Zane Grey (31 page)

If ever Hare breathed a prayer it was then. What if one of the band
awakened! As the rustler turned at the door his dark face gleamed in the
flickering light. He unwound the lasso and opened the door without a
sound.

Hare whispered: "Heavens! if he goes in she'll scream! that will wake
Holderness—then I must shoot—I must!"

But the Mormon rustler added wisdom to his cunning and stealth.

"Hist!" he whispered into the cabin. "Hist!"

Mescal must have been awake; she must have guessed instantly the meaning
of that low whisper, for silently she appeared in the doorway, silently
she held forth her bound hands. The man untied the bonds and pointed
into the cedars toward the corral. Swift and soundless as a flitting
shadow Mescal vanished in the gloom. The Mormon stole with wary,
unhurried steps back to his bed and rolled in his blankets.

Hare rose unsteadily, wavering in the hot grip of a moment that seemed to
have but one issue—the killing of Holderness. Mescal would soon be upon
Silvermane, far out on the White Sage trail, and this time there would be
no sand-strip to trap her. But Hare could not kill the rustler while he
was sleeping; and he could not awaken him without revealing to his men
the escape of the girl. Hare stood there on the bench, gazing down on
the blanketed Holderness. Why not kill him now, ending forever his
power, and trust to chance for the rest? No, no! Hare flung the
temptation from him. To ward off pursuit as long as possible, to aid
Mescal in every way to some safe hiding-place, and then to seek
Holderness—that was the forethought of a man who had learned to wait.

Under the dark projection of the upper cliff Hare felt his way to the
cedar slope, and the trail, and then he went swiftly down into the little
hollow where he had left Bolly. The darkness of the forest hindered him,
but he came at length to the edge of the aspen thicket; he penetrated it,
and guided toward Bolly by a suspicious stamp and neigh, he found her and
quieted her with a word. He rode down the hollow, out upon the level
valley.

The clouds had broken somewhat, letting pale light down through rifts.
All about him cattle were lying in a thick gloom. It was penetrable for
only a few rods. The ground was like a cushion under Bolly's hoofs,
giving forth no sound. The mustang threw up her head, causing Hare to
peer into the night-fog. Rapid hoof-beats broke the silence, a vague
gray shadow moved into sight. He saw Silvermane and called as loudly as
he dared. The stallion melted into the misty curtain, the beating of
hoofs softened and ceased. Hare spurred Bolly to her fleetest. He had a
long, silent chase, but it was futile, and unnecessarily hard on the
mustang; so he pulled her in to a trot.

Hare kept Bolly to this gait the remainder of the night, and when the
eastern sky lightened he found the trail and reached Seeping Springs at
dawn. Silvermane's tracks were deep in the clay at the drinking-trough.
He rested a few moments, gave Bolly sparingly of grain and water, and
once more took to the trail.

From the ridge below the spring he saw Silvermane beyond the valley,
miles ahead of him. This day seemed shorter than the foregoing one; it
passed while he watched Silvermane grow smaller and smaller and disappear
on the looming slope of Coconina. Hare's fear that Mescal would run into
the riders Holderness expected from his ranch grew less and less after
she had reached the cover of the cedars. That she would rest the
stallion at the Navajo pool on the mountain he made certain. Late in the
night he came to the camping spot and found no trace to prove that she
had halted there even to let Silvermane drink. So he tied the tired
mustang and slept until daylight.

He crossed the plateau and began the descent. Before he was half-way
down the warm bright sun had cleared the valley of vapor and shadow.
Far along the winding white trail shone a speck. It was Silvermane
almost out of sight.

"Ten miles—fifteen, more maybe," said Hare. "Mescal will soon be in the
village."

Again hours of travel flew by like winged moments. Thoughts of time,
distance, monotony, fatigue, purpose, were shut out from his mind. A
rushing kaleidoscopic dance of images filled his consciousness, but they
were all of Mescal. Safety for her had unsealed the fountain of
happiness.

It was near sundown when he rode Black Bolly into White Sage, and took
the back road, and the pasture lane to Bishop Caldwell's cottage. John,
one of the Bishop's sons, was in the barn-yard and ran to open the gate.

"Mescal!" cried Hare.

"Safe," replied the Mormon.

