On the day that old Creech repudiated his son, Slone with immeasurable
relief left Brackton's without even a word to the rejoicing Holley, and
plodded up the path to his cabin.
After the first flush of elation had passed he found a peculiar mood
settling down upon him. It was as if all was not so well as he had
impulsively conceived. He began to ponder over this strange depression,
to think back. What had happened to dash the cup from his lips? Did he
regret being freed from guilt in the simple minds of the
villagers--regret it because suspicion would fall upon Lucy's father?
No; he was sorry for the girl, but not for Bostil. It was not this new
aspect of the situation at the Ford that oppressed him.
He trailed his vague feelings back to a subtle shock he had sustained
in a last look at Creech's dark, somber face. It had been the face of a
Nemesis. All about Creech breathed silent, revengeful force. Slone
worked out in his plodding thought why that fact should oppress him;
and it was because in striking Bostil old Creech must strike through
Bostil's horses and his daughter.
Slone divined it--divined it by the subtle, intuitive power of his love
for Lucy. He did not reconsider what had been his supposition before
Creech's return--that Creech would kill Bostil. Death would be no
revenge. Creech had it in him to steal the King and starve him or to do
the same and worse with Lucy. So Slone imagined, remembering Creech's
face.
Before twilight set in Slone saw the Creeches riding out of the lane
into the sage, evidently leaving the Ford. This occasioned Slone great
relief, but only for a moment. What the Creeches appeared to be doing
might not be significant. And he knew if they had stayed in the village
that he would have watched them as closely as if he thought they were
trying to steal Wildfire.
He got his evening meal, cared for his horses, and just as darkness
came on he slipped down into the grove for his rendezvous with Lucy.
Always this made his heart beat and his nerves thrill, but to-night he
was excited. The grove seemed full of moving shadows, all of which he
fancied were Lucy. Reaching the big cottonwood, he tried to compose
himself on the bench to wait. But composure seemed unattainable. The
night was still, only the crickets and the soft rustle of leaves
breaking a dead silence. Slone had the ears of a wild horse in that he
imagined sounds he did not really hear. Many a lonely night while he
lay watching and waiting in the dark, ambushing a water-hole where wild
horses drank, he had heard soft treads that were only the substance of
dreams. That was why, on this night when he was overstrained, he
fancied he saw Lucy coming, a silent, moving shadow, when in reality
she did not come. That was why he thought he heard very stealthy steps.
He waited. Lucy did not come. She had never failed before and he knew
she would come. Waiting became hard. He wanted to go back toward the
house--to intercept her on the way. Still he kept to his post,
watchful, listening, his heart full. And he tried to reason away his
strange dread, his sense of a need of hurry. For a time he succeeded by
dreaming of Lucy's sweetness, of her courage, of what a wonderful girl
she was. Hours and hours he had passed in such dreams. One dream in
particular always fascinated him, and it was one in which he saw the
girl riding Wildfire, winning a great race for her life. Another, just
as fascinating, but so haunting that he always dispelled it, was a
dream where Lucy, alone and in peril, fought with Cordts or Joel Creech
for more than her life. These vague dreams were Slone's acceptance of
the blood and spirit in Lucy. She was Bostil's daughter. She had no
sense of fear. She would fight. And though Slone always thrilled with
pride, he also trembled with dread.
At length even wilder dreams of Lucy's rare moments, when she let
herself go, like a desert whirlwind, to envelop him in all her
sweetness, could not avail to keep Slone patient. He began to pace to
and fro under the big tree. He waited and waited. What could have
detained her? Slone inwardly laughed at the idea that either Holley or
Aunt Jane could keep his girl indoors when she wanted to come out to
meet him. Yet Lucy had always said something might prevent. There was
no reason for Slone to be concerned. He was mistaking his thrills and
excitement and love and disappointment for something in which there was
no reality. Yet he could not help it. The longer he waited the more
shadows glided beneath the cottonwoods, the more faint, nameless sounds
he heard.
He waited long after he became convinced she would not come. Upon his
return through the grove he reached a point where the unreal and
imaginative perceptions were suddenly and stunningly broken. He did
hear a step. He kept on, as before, and in the deep shadow he turned.
