Books: The Man of the Forest
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Zane Grey >> The Man of the Forest
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"What's the news, Auntie?" he asked.
"Nary news in this dead place. Why, nobody's been to
Snowdrop in two weeks! . . . Sary Jones died, poor old soul
-- she's better off -- an' one of my cows run away. Milt,
she's wild when she gits loose in the woods. An' you'll have
to track her, 'cause nobody else can. An' John Dakker's
heifer was killed by a lion, an' Lem Harden's fast hoss --
you know his favorite -- was stole by hoss-thieves. Lem is
jest crazy. An' that reminds me, Milt, where's your big
ranger, thet you'd never sell or lend?"
"My horses are up in the woods, Auntie; safe, I reckon, from
horse-thieves."
"Well, that's a blessin'. We've had some stock stole this
summer, Milt, an' no mistake."
Thus, while preparing a meal for Dale, the old woman went on
recounting all that had happened in the little village since
his last visit. Dale enjoyed her gossip and quaint
philosophy, and it was exceedingly good to sit at her table.
In his opinion, nowhere else could there have been such
butter and cream, such ham and eggs. Besides, she always had
apple pie, it seemed, at any time he happened in; and apple
pie was one of Dale's few regrets while up in the lonely
forest.
"How's old Al Auchincloss?" presently inquired Dale.
"Poorly -- poorly," sighed Mrs. Cass. "But he tramps an'
rides around same as ever. Al's not long for this world. . .
. An', Milt, that reminds me -- there's the biggest news you
ever heard."
"You don't say so!" exclaimed Dale, to encourage the excited
old woman.
"Al has sent back to Saint Joe for his niece, Helen Rayner.
She's to inherit all his property. We've heard much of her
-- a purty lass, they say. . . . Now, Milt Dale, here's your
chance. Stay out of the woods an' go to work. . . . You can
marry that girl!"
"No chance for me, Auntie," replied Dale, smiling.
The old woman snorted. "Much you know! Any girl would have
you, Milt Dale, if you'd only throw a kerchief."
"Me! . . . An' why, Auntie?" he queried, half amused, half
thoughtful. When he got back to civilization he always had
to adjust his thoughts to the ideas of people.
"Why? I declare, Milt, you live so in the woods you're like
a boy of ten -- an' then sometimes as old as the hills. . .
.There's no young man to compare with you, hereabouts. An'
this girl -- she'll have all the spunk of the
Auchinclosses."
"Then maybe she'd not be such a catch, after all," replied
Dale.
"Wal, you've no cause to love them, that's sure. But, Milt,
the Auchincloss women are always good wives."
"Dear Auntie, you're dreamin'," said Dale, soberly. "I want
no wife. I'm happy in the woods."
"Air you goin' to live like an Injun all your days, Milt
Dale?" she queried, sharply.
"I hope so."
"You ought to be ashamed. But some lass will change you,
boy, an' mebbe it'll be this Helen Rayner. I hope an' pray
so to thet."
"Auntie, supposin' she did change me. She'd never change old
Al. He hates me, you know."
"Wal, I ain't so sure, Milt. I met Al the other day. He
inquired for you, an' said you was wild, but he reckoned men
like you was good for pioneer settlements. Lord knows the
good turns you've done this village! Milt, old Al doesn't
approve of your wild life, but he never had no hard feelin's
till thet tame lion of yours killed so many of his sheep."
"Auntie, I don't believe Tom ever killed Al's sheep,"
declared Dale, positively.
"Wal, Al thinks so, an' many other people," replied Mrs.
Cass, shaking her gray head doubtfully. "You never swore he
didn't. An' there was them two sheep-herders who did swear
they seen him."
"They only saw a cougar. An' they were so scared they ran."
"Who wouldn't? Thet big beast is enough to scare any one.
For land's sakes, don't ever fetch him down here again! I'll
never forgit the time you did. All the folks an' children
an' hosses in Pine broke an' run thet day."
"Yes; but Tom wasn't to blame. Auntie, he's the tamest of my
pets. Didn't he try to put his head on your lap an' lick
your hand?"
