letter. It put him miles away from her again, with years perhaps before
another sight of him. She suddenly seemed fearfully alone in a world
that no longer interested her. Where should she go; what to do with her
life now? Back to the hard grind of the hospital with nobody to care,
and the heartrending scenes and tragedies that were daily enacted?
Somehow her strength seemed to go from her at the thought. Here, too,
she had failed. She was not fit for the life, and the hospital people
had discovered it and sent her away to nurse her friend and try to get
well. They had been kind and talked about when she should return to
them, but she knew in her heart they felt her unfit and did not want her
back.
Should she go back to her home, summon her brother and aunt, and plunge
into society again? The very idea sickened her. Never again would she
care for that life, she was certain. As she searched her heart to see
what it was she really craved, if anything in the whole wide world, she
found her only interest was in the mission field of Arizona, and now
that her dear friend was gone she was cut off from knowing anything much
about that.
She gathered herself together after a while and told Amelia Ellen of the
decision of Mr. Brownleigh, and together they planned how the house
should be closed, and everything put in order to await its master's will
to return. But that night Hazel could not sleep, for suddenly, in the
midst of her sad reflections, came the thought of the letter that was
left in her trust.
It had been forgotten during the strenuous days that had followed the
death of its writer. Hazel had thought of it only once, and that on the
first morning, with a kind of comforting reflection that it would help
the son to bear his sorrow, and she was glad that it was her privilege
to put it into his hand. Then the perplexities of the occasion had
driven it from her thoughts. Now it came back like a swift light in a
dark place. There was yet the letter which she must give him. It was a
precious bond that would hold him to her for a little while longer. But
how should she give it to him?
Should she send it by mail? No, for that would not be fulfilling the
letter of her promise. She knew the mother wished her to give it to him
herself. Well, then, should she write and summon him to his old home at
once, tell him of the letter and yet refuse to send it to him? How
strange that would seem! How could she explain it to him? His mother's
whim might be sacred to him--would be, of course--but he would think it
strange that a young woman should make so much of it as not to trust the
letter to the mail now that the circumstances made it impossible for him
to come on at once.
Neither would it do for her to keep the letter until such a time as he
should see fit to return to the East and look her up. It might be years.
The puzzling question kept whirling itself about in her mind for hours
until at last she formulated a plan which seemed to solve the problem.
The plan was this. She would coax Amelia Ellen to take a trip to
California with her, and on the way they would stop in Arizona and give
the letter into the hands of the young man. By that time no doubt his
injured ankle would be sufficiently strong to allow his return from the
journey to the Indian reservation. She would say that she was going West
and, as she had promised his mother she would put the letter into his
hands, she had taken this opportunity to stop off and keep her promise.
The trip would be a good thing for Amelia Ellen too, and take her mind
off her loneliness for the mistress who was gone.
Eagerly she broached the subject to Amelia Ellen the next morning, and
was met with a blank face of dismay.
"I couldn't noways you'd fix it, my dearie," she said sadly shaking her
head. "I'd like nuthin' better'n to see them big trees out in Californy
I've been hearin' 'bout all my life; an' summer an' winter with snow on
the mountains what some of the boarders 't the inn tells 'bout; but I
can't bring it 'bout. You see it's this way. Peter Burley 'n' I ben
promused fer nigh on to twelve year now, an' when he ast me I said no, I
couldn't leave Mis' Brownleigh long's she needed me; an' he sez will I
marry him the week after she dies, an' I sez I didn't like no sech
dismal way o' puttin' it; an' he sez well, then, will I marry him the
week after she don't need me no more; an' I sez yes, I will, an' now I
gotta keep my promus! I can't go back on my faithful word. I'd like
real well to see them big trees, but I gotta keep my promus! You see
he's waited long 'nough, an' he's ben real patient. Not always he cud
get to see me every week, an' he might 'a' tuk Delmira that cooked to
the inn five year ago. She'd 'a' had him in a minnit, an' she done her
best to git him, but he stayed faithful, an' he sez, sez he, ''Meelia
El'n, ef you're meanin' to keep your word, I'll wait ef it's a lifetime,
but I hope you won't make it any longer'n you need;' an' the night he
said that I promused him agin I'd be hisn soon ez ever I was free to
do's I pleased. I'd like to see them big trees, but I can't do it. I
jes' can't do it."
