Keith rode straight forward into the sandy desolation, spurring his
horse into a swift trot. After one glance backward as they clambered up
the steep bank, a glance which revealed Hope's slender form in the cabin
door, his eyes never turned again that way. He had a man's stern work
to do out yonder, and his purpose could not be swerved, his firmness
of hand and keenness of eye affected, by any thought of her. His lips
compressed, his fingers gripping the rein, he drove all regretful memory
from his mind, until every nerve within him throbbed in unison with his
present purpose. He was right; he knew he was right. It was not hate,
not even revenge, which had sent him forth, leaving love behind, but
honor--the honor of the South, and of the frontier, of his ancestry and
his training--honor that drove him now to meet Hawley face to face,
man to man, to settle the feud between them for all time. And he rode
smiling, gladly, as to a tryst, now that he was at last alone, free in
the desert.
The hours passed, the sun rising higher in the blazing blue of the sky;
the horse, wearied by the constant pull of the sand, had long since
slowed down to a walk; the last dim blur of the cottonwoods along the
Fork had disappeared; and the rider swayed in the saddle, the dead
lifelessness of sky and desert dulling his brain. Yet he had not
forgotten his errand--rousing constantly from lethargy to sweep his
shaded eyes about the rounded horizon, keenly marking the slightest
shadow across the sands, taking advantage of every drift to give
him wider viewpoint, rising in his stirrups to scan the leagues of
desolation ahead. Twice he drew his revolver from out its sheath, tested
it, and slipped in a fresh cartridge, returning the weapon more lightly
to its place, the flap of the holster turned back and held open by his
leg. The sun beat upon him like a ball of fire, the hot sand flinging
the blaze back into his face. He pushed back the upper part of his
shirt, and drank a swallow of tepid water from a canteen strapped behind
the saddle. His eyes ached with the glare, until he saw fantastic red
and yellow shapes dancing dizzily before him. The weariness of the long
night pressed upon his eye-balls; he felt the strain of the past hours,
the lack of food, the need of rest. His head nodded, and he brought
himself to life again with a jerk and a muttered word, staring out into
the dim, formless distance. Lord, if there was only something moving;
something he could concentrate his attention upon; something to rest the
straining eyes!
But there was nothing, absolutely nothing--just that seemingly endless
stretch of sand, circled by the blazing sky, the wind sweeping its
surface soundless, and hot, as though from the pits of hell; no stir, no
motion, no movement of anything animate or inanimate to break the awful
monotony. Death! it was death everywhere! his aching eyes rested on
nothing but what was typical of death. Even the heat waves seemed
fantastic, grotesque, assuming spectral forms, as though ghosts beckoned
and danced in the haze, luring him on to become one of themselves. Keith
was not a dreamer, nor one to yield easily to such brain fancies, but
the mad delirium of loneliness gripped him, and he had to struggle back
to sanity, beating his hands upon his breast to stir anew the
sluggish circulation of his blood, and talking to the horse in strange
feverishness.
With every step of advance the brooding silence seemed more profound,
more deathlike. He got to marking the sand ridges, their slight
variations giving play to the brain. Way off to the left was the mirage
of a lake, apparently so real that he had to battle with himself to keep
from turning aside. He dropped forward in the saddle, his head hanging
low, so blinded by the incessant sun glare he could no longer bear the
glitter of that horrible ocean of sand. It was noon now--noon, and he
had been riding steadily seven hours. The thought brought his blurred
eyes again to the horizon. Where could he be, the man he sought in the
heart of this solitude? Surely he should be here by now, if he had left
the water-hole at dawn. Could he have gone the longer route, south to
the Fork? The possibility of such a thing seared through him like a hot
iron, driving the dulness from his brain, the lethargy from his limbs.
God! no! Fate could never play such a scurvy trick as that! The man
must have been delayed; had failed to leave camp early--somewhere ahead,
yonder where the blue haze marked the union of sand and sky, he was
surely coming, riding half dead, and drooping in the saddle.