He saw a man just faintly outlined. One of the riders had been watching
him--had followed him! Slone had always expected this. So had Lucy. And
now it had happened. But Lucy had been too clever. She had not come.
She had found out or suspected the spy and she had outwitted him. Slone
had reason to be prouder of Lucy, and he went back to his cabin free
from further anxiety.
Before he went to sleep, however, he heard the clatter of a number of
horses in the lane. He could tell they were tired horses. Riders
returning, he thought, and instantly corrected that, for riders seldom
came in at night. And then it occurred to him that it might be Bostil's
return. But then it might be the Creeches. Slone had an uneasy return
of puzzling thoughts. These, however, did not hinder drowsiness, and,
deciding that the first thing in the morning he would trail the
Creeches, just to see where they had gone, he fell asleep.
In the morning the bright, broad day, with its dispelling reality, made
Slone regard himself differently. Things that oppressed him in the dark
of night vanished in the light of the sun. Still, he was curious about
the Creeches, and after he had done his morning's work he strolled out
to take up their trail. It was not hard to follow in the lane, for no
other horses had gone in that direction since the Creeches had left.
Once up on the wide, windy slope the reach and color and fragrance
seemed to call to Slone irresistibly, and he fell to trailing these
tracks just for the love of a skill long unused. Half a mile out the
road turned toward Durango. But the Creeches did not continue on that
road. They entered the sage. Instantly Slone became curious.
He followed the tracks to a pile of rocks where the Creeches had made a
greasewood fire and had cooked a meal. This was strange--within a mile
of the Ford, where Brackton and others would have housed them. What was
stranger was the fact that the trail started south from there and swung
round toward the village.
Slone's heart began to thump. But he forced himself to think only of
these tracks and not any significance they might have. He trailed the
men down to a bench on the slope, a few hundred yards from Bostil's
grove, and here a trampled space marked where a halt had been made and
a wait.
And here Slone could no longer restrain conjecture and dread. He
searched and searched. He got on his knees. He crawled through the sage
all around the trampled space. Suddenly his heart seemed to receive a
stab. He had found prints of Lucy's boots in the soft earth! And he
leaped up, wild and fierce, needing to know no more.
He ran back to his cabin. He never thought of Bostil, of Holley, of
anything except the story revealed in those little boot-tracks. He
packed a saddle-bag with meat and biscuits, filled a canvas
water-bottle, and, taking them and his rifle, he hurried out to the
corral. First he took Nagger down to Brackton's pasture and let him in.
Then returning, he went at the fiery stallion as he had not gone in
many a day, roped him, saddled him, mounted him, and rode off with a
hard, grim certainty that in Wildfire was Lucy's salvation.
Four hours later Slone halted on the crest of a ridge, in the cover of
sparse cedars, and surveyed a vast, gray, barren basin yawning and
reaching out to a rugged, broken plateau.
He expected to find Joel Creech returning on the back-trail, and he had
taken the precaution to ride on one side of the tracks he was
following. He did not want Joel to cross his trail. Slone had long ago
solved the meaning of the Creeches' flight. They would use Lucy to
ransom Bostil's horses, and more than likely they would not let her go
back. That they had her was enough for Slone. He was grim and
implacable.
The eyes of the wild-horse hunter had not searched that basin long
before they picked out a dot which was not a rock or a cedar, but a
horse. Slone watched it grow, and, hidden himself, he held his post
until he knew the rider was Joel Creech. Slone drew his own horse back
and tied him to a sage-bush amidst some scant grass. Then he returned
to watch. It appeared Creech was climbing the ridge below Slone, and
some distance away. It was a desperate chance Joel ran then, for Slone
had set out to kill him. It was certain that if Joel had happened to
ride near instead of far, Slone could not have helped but kill him. As
it was, he desisted because he realized that Joel would acquaint Bostil
with the abducting of Lucy, and it might be that this would be well.
Slone was shaking when young Creech passed up and out of sight over the
ridge--shaking with the deadly grip of passion such as he had never
known. He waited, slowly gaining control, and at length went back for
Wildfire.
