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The Man of the Desert
BY GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL
AUTHOR OF
MARCIA SCHUYLER, PHOEBE DEANE,
DAWN OF THE MORNING, LO, MICHAEL, ETC.
[Illustration]
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
Made in the United States of America
Copyright, 1914, by
FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY
New York: 158 Fifth Avenue
Chicago: 125 North Wabash Ave.
Toronto: 25 Richmond Street, W.
London: 21 Paternoster Square
Edinburgh: 100 Princes Street
Contents
I. PROSPECTING 9
II. THE MAN 24
III. THE DESERT 43
IV. THE QUEST 64
V. THE TRAIL 86
VI. CAMP 101
VII. REVELATION 116
VIII. RENUNCIATION 130
IX. "FOR REMEMBRANCE" 148
X. HIS MOTHER 162
XI. REFUGE 180
XII. QUALIFYING FOR SERVICE 197
XIII. THE CALL OF THE DESERT 218
XIV. HOME 232
XV. THE WAY OF THE CROSS 253
XVI. THE LETTER 267
XVII. DEDICATION 284
I
PROSPECTING
It was morning, high and clear as Arizona counts weather, and around the
little railroad station were gathered a crowd of curious onlookers;
seven Indians, three women from nearby shacks--drawn thither by the
sight of the great private car that the night express had left on a side
track--the usual number of loungers, a swarm of children, besides the
station agent who had come out to watch proceedings.
All the morning the private car had been an object of deep interest to
those who lived within sight, and that was everybody on the plateau; and
many and various had been the errands and excuses to go to the station
that perchance the occupants of that car might be seen, or a glimpse of
the interior of the moving palace; but the silken curtains had remained
drawn until after nine o'clock.
Within the last half hour, however, a change had taken place in the
silent inscrutable car. The curtains had parted here and there,
revealing dim flitting faces, a table spread with a snowy cloth and
flowers in a vase, wild flowers they were, too, like those that grew all
along the track, just weeds. Strange that one who could afford a private
car cared for weeds in a glass on their dining-table, but then perhaps
they didn't know.
A fat cook with ebony skin and white linen attire had appeared on the
rear platform beating eggs, and half whistling, half singing:
"Be my little baby Bumble-bee--
Buzz around, buzz around----"
He seemed in no wise affected or embarrassed by the natives who
gradually encircled the end of the car, and the audience grew.
They could dimly see the table where the inmates of the car
were--dining?--it couldn't be breakfast at that hour surely. They heard
the discussion about horses going on amid laughter and merry
conversation, and they gathered that the car was to remain here for the
day at least while some of the party went off on a horseback trip. It
was nothing very unusual of course. Such things occasionally occurred in
that region, but not often enough to lose their interest. Besides, to
watch the tourists who chanced to stop in their tiny settlement was the
only way for them to learn the fashions.
Not that all the watchers stood and stared around the car. No, indeed.
They made their headquarters around the station platform from whence
they took brief and comprehensive excursions down to the freight station
and back, going always on one side of the car and returning by way of
the other. Even the station agent felt the importance of the occasion,
and stood around with all the self-consciousness of an usher at a grand
wedding, considering himself master of ceremonies.
"Sure! They come from the East last night. Limited dropped 'em! Going
down to prospect some mine, I reckon. They ordered horses an' a outfit,
and Shag Bunce is goin' with 'em. He got a letter 'bout a week ago
tellin' what they wanted of him. Yes, I knowed all about it. He brung
the letter to me to cipher out fer him. You know Shag ain't no great at
readin' ef he is the best judge of a mine anywheres about."
Thus the station agent explained in low thrilling tones; and even the
Indians watched and grunted their interest.
At eleven o'clock the horses arrived, four besides Shag's, and the rest
of the outfit. The onlookers regarded Shag with the mournful interest
due to the undertaker at a funeral. Shag felt it and acted accordingly.
He gave short, gruff orders to his men; called attention to straps and
buckles that every one knew were in as perfect order as they could be;
criticized the horses and his men; and every one, even the horses, bore
it with perfect composure. They were all showing off and felt the
importance of the moment.
Presently the car door opened and Mr. Radcliffe came out on the platform
accompanied by his son--a handsome reckless looking fellow--his daughter
Hazel, and Mr. Hamar, a thick-set, heavy-featured man with dark hair,
jaunty black moustache and handsome black eyes. In the background stood
an erect elderly woman in tailor-made attire and with a severe
expression, Mr. Radcliffe's elder sister who was taking the trip with
them expecting to remain in California with her son; and behind her
hovered Hazel's maid. These two were not to be of the riding party, it
appeared.
There was a pleasant stir while the horses were brought forward and the
riders were mounting. The spectators remained breathlessly unconscious
of anything save the scene being enacted before them. Their eyes
lingered with special interest on the girl of the party.
