JEFFERSON WORTH'S OFFERING.
When day broke over the topmost ridges of No Man's Mountains, Jefferson
Worth's outfit was ready to move. The driver of the lighter rig with
its four broncos set out for San Felipe. On the front seat of the big
wagon Texas Joe picked up his reins, sorted them carefully, and glanced
over his shoulder at his employer. "All set?"
"Go ahead."
"You, Buck! Molly!" The lead mules straightened their traces. "Jack!
Pete!" As the brake was released with a clash and rattle of iron rods,
the wheelers threw their weight into their collars and the wagon moved
ahead.
Grim, tireless, world-old sentinels, No Man's Mountains stood guard
between the fertile land on their seaward side and the desolate
forgotten wastes of the East. They said to the country of green life,
of progress and growth and civilization, that marched to their line on
the West, "Halt!" and it stopped. To the land of lean want, of gray
death, of gaunt hunger, and torturing thirst, that crept to their feet
on the other side, "Stop!" and it came no farther. With no land to
till, no mineral to dig, their very poverty was their protection. With
an air of grim finality, they declared strongly that as they had always
been they would always remain; and, at the beginning of my story, save
for that one, slender, man-made trail, their hoary boast had remained
unchallenged.
Steadily, but with frequent rests on the grades, Jefferson Worth's
outfit climbed toward the summit and a little before noon gained the
Pass. The loud, rattling rumble of the wagon as the tires bumped and
ground over the stony, rock-floored way, with the sharp ring and
clatter of the iron-shod hoofs of the team, echoed, echoed, and echoed
again. Loudly, wildly, the rude sounds assaulted the stillness until
the quiet seemed hopelessly shattered by the din. Softly, tamely, the
sounds drifted away in the clear distance; through groves of live oak,
thickets of greasewood, juniper, manzanita and sage; into canyon and
wash; from bluff and ledge; along slope and spur and shoulder; over
ridge and saddle and peak; fainting, dying--the impotent sounds of
man's passing sank into the stillness and were lost. When the team
halted for a brief rest it was in a moment as if the silence had never
been broken. Grim, awful, the hills gave no signs of man's presence,
gave that creeping bit of life no heed.
At Mountain Spring--a lonely little pool on the desert side of the huge
wall--they stopped for dinner. When the meal was over, Texas Joe, with
the assistance of Pat, filled the water barrels, while the boy busied
himself with the canteen and the Seer and Jefferson Worth looked on.
"'Tis a dhry counthry ahead, I'm thinking'," remarked the Irishman
inquiringly as he lifted another dripping bucket.
"Some," returned Tex. "There are three water holes between here and the
river where there's water sometimes. Mostly, though, when you need it
worst, there ain't none there, an' I reckon a dry water hole is about
the most discouragin' proposition there is. They'll all be dry this
trip. There wasn't nothin' but mud at Wolf Wells when we come through
last week."
Again the barren rocks and the grim, forbidding hills echoed the loud
sound of wheel and hoof. Down the steep flank of the mountain, with
screaming, grinding brakes, they thundered and clattered into the
narrow hall-way of Devil's Canyon with its sheer walls and shadowy
gloom. The little stream that trickled down from the tiny spot of green
at the spring tried bravely to follow but soon sank exhausted into the
dry waste. A cool wind, like a draft through a tunnel, was in their
faces. After perhaps two hours of this the way widened out, the sides
of the canyon grew lower with now and then gaps and breaks. Then the
walls gave way to low, rounded hills, through which the winding trail
lay--a bed of sand and gravel--and here and there appeared clumps of
greasewood and cacti of several varieties.
At length they passed out from between the last of the foot-hills and
suddenly--as though a mighty curtain were lifted--they faced the
desert. At their feet the Mesa lay in a blaze of white sunlight, and
beyond and below the edge of the bench the vast King's Basin country.
At the edge of the Mesa Texas halted his team and the little party
looked out and away over those awful reaches of desolate solitude. The
Seer and Pat uttered involuntary exclamations. Jefferson Worth, Texas,
and Abe were silent, but the boy's thin features were aglow with eager
enthusiasm, and the face of the driver revealed an interest in the
scene that years of familiarity could not entirely deaden, but the gray
mask of the banker betrayed no emotion.
