The tread of Coronado's horse passing within fifteen feet of Thurstane
roused him from the troubled sleep into which he had sunk after his long
fainting fit.
Slowly he opened his eyes, to see nothing but long grasses close to his
face, and through them a haze of mountains and sky. His first moments of
wakening were so far from being a full consciousness that he did not
comprehend where he was. He felt very, very weak, and he continued to lie
still.
But presently he became aware of sounds; there was a trampling, and then
there were words; the voices of life summoned him to live. Instantly he
remembered two things: the starving comrades whom it was his duty to save,
and the loved girl whom he longed to find. Slowly and with effort,
grasping at the rock to aid his trembling knees, he rose to his feet just
as Clara turned her horse's head toward the plain.
Coronado threw a last anxious glance in the direction of the wretch whom
he meant to abandon to the desert. To his horror he saw a lean, smirched,
ghostly face looking at him in a dazed way, as if out of the blinding
shades of death. The quickness of this villain was so wonderful that one
is almost tempted to call it praiseworthy. He perceived at once that
Thurstane would be discovered, and that he, Coronado, must make the
discovery, or he might be charged with attempting to leave him to die.
"Good heavens!" he exclaimed loudly, "there he is!"
Clara turned: there was a scream of joy: she was on the ground, running:
she was in Thurstane's arms. During that unearthly moment there was no
thought in those two of Coronado, or of any being but each other. It is
impossible fully to describe such a meeting; its exterior signs are beyond
language; its emotion is a lifetime. If words are feeble in presence of
the heights and depths of the Colorado, they are impotent in presence of
the altitudes and abysses of great passion. Human speech has never yet
completely expressed human intellect, and it certainly never will
completely express human sentiments. These lovers, who had been wandering
in chasms impenetrable to hope, were all of a sudden on mountain summits
dizzy with joy. What could they say for themselves, or what can another
say for them?
Clara only uttered inarticulate murmurs, while her hands crawled up
Thurstane's arms, pressing and clutching him to make sure that he was
alive. There was an indescribable pathos in this eagerness which could not
trust to sight, but must touch also, as if she were blind. Thurstane held
her firmly, kissing hair, forehead, and temples, and whispering, "Clara!
Clara!" Her face, which had turned white at the first glimpse of him, was
now roseate all over and damp with a sweet dew. It became smirched with
the dust of his face; but she would only have rejoiced, had she known it;
his very squalor was precious to her.
At last she fell back from him, held him at arm's length with ease, and
stared at him. "Oh, how sick!" she gasped. "How thin! You are starving."
She ran to her horse, drew from her saddle-bags some remnants of food, and
brought them to him. He had sunk down faint upon a stone, and he was too
weak to speak aloud; but he gave her a smile of encouragement which was at
once pathetic and sublime. It said, "I can bear all alone; you must not
suffer for me." But it said this out of such visible exhaustion, that,
instead of being comforted, she was terrified.
"Oh, you must not die," she whispered with quivering mouth. "If you die, I
will die."
Then she checked her emotion and added, "There! Don't mind me. I am silly.
Eat."
Meanwhile Coronado looked on with such a face as Iago might have worn had
he felt the jealousy of Othello. For the first time he positively knew
that the woman he loved was violently in love with another. He suffered so
horribly that we should be bound to pity him, only that he suffered after
the fashion of devils, his malignity equalling his agony. While he was in
such pain that his heart ceased beating, his fingers curled like snakes
around the handle of his revolver. Nothing kept him from shooting that
man, yes, and that woman also, but the certainty that the deed would make
him a fugitive for life, subject everywhere to the summons of the hangman.
Once, almost overcome by the temptation, he looked around for the train.
It was within hearing; he thought he saw Mrs. Stanley watching him; two of
his Mexicans were approaching at full speed. He dismounted, sat down upon
a stone, partially covered his face with his hand, and tried to bring
himself to look at the two lovers. At last, when he perceived that
Thurstane was eating and Clara merely kneeling by, he walked tremulously
toward them, scarcely conscious of his feet.
"Welcome to life, lieutenant," he said. "I did not wish to interrupt. Now
I congratulate."
Thurstane looked at him steadily, seemed to hesitate for a moment, and
then put out his hand.
"It was I who discovered you," went on Coronado, as he took the lean,
grimy fingers in his buckskin gauntlet.
