ACROSS DEATH VALLEY
The way to the Ube-Hebes lay across a low flat, glistening white with
crystals of alkali; and as his car trundled on Wiley came to a strip of
sand, piled up in the lee of a prostrate salt bush. Other bushes
appeared, and more sand about them, and then a broad, smooth wave. It
mounted up from the north, gently scalloped by the wind, and on the
south side it broke off like a wall. He drove along below it, glancing
up as it grew higher, until at last it cut off his view. All the north
was gone, and the Gateway to his hiding-place; but the south and west
were there. To the south lay mud flats, powdery dry but packed hard; and
the west was a wilderness of sand.
A giant mesquite tree, piled high with clinging drifts, rose up before
the crest of his wave, and as he plowed in between them the edge of the
crest poured down in a whispering cascade. Then more trees loomed up,
and hundreds of white bushes each mounted on its pedestal of sand; and
at the base of each salt-bush there were kangaroo-rat holes and the
tracery of their tails in the dust. Men called it Death Valley, but for
such as these it was a place of fullness and joy. They had capered
about, striking the ground with their tails at the end of each playful
jump, and the dry, brittle salt-bushes had been feast enough to them,
who never knew the taste of grass or water.
The sand-wave rose higher, leaving a damp hollow behind it where
ice-plants grew green and rank; and as he crept along the thunder of
his exhaust started tons of sliding silt. His wheels raced and
burrowed as he struck a soft spot, and then abruptly they sank. He dug
them out carefully and backed away, but a mound of drifted sand barred
his way. Twist and turn as he would he could not get around it and at
last he climbed to its summit. The sun was setting in purple and fire
behind the black shoulder of the Panamints and like a path of gold it
marked out the way, the only way to cross the Valley. At the south was
the Sink with its treacherous bog-holes and further north the
sand-hills were limitless--the only way, where the wagon-wheels had
crossed, was buried deep in the sand. Three great mountains of sand,
like huge breakers of the sea, had swept in and covered the
wheel-tracks; and far to the west in the path of the sun their summits
loomed two hundred feet high.
He went back to his car and drove it desperately at the slope, only to
bury the rear wheels to the axles; and as he dug them out the sand from
the wave crest began to whisper and slip and slide. He cleared a great
space and started his motor, but at the first shuddering tug the sand
began to tremble and in a rush the wave was upon him. It buried him deep
and as he leapt from his machine little rills of singing sand flowed
around it. So far it had carried him, this high-powered, steel-springed
racer; but now he must leave it for the sand to cover over and cross the
great Valley alone. On many a rocky slope and sliding sand-hill it had
clutched and plunged and fought its way, but now it was smothered in the
treacherous, silt-fine sand and he must leave it, like a partner, to
die. Yet if die it must, then in its desert burial the last trace of
Wiley Holman would be lost. The first wind that blew would wipe out his
footprints and the racer would sink beneath the waves. Wiley took his
canteen, and Charley's bottle of whiskey, his rifle and a small sack of
food and dared the great silence alone.
While his motor had done the work he had not minded the heat and the
pressure of blood in his head, but as he toiled up the sandy slope,
sinking deeper at each stride, he felt the breath of the sand. All day
it had lain there drinking in the sun's rays and now in the evening,
when the upper air was cool, it radiated a sweltering heat. Wiley
mounted to the summit of wave after wave, fighting his way towards the
Gateway to the north; and then, beaten at last and choking with the
exertion, he turned and followed a crest. The sand piled up before him
in a vortex of sharp-edged ridges, reaching their apex in a huge pyramid
to the west, and as he toiled on past its flank he felt a gusty rush of
air, sucking down through Emigrant Wash. It was the wind, after all,
that was king of Death Valley; for whichever way it blew it swept the
sand before it, raising up pyramids and tearing them down. Along the
crest of the high wave a feather-edge of sand leapt out like a plume
into space and as he stopped to watch it Wiley could see that the
mountain was moving by so much across the plain.
A luminous half-moon floated high in the heavens and the sky was
studded thick with pin-point stars. In that myriad of little stars,
filling in between the big ones, the milky way was lost and reduced to
obscurity--the whole sky was a milky way. Wiley sank down in the sand
and gazed up sombrely as he wetted his parching lips from his canteen,
and the evening star gleamed like a torch, looking down on the world
he had fled. Across the Funeral Range, not a day's journey to the
east, that same star lighted Virginia on her way while he, a fugitive,
was flung like an atom into the depths of this sea of sand. It was
deeper than the sea, scooped out far below the level of the cool
breakers that broke along the shore; deep and dead, except for the
wind that moved the drifting sand across the plains. And even as he
lay there, looking up at the stars and wondering at the riddle of the
universe, the busy wind was bringing grains of sand and burying him,
each minute by so much.
He rose up in a panic and hurried along the slope, where the sand of the
wave was packed hardest, and he did not pause till he had passed the
last drift and set his foot on the hard, gravelly slope. The wind was
cooler now, for the night was well along and the bare ground had
radiated its heat; but it was dry, powder dry, and every pore of his
skin seemed to gasp and cry out for water. There was water, even yet, in
the bottom of his canteen; but he dared not drink it till the Gateway
was in sight, and the sand-wash that led to the valley beyond.
An hour passed by as he toiled up the slope, now breaking into a run
from impatience, now settling down doggedly to walk; and at last, clear
and distinct, he saw the Gateway in the moonlight, and stopped to take
his drink. It was cool now, the water, and infinitely sweet; yet he knew
that the moment he drained the last drop he would feel the clutch of
fear. It is an unreasoning thing, that fear of the desert which comes
when the last drop is gone; and yet it is real and known to every
wanderer, and guarded against by the bravest. He screwed the cap on his
canteen and hurried up the slope, which grew steeper and rockier with
each mile, but the phantom gateway seemed to lead on before him and
recede into the black abyss of night. It was there, right before him,
but instead of getting nearer, the Gateway loomed higher and higher; and
daylight was near before he passed through its portals and entered the
dark valley beyond.
