Wildfire and the Heritage of the Desert by Zane Grey Page A

Joel Creech she knew.
    â€œStop!” cried Lucy, fiercely. “I’ll run you down!”
    The big black plunged at a touch of spur and came down quivering, ready to bolt.
    Creech swerved to one side. His face was lividly white except where the bloody welts crossed it. His jaw seemed to hang loosely, making speech difficult.
    â€œJest fer—thet—” he panted, hoarsely, “I’ll lay fer you—an’ I’ll strip you—an’ I’ll tie you on a hoss—an’ I’ll drive you naked through Bostil’s Ford!”
    Lucy saw the utter futility of all her good intentions. Something had snapped in Joel Creech’s mind. And in hers kindness had given precedence to a fury she did not know was in her. For the second time she touched a spur to Sarchedon. He leaped out, flashed past Creech, and thundered up the road. It was all Lucy could do to break his gait at the first steep rise.

 
    CHAPTER IV
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    Three wild-horse hunters made camp one night beside a little stream in the Sevier Valley, five hundred miles, as a crow flies, from Bostil’s Ford.
    These hunters had a poor outfit, excepting, of course, their horses. They were young men, rangy in build, lean and hard from life in the saddle, bronzed like Indians, still-faced, and keen-eyed. Two of them appeared to be tired out, and lagged at the camp-fire duties. When the meager meal was prepared they sat, cross-legged, before a ragged tarpaulin, eating and drinking in silence.
    The sky in the west was rosy, slowly darkening. The valley floor billowed away, ridged and cut, growing gray and purple and dark. Walls of stone, pink with the last rays of the setting sun, inclosed the valley, stretching away toward a long, low, black mountain range.
    The place was wild, beautiful, open, with something nameless that made the desert different from any other country. It was, perhaps, a loneliness of vast stretches of valley and stone, clear to the eye, even after sunset. That black mountain range, which looked close enough to ride to before dark, was a hundred miles distant.
    The shades of night fell swiftly, and it was dark by the time the hunters finished the meal. Then the camp-fire had burned low. One of the three dragged branches of dead cedars and replenished the fire. Quickly it flared up, with the white flame and crackle characteristic of dry cedar. The night wind had risen, moaning through the gnarled, stunted cedars nearby, and it blew the fragrant wood-smoke into the faces of the two hunters, who seemed too tired to move.
    â€œI reckon a pipe would help me make up my mind,” said one.
    â€œWal, Bill,” replied the other, dryly, “your mind’s made up, else you’d not say smoke.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause there ain’t three pipefuls of thet precious tobacco left.”
    â€œThet’s one apiece, then … Lin, come an’ smoke the last pipe with us.”
    The tallest of the three, he who had brought the firewood, stood in the bright light of the blaze. He looked the born rider, light, lithe, powerful.
    â€œSure, I’ll smoke,” he replied.
    Then, presently, he accepted the pipe tendered him, and, sitting down beside the fire, he composed himself to the enjoyment which his companions evidently considered worthy of a decision they had reached.
    â€œSo this smokin’ means you both want to turn back?” queried Lin, his sharp gaze glancing darkly bright in the glow of the fire.
    â€œYep, we’ll turn back. An’, Lordy! The relief I feel!” replied one.
    â€œWe’ve been long comin’ to it, Lin, an’ thet was for your sake,” replied the other.
    Lin slowly pulled at his pipe and blew out the smoke as if reluctant to part with it. “Let’s go on,” he said, quietly.
    â€œNo. I’ve had all I want of chasin’ thet damn wild stallion,” returned Bill, shortly.
    The other spread wide his hands and bent an