Minutes wore on. Then in the quiet Irons stirred. The ratty head of hair poked out of the blanket and the pin eyes glanced sharply around. They saw Homer’s chin resting on his chest and the rifle lying clear of his hands.
A quick scheming and hunger for revenge distorted Irons’ face. He threw off his blanket, and dragging it behind him, stole across the floor. He tried not to hurry. A creaking floor board could give him away. He eased toward Homer, keeping close to the wall, not wanting his footsteps to be heard or his scent to reach the burro. And then, in two spurts against the firelight, Brighty’s ears came up tall and stiff. There was no time to lose. From where he stood, Irons flung the blanket over Homer’s head, and suddenly he was on top of the boy, his right hand snatching the rifle.
Homer thought it was the cloud smothering him, and he awoke, fighting off the blanket, crying out in terror, “Uncle Jim! Uncle Jim!”
But Uncle Jim, pillowed on Brighty, lay helpless. Jake Irons stood towering over him, the bore of the rifle aimed straight at him.
“So you wanted to see me squirm!” The gold teeth showed in a savage grin. “Now who’s scairt and sweatin’?”
Uncle Jim looked out of sad, tired eyes and forced a little smile. “Not me, Irons. Likely ye’d be doin’ me a favor.”
“O.K., old coot. Here’s your favor!” And Irons pulled the trigger.
There was a flash, an explosion, a scrambling of feet, and then a heavy thump. When the smoke cleared, the dark dribble of blood that ran along the floor came from Brighty and not from Uncle Jim. Brighty’s shoulder was stained with blood and his head lolled backward, eyes wildly rolling.
Instantly Uncle Jim returned the shot. No sighting or bringing up of the pistol. Just one shot from the hip. Yet the aim at the rifle was sure—a bead of steel delivered with cold, calculated fury.
“You done ’er, Uncle Jim! You done ’er!” Homer shouted as the rifle banged to the floor. “Look!” he cried, picking it up. “The loading breech is dented. Can’t nobody fire ’er now! Look!”
Uncle Jim did not look at the rifle, nor down at Brighty. Not yet. He straddled the quiet body like a mare protecting her foal. Then with pistol held steady on Irons, he snapped out his orders.
“Homer! Pull the cupboard away from the wall.
“Irons! Squat down, yer back agin the cupboard.”
The man slumped to the floor, a defiant leer on his face. He sat against the cupboard, motionless except for his eyes. “Only the pistol left now,” he thought, “and the old man tiring.” But his look of cunning gave way to surprise and then to fear as the clipped directions went on.
“Lash him to the cupboard with that-there wire! Bind him fast, Homer!”
The boy’s awkward hands wrapped the wire around Irons and around the cabinet, too—once, twice, three times. Then he twisted the ends securely and stood up, waiting for the next command. It came without a word of reproof. The six-shooter, warm from the firing and from Uncle Jim’s grip, was laid in his hands.
A SCORE TO SETTLE
AND NOW at last Uncle Jim was on his knees. He was no longer the general barking out commands, but a little stooped man whose knees cracked when he knelt and whose eyes were wet.
“Brighty!” he said softly. “It’s me—yer Uncle Jimmy. Look at me, Brighty!”
The white lids opened and the dulled brown eyes looked around until they found Uncle Jim.
“Please don’t go under, feller. Not this-a-way. God’s give me a lot o’ strength and I can still do fer ye!”
In proof he half ran to the salthouse and brought back kindling and a log, and he fed the fire for light. He worked quickly, paying no heed to his own labored breathing.
The pitchy wood crackled, and in the flashes of fire he saw dark blood pumping out of Brighty’s shoulder with each heartbeat.
“Lemme have a look now,” he said, forcing a note of confidence into his voice. “I’ll try not to hurt.” Gentle hands laid back the blood-matted hairs, little by little.
“It’s only a flesh wound, Brighty, just below the cross on yer shoulder.” But to himself he was crying: “It’s all ragged and blasted out, and blood vessels pumpin’ theirselves dry! I’m afraid, God.”
Homer’s voice cut in. “How bad is it?”
Brighty lay with mouth open, gasping for air. His shoulder felt sticky and hot, and twisted. He heard the murmur of voices, but they were far off, like voices in a dream. He tried to lift his head, and the small movement spurted the blood.