Now Hazel was not a young woman who was easily balked in her plans when
once they were made. She was convinced that the only thing to do was to
take this trip and that Amelia Ellen was the only person in the world
she wanted for a companion; therefore she made immediate acquaintance
with Peter Burley, a heavy-browed, thoughtful, stolid man, who looked
his character of patient lover, every inch of him, blue overalls and
all. Hazel's heart almost misgave her as she unfolded her plan to his
astonished ears, and saw the look of blank dismay that overspread his
face. However, he had not waited all these years to refuse his
sweetheart anything in reason now. He drew a deep sigh, inquired how
long the trip as planned would take, allowed he "could wait another
month ef that would suit," and turned patiently to his barn-yard to
think his weary thoughts, and set his hopes a little further ahead. Then
Hazel's heart misgave her. She called after him and suggested that
perhaps he might like to have the marriage first and go with them,
taking the excursion as a wedding trip. She would gladly pay all
expenses if he would. But the man shook his head.
"I couldn't leave the stock fer that long, ennyhow you fix it. Thur
ain't no one would know to take my place. Besides, I never was fer
takin' journeys; but 'Meelia Ellen, she's allus ben of a sprightlier
disposition, an' ef she hez a hankerin' after Californy, I 'spect she'll
be kinder more contented like ef she sees 'em first an' then settles
down in Granville. She better go while she's got the chancet."
Amelia Ellen succumbed, albeit with tears. Hazel could not tell whether
she was more glad or sad at the prospect before her. Whiles Amelia Ellen
wept and bemoaned the fate of poor Burley, and whiles she questioned
whether there really were any big trees like what you saw in the
geographies with riding parties sitting contentedly in tunnels through
their trunks. But at last she consented to go, and with many an
injunction from the admiring and envious neighbours who came to see them
off, Amelia Ellen bade a sobbing good-bye to her solemn lover in the
gray dawn of an October morning, climbed into the stage beside Hazel,
and they drove away into the mystery of the great world. As she looked
back at her Peter, standing patient, stooped and gray in the familiar
village street, looking after his departing sweetheart who was going out
sightseeing into the world, Amelia Ellen would almost have jumped out
over the wheel and run back if it had not been for what the neighbours
would say, for her heart was Burley's; and now that the big trees were
actually pulling harder than Burley, and she had decided to go and see
them, Burley began by his very acquiescence to pull harder than the big
trees. It was a very teary Amelia Ellen who climbed into the train a few
hours later, looking back dismally, hopelessly, towards the old stage
they had just left, and wondering after all if she ever would get back
to Granville safe and alive again. Strange fears visited her of dangers
that might come to Burley during her absence, which if they did she
would never forgive herself for having left him; strange horrors of the
way of things that might hinder her return; and she began to regard her
hitherto beloved travelling companion with almost suspicion, as if she
were a conspirator against her welfare.
However, as the miles grew and the wonders of the way multiplied, Amelia
Ellen began to sit up and take notice, and to have a sort of excited
exultance that she had come; for were they not nearing the great famed
West now, and would it not soon be time to see the big trees and turn
back home again? She was almost glad she had come. She would be wholly
glad she had done so when she had got back safely home once more.
And so one evening about sunset they arrived at the little station in
Arizona which over a year ago Hazel had left in her father's private
car.
XIV
HOME
Amelia Ellen, stiff from the unaccustomed travel, powdered with the dust
of the desert, wearied with the excitement of travel and lack of sleep
amid her strange surroundings, stepped down upon the wooden platform and
surveyed the magnificent distance between herself and anywhere; observed
the vast emptiness, with awful purpling mountains and limitless
stretches of vari-coloured ground arched by a dome of sky, higher and
wider and more dazzling than her stern New Hampshire soul had ever
conceived, and turned panic-stricken back to the train which was already
moving away from the little station. Her first sensation had been one of
relief at feeling solid ground under her feet once more, for this was
the first trip into the world Amelia Ellen had ever made, and the cars
bewildered her. Her second impulse was to get back into that train as
fast as her feet could carry her and get this awful journey done so that
she might earn the right to return to her quiet home and her faithful
lover.
