Following the Grass (12 page)

J
OSEPH
stood by silently as Necia cut away the wool from the lamb's torn leg; and save for holding the lamb while she washed the wound with a disinfectant, he found nothing he could do to help her. In a few minutes she had the injured leg bandaged. Joseph's desire for speech had never been greater, but a strange reticence gripped him, and now as Necia looked up at him, he could only ask her to allow him to put the lamb in Angel's rig which stood hitched outside.

“I think you have done enough already,” Necia declared. “It was a fine thing to do. No wonder wild animals follow you around. I think I know why. But—have you had anything to eat?”

Joseph nodded and answered briefly:

“Before I left the mountain.”

“It is a long way for one afoot. If you are going up the mountain yet to-night, I will loan you a horse.”

“No—I will walk,” Joseph replied uneasily, at a loss for words with which to express his gratitude for her thoughtfulness. “It is late—I will put the lamb in the rig—it is little enough to do—and go.”

He was ill at ease, and he wondered if she suspected as much. He had no desire to end this moment with her, but he realized he had done no less, for N ecia raised her eyebrows inquiringly, and picking up the lamb, handed it to him.

“It
is
getting late,” she said softly.

There was nothing further to keep Joseph now, and he started
to
turn away, his eyes solemn. He paused as Necia said:

“If you—should ever come to the Circle-Z again, grandfather will treat you differently. He —is not heartless.” A roguish twinkle came into her eyes as she hesitated momentarily. “I—I hope you will not find it too far to come again,” she finished.

The fragrance of her hair swept into Joseph's nostrils as she opened the door for him. It was clean, invigorating, not unlike the perfume of young balsams in early spring. It shook him, and harking back to the speech of his boyhood, he said simply:

“I reckon I could find my way.”

His sincerity and his use of the homely expression made Necia smile tenderly.

“You
reckon
you could, eh?” she trilled.

Both were young and keenly alive, and they laughed softly together.

“You are—a stranger,” Necia said prettily. You—might give me your name—”

Joseph found her very alluring as her eyes dared him to answer while he hesitated, torn between the desire to tell her and the fear of cutting himself off from her forever if he did. To tell her that his father had not killed hers would be only to invite questions—to prove his statement—and the time for that was not yet. And then, wisdom whispered to him that this girl must find out the truth for herself. So he said only:

“Joseph.”

“Just—Joseph?” Necia whispered.

He did not reply, nor did he catch the wistful light that crept into her eyes. He knew she was waiting for him to answer, and he nodded his head unhappily.

“Just—Joseph,” he said, repeating her words, and his voice was strange to his own ears.

“That sounds very mysterious,” she went on after a moment; “almost as if—as if it explained your presence in Nevada.”

“You mean that I withhold my name from you because there is a blot on it?” Joseph asked, misunderstanding Necia's inference.

“No—no; not that,” she hastened to answer. She felt his eyes searching her own, and she colored as she struggled for words with which to express her thought. She stiffened as the boy said flatly:

“But that
is
my reason.”

Necia stared at Joseph, wonderingly. She shook her head at last and smiled faintly.

“An injustice—a wrong! Something you are going to avenge—” she murmured, and then :

“I think that is exactly what I meant—not that you had come here to hide.”

Joseph glanced at her shrewdly.

“Why—why do you think that?” he asked.

“I sensed it the moment you came in. Your speech is strange; you are hardly one of us—and yet, as you faced the Basque, I saw revenge flash in your eyes for a brief second. Your face was cruel. I even thought he cowered. He is a powerful man; and he has made many enemies.”

Thoroughly disturbed by Necia's train of thought, the boy turned away, his eyes veiled.

“See—your face is hard now,” she murmured. “I have guessed the truth.”

Joseph did not reply. Unconsciously, Necia placed her hand upon his arm.

“Does it mean so much to you?” she asked.

“Everytking,” Joseph nodded quietly.

“I might have known you would say that. I am sorry—truly. Revenge is so hopeless. It can bring you no happiness.”

Her voice suddenly sounded sad. Joseph glanced up quickly, but Necia was looking beyond him at the great moon floating so lazily above the dim crest of distant Buckskin.

“You say that very positively,” he said.

Necia nodded.

“My own life has proved it,” she murmured, her voice trailing off into a whisper. “My grandfather never forgets or forgives a wrong. From childhood I seem to see him as always having been bent on righting the wrongs men had dcne him. He has never quite caught up with his revenge. I wonder, sometimes, if he realizes that he has no friends. Hardly any one comes here. It is very lonely—I feel it. We are never asked about. Men say that no one has ever got the best of grandfather—I wonder what else they say of him.” Necia's thoughts wandered for a moment.