Miss Radcliffe was small and graceful, with a head set on her pretty
shoulders like a flower on its stem. Moreover she was fair, so fair that
she almost dazzled the eyes of the men and women accustomed to brown
cheeks kissed by the sun and wind of the plain. There was a wild-rose
pink in her cheeks to enhance the whiteness, which made it but the more
dazzling. She had masses of golden hair wreathed round her dainty head
in a bewilderment of waves and braids. She had great dark eyes of blue
set off by long curling lashes, and delicately pencilled dark brows
which gave the eyes a pansy softness and made you feel when she looked
at you that she meant a great deal more by the look than you had at
first suspected. They were wonderful, beautiful eyes, and the little
company of idlers at the station were promptly bewitched by them.
Moreover there was a fantastic little dimple in her right cheek that
flashed into view at the same time with the gleam of pearly teeth when
she smiled. She certainly was a picture. The station looked its fill and
rejoiced in her young beauty.
She was garbed in a dark green riding habit, the same that she wore when
she rode attended by her groom in Central Park. It made a sensation
among the onlookers, as did the little riding cap of dark green velvet
and the pretty riding gloves. She sat her pony well, daintily, as though
she had alighted briefly, but to their eyes strangely, and not as the
women out there rode. On the whole the station saw little else but the
girl; all the others were mere accessories to the picture.
They noticed indeed that the young man, whose close cropped golden
curls, and dark lashed blue eyes were so like the girl's that he could
be none other than her brother, rode beside the older man who was
presumably the father; and that the dark, handsome stranger rode away
beside the girl. Not a man of them but resented it. Not a woman of them
but regretted it.
Then Shag Bunce, with a parting word to his small but complete outfit
that rode behind, put spurs to his horse, lifted his sombrero in homage
to the lady, and shot to the front of the line, his shaggy mane by which
came his name floating over his shoulders. Out into the sunshine of a
perfect day the riders went, and the group around the platform stood
silently and watched until they were a speck in the distance blurring
with the sunny plain and occasional ash and cottonwood trees.
"I seen the missionary go by early this mornin'," speculated the station
agent meditatively, deliberately, as though he only had a right to break
the silence. "I wonder whar he could 'a' bin goin'. He passed on t'other
side the track er I'd 'a' ast 'im. He 'peared in a turrible hurry.
Anybody sick over towards the canyon way?"
"Buck's papoose heap sick!" muttered an immobile Indian, and shuffled
off the platform with a stolid face. The women heaved a sigh of
disappointment and turned to go. The show was out and they must return
to the monotony of their lives. They wondered what it would be like to
ride off like that into the sunshine with cheeks like roses and eyes
that saw nothing but pleasure ahead. What would a life like that be?
Awed, speculative, they went back to their sturdy children and their
ill-kempt houses, to sit in the sun on the door-steps and muse a while.
Into the sunshine rode Hazel Radcliffe well content with the world,
herself, and her escort.
Milton Hamar was good company. He was keen of wit and a past-master in
the delicate art of flattery. That he was fabulously wealthy and
popular in New York society; that he was her father's friend both
socially and financially, and had been much of late in their home on
account of some vast mining enterprise in which both were interested;
and that his wife was said to be uncongenial and always interested in
other men rather than her husband, were all facts that combined to give
Hazel a pleasant, half-romantic interest in the man by her side. She had
been conscious of a sense of satisfaction and pleasant anticipation when
her father told her that he was to be of their party. His wit and
gallantry would make up for the necessity of having her Aunt Maria
along. Aunt Maria was always a damper to anything she came near. She was
the personification of propriety. She had tried to make Hazel think she
must remain in the car and rest that day instead of going off on a wild
goose chase after a mine. No lady did such things, she told her niece.
Hazel's laugh rang out like the notes of a bird as the two rode slowly
down the trail, not hurrying, for there was plenty of time. They could
meet the others on their way back if they did not get to the mine so
soon, and the morning was lovely.
Milton Hamar could appreciate the beauties of nature now and then. He
called attention to the line of hills in the distance, and the sharp
steep peak of a mountain piercing the sunlight. Then skillfully he led
his speech around to his companion, and showed how lovelier than the
morning she was.
He had been indulging in such delicate flattery since they first started
from New York, whenever the indefatigable aunt left them alone long
enough, but this morning there was a note of something closer and more
intimate in his words; a warmth of tenderness that implied unspeakable
joy in her beauty, such as he had never dared to use before. It
flattered her pride deliciously. It was beautiful to be young and
charming and have a man say such things with a look like that in his
eyes--eyes that had suffered, and appealed to her to pity. With her
young, innocent heart she did pity, and was glad she might solace his
sadness a little while.
With consummate skill the man led her to talk of himself, his hopes in
youth, his disappointments, his bitter sadness, his heart loneliness. He
suddenly asked her to call him Milton, and the girl with rosy cheeks and
dewy eyes declared shyly that she never could, it would seem so queer,
but she finally compromised after much urging on "Cousin Milton."
"That will do for a while," he succumbed, smiling as he looked at her
with impatient eyes. Then with growing intimacy in his tones he laid a
detaining hand upon hers that held the bridle, and the horses both
slackened their gait, though they had been far behind the rest of the
party for over an hour now.
"Listen, little girl," he said, "I'm going to open my heart to you. I'm
going to tell you a secret."
