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
Hare faced the open door. The room had been enlarged; it was now on a level with the store floor, and was blue with smoke, foul with the fumes of rum, and noisy with the voices of dark, rugged men.
A man in the middle of the room was dancing a jig.
“Hello, who's this?” he said, straightening up.
It might have been the stopping of the dance or the quick spark in Hare's eyes that suddenly quieted the room. Hare had once vowed to himself that he would never forget the scarred face; it belonged to the outlaw Chance.
The sight of it flashed into the gulf of Hare's mind like a meteor into black night. A sudden madness raced through his veins.
“Hello, Don't you know me?” he said, with a long step that brought him close to Chance.
The outlaw stood irresolute. Was this an old friend or an enemy? His beady eyes scintillated and twitched as if they sought to look him over, yet dared not because it was only in the face that intention could be read.
The stillness of the room broke to a hoarse whisper from some one.
“Look how he packs his gun.”
Another man answering whispered: “There's not six men in Utah who pack a gun thet way.”
Chance heard these whispers, for his eye shifted downward the merest fraction of a second. The brick color of his face turned a dirty white.
“Do you know me?” demanded Hare.
Chance's answer was a spasmodic jerking of his hand toward his hip. Hare's arm moved quicker, and Chance's Colt went spinning to the floor.
“Too slow,” said Hare. Then he flung Chance backward and struck him blows that sent his head with sodden thuds against the log wall. Chance sank to the floor in a heap.
Hare kicked the outlaw's gun out of the way, and wheeled to the crowd. Holderness stood foremost, his tall form leaning against the bar, his clear eyes shining like light on ice.
“Do you know me?” asked Hare, curtly.
Holderness started slightly. “I certainly don't,” he replied.
“You slapped my face once.” Hare leaned close to the rancher. “Slap it now—you rustler!”
In the slow, guarded instant when Hare's gaze held Holderness and the other men, a low murmuring ran through the room.
“Dene's spy!” suddenly burst out Holderness.
Hare slapped his face. Then he backed a few paces with his right arm held before him almost as high as his shoulder, the wrist rigid, the fingers quivering.
“Don't try to draw, Holderness. Thet's August Naab's trick with a gun,” whispered a man, hurriedly.
“Holderness, I made a bonfire over at Seeping Springs,” said Hare. “I burned the new corrals your men built, and I tracked them to your ranch. Snood threw up his job when he heard it. He's an honest man, and no honest man will work for a water-thief, a cattle-rustler, a sheep-killer. You're shown up, Holderness. Leave the country before some one kills you—understand, before some one kills you!”
Holderness stood motionless against the bar, his eyes fierce with passionate hate.
Hare backed step by step to the outside door, his right hand still high, his look holding the crowd bound to the last instant. Then he slipped out, scattered the group round Silvermane, and struck hard with the spurs.
The gray, never before spurred, broke down the road into his old wild speed.
Men were crossing from the corner of the green square. One, a compact little fellow, swarthy, his dark hair long and flowing, with jaunty and alert air, was Dene, the outlaw leader. He stopped, with his companions, to let the horse cross.
Hare guided the thundering stallion slightly to the left. Silvermane swerved and in two mighty leaps bore down on the outlaw. Dene saved himself by quickly leaping aside, but even as he moved Silvermane struck him with his left fore-leg, sending him into the dust.
At the street corner Hare glanced back. Yelling men were rushing from the saloon and some of them fired after him. The bullets whistled harmlessly behind Hare. Then the corner house shut off his view.
Silvermane lengthened out and stretched lower with his white mane flying and his nose pointed level for the desert.
XI. THE DESERT-HAWK
TOWARD the close of the next day Jack Hare arrived at Seeping Springs. A pile of gray ashes marked the spot where the trimmed logs had lain. Round the pool ran a black circle hard packed into the ground by many hoofs. Even the board flume had been burned to a level with the glancing sheet of water. Hare was slipping Silvermane's bit to let him drink when he heard a halloo. Dave Naab galloped out of the cedars, and presently August Naab and his other sons appeared with a pack-train.
“Now you've played bob!” exclaimed Dave. He swung out of his saddle and gripped Hare with both hands. “I know what you've done; I know where you've been. Father will be furious, but don't you care.”
The other Naabs trotted down the slope and lined their horses before the pool. The sons stared in blank astonishment; the father surveyed the scene slowly, and then fixed wrathful eyes on Hare.
“What does this mean?” he demanded, with the sonorous roll of his angry voice.
Hare told all that had happened.
August Naab's gloomy face worked, and his eagle-gaze had in it a strange far-seeing light; his mind was dwelling upon his mystic power of revelation.
“I see—I see,” he said haltingly.
“Ki—yi-i-i!” yelled Dave Naab with all the power of his lungs. His head was back, his mouth wide open, his face red, his neck corded and swollen with the intensity of his passion.
“Be still—boy!” ordered his father. “Hare, this was madness—but tell me what you learned.”
Briefly Hare repeated all that he had been told at the Bishop's, and concluded with the killing of Martin Cole by Dene.
August Naab bowed his head and his giant frame shook under the force
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