ round Flag. Aw, Thad, I’ve sure got mighty poor prospects. I’m feelin’ awful bad.”
“Bad nuthin’,” retorted Tine in disgust. “Why, Thad, he whoops in his sleep, kicks me out of bed, an’ yells ‘James, fetch my boots.’ ”
When at length Thad did pin the boys down to sober talk about McKay and the deer drive, it was to have them confirm exactly what he had suspected. McKay was not getting anywhere with his preparations. He should have had trucks with grain and supplies, and saddle-and pack-horses already on the way across the desert.
While Eburne was listening to the practical opinions of the cowboys, McKay came stamping into the hotel, rough-clad and beaming, kicking snow off his boots, and bringing the breath of the winter outdoors with him.
“Mac, when do you start your drive?” began Eburne at once, drawing McKay to a corner.
“Wal, I aimed to start December first, but reckon I’ll have to put it off till the fifteenth.”
“Too late. You don’t dare wait that long,” rejoined Eburne earnestly.
“Few days more or less can’t make any diff,” said McKay, rubbing his bearded chin with a grimy hand. Honesty and toil seemed to sit well upon him. “I’m bein’ held up by a lot of things. Sent to Globe for a truckload of wire. Have to wait for that. My brother’s comin’ from Kanab an’ I’ve got to send him back to pick up Indians an’ men. I’m waitin’ for my son to come with another truck. I’m expectin’ some of these Indian traders to talk about hirin’ Indians. An’ motion picture people are comin’ to buy the picture rights to the drive. Then I’m tryin’ to raise money.”
“Mac, all this should have been done long ago,” declared Eburne seriously. “You can’t wait to do these things. They must be done at once.”
“What’s the rush, Thad?” he queried, in gruff surprise.
“If you wait till the fifteenth, you’ll never pull off your drive. Mac, there are men working against you right now. All they need is a little time. I could not find out how or where or when they’ll strike. But they don’t want this deer drive to go over. Delay will be fatal. Besides there’s the weather. When winter hits the east slope of Buckskin, as it has already hit here, you will be through. Absolutely. All your labor and expense for nothing.”
“Eburne, I’m figgerin’ on snow to help us make the drive,” returned McKay stubbornly. “Besides, these here picture people want snow so the pictures of the deer will take pretty. No, the weather ain’t worryin’ me. Neither is that outfit over thar who’s agin my drive. But a lot of things is worryin’ me.”
“Mac, have you made out a list of food supplies you’ll need for your men and Indians? Grain, camp duffel, wire, burlap, gasoline, oil, cowbells, and the hundred-odd things necessary?”
“Grub for Indians?” echoed McKay, as if the idea had just struck him. “Hadn’t thought of that. Wal, we’ll kill a beef out thar an’ give them a sack of flour.”
“Mac, that would last a hundred Indians just one day,” returned Eburne, trying to restrain his impatience. “It will take the Indians two days to get there from the gap, two days to get back, and say ten days for the drive. That is fourteen days, driving each and every one of which these Indians will have to eat. Besides that it is a big transportation problem to move the Indians to and fro.”
McKay scratched his grizzled head. “I’ll be hanged if thar ain’t a lot to think of. Eburne, I’m askin’ you to help me.”
“You bet I will. Here’s all the money I can spare,” replied Eburne, handing over a roll of bills. “Buy your grub and outfit. Get these started out today. Make the best deal possible with the picture people. Be quick. Every day gone lessens the chance of our success. Send trucks with grub to handle the Indians.”
“But if I put off the drive till the fifteenth, I don’t want the Indians out thar till then.”
“You must not postpone the drive,” declared Eburne with all the force he could muster.
“Wal, I’ll see, but I reckon we can’t get ready,” said McKay.
“Then by all means give it up altogether. That’s my advice. I know the country.”