Hazel sat very still, half alarmed at his tone, not daring to withdraw
her hand, for she felt the occasion was momentous and she must be ready
with her sympathy as any true friend would be. Her heart swelled with
pride that it was to her he came in his trouble. Then she looked up into
the face that was bending over hers, and she saw triumph, not trouble,
in his eyes. Even then she did not understand.
"What is it?" she asked trustingly.
"Dear child!" said the man of the world impressively, "I knew you would
be interested. Well, I will tell you. I have told you of my sorrow, now
I will tell you of my joy. It is this: When I return to New York I shall
be a free man. Everything is complete at last. I have been granted a
divorce from Ellen, and there remain only a few technicalities to be
attended to. Then we shall be free to go our ways and do as we choose."
"A divorce!" gasped Hazel appalled. "Not you--divorced!"
"Yes," affirmed the happy man gaily, "I knew you'd be surprised. It's
almost too good to be true, isn't it, after all my trouble to get Ellen
to consent?"
"But she--your wife--where will she go? What will she do?" Hazel looked
up at him with troubled eyes, half bewildered with the thought.
She did not realize that the horses had stopped and that he still held
her hand which grasped the bridle.
"Oh, Ellen will be married at once," he answered flippantly. "That's the
reason she's consented at last. She's going to marry Walling Stacy, you
know, and from being stubborn about it, she's quite in a hurry to make
any arrangement to fix things up now."
"She's going to be married!" gasped Hazel as if she had not heard of
such things often. Somehow it had never come quite so close to her list
of friendships before and it shocked her inexpressibly.
"Yes, she's going to be married at once, so you see there's no need to
think of her ever again. But why don't you ask me what I am going to
do?"
"Oh, yes!" said Hazel recalling her lack of sympathy at once. "You
startled me so. What are you going to do? You poor man--what can you do?
Oh, I am so sorry for you!" and the pansy-eyes became suffused with
tears.
"No need to feel sorry for me, little one," said the exultant voice, and
he looked at her now with an expression she had never seen in his face
before. "I shall be happy as I have never dreamed of before," he said.
"I am going to be married too. I am going to marry some one who loves me
with all her heart, I am sure of that, though she has never told me so.
I am going to marry you, little sweetheart!" He stooped suddenly before
she could take in the meaning of his words, and flinging his free arm
about her pressed his lips upon hers.
With a wild cry like some terrified creature Hazel tried to draw herself
away, and finding herself held fast her quick anger rose and she lifted
the hand which held the whip and blindly slashed the air about her; her
eyes closed, her heart swelling with horror and fear. A great repulsion
for the man whom hitherto she had regarded with deep respect surged over
her. To get away from him at once was her greatest desire. She lashed
out again with her whip, blindly, not seeing what she struck, almost
beside herself with wrath and fear.
Hamar's horse reared and plunged, almost unseating his rider, and as he
struggled to keep his seat, having necessarily released the girl from
his embrace, the second cut of the whip took him stingingly across the
eyes, causing him to cry out with the pain. The horse reared again and
sent him sprawling upon the ground, his hands to his face, his senses
one blank of pain for the moment.
Hazel, knowing only that she was free, followed an instinct of fear and
struck her own pony on the flank, causing the little beast to turn
sharply to right angles with the trail he had been following and dart
like a streak across the level plateau. Thereafter the girl had all she
could do to keep her seat.
She had been wont to enjoy a run in the Park with her groom at safe
distance behind her. She was proud of her ability to ride, and could
take fences as well as her young brother; but a run like this across an
illimitable space, on a creature of speed like the wind, goaded by fear
and knowing the limitations of his rider, was a different matter. The
swift flight took her breath away, and unnerved her. She tried to hold
on to the saddle with her shaking hands, for the bridle was already
flying loose to the breeze, but her hold seemed so slight that each
moment she expected to find herself lying huddled on the plain with the
pony far in the distance.
Her lips grew white and cold; her breath came short and painfully; her
eyes were strained with trying to look ahead at the constantly receding
horizon. Was there no end? Would they never come to a human habitation?
Would no one ever come to her rescue? How long could a pony stand a pace
like this? And how long could she hope to hold on to the furious flying
creature?
Off to the right at last she thought she saw a building. It seemed hours
they had been flying through space. In a second they were close by it.
It was a cabin, standing alone upon the great plain with sage-brush in
patches about the door and a neat rail fence around it.
She could see one window at the end, and a tiny chimney at the back.
Could it be that any one lived in such a forlorn spot?
Summoning all her strength as they neared the spot she flung her voice
out in a wild appeal while the pony hurled on, but the wind caught the
feeble effort and flung it away into the vast spaces like a little torn
worthless fragment of sound.
Tears stung their way into her wide dry eyes. The last hairpin left its
mooring and slipped down to earth. The loosened golden hair streamed
back on the wind like hands of despair wildly clutching for help, and
the jaunty green riding cap was snatched by the breeze and hung upon a
sage-bush not fifty feet from the cabin gate, but the pony rushed on
with the frightened girl still clinging to the saddle.
II
THE MAN
About noon of the same day the missionary halted his horse on the edge
of a great flat-topped mesa and looked away to the clear blue mountains
in the distance.
