There was a sound of music. Joan was playing a violin. She was not
playing it, as you might assume, in a cool drawing room or studio; nor
was she playing it, if you had known, in the great rancho far below
among the pepper trees, where she lived. She was playing high on the
eastern shoulder of Smoky Butte among the junipers.
She played well, but you would not have recognized the melody. For the
music was sweet and sighing, loud and chanting, weird and haunting; a
singing in the strings of the wind in the junipers, of the shimmering
heat waves that hid the oasis of the rancho, of the blue, slaty haze
that smothered the horizon, of the black, forbidding outlines of distant
lava hills—Joan’s was a song of the spirit of the desert, which was her
own.
She would not have played like this at home. The same inspiration was
not to be had indoors. She would have loosed the spirits of the great
masters there, or filled the long, cool living room with crooning,
throbbing lullabies, and old Zeb French would heave his tremendous frame
into a great chair, and stroke his white beard, and stare at his willful
daughter out of faded, blue eyes brimming with pride and appreciation.
But sometimes, when the notes unexpectedly soared in wild exultation,
the expression in Zeb’s eyes would change and troubled lights would
shade them, and he would shift uneasily in his chair. Zeb French loved
this girl, who was the living spirit of her dead mother; loved her to
distraction—and he was afraid of her. For Joan did strange things, and
gave free rein to an imagination which created a longing for strange
adventures. But this side of her character he could not know nor
understand; he realized its existence, the irresistible lure it held for
that other side which he _did_ know, and did not fear.
Sometimes her brothers, Will and Frank, would sit on the low stoop of
the patio and listen also. And they sensed the meaning of those high,
soaring notes; and they would look at each other in understanding. And,
too, at such times as these, the old Mexican housekeeper would live in
heaven.
The brothers had heard Joan play in the high junipers, and on the wide,
yellow stretches of the desert, and in the deep, wild ravines along the
border; but they never spoke of these times to old Zeb, nor did Zeb
expect it. He had been left alone with his sons and daughter when they
were young; when certain activities had kept him away from home for days
and weeks at a time; and the Mexican woman and the desert had reared
them. True, a school-teacher had come from somewhere and lived at the
rancho for three years for her health. She had taught them a good deal,
and had sent them books, which Joan had read, to her brothers’ scorn.
And she had seen to it that the girl’s natural musical talent was
developed; but Joan could now instruct her former teacher. All this
notwithstanding, the desert had been the schoolmaster, and it had found
willing pupils.
This day Joan played with greater strength than usual. Wild, tempestuous
notes softened the yearning strains, and climbed the heights again. She
was at her best. Her horse stood near, motionless, ignoring the luscious
feed about him, listening—a splendid, iron-gray stallion whom none but
Joan could touch. So they were, girl and beast, communing with the
spirits of that desolate land of burning sands, dry washes, lava
hills—juniper, greasewood, cactus, sage—and slimy, creeping things,
under a sky of brass.
But they were not alone.
High on the shoulder of the butte the heat beat down upon a horseman. He
was covered with gray dust, and there were ridges on the shoulders and
flanks of his mount where the sweat had run in streams. He had come far,
this rider, far and fast; too fast for desert travel. He leaned forward
on his saddle horn and listened. Wonder, awe, and incredulity were
commingled in the gaze that swept downward. At last, he urged his tired
horse down the juniper slope.
As he was riding into the wind instead of with it, the man was favored
in his effort to surprise the player. Had it been otherwise, the wind
would have carried the scent of his horse to the stallion and his
presence would have been betrayed at once. The junipers, too, aided him;
for they were high enough to screen his advance.
Nevertheless, the stallion’s head went up with a snort, and he turned,
giving warning of the man’s nearness before the latter could spring his
surprise. He drove in his spurs, but the player had laid aside the
violin, made some quick motions, and had risen when the newcomer rode
out of the high junipers.
He whistled in astonishment. It was a _girl_, and _she was masked_! As
he rode toward her, she made a lightning move with her right hand and
covered him with a .45.
“That’s far enough!” she called sharply. “An’ don’t reach for anything
but the sky, unless you think I’m fooling.”
