The Last of the Plainsmen
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Zane Grey >> The Last of the Plainsmen
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"Didn't find it, did you?" said Rea.
"No, and it appears odd to me. The snow is so hard the foot could
not have sunk."
"Well, the wolf ate his foot, thet's what," returned Rea. "Look
at them teeth marks!"
"Is it possible?" Jones stared at the leg Rea held up.
"Yes, it is. These wolves are crazy at times. You've seen thet.
An' the smell of blood, an' nothin' else, mind you, in my
opinion, made him eat his own' foot. We'll cut him open."
Impossible as the thing seemed to Jones--and he could not but
believe further evidence of his own' eyes--it was even stranger
to drive a train of mad dogs. Yet that was what Rea and he did,
and lashed them, beat them to cover many miles in the long day's
journey. Rabies had broken out in several dogs so alarmingly that
Jones had to kill them at the end of the run. And hardly had the
sound of the shots died when faint and far away, but clear as a
bell, bayed on the wind the same haunting mourn of a trailing
wolf.
"Ho! Ho! where are the wolves?" cried Rea.
A waiting, watching, sleepless night followed. Again the hunters
faced the south. Hour after hour, riding, running, walking, they
urged the poor, jaded, poisoned dogs. At dark they reached the
head of Artillery Lake. Rea placed the tepee between two huge
stones. Then the hungry hunters, tired, grim, silent, desperate,
awaited the familiar cry.
It came on the cold wind, the same haunting mourn, dreadful in
its significance.
Absence of fire inspirited the wary wolves. Out of the pale gloom
gaunt white forms emerged, agile and stealthy, slipping on
velvet-padded feet, closer, closer, closer. The dogs wailed in
terror.
"Into the tepee!" yelled Rea.
Jones plunged in after his comrade. The despairing howls of the
dogs, drowned in more savage, frightful sounds, knelled one
tragedy and foreboded a more terrible one. Jones looked out to
see a white mass, like leaping waves of a rapid.
"Pump lead into thet!" cried Rea.
Rapidly Jones emptied his rifle into the white fray. The mass
split; gaunt wolves leaped high to fall back dead; others
wriggled and limped away; others dragged their hind quarters;
others darted at the tepee.
"No more cartridges!" yelled Jones.
The giant grabbed the ax, and barred the door of the tepee.
Crash! the heavy iron cleaved the skull of the first brute.
Crash! it lamed the second. Then Rea stood in the narrow passage
between the rocks, waiting with uplifted ax. A shaggy, white
demon, snapping his jaws, sprang like a dog. A sodden, thudding
blow met him and he slunk away without a cry. Another rabid beast
launched his white body at the giant. Like a flash the ax
descended. In agony the wolf fell, to spin round and round,
running on his hind legs, while his head and shoulders and
forelegs remained in the snow. His back was broken.
Jones crouched in the opening of the tepee, knife in hand. He
doubted his senses. This was a nightmare. He saw two wolves leap
at once. He heard the crash of the ax; he saw one wolf go down
and the other slip under the swinging weapon to grasp the giant's
hip. Jones's heard the rend of cloth, and then he pounced like a
cat, to drive his knife into the body of the beast. Another
nimble foe lunged at Rea, to sprawl broken and limp from the
iron. It was a silent fight. The giant shut the way to his
comrade and the calves; he made no outcry; he needed but one blow
for every beast; magnificent, he wielded death and faced
it--silent. He brought the white wild dogs of the north down with
lightning blows, and when no more sprang to the attack, down on
the frigid silence he rolled his cry: "Ho! Ho!"
"Rea! Rea! how is it with you?" called Jones, climbing out.
"A torn coat--no more, my lad."
Three of the poor dogs were dead; the fourth and last gasped at
the hunters and died.
The wintry night became a thing of half-conscious past, a dream
to the hunters, manifesting its reality only by the stark, stiff
bodies of wolves, white in the gray morning.