"Wal, Milt, I ain't gainsayin' your cougar pet didn't act
better 'n a lot of people I know. Fer he did. But the looks
of him an' what's been said was enough for me."
"An' what's all that, Auntie?"
"They say he's wild when out of your sight. An' thet he'd
trail an' kill anythin' you put him after."
"I trained him to be just that way."
"Wal, leave Tom to home up in the woods-when you visit us."
Dale finished his hearty meal, and listened awhile longer to
the old woman's talk; then, taking his rifle and the other
turkey, he bade her good-by. She followed him out.
"Now, Milt, you'll come soon again, won't you -- jest to see
Al's niece -- who'll be here in a week?"
"I reckon I'll drop in some day. . . . Auntie, have you seen
my friends, the Mormon boys?"
"No, I 'ain't seen them an' don't want to," she retorted.
"Milt Dale, if any one ever corrals you it'll be Mormons."
"Don't worry, Auntie. I like those boys. They often see me
up in the woods an' ask me to help them track a hoss or help
kill some fresh meat."
"They're workin' for Beasley now."
"Is that so?" rejoined Dale, with a sudden start. "An' what
doin'?"
"Beasley is gettin' so rich he's buildin' a fence, an'
didn't have enough help, so I hear."
"Beasley gettin' rich!" repeated Dale, thoughtfully. "More
sheep an' horses an' cattle than ever, I reckon?"
"Laws-a'-me! Why, Milt, Beasley 'ain't any idea what he
owns. Yes, he's the biggest man in these parts, since poor
old Al's took to failin'. I reckon Al's health ain't none
improved by Beasley's success. They've bad some bitter
quarrels lately -- so I hear. Al ain't what he was."
Dale bade good-by again to his old friend and strode away,
thoughtful and serious. Beasley would not only be difficult
to circumvent, but he would be dangerous to oppose. There
did not appear much doubt of his driving his way rough-shod
to the dominance of affairs there in Pine. Dale, passing
down the road, began to meet acquaintances who had hearty
welcome for his presence and interest in his doings, so that
his pondering was interrupted for the time being. He carried
the turkey to another old friend, and when he left her house
he went on to the village store. This was a large log cabin,
roughly covered with clapboards, with a wide plank platform
in front and a hitching-rail in the road. Several horses
were standing there, and a group of lazy, shirt-sleeved
loungers.
"I'll be doggoned if it ain't Milt Dale!" exclaimed one.
"Howdy, Milt, old buckskin! Right down glad to see you,"
greeted another.
"Hello, Dale! You air shore good for sore eyes," drawled
still another.
After a long period of absence Dale always experienced a
singular warmth of feeling when he met these acquaintances.
It faded quickly when he got back to the intimacy of his
woodland, and that was because the people of Pine, with few
exceptions -- though they liked him and greatly admired his
outdoor wisdom -- regarded him as a sort of nonentity.
Because he loved the wild and preferred it to village and
range life, they had classed him as not one of them. Some
believed him lazy; others believed him shiftless; others
thought him an Indian in mind and habits; and there were
many who called him slow-witted. Then there was another side
to their regard for him, which always afforded him
good-natured amusement. Two of this group asked him to bring
in some turkey or venison; another wanted to hunt with him.
Lem Harden came out of the store and appealed to Dale to
recover his stolen horse. Lem's brother wanted a
wild-running mare tracked and brought home. Jesse Lyons
wanted a colt broken, and broken with patience, not
violence, as was the method of the hard-riding boys at Pine.
So one and all they besieged Dale with their selfish needs,
all unconscious of the flattering nature of these overtures.
And on the moment there happened by two women whose remarks,
as they entered the store, bore strong testimony to Dale's
personality.
"If there ain't Milt Dale!" exclaimed the older of the two.
"How lucky! My cow's sick, an' the men are no good
doctorin'. I'll jest ask Milt over."
"No one like Milt!" responded the other woman, heartily.
"Good day there -- you Milt Dale!" called the first speaker.
"When you git away from these lazy men come over."