John Brownleigh had been in Arizona for nearly three years, yet the
wonder of the desert had not ceased to charm him, and now as he stopped
his horse to rest, his eyes sought the vast distances stretched in every
direction, and revelled in the splendour of the scene.
Those mountains at which he was gazing were more than a hundred miles
from him, and yet they stood out clear and distinct in the wonderful
air, and seemed but a short journey away.
Below him were ledges of rock in marvellous colours, yellow and gray,
crimson and green piled one upon another, with the strange light of the
noonday sun playing over them and turning their colours into a blaze of
glory. Beyond was a stretch of sand, broken here and there by
sage-brush, greasewood, or cactus rearing its prickly spines
grotesquely.
Off to the left were pink tinted cliffs and a little farther dark
cone-like buttes. On the other hand low brown and white hills stretched
away to the wonderful petrified forest, where great tracts of fallen
tree trunks and chips lay locked in glistening stone.
To the south he could see the familiar water-hole, and farther the
entrance to the canyon, fringed with cedars and pines. The grandeur of
the scene impressed him anew.
"Beautiful, beautiful!" he murmured, "and a grand God to have it so!"
Then a shadow of sadness passed over his face, and he spoke again aloud
as had come to be his habit in this vast loneliness.
"I guess it is worth it," he said, "worth all the lonely days and
discouraging months and disappointments, just to be alone with a
wonderful Father like mine!"
He had just come from a three days' trip in company with another
missionary whose station was a two days' journey by horseback from his
own, and whose cheery little home was presided over by a sweet-faced
woman, come recently from the East to share his fortunes. The delicious
dinner prepared for her husband and his guests, the air of comfort in
the three-roomed shack, the dainty touches that showed a woman's hand,
had filled Brownleigh with a noble envy. Not until this visit had he
realized how very much alone his life was.
He was busy of course from morning till night, and his enthusiasm for
his work was even greater than when nearly three years before he had
been sent out by the Board to minister to the needs of the Indians.
Friends he had by the score. Wherever a white man or trader lived in the
region he was always welcome; and the Indians knew and loved his coming.
He had come around this way now to visit an Indian hogan where the
shadow of death was hovering over a little Indian maiden beloved of her
father. It had been a long way around and the missionary was weary with
many days in the saddle, but he was glad he had come. The little maid
had smiled to see him, and felt that the dark valley of death seemed
more to her now like one of her own flower-lit canyons that led out to a
brighter, wider day, since she had heard the message of life he brought
her.
But as he looked afar over the long way he had come, and thought of the
bright little home where he had dined the day before, the sadness still
lingered in his face.
"It would be good to have somebody like that," he said, aloud again,
"somebody to expect me, and be glad,--but then"--thoughtfully--"I
suppose there are not many girls who are willing to give up their homes
and go out to rough it as she has done. It is a hard life for a
woman--for that kind of a woman!" A pause, then, "And I wouldn't want
any other kind!"
His eyes grew large with wistfulness. It was not often thus that the
cheery missionary stopped to think upon his own lot in life. His heart
was in his work, and he could turn his hand to anything. There was
always plenty to be done. Yet to-day for some inexplicable reason, for
the first time since he had really got into the work and outgrown his
first homesickness, he was hungry for companionship. He had seen a light
in the eyes of his fellow-missionary that spoke eloquently of the
comfort and joy he himself had missed and it struck deep into his heart.
He had stopped here on this mesa, with the vast panorama of the desert
spread before him, to have it out with himself.
The horse breathed restfully, drooping his head and closing his eyes to
make the most of the brief respite, and the man sat thinking, trying to
fill his soul with the beauty of the scene and crowd out the longings
that had pressed upon him. Suddenly he raised his head with a quiet
upward motion and said reverently:
"Oh, my Christ, you knew what this loneliness was! You were lonely too!
It is the way you went, and I will walk with you! That will be good."
He sat for a moment with uplifted face towards the vast sky, his fine
strong features touched with a tender light, their sadness changing into
peace. Then with the old cheery brightness coming into his face again he
returned to the earth and its duties.
"Billy, it's time we were getting on," he remarked to his horse
chummily. "Do you see that sun in the heavens? It'll get there before we
do if we don't look out, and we're due at the fort to-night if we can
possibly make it. We had too much vacation, that's about the size of it,
and we're spoiled! We're lazy, Billy! We'll have to get down to work.
Now how about it? Can we get to that water-hole in half an hour? Let's
try for it, old fellow, and then we'll have a good drink, and a bite to
eat, and maybe ten minutes for a nap before we take the short trail
home. There's some of the corn chop left for you, Billy, so hustle up,
old boy, and get there."
Billy, with an answering snort, responded to his master's words, and
carefully picked his way over boulders and rocks down to the valley
below.
But within a half mile of the water-hole the young man suddenly halted
his horse and sprang from the saddle, stooping in the sand beside a tall
yucca to pick up something that gleamed like fire in the sunlight. In
all that brilliant glowing landscape a bit of brightness had caught his
eye and insistently flung itself upon his notice as worthy of
investigation. There was something about the sharp light it flung that
spoke of another world than the desert. John Brownleigh could not pass
it by. It might be only a bit of broken glass from an empty flask flung
carelessly aside, but it did not look like that. He must see.