A gaunt row of cottonwoods rose up suddenly before him, their leaves
whispering and clacking in the wind, and at this brave promise all fear
for water left him and he drained his canteen to the bottom. Then he
strode on up the canyon, that was deep and dark as a pocket, following
the trail that should lead him to the spring; but as one mile and two
dragged along with no water, he stopped and hid his rifle among the
rocks. A little later he hid his belt with its heavy row of cartridges,
and the sack of dry, useless food. What he needed was water and when he
had drunk his fill he could come back and collect all his possessions.
Two miles, five miles, he toiled up the creek bed with the cottonwoods
rustling overhead; but though their roots were in the water, the sand
was still dry and his tongue was swelling with thirst.
He stumbled against a stone and fell weakly to the ground, only to leap
to his feet again, frightened. Already it was coming, the stupifying
lassitude, the reckless indifference to his fate, and yet he was hardly
tired. The Valley had not been hot, any more than usual, and he had
walked twice as far before; but now, with water just around the corner,
he was lying down in the sand. He was sleepy, that was it, but he must
get to water first or his pores would close up and he would die. He
stripped off his pistol and threw it in the sand, and his hat, and the
bottle of fiery whiskey; and then, head down, he plunged blindly
forward, rushing on up the trail to find water.
The sun rose higher and poured down into the narrow valley with its
fringe of deceptive green; but though the trees became bigger and
bushier in their tops the water did not come to the surface. It was
underneath the sand, flowing along the bed-rock, and all that was needed
was a solid reef of country-rock to bring it up to the surface. It would
flow over the dyke in a beautiful water-fall, leaping and gurgling and
going to waste; and after he had drunk he would lie down and wallow and
give his whole body a drink. He would soak there for hours, sucking it
up with his parched lips that were cracked now and bleeding from the
drought; and then--he woke up suddenly, to find himself digging in the
sand. He was going mad then, so soon after he was lost, and with water
just up the stream. The creek was dry, where he had found himself
digging, but up above it would be full of water. He hurried on again
and, around the next turn, sure enough, he found a basin of water.
It was hollowed from the rock, a round pool, undimpled, and upon its
surface a pair of wasps floated about with airy grace. Their legs were
outstretched and on the bottom of the hole he could see the round
shadows of their tracks. It was a new kind of water, with a skin that
would bend down and hold up the body of a wasp, and yet it seemed to
be wet. He thrust in a finger and the wasps flew away--and then he
dropped down and drank deep. When he woke from his madness the pool
was half empty and the water was running down his face. He was wet all
over and his lips were bleeding afresh, as if his very blood had been
dry; but his body was weak and sick, and as he rose to his feet he
tottered and fell down in the sand. When he roused up again the pool
was filled with water and the wasps were back, floating on its
surface.
When he looked around he was in a little cove, shut in by towering
walls; and, close against the cliff where the rock had been hollowed
out, he saw an abandoned camp. There were ashes between the stones, and
tin cans set on boxes, and a walled-in storage place behind, and as he
looked again he saw a man's tracks, leading down a narrow path to the
water. They turned off up the creek--high-heeled boots soled with
rawhide and bound about with thongs--and Wiley rushed recklessly at the
camp. When he had eaten last he could hardly remember, (it was a day or
two back at the best), and as he peered into cans and found them empty
he gave vent to a savage curse. He was weak, he was starving, and he had
thrown away his food--and this man had hidden what he had. He kicked
over the boxes and plunged into the store-room, throwing beans and flour
sacks right and left, and then in the corner behind a huge pile of pinon
nuts he found a single can of tomatoes.
Whoever had treasured it had kept it too long, for Wiley's knife was
already out and as he cut out the top he tipped it slowly up and drained
it to the bottom.
"Hey, there!" hailed a voice and Wiley started and laid down the can.
Was it possible the officers had followed him? "Throw up your hands!"
yelled the voice in a fury. "Throw 'em up, or I'll kill you, you
scoundrel!"
Wiley held up his hands, but he raised them reluctantly and the fighting
look crept back into his eyes.
"Well!" he challenged, "they're up--what about it?"
A tall man with a pistol stepped out from behind a tree and advanced
with his gun raised and cocked. His hair was hermit-long, his white
beard trembled, and his voice cracked and shrilled with helpless rage.
"What about it!" he repeated. "Well, by Jupiter, if you sass me, I'll
shoot you for a camp-robbing hound!"
"Well, go ahead then," burst out Wiley defiantly, "if that's the way you
feel--all I took was one can of tomatoes!"
"Yes! One can! Wasn't that all I had? And you robbed me before, you
rascal!"
"I did not!" retorted Wiley, and as the old man looked him over he
hesitated and lowered his gun.
"Say, who are you, anyway?" he asked at last and glanced swiftly at
Wiley's tracks in the sand. "Well--that's all right," he ran on
hastily, "I see you aren't the man. There was a renegade came through
here on the twentieth of last July and stole everything I had. I
trailed him, dad-burn him, clear to the edge of Death Valley--he was
riding my favorite burro--and if it hadn't been for a sandstorm that
came up and stopped me, I'd have bored him through and through. He
stole my rifle and even my letters, and valuable papers besides; but
he went to his reward, or I miss my guess, so we'll leave him to the
mercy of hell. As for my tomatoes, you're welcome, my friend; it's
long since I've had a guest."
He held out his hand and advanced, smiling kindly, but Wiley stepped
back--it was Colonel Huff.