"Have you hidden her?"

"She's in a secret cave, a Mormon hiding-place for women. Only a few men
know of its existence. Rest easy, for she's absolutely safe."

"Thank God! . . . then that's settled." Hare drew a long, deep breath.

"Mescal told us what happened, how she got caught at the sand-strip and
escaped from Holderness at Silver Cup. Was Dene hurt?"

"Silvermane killed him."

"Good God! How things come about! I saw you run Dene down that time here
in White Sage. It must have been written. Did Holderness shoot Snap
Naab?"

"Yes."

"What of old Naab? Won't he come down here now to lead us Mormons
against the rustlers?"

"He called the Navajos across the river. He meant to take the trail
alone and kill Holderness, keeping the Indians back a few days. If he
failed to return then they were to ride out on the rustlers. But his
plan must be changed, for I came ahead of him."

"For what? Mescal?"

"No. For Holderness."

"You'll kill him!"

"Yes."

"He'll be coming soon?—When?"

"To-morrow, possibly by daylight. He wants Mescal. There's a chance
Naab may have reached Silver Cup before Holderness left, but I doubt it."

"May I know your plan?" The Mormon hesitated while his strong brown face
flashed with daring inspiration. "I—I've a good reason."

"Plan?— Yes. Hide Bolly and Silvermane in the little arbor down in the
orchard. I'll stay outside to-night, sleep a little—for I'm dead tired—
and watch in the morning. Holderness will come here with his men,
perhaps not openly at first, to drag Mescal away. He'll mean to use
strategy. I'll meet him when he comes—that's all."

"It's well. I ask you not to mention this to my father. Come in, now.
You need food and rest. Later I'll hide Bolly and Silvermane in the
arbor."

Hare met the Bishop and his family with composure, but his arrival
following so closely upon Mescal's, increased their alarm. They seemed
repelled yet fascinated by his face. Hare ate in silence. John Caldwell
did not come in to supper; his brothers mysteriously left the table
before finishing the meal. A subdued murmur of voices floated in at the
open window.

Darkness found Hare wrapped in a blanket under the trees. He needed
sleep that would loose the strange deadlock of his thoughts, clear the
blur from his eyes, ease the pain in his head and weariness of limbs—all
these weaknesses of which he had suddenly become conscious. Time and
again he had almost wooed slumber to him when soft footsteps on the
gravel paths, low voices, the gentle closing of the gate, brought him
back to the unreal listening wakefulness. The sounds continued late into
the night, and when he did fall asleep he dreamed of them. He awoke to a
dawn clearer than the light from the noonday sun. In his ears was the
ringing of a bell. He could not stand still, and his movements were
subtle and swift. His hands took a peculiar, tenacious, hold of
everything he chanced to touch. He paced his hidden walk behind the
arbor, at every turn glancing sharply up and down the road. Thoughts
came to him clearly, yet one was dominant. The morning was curiously
quiet, the sons of the Bishop had strangely disappeared—a sense of
imminent catastrophe was in the air.

A band of horsemen closely grouped turned into the road and trotted
forward. Some of the men wore black masks. Holderness rode at the
front, his red-gold beard shining in the sunlight. The steady clip-crop
of hoofs and clinking of iron stirrups broke the morning quiet.
Holderness, with two of his men, dismounted before the Bishop's gate; the
others of the band trotted on down the road. The ring of Holderness's
laugh preceded the snap of the gate-latch.

Hare stood calm and cold behind his green covert watching the three men
stroll up the garden path. Holderness took a cigarette from his lips as
he neared the porch and blew out circles of white smoke. Bishop Caldwell
tottered from the cottage rapping the porch-floor with his cane.

"Good-morning, Bishop," greeted Holderness, blandly, baring his head.

"To you, sir," quavered the old man, with his wavering blue eyes fixed on
the spurred and belted rustler. Holderness stepped out in front of his
companions, a superb man, courteous, smiling, entirely at his ease.

"I rode in to—"

Hare leaped from his hiding-place.

"Holderness!"

The rustler pivoted on whirling heels.

"Dene's spy!" he exclaimed, aghast. Swift changes swept his mobile
features. Fear flickered in his eyes as he faced his foe; then came
wonder, a glint of amusement, dark anger, and the terrible instinct of
death impending.

