THE DESERT’S FROWN
“Stop him!--Nothing stopped him!” smiled the Colonel wanly from his
bandages, as he eyed the huge skin of the Yellow Grizzly stretched
between four poles and propped up where he could look at it and gloat
over it. “Look at that skin--it’s a regular sieve!”
The boys and Big John sat against trees around the small camp fire in
front of the Colonel’s stretcher bed tent. It had been a strenuous two
days. First there had been, for Sid, those anxious hours of waiting
and signaling until at last Big John and Scotty had poked the noses
of their ponies over the ridge. Then the long trail home, with two
stretchers to carry, the bulk of which labor had fallen on Sid and Big
John, while Scotty led the horses. And then a feverish night in camp,
when both patients needed sitting up with and constant attention. This
second day had been spent in skinning out the grizzly by Big John and
Scotty, and in assiduous doctoring and splint-making by Sid. And now,
as sunset came, the huge pelt had been set up for the Colonel to look
at, and Sid had decided to let him talk.
“Yes, sir, that was the nearest I ever came to getting my everlasting!”
went on the Colonel. “With just two inches more reach he’d have taken
out every rib in my body. It was in the dim light before dawn, boys,
that I made him out, standing over the body of the deer. He picked that
buck up like a mouse and started lumbering off with it. That gave me
only a rear quartering shot, which is the very one to make him most
angry and do the least immediate damage. But it was that or none, so I
drew careful bead and fired.
“That started the fun, men!” said the Colonel, laughing feebly, after a
pause to get his breath. “He whirled about and started for me in leaps
that were twenty feet to the jump. It was the cursed wind that did
it. You know how it whirls and howls around Buckskin! Never the same
any two minutes. Some one of those back currents sweeping down the
mountain took my scent right to him. He didn’t want any better guide!
“I think I missed my second shot,” went on the Colonel, “for he was
bounding up and down so over those bowlders, rearing and bellowing
like an express train as he came. But my third bullet took him square
between the eyes and doubled him up like the punch of a battering-ram.
He went over in a complete somersault, Sid. Did he stay down? Any other
creature in the world, even an African lion, would have been scuppered
by that shot, but that mountain of beef got up and came right on, like
a ton of hate. You know something of the ferocity of that grizzly
charge, Sid, and you, too, Scotty!
“The next shot was a heart shot and I was mighty careful of it, for I
had only about forty yards left----”
Big John nodded. “Shore ’twas a center shot, Colonel. That heart was
shot to ribbons when I took her out. I seen whar the bullet went in,
an’ got her out to see what ye done to him. Oughtta hev stopped him,
right thar.”
“Not for a minute! He squalled like a stuck pig, but hardly slackened.
I fired my last bullet at fifteen feet and then jumped back from the
cleft in the bowlders where I was hidden. He cleared the distance in
one bound and I saw that big right paw of his coming down on me like
the trunk of a tree. It smashed the rifle out of my hands. I felt like
a hot iron had ripped me from top to bottom as his claws raked down
inside my guard. I went over backward and then Niltci jumped in, from
God knows where, and his knife flashed up and into the bear’s side.
That’s the last thing I know about it, for I saw stars as my head
struck the rocks.”
“That blow knocked you about ten feet, Father, over the rock and into a
little hollow behind your hide,” said Sid. “As for Niltci, a back-hand
swipe from the bear splintered his leg like a straw. There wasn’t a
claw mark on him. The old yellow boy must have collapsed where he lay,
but he bit off and broke every pinyon tree in reach before he gave up.
Some charge! I’ll match him against any dangerous beast the world over.
I’d like to see a bunch of Masai tackle him with spears, the way they
do an African lion!--There would be mighty few niggers left after he
got through.”