But the train was well under way. She looked after it half in envy. It
could go on with its work and not have to stop in this wild waste.
She gazed about again with the frightened look a child deserted gives
before it puckers its lips and screams.
Hazel was talking composedly with the rough-looking man on the platform,
who wore a wide felt hat and a pistol in his belt. He didn't look even
respectable to Amelia Ellen's provincial eyes. And behind him, horror of
horrors! loomed a real live Indian, long hair, high cheek bones, blanket
and all, just as she had seen them in the geography! Her blood ran cold!
Why, oh why, had she ever been left to do this daring thing--to leave
civilization and come away from her good man and the quiet home awaiting
her to certain death in the desert. All the stories of horrid scalpings
she had ever heard appeared before her excited vision. With a gasp she
turned again to the departing train, which had become a mere speck on
the desert, and even as she looked vanished around a curve and was lost
in the dim foot-hills of a mountain!
Poor Amelia Ellen! Her head reeled and her heart sank. The vast prairie
engulfed her, as it were, and she stood trembling and staring in dazed
expectancy of an attack from earth or air or sky. The very sky and
ground seemed tottering together and threatening to extinguish her, and
she closed her eyes, caught her breath and prayed for Peter. It had been
her habit always in any emergency to pray for Peter Burley.
It was no better when they took her to the eating-house across the
track. She picked her way among the evil-looking men, and surveyed the
long dining table with its burden of coarse food and its board seats
with disdain, declined to take off her hat when she reached the room to
which the slatternly woman showed them because she said there was no
place to lay it down that was fit; scorned the simple bed, refused to
wash her hands at the basin furnished for all, and made herself more
disagreeable than Hazel had dreamed her gentle, serviceable Amelia Ellen
ever could have been. No supper would she eat, nor would she remain long
at the table after the men began to file in, with curious eyes towards
the strangers.
She stalked to the rough, unroofed porch in the front and stared off at
the dark vastness, afraid of the wild strangeness, afraid of the
looming mountains, afraid of the multitude of stars. She said it was
ridiculous to have so many stars. It wasn't natural. It was irreverent.
It was like looking too close into heaven when you weren't intended to.
And then a blood-curdling sound arose! It made her very hair stand on
end. She turned with wild eyes and grasped Hazel's arm, but she was too
frightened to utter a sound. Hazel had just come out to sit with her.
The men out of deference to the strangers had withdrawn from their
customary smoking place on the porch to the back of the wood-pile behind
the house. They were alone--the two women--out there in the dark, with
that awful, awful sound!
Amelia Ellen's white lips framed the words "Indians"? "War-whoop"? but
her throat refused her sound and her breath came short.
"Coyotes!" laughed Hazel, secure in her wide experience, with almost a
joyous ring to her voice. The sound of those distant beasts assured her
that she was in the land of her beloved at last and her soul rejoiced.
"Coy--oh----" but Amelia Ellen's voice was lost in the recesses of her
skimpy pillow whither she had fled to bury her startled ears. She had
heard of coyotes, but she had never imagined to hear one outside of a
zoölogical garden, of which she had read and always hoped one day to
visit. There she lay on her hard little bed and quaked until Hazel,
laughing still, came to find her; but all she could get from the poor
soul was a pitiful plaint about Burley. "And what would he say if I was
to be et with one of them creatures? He'd never forgive me, never, never
s'long 's I lived! I hadn't ough' to 'a' come. I hadn't ough' to 'a'
come!"
Nothing Hazel could say would allay her fears. She listened with horror
as the girl attempted to show how harmless the beasts were by telling of
her own night ride up the canyon, and how nothing harmed her. Amelia
Ellen merely looked at her with frozen glance made fiercer by the
flickering candle flare, and answered dully: "An' you knew 'bout 'em all
'long, an' yet you brung me! It ain't what I thought you'd do! Burley,
he'll never fergive me s'long 's I live ef I get et up. It ain't ez if I
was all alone in the world, you know. I got him to think of an' I can't
afford to run no resks of bein' et, _ef you can_."