“If he had only forgiven one or two,” she went on, “he would have had friends to-day. He needs them. But he'll not change. That you find a Basque in his home, after all his years of hating them, does not mean that he has changed. Angel Irosahal brings him a profit. Grandfather has sworn his life to hating sheep and sheepmen—the Basques in particular—and he will go to his grave dreaming of avenging some wrong they did him. And yet, to my knowledge, it has been twelve years since a herder has infringed on him. My own father was killed in a fence-fight—a victim of this very spirit of revenge.”

“Your father—Kit Dorr?” asked Joseph.

Necia's eyes came back to the boy.

“You knew him?' she questioned.

“I have heard men speak his name. You bear no malice toward the man who shot him?”

“I don't know. I suppose, even after all these years, that the sight of him would fill my heart with hatred. But I would try to forgive him. But I haven't kept him before me—I haven't thought about him. And I guess that sums up just what I am trying to say to you—that it is an affront to God to brood over an injustice,
to
keep it ever before you—alive and growing until you become its slave.”

Necia's voice had risen, and she stopped, surprised at herself.

“I hadn''t meant to say quite that,” she said humbly. “Forgive me.”

But Joseph had been deeply stirred, and he gave no sign that he heard her now.

“I have tried to keep hatred out of my heart!” he exclaimed earnestly. “For the dead cannot be avenged through hate. But I
have
come back to right a great wrong, and I will not be turned aside. I ask only justice. That will I have.”

“But justice that demands an eye for an eye is often less than justice.”

“And yet, I shall demand no less.” His voice was determined, almost sullen in its intensity. “At this moment, I hold the lives and happiness of those who have wronged me and mine in my hand. I can crush them as you would crush an egg-shell. As easily as that!”

Joseph put out his hand, and Necia held her breath as she watched his fingers close until the nails sank into his flesh.

“And still—I have yet to raise my hand against any man. 'Vengeance is mine,' the Lord has said, and I do not intend to presume with Him. But if I do—if because I see in myself the messenger of His will—I will fail. Beyond all else, I am true to myself. No one can alter my purpose. Whenever opportunity has offered, I have never failed to do a man a favor. I have given all, and asked nothing.”

“And already you have your reward,” Necia declared. “Men who scoffed at you now respect you. You have made friends, whether you know it or not. You could do the people of this valley a wonderful service.”

“I have,” Joseph answered simply. “I have warned them. But they have not listened, even though the signs are everywhere. Not in fifty years has this valley been without water, so they see in me only a fanatic—a preacher of religion, your grandfather called me.”

“But grandfather respects you. He does not know that he does, but—he does. When you spoke to him, he knew that he heard the truth. There—he is calling me—you will come again?”

“I may—have to,” Joseph murmured with peculiar emphasis. Necia glanced at him questioningly.

“Have to?” she queried.

Joseph nodded.

“Your grandfather has never recalled the reward he offered for the capture of the man who killed your father. I may decide to claim it.”

Necia drew back in surprise.

“You know where to find him?” she asked eagerly.

“He has never been away. He is not the man you suspect.

Thad had been standing beside Angel's buggy, waiting, and he started toward the side door now to find out what kept Necia. She heard him approaching, and she put her hand upon Joseph's arm again, touching him lightly.

“Tell me his name,” she demanded. Her voice trembled.

“Not to-night,” Joseph answered. “He is a brute and a bully—a coward. He shot your father in the back.”

Necia's eyes flamed as Joseph spoke. Her face was as stern as his own, now.

“If I reveal his identity,” he went on, “it will cost him his life. You think it over. If you can tell me, when you see me again, that you forgive him—that you do not demand that he pay for what he has done—I will give you his name.”

Horror crept into Necia's eyes as she realized what he proposed.

“I understand you perfectly,” she flared back. “You ask me to prove myself wrong—you make it very, very hard for me.”

Her tone stabbed Joseph and he was about to speak when her grandfather reached the door.

“He's got a long drive ahead of him,” Thad said petulantly, indicating Angel. “Let him get started.”

Together they walked to the rig, and Joseph placed the lamb in it. The light streaming through the open door revealed Slippy-foot, the coyote, and Grimm, the crow, standing side by side, an oddly assorted pair of sentinels, so still that it was hard to believe they lived.

Necia glanced at them and saw their eyes shine as the light struck them. The crow was rolling his sinister orbs, alive to every movement of those before him. She tried to turn away, but Grimm held her fascinated. He looked for all the world like some high executioner come, not only to judge, but to punish those who were offensive to him.