In that view, of such magnitude that miles meant nothing, there was not
a sign of man save the one slender thread of road that was so soon lost
in the distance. From horizon to horizon, so far that the eye ached in
the effort to comprehend it, there was no cloud to cast a shadow, and
the deep sky poured its resistless flood of light upon the vast dun
plain with savage fury, as if to beat into helplessness any living
creature that might chance to be caught thereon. And the desert,
receiving that flood from the wide, hot sky, mysteriously wove with it
soft scarfs of lilac, misty veils of purple and filmy curtains of rose
and pearl and gold; strangely formed with it wide lakes of blue rimmed
with phantom hills of red and violet--constantly changing, shifting,
scene on scene, as dream pictures shift and change.
Only the strange, silent life that, through long years, the desert had
taught to endure its hardships was there--the lizard, horned-toad, lean
jack-rabbit, gaunt coyote, and their kind. Only the hard growth that
the ages had evolved dotted the floor of the Basin in the near
distance--the salt-bush and greasewood, with here and there clumps of
mesquite.
And over it all--over the strange hard life, the weird, constantly
shifting scenes, the wondrous, ever-changing colors--was the dominant,
insistent, compelling spirit of the land; a brooding, dreadful silence;
a waiting--waiting--waiting; a mystic call that was at once a threat
and a promise; a still drawing of the line across which no man might go
and live, save those master men who should win the right.
After a while the engineer, pointing, said: "The line of the
Southwestern and Continental must follow the base of those hills away
over there--is that right, Texas?"
"That'll be about it," the driver answered. "I hear you're goin'
through San Antonio Pass, an' that's to the north. Rubio City lies
about here--" he pointed a little south of east. "Our road runs through
them sand hills that you can see shinin' like gold a-way over there.
Dry River Crossin' is jest beyond. You can see Lone Mountain off here
to the south. Hit'll sure be some warm down there. Look at them
dust-devil's dancin'. An' over there, where you see that yellow mist
like, is a big sand storm. We ain't likely to get a long one this time
o' the year. But you can't tell what this old desert 'll do; she's sure
some uncertain. La Palma de la Mano de Dios, the Injuns call it, and I
always thought that--all things considerin'--the name fits mighty
close. You can see hit's jest a great big basin."
"The Hollow of God's Hand." repeated the Seer in a low tone. He lifted
his hat with an unconscious gesture of reverence.
The Irishman, as the engineer translated, crossed himself. "Howly
Mither, fwhat a name!"
Jefferson Worth spoke. "Drive on, Texas."
And so, with the yellow dust-devils dancing along their road and that
yellow cloud in the distance, they moved down the slope--down into The
King's Basin--into La Palma de la Mano de Dios, The Hollow of God's
Hand.
"Is that true, sir?" asked Abe of the Seer.
"Is what true, son?"
"What Texas said about the ocean."
"Yes it's true. The lowest point of this Basin is nearly three hundred
feet below sea level. The railroad we are going to build follows right
around the rim on the other side over there. This slope that we are
going down now is the ancient beach." Then, while they pushed on into
the silence and the heat of that dreadful land, the engineer told the
boy and his companions how the ages had wrought with river and wave and
sun and wind to make The King's Basin Desert.
Wolf Wells they found dry as Texas had anticipated. Phantom Lake also
was dry. Occasionally they crossed dry, ancient water courses made by
the river when the land was being formed; sometimes there were glassy,
hard, bare alkali flats; again the trail led through jungle-like
patches of desert growth or twisted and wound between high hummocks.
Always there was the wide, hot sky, the glaring flood of light unbroken
by shadow masses to relieve the eye and reflected hotly from the sandy
floor of the old sea-bed.
That evening, when they made camp, a heavy mass of clouds hung over the
top of No Man's Mountains and the long Coast Range that walled in the
Basin. Texas Joe, watching these clouds, said nothing; but when Pat
threw on the ground the water left in his cup after drinking, the
plainsman opened upon him with language that startled them all.
