The Man of the Forest - Zane Grey (white hot kiss txt) 📗
- Author: Zane Grey
- Performer: -
Book online «The Man of the Forest - Zane Grey (white hot kiss txt) 📗». Author Zane Grey
failed. His comrades did not rally to his help. Wilson
walked away, nodding his head.
“Boss, let Jim alone,” whispered Shady. “It’s orful the way
you buck ag’in’ him — when you seen he’s stirred up. Jim’s
true blue. But you gotta be careful.”
Moze corroborated this statement by gloomy nods.
When the card-playing was resumed, Anson did not join the
game, and both Moze and Shady evinced little of that
whole-hearted obsession which usually attended their
gambling. Anson lay at length, his head in a saddle,
scowling at the little shelter where the captive girl kept
herself out of sight. At times a faint song or laugh, very
unnatural, was wafted across the space. Wilson plodded at
the cooking and apparently heard no sounds. Presently he
called the men to eat, which office they surlily and
silently performed, as if it was a favor bestowed upon the
cook.
“Snake, hadn’t I ought to take a bite of grub over to the
gurl?” asked Wilson.
“Do you hev to ask me thet?” snapped Anson. “She’s gotta be
fed, if we hev to stuff it down her throat.”
“Wal, I ain’t stuck on the job,” replied Wilson. “But I’ll
tackle it, seein’ you-all got cold feet.”
With plate and cup be reluctantly approached the little
lean-to, and, kneeling, he put his head inside. The girl,
quick-eyed and alert, had evidently seen him coming. At any
rate, she greeted him with a cautious smile.
“Jim, was I pretty good?” she whispered.
“Miss, you was shore the finest aktress I ever seen,” he
responded, in a low voice. “But you dam near overdid it. I’m
goin’ to tell Anson you’re sick now — poisoned or somethin’
awful. Then we’ll wait till night. Dale shore will help us
out.”
“Oh, I’m on fire to get away,” she exclaimed. “Jim Wilson,
I’ll never forget you as long as I live!”
He seemed greatly embarrassed.
“Wal — miss — I — I’ll do my best licks. But I ain’t
gamblin’ none on results. Be patient. Keep your nerve. Don’t
get scared. I reckon between me an’ Dale you’ll git away
from heah.”
Withdrawing his head, he got up and returned to the
campfire, where Anson was waiting curiously.
“I left the grub. But she didn’t touch it. Seems sort of
sick to me, like she was poisoned.”
“Jim, didn’t I hear you talkin’?” asked Anson.
“Shore. I was coaxin’ her. Reckon she ain’t so ranty as she
was. But she shore is doubled-up, an’ sickish.”
“Wuss an’ wuss all the time,” said Anson, between his teeth.
“An’ where’s Burt? Hyar it’s noon an’ he left early. He
never was no woodsman. He’s got lost.”
“Either thet or he’s run into somethin’,” replied Wilson,
thoughtfully.
Anson doubled a huge fist and cursed deep under his breath
— the reaction of a man whose accomplices and partners and
tools, whose luck, whose faith in himself had failed him. He
flung himself down under a tree, and after a while, when his
rigidity relaxed, he probably fell asleep. Moze and Shady
kept at their game. Wilson paced to and fro, sat down, and
then got up to bunch the horses again, walked around the
dell and back to camp. The afternoon hours were long. And
they were waiting hours. The act of waiting appeared on the
surface of all these outlaws did.
At sunset the golden gloom of the glen changed to a vague,
thick twilight. Anson rolled over, yawned, and sat up. As he
glanced around, evidently seeking Burt, his face clouded.
“No sign of Burt?” he asked.
Wilson expressed a mild surprise. “Wal, Snake, you ain’t
expectin’ Burt now?”
“I am, course I am. Why not?” demanded Anson. “Any other
time we’d look fer him, wouldn’t we?”
“Any other time ain’t now… . Burt won’t ever come back!”
Wilson spoke it with a positive finality.
“A-huh! Some more of them queer feelin’s of yourn —
operatin’ again, hey? Them onnatural kind thet you can’t
explain, hey?”
Anson’s queries were bitter and rancorous.
“Yes. An’, Snake, I tax you with this heah. Ain’t any of
them queer feelin’s operatin’ in you?”
“No!” rolled out the leader, savagely. But his passionate
denial was a proof that he lied. From the moment of this
outburst, which was a fierce clinging to the old, brave
instincts of his character, unless a sudden change marked
the nature of his fortunes, he would rapidly deteriorate to
the breaking-point. And in such brutal, unrestrained natures
as his this breaking-point meant a desperate stand, a
desperate forcing of events, a desperate accumulation of
passions that stalked out to deal and to meet disaster and
blood and death.
Wilson put a little wood on the fire and he munched a
biscuit. No one asked him to cook. No one made any effort to
do so. One by one each man went to the pack to get some
bread and meat.
Then they waited as men who knew not what they waited for,
yet hated and dreaded it.
Twilight in that glen was naturally a strange, veiled
condition of the atmosphere. It was a merging of shade and
light, which two seemed to make gray, creeping shadows.
Suddenly a snorting and stamping of the horses startled the
men.
“Somethin’ scared the hosses,” said Anson, rising. “Come
on.”
Moze accompanied him, and they disappeared in the gloom.