Then he rode boldly forth on the trail. He calculated that old Creech
would take Lucy to some wild retreat in the canyons and there wait for
Joel and the horses. Creech had almost certainly gone on and would be
unaware of a pursuer so closely on his trail. Slone took the direction
of the trail, and he saw a low, dark notch in the rocky wall in the
distance. After that he paid no more attention to choosing good ground
for Wildfire than he did to the trail. The stallion was more tractable
than Slone had ever found him. He loved the open. He smelled the sage
and the wild. He settled down into his long, easy, swinging lope which
seemed to eat up the miles. Slone was obsessed with thoughts centering
round Lucy, and time and distance were scarcely significant.
The sun had dipped full red in a golden west when Slone reached the
wall of rocks and the cleft where Creech's tracks and Lucy's, too,
marked the camp. Slone did not even dismount. Riding on into the cleft,
he wound at length into a canyon and out of that into a larger one,
where he found that Lucy had remembered to leave a trail, and down this
to a break in a high wall, and through it to another winding, canyon.
The sun set, but Slone kept on as long as he could see the trail, and
after that, until an intersecting canyon made it wise for him to halt.
There were rich grass and sweet water for his horse. He himself was not
hungry, but he ate; he was not sleepy, but he slept. And daylight found
him urging Wildfire in pursuit. On the rocky places Slone found the
cedar berries Lucy had dropped. He welcomed sight of them, but he did
not need them. This man Creech could never hide a trail from him, Slone
thought grimly, and it suited him to follow that trail at a rapid trot.
If he lost the tracks for a distance he went right on, and he knew
where to look for them ahead. There was a vast difference between the
cunning of Creech and the cunning of a wild horse. And there was an
equal difference between the going and staying powers of Creech's
mustangs and Wildfire. Yes, Slone divined that Lucy's salvation would
be Wildfire, her horse. The trail grew rougher, steeper, harder, but
the stallion kept his eagerness and his pace. On many an open length of
canyon or height of wild upland Slone gazed ahead hoping to see
Creech's mustangs. He hoped for that even when he knew he was still too
far behind. And then, suddenly, in the open, sandy flat of an
intersecting canyon he came abruptly on a fresh trail of three horses,
one of them shod.
The surprise stunned him. For a moment he gazed stupidly at these
strange tracks. Who had made them? Had Creech met allies? Was that
likely when the man had no friends? Pondering the thing, Slone went
slowly on, realizing that a new and disturbing feature confronted him.
Then when these new tracks met the trail that Creech had left Slone
found that these strangers were as interested in Creech's tracks as he
was. Slone found their boot-marks in the sand--the hand-prints where
some one had knelt to scrutinize Creech's trail.
Slone led his horse and walked on, more and more disturbed in mind.
When he came to a larger, bare, flat canyon bottom, where the rock had
been washed clear of sand, he found no more cedar berries. They had
been picked up. At the other extreme edge of this stony ground he found
crumpled bits of cedar and cedar berries scattered in one spot, as if
thrown there by some one who read their meaning.
This discovery unnerved Slone. It meant so much. And if Slone had any
hope or reason to doubt that these strangers had taken up the trail for
good, the next few miles dispelled it. They were trailing Creech.
Suddenly Slone gave a wild start, which made Wildfire plunge.
"CORDTS!" whispered Slone and the cold sweat oozed out of every pore.
These canyons were the hiding-places of the horse-thief. He and two of
his men had chanced upon Creech's trail; and perhaps their guess at its
meaning was like Slone's. If they had not guessed they would soon
learn. It magnified Slone's task a thousandfold. He had a moment of
bitter, almost hopeless realization before a more desperate spirit
awoke in him. He had only more men to kill--that was all. These upland
riders did not pack rifles, of that Slone was sure. And the sooner he
came up with Cordts the better. It was then he let Wildfire choose his
gait and the trail. Sunset, twilight, dusk, and darkness came with
Slone keeping on and on. As long as there were no intersecting canyons
or clefts or slopes by which Creech might have swerved from his course,
just so long Slone would travel. And it was late in the night when he
had to halt.
Early next day the trail led up out of the red and broken gulches to
the cedared uplands. Slone saw a black-rimmed, looming plateau in the
distance. All these winding canyons, and the necks of the high ridges
between, must run up to that great table-land.
