The Heritage of the Desert: A Novel by Zane Grey (book reader for pc .TXT) 📗
- Author: Zane Grey
Book online «The Heritage of the Desert: A Novel by Zane Grey (book reader for pc .TXT) 📗». Author Zane Grey
Her face dropped quickly from its level poise, hiding the brooding eyes; her hand trembled on Wolf's head.
“You spoke the truth. I'll get well. I'd rather have had it from your lips than from any in the world. I mean to live my life here where these wonderful things have come to me. The friendship of the good man who saved me, this wild, free desert, the glory of new hope, strength, life—and love.”
He took her hand in his and whispered, “For I love you. Do you care for me? Mescal! It must be complete. Do you care—a little?”
The wind blew her dusky hair; he could not see her face; he tried gently to turn her to him. The hand he had taken lay warm and trembling in his, but it was not withdrawn. As he waited, in fear, in hope, it became still. Her slender form, rigid within his arm, gradually relaxed, and yielded to him; her face sank on his breast, and her dark hair loosened from its band, covered her, and blew across his lips. That was his answer.
The wind sang in the cedars. No longer a sigh, sad as thoughts of a past forever flown, but a song of what had come to him, of hope, of life, of Mescal's love, of the things to be!
VII. SILVERMANE
LITTLE dew fell on the night of July first; the dawn brightened without mists; a hot sun rose; the short summer of the plateau had begun.
As Hare rose, refreshed and happy from his breakfast, his whistle was cut short by the Indian.
“Ugh!” exclaimed Piute, lifting a dark finger. Black Bolly had thrown her nose-bag and slipped her halter, and she moved toward the opening in the cedars, her head high, her black ears straight up.
“Bolly!” called Mescal. The mare did not stop.
“What the deuce?” Hare ran forward to catch her.
“I never knew Bolly to act that way,” said Mescal. “See—she didn't eat half the oats. Well, Bolly—Jack! look at Wolf!”
The white dog had risen and stood warily shifting his nose. He sniffed the wind, turned round and round, and slowly stiffened with his head pointed toward the eastern rise of the plateau.
“Hold, Wolf, hold!” called Mescal, as the dog appeared to be about to dash away.
“Ugh!” grunted Piute.
“Listen, Jack; did you hear?” whispered the girl.
“Hear what?”
“Listen.”
The warm breeze came down in puffs from the crags; it rustled in the cedars and blew fragrant whiffs of camp-fire smoke into his face; and presently it bore a low, prolonged whistle. He had never before heard its like. The sound broke the silence again, clearer, a keen, sharp whistle.
“What is it?” he queried, reaching for his rifle.
“Wild mustangs,” said Mescal.
“No,” corrected Piute, vehemently shaking his head. “Clea, Clea.”
“Jack, he says 'horse, horse.' It's a wild horse.”
A third time the whistle rang down from the ridge, splitting the air, strong and trenchant, the fiery, shrill challenge of a stallion.
Black Bolly reared straight up.
Jack ran to the rise of ground above the camp, and looked over the cedars. “Oh!” he cried, and beckoned for Mescal. She ran to him, and Piute, tying Black Bolly, hurried after. “Look! look!” cried Jack. He pointed to a ridge rising to the left of the yellow crags. On the bare summit stood a splendid stallion clearly silhouetted against the ruddy morning sky. He was an iron-gray, wild and proud, with long silver-white mane waving in the wind.
“Silvermane! Silvermane!” exclaimed Mescal.
“What a magnificent animal!” Jack stared at the splendid picture for the moment before the horse moved back along the ridge and disappeared. Other horses, blacks and bays, showed above the sage for a moment, and they, too, passed out of sight.
“He's got some of his band with him,” said Jack, thrilled with excitement. “Mescal, they're down off the upper range, and grazing along easy. The wind favors us. That whistle was just plain fight, judging from what Naab told me of wild stallions. He came to the hilltop, and whistled down defiance to any horse, wild or tame, that might be below. I'll slip round through the cedars, and block the trail leading up to the other range, and you and Piute close the gate of our trail at this end. Then send Piute down to tell Naab we've got Silvermane.”
Jack chose the lowest edge of the plateau rim where the cedars were thickest for his detour to get behind the wild band; he ran from tree to tree, avoiding the open places, taking advantage of the thickets, keeping away from the ridge. He had never gone so far as the gate, but, knowing where the trail led into a split in the crags, he climbed the slope, and threaded a way over masses of fallen cliff, until he reached the base of the wall. The tracks of the wildhorse band were very fresh and plain in the yellow trail. Four stout posts guarded the opening, and a number of bars lay ready to be pushed into place. He put them up, making a gate ten feet high, an impregnable barrier. This done, he hurried back to camp.
“Jack, Bolly will need more watching to-day than the sheep, unless I let her loose. Why, she pulls and strains so she'll break that halter.”
“She wants to go with the band; isn't that it?”
“I don't like to think so. But Father Naab doesn't trust Bolly, though she's the best mustang he ever broke.”
“Better keep her in,” replied Jack, remembering Naab's warning. “I'll hobble her, so if she does break loose she can't go far.”
When Mescal and Jack drove in the sheep that afternoon, rather earlier than usual, Piute had returned with August Naab, Dave, and Billy, a string of mustangs and a pack-train of burros.
“Hello, Mescal,” cheerily called August, as they came into camp. “Well Jack—bless me! Why, my lad, how fine and brown—and yes, how you've filled out!” He crushed Jack's hand in his broad palm, and his gray eyes beamed. “I've not the gift of revelation—but, Jack, you're going to get well.”
“Yes, I—” He had difficulty with his enunciation, but he thumped his breast significantly and smiled.
“Black sage and juniper!” exclaimed August. “In this air if a man doesn't go off quickly with pneumonia, he'll get well. I never had a doubt for you, Jack—and thank God!”
He questioned Piute and Mescal about the sheep, and was greatly pleased with their report. He shook his head when Jack spread out the grizzly-pelt, and asked for
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