More trampling of hoofs was heard, then a cracking of brush,
and the deep voices of men. At length the two outlaws
returned, leading three of the horses, which they haltered
in the open glen.
The campfire light showed Anson’s face dark and serious.
“Jim, them hosses are wilder ‘n deer,” he said. “I ketched
mine, an’ Moze got two. But the rest worked away whenever we
come close. Some varmint has scared them bad. We all gotta
rustle out thar quick.”
Wilson rose, shaking his head doubtfully. And at that moment
the quiet air split to a piercing, horrid neigh of a
terrified horse. Prolonged to a screech, it broke and ended.
Then followed snorts of fright, pound and crack and thud of
hoofs, and crash of brush; then a gathering thumping,
crashing roar, split by piercing sounds.
“Stampede!” yelled Anson, and he ran to hold his own horse,
which he had haltered right in camp. It was big and
wild-looking, and now reared and plunged to break away.
Anson just got there in time, and then it took all his
weight to pull the horse down. Not until the crashing,
snorting, pounding melee had subsided and died away over the
rim of the glen did Anson dare leave his frightened
favorite.
“Gone! Our horses are gone! Did you hear ‘em?” he exclaimed,
blankly.
“Shore. They’re a cut-up an’ crippled bunch by now,” replied
Wilson.
“Boss, we’ll never git ‘ern back, not ‘n a hundred years,”
declared Moze.
“Thet settles us, Snake Anson,” stridently added Shady
Jones. “Them hosses are gone! You can kiss your hand to
them… . They wasn’t hobbled. They hed an orful scare.
They split on thet stampede an’ they’ll never git together.
… See what you’ve fetched us to!”
Under the force of this triple arraignment the outlaw leader
dropped to his seat, staggered and silenced. In fact,
silence fell upon all the men and likewise enfolded the
glen.
Night set in jet-black, dismal, lonely, without a star.
Faintly the wind moaned. Weirdly the brook babbled through
its strange chords to end in the sound that was hollow. It
was never the same — a rumble, as if faint, distant thunder
— a deep gurgle, as of water drawn into a vortex — a
rolling, as of a stone in swift current. The black cliff was
invisible, yet seemed to have many weird faces; the giant
pines loomed spectral; the shadows were thick, moving,
changing. Flickering lights from the campfire circled the
huge trunks and played fantastically over the brooding men.
This campfire did not burn or blaze cheerily; it had no
glow, no sputter, no white heart, no red, living embers. One
by one the outlaws, as if with common consent, tried their
hands at making the fire burn aright. What little wood had
been collected was old; it would burn up with false flare,
only to die quickly.
After a while not one of the outlaws spoke or stirred. Not
one smoked. Their gloomy eyes were fixed on the fire. Each
one was concerned with his own thoughts, his own lonely soul
unconsciously full of a doubt of the future. That brooding
hour severed him from comrade.
At night nothing seemed the same as it was by day. With
success and plenty, with full-blooded action past and more
in store, these outlaws were as different from their present
state as this black night was different from the bright day
they waited for. Wilson, though he played a deep game of
deceit for the sake of the helpless girl — and thus did not
have haunting and superstitious fears on her account — was
probably more conscious of impending catastrophe than any of
them.
The evil they had done spoke in the voice of nature, out of
the darkness, and was interpreted by each according to his
hopes and fears. Fear was their predominating sense. For
years they had lived with some species of fear — of honest
men or vengeance, of pursuit, of starvation, of lack of
drink or gold, of blood and death, of stronger men, of luck,
of chance, of fate, of mysterious nameless force. Wilson was
the type of fearless spirit, but he endured the most gnawing
and implacable fear of all — that of himself — that he
must inevitably fall to deeds beneath his manhood.
So they hunched around the campfire, brooding because hope
was at lowest ebb; listening because the weird, black
silence, with its moan of wind and hollow laugh of brook,
compelled them to hear; waiting for sleep, for the hours to
pass, for whatever was to come.
And it was Anson who caught the first intimation of an
impending doom.
“Listen!”
Anson whispered tensely. His poise was motionless, his eyes
roved everywhere. He held up a shaking, bludgy finger, to
command silence.
A third and stranger sound accompanied the low, weird moan
of the wind, and the hollow mockery of the brook — and it
seemed a barely perceptible, exquisitely delicate wail or
whine. It filled in the lulls between the other sounds.
“If thet’s some varmint he’s close,” whispered Anson.
“But shore, it’s far off,” said Wilson.
Shady Jones and Moze divided their opinions in the same way.
All breathed freer when the wail ceased, relaxing to their
former lounging positions around the fire. An impenetrable
wall of blackness circled the pale space lighted by the
campfire; and this circle contained the dark, somber group
of men in the center, the dying campfire, and a few
spectral trunks of pines and the tethered horses on the
outer edge. The horses scarcely moved from their tracks, and
their erect, alert heads attested to their sensitiveness to
the peculiarities of the night.
Then, at an unusually quiet lull the strange sound gradually
arose to a wailing whine.
“It’s thet crazy wench cryin’,” declared the outlaw leader.
Apparently his allies accepted that statement with as much
relief as they had expressed for the termination of the
sound.
“Shore, thet must be it,” agreed Jim Wilson, gravely.
“We’ll git a lot of sleep with thet gurl whinin’ all night,”
growled Shady
Comments (0)