A WILD RIDE
The intractability of the Lady Jezebel was beyond all bounds. Her
vagaries were legion. After his experiences with her, Tresler might
have been forgiven the vanity of believing, in spite of her sex, that
he had fathomed her every mood. But she was forever springing
unpleasant surprises, and her present one was of a more alarming
nature than anything that had gone before. One of her tricks, bolting,
was not so very serious, but now she proved herself a "blind bolter."
And among horsemen there is only one thing to do with a blind
bolter--shoot it. A horse of this description seems to be imbued with
but one idea--a furious desire to go, to run anywhere, to run into
anything lying in its course, to run on until its strength is spent,
or its career is suddenly terminated by a forcible full stop.
At the bend of the trail the mare took blindly to the bush. Chance
guided her on to a cattle-path which cut through to the pinewoods
beyond. It was but a matter of moments before her rider saw the dark
shadow of the woodlands come at him with a rush, and he plunged
headlong into the gray twilight of their virgin depths. He had just
time to crouch down in the saddle, with his face buried in the tangle
of the creature's flying mane, when the drooping boughs, laden with
their sad foliage, swept his back. He knew there were only two
courses open to him. Either he must sit tight and chance his luck till
the mad frolic was spent, or throw himself headlong from the saddle at
the first likely spot. A more experienced horseman would, no doubt,
have chosen the latter course without a second thought. But he
preferred to stay with the mare. He was loth to admit defeat. She had
never bested him yet, and a sort of petty vanity refused to allow him
to acknowledge her triumph now. They might come to an opening, he told
himself, a stretch of open country. The mare might tire of the forest
gloom and turn prairieward. These things suggested themselves merely
as an excuse for his foolhardiness in remaining in the saddle, not
that he had any hope of their fulfilment.
And so it was. Nothing moved the animal out of her course, and it
seemed almost as though a miracle were in operation. For, in all that
labyrinth of tree-trunks, a sheer road constantly opened out before
them. Once, and once only, disaster was within an ace of him. She
brushed a mighty black-barked giant with her shoulders. Tresler's knee
struck it with such painful force that his foot was wrenched from the
stirrup and dragged back so that the rowel of his spur was plunged,
with terrific force, into the creature's flank. She responded to the
blow with a sideways leap, and it was only by sheer physical strength
her rider retained his seat. Time and again the reaching boughs swept
him and tore at his clothes, frequently lacerating the flesh beneath
with the force of their impact.
These things, however, were only minor troubles as he raced down the
grim forest aisles. His thoughts centred themselves on the main
chance--the chance that embraced life and death. An ill-fate might, at
any moment, plunge horse and rider headlong into one of those silent
sentries. It would mean anything. Broken limbs at the best. But
Providence ever watches over the reckless horseman, and, in spite of a
certain native caution in most things, Tresler certainly was that. He
knew no fear of this jade of a mare, and deep down in his heart there
was a wild feeling of joy, a whole-hearted delight in the very madness
of the race.
And the animal herself, untamed, unchecked, frothing at her bit, her
sides a-lather with foam, her barrel tuckered like that of a finely
trained race-horse, rushed blindly on. The forest echoed and reechoed
with the dull thud of her hoofs as they pounded the thick underlay of
rotting cones. And her rider breathed hard as he lay with his head
beside the reeking neck, and watched for the coming of the end.
Suddenly, in the midst of the gray, he saw a flash of sunlight. It was
like a beacon light to a storm-driven mariner. It was only a gleam of
sunshine and was gone almost at once, but it told him that he was fast
coming on the river. The final shoals, maybe, where wreck alone
awaited him. Just for an instant his purpose wavered. There was still
time to drop to the ground. He would have to chance the mare's flying
heels. And it might save him.
But the idea was driven from his head almost before he realized it;
the mare swerved like a skidding vehicle. He clung desperately to her
mane, one arm was even round her neck in a forcible embrace. The
struggle lasted only a few seconds. Then, as he recovered his
equilibrium, he saw that she had turned into what was undoubtedly a
well-defined, but long-disused, forest trail. The way was clear of
obstruction. The trees had parted, opening up a wide avenue, and above
him shone the perfect azure of the summer sky.
He was amazed. Where could such a trail lead? His answer came
immediately. Away ahead of him, towering above the abundant foliage,
he saw the distant shimmer of snowy peaks, and nearer--so near as to
make him marvel aloud--the forest-clad, broken lands of the
foot-hills. Immediate danger was past and he had time to think. At all
cost he must endeavor to stop the racing beast under him. So he began
a vicious sawing at her mouth. His efforts only drove her faster, and
caused her to throw her head higher and higher, until her crown was
within six inches of his face.
The futility of his purpose was almost ludicrous. He desisted. And the
Lady Jezebel lowered her head with an angry snort and rushed on harder
than ever. And now the race continued without relaxing. Once or twice
Tresler thought he detected other hoof-marks on the trail, but his
impression of them was very uncertain. One thing surely struck him,
however: since entering this relic of the old Indian days, a decided
change had come over the mare. She was no longer running blind; more,
it seemed to him that she displayed that inexpressible familiarity
with her surroundings which a true horseman can always detect, yet
never describe. This knowledge led him to the hope of the passing of
her temper.
But his hope was an optimistic mistake. The sweat pouring from neck,
shoulders, and flanks, she still lifted her mud-brown barrel to her
mighty stride, with all the vim and lightness of the start. He felt
that, jade that she was, she ran because she loved it; ran with a
delight that acted as a safety-valve for her villainous temper. She
would run herself into amiability and then stop, but not before. And
he knew her temper so well that he saw many miles lying ahead of him.
The rift was gradually widening, and the forest on either side
thinned. The trees were wider and more scattered, and the broken
hilltops, which but now had been well ahead, were frowning right over
him, and he knew, by the steady, gradual rise of the country, that he
would soon be well within the maze of forest, crag, and ravine, which
composed the mountain foot-hills.
At last the forest broke and the ragged land leapt into full view with
magical abruptness. It was as though Nature had grown her forest
within the confines of a field embraced by an imaginary hedge. There
were no outskirts, no dwindling away. It ended in one clean-cut line.
And beyond lay the rampart hills, fringed and patched with disheveled
bluff, split by rifts and yawning chasms. And ever they rose higher
and higher as the distance gained, and, though summer was not yet at
its height, it was gaunt-looking, torn, chaotic, a land of desolation.
The mare held straight on. The change of scene had no effect on her;
the trail still lay before her, and she seemed satisfied with it.
Tresler looked for the river. He knew it was somewhere near by. He
gazed away to the right, and his conjecture was proved at once. There
it lay, the Mosquito River, narrowed and foaming, a torrent with high,
clean-cut banks. He followed its course ahead and saw that the banks
lost themselves in the shadow between towering, almost barren hills,
which promised the narrow mouth of a valley beyond.
And as he watched these things, a feeling of uneasiness came over him.
The split between the hills looked so narrow. He looked for the trail.
It seemed to make straight for the opening. As the ground flew under
him, he turned once more to the river and followed its course with his
eyes, and suddenly he was thrilled with his first real feeling of
apprehension. The river on the right, and the hill on the left of him
were converging. Nor could he avoid that meeting-point.
He was borne on by the bolting mare. There was not the smallest hope
of restraining her. Whatever lay before him, he must face it, and face
it with every faculty alert and ready. His mouth parched, and he
licked his lips. He was facing a danger now that was uncertain, and
the uncertainty of it strung him with a nervous apprehension.
Bluff succeeded bluff in rapid succession. The hill on the left had
become a sheer cliff, and the general aspect of the country, that of a
tremendous gorge. The trail rose slightly and wound its tortuous way
in such an aggravating manner that it was impossible for him to see
what lay before him.
At one point he came to a fork where another trail, less defined,
branched away to the right. For a moment he dreaded lest the mare
should adopt the new way. He knew what lay out there--the river.
However, his fears were quickly allayed. The Lady Jezebel had no
intention of leaving the road she was on.
They passed the fork, and he sighed his relief. But his relief was
short-lived. Without a sign or warning the trail he was on died out,
and his course lay over a narrow level flat sparsely dotted with
small, stubbly bush. Now he knew that the mare had been true to
herself. She had passed the real trail by, and was running headlong
to----
He dared think no more. He knew the crisis was at hand. He had reached
the narrowest point of the opening between the two hills, and there
stretched the river right across his path less than fifty yards ahead.
It took no central course--as might have been expected--through the
gorge. It met the left-hand cliff diagonally, and, further on, adopted
its sheer side for its left bank. He saw the clearly defined cutting,
sharp, precise, before it reached the cliff, and he was riding
straight for it!
In that first moment of realization he passed through every sensation
of fear; but no time was given him for thought. Fifty yards! What was
that to the raking stride of his untamed mare? It would be gone in a
few seconds. Action was the only thing to serve him, and such action
as instinct prompted him to was utterly unavailing. With a mighty
heave of his body, and with all the strength of his sinewy arms, he
tried to pull the creature on to her haunches. As well try to stem
the tide ahead of him. She threw up her head until it nearly struck
him in the face; she pawed the air with her great front legs; then, as
he released her, she rushed forward again with a vicious snort.