The next day, noon found them in the first of the sand hills. There was
no sign of vegetation here, for the huge mounds and ridges of white
sand, piled like drifts of snow, were never quite still. Always they
move eastward before the prevailing winds from the west. Through the
greater part of the year they advance very slowly, but when the fierce
gales sweep down from the mountains they roll forward so swiftly that
any object in their path is quickly buried in their smothering depths.
In the middle of the afternoon Texas climbed to the top of a huge drift
to look over the land. The others saw him stand a moment against the
sky, gazing to the northwest, then he turned and slid down the steep
side of the mound to the waiting wagon.
"She's comin'!" he remarked, laconically, "an' she's a big one. I
reckon we may as well get as far as we can."
A few minutes later they saw the sky behind them filling as with a
golden mist. The atmosphere, dry and hot, seemed charged with
mysterious, terrible power. The very mules tossed their heads uneasily
and tugged at the reins as if they felt themselves pursued by some
fearful thing. Straight and hard, with terrific velocity, the wind was
coming down through the mountain passes and sweeping across the wide
miles of desert, gathering the sand as it came. Swiftly the golden mist
extended over their heads, a thick, yellow fog, through which the sun
shone dully with a weird, unnatural light. Then the stinging, blinding,
choking blast was upon them with pitiless, savage fury. In a moment all
signs of the trail were obliterated. Over the high edges of the drift
the sand curled and streamed like blizzard snow. About the outfit it
whirled and eddied, cutting the faces of the men and forcing them, with
closed eyes, to gasp for breath.
Of their own accord the mules stopped and Texas shouted to Mr. Worth:
"It ain't no use for us to try to go on, sir. There ain't no trail now,
and we'd jest drift around."
As far from the lee of a drift as possible, all hands--under the desert
man's direction--worked to rig a tarpaulin on the windward side of the
wagon. Then, with the mules unhitched and securely tied to the vehicle,
the men crouched under their rude shelter. The Irishman was choking,
coughing, sputtering and cursing, the engineer laughed good-naturedly
at their predicament, and Abe Lee grinned in sympathy, while Texas Joe
accepted the situation grimly with the forbearance of long experience.
But Jefferson Worth's face was the same expressionless gray mask. He
gave no hint of impatience at the delay; no uneasiness at the
situation; no annoyance at the discomfort. It was as though he had
foreseen the situation and had prepared himself to meet it. "How long
do you figure this will last, Tex?" he asked in his colorless voice.
"Not more than three days," returned the driver. "It may be over in
three hours."
The morning of the second day they crawled from their blankets beneath
the wagon to find the sky clear and the air free from dust. Eagerly
they prepared to move. Against their shelter the sand had drifted
nearly to the top of the wheels, and the wagon-box itself was more than
half filled. The hair, eye-brows, beard and clothing of the men were
thickly coated with powdery dust, while every sign of the trail was
gone and the wheels sank heavily into the soft sand.
Three times Texas halted the laboring team and, climbing to the summit
of a drift, determined his course by marks unknown to those who waited
below. Again they stopped for the plainsman to take an observation, and
this time the four in the wagon, watching the figure of the driver
against the sky, saw him turn abruptly and come down to them with long
plunging strides. Instinctively they knew that something unusual had
come under his eye.
The Seer and Jefferson Worth spoke together. "What is it, Tex?"
"A stray horse about a mile ahead."
For the first time Texas Joe uncoiled the long lash of his whip and his
call "You, Buck! Molly!" was punctuated by pistol-like cracks that
sounded strangely in the death-like silence of the sandy waste.
As they came within sight of the strange horse the poor beast staggered
wearily to meet the wagon--the broken strap of his halter swinging
loosely from his low-hanging head.
"Look at the poor baste," said Pat. "'Tis near dead he is wid thirst."
He leaped to the ground and started toward the water barrel in the rear
of the wagon.
"Hold on, Pat," said the colorless voice of Jefferson Worth. And his
words were followed by the report of Texas Joe's forty-five.
The Irishman turned to see the strange horse lying dead on the sand.
"Fwhat the hell--" he demanded hotly, but Texas was eyeing him coolly,
and something checked the anger of the Irishman.
"You don't seem to sabe," drawled the man of the desert, replacing the
empty shell in his gun. "There ain't hardly enough water to carry us
through now, an' we may have to pick up this other outfit."
No one spoke as Pat climbed heavily back to his seat.