“He’ll go under, Homer,” Uncle Jim looked at Brighty with fear, “less’n we kin . . .”
“Unless what, Uncle Jim?”
“Less’n we kin dam up that flowin’ red river.” The old man jerked to his feet, and headed for the salthouse. “We got to stop it! We got to!”
He snatched up the hatchet and began hacking at the floor inside the salthouse, hacking fiercely with every ounce of his strength. The hard-packed dirt loosened into bits and pieces and he raked them together with his fingers, praying as he worked.
Back with Brighty again, he was nurse and doctor, soothing, explaining. “This is clean dirt, feller. Been under salt. It’ll work like a sponge.” Carefully he eased the whole handful into the gaping wound, biting his lip and wincing at the pain he inflicted.
He watched the blood ooze and bubble darkly through the dirt. “Listen, Bright Angel!” he pleaded. “Ye can’t leave me like this! You and me’s got a score to settle for Old Timer. And when it’s done, then ’twon’t be a whisker o’ time afore ye’ll be lopin’ down yer old trail and splashin’ in Bright Angel Creek again. Seems like I can eenamost hear the creek callin’ fer ye to come and play.”
He stopped and was silent. He sat down beside Brighty, his eyes never wavering from the wound. Slowly the dirt-pack did its work. By and by the bleeding ceased, and after a while Brighty’s muscles relaxed and his eyelids closed. He slipped off to sleep, using Uncle Jim’s knee for a headrest.
“Ye shouldn’t o’ come between,” the old man said, as he stroked the furry ears. “I’m an old buck, Brighty. Ye shouldn’t o’ done it fer the likes o’ me.” He shook his head sadly. “My poor li’l wild ’un, all tuckered out.”
There was no telling how long Brighty slept. Snowbound time has no seconds or minutes. It is an hourglass with snow for sand, and unseen fingers turning it.
Uncle Jim slept too while Homer watched his sullen prisoner. There was no more sleep in the boy. He wondered if he could ever close his eyes again.
He looked down at the pistol in his hands and then he was suddenly looking at his hands. Something was happening to them, something which he could not stop. They were shaking. Now his whole body was shaking.
“My grandfather shook like this,” he thought in panic, “but he was old.”
At the same moment a rumbling blast set the dishes in the cupboard to dancing and rattling. A new panic caught at him. “An earthquake!” he thought. His mind said the word and his throat shouted it, “Earthquake! Earthquake!”
In one confused instant the cupboard doors flew open and tin cups, plates, and spoons came pummeling down on Irons’ head.
Uncle Jim blinked at the crash. A furrow of puzzlement formed between his brows. Then suddenly his eyes were bright as meteors and he was laughing and looking old-young again.
“Dynamite!” he shouted. “Someone’s blasting the snowbank! They’re comin’ to save us!”
THE WAY HOME
THE RESCUE team of the sheriff and his young deputy had faced their errand of mercy with great courage. They knew well that finding Uncle Jim and Homer alive was extremely doubtful, with snow fifteen feet deep and temperatures below zero. Unless the old man and the boy had taken refuge in the ranch house or in Uncle Jim’s cabin, there was almost no chance of finding them at all.
But Uncle Jim was so beloved by the whole town of Fredonia that everyone wanted to help. Housewives offered their warmest blankets, the postmaster contributed his mail toboggan, the harness-maker stuffed a s
traw mattress for it, and the storekeeper donated bacon and oatmeal and coffee and sugar.
Fortunately the deputy, remembering a story of arctic adventure, took along a few sticks of dynamite. Without them the rescuers might not have gained entry to the ranch house in time.
It was the smoke curling out of the chimney that told them someone was there. And as fast as numbed fingers could work, they set off the blast that startled Homer half out of his wits.
When they burst in upon the starving group, the sheriff was the one most deeply moved. Pleased as he was to see Uncle Jim and Homer, and even Brighty, he was astounded to learn that the man bound to the cupboard was the long-hunted desperado who had murdered his friend.
The sheriff buzzed like a bee in clover. He could hardly contain himself while Uncle Jim told about the Moon Lily tea and the confession. He whipped out his notebook and wrote furiously, as if each thrust of the lead were a stab in the flesh of Irons.
