Mike Bastian rode from the stable on the dappled gray and turned into a winding trail that led down through the ponderosa and the aspen to the hidden trail leading to the canyon. He had never ridden this trail, although he had discovered it once by accident. The gray was in fine fettle, and he let it have its head. They moved swiftly, weaving through the woods, crossing a meadow or two, and twice fording the same stream. As he rode he tried to picture where Perrin would be at this time. He knew nothing of the secret crossing, of course, and must ride the long way around. Even with fresh horses and getting little sleep it would take time. His own ride would cover less than a quarter of the distance but was steeper and rougher. Nor could Mike even imagine how he would cross the river.
All Ben had told him was there was a crossing and he would see when he got there.
“It’ll take nerve, boyl Nerve! But remember, I’ve done it a dozen times, and I’m a bigger man than youl” This was all new country to him, for he was heading southwest into the wild, unknown region toward the canyon of the Colorado, a region he had never traversed. It was unknown country to everyone but Ben Curry, the Indians, and perhaps some itinerant trapper.
Occasionally the trail broke out of the trees and let him have a tremendous view of broken canyons and soaring towers of rock. He must ride fast and keep going. He was sorry now that he had not picked up some jerky before leaving Ben, for there would be nothing to eat until he reached the ranch, and then there might not be time. Once, atop a long rise, he drew up to let the gray catch its wind and sat the saddle, looking out across the country. In the purple distance he could see the gaping maw of the great canyon.
He spat into the dust, feeling a chill. How could any lone man hope to cross that? And at the end of the ride, if he made it, there would be Kerb Pen-in.
He had seen Perrin shoot. The man was fast with a gun and deadly. He was almost too fast.
Patches of snow still showed themselves around the roots of trees or on the shaded slopes. He dismounted, letting the gray drink from a clear, cold mountain stream that cascaded down a steep slope, disappearing into the brush, then appearing once more. Beaver had built a dam, formed a wide pool, and built a house at the pond’s edge. He drank well above the pond and let the gray rest for a few minutes while he stood, listening to the silence and watching a beaver push through the water with a green branch which it would bury in the bottom of the pond against the days when snow fell and the pond was covered with ice.
He walked back to the gray and, putting a toe in the stirrup, swung to the saddle. “All right, boy, we’ve got a way to go. was The gray trotted down a narrow path covered with pine needles, then suddenly out of the ponderosa and into an eyebrow of trail that clung hopefully to a cliffs sheer face. One stirrup scraped the wall, the other hung in space. The drop was a thousand feet or more to the first steep slope, and if one slid off that it was another thousand to the bottom. The gray was a good mountain horse who went where only the imagination should go, and picked its way with care until the trail dipped into the forest again.
Shadows fell across the trail, and he glimpsed a white rock he had been told to watch for. He turned sharply left and went down through a steep cleft of sliderock where his horse simply braced its legs and slid to emerge at the foot of the mesa with a long, rolling plain before him. A whiskey jack flew up, flying ahead to light in a tree he must pass. It knew where men were there was often food, and it followed along, perhaps as much for the companionship as for whatever he might leave. “No time, old boy,” he said. “I’ve a long way to go while the sun’s still up.” He was tired, and he knew the gray diswas slowing down, but that meant nothing now.
Would he arrive in time? What was it like there? If he did not arrive in time, what then? There was a coldness in him at the thought, something he had never known before, but he knew what he would have to do. He would hunt them down, every man of them, no matter how long it took or how far the trail led. He would find them.
Mike rode down through heaped-up rocks, which had been falling for ages down upon this slope, rolling into position and lying there. Here the trail dipped and wound, and he thought of what lay ahead. He had never been in a gunfight. He had drawn and fired at Fernandez without thinking, but he knew he had been lucky. In a gun battle you were shooting at living men who could fire back, and would. How would he react when hit by flying lead? He must face that, make up his mind, once and for all. If he got hit he must take it and fire back.
He had known men who had done it. He had known men hit several times who kept on shooting. Cole Younger at Northfield had been hit eleven times and escaped to finally survive and go to prison. His brothers had each been hit several times yet had survived, at least for the time. If they had done it, he could do it.
Perrin and Ducrow, those two he must kill, for they were the worst. If they fell the others might pull out. No matter what, he must kill them.
He could not die trying. He had it to do.
Suddenly the forest seemed to split open and he was on the edge of that vast blue immensity that was the canyon. He drew the gray to a stand, gasping in wonder. Even the weary horse pricked its ears. Here and there through the misty blue and purple of distance red islands of stone loomed up, their tops crested with the gold of the last light.
The gray horse was beaten and weary now and Mike turned the horse down another of those cliff-hanging trails that hung above a vast gorge, and the gray stumbled on, seeming to know its day was almost done.
Dozing in the saddle, Mike Bastian felt the horse come to a halt. He could feel dampness rising from the canyon and heard the subdued roar of rapids as the river plunged through the narrow walls.
In front of him was a square of light.
“Hello, the housel” he called out. He stepped down from the saddle as the door opened.
“Who’s there?” “Mike Bastianl” He walked toward the house, rifle in hand. “Riding for Ben Curryl” The man backed into the house. He was an old Navajo but his eyes were bright and sharp. He took in Mike at a glance.
“I’ll need a horse. I’m crossing the river tonight.” The old Indian chuckled. “It cannot be done. You cannot cross the river tonight.” “There’ll be a moon. When it rises, I’ll go across.” The Navajo shrugged. “You eat. You need eat first.” “Mere are horses?” The chuckle again. “If you wish a horse you find him on other side. My brother is there. He has horses, the very best horses. “Eat,” he said, “then rest. When the moon rises, I will speak.” He paused. “Nobody ever try to cross at night. It is impossible, I think.” Mike Bastian listened to the water. No man could swim that, nor any horse, nor could a boat cross it.
He said as much, and the old Indian chuckled again.
“If you cross,” he said, “you cross on a wire.” “A wire?” “Sleep now. You need sleep. You will see.” A wire? Mike shook his head. That was impossible. It was ridiculous. The old man was joking.
He crossed to the bunk and lay down, staring up into firelit darkness, and the sound of the rushing waters filled the night, and then he slept.
And in his dreams a red-eyed man came at him, guns blazing .
Borden Chantry glanced out the kitchen window toward the train station. When the tracks were built through town they fortunately passed within fifty yards of his home, so he could drink coffee, eat his breakfast or supper, and watch people get on and off the trains.
Not that very many ever did. Four days out of five the train just whistled and went on through. He liked seeing the trains come in, and so did Bess. She brought coffee to the table now, and with it the old subject. “I wish you would give it serious thought, Borden. This is no place to raise a boy.” “I grew up in the west,” he replied mildly.