Authors: Zane Grey
But this morning there came to Lucy the first vague doubt of herself. Once entering her mind, that doubt became clear. And then she vowed she liked Slone as she might a brother. And something within her accused her own conviction. The conviction was her real self, and the accusation was some other girl lately born in her. Lucy did not like this new person. She was afraid of her. She would not think of her unless she had to.
"I never cared for him--that way," she said, aloud. "I don't--I couldn't--ever--I--I--love Lin Slone!"
The spoken thought--the sound of the words played havoc with Lucy's self-conscious calmness. She burned. She trembled. She was in a rage with herself. She spurred Sarchedon into a run and tore through the sage, down into the valley, running him harder than she should have run him. Then she checked him, and, penitent, petted him out of all proportion to her thoughtlessness. The violent exercise only heated her blood and, if anything, increased this sudden and new torment. Why had she discarded her boy's rider outfit and chaps for a riding-habit made by her aunt, and one she had scorned to wear? Some awful, accusing voice thundered in Lucy's burning ears that she had done this because she was ashamed to face Lin Slone any more in that costume--she wanted to appear different in his eyes, to look like a girl. If that shameful suspicion was a fact why was it---what did it mean? She could not tell, yet she was afraid of the truth.
All of a sudden Lin Slone stood out clearer in her mental vision-- the finest type of a rider she had ever known--a strong, lithe, magnificent horseman, whose gentleness showed his love for horses, whose roughness showed his power--a strange, intense, lonely man in whom she had brought out pride, gratitude, kindness, passion, and despair. She felt her heart swell at the realization that she had changed him, made him kinder, made him divide his love as did her father, made him human, hopeful, longing for a future unfettered by the toils of desert allurement. She could not control her pride. She must like him very much. She confessed that, honestly, without a qualm. It was only bewildering moments of strange agitation and uncertainty that bothered her. She had refused to be concerned by them until they had finally impinged upon her peace of mind. Then they accused her; now she accused herself. She ought not go to meet Lin Slone any more.
"But then--the race!" she murmured. "I couldn't give that up. . . . And oh! I'm afraid the harm is done! What can I do?"
After the race--what then? To be sure, all of Bostil's Ford would know she had been meeting Slone out in the sage, training his horse. What would people say?
"Dad will simply be radiant, IF he can buy Wildfire--and a fiend if he can't," she muttered.
Lucy saw that her own impulsiveness had amounted to daring. She had gone too far. She excused that--for she had a rider's blood--she was Bostil's girl. But she had, in her wildness and joy and spirit, spent many hours alone with a rider, to his undoing. She could not excuse that. She was ashamed. What would he say when she told him she could see him no more? The thought made her weak. He would accept and go his way--back to that lonely desert, with only a horse.
"Wildfire doesn't love him!" she said.
And the scarlet fired her neck and cheek and temple. That leap of blood seemed to release a riot of emotions. What had been a torment became a torture. She turned Sarchedon homeward, but scarcely had faced that way when she wheeled him again. She rode slowly and she rode swiftly. The former was hateful because it held her back--from what she no longer dared think; the latter was fearful because it hurried her on swiftly, irresistibly to her fate.
Lin Slone had changed his camp and had chosen a pass high up where the great walls had began to break into sections. Here there was intimacy with the sheer cliffs of red and yellow. Wide avenues between the walls opened on all points of the compass, and that one to the north appeared to be a gateway down into the valley of monuments. The monuments trooped down into the valley to spread out and grow isolated in the distance. Slone's camp was in a clump of cedars surrounding a spring. There was grass and white sage where rabbits darted in and out.
Lucy did not approach this camp from that roundabout trail which she had made upon the first occasion of her visiting Slone. He had found an opening in the wall, and by riding this way into the pass Lucy cut off miles. In fact, the camp was not over fifteen miles from Bostil's Ford. It was so close that Lucy was worried lest some horse-tracker should stumble on the trail and follow her up into the pass.