“Say, Eburne, I’ll drive ten thousand deer across that canyon, an’ all over the south side, an’ right through the streets of Flagstaff,” boomed McKay, slamming the table with a huge first.
“All right, I’ve had my say. Do it your own way. I’ll help,” said Eburne resignedly.
It was now indeed a forlorn hope. McKay was indomitable, a giant in strength, a man used to overcoming all kinds of physical obstacles, but he lacked wholly the organizing and executive ability to carry out such a tremendous project as this one.
During the next three days McKay changed his mind as many times as he listened to different persons who wanted to project their ideas into the deer drive. It was Eburne who got the machinery working. He could not, however, overcome the handicaps of unconsidered preparation and lack of funds, nor could he hurry McKay. As a matter of fact, somebody or something was holding up the trucks and the men McKay expected.
A circus in town would not have created the excitement that this deer drive did. Hundreds of people outside of Flagstaff came there to see it get under way or to participate in any way possible, but as they could not get any definite information as to the certainty of the drive coming off, or the date or place, most of them left with a conviction that the whole scheme was a fizzle.
Eburne saw how the confidence of the town people, McKay’s own neighbors, was beginning to wane. Cowboys and cattlemen who had been keen to help drive the deer, just for the experience, gave up and went home. McKay had not been able to strike while the iron was hot.
At last, however, he got together twenty-five men, with horses and outfit, ready to start next morning. The plan was to travel across country to the canyon, go down Tanner’s trail, cross the river, and up on the other side to the Saddle.
That day, trucks were started with supplies McKay had bought, but which Eburne knew would be pitifully inadequate. They were to go to Lee’s Ferry, cross the Colorado there, continue on to Kane, and then up to the Saddle camp. They were then to return to one of the trading posts to fetch the Indians. If the roads were good, and if the drivers had unprecedented luck, all this might be accomplished in five days. McKay said in three! As a matter of fact, Eburne had a conviction that it could not be done at all. Instead of ten trucks that should have been sent, there were three, and two of them would never get as far as Kane on those desert roads.
That night a snowstorm arrived and increased in force until by morning a creditable blizzard was blowing. But McKay and his faithful followers departed, leaving some insurmountable tasks behind for Eburne to look after.
One of them was to deal with the trader Mobray, who, McKay had said, would handle the Indians.
“Mac never guaranteed nothin’,” declared Mobray. “He sent me word to collect a hundred Indians an’ go with them to Kane. I got the Indians bunched out at my post, eatin’ me out of supplies. But I can’t take them to Kane unless their pay an’ keep is guaranteed. Two dollars a day, all the time they’re out. An’ the money’s got to be sure or the superintendent of the reservation won’t let them go. Here I find Mac gone, an’ nothin’ sure. What would you do, Eburne?”
“I’d risk it, but I certainly can’t advise you to do that,” replied Thad. “This sure looks like a cropper. McKay has
spent all the money he could raise here in town. I think he expected to pay the Indians out of the money he got from the government for making the drive.”
“But suppose he fails?” demanded Mobray in exasperation. “I’m out the grub an’ clothes I’ve advanced. The Indians are out their wages.”
At this juncture of the heated argument with the trader, Eburne became aware of several persons at his elbow, but he had been jostled by a curious crowd for days and he no longer had any interest in outsiders. It took quite a tug from a familiar hand to distract his attention. Then he turned to face Sue, rosy and bright, smiling at him. Nels and Patricia stood just behind her. Thad was immensely surprised and pleased. The worry with which he had burdened himself over this deer drive problem vanished as if by magic. It suddenly became nothing but a little work.
“Thad, I overheard some of your conversation with this man,” said Patricia after the greetings were over. “You seem to be in difficulties.”
The upshot of an explanation to Patricia was that she asked Mobray to go to the bank with her, where she would arrange to pay what money was due the Indians at the end of the drive.
During her short absence, the deer stalker had an argument with Sue about the inadvisability of women going on the deer drive. He had not by any means won it by the time Patricia returned.