Dale never refused a service, and that was why his
infrequent visits to Pine were wont to be prolonged beyond
his own pleasure.
Presently Beasley strode down the street, and when about to
enter the store he espied Dale.
"Hullo there, Milt!" he called, cordially, as he came
forward with extended hand. His greeting was sincere, but
the lightning glance he shot over Dale was not born of his
pleasure. Seen in daylight, Beasley was a big, bold, bluff
man, with strong, dark features. His aggressive presence
suggested that he was a good friend and a bad enemy.
Dale shook hands with him.
"How are you, Beasley?"
"Ain't complainin', Milt, though I got more work than I can
rustle. Reckon you wouldn't take a job bossin' my
sheep-herders?"
"Reckon I wouldn't," replied Dale. "Thanks all the same."
"What's goin' on up in the woods?"
"Plenty of turkey an' deer. Lots of bear, too. The Indians
have worked back on the south side early this fall. But I
reckon winter will come late an' be mild."
"Good! An' where 're you headin' from?"
"'Cross-country from my camp," replied Dale, rather
evasively.
"Your camp! Nobody ever found that yet," declared Beasley,
gruffly.
"It's up there," said Dale.
"Reckon you've got that cougar chained in your cabin door?"
queried Beasley, and there was a barely distinguishable
shudder of his muscular frame. Also the pupils dilated in
his hard brown eyes.
"Tom ain't chained. An' I haven't no cabin, Beasley."
"You mean to tell me that big brute stays in your camp
without bein' hog-tied or corralled!" demanded Beasley.
"Sure he does."
"Beats me! But, then, I'm queer on cougars. Have had many a
cougar trail me at night. Ain't sayin' I was scared. But I
don't care for that brand of varmint. . . . Milt, you goin'
to stay down awhile?"
"Yes, I'll hang around some."
"Come over to the ranch. Glad to see you any time. Some old
huntin' pards of yours are workin' for me."
"Thanks, Beasley. I reckon I'll come over."
Beasley turned away and took a step, and then, as if with an
after-thought, he wheeled again.
"Suppose you've heard about old Al Auchincloss bein' near
petered out?" queried Beasley. A strong, ponderous cast of
thought seemed to emanate from his features. Dale divined
that Beasley's next step would be to further his advancement
by some word or hint.
"Widow Cass was tellin' me all the news. Too bad about old
Al," replied Dale.
"Sure is. He's done for. An' I'm sorry -- though Al's never
been square --"
"Beasley," interrupted Dale, quickly, "you can't say that to
me. Al Auchincloss always was the whitest an' squarest man
in this sheep country."
Beasley gave Dale a fleeting, dark glance.
"Dale, what you think ain't goin' to influence feelin' on
this range," returned Beasley, deliberately. "You live in
the woods an' --"
"Reckon livin' in the woods I might think -- an' know a
whole lot," interposed Dale, just as deliberately. The group
of men exchanged surprised glances. This was Milt Dale in
different aspect. And Beasley did not conceal a puzzled
surprise.
"About what -- now?" he asked, bluntly.
"Why, about what's goin' on in Pine," replied Dale.
Some of the men laughed.
"Shore lots goin' on -- an' no mistake," put in Lem Harden.
Probably the keen Beasley had never before considered Milt
Dale as a responsible person; certainly never one in any way
to cross his trail. But on the instant, perhaps, some
instinct was born, or he divined an antagonism in Dale that
was both surprising and perplexing.
"Dale, I've differences with Al Auchincloss -- have had them
for years," said Beasley. "Much of what he owns is mine. An'
it's goin' to come to me. Now I reckon people will be takin'
sides -- some for me an' some for Al. Most are for me. . . .
Where do you stand? Al Auchincloss never had no use for you,
an' besides he's a dyin' man. Are you goin' on his side?"
"Yes, I reckon I am."
"Wal, I'm glad you've declared yourself," rejoined Beasley,
shortly, and he strode away with the ponderous gait of a man
who would brush any obstacle from his path.
"Milt, thet's bad -- makin' Beasley sore at you," said Lem
Harden. "He's on the way to boss this outfit."