That day he lost two of the horse tracks. He did not mark the change
for a long time after there had been a split in the party that had been
trailing Creech. Then it was too late for him to go back to
investigate, even if that had been wise. He kept on, pondering, trying
to decide whether or not he had been discovered and was now in danger
of ambush ahead and pursuit from behind. He thought that possibly
Cordts had split his party, one to trail along after Creech, the others
to work around to head him off. Undoubtedly Cordts knew this broken
canyon country and could tell where Creech was going, and knew how to
intercept him.
The uncertainty wore heavily upon Slone. He grew desperate. He had no
time to steal along cautiously. He must be the first to get to Creech.
So he held to the trail and went as rapidly as the nature of the ground
would permit, expecting to be shot at from any clump of cedars. The
trail led down again into a narrow canyon with low walls. Slone put all
his keenness on what lay before him.
Wildfire's sudden break and upflinging of head and his snort preceded
the crack of a rifle. Slone knew he had been shot at, although he
neither felt nor heard the bullet. He had no chance to see where the
shot came from, for Wildfire bolted, and needed as much holding and
guiding as Slone could give. He ran a mile. Then Slone was able to look
about him. Had he been shot at from above or behind? He could not tell.
It did not matter, so long as the danger was not in front. He kept a
sharp lookout, and presently along the right canyon rim, five hundred
feet above him, he saw a bay horse, and a rider with a rifle. He had
been wrong, then, about these riders and their weapons. Slone did not
see any wisdom in halting to shoot up at this pursuer, and he spurred
Wildfire just as a sharp crack sounded above. The bullet thudded into
the earth a few feet behind him. And then over bad ground, with the
stallion almost unmanageable, Slone ran a gantlet of shots. Evidently
the man on the rim had smooth ground to ride over, for he easily kept
abreast of Slone. But he could not get the range. Fortunately for
Slone, broken ramparts above checked the tricks of that pursuer, and
Slone saw no more of him.
It afforded him great relief to find that Creech's trail turned into a
canyon on the left; and here, with the sun already low, Slone began to
watch the clumps of cedars and the jumbles of rock. But he was not
ambushed. Darkness set in, and, being tired out, he was about to halt
for the night when he caught the flicker of a campfire. The stallion
saw it, too, but did not snort. Slone dismounted and, leading him, went
cautiously forward on foot, rifle in hand.
The canyon widened at a point where two breaks occurred, and the
less-restricted space was thick with cedar and pinyon. Slone could tell
by the presence of these trees and also by a keener atmosphere that he
was slowly getting to a higher attitude. This camp-fire must belong to
Cordts or the one man who had gone on ahead. And Slone advanced boldly.
He did not have to make up his mind what to do.
But he was amazed to see several dark forms moving to and fro before
the bright camp-fire, and he checked himself abruptly. Considering a
moment, Slone thought he had better have a look at these fellows. So he
tied Wildfire and, taking to the darker side of the canyon, he stole
cautiously forward.
The distance was considerable, as he had calculated. Soon, however, he
made out the shadowy outlines of horses feeding in the open. He hugged
the canyon wall for fear they might see him. As luck would have it the
night breeze was in his favor. Stealthily he stole on, in the deep
shadow of the wall, and under the cedars, until he came to a point
opposite the camp-fire, and then he turned toward it. He went slowly,
carefully, noiselessly, and at last he crawled through the narrow
aisles between thick sage-brush. Another clump of cedars loomed up, and
he saw the flickering of firelight upon the pale-green foliage.
He heard gruff voices before he raised himself to look, and by this he
gauged his distance. He was close enough--almost too close. But as he
crouched in dark shade and there were no horses near, he did not fear
discovery.
When he peered out from his covert the first thing to strike and hold
his rapid glance was the slight figure of a girl. Slone stifled a gasp
in his throat. He thought he recognized Lucy. Stunned, he crouched down
again with his hands clenched round his rifle. And there he remained
for a long moment of agony before reason asserted itself over emotion.