"If we can eat, we'll make the cabin," said Rea. "But the dogs
an' wolves are poison."
"Shall I kill a calf? "Asked Jones.
"Ho! Ho! when hell freezes over--if we must!"
Jones found one 45-90 cartridge in all the outfit, and with that
in the chamber of his rifle, once more struck south. Spruce trees
began to show on the barrens and caribou trails roused hope in
the hearts of the hunters.
"Look in the spruces," whispered Jones, dropping the rope of his
sled. Among the black trees gray objects moved.
"Caribou!" said Rea. "Hurry! Shoot! Don't miss!"
But Jones waited. He knew the value of the last bullet. He had a
hunter's patience. When the caribou came out in an open space,
Jones whistled. It was then the rifle grew set and fixed; it was
then the red fire belched forth.
At four hundred yards the bullet took some fraction of time to
strike. What a long time that was! Then both hunters heard the
spiteful spat of the lead. The caribou fell, jumped up, ran down
the slope, and fell again to rise no more.
An hour of rest, with fire and meat, changed the world to the
hunters; still glistening, it yet had lost its bitter cold its
deathlike clutch.
"What's this?" cried Jones.
Moccasin tracks of different sizes, all toeing north, arrested
the hunters.
"Pointed north! Wonder what thet means?" Rea plodded on,
doubtfully shaking his head.
Night again, clear, cold, silver, starlit, silent night! The
hunters rested, listening ever for the haunting mourn. Day again,
white, passionless, monotonous, silent day. The hunters traveled
on--on--on, ever listening for the haunting mourn.
Another dusk found them within thirty miles of their cabin. Only
one more day now.
Rea talked of his furs, of the splendid white furs he could not
bring. Jones talked of his little muskoxen calves and joyfully
watched them dig for moss in the snow.
Vigilance relaxed that night. Outworn nature rebelled, and both
hunters slept.
Rea awoke first, and kicking off the blankets, went out. His
terrible roar of rage made Jones fly to his side.
Under the very shadow of the tepee, where the little musk-oxen
had been tethered, they lay stretched out pathetically on crimson
snow--stiff stone-cold, dead. Moccasin tracks told the story of
the tragedy.
Jones leaned against his comrade.
The giant raised his huge fist.
"Jackoway out of wood! Jackoway out of wood!"
Then he choked.
The north wind, blowing through the thin, dark, weird spruce
trees, moaned and seemed to sigh, "Naza! Naza! Naza!"
CHAPTER 11. ON TO THE SIWASH
"Who all was doin' the talkin' last night?" asked Frank next
morning, when we were having a late breakfast. "Cause I've a joke
on somebody. Jim he talks in his sleep often, an' last night
after you did finally get settled down, Jim he up in his sleep
an' says: 'Shore he's windy as hell! Shore he's windy as hell'!"
At this cruel exposure of his subjective wanderings, Jim showed
extreme humiliation; but Frank's eyes fairly snapped with the fun
he got out of telling it. The genial foreman loved a joke. The
week's stay at Oak, in which we all became thoroughly acquainted,
had presented Jim as always the same quiet character, easy, slow,
silent, lovable. In his brother cowboy, however, we had
discovered in addition to his fine, frank, friendly spirit, an
overwhelming fondness for playing tricks. This boyish
mischievousness, distinctly Arizonian, reached its acme whenever
it tended in the direction of our serious leader.
Lawson had been dispatched on some mysterious errand about which
my curiosity was all in vain. The order of the day was leisurely
to get in readiness, and pack for our journey to the Siwash on
the morrow. I watered my horse, played with the hounds, knocked
about the cliffs, returned to the cabin, and lay down on my bed.
Jim's hands were white with flour. He was kneading dough, and had
several low, flat pans on the table. Wallace and Jones strolled
in, and later Frank, and they all took various positions before
the fire. I saw Frank, with the quickness of a sleight-of-hand
performer, slip one of the pans of dough on the chair Jones had
placed by the table. Jim did not see the action; Jones's and
Wallace's backs were turned to Frank, and he did not know I was
in the cabin. The conversation continued on the subject of
Jones's big bay horse, which, hobbles and all, had gotten ten
miles from camp the night before.