Then with great officiousness he turned to the prisoner. “In the name of the law and as Sheriff of Coconino County, I arrest you, Jake Irons,” he said pompously, “for the murder of one Hezekiah Appleyard and the attempted murder of one James Owen.”
In spite of his eagerness to deliver the criminal to justice, he could see that Uncle Jim and Homer, and Irons, too, would have to be fed and strengthened for the trip.
Uncle Jim pretended a great weakness in order to give Brighty time to recover. “It’s my legs!” he complained. “They’re rubbery as them toy knives kids play with. But lemme see, now . . .”
He went over to the burro and washed the dirt from his wound. With a glow of pride he noticed that the blood vessels were already sealed and the tissues a brilliant red. “In my next life,” he thought, “mebbe I could be a horse doctor instead o’ a lion hunter!”
Out loud he said, “Sheriff, with all them vittles ye brung, I reckon my legs’ll be stal’art as ever by day after tomorrow.”
“No need to use your legs,” the sheriff replied. “That’s why we got the toboggan. You can loll on it like a mermaid the hull way home.”
Uncle Jim was not listening. His mind was at work. Day after tomorrow! Only two days to ready Brighty! He began pacing, as if that would help him think. He paced around the deputy and Homer, who were busy getting supper, and around the sheriff, who was going through his prisoner’s pockets. At last Uncle Jim had the schedule worked out in his mind.
In the two days that followed, his only thought was for Brighty. He made him hot mashes of rolled oats and fed him sugar for energy. He poured bacon grease, lukewarm, into the wound. Then, in half-hour stretches, he walked Brighty around in a circle, like a groom tuning up a race horse for a big event.
The sheriff guffawed. “For one who’s got rubbery legs,” he said, “yours is mighty spry.” Then he winked at Uncle Jim in understanding.
• • •
Morning of the second day dawned bright and clear. The sun threw a glitter on the snow, and the sky arched deep and blue. Shadows of deeper blue slanted out of the timber and sharpened the white of the snow.
A party of five men with a toboggan was making its slow way across the freshly varnished world.
“Just take ’er easy, fellers,” the sheriff said, his breath making a column of steam in the air. “The snow’s got a good crust and the pines’ll show us the way home.” He began laughing. “If this ain’t a comical sight! Here’s a parcel of people footing it, and the beast of burden riding!”
Uncle Jim, paddling like a pelican, lifted one web foot over the other. “Don’t see nothing so hilarious to that,” he said tartly. Then he took in the sight—Jake Irons wearing a harness and pulling the toboggan with the burro aboard. He began to grin. “Reckon it is a thing, at that!”
His eye was on the straining figure, but what he really saw was little Mimi, using the reward money to buy one of the newfangled wheel chairs and scooting around in it faster than if she had good legs. He saw Old Timer’s watch dangling from the arm of the chair, and Mimi prizing it above everything.
“Sure it’s funny!” the sheriff roared. “Oddest rescue I ever seen!” He poked his gun in Irons’ ribs. “Today’s easy,” he said. “Tomorrow you’ll be weighin’ in on the scales of justice.”
Snowshoes creaking, the party tramped onward, Brighty’s blanket a red splash against the white world.
“It’s a wonder our lung-pipes can stand the shock o’ fine fresh air,” Uncle Jim said after a while.
“I can’t suck in enough of it,” Homer said breathlessly. “You reckon Brighty can take it?”
Uncle Jim’s face clouded. He watched the slight, blanketed figure brace itself as Irons floundered up a rise. “Mebbe,” he thought in sudden alarm, “the thin cold air is too much for him, him being weakened and all, and this his first winter away from the canyon.”
And then almost at the top of the hill Brighty’s head came up and his ears forked sharp against the sky. It gave the old man a start to see the sudden change. It was as if a frisky young jack had taken the place of a tired old one.
“Why, he looks spunky!” Uncle Jim smiled to himself. “He’s just a li’l ole youngster been cooped up too long and is addled with freedom!”
It was true. Brighty had changed. He seemed aware all at once that he was free—no one gripping his tail or prodding him with a rifle, and no walls hemming him in. The wide, free world and the sky above were his! He tossed his head, testing and tasting the air, letting strength flow back into him. The red blanket began rippling, then billowed to the movement of his lungs. He tried a little whinner in his throat, and it grew bigger and wilder, and came out as of old—a steam-whistle bray, high and joyous.