"Naab's trick!" hissed Hare, with his hand held high. The suggestion in
his words, the meaning in his look, held the three rustlers transfixed.
The surprise was his strength.

In Holderness's amber eyes shone his desperate calculation of chances.
Hare's fateful glance, impossible to elude, his strung form slightly
crouched, his cold deliberate mention of Naab's trick, and more than all
the poise of that quivering hand, filled the rustler with a terror that
he could not hide.

He had been bidden to draw and he could not summon the force.

"Naab's trick!" repeated Hare, mockingly.

Suddenly Holderness reached for his gun.

Hare's hand leapt like a lightning stroke. Gleam of blue—spurt of red—
crash!

Holderness swayed with blond head swinging backward; the amber of his
eyes suddenly darkened; the life in them glazed; like a log he fell
clutching the weapon he had half drawn.

"TAKE Holderness away—quick!" ordered Hare. A thin curl of blue smoke
floated from the muzzle of his raised weapon.

The rustlers started out of their statue-like immobility, and lifting
their dead leader dragged him down the garden path with his spurs
clinking on the gravel and ploughing little furrows.

"Bishop, go in now. They may return," said Hare. He hurried up the
steps to place his arm round the tottering old man.

"Was that Holderness?"

"Yes," replied Hare.

"The deeds of the wicked return unto them! God's will!"

Hare led the Bishop indoors. The sitting-room was full of wailing women
and crying children. None of the young men were present. Again Hare
made note of their inexplicable absence. He spoke soothingly to the
frightened family. The little boys and girls yielded readily to his
persuasion, but the women took no heed of him.

"Where are your sons?" asked Hare.

"I don't know," replied the Bishop. "They should be here to stand by
you. It's strange. I don't understand. Last night my sons were visited
by many men, coming and going in twos and threes till late. They didn't
sleep in their beds. I know not what to think."

Hare remembered John Caldwell's enigmatic face.

"Have the rustlers really come?" asked a young woman, whose eyes were red
and cheeks tear-stained.

"They have. Nineteen in all. I counted them," answered Hare.

The young woman burst out weeping afresh, and the wailing of the others
answered her. Hare left the cottage. He picked up his rifle and went down
through the orchard to the hiding-place of the horses. Silvermane
pranced and snorted his gladness at sight of his master. The desert king
was fit for a grueling race. Black Bolly quietly cropped the long grass.
Hare saddled the stallion to have him in instant readiness, and then
returned to the front of the yard.

He heard the sound of a gun down the road, then another, and several
shots following in quick succession. A distant angry murmuring and
trampling of many feet drew Hare to the gate. Riderless mustangs were
galloping down the road; several frightened boys were fleeing across the
square; not a man was in sight. Three more shots cracked, and the low
murmur and trampling swelled into a hoarse uproar. Hare had heard that
sound before; it was the tumult of mob-violence. A black dense throng of
men appeared crowding into the main street, and crossing toward the
square. The procession had some order; it was led and flanked by mounted
men. But the upflinging of many arms, the craning of necks, and the
leaping of men on the outskirts of the mass, the pressure inward and the
hideous roar, proclaimed its real character.

"By Heaven!" exclaimed Hare. "The Mormons have risen against the
rustlers. I understand now. John Caldwell spent last night in secretly
rousing his neighbors. They have surprised the rustlers. Now what?"

Hare vaulted the fence and ran down the road. A compact mob of men, a
hundred or more, had halted in the village under the wide-spreading
cottonwoods. Hare suddenly grasped the terrible significance of those
outstretched branches, and out of the thought grew another which made him
run at bursting break-neck speed.

"Open up! Let me in!" he yelled to the thickly thronged circle. Right
and left he flung men. "Make way!" His piercing voice stilled the angry
murmur. Fierce men with weapons held aloft fell back from his face.

"Dene's spy!" they cried.

The circle opened and closed upon him. He saw bound rustlers under armed
guard. Four still forms were on the ground. Holderness lay
outstretched, a dark-red blot staining his gray shirt. Flinty-faced
Mormons, ruthless now as they had once been mild, surrounded the
rustlers. John Caldwell stood foremost, with ashen lips breaking
bitterly into speech: