himself little the worse for the adventure. Mescal was wringing the
water from the long straight braids of her hair. She was smiling, and a
tint of color showed in her cheeks. The wet buckskin blouse and short
skirt clung tightly to her slender form. She made so pretty a picture
and appeared so little affected by the peril they had just passed
through that Hare, yielding to a tender rush of pride and possession,
kissed the pink cheeks till they flamed.
“All wet,” said he, “you and I, clothes, food, guns--everything.”
“It's hot and we'll soon dry,” returned Mescal. “Here's the canyon and
creek we must follow up to Coconina. My peon mapped them in the sand for
me one day. It'll probably be a long climb.”
Hare poured the water out of his boots, pulled them on, and helping
Mescal to mount Silvermane, he took the bridle over his arm and led the
way into a black-mouthed canyon, through which flowed a stream of clear
water. Wolf splashed and pattered along beside him. Beyond the marble
rock this canyon opened out to great breadth and wonderful walls. Hare
had eyes only for the gravelly bars and shallow levels of the creek;
intent on finding the easy going for his horse he strode on and on
thoughtless of time. Nor did he talk to Mescal, for the work was hard,
and he needed his breath. Splashing the water, hammering the stones,
Silvermane ever kept his nose at Hare's elbow. They climbed little
ridges, making short cuts from point to point, they threaded miles of
narrow winding creek floor, and passed under ferny cliffs and over
grassy banks and through thickets of yellow willow. As they wound along
the course of the creek, always up and up, the great walls imperceptibly
lowered their rims. The warm sun soared to the zenith. Jumble of
bowlders, stretches of white gravel, ridges of sage, blocks of granite,
thickets of manzanita, long yellow slopes, crumbling crags, clumps of
cedar and lines of pinon--all were passed in the persistent plodding
climb. The canon grew narrower toward its source; the creek lost its
volume; patches of snow gleamed in sheltered places. At last the yellow-
streaked walls edged out upon a grassy hollow and the great dark pines
of Coconina shadowed the snow.
“We're up,” panted Hare. “What a climb! Five hours! One more day--then
home!”
Silvermane's ears shot up and Wolf barked. Two gray deer loped out of a
thicket and turned inquisitively. Reaching for his rifle Hare threw back
the lever, but the action clogged, it rasped with the sound of crunching
sand, and the cartridge could not be pressed into the chamber or
ejected. He fumbled about the breach of the gun and his brow clouded.
“Sand! Out of commission!” he exclaimed. “Mescal, I don't like that.”
“Use your Colt,” suggested Mescal.
The distance was too great. Hare missed, and the deer bounded away into
the forest.
Hare built a fire under a sheltering pine where no snow covered the soft
mat of needles, and while Mescal dried the blankets and roasted the last
portion of meat he made a wind-break of spruce boughs. When they had
eaten, not forgetting to give Wolf a portion, Hare fed Silvermane the
last few handfuls of grain, and tied him with a long halter on the
grassy bank. The daylight failed and darkness came on apace. The old
familiar roar of the wind in the pines was disturbing; it might mean
only the lull and crash of the breaking night-gusts, and it might mean
the north wind, storm, and snow. It whooped down the hollow, scattering
the few scrub-oak leaves; it whirled the red embers of the fire away
into the dark to sputter in the snow, and blew the burning logs into a
white glow. Mescal slept in the shelter of the spruce boughs with Wolf
snug and warm beside her. Hare stretched his tired limbs in the heat of
the blaze.
When he awakened the fire was low and he was numb with cold. He took
care to put on logs enough to last until morning; then he lay down once
more, but did not sleep. The dawn came with a gray shade in the forest;
it was a cloud, and it rolled over him soft, tangible, moist, and cool,
and passed away under the pines. With its vanishing the dawn lightened.
“Mescal, if we're on the spur of Coconina, it's only ten miles or so to
Silver Cup,” said Hare, as he saddled Silvermane. “Mount now and we'll
go up out of the hollow and get our bearings.”
While ascending the last step to the rim Hare revolved in his mind the
probabilities of marking a straight course to Silver Cup.
“Oh! Jack!” exclaimed Mescal, suddenly. “Vermillion Cliffs and home!”
“I've travelled in a circle!” replied Hare.
Mescal was enraptured at the scene. Vermillion Cliffs shone red as a
rose. The split in the wall marking the oasis defined its outlines
sharply against the sky. Miles of the Colorado River lay in sight. Hare
knew he stood on the highest point of Coconina overhanging the Grand
Canyon and the Painted Desert, thousands of feet below. He noted the
wondrous abyss sleeping in blue mist at his feet, while he gazed across
to the desert awakening in the first red rays of the rising sun.
“Mescal, your Thunder River Canyon is only one little crack in the
rocks. It is lost in this chasm,” said Hare.
“It's lost, surely. I can't even see the tip of the peak that stood so
high over the valley.”
Once more turning to the left Hare ran his eye over the Vermillion
Cliffs, and the strip of red sand shining under them, and so calculating
his bearings he headed due north for Silver Cup. What with the snow and
the soggy ground the first mile was hard going for Hare, and Silvermane
often sank deep. Once off the level spur of the mountain they made
better time, for the snow thinned out on the slope and gradually gave
way to the brown dry aisles of the forest. Hare mounted in front of
Mescal, and put the stallion to an easy trot; after two hours of riding
they struck a bridle-trail which Hare recognized as one leading down to
the spring. In another hour they reached the steep slope of Coconina,
and saw the familiar red wall across the valley, and caught glimpses of
gray sage patches down through the pines.
“I smell smoke,” said Hare.
“The boys must be at the spring,” rejoined Mescal.
“Maybe. I want to be sure who's there. We'll leave the trail and slip
down through the woods to the left. I wish we could get down on the home
side of the spring. But we can't; we've got to pass it.”
With many a pause to peer through openings in the pines Hare traversed a
diagonal course down the slope, crossed the line of cedars, and reached
the edge of the valley a mile or more above Silver Cup. Then he turned
toward it, still cautiously leading Silvermane under cover of the fringe
of cedars.
“Mescal, there are too many cattle in the valley,” he said, looking at
her significantly.
“They can't all be ours, that's sure,” she replied. “What do you think?”
“Holderness!” With the word Hare's face grew set and stern. He kept on,
cautiously leading the horse under the cedars, careful to avoid breaking
brush or rattling stones, occasionally whispering to Wolf; and so worked
his way along the curve of the woody slope till further progress was
checked by the bulging wall of rock.
“Only cattle in the valley, no horses,” he said. “I've a good chance to
cut across this curve and reach the trail. If I take time to climb up
and see who's at the spring maybe the chance will be gone. I don't
believe Dave and the boys are there.”
He pondered a moment, then climbed up in front of Mescal, and directed
the gray out upon the valley. Soon he was among the grazing cattle. He
felt no surprise to see the H brand on their flanks.
“Jack, look at that brand,” said Mescal, pointing to a white-flanked
steer. “There's an old brand like a cross, Father Naab's cross, and a
new brand, a single bar. Together they make an H!”
“Mescal! You've hit it. I remember that steer. He was a very devil to
brand. He's the property of August Naab, and Holderness has added the
bar, making a clumsy H. What a rustler's trick! It wouldn't deceive a
child.”
They had reached the cedars and the trail when Wolf began to sniff
suspiciously at the wind.
“Look!” whispered Mescal, calling Hare's attention from the dog. “Look!
A new corral!”
Bending back to get in line with her pointing finger Hare looked through
a network of cedar boughs to see a fence of stripped pines. Farther up
were piles of unstripped logs, and close by the spring there was a new
cabin with smoke curling from a stone chimney. Hare guided Silvermane
off the trail to softer ground and went on. He climbed the slope, passed
the old pool, now a mud-puddle, and crossed the dry wash to be brought
suddenly to a halt. Wolf had made an uneasy stand with his nose pointing
to the left, and Silvermane pricked up his ears. Presently Hare heard
the stamping of hoofs off in the cedars, and before he had fully
determined the direction from which the sound came three horses and a
man stepped from the shade into a sunlit space.
As luck would have it Hare happened to be well screened by a thick
cedar; and since there was a possibility that he might remain unseen he
chose to take it. Silvermane and Wolf stood still in their tracks. Hare
felt Mescal's hands tighten on his coat and he pressed them to reassure
her. Peeping out from his covert he saw a man in his shirt-sleeves
leading the horses--a slender, clean-faced, dark-haired man--Dene! The
blood beat hotly in Hare's temples and he gripped the handle of his
Colt. It seemed a fatal chance that sent the outlaw to that trail. He
was whistling; he had two halters in one hand and with the other he led
his bay horse by the mane. Then Hare saw that he wore no belt; he was
unarmed; on the horses were only the halters and clinking hobbles. Hare
dropped his Colt back into its holster.
Dene sauntered on, whistling “Dixie.” When he reached the trail, instead
of crossing it, as Hare had hoped, he turned into it and came down.
Hare swung the switch he had broken from an aspen and struck Silvermane
a stinging blow on the flanks. The gray leaped forward. The crash of
brush and rattle of hoofs stampeded Dene's horses in a twinkling. But
the outlaw paled to a ghastly white and seemed rooted to the trail. It
was not fear of a man or a horse that held Dene fixed; in his starting
eyes was the terror of the supernatural.
The shoulder of the charging stallion struck Dene and sent him spinning
out of the trail. In a backward glance Hare saw the outlaw fall, then
rise unhurt to shake his fists wildly and to run yelling toward the
cabin.
XVII. THE SWOOP OF THE HAWK
“JACK! the saddle's slipping!” cried Mescal, clinging closer to him.
“What luck!” Hare muttered through clinched teeth, and pulled hard on
the bridle. But the mouth of the stallion was iron; regardless of the
sawing bit, he galloped on. Hare called steadily: “Whoa there, Silver!
Whoa--slow now--whoa--easy!” and finally halted him. Hare swung down,
and as he lifted Mescal off, the saddle slipped to the ground.
“Lucky not to get a spill! The girth snapped. It was wet, and dried
out.” Hare hurriedly began to repair the break with buckskin thongs that
he found in a saddle-bag.
“Listen! Hear the yells! Oh! hurry!” cried Mescal.
“I've never ridden bareback. Suppose you go ahead with Silver, and I'll
hide in the cedars till dark, then walk home!”
“No--No. There's time, but hurry.”
“It's got to be strong,” muttered Hare, holding the strap over his knee
and pulling the laced knot with all his strength, “for we'll have to
ride some. If it comes loose--Good-bye!”
Silvermane's broad chest muscles rippled and he stamped restlessly. The
dog whined and looked back. Mescal had the blanket smooth on the gray
when Hare threw the saddle over him. The yells had ceased, but
clattering hoofs on the stony trail were a greater menace. While Hare's
brown hands worked swiftly over buckle and strap Mescal climbed to a
seat behind the saddle.
“Get into the saddle,” said Hare, leaping astride and pressing forward
over the pommel. “Slip down--there! and hold to me. Go! Silver!”
The rapid pounding of the stallion's hoofs drowned the clatter coming up
the trail. A backward glance relieved Hare, for dust-clouds some few
hundred yards in the rear showed the position of the pursuing horsemen.
He held in Silvermane to a steady gallop. The trail was up-hill, and
steep enough to wind even a desert racer, if put to his limit.
“Look back!” cried Mescal. “Can you see them? Is Snap with them?”
“I can't see for trees,” replied Hare, over his shoulder. “There's dust-
-we're far in the lead--never fear, Mescal. The lead's all we want.”
Cedars grew thickly all the way up the steeper part of the divide, and
ended abruptly at a pathway of stone, where the ascent became gradual.
When Silvermane struck out of the grove upon this slope Hare kept
turning keen glances rearward. The dust cloud rolled to the edge of the
cedars, and out of it trooped half-a-dozen horsemen who began to shoot
as soon as they had reached the open. Bullets zipped along the red
stone, cutting little puffs of red dust, and sung through the air.
“Good God!” cried Hare. “They're firing on us! They'd shoot a woman!”
“Has it taken you so long to learn that?”
Hare slashed his steed with the switch. But Silvermane needed no goad or
spur; he had been shot at before, and the whistle of one bullet was
sufficient to stretch his gallop into a run. Then distance between him
and his pursuers grew wider and wider and soon he was out of range. The
yells of the rustlers seemed at first to come from baffled rage, but
Mescal's startled cry showed their meaning. Other horsemen appeared
ahead and to the right of him, tearing down the ridge to the divide.
Evidently they had been returning from the western curve of Coconina.
The direction in which Silvermane was stretching was the only possible
one for Hare. If he swerved off the trail to the left it would be upon
rough rising ground. Not only must he outride this second band to the
point where the trail went down on the other side of the divide, but
also he must get beyond it before they came within rifle range.
“Now! Silver! Go! Go!” Fast as the noble stallion was speeding he
answered to the call. He was in the open now, free of stones and brush,
with the spang of rifles in the air. The wind rushed into Hare's ears,
filling them with a hollow roar; the ground blurred by in reddish
sheets. The horsemen cut down the half mile to a quarter, lessened that,
swept closer and closer, till Hare recognized Chance and Culver, and
Snap Naab on his cream-colored pinto. Seeing that they could not head
the invincible stallion they sheered more to the right. But Silvermane
thundered on, crossing the line ahead of them a full three hundred
yards, and went over the divide, drawing them in behind him.
Then, at the sharp crack of the rifles, leaden messengers whizzed high
in the air over horse and riders, and skipped along the red shale in
front of the running dog.
“Oh--Silvermane!” cried Hare. It was just a call, as if the horse were
human, and knew what that pace meant to his master. The stern business
of the race had ceased to rest on Hare. Silvermane was out to the front!
He was like a level-rushing thunderbolt. Hare felt the instantaneous
pause between his long low leaps, the gather of mighty muscles, the
strain, the tension, then the quivering expulsion of force. It was a
perilous ride down that red slope, not so much from the hissing bullets
as from the washes and gullies which Silvermane sailed over in
magnificent leaps. Hare thrilled with savage delight in the wonderful
prowess of his desert king, in the primal instinct of joy at escaping
with the woman he loved.
“Outrun!” he cried, with blazing eyes. Mescal's white face was pressed
close to his shoulder. “Silver has beaten them. They'll hang on till we
reach the sand-strip, hoping the slow-down will let them come up in
time. But they'll be far too late.”
The rustlers continued on the trail, firing desultorily, till Silvermane
so far distanced them that even the necessary lapse into a walk in the
red sand placed him beyond range when they arrived at the strip.
“They've turned back, Mescal. We're safe. Why, you look as you did the
day the bear ran for you.”
“I'd rather a bear got me than Snap. Jack, did you see him?”
“See him? Rather! I'll bet he nearly killed his pinto. Mescal, what do
you think of Silvermane now? Can he run? Can he outrun Bolly?”
“Yes--yes. Oh! Jack! how I'll love him! Look back again. Are we safe?
Will we ever be safe?”
It was still daylight when they rounded the portal of the oasis and
entered the lane with the familiar wall on one side, the peeled fence-
pickets on the other. Wolf dashed on ahead, and presently a chorus of
barks announced that he had been met by the other dogs. Silvermane
neighed shrilly, and the horses and mustangs in the corrals trooped
noisily to the lower sides and hung inquisitive heads over the top bars.
A Navajo whom Hare remembered stared with axe idle by the woodpile, then
Judith Naab dropped a bundle of sticks and with a cry of gladness ran
from the house. Before Silvermane had come to a full stop Mescal was
off. She put her arms around his neck and kissed him, then she left
Judith to dart to the corral where a little black mustang had begun to
whistle and stamp and try to climb over the bars.
August Naab, bareheaded, with shaggy locks shaking at every step, strode
off the porch and his great hands lifted Hare from the saddle.
“Every day I've watched the river for you,” he said. His eyes were warm
and his grasp like a vise.
“Mescal--child!” he continued, as she came running to him. “Safe and
well. He's brought you back. Thank the Lord!” He took her to his breast
and bent his gray head over her.
Then the crowd of big and little Naabs burst from the house and came
under the cottonwoods to offer noisy welcome to Mescal and Hare.
“Jack, you look done up,” said Dave Naab solicitously, when the first
greetings had been spoken, and Mother Ruth had led Mescal indoors.
“Silvermane, too--he's wet and winded. He's been running?”
“Yes, a little,” replied Hare, as he removed the saddle from the weary
horse.
“Ah! What's this?” questioned August Naab, with his hand on Silvermane's
flank. He touched a raw groove, and the stallion flinched. “Hare, a
bullet made that!”
“Yes.”
“Then you didn't ride in by the Navajo crossing?”
“No. I came by Silver Cup.”
“Silver Cup? How on earth did you get down there?”
“We climbed out of the canyon up over Coconina, and so made the spring.”
Naab whistled in surprise and he flashed another keen glance over Hare
and his horse. “Your story can wait. I know about what it is--after you
reached Silver Cup. Come in, come in, Dave will look out for the
stallion.”
But Hare would allow no one else to attend to Silvermane. He rubbed the
tired gray, gave him a drink at the trough, led him to the corral, and
took leave of him with a caress like Mescal's. Then he went to his room
and bathed himself and changed his clothes, afterward presenting himself
at the supper-table to eat like one famished. Mescal and he ate alone,
as they had been too late for the regular hour. The women-folk waited
upon them as if they could not do enough. There were pleasant words and
smiles; but in spite of them something sombre attended the meal. There
was a shadow in each face, each step was slow, each voice subdued. Naab
and his sons were waiting for Hare when he entered the sitting room, and
after his entrance the door was closed. They were all quiet and stern,
especially the father. “Tell us all,” said Naab, simply.
While Hare was telling his adventures not a word or a move interrupted
him till he spoke of Silvermane's running Dene down.
“That's the second time!” rolled out Naab. “The stallion will kill him
yet!”
Hare finished his story.
“What don't you owe to that whirlwind of a horse!” exclaimed Dave Naab.
No other comment on Hare or Silvermane was offered by the Naabs.
“You knew Holderness had taken in Silver Cup?” inquired Hare.
August Naab nodded gloomily.
“I guess we knew it,” replied Dave for him. “While I was in White Sage
and the boys were here at home, Holderness rode to the spring and took
possession. I called to see him on my way back, but he wasn't around.
Snap was there, the boss of a bunch of riders. Dene, too, was there.”
“Did you go right into camp?” asked Hare.
“Sure. I was looking for Holderness. There were eighteen or twenty
riders in the bunch. I talked to several of them, Mormons, good fellows,
they used to be. Also I had some words with Dene. He said: 'I shore was
sorry Snap got to my spy first. I wanted him bad, an' I'm shore goin' to
have his white horse.' Snap and Dene, all of them, thought you were
number thirty-one in dad's cemetery.”
“Not yet,” said Hare. “Dene certainly looked as if he saw a ghost when
Silvermane jumped for him. Well, he's at Silver Cup now. They're all
there. What's to be done about it? They're openly thieves. The new brand
on all your stock proves that.”
“Such a trick we never heard of,” replied August Naab. “If we had we
might have spared ourselves the labor of branding the stock.”
“But that new brand of Holderness's upon yours proves his guilt.”
“It's not now a question of proof. It's one of possession. Holderness
has stolen my water and my stock.”
“They are worse than rustlers; firing on Mescal and me proves that.”
“Why didn't you unlimber the long rifle?” interposed Dave, curiously.
“I got it full of water and sand. That reminds me I must see about
cleaning it. I never thought of shooting back. Silvermane was running
too fast.”
“Jack, you can see I am in the worst fix of my life,” said August Naab.
“My sons have persuaded me that I was pushed off my ranges too easily.
I've come to believe Martin Cole; certainly his prophecy has come true.
Dave brought news from White Sage, and it's almost unbelievable.
Holderness has proclaimed himself or has actually got himself elected
sheriff. He holds office over the Mormons from whom he steals. Scarcely
a day goes by in the village without a killing. The Mormons north of
Lund finally banded together, hanged some rustlers, and drove the others
out. Many of them have come down into our country, and Holderness now
has a strong force. But the Mormons will rise against him. I know it; I
see it. I am waiting for it. We are God-fearing, life-loving men, slow
to wrath. But--”
The deep rolling burr in his voice showed emotion too deep for words.
“They need a leader,” replied Hare, sharply.
August Naab rose with haggard face and his eyes had the look of a man
accused.
“Dad figures this way,” put in Dave. “On the one hand we lose our water
and stock without bloodshed. We have a living in the oasis. There's
little here to attract rustlers, so we may live in peace if we give up
our rights. On the other hand, suppose Dad gets the Navajos down here
and we join them and go after Holderness and his gang. There's going to
be an all-fired bloody fight. Of course we'd wipe out the rustlers, but
some of us would get killed--and there are the wives and kids. See!”
The force of August Naab's argument for peace, entirely aside from his
Christian repugnance to the shedding of blood, was plainly unassailable.
“Remember what Snap said?” asked Hare, suddenly. “One man to kill Dene!
Therefore one man to kill Holderness! That would break the power of this
band.”
“Ah! you've said it,” replied Dave, raising a tense arm. “It's a one-man
job. D--n Snap! He could have done it, if he hadn't gone to the bad. But
it won't be easy. I tried to get Holderness. He was wise, and his men
politely said they had enjoyed my call, but I wasn't to come again.”
“One man to kill Holderness!” repeated Hare.
August Naab cast at the speaker one of his far-seeing glances; then he
shook himself, as if to throw off the grip of something hard and
inevitable. “I'm still master here,” he said, and his voice showed the
conquest of his passions.
“I give up Silver Cup and my stock. Maybe that will content Holderness.”