“Thad, if you think it best, we will not go,” said Patricia without hesitation. “We’ll just have to swallow our disappointment. But I’ve had so many wonderful trips. Then I saw the deer. We must not be selfish, Sue, and handicap the men by our presence.”
“It wasn’t that, Patricia,” whispered Sue, peering around to see where Nels was. “This cowboy friend of mine said he would show me who was boss, and that I wasn’t going out there to catch pneumonia.”
Eburne was tremendously busy the rest of that day, getting ready to start next morning with the motion picture men. Mobray had hurried out as soon as he was assured of his pay for the Indians. The snowstorm blew away and the sun came out warm and bright.
Thad had dinner with the girls and Nels, after which they went to the motion picture theater. When opportunity afforded, Patricia said:
“Thad, you remember the other night at the El Tovar?”
He laughed. “How could I forget it?”
“Didn’t you see Errol Scott at the station before you boarded the train?”
“Why, yes, I believe I did, come to think of it,” he replied slowly.
“Did you not have words with him?” went on Patricia.
“I might have said good evening or some such pleasant thing.”
“Thad!”
“Patricia!” he returned in the same tone of voice.
“I believe you would lie to me,” she said reproachfully.
“Most men can be terrible villains at times,” he returned imperturbably.
“Thad, you’re not going to tell me, then?” she asked. He wasn’t sure whether she was approving or disapproving.
“Tell you what?”
“About your meeting with Scott.”
“Why, Patricia, it wasn’t much. Certainly nothing to interest you. I seem to have had an impression that he was a cad.”
“Very well, Mr. Eburne,” she continued. “Listen to this. That night, Scott was badly hurt and had to be taken in an automobile to Williams. They thought he had a fractured skull. But luckily he did not, and after three days he was able to go on to California.”
“Indeed. I should imagine it impossible to fracture his skull,” rejoined Thad laconically. “What happened to the gentleman?”
“Nobody seemed to know. His companions rushed him to Williams without explaining.”
“He was a drinking man, and there was ice on the steps. He probably fell.”
“Yes, he probably did,” declared Patricia with a low laugh. “It’s a wonder he didn’t fall clear into the canyon.”
“That’s true. A fat, heavy fellow like him, once he started to fall, might go a long way.”
“Thad, you’re incorrigible and also adorable,” she whispered, squeezing his arm. “Listen to what I do know. That handsome young woman at the Canyon was smitten with you. She was horribly jealous, poor thing. Well, when she first saw me she suspected I was the original of a picture she had seen in a New York paper. When Scott arrived at the hotel she scraped up an acquaintance with him. And he had that paper with him. She got it from him and shoved it under everybody’s nose, including yours…. And you never gave me the slightest sign you had seen it or—or knew of the notorious Pat Edgerton…. Oh, it was—”
“Pat,” he interrupted softly, leaning close to look at her and whisper, “when I come back from this deer drive, will you marry me? I love you so desperately…. I want to go with you and Sue and Nels to southern Arizona.”
“Oh—don’t!” she faltered, and lapsed into an eloquent silence. For moments he felt the quiver of her arm against his. Then the theater was darkened and the picture flashed upon the screen. She did not speak again until after the performance was over, and then it was to take up again the subject of the deer drive.
“Patricia, I wish you’d leave the El Tovar and come over here to stay with Sue,” he said anxiously at parting.
“I have come, bag and baggage,” she replied. “Poor Sue will tell you. Her little house won’t hold my endless belongings.”
“That is fine. I know you will be comfortable—and happy.”
“Thad,” said Sue, “we’ve shore got a dandy little open fireplace, a good lamp and table, and we’re going to spend hours drawing plans for two houses, hers and mine.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
NEXT morning a caravan of motorcars and trucks left Flagstaff on the long detour across the Painted Desert and canyon around to the eastern slope of Buckskin Mountain.