Wondering he stooped and picked it up, a bit of bright gold on the
handle of a handsome riding whip. It was not such a whip as people in
this region carried; it was dainty, costly, elegant, a lady's riding
whip! It spoke of a world of wealth and attention to expensive details,
as far removed from this scene as possible. Brownleigh stood still in
wonder and turned the pretty trinket over in his hand. Now how did that
whip come to be lying in a bunch of sage-brush on the desert? Jewelled,
too, and that must have given the final keen point of light to the flame
which made him stop short in the sand to pick it up. It was a single
clear stone of transparent yellow, a topaz likely, he thought, but
wonderfully alive with light, set in the end of the handle, and looking
closely he saw a handsome monogram engraved on the side, and made out
the letters H. R. But that told him nothing.
With knit brows he pondered, one foot in the stirrup, the other still
upon the desert, looking at the elegant toy. Now who, _who_ would be so
foolish as to bring a thing like that into the desert? There were no
lady riders anywhere about that he knew, save the major's sister at the
military station, and she was most plain in all her appointments. This
frivolous implement of horsemanship never belonged to the major's
sister. Tourists seldom came this way. What did it mean?
He sprang into the saddle and shading his eyes with his hand scanned the
plain, but only the warm shimmer of sun-heated earth appeared. Nothing
living could be seen. What ought he to do about it? Was there any way he
might find out the owner and restore the lost property?
Pondering thus, his eyes divided between the distance and the glittering
whip-handle, they came to the water-hole; and Brownleigh dismounted, his
thoughts still upon the little whip.
"It's very strange, Billy. I can't make out a theory that suits me," he
mused aloud. "If any one has been riding out this way and lost it, will
they perhaps return and look for it? Yet if I leave it where I found it
the sand might drift over it at any time. And surely, in this sparsely
settled country, I shall be able to at least hear of any strangers who
might have carried such a foolish little thing. Then, too, if I leave it
where I found it some one might steal it. Well, I guess we'll take it
with us, Billy; we'll hear of the owner somewhere some time no doubt."
The horse answered with a snort of satisfaction as he lifted his moist
muzzle from the edge of the water and looked contentedly about.
The missionary unstrapped his saddle and flung it on the ground,
unfastening the bag of "corn chop" and spreading it conveniently before
his dumb companion. Then he set about gathering a few sticks from near
at hand and started a little blaze. In a few minutes the water was
bubbling cheerfully in his little folding tin cup for a cup of tea, and
a bit of bacon was frying in a diminutive skillet beside it. Corn bread
and tea and sugar came from the capacious pockets of the saddle. Billy
and his missionary made a good meal beneath the wide bright quiet of the
sky.
When the corn chop was finished Billy let his long lashes droop lower
and lower, and his nose go down and down until it almost touched the
ground, dreaming of more corn chop, and happy in having his wants
supplied. But his master, stretched at full length upon the ground with
hat drawn over his eyes, could not lose himself in sleep for a second.
His thoughts were upon the jewelled whip, and by and by he reached his
hand out for it, and shoving back his hat lay watching the glinting of
lights within the precious heart of the topaz, as the sun caught and
tangled its beams in the sharp facets of the cutting. He puzzled his
mind to know how the whip came to be in the desert, and what was meant
by it. One reads life by details in that wide and lonely land. This whip
might mean something. But what?
At last he dropped his hand and sitting up with his upward glance he
said aloud:
"Father, if there's any reason why I ought to look for the owner, guide
me."
He spoke as if the One he addressed were always present in his
consciousness, and they were on terms of the closest intimacy.
He sprang up then and began putting the things together, as if the
burden of the responsibility were upon One fully able to bear it.
They were soon on their way again, Billy swinging along with the full
realization of the nearness of home.
The way now led towards hazy blue lines of mesas with crags and ridges
here and there. Across the valley, looking like a cloud-shadow, miles
distant lay a long black streak, the line of the gorge of the canyon.
Its dim presence seemed to grow on the missionary's thought as he drew
nearer. He had not been to that canyon for more than a month. There were
a few scattered Indians living with their families here and there in
corners where there was a little soil. The thought of them drew him now.
He must make out to go to them soon. If it were not that Billy had been
so far he would go up there this afternoon. But the horse needed rest
if the man did not, and there was of course no real hurry about the
matter. He would go perhaps in the morning. Meantime it would be good to
get to his own fireside once more and attend to a few letters that
should be written. He was invited to the fort that night for dinner.
There was to be some kind of a frolic, some visitors from the East. He
had said he would come if he reached home in time. He probably would,
but the idea was not attractive just now. He would rather rest and read
and go to sleep early. But then, of course he would go. Such
opportunities were none too frequent in this lonely land, though in his
present mood the gay doings at the fort did not appeal to him strongly;
besides it meant a ride of ten miles further. However, of course he
would go. He fell to musing over the whip again, and in due time he
arrived at his own home, a little one-roomed shanty with a chimney at
the back and four big windows. At the extreme end of the fenced
enclosure about the structure was a little shed for Billy, and all about
was the vast plain dotted with bushes and weeds, with its panorama of
mountain and hill, valley and gorge. It was beautiful, but it was
desolate. There were neighbours, a few, but they lived at magnificent
distances.
