T.H. Huxley - "Lectures and Essays "

James Monroe - "State of the Union Addresses of James Monroe"

Henry Fielding - "The History of the Life of the Late Mr. Jonathan Wild the Great"

William Shakespeare - "The First Part of King Henry the Sixth"

Card Cafe Promotes Kira Case to Vice President and General Manager
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Libera Acquires Pintexx Software
SEATTLE, Wash. -- In an answer to the market's demand for a better, more user-friendly Microsoft(R) Windows(R), Extensoft announced today the release of its Extensions for Windows - a product that significantly broadens the functionality of both Windows XP and Vista. Extensions for Windows is the first community driven, modular upgrade for Windows and contains a number of new features Windows users have desired as part of the operating system.

The U.P. Trail

Z >> Zane Grey >> The U.P. Trail



ZANE GREY

THE U. P. TRAIL






... When I think how the railroad has been pushed through this
unwatered wilderness and haunt of savage tribes; how at each stage
of the construction roaring, impromptu cities, full of gold and lust
and death, sprang up and then died away again, and are now but
wayside stations in the desert; how in these uncouth places Chinese
pirates worked side by side with border ruffians and broken men from
Europe, gambling, drinking, quarreling, and murdering like wolves;
and then when I go on to remember that all this epical turmoil was
conducted by gentlemen in frock-coats, with a view to nothing more
extraordinary than a fortune and a subsequent visit to Paris--it
seems to me as if this railway were the one typical achievement of
the age in which we live, as if it brought together into one plot
all the ends of the world and all the degrees of social rank, and
offered to some great writer the busiest, the most extended, and the
most varied subject for an enduring literary work. If it be romance,
if it be contrast, if it be heroism that we require, what was Troy
to this?

--ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
In ACROSS THE PLAINS




1

In the early sixties a trail led from the broad Missouri, swirling
yellow and turgid between its green-groved borders, for miles and
miles out upon the grassy Nebraska plains, turning westward over the
undulating prairie, with its swales and billows and long, winding
lines of cottonwoods, to a slow, vast heave of rising ground--
Wyoming--where the herds of buffalo grazed and the wolf was lord and
the camp-fire of the trapper sent up its curling blue smoke from
beside some lonely stream; on and on over the barren lands of
eternal monotony, all so gray and wide and solemn and silent under
the endless sky; on, ever on, up to the bleak, black hills and into
the waterless gullies and through the rocky gorges where the deer
browsed and the savage lurked; then slowly rising to the pass
between the great bold peaks, and across the windy uplands into
Utah, with its verdant valleys, green as emeralds, and its haze-
filled canons and wonderful wind-worn cliffs and walls, and its pale
salt lakes, veiled in the shadows of stark and lofty rocks, dim,
lilac-colored, austere, and isolated; ever onward across Nevada, and
ever westward, up from desert to mountain, up into California, where
the white streams rushed and roared and the stately pines towered,
and seen from craggy heights, deep down, the little blue lakes
gleamed like gems; finally sloping to the great descent, where the
mountain world ceased and where, out beyond the golden land, asleep
and peaceful, stretched the illimitable Pacific, vague and grand
beneath the setting sun.




2

Deep in the Wyoming hills lay a valley watered by a stream that ran
down from Cheyenne Pass; a band of Sioux Indians had an encampment
there. Viewed from the summit of a grassy ridge, the scene was
colorful and idle and quiet, in keeping with the lonely, beautiful
valley. Cottonwoods and willows showed a bright green; the course of
the stream was marked in dark where the water ran, and light where
the sand had bleached; brown and black dots scattered over the
valley were in reality grazing horses; lodge-pole tents gleamed
white in the sun, and tiny bits of red stood out against the white;
lazy wreaths of blue smoke rose upward.