This morning she espied Slone at his outlook on a high rock that had fallen from the great walls. She always looked to see if he was there, and she always saw him. The days she had not come, which were few, he had spent watching for her there. His tasks were not many, and he said he had nothing to do but wait for her. Lucy had a persistent and remorseful, yet sweet memory of Slone at his lonely lookout. Here was a fine, strong, splendid young man who had nothing to do but watch for her--a waste of precious hours!
She waved her hand from afar, and he waved in reply. Then as she reached the cedared part of the pass Slone was no longer visible. She put Sarchedon to a run up the hard, wind-swept sand, and reached the camp before Slone had climbed down from his perch.
Lucy dismounted reluctantly. What would he say about the riding-habit that she wore? She felt very curious to learn, and shyer than ever before, and altogether different. The skirt made her more of a girl, it seemed.
"Hello, Lin! " she called. There was nothing in her usual greeting to betray the state of her mind.
"Good mornin'--Lucy," he replied, very slowly. He was looking at her, she thought, with different eyes. And he seemed changed, too, though he had long been well, and his tall, lithe rider's form, his lean, strong face, and his dark eyes were admirable in her sight. Only this morning, all because she had worn a girl's riding-skirt instead of boy's chaps, everything seemed different. Perhaps her aunt had been right, after all, and now things were natural.
Slone gazed so long at her that Lucy could not keep silent. She laughed.
"How do you like--me--in this?"
"I like you much better," Slone said, bluntly.
"Auntie made this--and she's been trying to get me to ride in it."
"It changes you, Lucy. . . . But can you ride as well?"
"I'm afraid not. . . . What's Wildfire going to think of me?"
"He'll like you better, too. . . . Lucy, how's the King comin' on?"
"Lin, I'll tell you, if I wasn't as crazy about Wildfire as you are, I'd say he'll have to kill himself to beat the King," replied Lucy, with gravity.
"Sometimes I doubt, too," said Slone. "But I only have to look at Wildfire to get back my nerve. . . . Lucy, that will be the grandest race ever run!"
"Yes," sighed Lucy.
"What's wrong? Don't you want Wildfire to win?"
"Yes and no. But I'm going to beat the King, anyway. . . . Bring on your Wildfire!"
Lucy unsaddled Sarchedon and turned him loose to graze while Slone went out after Wildfire. And presently it appeared that Lucy might have some little time to wait. Wildfire had lately been trusted to hobbles, which fact made it likely that he had strayed.
Lucy gazed about her at the great looming red walls and out through the avenues to the gray desert beyond. This adventure of hers would soon have an end, for the day of the races was not far distant, and after that it was obvious she would not have occasion to meet Slone. To think of never coming to the pass again gave Lucy a pang. Unconsciously she meant that she would never ride up here again, because Slone would not be here. A wind always blew through the pass, and that was why the sand was so clean and hard. To-day it was a pleasant wind, not hot, nor laden with dust, and somehow musical in the cedars. The blue smoke from Slone's fire curled away and floated out of sight. It was lonely, with the haunting presence of the broken walls ever manifest. But the loneliness seemed full of content. She no longer wondered at Slone's desert life. That might be well for a young man, during those years when adventure and daring called him, but she doubted that it would be well for all of a man's life. And only a little of it ought to be known by a woman. She saw how the wildness and loneliness and brooding of such a life would prevent a woman's development. Yet she loved it all and wanted to live near it, so that when the need pressed her she could ride out into the great open stretches and see the dark monuments grow nearer and nearer, till she was under them, in the silent and colored shadows.
Slone returned presently with Wildfire. The stallion shone like a flame in the sunlight. His fear and hatred of Slone showed in the way he obeyed. Slone had mastered him, and must always keep the upper hand of him. It had from the first been a fight between man and beast, and Lucy believed it would always be so.
But Wildfire was a different horse when he saw Lucy. Day by day evidently Slone loved him more and tried harder to win a little of what Wildfire showed at sight of Lucy. Still Slone was proud of Lucy's control over the stallion. He was just as much heart and soul bent on winning the great race as Lucy was. She had ridden Wildfire bareback at first, and then they had broken him to the saddle.