For two miles the tracks of the strange horse were visible, then they
were blotted out by the sand that had filled them. "He made that much
since the blow," was Texas' slow comment. "How far we are from where he
started is all guess."
As they pushed on, all eyes searched the country eagerly and before
long they found the spot for which they looked. A light spring wagon
with a piece of a halter strap tied to one of the wheels was more than
half-buried by the sand in the lee of a high drift. There was a small
water keg, empty, with its seams already beginning to open in the
fierce heat of the sun, a "grub-box," some bedding and part of a bale
of hay-nothing more.
Jefferson Worth, Pat and the boy attempted to dig in the steep side of
the drift that rose above the half-buried outfit, but at their every
movement tons of the dry sand came sliding down upon them. "It ain't no
use, Mr. Worth," said Texas, as the banker straightened up, baffled in
his effort. "You will never know what's buried in there until God
Almighty uncovers it."
Then the man of the desert and plains read the story of the tragedy as
though he had been an eye witness. "They was travelin' light an'
counted on makin' good time. They must have counted, too, on, findin'
water in the hole." He kicked the empty keg. "Their supply give out an'
then that sand-storm caught 'em and the horses broke loose. Of course
they would go to hunt their stock, not darin' to be left afoot and
without water, an' hits a thousand to one they never got back to the
outfit. We're takin' too many chances ourselves to lose much time and I
don't reckon there's any use, but we'd better look around maybe."
He directed the little party to scatter and to keep on the high ground
so that they would not lose sight of each other. Until well on in the
afternoon they searched the vicinity, but with no reward, while the hot
sun, the dry burning waste and the glaring sands of the desert warned
them that every hour's delay might mean their own death. When they
returned at last to the wagon, called in by Texas, no one spoke. As
they went on their way each was busy with his own thoughts of the grim
evidence of the desert's power.
Another hour passed. Suddenly Texas halted the mules and, with an
exclamation, leaped to the ground. The others saw that he was bending
over a dim track in the sand.
"My God! men," he shouted, "hit's a woman."
For a short way he followed the foot-prints, then, running back to the
wagon and springing to his seat, swung his long whip and urged the team
ahead.
"Hit's a woman," he repeated. "When the others went away and didn't
come back she started ahead in the storm alone. She had got this far
when the blow quit, leavin' her tracks to show. We may--" He urged his
mules to greater effort.
The prints of the woman's shoe could be plainly seen now. "Look!" said
Tex, pointing, "she's staggerin'--Now she's stopped! Whoa!" Throwing
his weight on the lines he leaned over from his seat. "Look, men! Look
there!" he cried, as he pointed. "She's carryin' a kid. See, there's
where she set it down for a rest." It was all too clear. Beside the
woman's track were the prints of two baby shoes.
The Seer, with a long breath, drew his hand across his sand-begrimed
face. "Hurry, Tex. For God's sake, hurry!"
The Irishman was cursing fiercely in impotent rage, clenching and
unclenching his huge, hairy fists. The boy cowered in his seat. But not
a change came over the mask-like features of Jefferson Worth. Only the
delicate, pointed fingers of his nervous hands caressed constantly his
unshaven chin, fingered his clothing, or--gripped the edge of the wagon
seat as he leaned forward in his place. Texas--grim, cool, alert, his
lean figure instinct now with action and his dark eyes alight--swung
his long whip and handled his reins with a master's skill, calling upon
every atom of his team's strength, while reading those tracks in the
sand as one would scan a printed page.
It was all written there--that story of mother love; where she
staggered with fatigue; where she was forced to rest; where the baby
walked a little way; and once or twice where the little one stumbled
and fell as the sand proved too heavy for the little feet. And all the
while the desert, dragging with dead weight at the wheels, seemed to
fight against them. It was as though the dreadful land knew that only
time was needed to complete its work. Then the hot sun dropped beyond
the purple wall of mountain and the mystery of the long twilight began.
"Dry River Crossing is just ahead," said Tex, and soon the outfit
pitched down the steep bank of a deep wash that had been made in some
forgotten age by an overflow of the great river. Occasionally, after
the infrequent rains of winter, some water was to be found here in a
hole under the high bank a short way from the trail.