"He's sure goin' to step into Al's boots," said another.
"Thet was white of Milt to stick up fer poor old Al,"
declared Lem's brother.
Dale broke away from them and wended a thoughtful way down
the road. The burden of what he knew about Beasley weighed
less heavily upon him, and the close-lipped course be had
decided upon appeared wisest. He needed to think before
undertaking to call upon old Al Auchincloss; and to that end
he sought an hour's seclusion under the pines.
CHAPTER III
In the afternoon, Dale, having accomplished some tasks
imposed upon him by his old friends at Pine, directed slow
steps toward the Auchincloss ranch.
The flat, square stone and log cabin of unusually large size
stood upon a little hill half a mile out of the village. A
home as well as a fort, it had been the first structure
erected in that region, and the process of building had more
than once been interrupted by Indian attacks. The Apaches
had for some time, however, confined their fierce raids to
points south of the White Mountain range. Auchincloss's
house looked down upon barns and sheds and corrals of all
sizes and shapes, and hundreds of acres of well-cultivated
soil. Fields of oats waved gray and yellow in the afternoon
sun; an immense green pasture was divided by a
willow-bordered brook, and here were droves of horses, and
out on the rolling bare flats were straggling herds of
cattle.
The whole ranch showed many years of toil and the
perseverance of man. The brook irrigated the verdant valley
between the ranch and the village. Water for the house,
however, came down from the high, wooded slope of the
mountain, and had been brought there by a simple expedient.
Pine logs of uniform size had been laid end to end, with a
deep trough cut in them, and they made a shining line down
the slope, across the valley, and up the little hill to the
Auchincloss home. Near the house the hollowed halves of logs
had been bound together, making a crude pipe. Water ran
uphill in this case, one of the facts that made the ranch
famous, as it had always been a wonder and delight to the
small boys of Pine. The two good women who managed
Auchincloss's large household were often shocked by the
strange things that floated into their kitchen with the
ever-flowing stream of clear, cold mountain water.
As it happened this day Dale encountered Al Auchincloss
sitting in the shade of a porch, talking to some of his
sheep-herders and stockmen. Auchincloss was a short man of
extremely powerful build and great width of shoulder. He had
no gray hairs, and he did not look old, yet there was in his
face a certain weariness, something that resembled sloping
lines of distress, dim and pale, that told of age and the
ebb-tide of vitality. His features, cast in large mold, were
clean-cut and comely, and he had frank blue eyes, somewhat
sad, yet still full of spirit.
Dale had no idea how his visit would be taken, and he
certainly would not have been surprised to be ordered off
the place. He had not set foot there for years. Therefore it
was with surprise that he saw Auchincloss wave away the
herders and take his entrance without any particular
expression.
"Howdy, Al! How are you?" greeted Dale, easily, as he leaned
his rifle against the log wall.
Auchincloss did not rise, but he offered his hand.
"Wal, Milt Dale, I reckon this is the first time I ever seen
you that I couldn't lay you flat on your back," replied the
rancher. His tone was both testy and full of pathos.
"I take it you mean you ain't very well," replied Dale. "I'm
sorry, Al."
"No, it ain't thet. Never was sick in my life. I'm just
played out, like a hoss thet had been strong an' willin',
an' did too much. . . . Wal, you don't look a day older,
Milt. Livin' in the woods rolls over a man's head."
"Yes, I'm feelin' fine, an' time never bothers me."
"Wal, mebbe you ain't such a fool, after all. I've wondered
lately -- since I had time to think. . . . But, Milt, you
don't git no richer."
"Al, I have all I want an' need."
"Wal, then, you don't support anybody; you don't do any good
in the world."
"We don't agree, Al," replied Dale, with his slow smile.
"Reckon we never did. . . . An' you jest come over to pay
your respects to me, eh?"
"Not altogether," answered Dale, ponderingly. "First off,
I'd like to say I'll pay back them sheep you always claimed
my tame cougar killed."
"You will! An' how'd you go about that?"
"Wasn't very many sheep, was there?
"A matter of fifty head."