The Wyoming hills were split by many such valleys and many such
bare, grassy ridges sloped up toward the mountains. Upon the side of
one ridge, the highest, there stood a solitary mustang, haltered
with a lasso. He was a ragged, shaggy, wild beast, and there was no
saddle or bridle on him, nothing but the halter. He was not grazing,
although the bleached white grass grew long and thick under his
hoofs. He looked up the slope, in a direction indicated by his
pointing ears, and watched a wavering movement of the long grass.

It was wild up on that ridge, bare of everything except grass, and
the strange wavering had a nameless wildness in its motion. No
stealthy animal accounted for that trembling--that forward
undulating quiver. It wavered on to the summit of the ridge.

What a wide and wonderful prospect opened up to view from this lofty
point! Ridge after ridge sloped up to the Wyoming hills, and these
in turn raised their bleak, dark heads toward the mountains, looming
pale and gray, with caps of snow, in the distance. Out beyond the
ridges, indistinct in the glare, stretched an illimitable expanse,
gray and dull--that was the prairie-land. An eagle, lord of all he
surveyed, sailed round and round in the sky.

Below this grassy summit yawned a valley, narrow and long, losing
itself by turns to distant east and west; and through it ran a
faint, white, winding line which was the old St. Vrain and Laramie
Trail.

There came a moment when the wavering in the grass ceased on the
extreme edge of the slope. Then it parted to disclose the hideous
visage of a Sioux Indian in war paint. His dark, piercing, malignant
glance was fixed upon the St. Vrain and Laramie Trail. His half-
naked body rested at ease; a rifle lay under his hand.

There he watched while the hours passed. The sun moved on in its
course until it tipped the peaks with rose. Far down the valley
black and white objects appeared, crawling round the bend. The
Indian gave an almost imperceptible start, but there was no change
in his expression. He watched as before.

These moving objects grew to be oxen and prairie-schooners--a small
caravan traveling east. It wound down the trail and halted in a
circle on the bank of a stream.

The Indian scout slid backward, and the parted grass, slowly
closing, hid from his dark gaze the camp scene below. He wormed his
way back well out of sight; then rising, he ran over the summit of
the ridge to leap upon his mustang and ride wildly down the slope.




3

Bill Horn, leader of that caravan, had a large amount of gold which
he was taking back East. No one in his party, except a girl, knew
that he had the fortune.

Horn had gone West at the beginning of the gold strikes, but it was
not until '53 that any success attended his labors. Later he struck
it rich, and in 1865, as soon as the snow melted on the mountain
passes, he got together a party of men and several women and left
Sacramento. He was a burly miner, bearded and uncouth, of rough
speech and taciturn nature, and absolutely fearless.

At Ogden, Utah, he had been advised not to attempt to cross the
Wyoming hills with so small a party, for the Sioux Indians had gone
on the war-path.

Horn was leading his own caravan and finding for himself the trail
that wound slowly eastward. He did not have a scout or hunter with
him. Eastward-traveling caravans were wont to be small and poorly
outfitted, for only the homesick, the failures, the wanderers, and
the lawless turned their faces from the Golden State. At the start
Horn had eleven men, three women, and the girl. On the way he had
killed one of the men; and another, together with his wife, had
yielded to persuasion of friends at Ogden and had left the party. So
when Horn halted for camp one afternoon in a beautiful valley in the
Wyoming hills there were only nine men with him.

On a long journey through wild country strangers grow close together
or far apart. Bill Horn did not think much of the men who had
accepted the chance he offered them, and daily he grew more aloof.
They were not a responsible crowd, and the best he could get out of
them was the driving of oxen and camp chores indifferently done. He
had to kill the meat and find the water and keep the watch. Upon
entering the Wyoming hills region Horn showed a restlessness and
hurry and anxiety. This in no wise affected the others. They
continued to be aimless and careless as men who had little to look
forward to.

This beautiful valley offered everything desirable for a camp site
except natural cover or protection in case of attack. But Horn had
to take the risk. The oxen were tired, the wagons had to be greased,
and it was needful to kill meat. Here was an abundance of grass, a
clear brook, wood for camp-fires, and sign of game on all sides.

"Haul round--make a circle!" Horn ordered the drivers of the oxen.