Had he really seen Lucy? He had heard of a girl now and then in the
camps of these men, especially Cordts. Maybe Creech had fallen in with
comrades. No, he could not have had any comrades there but
horse-thieves, and Creech was above that. If Creech was there he had
been held up by Cordts; if Lucy only was with the gang, Creech had been
killed.
Slone had to force himself to look again. The girl had changed her
position. But the light shone upon the men. Creech was not one of the
three, nor Cordts, nor any man Slone had seen before. They were not
honest men, judging from their hard, evil looks. Slone was nonplussed
and he was losing self-control. Again he lowered himself and waited. He
caught the word "Durango" and "hosses" and "fer enough in," the meaning
of which was, vague. Then the girl laughed. And Slone found himself
trembling with joy. Beyond any doubt that laugh could not have been
Lucy's.
Slone stole back as he had come, reached the shadow of the wall, and
drew away until he felt it safe to walk quickly. When he reached the
place where he expected to find Wildfire he did not see him. Slone
looked and looked. Perhaps he had misjudged distance and place in the
gloom. Still, he never made mistakes of that nature. He searched around
till he found the cedar stump to which he had tied the lasso. In the
gloom he could not see it, and when he reached out he did not feel it.
Wildfire was gone! Slone sank down, overcome. He cursed what must have
been carelessness, though he knew he never was careless with a horse.
What had happened? He did not know. But Wildfire was gone--and that
meant Lucy's doom and his! Slone shook with cold.
Then, as he leaned against the stump, wet and shaking, familiar sound
met his ears. It was made by the teeth of a grazing horse--a slight,
keen, tearing cut. Wildfire was close at hand! With a sweep Slone
circled the stump and he found the knot of the lasso. He had missed it.
He began to gather in the long rope, and soon felt the horse. In the
black gloom against the wall Slone could not distinguish Wildfire.
"Whew!" he muttered, wiping the sweat off his face. "Good Lord! ... All
for nothin'."
It did not take Slone long to decide to lead the horse and work up the
canyon past the campers. He must get ahead of them, and once there he
had no fear of them, either by night or day. He really had no hopes of
getting by undiscovered, and all he wished for was to get far enough so
that he could not be intercepted. The grazing horses would scent
Wildfire or he would scent them.
For a wonder Wildfire allowed himself to be led as well as if he had
been old, faithful Nagger. Slone could not keep close in to the wall
for very long, on account of the cedars, but he managed to stay in the
outer edge of shadow cast by the wall. Wildfire winded the horses,
halted, threw up his head. But for some reason beyond Slone the horse
did not snort or whistle. As he knew Wildfire he could have believed
him intelligent enough and hateful enough to betray his master.
It was one of the other horses that whistled an alarm. This came at a
point almost even with the camp-fire. Slone, holding Wildfire down, had
no time to get into a stirrup, but leaped to the saddle and let the
horse go. There were hoarse yells and then streaks of fire and shots.
Slone heard the whizz of heavy bullets, and he feared for Wildfire. But
the horse drew swiftly away into the darkness. Slone could not see
whether the ground was smooth or broken, and he left that to Wildfire.
Luck favored them, and presently Slone pulled him in to a safe gait,
and regretted only that he had not had a chance to take a shot at that
camp.
Slone walked the horse for an hour, and then decided that he could well
risk a halt for the night.
Before dawn he was up, warming his chilled body by violent movements,
and forcing himself to eat.
The rim of the west wall changed from gray to pink. A mocking-bird
burst into song. A coyote sneaked away from the light of day. Out in
the open Slone found the trail made by Creech's mustangs and by the
horse of Cordts's man. The latter could not be very far ahead. In less
than an hour Slone came to a clump of cedars where this man had camped.
An hour behind him!