It was serious business, that training of Wildfire, and Slone had peculiar ideas regarding it. Lucy rode him up and down the pass until he was warm. Then Slone got on Sarchedon. Wildfire always snorted and showed fight at sight of Sage King or Nagger, and the stallion Sarchedon infuriated him because Sarchedon showed fight, too. Slone started out ahead of Lucy, and then they raced down the long pass. The course was hard-packed sand. Fast as Sarchedon was, and matchless as a horseman as was Slone, the race was over almost as soon as it began. Wildfire ran indeed like fire before the wind. He wanted to run, and the other horse made him fierce. Like a burr Lucy stuck low over his neck, a part of the horse, and so light he would not have known he was carrying her but for the repeated calls in his ears. Lucy never spurred him. She absolutely refused to use spurs on him. This day she ran away from Slone, and, turning at the end of the two-mile course they had marked out, she loped Wildfire back. Slone turned with her, and they were soon in camp. Lucy did not jump off. She was in a transport. Every race kindled a mounting fire in her. She was scarlet of face, out of breath, her hair flying. And she lay on Wildfire's neck and hugged him and caressed him and talked to him in low tones of love.
Slone dismounted and got Sarchedon out of the way, then crossed to where Lucy still fondled Wildfire. He paused a moment to look at her, but when she saw him he started again, and came close up to her as she sat the saddle.
"You went past me like a bullet," he said.
"Oh, can't he run!" murmured Lucy.
"Could he beat the King to-day?"
Slone had asked that question every day, more than once.
"Yes, he could--to-day. I know it," replied Lucy. "Oh--I get so-so excited. I--I make a fool of myself--over him. But to ride him-- going like that--Lin! it's just glorious!"
"You sure can ride him," replied Slone. "I can't see a fault anywhere --in him--or in your handling him. He never breaks. He goes hard, but he saves something. He gets mad--fierce--all the time, yet he WANTS to go your way. Lucy, I never saw the like of it. Somehow you an' Wildfire make a combination. You can't be beat."
"Do I ride him--well?" she asked, softly.
"I could never ride him so well."
"Oh, Lin--you just want to please me. Why, Van couldn't ride with you."
"I don't care, Lucy," replied Slone, stoutly. "You rode this horse perfect. I've found fault with you on the King, on your mustangs, an' on this black horse Sarch. But on Wildfire! You grow there."
"What will Dad say, and Farlane, and Holley, and Van? Oh, I'll crow over Van," said Lucy. "I'm crazy to ride Wildfire out before all the Indians and ranchers and riders, before the races, just to show him off, to make them stare."
"No, Lucy. The best plan is to surprise them all. Enter your horse for the race, but don't show up till all the riders are at the start."
"Yes, that'll be best. . . . And, Lin, only five days more--five days!"
Her words made Slone thoughtful, and Lucy, seeing that, straightway grew thoughtful, too.
"Sure--only five days more," repeated Slone, slowly.
His tone convinced Lucy that he meant to speak again as he had spoken once before, precipitating the only quarrel they had ever had.
"Does ANY ONE at Bostil's Ford know you meet me out here?" he asked, suddenly.
"Only Auntie. I told her the other day. She had been watching me. She thought things. So I told her."
"What did she say?" went on Slone, curiously.
"She was mad," replied Lucy. "She scolded me. She said. . . . But, anyway, I coaxed her not to tell on me."
"I want to know what she said," spoke up the rider, deliberately.
Lucy blushed, and it was a consciousness of confusion as well as Slone's tone that made her half-angry.
"She said when I was found out there'd be a--a great fuss at the Ford. There would be talk. Auntie said I'm now a grown-up girl. . . . Oh, she carried on! . . . Bostil would likely shoot you. And if he didn't some of the riders would. . . . Oh, Lin, it was perfectly ridiculous the way Auntie talked."
"I reckon not," replied Slone. "I'm afraid I've done wrong to let you come out here. . . . But I never thought. I'm not used to girls. I'll--I'll deserve what I get for lettin' you came."