The Man of the Forest - Zane Grey (white hot kiss txt) 📗
- Author: Zane Grey
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above the grass; and he saw deep tracks of game as well as
the slow-rising blades of bluebells where some soft-footed
beast had just trod. And he heard the melancholy notes of
birds, the twitter of grouse, the sough of the wind, the
light dropping of pine-cones, the near and distant bark of
squirrels, the deep gobble of a turkey close at hand and the
challenge from a rival far away, the cracking of twigs in
the thickets, the murmur of running water, the scream of an
eagle and the shrill cry of a hawk, and always the soft,
dull, steady pads of the hoofs of the horses.
The smells, too, were the sweet, stinging ones of spring,
warm and pleasant — the odor of the clean, fresh earth
cutting its way through that thick, strong fragrance of
pine, the smell of logs rotting in the sun, and of fresh new
grass and flowers along a brook of snow-water.
“I smell smoke,” said Dale, suddenly, as he reined in, and
turned for corroboration from his companion.
John sniffed the warm air.
“Wal, you’re more of an Injun than me,” he replied, shaking
his head.
They traveled on, and presently came out upon the rim of the
last slope. A long league of green slanted below them,
breaking up into straggling lines of trees and groves that
joined the cedars, and these in turn stretched on and down
in gray-black patches to the desert, that glittering and
bare, with streaks of somber hue, faded in the obscurity of
distance.
The village of Pine appeared to nestle in a curve of the
edge of the great forest, and the cabins looked like tiny
white dots set in green.
“Look there,” said Dale, pointing.
Some miles to the right a gray escarpment of rock cropped
out of the slope, forming a promontory; and from it a thin,
pale column of smoke curled upward to be lost from sight as
soon as it had no background of green.
“Thet’s your smoke, shore enough,” replied John,
thoughtfully. “Now, I jest wonder who’s campin’ there. No
water near or grass for hosses.”
“John, that point’s been used for smoke signals many a
time.”
“Was jest thinkin’ of thet same. Shall we ride around there
an’ take a peek?”
“No. But we’ll remember that. If Beasley’s got his deep
scheme goin’, he’ll have Snake Anson’s gang somewhere
close.”
“Roy said thet same. Wal, it’s some three hours till
sundown. The hosses keep up. I reckon I’m fooled, for we’ll
make Pine all right. But old Tom there, he’s tired or lazy.”
The big cougar was lying down, panting, and his half-shut
eyes were on Dale.
“Tom’s only lazy an’ fat. He could travel at this gait for a
week. But let’s rest a half-hour an’ watch that smoke before
movin’ on. We can make Pine before sundown.”
When travel had been resumed, half-way down the slope Dale’s
sharp eyes caught a broad track where shod horses had
passed, climbing in a long slant toward the promontory. He
dismounted to examine it, and John, coming up, proceeded
with alacrity to get off and do likewise. Dale made his
deductions, after which he stood in a brown study beside his
horse, waiting for John.
“Wal, what ‘d you make of these here tracks?” asked that
worthy.
“Some horses an’ a pony went along here yesterday, an’
to-day a single horse made, that fresh track.”
“Wal, Milt, for a hunter you ain’t so bad at hoss tracks,”
observed John, “But how many hosses went yesterday?”
“I couldn’t make out — several — maybe four or five.”
“Six hosses an’ a colt or little mustang, unshod, to be
strict-correct. Wal, supposin’ they did. What ‘s it mean to
us?”
“I don’t know as I’d thought anythin’ unusual, if it hadn’t
been for that smoke we saw off the rim, an’ then this here
fresh track made along to-day. Looks queer to me.”
“Wish Roy was here,” replied John, scratching his head.
“Milt, I’ve a hunch, if he was, he’d foller them tracks.”
“Maybe. But we haven’t time for that. We can backtrail them,
though, if they keep clear as they are here. An’ we’ll not
lose any time, either.”
That broad track led straight toward Pine, down to the edge
of the cedars, where, amid some jagged rocks, evidences
showed that men had camped there for days. Here it ended as
a broad trail. But from the north came the single fresh
track made that very day, and from the east, more in a line
with Pine, came two tracks made the day before. And these
were imprints of big and little hoofs. Manifestly these
interested John more than they did Dale, who had to wait for
his companion.
“Milt, it ain’t a colt’s — thet little track,” avowed John.
“Why not — an’ what if it isn’t?” queried Dale.
“Wal, it ain’t, because a colt always straggles back, an’
from one side to t’other. This little track keeps close to
the big one. An’, by George! it was made by a led mustang.”
John resembled Roy Beeman then with that leaping, intent
fire in his gray eyes. Dale’s reply was to spur his horse
into a trot and call sharply to the lagging cougar.
When they turned into the broad, blossom-bordered road that
was the only thoroughfare of Pine the sun was setting red
and gold behind the mountains. The horses were too tired for
any more than a walk. Natives of the village, catching sight
of Dale and Beeman, and the huge gray cat following like a
dog, called excitedly to one another. A group of men in
front of Turner’s gazed intently down the road, and soon
manifested signs of excitement. Dale and his comrade
dismounted in front of Widow Cass’s cottage. And Dale called
as he strode up the little path. Mrs. Cass came out. She was
white and shaking, but appeared calm. At sight of her John
Beeman drew a sharp breath.