The Colonel looked blissfully at the great yellow expanse of fur,
tipped with fine white at the end of each hair. “Boys, she’ll about
cover the floor of the Den back home!” he exclaimed. “I’ve met a good
many bears in my time, but our cavalry troop never got over into
southern California, although we heard a good deal about those big
demon grizzlies there. Even the modern .35 is not gun enough, I’ll say!
The old buckskin pioneers must have had their hands full with them!”
Sid now brought up the matter of Major Hinchman’s letter, for it was
essential to move quickly about that business.
“The thing to do, as I see it, Father, is for Scotty and Big John
and myself to take the dogs over there, right now. We know where the
Black Panther hangs out, which the Major doesn’t. He and Big John can
run him with the hounds, while Scotty and I climb up by the lariat
into Lost Canyon and wait there until he comes. There must be a kiva
or underground secret society cave somewhere in that pueblo. We’ll
drop the carcass down there, so it will disappear forever. Then Major
Hinchman can fix up some sort of a yarn that will take with the
Indians, and the whole affair will blow over if the Black Panther
don’t come any more. Niltci will be able to creep around and look
after you and the camp in a day or so, and there’s plenty of meat and
provisions. We can get back in about a week.”
The Colonel ruminated over it for some time. “Looks good, Sid. The less
Niltci and I move around the better. I ought to be fairly well healed
in a week, and the splints you put on the Indian boy will let him get
about if you make him a pair of crutches. We’ll make out! As for the
Black Panther skin, it would be a wonderful trophy, but you couldn’t
ship it out of Arizona without the game warden examining it, and then
word of it would get back to the Indians. For Hinchman’s sake the only
thing to do is to abolish it. Well--you might as well get organized for
the trip, Sid.”
He closed his eyes as if tired out with the effort. Sid and Scotty went
to their tent, where lay Niltci. On being told that they were going
to leave for a long trip, the Indian boy insisted on having a browse
bed made for him under the Colonel’s shelter, where he could attend
to him. A shy and childlike adoration for the old army officer seemed
to have grown up in the Navaho lad; there was nothing he could do
that would repay the debt he felt he owed the Colonel for saving him
from the fanaticism of his own kinsfolk. This feeling he managed to
convey in expressive sign language, accompanied by what few English
words he knew. So, while Big John mended horse gear and got the outfits
together, the boys spent the evening in making Niltci a pair of rude
crutches and moving him out where he and the Colonel could run their
own hospital together.
Next morning the boys turned out, to find the Colonel and Big John
talking earnestly in low tones together. Sid knew from their serious
faces what they were discussing--water. The boys hovered around to
listen, for both men were old desert campaigners and a long experience
backed their words.
“You can’t make time and take any of the pack animals, John,” the
Colonel was saying. “Yet that water hole may be dry, or all green scum
not fit to drink, at this time of the year. Ten gallons a day is the
very least the horses can make out on. If you fill up at that tank
you can push along and reach Canyon Cheyo by evening of the second
day. I have only two water bags. Five gallons each. You’ll have to
sling them to Scotty’s saddle bags, for he is the lightest. You can
carry two quart canteens each, using all our spare ones. See that they
are well-corked, for they will be half rations at the best. No use
striking for the San Juan. It is really as far up there as over the
desert to Red Valley.”
“You leave it to me, Colonel,” broke in Big John, emphatically. “I
don’t want no pack horse totin’ water. I’ll rig them bags, an’ we’ll
roll our freight outer here an’ squeeze the dern water out of that
desert if we have to!”
The boys made up their own rolls and saddle bags with a sense of the
seriousness of their undertaking. To cross that desert without either
packing or wagoning an ample supply of water was no joke. If all
went well and they kept a good pace, they could make what water they
could carry do. If stopped anywhere, any way, by a sandstorm, for
instance--it made them thirsty just to think of it!
As they filed out of camp Scotty rode the Colonel’s big roan, for he
could easily carry the boy’s weight and the extra eighty pounds of
water in the canvas bags. The rest of the party were loaded up with
bags of oats in addition to their own outfits.