This was the first time he had given this particular order, and the
men guffawed or grinned as they hauled the great, clumsy prairie-
schooners into a circle. The oxen were unhitched; the camp duffle
piled out; the ring of axes broke the stillness; fires were started.

Horn took his rifle and strode away up the brook to disappear in the
green brush of a ravine.

It was early in the evening, with the sun not yet out of sight
behind a lofty ridge that topped the valley slope. High grass,
bleached white, shone brightly on the summit. Soon several columns
of blue smoke curled lazily aloft until, catching the wind high up,
they were swept away. Meanwhile the men talked at their tasks.

"Say, pard, did you come along this here Laramie Trail goin' West?"
asked one.

"Nope. I hit the Santa Fe Trail," was the reply.

"How about you, Jones?"

"Same fer me."

"Wal," said another, "I went round to California by ship, an' I'd
hev been lucky to drown."

"An' now we're all goin' back poorer than when we started," remarked
a third.

"Pard, you've said somethin'."

"Wal, I seen a heap of gold, if I didn't find any."

"Jones, has this here Bill Horn any gold with him?"

"He acts like it," answered Jones. "An' I heerd he struck it rich
out thar."

The men appeared divided in their opinions of Bill Horn. From him
they drifted to talk of possible Indian raids and scouted the idea;
then they wondered if the famous Pony Express had been over this
Laramie Trail; finally they got on the subject of a rumored railroad
to be built from East to West.

"No railroad can't be built over this trail," said Jones, bluntly.

"Sure not. But couldn't more level ground be dug?" asked another.

"Dug? Across them Utah deserts an' up them mountains? Hell! Men sure
hev more sense than thet," exclaimed the third.

And so they talked and argued at their tasks.

The women, however, had little to say. One, the wife of the
loquacious Jones, lived among past associations of happy years that
would not come again--a sober-faced, middle-aged woman. The other
woman was younger, and her sad face showed traces of a former
comeliness. They called her Mrs. Durade. The girl was her daughter
Allie. She appeared about fifteen years old, and was slight of form.
Her face did not seem to tan. It was pale. She looked tired, and was
shy and silent, almost ashamed. She had long, rich, chestnut-colored
hair which she wore in a braid. Her eyes were singularly large and
dark, and violet in color.

"It's a long, long way we are from home yet," sighed Mrs. Jones.

"You call East home!" replied Mrs. Durade, bitterly.

"For land's sake! Yes, I do," exclaimed the other. "If there was a
home in that California, I never saw it. Tents and log cabins and
mud-holes! Such places for a woman to live. Oh, I hated that
California! A lot of wild men, all crazy for gold. Gold that only a
few could find and none could keep! ... I pray every night to live to
get back home."

Mrs. Durade had no reply; she gazed away over the ridges toward the
east with a haunting shadow in her eyes.

Just then a rifle-shot sounded from up in the ravine. The men paused
in their tasks and looked at one another. Then reassured by this
exchange of glances, they fell to work again. But the women cast
apprehensive eyes around. There was no life in sight except the
grazing oxen. Presently Horn appeared carrying a deer slung over his
shoulders.

Allie ran to meet him. She and Horn were great friends. To her alone
was he gentle and kind. She saw him pause at the brook, then drop
the deer carcass and bend over the ground, as if to search for
something. When Allie reached his side he was on his knees examining
a moccasin print in the sand.

"An Indian track!" exclaimed Allie.

"Allie, it sure ain't anythin' else," he replied. "Thet is what I've
been lookin' fer.... A day old--mebbe more."

"Uncle Bill, is there any danger?" she asked, fearfully gazing up
the slope.

"Lass, we're in the Wyoming hills, an' I wish to the Lord we was
out," he answered.

Then he picked up the deer carcass, a heavy burden, and slung it,
hoofs in front, over his shoulders.

"Let me carry your gun," said Allie.

They started toward camp.