“Wal, now —” he began, hoarsely, and left off.
“How’s Roy?” queried Dale.
“Lord knows I’m glad to see you, boys! Milt, you’re thin an’
strange-lookin’. Roy’s had a little setback. He got a shock
to-day an’ it throwed him off. Fever — an’ now he’s out of
his head. It won’t do no good for you to waste time seein’
him. Take my word for it he’s all right. But there’s others
as — For the land’s sakes, Milt Dale, you fetched thet
cougar back! Don’t let him near me!”
“Tom won’t hurt you, mother,” said Dale, as the cougar came
padding up the path. “You were sayin’ somethin’ — about
others. Is Miss Helen safe? Hurry!”
“Ride up to see her — an’ waste no more time here.”
Dale was quick in the saddle, followed by John, but the
horses had to be severely punished to force them even to a
trot. And that was a lagging trot, which now did not leave
Torn behind.
The ride up to Auchincloss’s ranch-house seemed endless to
Dale. Natives came out in the road to watch after he had
passed. Stern as Dale was in dominating his feelings, he
could not wholly subordinate his mounting joy to a waiting
terrible anticipation of catastrophe. But no matter what
awaited — nor what fateful events might hinge upon this
nameless circumstance about to be disclosed, the wonderful
and glorious fact of the present was that in a moment he
would see Helen Rayner.
There were saddled horses in the courtyard, but no riders. A
Mexican boy sat on the porch bench, in the seat where Dale
remembered he had encountered Al Auchincloss. The door of
the big sitting-room was open. The scent of flowers, the
murmur of bees, the pounding of hoofs came vaguely to Dale.
His eyes dimmed, so that the ground, when he slid out of his
saddle, seemed far below him. He stepped upon the porch. His
sight suddenly cleared. A tight fullness at his throat made
incoherent the words he said to the Mexican boy. But they
were understood, as the boy ran back around the house. Dale
knocked sharply and stepped over the threshold.
Outside, John, true to his habits, was thinking, even in
that moment of suspense, about the faithful, exhausted
horses. As he unsaddled them he talked: “Fer soft an’ fat
hosses, winterin’ high up, wal, you’ve done somethin’!”
Then Dale heard a voice in another room, a step, a creak of
the door. It opened. A woman in white appeared. He
recognized Helen. But instead of the rich brown bloom and
dark-eyed beauty so hauntingly limned on his memory, he saw
a white, beautiful face, strained and quivering in anguish,
and eyes that pierced his heart. He could not speak.
“Oh! my friend — you’ve come!” she whispered.
Dale put out a shaking hand. But she did not see it. She
clutched his shoulders, as if to feel whether or not he was
real, and then her arms went up round his neck.
“Oh, thank God! I knew you would come!” she said, and her
head sank to his shoulder.
Dale divined what he had suspected. Helen’s sister had been
carried off. Yet, while his quick mind grasped Helen’s
broken spirit — the unbalance that was reason for this
marvelous and glorious act — he did not take other meaning
of the embrace to himself. He just stood there, transported,
charged like a tree struck by lightning, making sure with
all his keen senses, so that he could feel forever, how she
was clinging round his neck, her face over his bursting
heart, her quivering form close pressed to his.
“It’s — Bo,” he said, unsteadily.
“She went riding yesterday — and — never — came — back!”
replied Helen, brokenly.
“I’ve seen her trail. She’s been taken into the woods. I’ll
find her. I’ll fetch her back,” he replied, rapidly.
With a shock she seemed to absorb his meaning. With another
shock she raised her face — leaned back a little to look at
him.
“You’ll find her — fetch her back?”
“Yes,” he answered, instantly.
With that ringing word it seemed to Dale she realized how
she was standing. He felt her shake as she dropped her arms
and stepped back, while the white anguish of her face was
flooded out by a wave of scarlet. But she was brave in her
confusion. Her eyes never fell, though they changed swiftly,
darkening with shame, amaze, and with feelings he could not
read.
“I’m almost — out of my head,” she faltered.
“No wonder. I saw that… . But now you must get
clear-headed. I’ve no time to lose.”
He led her to the door.
“John, it’s Bo that’s gone,” he called. “Since yesterday… .
Send the boy to get me a bag of meat an’ bread. You run
to the corral an’ get me a fresh horse. My old horse Ranger
if you can find him quick. An’ rustle.”
Without a word John leaped bareback on one of the horses he
had just unsaddled and spurred him across the courtyard.
Then the big cougar, seeing Helen, got up from where he lay
on the porch and came to her.
“Oh, it’s Tom!” cried Helen, and as he rubbed against her
knees she patted his head with trembling hand. “You big,
beautiful pet! Oh, how I remember! Oh, how Bo would love to
—”
“Where’s Carmichael?” interrupted Dale. “Out huntin’ Bo?”
“Yes. It was he who missed her first. He rode everywhere
yesterday. Last night when
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