Wildfire and the Heritage of the Desert (15 page)

“See here—that's no way to act—to hug—a person,” she cried, with flaming cheeks.

“Boy, I—”

“I'm
not
a boy. I'm a girl.”

“What!”

Lucy tore off her sombrero, which had been pulled far forward, and this revealed her face fully, and her hair came tumbling down. The rider gazed, stupefied. Then a faint tinge of red colored his ghastly cheeks.

“A girl!… Why—why 'scuse me, miss. I—I took you—for a boy.”

He seemed so astounded, he looked so shamed, so scared, and withal, so haggard and weak, that Lucy immediately recovered her equanimity.

“Sure I'm a girl. But that's no matter.… You've been thrown. Are you hurt?”

He smiled a weak assent.

“Badly?” she queried. She did not like the way he lay—so limp, so motionless.

“I'm afraid so. I can't move.”

“Oh!… What shall I do?”

“Can you—get me water?” he whispered, with dry lips.

Lucy flew to her horse to get the small canteen she always carried. But that had been left on her saddle, and she had ridden Van's. Then she gazed around. The wash she had crossed several times ran near where the rider lay. Green grass and willows bordered it. She ran down and, hurrying along, searched for water. There was water in places, yet she had to go a long way before she found water that was drinkable. Filling her sombrero, she hurried back to the side of the rider. It was difficult to give him a drink.

“Thanks, miss,” he said, gratefully. His voice was stronger and less hoarse.

“Have you any broken bones?” asked Lucy.

“I don't know. I can't feel much.”

“Are you in pain?”

“Hardly. I feel sort of thick.”

Lucy, being an intelligent girl, born in the desert and used to its needs, had not often encountered a situation with which she was unable to cope.

“Let me feel if you have any broken bones.…
That
arm isn't broken, I'm positive.”

The rider smiled faintly again. How he stared with his strained, dark eyes! His face showed ghastly through the thin, soft beard and the tan. Lucy found his right arm badly bruised, but not broken. She made sure his collar-bones and shoulder-blades were intact. Broken ribs were harder to locate; still, as he did not feel pain from pressure, she concluded there were no fractures there. With her assistance he moved his legs, proving no broken bones there.

“I'm afraid it's my—spine,” he said.

“But you raised your head once,” she replied. “If your back was—was broken or injured you couldn't raise your head.”

“So I couldn't. I guess I'm just knocked out. I was—pretty weak before Wildfire knocked me—off Nagger.”

“Wildfire?”

“That's the red stallion's name.”

“Oh, he's named already?”

“I named him—long ago. He's known on many a range.”

“Where?”

“I think far north of here. I—trailed him—days—weeks—months. We crossed the great cañon—”

“The Grand Cañon?”

“It must be that.”

“The Grand Cañon is down there,” said Lucy, pointing. “I live on it.… You've come a long way.”

“Hundreds of miles!… Oh, the ground I covered—that awful cañon country!… But I stayed with Wildfire. An' I put a rope on him. An' he got away.… An' it was a boy—no—a
girl
who—saved him for me—an' maybe saved my life, too!”

Lucy looked away from the dark, staring eyes. A light in them confused her.

“Never mind me. You say you were weak? Have you been ill?”

“No, miss. Just starved.… I starved on Wildfire's trail.”

Lucy ran to her saddle and got the biscuits out of the pockets of her coat, and she ran back to the rider.

“Here. I never thought. Oh, you've had a hard time of it! I understand. That wonderful flame of a horse! I'd have stayed, too. My father was a rider once. Bostil. Did you ever hear of him?”

“Bostil. The name—I've heard.” Then the rider lay thinking, as he munched a biscuit. “Yes, I remember, but it was long ago. I spent a night with a wagon-train, a camp of many men and women, religious people, working into Utah. Bostil had a boat at the crossing of the Fathers.”

“Yes, they called the Ferry that.”

“I remember well now. They said Bostil couldn't count his horses—that he was a rich man, hard on riders—an' he'd used a gun more than once.”

Lucy bowed her head. “Yes, that's my dad.”

The rider did not seem to see how he had hurt her.

“Here we are talking—wasting time,” she said. “I must start home. You can't be moved. What shall I do?”

“That's for you to say, Bostil's daughter.”

“My name's Lucy,” replied the girl, blushing painfully. “I mean I'll be glad to do anything you think best.”