She caught her breath as she felt those great eyes resting momentarily upon her. Angel and Thad were caught up and held in turn, too.

“Will you ride with me?” the old Basque asked Joseph, his voice betraying his uneasiness. He addressed the boy, but his question was really put to Grimm, and as he waited for Joseph to answer he did not take his eyes off the crow.

It appeared to Necia that Joseph hesitated as if expecting the somber bird to answer Angel. Suddenly she saw the crow spread his wings. A piercing, raging “Caw-w-w, Caw-w-w !” shattered the stillness, and with a sweeping rush Grimm sailed into the air.

Necia threw up her arm to shield her face as she saw him pause on high and drop like a plummet. But it was down on Angel that the cawing fory swooped.

The old Basque cowered in his rig, apparently unable to reach out for his whip. His team, however, had heard that rush of angry wings, and with a wild snort the horses lowered their heads and dashed away.

Necia saw Angel awaken from his trance and grasp the reins. A few seconds later, man and team were lost in the night.

Old Thad was searching the sky for a sight of Grimm. The crow's cries were rapidly growing faint in the distance. Thad listened, straining his ears until that wild cawing no longer reached him.

He looked for Joseph, but the boy and Slippy-foot had gone. He turned to Necia then, and they stood and stared at each other almost as if expecting to find that the strange trinity—J oseph, Slippy-foot and Grimm—had left some visible mark on them.

Without speaking they entered the house. Thad threw open the doors and windows. Necia followed him with her eyes, wonder growing in them as she saw her grandfather give way to his rising anger.

“I want air!
Air—do
you hear? Open up everythin'! Git the smell of them things out of here,” he raged.

The plate that Grimm had touched with his bill in salvaging the bread crust caught Thad's eyes. With an oath he picked it up and hurled it to the floor.

“Grandfather!” Necia protested.

“He ate out of it—that damned crow!” Thad shouted.

T
HE
memory of N'ecia stayed with Joseph and in the days that followed he pondered at length over what she had said. He was as far as ever from accepting her creed of life, but due to her a week passed before he thought of going to see old Angel.

He had begun to wonder what the business might be that had brought Thad Taylor and his grandfather together. This matter was soon explained to him in full by none other than Peter Organ, on his way north again. Peter was wrathful.

“All nice boys,” he said, “the whole four of 'em. Been workin' hard, improvin' their land, and just about ready to ease up a little with the money from this year's wheat. Now they ain't got nuthin'. They'll have to sell—or starve. Five years' work thrown away. I could-a told 'em they was fools to go on workin' that-a-way, and nuthin' but a promise that they'd have no trouble about renewin' their leases. Humph !

“But I reckon if a hog ever got more'n he could eat, he'd spoil what was left. There ought to be a law ag'in 'em. And Thad Taylor joinin' in with Angel after all the yappin' he's done about the boscos! Makes me sick!” Peter snorted.

“Do not take it too much to heart, my friend,” Joseph counselled. “I assure you that neither my grandfather nor Thad Taylor will profit by what they have done. Martin Creek will be dry before August comes.”

Peter just looked at Joseph pityingly.

“You—you don't really believe that, do you, Joseph?” he asked sharply.

“I do—beyond a doubt. It cannot be otherwise. Whatever your plans are, mold them accordingly. No rain fell last month; none will fall this month. And it is only the beginning. You should be able to recognize the signs.”

“It
does
look as if we was in for a dry spell,” Peter admitted; ”but no man can remember when they wa'n't water in Martin Creek—not even Injuns. It's hard for me to believe that it's a-goin' to be as bad as you say.”

“You are not alone in that,” said the boy. “What did they say about me in Paradise when you told them I was Joseph Gault?”

Peter shook his head solemnly.

“I didn't tell no one that,” he exclaimed. “I got to figgerin' it'd be best for you to tell 'em when you was ready. It was gittin' hard for me to hold my tongue, so I lit out.”

“I am glad you said nothing. Since I saw you last certain things have made me change my mind. But they will find me out soon enough. I may need you, Peter. Will I be able to find you?”

“Sure! I'm goin' over into the Pine Forest. range. If you need me, send word to the Pingree ranch. They'll know about where I'm at.”

And without further understanding they parted. Early the next morning, Joseph started for the ranger's cabin on Powder Creek. He needed salt for his sheep. Peter had told him that Heaton, the ranger, had salt for sale, and so, although Paradise was nearer, he set out for the Reserve.

Joseph had never been to Heaton's cabin until now, so he did not know that the Basque herders in the Reserve made it their rendezvous. Heaton made some small profit off them and, accordingly, suffered them to do about as they pleased.