With a crash of brakes the team stopped at the bottom. The men,
springing from the wagon and leaving the panting mules to stand with
drooping heads, started to search the wash. But in a moment Texas
shouted and the others quickly joined him. Near the dry water hole lay
the body of a woman. By her side was a small canteen.
[Illustration: He had lifted the canteen and was holding it upside
down.]
The engineer bent to examine the still form for some sign of life.
"It ain't no use, sir," said Texas. "She's gone." He had lifted the
canteen and was holding it upside down. With his finger he touched the
mouth of the vessel and held out his hand. The finger was wet. "You
see," he said, "when her men-folks didn't come back she started with
the kid an' what water she had. But she wouldn't drink none herself,
an' the hard trip in the heat and sand carryin' the baby, an' findin'
the water hole dry was too much for her. If only we had known an' come
on, instead of huntin' back there where it wasn't no use, we'd a-been
in time."
As the little party--speechless at the words of Texas--stood in the
twilight, looking down upon the lifeless form, a chorus of wild,
snarling, barking yowls, with long-drawn, shrill howls, broke on the
still air. It was the coyotes' evening call. To the silent men the
weird sound seemed the triumphant cry of the Desert itself and they
started in horror.
Then from the dusky shadow of the high bank farther up the wash came
another cry that broke the spell that was upon them and drew an
answering shout from their lips as they ran forward.
"Mamma! Mamma! Barba wants drink. Please bring drink, mamma. Barba's
'fraid!"
Jefferson Worth reached her first. Close under the bank, where she had
wandered after "mamma" lay down to sleep, and evidently just awakened
from a tired nap by the coyotes' cry, sat a little girl of not more
than four years. Her brown hair was all tumbled and tossed, and her big
brown eyes were wide with wondering fear at the four strange men and
the boy who stood over her.
"Mamma! Mamma!" she whimpered, "Barba wants mamma."
Jefferson Worth knelt before her, holding out his hands, and his voice,
as he spoke to the baby, made his companions look at him in wonder, it
was so full of tenderness.
The little girl fixed her big eyes questioningly upon the kneeling man.
The others waited, breathless. Then suddenly, as if at something she
saw in the gray face of the financier, the little one drew back with
fear upon her baby features and in her baby voice. "Go 'way! Go 'way!"
she cried. Then again, "Mamma! Barba wants mamma." Jefferson Worth
turned sadly away, his head bowed as though with disappointment or
shame.
The others, now, in turn tried to win her confidence. The plainsman and
the Irishman she regarded gravely, as she had looked at the banker, but
without fear. The boy won a little smile, but she still held
back--hesitating--reluctant. Then with a pitiful little gesture of
confidence and trust, she stretched forth her arms to the big
brown-eyed engineer. "Barba wants drink," she said, and the Seer took
her in his arms.
At the wagon it was Jefferson Worth who offered her a tin cup of water,
but again she shrank from him, throwing her arms about the neck of the
Seer. The engineer, taking the cup from the banker's hands, gave her a
drink.
While Mr. Worth and the boy prepared a hasty meal, Texas fed his team
and the Irishman, going back a short distance, made still another grave
beside the road already marked by so many. The child--still in the
engineer's arms--ate hungrily, and when the meal was over he took her
to the wagon, while the others, with a lantern, returned to the still
form by the dry water hole. At the banker's suggestion, a thorough
examination of the woman's clothing was made for some clue to her
identity, but no mark was found. With careful hands they reverently
wrapped the body in a blanket and laid it away in its rude, sandy bed.
When the grave was filled and protected as best it could be, a short
consultation was held. Mr. Worth wished to return to the half buried
outfit to make another effort to learn the identity of the Desert's
victim, but Texas refused. "'Tain't that I ain't willin' to do what's
right," he said, "but you see how that sand acted. Why, Mr. Worth, you
couldn't move that there drift in a year, an' you know it. I jest gave
the mules the last water they'll get an' we're goin' to have all we can
do to make it through as it is. If we wait to go back there ain't one
chance in a hundred that we-all 'll ever see Rubio City again. It ain't
sense to risk killin' the kid when we've got a chance to save her--jest
on a slim chance o' findin' out who she is."