He checked his mount and elevated his hands. He was not smiling nor
grinning because she was a girl; he was looking at her keenly, taking in
every detail of her appearance. Her hair was covered by the big range
hat she wore. He could only see the lower part of her face, but the lips
were full and ruby, her cheeks and chin well molded. Her hands were slim
and beautiful. Her riding habit was well worn, but her boots were new
and betrayed small, dainty feet.
“A gun girl!” he ejaculated, not realizing that he spoke aloud.
“Yes, a gun girl, if you think so,” was the retort, in a cold, hard,
feminine voice. “An’ I don’t hanker to have no long rider spying on me!”
Her eyes flashed through the mask, but he could not determine their
color. They were shaded by the hat, too.
“I wasn’t spying,” he said sternly. “I saw——”
“Don’t lie!” she broke in. “I could make you pay for it, too; an’
nobody’d know a thing about it.”
“Yes,” he drawled, “you could shoot _me_, but I couldn’t shoot _you_.”
“Why not?” she demanded suspiciously. “I wouldn’t trust you far.”
“You can trust me _that_ far,” he said dryly. “I might shoot a man, an’
maybe I _have_, but I couldn’t very well shoot a woman.”
She was nonplused at this, and found herself believing him. His eyes
were good, and a woman is apt to know much of a man by his eyes. His
face was good, too; he would be right good looking after a hard wash.
Young and well built. Well, she had seen them come bad, young, well
built and good looking!
“You might lower that gun,” he suggested. “Not that I’m afraid it might
go off, for I take it you know your business; but I’d sure like to roll
a cigarette. I heard the playing—an’ it was good playing—up above, but I
couldn’t make out who was making the music. So I came down.”
She lowered her weapon. “You can make your cigarette,” she said, “but
don’t try any tricks. It just happens that I’m able to shoot from the
hip.”
He nodded in approval, and for the first time he smiled, betraying a
fine set of white, even teeth against his tan. “I had a hunch you could
do that very thing from the first.” He nodded again, took out tobacco
and papers and started to build his smoke. “That’s not a lady’s
pearl-handled affair you’re packing; it’s a _man’s_ gun.”
“An’ I know how to use it,” she said coolly. “Where you from?”
“Up north,” he replied, calmly lighting his cigarette. “You live aroun’
here?”
“I’m not answering questions; I’m asking ’em,” she returned. “I suppose
there’s no use asking you your right name. Anyway, you—where you going?”
“Down south,” he grinned. “I don’t reckon there’d be any use asking
_you_ your name, but mine’s Deadwood Dave.”
He saw the flush on the lower part of her face. “In your case, it ain’t
none too safe to get fresh,” she said angrily, raising the gun again.
“Listen, gun girl, I’m peaceful, understand?” he drawled. “An’ if you’re
going to shoot _anything_ with that gun, shoot the end of this cigarette
off, instead of my head.”
He had hardly held the cigarette out in insolent challenge when her gun
broke sharply on the stillness. He held half his cigarette between his
fingers! He regarded it thoughtfully. Then he took off his hat and bowed
to her. There was no twinkle in his eyes; only genuine respect. “You’re
the first girl I ever met who could pull that trick,” he said soberly.
“An’ I’ve got more up my sleeve,” she said harshly, to conceal her
appreciation of his flattering remark. “I reckon you better be on your
way.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” he said. “If you don’t mind, I’ll stow
this away as a souvenir.” He carefully placed the short portion of
cigarette in his hat rim and put the big Stetson on his head. “By the
way, could you tell me where Sunrise is?”
“Down in this country it’s in the east, an’ early in the morning for
them as gets up,” was the blistering reply.
“Why—I had in mind a _town_,” he said, looking grieved. “I was told
there was a town down this way called Sunrise—a right smart town, too,
’twas said.”
“Just keep on east an’ you’ll see it early in the morning,” she
answered. “Me—_I’m_ saying good-by or getting mad; one of the two.”
“I wouldn’t want you to get mad,” he said soberly, shaking out his
reins. “But _I_ hate to say good-by, an’ maybe it isn’t any such thing.
So long.”
He spurred his horse and threaded his way down through the junipers,
leaving her thinking hard over his last remark. She put up her gun
suddenly, called the stallion, put the violin in its case, mounted with
it, and rode at a sharp pace southward. Not until she gained the lower
mesa did she remove the mask.