"Better count his ribs than his tracks," said Frank, and went on
talking as easily and naturally as if he had not been expecting a
very entertaining situation.
But no one could ever foretell Colonel Jones's actions. He showed
every intention of seating himself in the chair, then walked over
to his pack to begin searching for something or other. Wallace,
however, promptly took the seat; and what began to be funnier
than strange, he did not get up. Not unlikely this circumstance
was owing to the fact that several of the rude chairs had soft
layers of old blanket tacked on them. Whatever were Frank's
internal emotions, he presented a remarkably placid and
commonplace exterior; but when Jim began to search for the
missing pan of dough, the joker slowly sagged in his chair.
"Shore that beats hell!" said Jim. "I had three pans of dough.
Could the pup have taken one?"
Wallace rose to his feet, and the bread pan clattered to the
floor, with a clang and a clank, evidently protesting against the
indignity it had suffered. But the dough stayed with Wallace, a
great white conspicuous splotch on his corduroys. Jim, Frank and
Jones all saw it at once.
"Why--Mr. Wal--lace--you set--in the dough!" exclaimed Frank, in
a queer, strangled voice. Then he exploded, while Jim fell over
the table.
It seemed that those two Arizona rangers, matured men though they
were, would die of convulsions. I laughed with them, and so did
Wallace, while he brought his one-handled bowie knife into novel
use. Buffalo Jones never cracked a smile, though he did remark
about the waste of good flour.
Frank's face was a study for a psychologist when Jim actually
apologized to Wallace for being so careless with his pans. I did
not betray Frank, but I resolved to keep a still closer watch on
him. It was partially because of this uneasy sense of his
trickiness in the fringe of my mind that I made a discovery. My
sleeping-bag rested on a raised platform in one corner, and at a
favorable moment I examined the bag. It had not been tampered
with, but I noticed a string turning out through a chink between
the logs. I found it came from a thick layer of straw under my
bed, and had been tied to the end of a flatly coiled lasso.
Leaving the thing as it was, I went outside and carelessly chased
the hounds round the cabin. The string stretched along the logs
to another chink, where it returned into the cabin at a point
near where Frank slept. No great power of deduction was necessary
to acquaint me with full details of the plot to spoil my
slumbers. So I patiently awaited developments.
Lawson rode in near sundown with the carcasses of two beasts of
some species hanging over his saddle. It turned out that Jones
had planned a surprise for Wallace and me, and it could hardly
have been a more enjoyable one, considering the time and place.
We knew he had a flock of Persian sheep on the south slope of
Buckskin, but had no idea it was within striking distance of Oak.
Lawson had that day hunted up the shepherd and his sheep, to
return to us with two sixty-pound Persian lambs. We feasted at
suppertime on meat which was sweet, juicy, very tender and of as
rare a flavor as that of the Rocky Mountain sheep.
My state after supper was one of huge enjoyment and with intense
interest I awaited Frank's first spar for an opening. It came
presently, in a lull of the conversation.
"Saw a big rattler run under the cabin to-day," he said, as if he
were speaking of one of Old Baldy's shoes. "I tried to get a
whack at him, but he oozed away too quick."
"Shore I seen him often," put in Jim. Good, old, honest Jim, led
away by his trickster comrade! It was very plain. So I was to be
frightened by snakes.
"These old canyon beds are ideal dens for rattle snakes," chimed
in my scientific California friend. "I have found several dens,
but did not molest them as this is a particularly dangerous time
of the year to meddle with the reptiles. Quite likely there's a
den under the cabin."
While he made this remarkable statement, he had the grace to hide
his face in a huge puff of smoke. He, too, was in the plot. I
waited for Jones to come out with some ridiculous theory or fact
concerning the particular species of snake, but as he did not
speak, I concluded they had wisely left him out of the secret.