Not a wink of sleep did she get that night and when the morning dawned
and to the horrors of the night were added a telegram from a neighbour
of Burley's saying that Burley had fallen from the haymow and broken his
leg, but he sent his respects and hoped they'd have a good journey,
Amelia Ellen grew uncontrollable. She declared she would not stay in
that awful country another minute. That she would take the first train
back--back to her beloved New Hampshire which she never again would
leave so long as her life was spared, unless Burley went along. She
would not even wait until Hazel had delivered her message. How could two
lone women deliver a message in a land like that? Never, _never_ would
she ride, drive or walk, no, nor even set foot on the sand of the
desert. She would sit by the track until a train came along and she
would not even look further than she need. The frenzy of fear which
sometimes possesses simple people at sight of a great body of water, or
a roaring torrent pouring over a precipice, had taken possession of her
at sight of the desert. It filled her soul with its immensity, and poor
Amelia Ellen had a great desire to sit down on the wooden platform and
grasp firm hold of something until a train came to rescue her from this
awful emptiness which had tried to swallow her up.
Poor Peter, with his broken leg, was her weird cry! One would think she
had broken it with the wheels of the car in which she had travelled away
from him by the way she took on about it and blamed herself. The tragedy
of a broken vow and its consequences was the subject of her discourse.
Hazel laughed, then argued, and finally cried and besought; but nothing
could avail. Go she would, and that speedily, back to her home.
When it became evident that arguments and tears were of no use and that
Amelia Ellen was determined to go home with or without her, Hazel
withdrew to the front porch and took counsel with the desert in its
morning brightness, with the purple luring mountains, and the smiling
sky. Go back on the train that would stop at the station in half an
hour, with the desert there, and the wonderful land, and its strange,
wistful people, and not even see a glimpse of him she loved? Go back
with the letter still in her possession and her message still ungiven?
Never! Surely she was not afraid to stay long enough to send for him.
The woman who had fed them and sheltered them for the night would be her
protector. She would stay. There must be some woman of refinement and
culture somewhere near by to whom she could go for a few days until her
errand was performed; and what was her training in the hospital worth
if it did not give her some independence? Out here in the wild free West
women had to protect themselves. She could surely stay in the
uncomfortable quarters where she was for another day until she could get
word to the missionary. Then she could decide whether to proceed on her
journey alone to California, or to go back home. There was really no
reason why she should not travel alone if she chose; plenty of young
women did and, anyway, the emergency was not of her choosing. Amelia
Ellen would make herself sick fretting over her Burley, that was plain,
if she were detained even a few hours. Hazel came back to the nearly
demented Amelia Ellen with her chin tilted firmly and a straight little
set of her sweet lips which betokened stubbornness. The train came in a
brief space of time, and, weeping but firm, Amelia Ellen boarded it,
dismayed at the thought of leaving her dear young lady, yet stubbornly
determined to go. Hazel gave her the ticket and plenty of money, charged
the conductor to look after her, waved a brave farewell and turned back
to the desert alone.
A brief conference with the woman who had entertained them, who was also
the wife of the station agent, brought out the fact that the missionary
was not yet returned from his journey, but a message received from him a
few days before spoke of his probable return on the morrow or the day
after. The woman advised that the lady go to the fort where visitors
were always welcomed and where there were luxuries more fitted to the
stranger's habit. She eyed the dainty apparel of her guest enviously as
she spoke, and Hazel, keenly alive to the meaning of her look, realized
that the woman, like the missionary, had judged her unfit for life in
the desert. She was half determined to stay where she was until the
missionary's return, and show that she could adapt herself to any
surroundings, but she saw that the woman was anxious to have her gone.
It probably put her out to have a guest of another world than her own.
The woman told her that a trusty Indian messenger was here from the fort
and was riding back soon. If the lady cared she could get a horse and go
under his escort. She opened her eyes in wonder when Hazel asked if
there was to be a woman in the party, and whether she could not leave
her work for a little while and ride over with them if she would pay her
well for the service.
"Oh, you needn't bring none o' them fine lady airs out here!" she
declared rudely. "We-all ain't got time fer no sech foolery. You needn't
be afraid to go back with Joe. He takes care of the women at the fort.
He'll look after you fine. You'll mebbe kin hire a horse to ride, an'
strop yer baggage on. Yer trunk ye kin leave here."