“You're very good.”

Then he turned his face away. Lucy looked closely at him. He was indeed a beggared rider. His clothes and his boots hung in tatters. He had no hat, no coat, no vest. His gaunt face bore traces of what might have been a fine, strong comeliness, but now it was only thin, worn, wan, pitiful, with that look which always went to a woman's heart. He had the look of a homeless rider. Lucy had seen a few of his wandering type, and his story was so plain. But he seemed to have a touch of pride, and this quickened her interest.

“Then I'll do what I think best for you,” said Lucy.

First she unsaddled the black Nagger. With the saddle she made a pillow for the rider's head, and she covered him with the saddle blanket. Before she had finished this task he turned his eyes upon her. And Lucy felt she would be haunted. Was he badly hurt, after all? It seemed probable. How strange he was!

“I'll water the horses—then tie Wildfire here on a double rope. There's grass.”

“But you can't lead him,” replied the rider.

“He'll follow me.”

“That red devil!” The rider shuddered as he spoke.

Lucy had some faint inkling of what a terrible fight that had been between man and horse. “Yes; when I found him he was broken. Look at him now.”

But the rider did not appear to want to see the stallion. He gazed up at Lucy, and she saw something in his eyes that made her think of a child. She left him, had no trouble in watering the horses, and haltered Wildfire among the willows on a patch of grass. Then she returned.

“I'll go now,” she said to the rider.

“Where?”

“Home. I'll come to-morrow, early, and bring someone to help you—”

“Girl, if
you
want to help me more—bring me some bread an' meat. Don't tell anyone. Look what a ragamuffin I am.… An' there's Wildfire. I don't want him seen till I'm—on my feet again. I know riders.… That's all. If you want to be so good—come.”

“I'll come,” replied Lucy, simply.

“Thank you. I owe you—a lot.… What did you say your name was?”

“Lucy—Lucy Bostil.”

“Oh, I forgot.… Are you sure you tied Wildfire good an' tight?”

“Yes, I'm sure. I'll go now. I hope you'll be better to-morrow.”

Lucy hesitated, with her hand on the King's bridle. She did not like to leave this young man lying there helpless on the desert. But what else could she do? What a strange adventure had befallen her! At the following thought that it was not yet concluded she felt a little stir of excitement at her pulses. She was so strangely preoccupied that she forgot it was necessary for her to have a step to mount Sage King. She realized it quickly enough when she attempted it. Then she led him off in the sage till she found a rock. Mounting, she turned him straight across country, meaning to cut out miles of travel that would have been necessary along her back-trail. Once she looked back. The rider was not visible; the black horse, Nagger, was out of sight, but Wildfire, blazing in the sun, watched her depart.

 

CHAPTER IX

 

Lucy Bostil could not control the glow of strange excitement under which she labored, but she could put her mind on the riding of Sage King. She did not realize, however, that she was riding him under the stress and spell of that excitement.

She had headed out to make a short cut, fairly sure of her direction, yet she was not unaware of the fact that she would be lost till she ran across her trail. That might be easy to miss and time was flying. She put the King to a brisk trot, winding through the aisles of the sage.

Soon she had left the monument region and was down on the valley floor again. From time to time she conquered a desire to look back. Presently she was surprised and very glad to ride into a trail where she saw the tracks she had made coming out. With much relief she turned Sage King into this trail, and then any anxiety she had felt left her entirely. But that did not mitigate her excitement. She eased the King into a long, swinging lope. And as he warmed to the work she was aroused also. It was hard to hold him in, once he got out of a trot, and after miles and miles of this, when she thought best to slow down he nearly pulled her arms off. Still she finally got him in hand. Then followed miles of soft and rough going, which seemed long and tedious. Beyond that was the home stretch up the valley, whose gradual slope could be seen only at a distance. Here was a straight, broad trail, not too soft nor too hard, and for all the years she could remember riders had tried out and trained their favorites on that course.

Lucy reached down to assure herself that the cinch was tight, then she pulled her sombrero down hard, slackened the bridle, and let the King go. He simply broke his gait, he was so surprised. Lucy saw him trying to look back at her, as if he could not realize that this young woman rider had given him a free rein. Perhaps one reason he disliked her had been always and everlastingly that tight rein. Like the wary horse he was he took to a canter, to try out what his new freedom meant.

