Grey The Wild-Horse Hunter

1. Auflage 2018
ISBN: 978-1-5183-0472-9
Verlag: Charles River Editors
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 73 Seiten

Zane Grey was an American author best known for writing Western fiction.  With books such as Riders of the Purple Sage and Betty Zane, Grey is perhaps the most famous writer of Westerns with many of his books being adapted into movies and TV shows.  This edition of Grey's The Wild-Horse Hunter includes a table of contents.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Grey, Zane

Leseproben

I
.................. 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 near by, and it blew the fragrant wood smoke into the faces of the two hunters, who seemed too tired to move. “I reckon a pipe would help me make up my mind,” said one. “Wal, Bill,” replied the other, dryly, “your mind’s made up, else you’d not say smoke.” “Why?” “Because there ain’t three pipefuls of thet precious tobacco left.” “Thet’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. “Sure, 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. “So this smokin’ means you both want to turn back?” queried Lin, his sharp gaze glancing darkly bright in the glow of the fire. “Yep, we’ll turn back. An’, Gee! the relief I feel!” replied one. “We’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. “No. I’ve had all I want of chasin’ thet wild stallion,” returned Bill, shortly. The other spread wide his hands and bent an expostulating look upon the one called Lin. “We’re two hundred miles out,” he said. “There’s only a little flour left in the bag. No coffee! Only a little salt! All the hosses except your big Nagger are played out. We’re already in strange country. An’ you know what we’ve heerd of this an’ all to the south. It’s all cañons, an’ somewheres down there is thet awful cañon none of our people ever seen. But we’ve heerd of it. An awful cut-up country.” He finished with a conviction that no one could say a word against the common sense of his argument. Lin was silent, as if impressed. Bill raised a strong, lean, brown hand in a forcible gesture. “We can’t ketch Wildfire!” That seemed to him, evidently, a more convincing argument than his comrade’s. “Bill is sure right, if I’m wrong, which I ain’t,” went on the other. “Lin, we’ve trailed thet wild stallion for six weeks. Thet’s the longest chase he ever had. He’s left his old range. He’s cut out his band, an’ left them, one by one. We’ve tried every trick we know on him. An’ he’s too smart for us. There’s a hoss! Why, Lin, we’re all but gone to the dogs chasin’ Wildfire. An’ now I’m done, an’ I’m glad of it.” There was another short silence, which presently Bill opened his lips to break. “Lin, it makes me sick to quit. I ain’t denyin’ thet for a long time I’ve had hopes of ketchin’ Wildfire. He’s the grandest hoss I ever laid eyes on. I reckon no man, onless he was an Arab, ever seen as good a one. But now thet’s neither here nor there... We’ve got to hit the back trail.” “Boys, I reckon I’ll stick to Wildfire’s tracks,” said Lin, in the same quiet tone. Bill swore at him, and the other hunter grew excited and concerned. “Lin Slone, are you gone plumb crazy over thet red hoss?” “I—reckon,” replied Slone. The working of his throat as he swallowed could be plainly seen by his companions. Bill looked at his ally as if to confirm some sudden understanding between them. They took Slone’s attitude gravely and they wagged their heads doubtfully... It was significant of the nature of riders that they accepted his attitude and had consideration for his feelings. For them the situation subtly changed. For weeks they had been three wild-horse wranglers on a hard chase after a valuable stallion. They had failed to get even close to him. They had gone to the limit of their endurance and of the outfit, and it was time to turn back. But Slone had conceived that strange and rare longing for a horse—a passion understood, if not shared, by all riders. And they knew that he would catch Wildfire or die in the attempt. From that moment their attitude toward Slone changed as subtly as had come the knowledge of his feeling. The gravity and gloom left their faces. It seemed they might have regretted what they had said about the futility of catching Wildfire. They did not want Slone to see or feel the hopelessness of his task. “I tell you, Lin,” said Bill, “your hoss Nagger’s as good as when we started.” “Aw, he’s better,” vouchsafed the other rider. “Nagger needed to lose some weight. Lin, have you got an extra set of shoes for him?” “No full set. Only three left,” replied Lin, soberly. “Wal, thet’s enough. You can keep Nagger shod. An’ mebbe thet red stallion will get sore feet an’ go lame. Then you’d stand a chance.” “But Wildfire keeps travelin’ the valleys—the soft ground,” said Slone. “No matter. He’s leavin’ the country, an’ he’s bound to strike sandstone sooner or later. Then, by gosh! mebbe he’ll wear off them hoofs.” “Say, can’t he ring bells offen the rocks?” exclaimed Bill. “Boys, do you think he’s leavin’ the country?” inquired Slone, anxiously. “Sure he is,” replied Bill. “He ain’t the first stallion I’ve chased off the Sevier range. An’ I know. It’s a stallion thet makes for new country, when you push him hard.” “Yep, Lin, he’s sure leavin’,” added the other comrade. “Why, he’s traveled a bee line for days! I’ll bet he’s seen us many a time. Wildfire’s about as smart as any man. He was born wild, an’ his dam was born wild, an’ there you have it. The wildest of all wild creatures—a wild stallion, with the intelligence of a man! A grand hoss, Lin, but one thet has killed stallions all over the Sevier range. A wild stallion thet’s a killer! I never liked him for thet. Could he be broke?” “I’ll break him,” said Lin Slone, grimly. “It’s gettin’ him thet’s the job. I’ve got patience to break a hoss. But patience can’t catch a streak of lightnin’.” “Nope; you’re right,” replied Bill. “If you have some luck you’ll get him—mebbe. If he wears out his feet, or if you crowd him into a narrow cañon, or run him into a bad place where he can’t get by you. Thet might happen. An’ then, with Nagger, you stand a chance. Did you ever tire thet hoss?” “Not yet.” “An’ how fur did you ever run him without a break? Why, when we ketched thet sorrel last year I rode Nagger myself—thirty miles, most at a hard gallop. An’ he never turned a hair!” “I’ve beat thet,” replied Lin. “He could run hard fifty miles—mebbe more. Honestly, I never seen him tired yet. If only he was...