The Man of the Forest - Zane Grey (white hot kiss txt) 📗
- Author: Zane Grey
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counterfeit. Wilson was shaken, as if by a palsy. He choked
over passionate, incoherent invective. It was class hate
first, then the hate of real manhood for a craven, then the
hate of disgrace for a murder. No man so fair as a
gun-fighter in the Western creed of an “even break”!
Wilson’s terrible cataclysm of passion passed. Straightening
up, he sheathed his weapon and began a slow pace before the
fire. Not many moments afterward he jerked his head high and
listened. Horses were softly thudding through the forest.
Soon Anson rode into sight with his men and one of the
strayed horses. It chanced, too, that young Burt appeared on
the other side of the glade. He walked quickly, as one who
anticipated news.
Snake Anson as he dismounted espied the dead man.
“Jim — I thought I heard a shot.”
The others exclaimed and leaped off their horses to view the
prostrate form with that curiosity and strange fear common
to all men confronted by sight of sudden death.
That emotion was only momentary.
“Shot his lamp out!” ejaculated Moze.
“Wonder how Gunman Riggs liked thet plumb center peg!”
exclaimed Shady Jones, with a hard laugh.
“Back of his head all gone!” gasped young Burt. Not
improbably he had not seen a great many bullet-marked men.
“Jim! — the long-haired fool didn’t try to draw on you!”
exclaimed Snake Anson, astounded.
Wilson neither spoke nor ceased his pacing.
“What was it over?” added Anson, curiously.
“He hit the gurl,” replied Wilson.
Then there were long-drawn exclamations all around, and
glance met glance.
“Jim, you saved me the job,” continued the outlaw leader.
“An’ I’m much obliged… . Fellars, search Riggs an’ we’ll
divvy… . Thet all right, Jim?”
“Shore, an’ you can have my share.”
They found bank-notes in the man’s pocket and considerable
gold worn in a money-belt around his waist. Shady Jones
appropriated his boots, and Moze his gun. Then they left him
as he had fallen.
“Jim, you’ll have to track them lost hosses. Two still
missin’ an’ one of them’s mine,” called Anson as Wilson
paced to the end of his beat.
The girl heard Anson, for she put her head out of the spruce
shelter and called: “Riggs said he’d hid two of the horses.
They must be close. He came that way.”
“Howdy, kid! Thet’s good news,” replied Anson. His spirits
were rising. “He must hev wanted you to slope with him?”
“Yes. I wouldn’t go.”
“An’ then he hit you?”
“Yes.”
“Wal, recallin’ your talk of yestiddy, I can’t see as Mister
Riggs lasted much longer hyar than he’d hev lasted in Texas.
We’ve some of thet great country right in our outfit.”
The girl withdrew her white face.
“It’s break camp, boys,” was the leader’s order. “A couple
of you look up them hosses. They’ll be hid in some thick
spruces. The rest of us ‘ll pack.”
Soon the gang was on the move, heading toward the height of
land, and swerving from it only to find soft and grassy
ground that would not leave any tracks.
They did not travel more than a dozen miles during the
afternoon, but they climbed bench after bench until they
reached the timbered plateau that stretched in sheer black
slope up to the peaks. Here rose the great and gloomy forest
of firs and pines, with the spruce overshadowed and thinned
out. The last hour of travel was tedious and toilsome, a
zigzag, winding, breaking, climbing hunt for the kind of
camp-site suited to Anson’s fancy. He seemed to be growing
strangely irrational about selecting places to camp. At
last, for no reason that could have been manifest to a good
woodsman, he chose a gloomy bowl in the center of the
densest forest that had been traversed. The opening, if such
it could have been called, was not a park or even a glade. A
dark cliff, with strange holes, rose to one side, but not so
high as the lofty pines that brushed it. Along its base
babbled a brook, running over such formation of rock that
from different points near at hand it gave forth different
sounds, some singing, others melodious, and one at least of
a hollow, weird, deep sound, not loud, but strangely
penetrating.
“Sure spooky I say,” observed Shady, sentiently.
The little uplift of mood, coincident with the rifling of
Riggs’s person, had not worn over to this evening camp. What
talk the outlaws indulged in was necessary and conducted in
low tones. The place enjoined silence.
Wilson performed for the girl very much the same service as
he had the night before. Only he advised her not to starve
herself; she must eat to keep up her strength. She complied
at the expense of considerable effort.
As it had been a back-breaking day, in which all of them,
except the girl, had climbed miles on foot, they did not
linger awake long enough after supper to learn what a wild,
weird, and pitch-black spot the outlaw leader had chosen.
The little spaces of open ground between the huge-trunked
pine-trees had no counterpart up in the lofty spreading
foliage. Not a star could blink a wan ray of light into that
Stygian pit. The wind, cutting down over abrupt heights
farther up, sang in the pine-needles as if they were strings
vibrant with chords. Dismal creaks were audible. They were
the forest sounds of branch or tree rubbing one another, but
which needed the corrective medium of daylight to convince
any human that they were other than ghostly. Then, despite
the wind and despite the changing murmur of the brook, there
seemed to be a silence insulating them, as deep and
impenetrable as the darkness.
