30,000 On the Hoof. Zane Grey

of poles, told a story that saddened and shocked her. What had happened there? How little eastern people realized the crude living of those who set their faces West! Lucinda did not want Logan to find out how strongly she felt. She asked him if he had seen the beautiful black horned animal leading the white and tan ones across the open.

      “Sure did. Golly, I wanted my rifle. That was a black antelope, king of that herd. Holbert has seen him for years.”

      “Logan, you wouldn’t kill him, would you?” she asked, gazing at him in horror.

      “Reckon I would. Wild animals sort of excite me. I like to hunt. I’ll bet we make the acquaintance of Gray, that black-ruffed lofer.”

      “I hope not, if you must murder everything;” returned Lucinda sharply. Logan stared at her then stomped away with a puzzled frown on his face. Lucinda remembered how she used to fight her brothers and their comrades for chasing chipmunks along the rail-fences. How they would yell and run, wild as any young savages! But she must conquer her disgust at Logan’s passion to kill, she knew, regardless of her own feeling in the matter.

      Supper was soon over and the chores finished. The lonely night clamped down upon the forest. Lucinda was glad to crawl into her wagon-bed and stretch out—glad that weariness inhibited thought. Her slumbers were punctuated by dreams of an enormous bull and a huge snake. Logan routed her out in the gray of dawn. Before sunrise the wagon was packed and the oxen ready for Lucinda.

      “I’ll follow, same as yesterday,” said Logan, imperturbably, as she climbed up to the seat. “I’m not sure about all the road. But it’s most as good as that we’ve come over. There’s a long down-hill stretch through the woods. When you hit that you’ll be getting near home. But I’ll be on your heels before we get there. Good luck.”

      “Let me try to start them,” said Lucinda, after she had helped Coyote up. She uncoiled the long whip and tried to crack it. She did make a noise, but that was the end of the leather thong lashing her back.

      “Gadep!” she shouted, at the top of her lungs. The oxen obeyed at once, to her surprise, and relief, and the wagon was on its way.

      “Turn left,” called Logan. He waved his hat.

      “Haw! . . . Haw!” yelled Lucinda. They wagged to the left and straightened out on the road, headed south.

      “Say,” shouted Logan, gleefully, “let me drive the oxen and you drive that bull!”

      “I should say not!” retorted Lucinda, refusing to allow her husband’s flattery to inflate her egotism. Something was bound to happen—she just knew it.

      The morning was warm, compared to the others before it. There was no frost. When she drove into the forest she had an agreeable surprise. Jays were screeching, squirrels were chattering. Gray deer with white tails up bounded away from the road. Presently Lucinda came upon a flock of wild turkeys, scratching in the grass under the pine saplings. Those near the road ran with a put-put, put-put-put. But most of them let the wagon go by without taking flight. The sight greatly pleased Lucinda.

      As the day progressed, the heat poured down from the sun and rose like transparent veils of smoke from the ground. Lucinda grew unbearably hot and wet. Then she ran into the stretch of dust that Logan had mentioned. It appeared to be half a foot deep on the road, and every step of the oxen sent up great yellow puffs, thick and dry, that rolled back upon Lucinda. Her clothes became as yellow as the roadside; the dust ran off her sombrero; her gloves filled; she gasped and choked and nearly suffocated. “Whoa!” she finally yelled in desperation to her oxen. They stopped, as if glad for a respite. The dust pall rolled back, so that Lucinda could breathe. Her nostrils were clogged. She could smell no longer. Then she remembered the silk scarf which Logan had advised for this very emergency. She tied the ends around her neck and drew the wide fold up over her nose. This was stifling, yet not so unendurable as the dust. At her call the oxen lurched on and again she was enveloped. Then followed an almost insupportable period, the length of which could only be computed by slow hateful miles. The tears that Lucinda shed saved her from being blinded.

