The Man of the Forest by Zane Grey (read me like a book txt) 📗

Young Burt possessed the keenest eyes of any man in Snake Anson's gang, for which reason he was given the post as lookout from the lofty promontory. His instructions were to keep sharp watch over the open slopes below and to report any sight of a horse.

A cedar fire with green boughs on top of dead wood sent up a long, pale column of smoke. This signal-fire had been kept burning since sunrise.

The preceding night camp had been made on a level spot in the cedars back of the promontory. But manifestly Anson did not expect to remain there long. For, after breakfast, the packs had been made up and the horses stood saddled and bridled. They were restless and uneasy, tossing bits and fighting flies. The sun, now half-way to meridian, was hot and no breeze blew in that sheltered spot.

Shady Jones had ridden off early to fill the water-bags, and had not yet returned. Anson, thinner and scalier and more snakelike than ever, was dealing a greasy, dirty deck of cards, his opponent being the square-shaped, black-visaged Moze. In lieu of money the gamblers wagered with cedar-berries, each of which berries represented a pipeful of tobacco. Jim Wilson brooded under a cedar-tree, his unshaven face a dirty dust-hue, a smoldering fire in his light eyes, a sullen set to his jaw. Every little while he would raise his eyes to glance at Riggs, and it seemed that a quick glance was enough. Riggs paced to and fro in the open, coatless and hatless, his black-broadcloth trousers and embroidered vest dusty and torn. An enormous gun bumped awkwardly in its sheath swinging below his hip. Riggs looked perturbed. His face was sweating freely, yet it was far from red in color. He did not appear to mind the sun or the flies. His eyes were staring, dark, wild, shifting in gaze from everything they encountered. But often that gaze shot back to the captive girl sitting under a cedar some yards from the man.

Bo Rayner's little, booted feet were tied together with one end of a lasso and the other end trailed off over the ground. Her hands were free. Her riding-habit was dusty and disordered. Her eyes blazed defiantly out of a small, pale face.

“Harve Riggs, I wouldn't be standing in those cheap boots of yours for a million dollars,” she said, sarcastically. Riggs took no notice of her words.

“You pack that gun-sheath wrong end out. What have you got the gun for, anyhow?” she added, tauntingly.

Snake Anson let out a hoarse laugh and Moze's black visage opened in a huge grin. Jim Wilson seemed to drink in the girl's words. Sullen and somber, he bent his lean head, very still, as if listening.

“You'd better shut up,” said Riggs, darkly.

“I will not shut up,” declared Bo.

“Then I'll gag you,” he threatened.

“Gag me! Why, you dirty, low-down, two-bit of a bluff!” she exclaimed, hotly, “I'd like to see you try it. I'll tear that long hair of yours right off your head.”

Riggs advanced toward her with his hands clutching, as if eager to throttle her. The girl leaned forward, her face reddening, her eyes fierce.

“You damned little cat!” muttered Riggs, thickly. “I'll gag you—if you don't stop squallin'.”

“Come on. I dare you to lay a hand on me.... Harve Riggs, I'm not the least afraid of you. Can't you savvy that? You're a liar, a four-flush, a sneak! Why, you're not fit to wipe the feet of any of these outlaws.”

Riggs took two long strides and bent over her, his teeth protruding in a snarl, and he cuffed her hard on the side of the head.

Bo's head jerked back with the force of the blow, but she uttered no cry.

“Are you goin' to keep your jaw shut?” he demanded, stridently, and a dark tide of blood surged up into his neck.

“I should smile I'm not,” retorted Bo, in cool, deliberate anger of opposition. “You've roped me—and you've struck me! Now get a club—stand off there—out of my reach—and beat me! Oh, if I only knew cuss words fit for you—I'd call you them!”

Snake Anson had stopped playing cards, and was watching, listening, with half-disgusted, half-amused expression on his serpent-like face. Jim Wilson slowly rose to his feet. If any one had observed him it would have been to note that he now seemed singularly fascinated by this scene, yet all the while absorbed in himself. Once he loosened the neck-band of his blouse.

Riggs swung his arm more violently at the girl. But she dodged.

“You dog!” she hissed. “Oh, if I only had a gun!”

Her face then, with its dead whiteness and the eyes of flame, held a tragic, impelling beauty that stung Anson into remonstrance.

“Aw, Riggs, don't beat up the kid,” he protested. “Thet won't do any good. Let her alone.”

“But she's got to shut up,” replied Riggs.

“How 'n hell air you goin' to shet her up? Mebbe if you get out of her sight she'll be quiet.... How about thet, girl?”

Anson gnawed his drooping mustache as he eyed Bo.

“Have I made any kick to you or your men yet?” she queried.

“It strikes me you 'ain't,” replied Anson.

“You won't hear me make any so long as I'm treated decent,” said Bo. “I don't know what you've got to do with Riggs. He ran me down—roped me—dragged me to your camp. Now I've a hunch you're waiting for Beasley.”

“Girl, your hunch 's correct,” said Anson.

“Well, do you know I'm the wrong girl?”

“What's thet? I reckon you're Nell Rayner, who got left all old Auchincloss's