"Lass, listen," began Horn, earnestly. "Mebbe there's no need to
fear. But I don't like Injun tracks. Not these days. Now I'm goin'
to scare this lazy outfit. Mebbe thet'll make them rustle. But don't
you be scared."

In camp the advent of fresh venison was hailed with satisfaction.

"Wal, I'll gamble the shot thet killed this meat was heerd by
Injuns," blurted out Horn, as he deposited his burden on the grass
and whipped out his hunting-knife. Then he glared at the outfit of
men he had come to despise.

"Horn, I reckon you 'pear more set up about Injuns than usual,"
remarked Jones.

"Fresh Sioux track right out thar along the brook."

"No!"

"Sioux!" exclaimed another.

"Go an' look fer yourself."

Not a man of them moved a step. Horn snorted his disdain and without
more talk began to dress the deer.

Meanwhile the sun set behind the ridge and the day seemed far spent.
The evening meal of the travelers was interrupted when Horn suddenly
leaped up and reached for his rifle.

"Thet's no Injun, but I don't like the looks of how he's comin'."

All gazed in the direction in which Horn pointed. A horse and rider
were swiftly approaching down the trail from the west. Before any of
the startled campers recovered from their surprise the horse reached
the camp. The rider hauled up short, but did not dismount.

"Hello!" he called. The man was not young. He had piercing gray eyes
and long hair. He wore fringed gray buckskin, and carried a long,
heavy, muzzle-loading rifle.

"I'm Slingerland--trapper in these hyar parts," he went on, with
glance swiftly taking in the group. "Who's boss of this caravan?"

"I am--Bill Horn," replied the leader, stepping out.

"Thar's a band of Sioux redskins on your trail."

Horn lifted his arms high. The other men uttered exclamations of
amaze and dread. The women were silent.

"Did you see them?" asked Horn.

"Yes, from a ridge back hyar ten miles. I saw them sneakin' along
the trail an' I knowed they meant mischief. I rode along the ridges
or I'd been hyar sooner."

"How many Injuns?"

"I counted fifteen. They were goin' along slow. Like as not they've
sent word fer more. There's a big Sioux camp over hyar in another
valley."

"Are these Sioux on the war-path?"

"I saw dead an' scalped white men a few days back," replied
Slingerland.

Horn grew as black as a thundercloud, and he cursed the group of
pale-faced men who had elected to journey eastward with him.

"You'll hev to fight," he ended, brutally, "an' thet'll be some
satisfaction to me."

"Horn, there's soldiers over hyar in camp," went on Slingerland. "Do
you want me to ride after them?"

"Soldiers!" ejaculated Horn.

"Yes. They're with a party of engineers surveyin' a line fer a
railroad. Reckon I could git them all hyar in time to save you--IF
them Sioux keep comin' slow.... I'll go or stay hyar with you."

"Friend, you go--an' ride thet hoss!"

"All right. You hitch up an' break camp. Keep goin' hard down the
trail, an' I'll fetch the troops an' head off the redskins."

"Any use to take to the hills?" queried Horn, sharply.

"I reckon not. You've no hosses. You'd be tracked down. Hurry along.
Thet's best.... An' say, I see you've a young girl hyar. I can take
her up behind me."

"Allie, climb up behind him," said Horn, motioning to the girl.

"I'll stay with mother," she replied.

"Go child--go!" entreated Mrs. Durade.

Others urged her, but she shook her head. Horn's big hand trembled
as he held it out, and for once there was no trace of hardness about
his face.

"Allie, I never had no lass of my own.... I wish you'd go with him.
You'd be safe--an' you could take my--"

"No!" interrupted the girl.

Slingerland gave her a strange, admiring glance, then turned his
quick gray eyes upon Horn. "Anythin' I can take?"

Horn hesitated. "No. It was jest somethin' I wanted the girl to
hev."

Slingerland touched his shaggy horse and called over his shoulder:
"Rustle out of hyar!" Then he galloped down the trail, leaving the
travelers standing aghast.

"Break camp!" thundered Horn.