"So many! Al, do you still think old Tom killed them sheep?"
"Humph! Milt, I know damn well he did."
"Al, now how could you know somethin' I don't? Be
reasonable, now. Let's don't fall out about this again. I'll
pay back the sheep. Work it out --"
"Milt Dale, you'll come down here an' work out that fifty
head of sheep!" ejaculated the old rancher, incredulously.
"Sure."
"Wal, I'll be damned!" He sat back and gazed with shrewd
eyes at Dale. "What's got into you, Milt? Hev you heard
about my niece thet's comin', an' think you'll shine up to
her?"
"Yes, Al, her comin' has a good deal to do with my deal,"
replied Dale, soberly. "But I never thought to shine up to
her, as you hint."
"Haw! Haw! You're just like all the other colts hereabouts.
Reckon it's a good sign, too. It'll take a woman to fetch
you out of the woods. But, boy, this niece of mine, Helen
Rayner, will stand you on your head. I never seen her. They
say she's jest like her mother. An' Nell Auchincloss -- what
a girl she was!"
Dale felt his face grow red. Indeed, this was strange
conversation for him.
"Honest, Al --" he began.
"Son, don't lie to an old man."
"Lie! I wouldn't lie to any one. Al, it's only men who live
in towns an' are always makin' deals. I live in the forest,
where there's nothin' to make me lie."
"Wal, no offense meant, I'm sure," responded Auchincloss.
"An' mebbe there's somethin' in what you say . . . We was
talkin' about them sheep your big cat killed. Wal, Milt, I
can't prove it, that's sure. An' mebbe you'll think me
doddery when I tell you my reason. It wasn't what them
greaser herders said about seein' a cougar in the herd."
"What was it, then?" queried Dale, much interested.
"Wal, thet day a year ago I seen your pet. He was lyin' in
front of the store an' you was inside tradin', fer supplies,
I reckon. It was like meetin' an enemy face to face.
Because, damn me if I didn't know that cougar was guilty
when he looked in my eyes! There!"
The old rancher expected to be laughed at. But Dale was
grave.
"Al, I know how you felt," he replied, as if they were
discussing an action of a human being. "Sure I'd hate to
doubt old Tom. But he's a cougar. An' the ways of animals
are strange . . . Anyway, Al, I'll make good the loss of
your sheep."
"No, you won't," rejoined Auchincloss, quickly. "We'll call
it off . I'm takin' it square of you to make the offer.
Thet's enough. So forget your worry about work, if you had
any."
"There's somethin' else, Al, I wanted to say," began Dale,
with hesitation. "An' it's about Beasley."
Auchincloss started violently, and a flame of red shot into
his face. Then he raised a big hand that shook. Dale saw in
a flash how the old man's nerves had gone.
"Don't mention -- thet -- thet greaser -- to me!" burst out
the rancher. "It makes me see -- red. . . . Dale, I ain't
overlookin' that you spoke up fer me to-day -- stood fer my
side. Lem Harden told me. I was glad. An' thet's why --
to-day -- I forgot our old quarrel. . . . But not a word
about thet sheep-thief -- or I'll drive you off the place!"
"But, Al -- be reasonable," remonstrated Dale. "It's
necessary thet I speak of -- of Beasley."
"It ain't. Not to me. I won't listen."
"Reckon you'll have to, Al," returned Dale. "Beasley's after
your property. He's made a deal --"
"By Heaven! I know that!" shouted Auchincloss, tottering up,
with his face now black-red. "Do you think thet's new to me?
Shut up, Dale! I can't stand it."
"But Al -- there's worse," went on Dale, hurriedly. "Worse!
Your life's threatened -- an' your niece, Helen -- she's to
be --"
"Shut up -- an' clear out!" roared Auchincloss, waving his
huge fists.
He seemed on the verge of a collapse as, shaking all over,
he backed into the door. A few seconds of rage had
transformed him into a pitiful old man.
"But, Al -- I'm your friend --" began Dale, appealingly.