"I know it," mumbled the young fellow; then with a visible effort he
added, "Thanks."
Presently the two Mexicans pulled up with loud exclamations of joy and
wonder. One of them took out of his haversack a quantity of provisions and
a flask of aguardiente; and Coronado handed them to Thurstane with a
smile, hoping that he would surfeit himself and die.
"No," said Clara, seizing the food. "You have eaten enough. You may
drink."
"Where are the others?" she presently asked.
"In the hills," he answered. "Starving. I must go and find them."
"No, no!" she cried. "You must go to the train. Some one else will look
for them."
One of the rancheros now dismounted and helped Thurstane into his saddle.
Then, the Mexican steadying him on one side and Clara riding near him on
the other, he was conducted to the train, which was at that moment going
into park near a thicket of willows.
In an amazingly short time he was very like himself. Healthy and plucky,
he had scarcely swallowed his food and brandy before he began to draw
strength from them; and he had scarcely begun to breathe freely before he
began to talk of his duties.
"I must go back," he insisted. "Glover and Sweeny are starving. I must
look them up."
"Certainly," answered Coronado.
"No!" protested Clara. "You are not strong enough."
"Of course not," chimed in Aunt Maria with real feeling, for she was
shocked by the youth's haggard and ghastly face.
"Who else can find them?" he argued. "I shall want two spare animals.
Glover can't march, and I doubt whether Sweeny can."
"You shall have all you need," declared Coronado.
"He mustn't go," cried Clara. Then, seeing in his face that he _would_ go,
she added, "I will go with him."
"No, no," answered several voices. "You would only be in the way."
"Give me my horse," continued Thurstane. "Where are Meyer and Kelly?"
He was told how they had gone on to Fort Yuma with Major Robinson, taking
his horse, the government mules, stores, etc.
"Ah! unfortunate," he said. "However, that was right. Well, give me a mule
for myself, two mounted muleteers, and two spare animals; some provisions
also, and a flask of brandy. Let me start as soon as the men and beasts
have eaten. It is forty miles there and back."
"But you can't find your way in the night," persisted Clara.
"There is a moon," answered Thurstane, looking at her gratefully; while
Coronado added encouragingly, "Twenty miles are easily done."
"Oh yes!" hoped Clara. "You can almost get there before dark. Do start at
once."
But Coronado did not mean that Thurstane should set out immediately. He
dropped various obstacles in the way: for instance, the animals and men
must be thoroughly refreshed; in short, it was dusk before all was ready.
Meantime Clara had found an opportunity of whispering to Thurstane.
"_Must_ you?" And he had answered, looking at her as the Huguenot looks at
his wife in Millais's picture, "My dear love, you know that I must."
"You _will_ be careful of yourself?" she begged. "For your sake."
"But remember that man," she whispered, looking about for Texas Smith.
"He is not going. Come, my own darling, don't frighten yourself. Think of
my poor comrades."
"I will pray for them and for you all the time you are gone. But oh,
Ralph, there is one thing. I must tell you. I am so afraid. I did wrong to
let Coronado see how much I care for you. I am afraid--"
He seemed to understand her. "It isn't possible," he murmured. Then, after
eyeing her gravely for a moment, he asked, "I may be always sure of you?
Oh yes! I knew it. But Coronado? Well, it isn't possible that he would try
to commit a treble murder. Nobody abandons starving men in a desert. Well,
I must go. I must save these men. After that we will think of these other
things. Good-by, my darling."
The sultry glow of sunset had died out of the west, and the radiance of a
full moon was climbing up the heavens in the east when Thurstane set off
on his pilgrimage of mercy. Clara watched him as long as the twilight
would let her see him, and then sat down with drooped face, like a flower
which has lost the sun. If any one spoke to her, she answered tardily and
not always to the purpose. She was fulfilling her promise; she was praying
for Thurstane and the men whom he had gone to save; that is, she was
praying when her mind did not wander into reveries of terror. After a time
she started up with the thought, "Where is Texas Smith?" He was not
visible, and neither was Coronado. Suspicious of some evil intrigue, she
set out in search of them, made the circuit of the fires, and then
wandered into the willow thickets. Amid the underwood, hastening toward
the wagons, she met Coronado.
"Ah!" he started. "Is that you, my little cousin? You are as terrible in
the dark as an Apache."
"Coronado, where is your hunter?" she asked with a beating heart.