"We ought to have a dog, Billy! Why don't we get a dog to welcome us
home?" said Brownleigh, slapping the horse's neck affectionately as he
sprang from the saddle; "but then a dog would go along with us, wouldn't
he, so there'd be three of us to come home instead of two, and that
wouldn't do any good. Chickens? How would that do? But the coyotes would
steal them. I guess we'll have to get along with each other, old
fellow."
The horse, relieved of his saddle, gave a shake of comfort as a man
might stretch himself after a weary journey, and trotted into his shed.
Brownleigh made him comfortable and turned to go to the house.
As he walked along by the fence he caught sight of a small dark object
hanging on a sage-bush a short distance from the front of his house. It
seemed to move slightly, and he stopped and watched it a second thinking
it might be some animal caught in the bush, or in hiding. It seemed to
stir again as objects watched intently often will, and springing over
the rail fence Brownleigh went to investigate. Nothing in that country
was left to uncertainty. Men liked to know what was about them.
As he neared the bush, however, the object took on a tangible form and
colour, and coming closer he picked it up and turned it over clumsily in
his hand. A little velvet riding cap, undoubtedly a lady's, with the
name of a famous New York costumer wrought in silk letters in the
lining. Yes, there was no question about its being a lady's cap, for a
long gleaming golden hair, with an undoubted tendency to curl, still
clung to the velvet. A sudden embarrassment filled him, as though he had
been handling too intimately another's property unawares. He raised his
eyes and shaded them with his hand to look across the landscape, if
perchance the owner might be at hand, though even as he did so he felt a
conviction that the little velvet cap belonged to the owner of the whip
which he still held in his other hand. H. R. Where was H. R., and who
could she be?
For some minutes he stood thinking it out, locating the exact spot in
his memory where he had found the whip. It had not been on any regular
trail. That was strange. He stooped to see if there were any further
evidences of passers-by, but the slight breeze had softly covered all
definite marks. He was satisfied, however, after examining the ground
about for some distance either way, that there could have been but one
horse. He was wise in the lore of the trail. By certain little things
that he saw or did not see he came to this conclusion.
Just as he was turning to go back to his cabin he came to a halt again
with an exclamation of wonder, for there close at his feet, half hidden
under a bit of sage, lay a small shell comb. He stooped and picked it up
in triumph.
"I declare, I have quite a collection," he said aloud. "Are there any
more? By these tokens I may be able to find her after all." And he
started with a definite purpose and searched the ground for several rods
ahead, then going back and taking a slightly different direction, he
searched again and yet again, looking back each time to get his bearings
from the direction where he had found the whip, arguing that the horse
must likely have taken a pretty straight line and gone at a rapid pace.
He was rewarded at last by finding two shell hairpins, and near them a
single hoof print, that, sheltered by a heavy growth of sage, had
escaped the obliteration of the wind. This he knelt and studied
carefully, taking in all the details of size and shape and direction;
then, finding no more hairpins or combs, he carefully put his booty into
his pocket and hurried back to the cabin, his brow knit in deep
thought.
"Father, is this Thy leading?" He paused at the door and looked up. He
opened the door and stepped within. The restfulness of the place called
to him to stay.
There was the wide fireplace with a fire laid all ready for the touch of
a match that would bring the pleasant blaze to dispel the loneliness of
the place. There was the easy chair, his one luxury, with its leather
cushions and reclining back; his slippers on the floor close by; the
little table with its well-trimmed student lamp, his college paper and
the one magazine that kept him in touch with the world freshly arrived
before he left for his recent trip, and still unopened. How they called
to him! Yet when he laid the whip upon the magazine the slanting ray of
sun that entered by the door caught the glory of the topaz and sent it
scintillating, and somehow the magazine lost its power to hold him.
One by one he laid his trophies down beside the whip; the velvet cap,
the hairpins and the little comb, and then stood back startled with the
wonder of it and looked about his bachelor quarters.
It was a pleasant spot, far lovelier than its weather-stained exterior
would lead one to suppose. A Navajo blanket hung upon one wall above
the bed, and another enwrapped and completely covered the bed itself,
making a spot of colour in the room, and giving an air of luxury. Two
quaint rugs of Indian workmanship upon the floor, one in front of the
bed, the other before the fireplace where one's feet would rest when
sitting in the big chair, did much to hide the discrepancies of the ugly
floor. A rough set of shelves at the side of the fireplace handy to
reach from the easy chair were filled with treasures of great minds, the
books he loved well, all he could afford to bring with him, a few
commentaries, not many, an encyclopedia, a little biography, a few
classics, botany, biology, astronomy and a much worn Bible. On the wall
above was a large card catalogue of Indian words; and around the room
were some of his own pencil drawings of plants and animals.