Returning to the outfit they very quietly--so as not to awaken the
sleeping child--hitched the team to the wagon and took their places. As
the mules started the baby stirred uneasily in the Seer's arms and
murmured sleepily: "Mamma." But the low, soothing tones of the big man
calmed her and she slept.
Hour after hour of the long night dragged by. They had left the sand
hills behind three miles before they reached Dry River and now the
wide, level reaches of the thinly covered plain, forbidding and ghostly
under the stars, seemed to stretch away on every side into infinite
space. Involuntarily all the members of the little party, except Texas
Joe, strained their eyes looking into the blank, silent distance for
lights, and, as they looked, they turned their heads constantly to
listen for some sound of human life. But in all that vast expanse there
was no light save the light of the stars; in all that silent waste
there was no sound save the occasional call of the coyote, the
plaintive, quivering note of the ground-owls, the muffled fall of the
mules' feet in the soft earth, and the dull chuck, creak, and rumble of
the wagon with the clink of trace chains and the squeak of straining
harness leather. And always it was as though that dreadful land clung
to them with heavy hands, matching its strength against the strength of
these who braved its silent threat, seeking to hold them as it held so
many others. The men spoke rarely and then in low tones. The baby in
the Seer's arms slept. Only Texas, and perhaps his team, knew how they
kept the dimly marked trail that led to life. Perhaps Texas himself did
not know.
At daybreak they halted for a brief rest and for breakfast. The child
ate with the others, but still clung to the engineer, and while asking
often for "mamma," seemed to trust her big protector fully. From the
shelter of his arms she even smiled at the efforts of Texas, Pat and
the boy to amuse and keep her attention from her loss. From Jefferson
Worth she still shrank in fear and the others wondered at the pain in
that gray face as all his efforts to win a smile or a kind look from
the baby were steadily repulsed.
It was Texas who, when they halted, poured the last of the water from
the barrel into the canteen and carefully measured out to each a small
portion. It was Texas now who gave the word to start again on their
journey. And when the desert man placed the canteen with their meager
supply of water in the corner of the wagon-box under his own feet the
others understood and made no comment.
At noon, when each was given his carefully measured portion from the
canteen, Jefferson Worth, before they could check him, wet his
handkerchief with his share of the water and gave it to the Seer to
wipe the dust from the hot little face of the child. The eyes of the
big engineer filled and Texas, with an oath that was more reverent than
profane, poured another measure and forced the banker to drink.
As the long, hot, thirsty hours of that afternoon dragged slowly past,
the faces of the men grew worn and haggard. The two days and nights in
the trying storm, the exertion of their search among the sand hills,
the excitement of finding the woman's body and the discovery of the
child, followed by the long sleepless night, and now the hard, hot,
dreary hours of the struggle with the Desert that seemed to gather all
its dreadful strength against them, were beginning to tell. Texas Joe,
forced to give constant attention to his team and hardened by years of
experience, showed the strain least, while Pat, unfitted for such a
trial by his protracted spree in San Felipe, undoubtedly suffered most.
After dinner the Irishman sat motionless in his place with downcast
face, lifting his head only at long intervals to gaze with fierce hot
eyes upon the barren landscape, while muttering to himself in a
growling undertone. Later he seemed to sink into a stupor and appeared
to be scarcely conscious of his companions. Suddenly he roused himself
and, bending forward with a quick motion, reached the canteen from
under the driver's seat. In the act of unscrewing the cap he was halted
by the calm-voice of Texas: "Put that back."
"Go to hell wid ye! I'm no sun-dried herrin'."
The cap came loose, but as he raised the canteen and lifted his face
with open parched lips he looked straight into the muzzle of the big
forty-five and back of the gun into the steady eyes of the plainsman.
"I'm sorry, pard, but you can't do it."
For an instant the Irishman sat as if suddenly turned to stone. The
water was within reach of his lips, but over the canteen certain death
looked at him, for there was no mistaking the expression on the face of
that man with the gun. Beside himself with thirst, forgetting
everything but the water, and utterly reckless he growled: "Shoot an'
be domned, ye murderin' savage!" and again started to lift the
cloth-covered vessel.
At that instant the baby, catching sight of the canteen, called from
the rear seat: "Barba wants drink. Barba thirsty, too."