This canyon was open, with a level and narrow floor divided by a deep
wash. Slone put Wildfire to a gallop. The narrow wash was no obstacle
to Wildfire; he did not have to be urged or checked. It was not long
before Slone saw a horseman a quarter of a mile ahead, and he was
discovered almost at the same time. This fellow showed both surprise
and fear. He ran his horse. But in comparison with Wildfire that horse
seemed sluggish. Slone would have caught up with him very soon but for
a change in the lay of the land. The canyon split up and all of its
gorges and ravines and washes headed upon the pine-fringed plateau, now
only a few miles distant. The gait of the horses had to be reduced to a
trot, and then a walk. The man Slone was after left Creech's trail and
took to a side cleft. Slone, convinced he would soon overhaul him, and
then return to take up Creech's trail, kept on in pursuit. Then Slone
was compelled to climb. Wildfire was so superior to the other's horse,
and Slone was so keen at choosing ground and short cuts, that he would
have been right upon him but for a split in the rock which suddenly
yawned across his path. It was impassable. After a quick glance Slone
abandoned the direct pursuit, and, turning along this gulch, he gained
a point where the horse-thief would pass under the base of the
rim-wall, and here Slone would have him within easy rifle shot.
And the man, intent on getting out of the canyon, rode into the trap,
approaching to within a hundred yards of Slone, who suddenly showed
himself on foot, rifle in hand. The deep gulch was a barrier to Slone's
further progress, but his rifle dominated the situation.
"Hold on!" he called, warningly.
"Hold on yerself!" yelled the other, aghast, as he halted his horse. He
gazed down and evidently was quick to take in the facts.
Slone had meant to kill this man without even a word, yet now when the
moment had come a feeling almost of sickness clouded his resolve. But
he leveled the rifle.
"I got it on you," he called.
"Reckon you hev. But see hyar--"
"I can hit you anywhere."
"Wal, I'll take yer word fer thet."
"All right. Now talk fast.... Are you one of Cordts's gang?"
"Sure."
"Why are you alone?"
"We split down hyar."
"Did you know I was on this trail?"
"Nope. I didn't sure, or you'd never ketched me, red hoss or no."
"Who were you trailin'?"
"Ole Creech an' the girl he kidnapped."
Slone felt the leap of his blood and the jerk it gave the rifle as his
tense finger trembled on the trigger.
"Girl.... What girl?" he called, hoarsely.
"Bostil's girl."
"Why did Cordts split on the trail?"
"He an' Hutch went round fer some more of the gang, an' to head off
Joel Creech when he comes in with Bostil's hosses."
Slone was amazed to find how the horse thieves had calculated; yet, on
second thought, the situation, once the Creeches had been recognized,
appeared simple enough.
"What was your game?" he demanded.
"I was follerin' Creech jest to find out where he'd hole up with the
girl."
"What's Cordts's game--AFTER he heads Joel Creech?"
"Then he's goin' fer the girl."
Slone scarcely needed to be told all this, but the deliberate words
from the lips of one of Cordts's gang bore a raw, brutal proof of
Lucy's peril. And yet Slone could not bring himself to kill this man in
cold blood. He tried, but in vain.
"Have you got a gun?" called Slone, hoarsely.
"Sure."
"Ride back the other way! ... If you don't lose me I'll kill you!"
The man stared. Slone saw the color return to his pale face. Then he
turned his horse and rode back out of sight. Slone heard him rolling
the stones down the long, rough slope; and when he felt sure the
horse-thief had gotten a fair start he went back to mount Wildfire in
pursuit.
This trailer of Lucy never got back to Lucy's trail--never got away.
But Slone, when that day's hard, deadly pursuit ended, found himself
lost in the canyons. How bitterly he cursed both his weakness in not
shooting the man at sight, and his strength in following him with
implacable purpose! For to be fair, to give the horse-thief a chance
for his life, Slone had lost Lucy's trail. The fact nearly distracted
him. He spent a sleepless night of torture.
All next day, like a wild man, he rode and climbed and descended,
spurred by one purpose, pursued by suspense and dread. That night he
tied Wildfire near water and grass and fell into the sleep of
exhaustion.
Morning came. But with it no hope. He had been desperate. And now he
was in a frightful state. It seemed that days and days had passed, and
nights that were hideous with futile nightmares.
He rode down into a canyon with sloping walls, and broken, like all of
these canyons under the great plateau. Every canyon resembled another.
The upland was one vast network. The world seemed a labyrinth of
canyons among which he was hopelessly lost. What would--what had become
of Lucy? Every thought in his whirling brain led back to that--and it
was terrible.
Then--he was gazing transfixed down upon the familiar tracks left by
Creech's mustangs. Days old, but still unfollowed!