Over in the opposite end of the room from the bed was a table covered
with white oilcloth; and on the wall behind, the cupboard which held his
dishes, and his stock of provisions. It was a pleasant spot and well
ordered, for he never liked to leave his quarters in disarray lest some
one might enter during his absence, or come back with him. Besides, it
was pleasanter so to return to it. A rough closet of goodly proportions
held his clothes, his trunk, and any other stores.
He stood and looked about it now and then let his eyes travel back to
those small feminine articles on the little table beside him. It gave
him a strange sensation. What if they belonged there? What if the owner
of them lived there, was coming in in a minute now to meet him? How
would it seem? What would she be like? For just an instant he let
himself dream, and reaching out touched the velvet of the cap, then took
it in his hand and smoothed its silken surface. A faint perfume of
another world seemed to steal from its texture, and to linger on his
hands. He drew a breath of wonder and laid it down; then with a start he
came to himself. Suppose she did belong, and were out somewhere and he
did not know where? Suppose something had happened to her--the horse run
away, thrown her somewhere perhaps,--or she might have strayed away from
a camp and lost her way--or been frightened?
These might be all foolish fantasies of a weary brain, but the man knew
he could not rest until he had at least made an attempt to find out. He
sank down in the big chair for a moment to think it out and closed his
eyes, making swift plans.
Billy must have a chance to rest a little; a fagged horse could not
accomplish much if the journey were far and the need for haste. He could
not go for an hour yet. And there would be preparations to make. He must
repack the saddle-bags with feed for Billy, food for himself and a
possible stranger, restoratives, and a simple remedy or two in case of
accident. These were articles he always took with him on long journeys.
He considered taking his camping tent but that would mean the wagon, and
they could not go so rapidly with that. He must not load Billy heavily,
after the miles he had already come. But he could take a bit of canvas
strapped to the saddle, and a small blanket. Of course it might be but a
wild goose chase after all--yet he could not let his impression go
unheeded.
Then there was the fort. In case he found the lady and restored her
property in time he might be able to reach the fort by evening. He must
take that into consideration also.
With alacrity he arose and went about his preparations, soon having his
small baggage in array. His own toilet came next. A bath and fresh
clothing; then, clean shaven and ready, all but his coat, he flung
himself upon his bed for ten minutes of absolute relaxation, after which
he felt himself quite fit for the expedition. Springing up he put on
coat and hat, gathered up with reverent touch the bits of things he had
found, locked his cabin and went out to Billy, a lump of sugar in his
hand.
"Billy, old fellow, we're under orders to march again," he said
apologetically, and Billy answered with a neigh of pleasure, submitting
to the saddle as though he were quite ready for anything required of
him.
"Now, Father," said the missionary with his upward look, "show us the
way."
So, taking the direction from the hoof print in the sand, Billy and his
master sped away once more into the westering light of the desert
towards the long black shadowed entrance of the canyon.
III
THE DESERT
Hazel, as she was borne along, her lovely hair streaming in the wind and
lashing her across the face and eyes now and again, breath coming
painfully, eyes smarting, fingers aching in the vise-like hold she was
compelled to keep upon the saddle, began to wonder just how long she
could hold out. It seemed to her it was a matter of minutes only when
she must let go and be whirled into space while the tempestuous steed
sped on and left her.
Nothing like this motion had ever come into her experience before. She
had been run away with once, but that was like a cradle to this tornado
of motion. She had been frightened before, but never like this. The
blood pounded in her head and eyes until it seemed it would burst forth,
and now and again the surging of it through her ears gave the sensation
of drowning, yet on and on she went. It was horrible to have no bridle,
and nothing to say about where she should go, no chance to control her
horse. It was like being on an express train with the engineer dead in
his cab and no way to get to the brakes. They must stop some time and
what then? Death seemed inevitable, and yet as the mad rush continued
she almost wished it might come and end the horror of this ride.
It seemed hours before she began to realize that the horse was no longer
going at quite such a breakneck speed, or else she was growing
accustomed to the motion and getting her breath, she could not quite be
sure which. But little by little she perceived that the mad flying had
settled into a long lope. The pony evidently had no intention of
stopping and it was plain that he had some distinct place in mind to
which he was going as straight and determinedly as any human being ever
laid out a course and forged ahead in it. There was that about his whole
beastly contour that showed it was perfectly useless to try to deter him
from it or to turn him aside.
When her breath came less painfully, Hazel made a fitful little attempt
to drop a quiet word of reason into his ear.
"Nice pony, nice, good pony----!" she soothed, but the wind caught her
voice and flung it aside as it had flung her cap a few moments before,
and the pony only laid his ears back and fled stolidly on.
She gathered her forces again.
"Nice pony! Whoa, sir!" she cried, a little louder than the last time
and trying to make her voice sound firm and commanding.
But the pony had no intention of "whoa-ing," and though she repeated the
command many times, her voice growing each time more firm and normal, he
only showed the whites of his eyes at her and continued doggedly on his
way.
She saw it was useless; and the tears, usually with her under fine
control, came streaming down her white cheeks.