Hazel, half frightened at the position she had allowed herself to be
placed in, considered the woman's words, and when she had looked upon
the Indian's stolid countenance decided to accept his escort. He was an
old man with furrowed face and sad eyes that looked as if they could
tell great secrets, but there was that in his face that made her trust
him, she knew not why.
An hour later, her most necessary baggage strapped to the back of the
saddle on a wicked-looking little pony, Hazel, with a sense of deep
excitement, mounted and rode away behind the solemn, silent Indian. She
was going to the fort to ask shelter, until her errand was accomplished,
of the only women in that region who would be likely to take her in. She
had a feeling that the thing she was doing was a most wild and
unconventional proceeding and would come under the grave condemnation of
her aunt, and all her New York friends. She was most thankful that they
were far away and could not interfere, for somehow she felt that she
must do it anyway. She must put that letter, with her own hands, into
the possession of its owner.
It was a most glorious morning. The earth and the heavens seemed newly
made for the day. Hazel felt a gladness in her soul that would not down,
even when she thought of poor Amelia Ellen crouched in her corner of the
sleeper, miserable at her desertion, yet determined to go. She thought
of the dear mother, and wondered if 'twere given to her to know now how
she was trying to fulfill her last wish. It was pleasant to think she
knew and was glad, and Hazel felt as though her presence were near and
protecting her.
The silent Indian made few remarks. He rode ahead always with a grave,
thoughtful expression, like a student whose thoughts are not to be
disturbed. He nodded gravely in answer to the questions Hazel asked him
whenever they stopped to water the horses, but he volunteered no
information beyond calling her attention to a lame foot her pony was
developing.
Several times Joe got down and examined the pony's foot, and shook his
head, with a grunt of worried disapproval. Presently as the miles went
by Hazel began to notice the pony's lameness herself, and became alarmed
lest he would break down altogether in the midst of the desert. Then
what would the Indian do? Certainly not give her his horse and foot it,
as the missionary had done. She could not expect that every man in this
desert was like the one who had cared for her before. What a foolish
girl she had been to get herself into this fix! And now there was no
father to send out search parties for her, and no missionary at home to
find her!
The dust, the growing heat of the day, and the anxiety began to wear
upon her. She was tired and hungry, and when at noon the Indian
dismounted beside a water-hole where the water tasted of sheep who had
passed through but a short time before, and handed her a package of corn
bread and cold bacon, while he withdrew to the company of the horses for
his own siesta, she was feign to put her head down on the coarse grass
and weep for her folly in coming out to this wild country alone, or at
least in being so headstrong as to stay when Amelia Ellen deserted her.
Then the thought suddenly occurred to her: how would Amelia Ellen have
figured in this morning's journey on horseback; and instead of weeping
she fell to laughing almost hysterically.
She munched the corn bread--the bacon she could not eat--and wondered if
the woman at the stopping-place had realized what an impossible lunch
she had provided for her guest. However, here was one of the tests. She
was not worth much if a little thing like coarse food annoyed her so
much. She drank some of the bitter water, and bravely ate a second piece
of corn bread and tried to hope her pony would be all right after his
rest. But it was evident after they had gone a mile or two further that
the pony was growing worse. He lagged, and limped, and stopped, and it
seemed almost cruel to urge him further, yet what could be done? The
Indian rode behind now, watching him and speaking in low grunts to him
occasionally, and finally they came in sight of a speck of a building in
the distance. Then the Indian spoke. Pointing towards the distant
building, which seemed too tiny for human habitation, he said: "Aneshodi
hogan. Him friend me. Lady stay. Me come back good horse. Pony no go
more. He bad!"
Dismay filled the heart of the lady. She gathered that her guide wished
to leave her by the way while he went on for another horse, and maybe
he would return and maybe not. Meantime, what kind of a place was he
leaving her in? Would there be a woman there? Even if she were an Indian
woman that would not be so bad. "Aneshodi" sounded as if it might be a
woman's name.
"Is this Aneshodi a woman?" she questioned.
The Indian shook his head and grunted. "Na, na. Aneshodi, Aneshodi. Him
friend me. Him good friend. No woman!" (In scorn.)
"Is there no woman in the house?" she asked anxiously.