“Say, what's the matter with you?” called Lucy, disdainfully. “Are you lazy? Or don't you believe I can ride you?”

Whereupon she dug him with her spurs. Sage King snorted. His action shifted marvelously. Thunder rolled from under his hoofs. And he broke out of that clattering roar into his fleet stride, where his hoof-beats were swift, regular, rhythmic.

Lucy rode him with teeth and fists clenched, bending low. After all, she thought, it was no trick to ride him. In that gait he was dangerous, for a fall meant death; but he ran so smoothly that riding him was easy and certainly glorious. He went so fast that the wind blinded her. The trail was only a white streak in blurred gray. She could not get her breath; the wind seemed to whip the air away from her. And then she felt the lessening of the tremendous pace. Sage King had run himself out and the miles were behind her. Gradually her sight became clear, and as the hot and wet horse slowed down, satisfied with his wild run, Lucy realized that she was up on the slope only a few miles from home. Suddenly she thought she saw something dark stir behind a sage-bush just ahead. Before she could move a hand at the bridle Sage King leaped with a frantic snort. It was a swerving, nimble, tremendous bound. He went high. Lucy was unseated, but somehow clung on, and came down with him, finding the saddle. And it seemed, while in the air, she saw a long, snaky, whipping loop of rope shoot out and close just where Sage King's legs had been.

She screamed. The horse broke and ran. Lucy, righting herself, looked back to see Joel Creech holding a limp lasso. He had tried to rope the King.

The blood of her father was aroused in Lucy. She thought of the horse—not herself. If the King had not been so keen-sighted, so swift, he would have gone down with a broken leg. Lucy never in her life had been so furious.

Joel shook his fist at her and yelled, “I'd ‘a' got you—on any other hoss!”

She did not reply, though she had to fight herself to keep from pulling her gun and shooting at him. She guided the running horse back into the trail, rapidly leaving Creech out of sight.

“He's gone crazy, that's sure,” said Lucy. “And he means me harm!”

She ran the King clear up to the corrals, and he was still going hard when she turned down the lane to the barns. Then she pulled him in.

Farlane was there to meet her. She saw no other riders and was glad.

“Wal, Miss Lucy, the King sure looks good,” said Farlane, as she jumped off and flung him the bridle. “He's just had about right, judgin'.… Say, girl, you're all pale! Oh, say, you wasn't scared of the King, now?”

“No,” replied Lucy, panting.

“Wal, what's up, then?” The rider spoke in an entirely different voice, and into his clear, hazel eyes a little dark gleam shot.

“Joel Creech waylaid me out in the sage—and—and tried to catch me.” Lucy checked herself. It might not do to tell how Joel had tried to catch her.

“He did? An' you on the King!” Farlane laughed, as if relieved. “Wal, he's tried thet before, Miss Lucy. But when you was up on the gray—thet shows Joel's crazy, sure.”

“He sure is. Farlane, I—I am mad!”

“Wal, cool off, Miss Lucy. It ain't nothin' to git set up about. An' don't tell the old man.”

“Why not?” demanded Lucy.

“Wal, because he's in a queer sort of bad mood lately. It wouldn't be safe. He hates them Creeches. So don't tell him.”

“All right, Farlane. I won't. Don't you tell, either,” replied Lucy, soberly.

“Sure I'll keep mum. But if Joel doesn't watch out I'll put a crimp in him myself.”

Lucy hurried away down the lane and entered the house without meeting anyone. In her room she changed her clothes and lay down to rest and think.

Strangely enough, Lucy might never have encountered Joel Creech out in the sage, for all the thought she gave him. Her mind was busy with the crippled rider. Who was he? Where was he from? What strange passion he had shown over the recovery of that wonderful red horse! Lucy could not forget the feeling of his iron arm when he held her in a kind of frenzied gratitude. A wild upland rider, living only for a wild horse! How like Indians some of these riders! Yet this fellow had seemed different from most of the uncouth riders she had known. He spoke better. He appeared to have had some little schooling. Lucy did not realize that she was interested in him. She thought she was sorry for him and interested in the stallion. She began to compare Wildfire with Sage King, and if she remembered rightly Wildfire, even in his disheveled state, had appeared a worthy rival of the King. What would Bostil say at sight of that flame-colored stallion? Lucy thrilled.