Whatever supplies Angel sent to his men were left at the cabin. Hence, it became their headquarters, and on the morning that Joseph approached it Andres and at least a dozen others lounged about the place. Most of them were young—Felipe was one of them—and, as is the way with young men the world over when free of restraint, they were having a very merry time of it, indulging in pranks on one another, and proving to the best of their various abilities that herding sheep does not make Jack a dull boy.

An hour before Joseph reached the cabin, a Basque named Juan Icherraga, on his way to Paradise, had arrived with a small
remuda
of horses, among which was a wild-eyed piebald mare. She was a bucking horse that had changed owners many times. Icherraga had some local reputation as a
vaquero
, and it pleased him to awe his friends by showing them his mastery of the mare. He finished with a flourish, believing he had captured his audience, but Andres, who knew something of bucking horses and who had been watching him jealously, smiled scornfully.

“It is nothing,” he said in Basque. “There is no fight left in the horse.”

Icherraga put a hackamore on the mare's nose and dared Andres to ride. This was exactly what the big man desired. Vaulting into the saddle easily, he sent the animal away with a wild whoop. She bucked almost immediately, but Andres fanned the air with his hat and dared her to do her worst. In ten minutes he brought her to a halt in front of Felipe and the others.

He had not been thrown. They cheered him, and in other circumstances Andres would have been glad enough to have appeared a hero in their eyes, but now he saw more pleasure in heaping ridicule on the unfortunate Icherraga. The crowd was soon with him in this and, to complete the man's humiliation, Andres insisted that the boy Felipe could ride the mare. Felipe, however, was afraid of the horse and when Andres urged him to ride he shook his head determinedly. The crowd tittered now at Andres's expense.

“But I said you would ride the mare, and you will,” he shouted.

“I—I am afraid, Andres,” Felipe protested. “I know nothing of horses. I will be thrown.”

“No!” the big fellow cried angrily as Felipe tried to dart away from him. He caught the boy by the neck and gave him a blow that sprawled him in the dust.

“Get up !” Andres commanded, and he half pulled the boy to his feet. The young Basques glared at the bully, but they were afraid to go to Felipe's rescue. Only Icherraga protested. Andres pushed him aside.

“Will you ride the horse now?” he bellowed. Felipe cowered as he saw him raise his fist once more. But even so, the boy's fear of the horse transcended his fear of the man, and he cried out piteously:

“No !—no ! Andres ! I am afraid. Please—”

Andres did not wait for him to finish. White with rage, he grabbed the boy by the collar and dragged him toward the mare.

He was not aware of the newcomer who had turned the corner of the cabin and now stood regarding him with darkening brow.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

It was Joseph. He had seen enough to understand what went on here. His arrival had passed unnoticed, so great had been the crowd's interest in Felipe and Andres.

“Let the boy go !” he cried.

At his call the bully stopped and turned angrily to find out who dared dispute his right to do as he pleased. The others were already staring open-mouthed at Joseph.

With widening eyes they saw Slippy-foot flashing around the flock until she had brought Joseph's sheep to a halt. Grimm had been perched upon the boy's shoulder, but he had tossed the crow to the ground, and as Joseph went up to Andres the great bird hopped along after him, cawing loudly and rolling his eyes menacingly.

To many of them Joseph had been an object of superstitious awe. One or two — despite the stories of Lope and his cousin—had believed him a ghostly visitant. Certain it is they feared him. That this was due, in some measure, to tales of their own inventing, quite escaped them.

They had painted him in many colors, and with each telling their fanciful tales had grown, endowing him with strange powers and even producing those who had seen or heard him in communication with the spirit-world. Slippy-foot and Grimm had not been neglected in these idle vaporings, and they were commonly credited with being in league with the devil.

In fairness to Andres it must be said that he scoffed at these tales, for he was by nature a scoffer. Still, for all his skepticism, he was not past believing them.

The descriptions of Joseph had varied greatly, but now, although none of them had ever faced him before, it did not occur to a single one to question but what this was he who walked among them, finding him even stranger than they had pictured him. Icherraga was comical in his dismay, the whites of his eyes showing as he rolled them at Slippy-foot. As Grimm neared him, he backed away shielding his face with his arm. He mumbled something, but the crowd appeared not to hear him.

Joseph had surprised them completely, and if he had desired to awe them he could not have chosen a more dramatic moment for his appearance. But he saw only Andres and the helpless Felipe, and anger flashed in his eyes as he covered the distance between himself and the struggling boy.

Andres had stopped when Joseph called, and his face had blanched, but in the few seconds that passed before the boy came up to him he managed to recover his almost habitual sullenness. He waited until Joseph opened his mouth to speak, and then with a sneering laugh turned his back on him and started away dragging Felipe behind him.