His case seemed utterly hopeless. He sat down tight in the saddle,
leaning slightly forward. He held his reins low, keeping a steady
strain upon them. There was a vague, wild thought in his mind. He knew
the river had narrowed. Was it a possible jump? He feared the very
worst, but clung desperately to the hope. He would lift the creature
to it when it came, anyhow. Would she see it? Would she, freakish
brute that she was, realize her own danger, and, for once in her
desperate life, do one sensible act? He did not expect it. He dared
not hope for that. He only wondered.
He could see the full extent of the chasm now. And he thrilled as he
realized that it was broader than he had supposed. Worse, the far bank
was lower, and a fringe of bush hung at its very edge. His jaws
tightened as he came up. He could hear the roar of the torrent below,
and, to his strained fancy, it seemed to come up from the very bowels
of the earth.
A few more strides. He timed his effort with a judgment inspired by
the knowledge that his life depended on it--it, and the mare.
The chasm now came at him with a rush. Suddenly he leaned over and let
out a wild "halloo!" in the creature's ears. At the same time he
lifted her and plunged his spurs hard into her flanks. The effect was
instantaneous, electrical. Just for an instant it seemed to him that
some unseen power had suddenly shot her from under him. He had a
sensation of being left behind, while yet he was rushing through the
air with the saddle flying from under him. Then all seemed still, and
he was gliding, the lower part of his body struggling to outstrip the
rest of him. He had an impression of some great depth below him,
though he knew he saw nothing, heard nothing. There came a great jolt.
He lurched on to the animal's neck, recovered himself, and, the next
instant, the old desperate gallop was going on as before.
He looked back and shivered as he saw the gaping rift behind him. The
jump had been terrific, and, as he realized the marvel of the feat, he
leaned over and patted the mare's reeking shoulder. She had performed
an act after her own wild heart.
And Tresler laughed aloud at the thought. He could afford to laugh
now, for he saw the end of his journey coming. He had landed on the
trail he had lost, in all probability the continuation across the
river of the branch road he had missed on the other side, and this was
heading directly for the hill before him. More, he could see it
winding its way up the hill. Even the Lady Jezebel, he thought, would
find that ascent more than to her liking.
And he was right. She faced it and breasted it like the lion-hearted
animal she was, but the loose sandy surface, and the abruptness of the
incline, first brought her to a series of plunges, and finally to her
knees and a dead halt.
And Tresler was out of the saddle in an instant, and drew the reins
over her head, while she, now quite subdued, struggled to her feet.
She was utterly blown, and her master was little better. They stood
together on that hillside and rested.
Now the man had a full view of the river below, and he realized the
jump that the mare had made. And, further down, he beheld an
astonishing sight. At a point where the course of the river narrowed,
a rough bridge of pine-logs had been thrown across it. He stood for
some minutes contemplating the scene and busy with his thoughts, which
at last culminated in a question uttered aloud--
"Where on earth does it lead to?"
And he turned and surveyed the point, where, higher up, the trail
vanished round the hillside above him. The question voiced a natural
curiosity which he promptly proceeded to satisfy. Linking his arm
through the reins, he led the mare up the hill.
It was a laborious climb. Even free of her burden the horse had
difficulty in keeping her feet. The sandy surface was deep, and poured
away at every step like the dry sand on the seashore. And as they
labored up, Tresler's wonder increased at every step. Why had such a
trail been made, and where--where could it lead to?
At length the vanishing-point was reached, and horse and rider rounded
the bend. And immediately the reason was made plain. But even the
reason sank into insignificance before the splendor of the scene which
presented itself.
He was standing on a sort of shelf cut out of the hillside. It was
not more than fifty yards long, and some twenty wide, but it stood
high over a wide, far-reaching valley, scooped out amongst the great
foot-hills which reared their crests about him on every side. Far as
the eye could see was spread out the bright, early summer green of the
grass-land hollow. For the most part the surrounding hills were
precipitate, and rose sheer from the bed of the valley, but here and
there a friendly landslide had made the place accessible. Just where
he stood, and all along the shelf, the face of the hill formed a
precipice, both above and below, and the only approach to it was the
way he had come round from the other side of the hill.
And the object, the reason, of that hidden road. A small hut crushed
into the side of the sheer cliff. A dugout of logs, and thatch, and
mud plaster. A hut with one fronting door, and a parchment window; a
hut such as might have belonged to some old-time trapper, who had
found it necessary to set his home somewhere secure from the attacks
of marauding Indians.
And what a strategic position it was! One approach to be barred and
barricaded; one laborious road which the besieged could sweep with his
rifle-fire, and beat back almost any horde of Indians in the country.
He led his horse on toward the hut. The door was closed, and the
parchment of the window hid the interior.