A scene of confusion followed. In a very short while the prairie-
schooners were lumbering down the valley. Twilight came just as the
flight got under way. The tired oxen were beaten to make them run.
But they were awkward and the loads were heavy. Night fell, and the
road was difficult to follow. The wagons rolled and bumped and
swayed from side to side; camp utensils and blankets dropped from
them. One wagon broke down. The occupants, frantically gathering
together their possessions, ran ahead to pile into the one in front.

Horn drove on and on at a gait cruel to both men and beasts. The
women were roughly shaken. Hours passed and miles were gained. That
valley led into another with an upgrade, rocky and treacherous. Horn
led on foot and ordered the men to do likewise. The night grew
darker. By and by further progress became impossible, for the oxen
failed and a wild barrier of trees and rocks stopped the way.

Then the fugitives sat and shivered and waited for dawn. No one
slept. All listened intently to the sounds of the lonely night,
magnified now by their fears. Horn strode to and fro with his rifle
--a grim, dark, silent form. Whenever a wolf mourned, or a cat
squalled, or a night bird voiced the solitude, or a stone rattled
off the cliff, the fugitives started up quiveringly alert, expecting
every second to hear the screeching yell of the Sioux. They
whispered to keep up a flickering courage. And the burly Horn strode
to and fro, thoughtful, as though he were planning something, and
always listening. Allie sat in one of the wagons close to her
mother. She was wide awake and not so badly scared. All through this
dreadful journey her mother had not seemed natural to Allie, and the
farther they traveled eastward the stranger she grew. During the
ride that night she had moaned and shuddered, and had clasped Allie
close; but when the flight had come to a forced end she grew silent.

Allie was young and hopeful. She kept whispering to her mother that
the soldiers would come in time.

"That brave fellow in buckskin--he'll save us," said Allie.

"Child, I feel I'll never see home again," finally whispered Mrs.
Durade.

"Mother!"

"Allie, I must tell you--I must!" cried Mrs. Durade, very low and
fiercely. She clung to her daughter.

"Tell me what?" whispered Allie.

"The truth--the truth! Oh, I've deceived you all your life!"

"Deceived me! Oh, mother! Then tell me--now."

"Child--you'll forgive me--and never--hate me?" cried the mother,
brokenly.

"Mother, how can you talk so! I love you." And Allie clasped the
shaking form closer. Then followed a silence during which Mrs.
Durade recovered her composure.

"Allie, I ran off with Durade before you were born," began the
mother, swiftly, as if she must hurry out her secret. "Durade is not
your father.... Your name is Lee. Your father is Allison Lee. I've
heard he's a rich man now.... Oh, I want to get back--to give you to
him--to beg his forgiveness.... We were married in New Orleans in
1847. My father made me marry him. I never loved Allison Lee. He was
not a kind man--not the sort I admired.... I met Durade. He was a
Spaniard--a blue-blooded adventurer. I ran off with him. We joined
the gold-seekers traveling to California. You were born out there in
1850.... It has been a hard life. But I taught you--I did all I
could for you. I kept my secret from you--and his! ... Lately I could
endure it no longer. I've run off from Durade."

"Oh, mother, I knew we were running off from him!" cried Allie,
breathlessly. "And I know he will follow us."

"Indeed, I fear he will," replied the mother. "But Lord spare me his
revenge!"

"Mother! Oh, it is terrible! ... He is not my father. I never loved
him. I couldn't.... But, mother, you must have loved him!"

"Child, I was Durade's slave," she replied, sadly.

"Then why did you run away? He was kind--good to us."

"Allie, listen. Durade was a gambler--a man crazy to stake all on
the fall of a card. He did not love gold. But he loved games of
chance. It was a terrible passion with him. Once he meant to gamble
my honor away. But that other gambler was too much of a man. There
are gamblers who are men! ... I think I began to hate Durade from
that time.... He was a dishonest gambler. He made me share in his
guilt. My face lured miners to his dens.... My face--for I was
beautiful once! ... Oh, I sunk so low! But he forced me.... Thank God
I left him--before it was too late--too late for you."