Eburne, with Tine Higgenbottom and a driver named Conroy, led the way. Behind strung out the cars of motion picture camera men and their assistants and a number of other ambitious adventurers. The morning was wintry but bright, and the pine forest through which the road wound for twenty miles was covered with a white mantle. On the low divide between the foothills they found the snow too deep for good travel, but they made it, and as they descended on the other side, the snow thinned out and at last disappeared about the edge of the cedars.
Thad viewed the hundred-mile valley of variegated colors with a deeply appreciative eye. He was glad for this brief renewal of his acquaintance with the desert, entirely aside from his interest in McKay and his sympathy for the deer. A new life stretched before him, somehow similar to this beautiful vista of winding, beckoning road and changing slopes and the rise and heave of the purple steps. This trip would be a hard, trying, and possibly disappointing adventure. He would do his best, as he had done in the past; he would welcome extreme exertion, bitter cold, privation, and whatever came. He would have preferred to be alone on this drive, for in the solitude of the journey there would have been an opportunity to turn his thoughts in contemplation to this new life and what it held for him. He found that his very isolation from people, his years of communion with nature, instead of leaving him unprepared and unready, had given him the patience and calm maturity to meet this most important crisis in his life. They had given him the knowledge that Patricia needed time to come to her decision. A woman was different from a man. It would not have mattered in the least if the tragedy of Patricia’s life had been due to some blunder of her affections or weakness of her will. He saw beyond the fatality and frailty of human life to the true meaning of it and how the greatest thing a man could do was to love and believe and hope. All his lonely hours of contemplation had filled a treasure house of emotions from which he could now draw.
Tine talked incessantly, his range of conversation being unlimited in the extreme, from driving tame deer to photographing bull buffalo, and from the political crisis in Europe to the incredible imbecility of his friend Nels.
“By gum!” he ejaculated at length in profound disgust, “Thad, you’ve g
ot the same way as Nels. I’ve took a tumble to myself. I see there’s nothin’ left for me to do but travel alone, or else get me a gurl.”
Thereafter he directed his irrepressible and endless verbosity at the driver Conroy.
From Dead Man’s Flat the road wound down over bare yellow and red slopes, descending rapidly to the Little Colorado. Here a halt was made to wait for the trucks. Eburne strolled around the trading post among the few Indians present, and then out to the bluff above the river. The canyon of the Little Colorado began near there and had already assumed noble proportions. There was not the least sign of water anywhere; the river course was mud and sand, baked hard, and cracked. This was the first winter Thad had ever known or heard of in which the river had run dry. It brought to mind again the bitter drought on Buckskin, so cruel to the great herd of deer. The ranger reflected that if the deer had been left alone, free to answer to the call of nature, they would have migrated that season to another range, where water and browse were sufficient. But they had been isolated by man as well as by nature.
The trucks arrived safely, one by one, and the cavalcade once more headed across the desert. Beyond the river there lay a wide wind-swept gravel flat, miles in width, which merged in a zone of clay dunes, marvelous of hue: blue, heliotrope, lavender, purple. From there the going grew bad, so that travel became slow. Sand, rock, dry washes, slopes of adobe gave the driver all he could do to make five miles an hour. The sun began to slant to the western horizon, where the gray bulk of Kishlipie rose above the ragged red desert and the genial warmth took on a sudden chill. Northward the wandering buttes appeared slowly to sink beneath the horizon haze. There was a long two-hour stretch of sandy, gravelly, brushy desert, where the men had to walk and push and wait and try again.
Sunset brought them up out of the low wastes to a valley, bounded on the right by a great corrugated, many-hued escarpment, and on the left by an endless gray slope, dotted with the green of struggling foliage. Ahead, a ragged saw-tooth cliff poked its sharp silhouette over the bulge of the valley floor. Purple and gold clouds showed at the western horizon; to the east the sky was a magnificent spread of rose and bronze.