As though Texas had pulled the trigger the Irishman dropped his hand.
Slowly he looked from face to face of his companions--a dazed
expression on his own countenance, as though he were awakening from a
dream. The child, clinging to the Seer with one hand and pointing with
the other, said again: "Barba thirsty; please give Barba drink."
A look of horror and shame went over the face of the Irishman, his form
shook like a leaf and his trembling hands could scarcely hold the
canteen. "My Gawd! bhoys," he cried, "fwhat's this I was doin'?" Then
he burst suddenly upon Tex with: "Why the hell don't ye shoot, domn ye?
A baste like me is fit for nothin' but to rot in this Gawd-forsaken
land!"
The fierce rage of the man at his own act was pitiful. Texas dropped
his gun into the holster and turned his face away. Jefferson Worth held
out a cup. "Give the little one some water, Pat," he said, in his cold,
exact way.
With shaking hands the Irishman poured a little into the cup and,
screwing the cap back on the canteen, he returned it to its place. Then
with a groan he bowed his face in his great, hairy hands.
Just before sun-down they climbed up the ancient beach line to the rim
of the Basin and the Mesa on the east. Halting here for a brief rest
and for supper, they looked back over the low, wide land through which
they had come. All along the western sky and far to the southward, the
wall-like mountains lifted their purple heights from the dun plain, a
seemingly impassable barrier, shutting in the land of death; shutting
out the life that came to their feet on the other side. To the north
the hills that rim the Basin caught the slanting rays of the setting
sun and glowed rose-color, and pink, and salmon, with deep purple
shadows where canyons opened, all rising out of drifts of silvery
light. To the northwest two distant, gleaming, snow-capped peaks of the
Coast Range marked San Antonio Pass. To the west Lone Mountain showed
dark blue against the purple of the hills beyond. Down in the desert
basin, drifting above and woven through the ever-shifting masses of
color, shimmering phantom lakes, and dull, dusky patches of green and
brown, long streamers, bars and threads of dust shone like gleaming
gold.
Texas Joe, when he had poured for each his portion of water, shook the
canteen carefully, and a smile spread slowly over his sun-blackened
features. "What's left belongs to the kid," he said. "But we'll make
it. We'll jest about make it."
The Irishman lifted his cup toward the Desert, saying solemnly: "Here's
to ye, domn ye! Ye ain't got us yet. May ye burn an' blishther an'
scorch an' bake 'til yer danged heart shrivels up an' blows away."
Then he fell to amusing the child with loving fun-talk and queer
antics, until she laughed aloud and permitted him to catch her up in
his big hairy hands and to toss her high in the air. Texas and Abe,
joining in the frolic, shared with Pat the little lady's favor, while
the Seer looked smilingly on. But when Jefferson Worth approached, with
an offering of pretty stones and shells which he had gathered on the
old beach, she ran up to the engineer's arms. Still coaxing, the banker
held out his offering. The others were silent, watching. Timidly at
last, the child put forth her little hands and accepted the gift,
shrinking back quickly with her treasures to the shelter of the big
man's arms.
It was just after noon the next day when the men at the wagon yard on
the edge of Rubio City looked up to see Jefferson Worth's outfit
approaching. The dust-covered, nearly-exhausted team staggered weakly
through the gate. On the driver's seat sat a haggard, begrimed figure
holding the reins in his right hand; and in his lap, supported by his
free arm, a little girl lay fast asleep. Then as one of the mules lay
down, the men went forward on the run.
Texas stared at them dully for a moment. Then, as he dropped the reins,
his parched, cracked lips parted in what was meant for a smile and he
said, in a thick, choking whisper: "We made it, boys: we jest made it.
Somebody take the kid."
Eager hands relieved him of his burden and he slid heavily to the
ground to stand dizzily holding on to a wheel for support.
One of the men said sharply: "But where's Mr. Worth, Tex? What have you
done with Jefferson Worth an' what you doin' with a kid?"
Texas Joe gazed at the questioner steadily as if summoning all his
strength of will in an effort to think. "Hello, Jack! Why--damned if I
know--he was with me a little while ago."
The engineer, the banker, the Irishman and the boy were lying
unconscious on the bottom of the wagon.