The next moment he felt Joseph's hand upon his arm. He had not expected such strength and, caught off his balance as he had been, he could not help being whirled about.

“Let him go,” Joseph said tensely. “He is afraid of the horse.”

Andres's eyes narrowed beneath his shaggy brows. A snarl and a curse in Basque broke from his lips, and he sunk his fingers deeper into Felipe's neck.

“I'll not ask you again,” Joseph warned as Felipe screamed. “I am unarmed. I have only my hands and my spirit with which to defeat you, but I ask for nothing more.”

Andres's answer was only to curl his lips and bare his yellow fangs as a beast might have done. Joseph did not wait longer. The crowd saw his right hand drop to his knee. With a swiftness that taxed the eye to follow, it came up, the weight of his body in back of it, and the next instant they saw Andres rock.

The blow had caught him on his beefy neck, and his head snapped back as if worked by a string. He hurled Felipe away from him as he struggled to keep from falling.

The blow would have been a knock-out had it been measured more carefully. Even so, Andres's eyes were blurred. He shook his head to clear it. A moment later he bellowed his rage, and with his hands outspread as if they were claws, he rushed at Joseph, not to hit him, but to tear and smother him, to stamp him into the ground. His face was hideous, his eyes glittering like an angry ape's.

Joseph leaped out of his way, and as Andres dove past him, he struck him again. Blood spurted from the bully's ear as he set himself for another rush. He was at least twenty pounds heavier than Joseph, and it seemed he must crush him as he leaped at him.

He was prepared to see the boy jump aside once more, but Joseph stood his ground and as Andres came on, his arms flailing the air, Joseph braced himself and drove his fist into the big man's middle. Andres stopped in his tracks, a horrible “whoosh!” forced from him as the air rushed from his lungs.

Joseph leaped in to follow up his advantage, but Andres caught him and held on, trying to smother him with his weight. Strength began to flow back into the Basque's arms. Joseph felt them tightening about him and try as he would he could not get free. Andres's weight also was telling on him. He saw that the man was playing for just that advantage.

Joseph beat his adversary's face into a raw mass, but Andres did not let go. He was a beast and he fought as beasts fight—willing to suffer now; content to bide his time. When he had Joseph flat on the ground he would repay those blows in good measure with his hobnailed boots.

The crowd wanted to see Andres whipped. At some time, each one there had felt his heavy hand. They had not dared to strike back. Joseph came to them as a champion out of the wilderness. They had proved themselves willing to believe anything of him in the past, and that he could crush Andres was quite within the possibilities.

They had overcome their fear of the boy, and they thrilled to see him punish the man who had bullied them so long. But now the advantage was Andres's and the crowd held its breath.

A grin twisted the big fellow's torn mouth as he felt the boy's struggles weaken. His eyes blinked open, and Joseph caught the thought which crept into them and made them gleam hideously, two spots of fire in a face from which his hands had beaten all human resemblance. To be dragged down now, was to be fatal, to be stamped to death. Andres had become the insensate killer—all beast—back into the slimy pit from which the first man had emerged still walking upon all fours.

And so they waited—one mad and the other with senses alert. Andres was past calculating his chances of victory. He was satisfied that he had won, and he could only hang on, knowing he had not long to wait.

Joseph, however, was watching—he told himself he was not to die here. Some opening, some advantage must come to him.

He felt his second strength flowing back to him, but he made no effort to break the big man's grip. Rather did he seem to struggle less and less. He gasped for air, and Andres grunted eagerly. Another minute or two and it would be over. Abruptly, Joseph seemed to go limp. Andres leered at him and, seeing the boy's eyelids close, he straightened up and let him sink to the ground.

But now the unexpected happened, for Joseph caught himself, and snapped erect. Andres tried to close on him again, but before his great arms could circle the boy's neck, Joseph's fist flashed up.

Every ounce of him—body and spirit—was in that blow. Energy he had not known he possessed, leaped within him. He could not have aimed and timed the blow better.

The crowd heard his fist thud against Andres's jaw, hut Joseph had aimed beyond that, and the force of his blow, as he carried it through, lifted the big man's head. Almost instantly his body stiffened, and as his head had lifted, so now his body lifted until even his feet left the ground. The crowd gasped.

Andres's eyes were glazing. He was falling. He appeared about to go over backward, but suddenly his legs went limp. He crumpled up as a balloon does when the air is let out of it, and sank to the ground unconscious, blood trickling from his mouth and ears.

Joseph stood over him, swaying crazily, his chest heaving.

Felipe and the others came and stared at Andres.