"Pony, good horse, _dear_ pony, won't you stop!" she cried and her words
ended with a sob. But still the pony kept on.
The desert fled about her yet seemed to grow no shorter ahead, and the
dark line of cloud mystery, with the towering mountains beyond, were no
nearer than when she first started. It seemed much like riding on a
rocking-horse, one never got anywhere, only no rocking-horse flew at
such a speed.
Yet she realized now that the pace was much modified from what it had
been at first, and the pony's motion was not hard. If she had not been
so stiff and sore in every joint and muscle with the terrible tension
she had kept up the riding would not have been at all bad. But she was
conscious of most terrible weariness, a longing to drop down on the sand
of the desert and rest, not caring whether she ever went on again or
not. She had never felt such terrible weariness in her life.
She could hold on now with one hand, and relax the muscles of the other
a little. She tried with one hand presently to do something with that
sweeping pennant of hair that lashed her in the face so unexpectedly now
and then, but could only succeed in twisting it about her neck and
tucking the ends into the neck of her riding habit; and from this frail
binding it soon slipped free again.
She was conscious of the heat of the sun on her bare head, the smarting
of her eyes. The pain in her chest was subsiding, and she could breathe
freely again, but her heart felt tired, so tired, and she wanted to lie
down and cry. Would she never get anywhere and be helped?
How soon would her father and brother miss her and come after her? When
she dared she looked timidly behind, and then again more lingeringly,
but there was nothing to be seen but the same awful stretch of distance
with mountains of bright colour in the boundaries everywhere; not a
living thing but herself and the pony to be seen. It was awful.
Somewhere between herself and the mountains behind was the place she had
started from, but the bright sun shone steadily, hotly down and
shimmered back again from the bright earth, and nothing broke the awful
repose of the lonely space. It was as if she had suddenly been caught up
and flung out into a world where was no other living being.
Why did they not come after her? Surely, surely, pretty soon she would
see them coming. They would spur their horses on when they found she had
been run away with. Her father and brother would not leave her long in
this horrible plight.
Then it occurred to her that her father and brother had been for some
time out of sight ahead before she began her race. They would not know
she was gone, at once; but of course Mr. Hamar would do something. He
would not leave her helpless. The habit of years of trusting him assured
her of that. For the instant she had forgotten the cause of her flight.
Then suddenly she remembered it with sickening thought. He who had been
to her a brave fine hero, suffering daily through the carelessness of a
wife who did not understand him, had stepped down from his pedestal and
become the lowest of the low. He had dared to kiss her! He had said he
would marry her--he,--a married man! Her whole soul revolted against him
again, and now she was glad she had run away--glad the horse had taken
her so far--glad she had shown him how terrible the whole thing looked
to her. She was even glad that her father and brother were far away too,
for the present, until she should adjust herself to life once more. How
could she have faced them after what happened? How could she ever live
in the same world with that man again,--that fallen hero? How could she
ever have thought so much of him? She had almost worshipped him, and had
been so pleased when he had seemed to enjoy her company, and
complimented her by telling her she had whiled away a weary hour for
him! And he? He had been meaning--_this_--all the time! He had looked at
her with that thought in his mind! Oh--awful degradation!
There was something so revolting in the memory of his voice and face as
he had told her that she closed her eyes and shuddered as she recalled
it, and once more the tears went coursing down her cheeks and she sobbed
aloud, piteously, her head bowing lower and lower over the pony's neck,
her bright hair falling down about her shoulders and beating against the
animal's breast and knees as he ran, her stiffened fingers clutching his
mane to keep her balance, her whole weary little form drooping over his
neck in a growing exhaustion, her entire being swept by alternate waves
of anger, revulsion and fear.
Perhaps all this had its effect on the beast; perhaps somewhere in his
make-up there lay a spot, call it instinct or what you please, that
vibrated in response to the distress of the human creature he carried.
Perhaps the fact that she was in trouble drew his sympathy, wicked
little willful imp though he usually was. Certain it is that he began to
slacken his pace decidedly, until at last he was walking, and finally
stopped short and turned his head about with a troubled neigh as if to
ask her what was the matter.
The sudden cessation of the motion almost threw her from her seat; and
with new fear gripping her heart she clutched the pony's mane the
tighter and looked about her trembling. She was conscious more than
anything else of the vast spaces about her in every direction, of the
loneliness of the spot, and her own desolate condition. She had wanted
the horse to stop and let her get down to solid ground, and now that he
had done so and she might dismount a great horror filled her and she
dared not. But with the lessening of the need for keeping up the tense
strain of nerve and muscle, she suddenly began to feel that she could
not sit up any longer, that she must lie down, let go this awful strain,
stop this uncontrollable trembling which was quivering all over her
body.
The pony, too, seemed wondering, impatient that she did not dismount at
once. He turned his nose towards her again with a questioning snuff and
snort, and showed the wicked whites of his eyes in wild perplexity. Then
a panic seized her. What if he should start to run again? She would
surely be thrown this time, for her strength was almost gone. She must
get down and in some way gain possession of the bridle. With the bridle
she might perhaps hope to guide his movements, and make further wild
riding impossible.