The outside appearance showed good repair. He examined it critically.
He walked round its three sides, and, as he came to the far side of
it, and thoughtfully took in the method of its construction, he
suddenly became aware of another example of the old trapper's cunning.
The cliff that rose sheer up for another two or three hundred feet
slightly sloped backward at the extremity of the shelf, and here had
been cut a rude sort of staircase in the gray limestone of which it
was composed. There were the steps, dangerous enough, and dizzying to
look at, rising up, up, to the summit above. He ventured to the brink
where they began, but instantly drew back. Below was a sheer drop of
perhaps five hundred feet.
Turning his eyes upward, his fancy conjured up a picture of the poor
wretch, hunted and besieged by the howling Indians, starving perhaps,
creeping at dead of night from the little fort he had held so long and
so valiantly against such overwhelming odds, and, in desperation,
availing himself of his one and only possible escape. Step by step, he
followed him, in imagination, up the awful cliff, clinging for dear
life with fingers worn and lacerated by the grinding stone. Weary and
exhausted, he seemed to see him draw near the top. Then a slip, one
slip of his tired feet, and no hold upon the limestone with his hands
would have power to save him. Down, down----
He turned back to the hut with a sick feeling in his stomach. Securing
his mare to an iron ring, which he found driven firmly into one of the
logs, he proceeded to investigate further. The door was held by a
common latch, and yielded at once when he raised it. It opened inward,
and he waited after throwing it open. He had a strange feeling of
trespass in thus intruding upon what might prove to be the home of
some fur-hunter.
No sound followed the opening of the door. He waited listening; then
at last he stepped forward and announced himself with a sharp "Hello!"
His only answer was the echo of his greeting. Without more ado he
stepped in. For a moment the sharpness of the contrast of light made
it impossible for him to see anything; but presently he became used to
the twilight of the interior, and looked about him curiously. It was
his first acquaintance with a dugout, nor was he impressed with the
comfort it displayed. The place was dirty, unkempt, and his dream of
the picturesque, old-time trapper died out entirely. He beheld walls
bare of all decoration, simply a rough plastering of mud over the
lateral logs; a frowsy cupboard, made out of a huge packing-case,
containing odd articles for housekeeping purposes. There were the
fragments of two chairs lying in a heap beside a dismembered table,
which stood only by the aid of two legs and the centre post which
supported the pitch of the roof. A rough trestle-bed occupied the far
end of the hut, and in shape and make it reminded him of his own bed
in the bunkhouse. But there the resemblance ended, for the palliasse
was of brown sacking, and a pair of dull-red blankets were tumbled in
a heap upon its foot. One more blanket of similar hue was lying upon
the floor; but this was only a torn fragment that had possibly served
as a carpet, or, to judge by other fragments lying about, had been
used to patch shirts, or even the well-worn bedclothes.
It was a squalid hovel, and reeked of the earth out of which it was
dug. Beyond the bedding, the red blankets, and the few plates and pots
in the packing-case cupboard, there was not a sign of the owner, and
Tresler found himself wondering as to what manner of man it was who
could have endured such meanness. It did not occur to him that
probably the very trapper he had thought of had left his eyrie in
peace and taken his belongings with him, leaving behind him only those
things which were worthless.
A few minutes satisfied his curiosity. Probably his ride, and a
natural desire to return to the ranch as quickly as possible, had
dulled the keenness of his faculties of observation. Certain it is
that, squalid as the place was, there was an air of recent habitation
about it that he missed. He took it for a deserted shack merely, and
gave it no second thought.
He passed out into the daylight with an air of relief; he had seen
quite enough. The Lady Jezebel welcomed him with an agitated snort;
she too seemed anxious to get away. He led her down the shelving trail
again. The descent was as laborious as the ascent had been, and much
more dangerous. But it was accomplished at last, and at the foot of
the hill he mounted the now docile animal, who cantered off as amiably
as though she had never done anything wrong in her life.
And as he rode away his thoughts reverted to the incidents of that
morning; he went again over the scenes in which he had taken part, the
scenes he had witnessed. He thought of his brief battle with Jake, of
Diane and Joe, of his interview with Fyles. All these things were of
such vital import to him that he had no thought for anything else;
even the log bridge spanning the river could not draw from him any
kind of interest. Had his mind been less occupied, he might have
paused to ask himself a question about the things he had just seen. He
might even have wondered how the logs of that dugout had been hauled
to the shelf on which it stood. Certain it was that they must have
been carried there, for there was not a single tree upon the hillside,
only a low bush. And the bridge; surely it was the work of many hands.
And why was it there on a disused trail?
But he had no thought for such questions just then. He bustled the
mare and hurried on.