"Mother, he will follow us!" cried Allie.

"But he shall never have you. I'll kill him before I let him get
you," replied the mother.

"He'd never harm me, mother, whatever he is," murmured Allie.

"Child, he would use you exactly as he used me. He wanted me to let
him have you--already. He wanted to train you--he said you'd be
beautiful some day."

"Mother!" gasped Allie, "is THAT what he meant?"

"Forget him, child. And forget your mother's guilt! ... I've
suffered. I've repented.... All I ask of God is to take you safely
home to Allison Lee--the father whom you have never known."

The night hour before dawn grew colder and blacker. A great silence
seemed wedged down between the ebony hills. The stars were wan. No
cry of wolf or moan of wind disturbed the stillness. And the stars
grew warmer. The black east changed and paled. Dawn was at hand. An
opaque and obscure grayness filled the world; all had changed,
except that strange, oppressive, and vast silence of the wild.

That silence was broken by the screeching, blood-curdling yell of
the Sioux.

At times these bloody savages attacked without warning and in the
silence of the grave; again they sent out their war-cries, chilling
the hearts of the bravest. Perhaps that warning yell was given only
when doom was certain.

Horn realized the dread omen and accepted it. He called the
fugitives to him and, choosing the best-protected spot among the
rocks and wagons, put the women in the center.

"Now, men--if it's the last for us--let it be fight! Mebbe we can
hold out till the troops come."

Then in the gray gloom of dawn he took a shovel; prying up a piece
of sod, he laid it aside and began to dig. And while he dug he
listened for another war-screech and gazed often and intently into
the gloom. But there was no sound and nothing to see. When he had
dug a hole several feet deep he carried an armful of heavy leather
bags and deposited them in it. Then he went back to the wagon for
another armful. The men, gray-faced as the gloom, watched him fill
up the hole, carefully replace the sod, and stamp it down.

He stood for an instant gazing down, as if he had buried the best of
his life. Then he laughed grim and hard.

"There's my gold! If any man wins through this he can have it!"

Bill Horn divined that he would never live to touch his treasure
again. He who had slaved for gold and had risked all for it cared no
more what might become of it. Gripping his rifle, he turned to await
the inevitable.

Moments of awful suspense passed. Nothing but the fitful beating of
hearts came to the ears of the fugitives--ears that strained to the
stealthy approach of the red foe--ears that throbbed prayerfully for
the tramp of the troopers' horses. But only silence ensued, a
horrible silence, more nerve-racking than the clash of swift, sure
death.

Then out of the gray gloom burst jets of red flame; rifles cracked,
and the air suddenly filled with hideous clamor. The men began to
shoot at gliding shadows, grayer than the gloom. And every shot
brought a volley in return. Smoke mingled with the gloom. In the
slight intervals between rifleshots there were swift, rustling
sounds and sharp thuds from arrows. Then the shrill strife of sound
became continuous; it came from all around and closed in upon the
doomed caravan. It swelled and rolled away and again there was
silence.




4

In 1865, just after the war, a party of engineers was at work in the
Wyoming hills on a survey as hazardous as it was problematical. They
had charge of the laying out of the Union Pacific Railroad.

This party, escorted by a company of United States troops under
Colonel Dillon, had encountered difficulties almost insurmountable.
And now, having penetrated the wild hills to the eastern slope of
the Rockies they were halted by a seemingly impassable barrier--a
gorge too deep to fill, too wide to bridge.

General Lodge, chief engineer of the corps, gave an order to one of
his assistants. "Put young Neale on the job. If we ever survey a
line through this awful place we'll owe it to him."

The assistant, Baxter, told an Irishman standing by and smoking a
short, black pipe to find Neale and give him the chief's orders. The
Irishman, Casey by name, was raw-boned, red-faced, and hard-
featured, a man inured to exposure and rough life. His expression
was one of extreme and fixed good humor, as if his face had been
set, mask-like, during a grin. He removed the pipe from his lips.

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