"I don't know. I have been looking for him. My dear cousin, what do you
want?"
"Coronado, I will tell you the truth. That man is a murderer. I know it."
Coronado just took the time to draw one long breath, and then replied with
sublime effrontery, "I fear so. I learn that he has told horrible stories
about himself. Well, to tell the truth, I have discharged him."
"Oh, Coronado!" gasped Clara, not knowing whether to believe him or not.
"Shall I confess to you," he continued, "that I suspect him of having
weakened that towline so as to send our friend down the San Juan?"
"He never went near the boat," heroically answered Clara, at the same time
wishing she could see Coronado's face.
"Of course not. He probably hired some one. I fear our rancheros are none
too good to be bribed. I will confess to you, my cousin, that ever since
that day I have been watching Smith."
"Oh, Coronado!" repeated Clara. She was beginning to believe this
prodigious liar, and to be all the more alarmed because she did believe
him. "So you have sent him away? I am so glad. Oh, Coronado, I thank you.
But help me look for him now. I want to know if he is in camp."
It is almost impossible to do Coronado justice. While he was pretending to
aid Clara in searching for Texas Smith, he knew that the man had gone out
to murder Thurstane. We must remember that the man was almost as wretched
as he was wicked; if punishment makes amends for crime, his was in part
absolved. As he walked about with the girl he thought over and over, Will
it kill her? He tried to answer, No. Another voice persisted in saying,
Yes. In his desperation he at last replied, Let it!
We must follow Texas Smith. He had not started on his errand until he had
received five hundred dollars in gold, and five hundred in a draft on San
Francisco. Then he had himself proposed, "I mought quit the train, an'
take my own resk acrost the plains." This being agreed to, he had mounted
his horse, slipped away through the willows, and ridden into the desert
after Thurstane.
He knew the trail; he had been from Cactus Pass to Diamond River and back
again; he knew it at least as well as the man whose life he was tracking.
He thought he remembered the spring where Glover had broken down, and felt
pretty sure that it could not be less than twenty miles from the camp.
Mounted as he was, he could put himself ahead of Thurstane and ambush him
in some ravine. Of a sudden he laughed. It was not a burst of merriment,
but a grim wrinkling of his dark, haggard cheeks, followed by a hissing
chuckle. Texas seldom laughed, and with good reason, for it was enough to
scare people.
"Mought be done," he muttered. "Mought git the better of 'em all that way.
Shute, 'an then yell. The greasers'ud think it was Injuns, an' they'd
travel for camp. Then I'd stop the spare mules an' start for Californy."
For Texas this plan was a stroke of inspiration. He was not an intelligent
scoundrel. All his acumen, though bent to the one point of roguery, had
barely sufficed hitherto to commit murders and escape hanging. He had
never prospered financially, because he lacked financial ability. He was a
beast, with all a tiger's ferocity, but with hardly more than a tiger's
intelligence. He was a savage numskull. An Apache Tonto would have been
more than his match in the arts of murder, and very nearly his match in
the arts of civilization.
Instead of following Thurstane directly, he made a circuit of several
miles through a ravine, galloped across a wide grassy plain, and pulled up
among some rounded hillocks. Here, as he calculated, he was fifteen miles
from camp, and five from the spot where lay Glover and Sweeny. The moon
had already gone down and left the desert to the starlight. Posting
himself behind a thicket, he waited for half an hour or more, listening
with indefatigable attention.
He had no scruples, but he had some fears. If he should miss, the
lieutenant would fire back, and he was cool enough to fire with effect.
Well, he wouldn't miss; what should he miss for? As for the greasers, they
would run at the first shot. Nevertheless, he did occasionally muddle over
the idea of going off to California with his gold, and without doing this
particular job. What kept him to his agreement was the hope of stealing
the spare mules, and the fear that the draft might not be paid if he
shirked his work.
"I s'pose I must show his skelp," thought Texas, "or they won't hand over
the dust."
At last there was a sound; he had set his ambush just right; there were
voices in the distance; then hoofs in the grass. Next he saw something; it
was a man on a mule; yes, and it was the right man.
He raised his cocked rifle and aimed, sighting the head, three rods away.
Suddenly his horse whinnied, and then the mule of the other reared; but
the bullet had already sped. Down went Thurstane in the darkness, while,
with an Apache yell, Texas Smith burst from his ambush and charged upon
the greasers.