The Young Forester. Zane Grey
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goldseekers took in forty-nine,” he said. “We're comin' soon to a place, Apache Pass, where the Apaches used to ambush the wagon-trains, It's somewheres along here.”
Presently the train wound into a narrow yellow ravine, the walls of which grew higher and higher.
“Them Apaches was the worst redskins ever in the West. They used to hide on top of this pass an' shoot down on the wagon-trains.”
Later in the day he drew my attention to a mountain standing all by itself. It was shaped like a cone, green with trees almost to the summit, and ending in a bare stone peak that had a flat top.
“Starvation Peak,” he said. “That name's three hundred years old, dates back to the time the Spaniards owned this land. There's a story about it that's likely true enough. Some Spaniards were attacked by Indians an' climbed to the peak, expectin' to be better able to defend themselves up there. The Indians camped below the peak an' starved the Spaniards. Stuck there till they starved to death! That's where it got its name.”
“Those times you tell of must have been great,” I said, regretfully. “I'd like to have been here then. But isn't the country all settled now? Aren't the Indians dead? There's no more fighting?”
“It's not like it used to be, but there's still warm places in the West. Not that the Indians break out often any more. But bad men are almost as bad, if not so plentiful, as when Billy the Kid run these parts. I saw two men shot an' another knifed jest before I went East to St. Louis.”
“Where?”
“In Arizona. Holston is the station where I get off, an' it happened near there.”
“Holston is where I'm going.”
“You don't say. Well, I'm glad to meet you, young man. My name's Buell, an' I'm some known in Holston. What's your name?”
He eyed me in a sharp but not unfriendly manner, and seemed pleased to learn of my destination.
“Ward. Kenneth Ward. I'm from Pennsylvania.”
“You haven't got the bugs. Any one can see that,” he said, and as I looked puzzled he went on with a smile, and a sounding rap on his chest: “Most young fellers as come out here have consumption. They call it bugs. I reckon you're seekin' your fortune.”'
“Yes, in a way.”
“There's opportunities for husky youngsters out here. What're you goin' to rustle for, if I may ask?”
“I'm going in for forestry.”
“Forestry? Do you mean lumberin'?”
“No. Forestry is rather the opposite of lumbering. I'm going in for Government forestry—to save the timber, not cut it.”
It seemed to me he gave a little start of surprise; he certainly straightened up and looked at me hard.
“What's Government forestry?”
I told him to the best of my ability. He listened attentively enough, but thereafter he had not another word for me, and presently he went into the next car. I took his manner to be the Western abruptness that I had heard of, and presently forgot him in the scenery along the line. At Albuquerque I got off for a trip to a lunch-counter, and happened to take a seat next to him.
“Know anybody in Holston?” he asked.
As I could not speak because of a mouthful of sandwich I shook my head. For the moment I had forgotten about Dick Leslie, and when it did occur to me some Indians offering to sell me beads straightway drove it out of my mind again.
When I awoke the next day, it was to see the sage ridges and red buttes of Arizona. We were due at Holston at eight o'clock, but owing to a crippled engine the train was hours late. At last I fell asleep to be awakened by a vigorous shake.
“Holston. Your stop. Holston,” the conductor was saying.
“All right,” I said, sitting up and then making a grab for my grip. “We're pretty late, aren't we?”
“Six hours. It's two o'clock.”
“Hope I can get a room,” I said, as I followed him out on the platform. He held up his lantern so that the light would shine in my face. “There's a hotel down the street a block or so. Better hurry and look sharp. Holston's not a safe place for a stranger at night.”
I stepped off into a windy darkness. A lamp glimmered in the station window. By its light I made out several men, the foremost of whom had a dark, pointed face and glittering eyes. He wore a strange hat, and I knew from pictures I had seen that he was a Mexican. Then the bulky form of Buell loomed up. I called, but evidently he did not hear me. The men took his grips, and they moved away to disappear in the darkness. While I paused, hoping to see some one to direct me, the train puffed out, leaving me alone on the platform.
When I turned the corner I saw two dim lights, one far to the left, the other to the right, and the black outline of buildings under what appeared to be the shadow of a mountain. It was the quietest and darkest town I had ever struck.
I decided to turn toward the right-hand light, for the conductor had said “down the street.” I set forth at a brisk pace, but the loneliness and strangeness of the place were rather depressing.
Before I had gone many steps, however, the sound of running water halted me, and just in the nick of time, for I was walking straight into a ditch. By peering hard into the darkness and feeling my way I found a bridge. Then it did not take long to reach the light. But it was a saloon, and not the hotel. One peep into it served to make me face about in double-quick time, and hurry in the opposite direction.
Hearing a soft footfall, I glanced over my shoulder, to see the Mexican that I had noticed at the station. He was coming from across the street. I wondered if he were watching me. He might be. My heart began to beat violently. Turning once again, I discovered that the fellow could not be seen in the pitchy blackness. Then I broke into a run.
III. THE TRAIL
A short dash brought me to the end of the block; the side street was not so dark, and after I had crossed this open space I glanced backward.
Soon I sped into a wan circle of light, and, reaching a door upon which was a hotel sign, I burst in. Chairs were scattered about a bare office; a man stirred on a couch, and then sat up, blinking.
“I'm afraid—I believe some one's chasing me,” I said.
He sat there eying me, and then drawled, sleepily:
“Thet ain't no call to wake a feller, is it?”
The man settled himself comfortably again, and closed his eyes.
“Say, isn't this a hotel? I want a room!” I cried.
“Up-stairs; first door.” And with that the porter went to sleep in good earnest.
I made for the stairs, and, after a backward look into the street, I ran up. A smelly lamp shed a yellowish glare along a hall. I pushed open the first door, and, entering the room, bolted myself in. Then all the strength went out of my legs. When I sat down on the bed I was in a cold sweat and shaking like a leaf. Soon the weakness passed, and I moved about the room, trying to find a lamp or candle. Evidently the hotel, and, for that matter, the town of Holston, did not concern itself with such trifles as lights. On the instant I got a bad impression of Holston. I had to undress in the dark. When I pulled the window open a little at the top the upper sash slid all the way down. I managed to get it back, and tried raising the lower sash. It was very loose, but it stayed up. Then I crawled into bed.
Though I was tired and sleepy, my mind whirled so that I could not get to sleep. If I had been honest with myself I should have