Again Keith rose in his stirrups, rubbing the mist out of his eyes that
he might see clearer, and stared ahead. What was that away out yonder?
a shadow? a spot dancing before his tortured vision? or a moving, living
something which he actually saw? He could not tell, he could not be
sure, yet he straightened up expectantly, shading his eyes, and
never losing sight of the object. It moved, grew larger, darker, more
real--yet how it crawled, crawled, crawled toward him. It seemed as
if the vague, shapeless thing would, never take form, never stand
out revealed against the sky so he could determine the truth. He had
forgotten all else--the silent desert, the blazing sun, the burning
wind--all his soul concentrated on that speck yonder. Suddenly it
disappeared--a swale in the sand probably--and, when it rose into view
again, he uttered a cry of joy--it was a horse and rider!
Little by little they drew nearer one another, two black specks in that
vast ocean of sand, the only moving, living things under the brazen
circle of the sky. Keith was ready now, his eyes bright, the cocked
revolver gripped hard in his hand. The space between them narrowed, and
Hawley saw him, caught a glimpse of the face under the broad hat brim,
the burning eyes surveying him. With an oath he stopped his horse,
dragging at his gun, surprised, dazed, yet instantly understanding.
Keith also halted, and across the intervening desert the eyes of the
two men met in grim defiance. The latter wet his dry lips, and spoke
shortly: “I reckon you know what this means, Hawley, and why I am here.
We're Southerners both of us, and we settle our own personal affairs.
You've got to fight me now, man to man.”
The gambler glanced about him, and down at his horse. If he thought of
flight it was useless. His lip curled with contempt.
“Damn your talking, Keith,” he returned savagely. “Let's have it over
with,” and spurred his horse. The gun of the other came up.
“Wait!” and Hawley paused, dragging at his rein. “One of us most likely
is going to die here; perhaps both. But if either survives he'll need a
horse to get out of this alive. Dismount; I'll do the same; step away
so the horses are out of range, and then we'll fight it out--is that
square?”
Without a word, his eyes gleaming with cunning hatred, the gambler swung
down from his saddle onto the sand, his horse interposed between him and
the other. Keith did the same, his eyes peering across the back of his
animal.
“Now,” he said steadily, “when I count three drive your horse aside, and
let go--are you ready?”
“Damn you--yes!”
“Then look out--one! two! three!”
The plainsman struck his horse with the quirt in his left hand, and
sprang swiftly aside so as to clear the flank of the animal, his
shooting arm flung out. There was a flash of flame across Hawley's
saddle, a sharp report, and Keith reeled backward, dropping to his
knees, one hand clutching the sand. Again Hawley fired, but the horse,
startled by the double report, leaped aside, and the ball went wild.
Keith wheeled about, steadying himself with his outstretched hand, and
let drive, pressing the trigger, until, through the haze over his eyes,
he saw Hawley go stumbling down, shooting wildly as he fell. The man
never moved, and Keith endeavored to get up, his gun still held ready,
the smoke circling about them. He had been shot treacherously, as a
cowardly cur might shoot, and he could not clear his mind of the thought
that this last act hid treachery also. But he could not raise himself,
could not stand; red and black shadows danced before his eyes; he
believed he saw the arm of the other move. Like a snake he crept
forward, holding himself up with one hand, his head dizzily reeling, but
his gun held steadily on that black, shapeless object lying on the sand.
Then the revolver hand began to quiver, to shake, to make odd circles;
he couldn't see; it was all black, all nothingness. Suddenly he went
down face first into the sand.
They both lay motionless, the thirsty sand drinking in their life blood,
Hawley huddled up upon his left side, his hat still shading the glazing
eyes, Keith lying flat, his face in the crook of an arm whose hand still
gripped a revolver. There was a grim smile on his lips, as if, even as
he pitched forward, he knew that, after he had been shot to death, he
had gotten his man. The riderless horses gazed at the two figures, and
drifted away, slowly, fearfully, still held in mute subjection to
their dead masters by dangling reins. The sun blazed down from directly
overhead, the heat waves rising and falling, the dead, desolate desert
stretching to the sky. An hour, two hours passed. The horses were now a
hundred yards away, nose to nose; all else was changeless. Then into the
far northern sky there rose a black speck, growing larger and larger;
others came from east and west, beating the air with widely outspread
wings, great beaks stretched forward. Out from their nests of foulness
the desert scavengers were coming for their spoil.