But the outlaws, who were fugitives now, slept the sleep of
the weary, and heard nothing. They awoke with the sun, when
the forest seemed smoky in a golden gloom, when light and
bird and squirrel proclaimed the day.
The horses had not strayed out of this basin during the
night, a circumstance that Anson was not slow to appreciate.
“It ain’t no cheerful camp, but I never seen a safer place
to hole up in,” he remarked to Wilson.
“Wal, yes — if any place is safe,” replied that ally,
dubiously.
“We can watch our back tracks. There ain’t any other way to
git in hyar thet I see.”
“Snake, we was tolerable fair sheep-rustlers, but we’re no
good woodsmen.”
Anson grumbled his disdain of this comrade who had once been
his mainstay. Then he sent Burt out to hunt fresh meat and
engaged his other men at cards. As they now had the means to
gamble, they at once became absorbed. Wilson smoked and
divided his thoughtful gaze between the gamblers and the
drooping figure of the girl. The morning air was keen, and
she, evidently not caring to be near her captors beside the
campfire, had sought the only sunny spot in this gloomy
dell. A couple of hours passed; the sun climbed high; the
air grew warmer. Once the outlaw leader raised his head to
scan the heavy-timbered slopes that inclosed the camp.
“Jim, them hosses are strayin’ off,” he observed.
Wilson leisurely rose and stalked off across the small, open
patches, in the direction of the horses. They had grazed
around from the right toward the outlet of the brook. Here
headed a ravine, dense and green. Two of the horses had gone
down. Wilson evidently heard them, though they were not in
sight, and he circled somewhat so as to get ahead of them
and drive them back. The invisible brook ran down over the
rocks with murmur and babble. He halted with instinctive
action. He listened. Forest sounds, soft, lulling, came on
the warm, pine-scented breeze. It would have taken no keen
ear to hear soft and rapid padded footfalls. He moved on
cautiously and turned into a little open, mossy spot,
brown-matted and odorous, full of ferns and bluebells. In
the middle of this, deep in the moss, he espied a huge round
track of a cougar. He bent over it. Suddenly he stiffened,
then straightened guardedly. At that instant he received a
hard prod in the back. Throwing up his hands, he stood
still, then slowly turned. A tall hunter in gray buckskin,
gray-eyed and square-jawed, had him covered with a cocked
rifle. And beside this hunter stood a monster cougar,
snarling and blinking.
“Howdy, Dale,” drawled Wilson. “Reckon you’re a little
previous on me.”
“Sssssh! Not so loud,” said the hunter, in low voice.
“You’re Jim Wilson?”
“Shore am. Say, Dale, you showed up soon. Or did you jest
happen to run acrost us?”
“I’ve trailed you. Wilson, I’m after the girl.”
“I knowed thet when I seen you!”
The cougar seemed actuated by the threatening position of
his master, and he opened his mouth, showing great yellow
fangs, and spat at Wilson. The outlaw apparently had no fear
of Dale or the cocked rifle, but that huge, snarling cat
occasioned him uneasiness.
“Wilson, I’ve heard you spoken of as a white outlaw,” said
Dale.
“Mebbe I am. But shore I’ll be a scared one in a minit.
Dale, he’s goin’ to jump me!”
“The cougar won’t jump you unless I make him. Wilson, if I
let you go will you get the girl for me?”
“Wal, lemme see. Supposin’ I refuse?” queried Wilson,
shrewdly.
“Then, one way or another, it’s all up with you.”
“Reckon I ‘ain’t got much choice. Yes, I’ll do it. But,
Dale, are you goin’ to take my word for thet an’ let me go
back to Anson?”
“Yes, I am. You’re no fool. An’ I believe you’re square.
I’ve got Anson and his gang corralled. You can’t slip me —
not in these woods. I could run off your horses — pick you
off one by one — or turn the cougar loose on you at night.”
“Shore. It’s your game. Anson dealt himself this hand… .
Between you an’ me, Dale, I never liked the deal.”
“Who shot Riggs? … I found his body.”
“Wal, yours truly was around when thet come off,” replied
Wilson, with an involuntary little shudder. Some thought
made him sick.
“The girl? Is she safe — unharmed?” queried Dale,
hurriedly.
“She’s shore jest as safe an’ sound as when she was home.
Dale, she’s the gamest kid thet ever breathed! Why, no one
could hev ever made me believe a girl, a kid like her, could
hev the nerve she’s got. Nothin’s happened to her ‘cept
Riggs hit her in the mouth… . I killed him for thet… .
An’, so help me, God, I believe it’s been workin’ in me to
save her somehow! Now it’ll not be so hard.”
“But how?” demanded Dale.
“Lemme see… . Wal, I’ve got to sneak her out of camp an’
meet you. Thet’s all.”
“It must be done quick.”
“But, Dale, listen,” remonstrated Wilson, earnestly. “Too
quick ‘ll be as bad as too slow. Snake is sore these days,
gittin’ sorer all the time. He might savvy somethin’, if I
ain’t careful, an’ kill the girl or do her harm. I know
these fellars. They’re all ready to go to pieces. An’ shore
I must play safe. Shore it’d be safer to have a plan.”
Wilson’s shrewd, light eyes gleamed with an idea. He was
about to lower one of his upraised hands, evidently to point
to the cougar, when he thought better of that.
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