A Son of the Solitudes
Wonderingly Howard watched the man come on. For a moment he believed
that the new-comer had gone both mad and blind. For the roving eyes
were terrible to look into, black pools of misery, and the mouth was
distended and the stumbling feet did not turn aside for scrub-brush or
rock. From the waist up the gaunt coppery body was naked; of a ragged
pair of overalls held up by a rawhide thong one leg was gone; the feet
were bare.
'Hey there, _compañero_,' called Howard. 'Where are you going?'
It was no longer a question of breed or Indian now. Despite the grime
that made a mask over the face the features were unmistakably those of
a pure-bred Hopi; the shape of the body that of the desert Indian. He
had the small shoulders, the thin arms and the powerful iron legs of
his people. He was passing only a dozen steps from Howard. He stopped
at the sound of the voice, stared wildly and then sagged on by. Howard
called again and then followed, bewildered. The Indian fell twice
before he came to the spot where there should be water. Here he went
down on his stomach, putting his face down as though to drink. Howard
heard him groan when the bleared eyes saw that instead of water there
was but blazing hot sand. The Indian made no other sound but merely
rolled over on his back and lay very still, eyes shut, jaw dropping,
hands lax at his sides.
'You poor devil!' muttered Howard.
He came to the prostrate figure. Now he noted that from the
string-belt there hung at one hip a little buckskin bag; it might have
held a handful of dried meat. Tied at the other hip was a bundle of
feathers that made gay colour against the grey monotony, feathers of
the bluebird, the redbird, blackbird and dove. Scabbardless, tied with
a bit of thong close to the feathers, was a knife with a long blade.
The Indian's chest heaved spasmodically; his breath came in dry gasps.
Howard stooped over him and called to him softly. The eyes flew open
and, after a heavy gathering of the brows bespeaking the effort made,
focussed upon Howard's.
'_Agua_,' pleaded the swollen lips.
Howard took up a sardine tin, the contents of which he had eaten while
he rested, and, very careful not to spill a drop of the priceless
fluid, poured it half full from his canteen. Then he knelt and put an
arm about the gaunt body, lifting it a little, offering the water to
the broken lips. Now he noted that the cloth about the black head of
hair was stained with blood.
He had expected the man to drink thirstily. Instead, manifesting a
display of will power such as the white man had never seen, the Indian
took the water slowly, held it a moment in his mouth, swallowed it drop
by drop.
'More,' he said when the tin was emptied.
Again Howard filled it. Now the Indian sat upright alone and drank.
Afterwards he looked at Howard with a long, piercing regard. A second
time he said 'More.'
Howard with his finger indicated how low his water was.
'Not much water, _compañero_,' he said quietly. 'Pretty soon all gone.'
'No more?' queried the Indian sharply.
Howard poured out the third small tin; altogether he was giving the
poor devil only about a cupful when a quart would have been all
inadequate. Again the keen black eyes that seemed clearer now and like
a bird's probed at him. Again and as before, the Indian drank.
'Me Kish Taka,' he announced slowly and with a certain dignity. 'Come
far, head hurt, much sick, much blood. Pretty soon, no water, die.
Now, pretty good.'
Howard grunted. That a man in this fellow's shape should declare
himself as being 'pretty good' was worth any man's snort. He looked as
though he would be dead in ten minutes as he lay back and shut his
eyes. With his eyes still shut, the Indian spoke again:
'You _sabe_ other water-hole?'
'No. I found it dry.'
'Kish Taka _sabe_ water-hole. Sleep now, damn tired, damn hot, head
sick. Sun go down, get cold, Kish Taka go there, you come, get water.'
'Where?' demanded Howard quickly. 'How far?' For he was half inclined
to believe that if Kish Taka went to sleep now he would never wake.
The long, thin arm pointed out to the south-west.
'Not too far,' he said. 'Two big high mountain, some tree, water
there. Maybe twenty-five mile.'
'Good God!' exclaimed Howard. 'Twenty-five miles! Might as well be a
thousand!'
The Indian did not answer. He was breathing regularly, his lips were
closed. For five minutes Howard stood looking down upon him and then
he tiptoed a few yards away; Kish Taka was evidently asleep. Howard
set his canteen down in the shade of a bush, found another bush for
himself, and lay as the Indian was lying, on his back, relaxing his
body. He did not regret having shared his water with an Indian, but he
wondered why his destiny at this time of need had sent to him another
thirsty mouth. Further, he allowed himself to wonder soberly if he
would ever see his green fields again. He measured his chances with a
steady mind, and in the end his mouth grew sterner.
'If I've got to cash in this way,' he muttered as his own sort of
prayer, 'I hope I can be as game about it as Kish Taka.'
It struck him that in one thing the Indian was wise. It was as well to
rest now until after sunset and then to start on again in what coolness
the evening might afford. Further, it was not in him now to get up and
sling his canteen on his back and go on, leaving the fellow wayfarer
whom his fate had given him. He would try to sleep a little, though he
had little enough hope of coaxing the blissful condition of rest and
unconsciousness to him. But, physically tired, lulled by the great
stillness, it was but a few minutes when he, too, slept heavily.
He woke and sat up. The day had gone, the stars were out, the air was
cool against his cheek. He got to his feet and went to the spot where
he had left the Indian, half expecting to find the man dead. Instead
he found no man at all. He looked about him; there was light enough to
see objects at a considerable distance. The desert seemed, as it had
seemed all day, empty. He called and got no answer. It was obvious
enough that Kish Taka had rested, waked, gone on.