"Friend, hey?" returned the rancher, with grim, bitter
passion. "Then you're the only one. . . . Milt Dale, I'm
rich an' I'm a dyin' man. I trust nobody . . . But, you wild
hunter -- if you're my friend -- prove it! . . . Go kill
thet greaser sheep-thief! DO somethin' -- an' then come talk
to me!"
With that he lurched, half falling, into the house, and
slammed the door.
Dale stood there for a blank moment, and then, taking up his
rifle, he strode away.
Toward sunset Dale located the camp of his four Mormon
friends, and reached it in time for supper.
John, Roy, Joe, and Hal Beeman were sons of a pioneer Mormon
who had settled the little community of Snowdrop. They were
young men in years, but hard labor and hard life in the open
had made them look matured. Only a year's difference in age
stood between John and Roy, and between Roy and Joe, and
likewise Joe and Hal. When it came to appearance they were
difficult to distinguish from one another. Horsemen,
sheep-herders, cattle-raisers, hunters -- they all possessed
long, wiry, powerful frames, lean, bronzed, still faces, and
the quiet, keen eyes of men used to the open.
Their camp was situated beside a spring in a cove surrounded
by aspens, some three miles from Pine; and, though working
for Beasley, near the village, they had ridden to and fro
from camp, after the habit of seclusion peculiar to their
kind.
Dale and the brothers had much in common, and a warm regard
had sprang up. But their exchange of confidences had wholly
concerned things pertaining to the forest. Dale ate supper
with them, and talked as usual when he met them, without
giving any hint of the purpose forming in his mind. After
the meal he helped Joe round up the horses, hobble them for
the night, and drive them into a grassy glade among the
pines. Later, when the shadows stole through the forest on
the cool wind, and the camp-fire glowed comfortably, Dale
broached the subject that possessed him.
"An' so you're working for Beasley?" he queried, by way of
starting conversation.
"We was," drawled John. "But to-day, bein' the end of our
month, we got our pay an' quit. Beasley sure was sore."
"Why'd you knock off?"
John essayed no reply, and his brothers all had that quiet,
suppressed look of knowledge under restraint.
"Listen to what I come to tell you, then you'll talk," went
on Dale. And hurriedly he told of Beasley's plot to abduct
Al Auchincloss's niece and claim the dying man's property.
When Dale ended, rather breathlessly, the Mormon boys sat
without any show of surprise or feeling. John, the eldest,
took up a stick and slowly poked the red embers of the fire,
making the white sparks fly.
"Now, Milt, why'd you tell us thet?" he asked, guardedly.
"You're the only friends I've got," replied Dale. "It didn't
seem safe for me to talk down in the village. I thought of
you boys right off. I ain't goin' to let Snake Anson get
that girl. An' I need help, so I come to you."
"Beasley's strong around Pine, an' old Al's weakenin'.
Beasley will git the property, girl or no girl," said John.
"Things don't always turn out as they look. But no matter
about that. The girl deal is what riled me. . . . She's to
arrive at Magdalena on the sixteenth, an' take stage for
Snowdrop. . . . Now what to do? If she travels on that stage
I'll be on it, you bet. But she oughtn't to be in it at all.
. . . Boys, somehow I'm goin' to save her. Will you help me?
I reckon I've been in some tight corners for you. Sure, this
's different. But are you my friends? You know now what
Beasley is. An' you're all lost at the hands of Snake
Anson's gang. You've got fast hosses, eyes for trackin', an'
you can handle a rifle. You're the kind of fellows I'd want
in a tight pinch with a bad gang. Will you stand by me or
see me go alone?"
Then John Beeman, silently, and with pale face, gave Dale's
hand a powerful grip, and one by one the other brothers rose
to do likewise. Their eyes flashed with hard glint and a
strange bitterness hovered around their thin lips.
"Milt, mebbe we know what Beasley is better 'n you," said
John, at length. "He ruined my father. He's cheated other
Mormons. We boys have proved to ourselves thet he gets the
sheep Anson's gang steals. . . . An' drives the herds to
Phenix! Our people won't let us accuse Beasley. So we've
suffered in silence. My father always said, let some one
else say the first word against Beasley, an' you've come to
us!"
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