After mentally debating a moment, I decided, as it was a very
harmless joke, to help Frank into the fulfillment of his
enjoyment.
"Rattlesnakes!" I exclaimed. "Heavens! I'd die if I heard one,
let alone seeing it. A big rattler jumped at me one day, and I've
never recovered from the shock."
Plainly, Frank was delighted to hear of my antipathy and my
unfortunate experience, and he proceeded to expatiate on the
viciousness of rattlesnakes, particularly those of Arizona. If I
had believed the succeeding stories, emanating from the fertile
brains of those three fellows, I should have made certain that
Arizona canyons were Brazilian jungles. Frank's parting shot,
sent in a mellow, kind voice, was the best point in the whole
trick. "Now, I'd be nervous if I had a sleepin' bag like yours,
because it's just the place for a rattler to ooze into."
In the confusion and dim light of bedtime I contrived to throw
the end of my lasso over the horn of a saddle hanging on the
wall, with the intention of augmenting the noise I soon expected
to create; and I placed my automatic rifle and .38 S. and W.
Special within easy reach of my hand. Then I crawled into my bag
and composed myself to listen. Frank soon began to snore, so
brazenly, so fictitiously, that I wondered at the man's absorbed
intensity in his joke; and I was at great pains to smother in my
breast a violent burst of riotous merriment. Jones's snores,
however, were real enough, and this made me enjoy the situation
all the more; because if he did not show a mild surprise when the
catastrophe fell, I would greatly miss my guess. I knew the three
wily conspirators were wide-awake. Suddenly I felt a movement in
the straw under me and a faint rustling. It was so soft, so
sinuous, that if I had not known it was the lasso, I would
assuredly have been frightened. I gave a little jump, such as one
will make quickly in bed. Then the coil ran out from under the
straw. How subtly suggestive of a snake! I made a slight outcry,
a big jump, paused a moment for effectiveness in which time Frank
forgot to snore--then let out a tremendous yell, grabbed my guns,
sent twelve thundering shots through the roof and pulled my
lasso.
Crash! the saddle came down, to be followed by sounds not on
Frank's programme and certainly not calculated upon by me. But
they were all the more effective. I gathered that Lawson, who was
not in the secret, and who was a nightmare sort of sleeper
anyway, had knocked over Jim's table, with its array of pots and
pans and then, unfortunately for Jones had kicked that innocent
person in the stomach.
As I lay there in my bag, the very happiest fellow in the wide
world, the sound of my mirth was as the buzz of the wings of a
fly to the mighty storm. Roar on roar filled the cabin.
When the three hypocrites recovered sufficiently from the
startling climax to calm Lawson, who swore the cabin had been
attacked by Indians; when Jones stopped roaring long enough to
hear it was only a harmless snake that had caused the trouble, we
hushed to repose once more--not, however, without hearing some
trenchant remarks from the boiling Colonel anent fun and fools,
and the indubitable fact that there was not a rattlesnake on
Buckskin Mountain.
Long after this explosion had died away, I heard, or rather felt,
a mysterious shudder or tremor of the cabin, and I knew that
Frank and Jim were shaking with silent laughter. On my own score,
I determined to find if Jones, in his strange make-up, had any
sense of humor, or interest in life, or feeling, or love that did
not center and hinge on four-footed beasts. In view of the rude
awakening from what, no doubt, were pleasant dreams of wonderful
white and green animals, combining the intelligence of man and
strength of brutes--a new species creditable to his genius--I was
perhaps unjust in my conviction as to his lack of humor. And as
to the other question, whether or not he had any real human
feeling for the creatures built in his own image, that was
decided very soon and unexpectedly.