'Got thirsty,' grunted Howard, 'and just trotted over to a spring only
twenty-five miles off for a drink! That's the Indian for you.'
His own thirst sprang out upon him, clutching him by the throat. He
stepped to the bush where he had left his canteen and groped for it.
When he did not find it, he looked elsewhere, supposing that he had
made a mistake in the bush. When the truth dawned upon him his whole
body grew rigid, he stood motionless, even for a little his lungs
suspended their function. His hands clenched; for some reason and
apparently without any act of his will, they were lifted slowly until
they were above his head. Then they came down slowly until they were
at his sides, still clenched hard. It was his only gesture. He did
not speak aloud. Again he stood still. But through his heart and soul
and brain, sweeping upward and upward, came such a flood of rage as he
had never known. And with it, born of it, came rushing the frenzied
craving to kill. At last came his dry whisper:
'I am going to last long enough to kill you, Kish Taka, and may God
damn your soul!'
One hand took up his little bundle of food; the, other dropped to the
butt of his revolver. He went swiftly to the spot where he had left
the Indian whom he had thought half dead. He estimated again and with
great care the direction which the lean leathery hand had indicated as
the direction of water. Then, walking swiftly, he struck out into the
desert. Here was not the way to Desert Valley, not the way to Quigley.
But here was the path for one man to follow when he sought another man
who had wronged him. The fact that his chances of coming up with the
Indian were few did not deter the cattleman; the obscurity of night on
the desert did not give him halt or hesitation. The name of his wrath
burned high and hot in his brain and in its lurid light he saw his
desire fulfilled. Had one tried at the moment to reason with him,
Howard would have cursed him and gone on. His anger had spurted up in
a brain already mad with the torture of thirst.
And yet that brain was clear enough to guide him in the way he would
go. He studied the stars, found the north and set his course
painstakingly. Presently he began to walk less hurriedly, bent
savagely upon reserving his strength. When there was some object ahead
set visibly against the skyline, a hillock or a clump of bushes, he
laid his course by it, checking again and again by the stars. When he
had walked an hour he stopped and rested, lighting a match to look at
his watch. He allowed himself exactly five minutes and floundered up
and went on again. Doggedly he sought to shut his mind to the pain
stabbing through his weary feet, to the constriction of his throat, to
the ache of his body so sorely and so long punished. When, had matters
been different, he might have cried out: 'God, for a drink!' he now
muttered dully, 'God, put him into my two hands !'
The fine, delicate machinery of a human brain, like any man-made
mechanism of great nicety, may readily be thrown into confusion, its
exquisite balance disturbed, its functioning confounded. Thirst,
near-exhaustion, severe bodily distress and, on top of all, blood-lust
anger made Alan Howard over into another man. He was possessed,
obsessed. As the night wore on endlessly he created for himself
visions; he came a thousand times upon the Indian; he sank his fingers
and thumbs into a corded throat; he beat with his fists at the pulp of
a face. He grew accustomed to his own voice, muttering ceaselessly.
He heard himself praying as another man; the burden of his prayers was
always the same: 'Deliver him, O Lord, into mine hands.' He was half
mad for water and he cursed Kish Taka; he drove his body on when the
agonized muscles rebelled and, driving mercilessly, he cursed Kish Taka.
Somehow the night passed and through it he staggered on. He fell as he
had seen the Indian fall; he recalled that the Indian had arisen and he
rose. Each time that he failed in something that he tried to do it was
as though an imp jeered and taunted him, calling to him: 'Ho! The
Indian is a better man. He is off there in the darkness, laughing at
you!'
There came a time when he stumbled at every step, when he pitched
forward frequently and lay inert and had to gather his strength to get
up; when he wondered if he was going mad or if already he had gone mad;
when his thirst was a killing agony and he knew that it was in truth
killing him; when he crawled on his hands and knees up slight slopes;
when the stars danced and he frowned at them stupidly, seeking the
North Star, seeking to know which way led to Kish Taka. When the first
faint glint of dawn sweetened the air he was lying on his back; he
felt, rather than saw, that a new day was blossoming. He collected his
wandering faculties, fought with the lassitude which stole upon him
whenever his senses were not on the alert and sat up. And he would
have cried out aloud at what he saw were not his throat and mouth and
lips so dry that he was beyond calling out. For yonder, a blurred
moving shape came toward him. The shape was a man's, and he knew that
it was Kish Taka.
Somehow he got to his feet, somehow he dragged his revolver out of its
holster, somehow he took a dozen tottering steps forward. He saw that
Kish Taka had seen him and had stopped; that the Indian carried his
canteen; that he was moving again. Howard lifted his gun, holding it
in both hands. He was afraid that even now his quarry would escape
him, that Kish Taka would run and that he could not follow. His
fingers found the trigger and pressed it as he sought to hold the
wavering muzzle steady. There was a loud report that seemed to tear
his brain to broken shreds, his arms dropped lax at his sides, the
revolver fell, its muzzle burying itself in the sand. His knees sagged
and he went down, settling slowly. As he fell he saw that Kish Taka
was running--but not away from him. Running like a deer was Kish Taka,
running straight to the fallen man.
For the first time in his life, Howard fainted, The pink dawn went
black in his eyes, his brain reeled, the booming as of a distant surf
filled his ears and then unconsciousness engulfed him. When he, knew
anything at all it was that he was sitting up, that two thin brown arms
were about his body, that water was trickling down his throat.