The Man of the Forest by Zane Grey (fb2 epub reader .txt) 📕
"Old Al won't listen to me," pondered Dale. "An' even if he did, he wouldn't believe me. Maybe nobody will. . . . All the same, Snake Anson won't get that girl."
With these last words Dale satisfied himself of his own position, and his pondering ceased. Taking his rifle, he descended from the loft and peered out of the door. The night had grown darker, windier, cooler; broken clouds were scudding across the sky; only a few stars showed; fine rain was blowing from the northwest; and the forest seemed full of a low, dull roar.
"Reckon I'd better hang up here," he said, and turned to the fire. The coals were red now. From the depths of his hunting-coat he procured a little bag of salt and some strips of dried meat. These strips he laid for a moment on the hot embers, until they began to sizzle and curl; then with a sharpened stick he removed them and ate like a hungry hunter grateful for little
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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 he 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.
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
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