      Presently the oxen floundered into dust that was so suffocating that they halted of their own accord. Lucinda coughed and choked miserably. Would this horrible day never end? She felt that she could not bear it longer. The afternoon must be waning, and when the air cleared somewhat, she looked around for the position of the sun. It was low in the sky and shone dark red through the pall. Their destination could not be far off now, but despite her misery, she hoped that Logan’s Canyon was not located in this terrible country. Where was Logan? Suddenly a distant yell quickened Lucinda’s pulse. She looked back. Dust clouds far behind!

      “Gadep!” she called. But the oxen did not budge. She called louder. Then she yelled. But the gentle long-suffering beasts of burden had rebelled at last. Lucinda did not blame them. She looked back. That terrible bull was coming at a gallop. Swift terror shook Lucinda. Suppose he ran into us, she thought wildly. She yelled hoarsely and cracked the whip, but the drooping oxen never swung an inch under the wooden yoke.

      A bawl and pound of hoofs behind elicited sharp barks from the dog. Coyote leaped to the ground and dashed back. Lucinda thanked her stars that she was high up on the wagon seat. The bull, his hide as yellow as the road, dashed about the wagon, his huge head lowered at the snapping dog. He lunged this way and that. Coyote nipped him on the nose. Then with a bellow he charged and in blind fury or by accident ran into the oxen with a terrific crash. The shock nearly upset the wagon. Lucinda screamed. The bull sprawled as the oxen, leaping ahead, struck him with the yoke. Down the road the oxen galloped madly, Lucinda holding on to the seat, terrified. They were running off, going faster every moment. The wagon rolled and swayed, but careened along fast enough to keep ahead of the great stream of dust which rolled from under the oxen’s ponderous hoofs.

      Lucinda realized she must leap for her life. Sooner or later the oxen would run off the road into a log or a ditch; but every time she essayed to get a hold and a footing which would enable her to spring clear a bump would throw her back. The yellow road flashed under her; the trees blurred; the ground appeared like moving sheets of gray. A heavy clattering thud of hoofs mingled with the rolling creaking roar of the wagon. Alas! for her trunks and Logan’s treasured possessions!

      The oxen sheered off the road toward brush and trees. They were slowing down of their own accord or the soft going retarded them. Lucinda made up her mind to leap into the brush. She stood up, leaning out, holding desperately to the canvas-covered hoop. But before she could jump the oxen plunged into a wash, the wheels hit a bank with a tremendous shock, and Lucinda shot as if from a catapult far out into the brush. Thick branches broke her fall. Still she landed on the ground hard enough to make her see a shower of sparks.

      She struggled to her feet, dizzy, scratched, torn, but sound in limb. A few rods beyond the wagon stood upright with the heaving oxen halted by the brush. The extra horse that had been haltered was missing. Lucinda staggered out to a log at the edge, and there she sank down, panting, scarcely able to believe her good fortune, suddenly freed of mingled terror and anger.

      Then she saw that Coyote had stopped the bull a short distance up the valley. Logan appeared beyond urging on the spent straggling bunch of cattle. He chased the bull in among them, and riding from one side to the other shunted them off the road on Lucinda’s side, passed her with a wild shout and drove them into the woods. Because of that move Lucinda knew gratefully they had not far to go.

      She rested endeavoring to remove some of the travel stains and the blood on her wrists where the brush had scratched her. Coyote sought Lucinda out and sank to the ground, her red tongue protruding, and her heavy coat yellow with dust. Presently Lucinda espied the horse that had been tethered behind the wagon. She secured it and led it back to the oxen. Oppression from her exertion and fright weighed heavily upon her.

      At length Logan rode back to her, black as a coal-heaver; yet nothing could have hidden his triumphant air, his grim mastery, his gay possession of success.

      “Done!” he cried, ringingly. “Not a hoof lost! But oh, what a hell of a drive! . . . What happened to you, Luce?”

      “Oh, nothing—much,” she