The Man of the Forest by Zane Grey (read me like a book txt) 📗
- Author: Zane Grey
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Anson's sudden action then seemed a leap of his whole frame. Wilson, likewise, bent forward eagerly. Beasley glanced at the door—then began to whisper.
“Old Auchincloss is on his last legs. He's goin' to croak. He's sent back to Missouri for a niece—a young girl—an' he means to leave his ranches an' sheep—all his stock to her. Seems he has no one else.... Them ranches—an' all them sheep an' hosses! You know me an' Al were pardners in sheep-raisin' for years. He swore I cheated him an' he threw me out. An' all these years I've been swearin' he did me dirt—owed me sheep an' money. I've got as many friends in Pine—an' all the way down the trail—as Auchincloss has.... An' Snake, see here—”
He paused to draw a deep breath and his big hands trembled over the blaze. Anson leaned forward, like a serpent ready to strike, and Jim Wilson was as tense with his divination of the plot at hand.
“See here,” panted Beasley. “The girl's due to arrive at Magdalena on the sixteenth. That's a week from to-morrow. She'll take the stage to Snowdrop, where some of Auchincloss's men will meet her with a team.”
“A-huh!” grunted Anson as Beasley halted again. “An' what of all thet?”
“She mustn't never get as far as Snowdrop!”
“You want me to hold up the stage—an' get the girl?”
“Exactly.”
“Wal—an' what then?”
“Make off with her.... She disappears. That's your affair. ... I'll press my claims on Auchincloss—hound him—an' be ready when he croaks to take over his property. Then the girl can come back, for all I care.... You an' Wilson fix up the deal between you. If you have to let the gang in on it don't give them any hunch as to who an' what. This 'll make you a rich stake. An' providin', when it's paid, you strike for new territory.”
“Thet might be wise,” muttered Snake Anson. “Beasley, the weak point in your game is the uncertainty of life. Old Al is tough. He may fool you.”
“Auchincloss is a dyin' man,” declared Beasley, with such positiveness that it could not be doubted.
“Wal, he sure wasn't plumb hearty when I last seen him.... Beasley, in case I play your game—how'm I to know that girl?”
“Her name's Helen Rayner,” replied Beasley, eagerly. “She's twenty years old. All of them Auchinclosses was handsome an' they say she's the handsomest.”
“A-huh!... Beasley, this 's sure a bigger deal—an' one I ain't fancyin'.... But I never doubted your word.... Come on—an' talk out. What's in it for me?”
“Don't let any one in on this. You two can hold up the stage. Why, it was never held up.... But you want to mask.... How about ten thousand sheep—or what they bring at Phenix in gold?”
Jim Wilson whistled low.
“An' leave for new territory?” repeated Snake Anson, under his breath.
“You've said it.”
“Wal, I ain't fancyin' the girl end of this deal, but you can count on me.... September sixteenth at Magdalena—an' her name's Helen—an' she's handsome?”
“Yes. My herders will begin drivin' south in about two weeks. Later, if the weather holds good, send me word by one of them an' I'll meet you.”
Beasley spread his hands once more over the blaze, pulled on his gloves and pulled down his sombrero, and with an abrupt word of parting strode out into the night.
“Jim, what do you make of him?” queried Snake Anson.
“Pard, he's got us beat two ways for Sunday,” replied Wilson.
“A-huh!... Wal, let's get back to camp.” And he led the way out.
Low voices drifted into the cabin, then came snorts of horses and striking hoofs, and after that a steady trot, gradually ceasing. Once more the moan of wind and soft patter of rain filled the forest stillness.
CHAPTER II Milt Dale quietly sat up to gaze, with thoughtful eyes, into the gloom.
He was thirty years old. As a boy of fourteen he had run off from his school and home in Iowa and, joining a wagon-train of pioneers, he was one of the first to see log cabins built on the slopes of the White Mountains. But he had not taken kindly to farming or sheep-raising or monotonous home toil, and for twelve years he had lived in the forest, with only infrequent visits to Pine and Show Down and Snowdrop. This wandering forest life of his did not indicate that he did not care for the villagers, for he did care, and he was welcome everywhere, but that he loved wild life and solitude and beauty with the primitive instinctive force of a savage.
And on this night he had stumbled upon a dark plot against the only one of all the honest white people in that region whom he could not call a friend.
“That man Beasley!” he soliloquized. “Beasley—in cahoots with Snake Anson!... Well, he was right. Al Auchincloss is on his last legs. Poor old man! When I tell him he'll never believe ME, that's sure!”
Discovery of the plot meant to Dale that he must hurry down to Pine.
“A girl—Helen Rayner—twenty years old,” he mused. “Beasley wants her made off with.... That means—worse than killed!”
Dale accepted facts of life with that equanimity and fatality acquired by one long versed in the cruel annals of forest lore. Bad men worked their evil just as savage wolves relayed a deer. He had shot wolves for that trick. With men, good or bad, he had not clashed. Old women and children appealed to him, but he had never had any interest in girls. The image, then, of this Helen Rayner came strangely to Dale; and he suddenly realized that he had meant somehow to circumvent Beasley, not to befriend old Al Auchincloss, but for the sake of the girl. Probably she was already on her way West, alone, eager, hopeful of a future home. How little people guessed what awaited them at a journey's end! Many trails ended abruptly in the forest—and only trained woodsmen could read the tragedy.
“Strange how I cut across country to-day from Spruce Swamp,” reflected Dale. Circumstances, movements, usually were not strange to him. His methods and habits were seldom changed by chance. The matter, then, of his turning off a course out of his way for no apparent reason, and of his having overheard a plot singularly involving a young girl, was indeed an adventure to provoke thought. It provoked more, for Dale grew conscious of an unfamiliar smoldering heat along his veins. He who had little to do with the strife of men, and nothing to do with anger, felt his blood grow hot at the cowardly trap laid for an innocent girl.
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