At the ferry the old-timers shook their heads when the water bags and
canteens were filled for their dash. It couldn’t be done--that was
certain as death! But there was too much at stake to turn back. They
alone could solve Major Hinchman’s Indian troubles, and they weren’t
going back on the Colonel’s old army chum, no matter what the risk.
Once across the Colorado the horses cantered off briskly, snorting and
whickering with good spirits. They had been filled up with all the
water they could hold and it was yet early morning, keen and cool. The
steep climb up the red buttes that led over the divide to the flat
country north of the mesas began. Then came sand, valleys and valleys
of it, with scant vegetation, dry, arid and desolate. That loose sand
was particularly hard on the dogs. Lee had been left behind in camp,
for he was too long-coupled to have the needful endurance, but Pepper
and Bourbon, they had felt, would be worth taking. Ruler seemed made of
iron, as he rambled right along through it. He evidently appreciated
his responsibilities, for if either Pepper or Bourbon attempted to
lag he was behind them with ready snarl and snapping teeth that drove
them flying onward. At noon the party halted and doled out their first
water. It worried the boys to see how greedily the horses sucked down
their allotments of half a canvas pail each and then whickered and bit
for more. The dogs nearly came to a fight over theirs, and each had to
be held by his collar to prevent him from flying at the drinking one.
By evening the horses had slowed to an exasperating walk and the dogs
limped painfully. Down into a hideous gulch Big John led the party. It
was out of the wind, but dry as the Sahara. Here they made their first
dry camp. The first water bag had gone flat and the second was already
alarmingly lean. Sid shook his canteen. There was but a drop or two in
the one on the off hook, and again he felt the cork of the other to
make sure that it had not come out. He had gotten through the day on
schedule. They were all right, _provided_----
That night he woke up with the cold. That was unusual, in itself,
for that bag was good down to below freezing. Sid uncovered the flap
and looked out. The stars were obscured, and a steady stinging sift,
sift, sift of sand went on all around him. He could hear that faint,
continuous hiss and ticking, and, attempting to move in his bag he was
surprised to note it heavy as lead and immovable.
“Sounds like the beginning of a sandstorm to me,” he murmured to
himself. “I’d better wake John, so we can all turn out and look after
the horses.”
He crawled out of his bag and punched Big John awake. The keen wind
blew steady and strong, chilling him to the bone, while blown sand
gritted in his teeth. It did not take the big plainsman more than one
sniff to bounce out of his mess of blankets, wide awake.
“Shore it’s a reg’lar night-bloomin’ swozzle a-comin’, Sid! Let Scotty
lie. We’ll git the hosses in under the shelter of the buttes.”
Out in the cold gloom they found the animals, standing patiently with
their sides to the wind. Pulling up their picket pins, they herded them
into a sort of shelf where a great rock wall jutted out in a weird,
wind-scoured formation, like a vast top on end.
“She’s goin’ to hum fit to blow the shingles off a barn, pronto, an’
we’ll all be buried in sand,” said Big John cheerfully. “You an’ I
gotta rig a tarp up here in these rocks, old-timer, before we hits the
hay ag’in.”
Sid was shivering like a leaf. He ran for his saddle roll and slipped
on the fleece-lined coat, glad of its shelter. Then they unrolled the
tarp, fighting it in the wind and the dark like some wild thing, until
it was finally anchored and rose at a steep slant like a sort of bear
den. Under it they laid their sleeping rigs and then picked up Scotty,
bag and all, and carried him over. Aside from a sleepy grunt or two, he
slept right through it! The dogs were glad enough to follow them in and
curl up again, backed up against the sleeping bags.
“You remember how we batted the snow off the rag house walls up in
Montana, Sid?” queried Big John as he crawled into his bag again.
“Waal, same stunt here. Reach up an arm an’ hit her a good poke when
she sags too much. There won’t be nawthin’ but sand hyarabouts, come
morning.”