The following morning, as soon as Lawson got in with the horses,
we packed and started. Rather sorry was I to bid good-by to Oak
Spring. Taking the back trail of the Stewarts, we walked the
horses all day up a slowly narrowing, ascending canyon. The
hounds crossed coyote and deer trails continually, but made no
break. Sounder looked up as if to say he associated painful
reminiscences with certain kinds of tracks. At the head of the
canyon we reached timber at about the time dusk gathered, and we
located for the night. Being once again nearly nine thousand feet
high, we found the air bitterly cold, making a blazing fire most
acceptable.
In the haste to get supper we all took a hand, and some one threw
upon our tarpaulin tablecloth a tin cup of butter mixed with
carbolic acid--a concoction Jones had used to bathe the sore feet
of the dogs. Of course I got hold of this, spread a generous
portion on my hot biscuit, placed some red-hot beans on that, and
began to eat like a hungry hunter. At first I thought I was only
burned. Then I recognized the taste and burn of the acid and knew
something was wrong. Picking up the tin, I examined it, smelled
the pungent odor and felt a queer numb sense of fear. This lasted
only for a moment, as I well knew the use and power of the acid,
and had not swallowed enough to hurt me. I was about to make
known my mistake in a matter-of-fact way, when it flashed over me
the accident could be made to serve a turn.
"Jones!" I cried hoarsely. "What's in this butter?"
"Lord! you haven't eaten any of that. Why, I put carbolic acid in
it."
"Oh--oh--oh--I'm poisoned! I ate nearly all of it! Oh--I'm
burning up! I'm dying!" With that I began to moan and rock to and
fro and hold my stomach.
Consternation preceded shock. But in the excitement of the
moment, Wallace--who, though badly scared, retained his wits made
for me with a can of condensed milk. He threw me back with no
gentle hand, and was squeezing the life out of me to make me open
my mouth, when I gave him a jab in his side. I imagined his
surprise, as this peculiar reception of his
first-aid-to-the-injured made him hold off to take a look at me,
and in this interval I contrived to whisper to him: "Joke! Joke!
you idiot! I'm only shamming. I want to see if I can scare Jones
and get even with Frank. Help me out! Cry! Get tragic!"
From that moment I shall always believe that the stage lost a
great tragedian in Wallace. With a magnificent gesture he threw
the can of condensed milk at Jones, who was so stunned he did not
try to dodge. "Thoughtless man! Murderer! it's too late!" cried
Wallace, laying me back across his knees. "It's too late. His
teeth are locked. He's far gone. Poor boy! poor boy! Who's to
tell his mother?"
I could see from under my hat-brim that the solemn, hollow voice
had penetrated the cold exterior of the plainsman. He could not
speak; he clasped and unclasped his big hands in helpless
fashion. Frank was as white as a sheet. This was simply
delightful to me. But the expression of miserable, impotent
distress on old Jim's sun-browned face was more than I could
stand, and I could no longer keep up the deception. Just as
Wallace cried out to Jones to pray--I wished then I had not
weakened so soon--I got up and walked to the fire.
"Jim, I'll have another biscuit, please."
His under jaw dropped, then he nervously shoveled biscuits at me.
Jones grabbed my hand and cried out with a voice that was new to
me: "You can eat? You're better? You'll get over it?"
"Sure. Why, carbolic acid never phases me. I've often used it for
rattlesnake bites. I did not tell you, but that rattler at the
cabin last night actually bit me, and I used carbolic to cure the
poison."
Frank mumbled something about horses, and faded into the gloom.
As for Jones, he looked at me rather incredulously, and the
absolute, almost childish gladness he manifested because I had
been snatched from the grave, made me regret my deceit, and
satisfied me forever on one score.
On awakening in the morning I found frost half an inch thick
covered my sleeping-bag, whitened the ground, and made the
beautiful silver spruce trees silver in hue as well as in name.
We were getting ready for an early start, when two riders, with
pack-horses jogging after them, came down the trail from the
direction of Oak Spring. They proved to be Jeff Clarke, the
wild-horse wrangler mentioned by the Stewarts, and his helper.
They were on the way into the breaks for a string of pintos.