“Eeee-aw! Eeee-aw! Ee-aw-aw!”
Uncle Jim, too, took in a great lungful of air. “Brighty ain’t goin’ under!” His voice cracked in happiness. “Yup, fellers, he’s goin’ to make ’er!”
And the rocks and hills rang with the words. “Yup, fellers, he’s goin’ to make ’er,” they shouted again. And then again.
and now . . .
CANYON WINDS still blow restless. And the Colorado River still cuts its way, depth upon depth, through the mile-high walls. And from the far corners of the world men come to explore this open book of the earth’s crust. Some are scientists and others artists, and some are troubled people who come to find themselves, to drop their worries into the great chasm.
Riding muleback, they zigzag down the face of the wall, over some of the very trails marked out by Brighty’s feet. Often in the middle of the descent their mules come to a dead halt, long ears lopped over a ledge, eyes sighting a tiny lone fellow far below.
Then up from the distance a piercing voice calls: “Eeee-aw! Eeee-aw! Ee—aw—aw!”
“Look!” the guide cries. “Down yonder—a wild burro! Maybe,” he grins to the riders behind him, “maybe it’s Bright Angel!”
Of course, everyone knows that Brighty has long since left this earth. But some animals, like some men, leave a trail of glory behind them. They give their spirit to the place where they have lived, and remain forever a part of the rocks and streams and the wind and sky.
Especially on moonlit nights a shaggy little form can be seen flirting along the ledges, a thin swirl of dust rising behind him. Some say it is nothing but moonbeams caught up in a cloud. But the older guides swear it is trail dust out of the past, kicked up by Brighty himself, the roving spirit of the Grand Canyon—forever wild, forever free.
For their help the author and artist are grateful to
DR. HAROLD C. BRYANT, superintendent, Grand Canyon National Park
ERNIE APPLING, cowboy, North Rim, Arizona
LOUIS SCHELLBACH, ERNEST CHRISTENSEN, and LON GARRISON, park naturalists, Grand Canyon
EMERY KOLB, who with his brother explored the dangerous waters of the Colorado by rowboat
HOMER ARNN and CAL PECK, who packed the material down into the canyon for the building of the first suspension bridge
SHORTY YARBERRY, b
ronc stomper, Grand Canyon, Arizona
MARY ALICE JONES, Board of Education, Methodist Church
BYRON Harvey Jr., president, Fred Harvey Company
A. A. DAILEY, The Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe Railway Company
VINCENT H. HUNTER and RICHARD V. HERRE, Motion Picture Bureau, Union Pacific Railroad Company
WALTER D. ROUZER, Fred Harvey Hotels, Grand Canyon National Park
MR. AND MRS. B. F. QUINN, Grand Canyon Lodge, North Rim, Arizona
RAY B. AMES, long-time canyon resident
JOHN E. KELL, photographic consultant, Santa Fe, New Mexico
MR. AND MRS. ALEXANDER FEKULA, photographic consultants, Cincinnati, Ohio
W. A. WILLMARTH, The Willmarths Studio, Omaha, Nebraska
AVIS GRANT SWICK, St. Charles, Illinois
LOUISE HINCHLIFFE, Naturalists’ Workshop, Grand Canyon
AGATHA D. ARNN, Kingman, Arizona
ROBERTA B. SUTTON, Chicago Public Library
GERTRUDE B. JUPP, Milwaukee-Downer College
WILLIAM WINQUIST, horseman, Wayne, Illinois
KENNETH PROBST, Blackberry Township, Illinois
HENRY YUNKER, countryman, Elgin, Illinois
and especially to MILDRED G. LATHROP who first told us of Brighty
Other Books by Marguerite Henry
Justin Morgan Had a Horse
Misty of Chincoteague
King of the Wind
Sea Star: Orphan of Chincoteague
Born to Trot
Black Gold
Stormy, Misty’s Foal
Mustang, Spirit of the West
San Domingo, The Medicine Hat Stallion
Aladdin
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www.SimonandSchuster.com
Copyright renewed © 1981 by Marquerite Henry, Morgan Dennis and Charles Reid Dennis