They dozed off to sleep. Sid awoke before dawn with a sense of some
great body pressing down on him. A howling tempest was raging down
the gulch; sand in sheets and clouds swirled by. Overhead the tarp
sagged down on them all, and, pushing up on it, he found it immovable.
His exertions wakened Big John and incidentally jammed an elbow into
Scotty’s face so that that exemplary sleeper arose, spluttering and
spitting sand out of his mouth.
“Wh--wha--what’s happenin’?” he mumbled. “I dreamed the Grand Canyon
had caved in on me----”
“Sho’ has! Turn out an’ shove, old settler,” grunted Big John as the
three put their shoulders to it. There seemed to be a ton of sand on
that roof, and it would not slide off in the docile way that snow did.
It lay heavy and inert, to sag back again as soon as a shoulder was
withdrawn.
“Say!” grinned Big John, his dusty eyes sparkling at them from where he
sat humped up under the immovable tarp, “if that Atlas feller done this
fer a job, that will be about all for Atlas!--gimme them rifles, boys,
we’ll stick ’em up for sort of mine props.”
They tugged the weapons, in their leather scabbards, up out of the
bedding, and with them propped up the roof. There was a chance now to
look about. A fine dust filled the tent; just out in front a smooth
hummock of sand like a snowdrift had accumulated. Beyond roared the
wind in a monstrous shout, in a fury awful and unending, and the dim
light of dawn showed a yellow and opaque void all around them.
“Waal, we’re alive, an’ that’s a mercy!” drawled Big John as the boys
prepared to curl up in their bags again. “No water to-day, boys. We
ain’t doin’ nawthin’, and we don’t drink nawthin!--See?”
The stern iron tones of his voice told them that that was an order,
peremptory as death! Sid curled up and tried to forget that he was
alive. An hour later he looked out. There was no change, except a
greater and yellower light, showing that the sun was busy somewhere
high above all this. But, off to the left, right near the lean-to,
were three large, indistinct objects, all in a row, that he finally
perceived were their horses. Sid’s heart smote him. More than any
speech was the dumb appeal of those three heads! They were asking
their men for water--and not getting it! Unmoved they stood there,
patient, but eager. If one whinnied, the sound was lost in the howl of
the storm. Sid thought of his own canteen grimly. Not until they moved
would man or beast touch water again! It was precious as dear life, now.
About eleven o’clock the storm blew out. Their first intimation of it
was a dazzling yellow haze, rapidly thinning the murk of sand dust and
as rapidly showing the details of rock and gulch near by in the desert.
The dust thinned out, and blue sky began to develop overhead, and then
the whole yellow cloud drifted off north and they could dash out of
their shelter and begin digging the sand off saddles and equipment.
“Ramble, fellers!--Ramble!” whooped Big John, yanking his saddle up out
of the heap of sand that buried all the horse gear. “We’ll roll our
freight out of here for Misery Tank, plumb pronto! We jest gotta git
thar, come night, for--here goes the last of our water for the hosses!”
Their second water bag collapsed flat, as a scant half pail was drawn
from it for each of the three horses. The dogs got a remnant that was
left, and then it was rolled up and stowed as of no further use. With
eager haste the saddles were cinched, cantle rolls made up, and rifle
scabbards slung. Then with a leg over and a chirrup to the dogs, they
rode out of “Thirsty Gulch,” as Big John had named it.
Sand, sand, sand; and miles, miles, miles! Black Mesa passed them to
the south, and then came a great cliff with wavy stratified lines
streaked across its face and flowering plants nearly buried in sand
strewing the slopes that led up to it. The horses whinnied and started
on the first real run they had made that day. They smelled water, and
it did not need Big John’s finger pointing to a deep rocky chasm under
the cliff to tell where it lay. A rippled slope of white sand led up
to it--and then the boys reined up with a cry of dismay. The tank was
filled to the brim with white sand drift!