Clarke was a short, heavily bearded man, of jovial aspect. He
said he had met the Stewarts going into Fredonia, and being
advised of our destination, had hurried to come up with us. As we
did not know, except in a general way, where we were making for,
the meeting was a fortunate event.
Our camping site had been close to the divide made by one of the
long, wooded ridges sent off by Buckskin Mountain, and soon we
were descending again. We rode half a mile down a timbered slope,
and then out into a beautiful, flat forest of gigantic pines.
Clarke informed us it was a level bench some ten miles long,
running out from the slopes of Buckskin to face the Grand Canyon
on the south, and the 'breaks of the Siwash on the west. For two
hours we rode between the stately lines of trees, and the hoofs
of the horses gave forth no sound. A long, silvery grass,
sprinkled with smiling bluebells, covered the ground, except
close under the pines, where soft red mats invited lounging and
rest. We saw numerous deer, great gray mule deer, almost as large
as elk. Jones said they had been crossed with elk once, which
accounted for their size. I did not see a stump, or a burned
tree, or a windfall during the ride.
Clarke led us to the rim of the canyon. Without any
preparation--for the giant trees hid the open sky--we rode right
out to the edge of the tremendous chasm. At first I did not seem
to think; my faculties were benumbed; only the pure sensorial
instinct of the savage who sees, but does not feel, made me take
note of the abyss. Not one of our party had ever seen the canyon
from this side, and not one of us said a word. But Clarke kept
talking.
"Wild place this is hyar," he said. "Seldom any one but horse
wranglers gits over this far. I've hed a bunch of wild pintos
down in a canyon below fer two years. I reckon you can't find no
better place fer camp than right hyar. Listen. Do you hear thet
rumble? Thet's Thunder Falls. You can only see it from one place,
an' thet far off, but thar's brooks you can git at to water the
hosses. Fer thet matter, you can ride up the slopes an' git snow.
If you can git snow close, it'd be better, fer thet's an
all-fired bad trail down fer water."
"Is this the cougar country the Stewarts talked about?" asked
Jones.
"Reckon it is. Cougars is as thick in hyar as rabbits in a
spring-hole canyon. I'm on the way now to bring up my pintos. The
cougars hev cost me hundreds I might say thousands of dollars. I
lose hosses all the time; an' damn me, gentlemen, I've never
raised a colt. This is the greatest cougar country in the West.
Look at those yellow crags! Thar's where the cougars stay. No one
ever hunted 'em. It seems to me they can't be hunted. Deer and
wild hosses by the thousand browse hyar on the mountain in
summer, an' down in the breaks in winter. The cougars live fat.
You'll find deer and wild-hoss carcasses all over this country.
You'll find lions' dens full of bones. You'll find warm deer left
for the coyotes. But whether you'll find the cougars, I can't
say. I fetched dogs in hyar, an' tried to ketch Old Tom. I've put
them on his trail an' never saw hide nor hair of them again.
Jones, it's no easy huntin' hyar."
"Well, I can see that," replied our leader. "I never hunted lions
in such a country, and never knew any one who had. We'll have to
learn how. We've the time and the dogs, all we need is the stuff
in us."
"I hope you fellars git some cougars, an' I believe you will.
Whatever you do, kill Old Tom."
"We'll catch him alive. We're not on a hunt to kill cougars,"
said Jones.
"What!" exclaimed Clarke, looking from Jones to us. His rugged
face wore a half-smile.
"Jones ropes cougars, an' ties them up," replied Frank.
"I'm -- -- if he'll ever rope Old Tom," burst out Clarke,
ejecting a huge quid of tobacco. "Why, man alive! it'd be the
death of you to git near thet old villain. I never seen him, but
I've seen his tracks fer five years. They're larger than any hoss
tracks you ever seen. He'll weigh over three hundred, thet old
cougar. Hyar, take a look at my man's hoss. Look at his back. See
them marks? Wal, Old Tom made them, an' he made them right in
camp last fall, when we were down in the canyon."
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