The rider went on down the east slope, pondering deeply over the
unexpected and brief meeting with the masked gun girl. “Gun girl she
sure was,” he muttered. “Now, where——” He kept a sharp lookout in all
directions. The girl lived somewhere about, that much was certain. “Why
the mask?” he kept asking himself. And why, indeed? She could have sent
him on his way, unmasked, and without any gun demonstration, just as
easily. And he would have had just as much of a chance of finding her.
In fact, if she had _not_ been masked, and had not acted as she did, he
would have merely asked directions and gone on. He had no time in
particular for women. But now he wanted above all things to see this
wild creature again. Proficient as he was with his own weapon,
respected, and feared, and outlawed, he had met a girl who could
apparently match his skill. She had said Sunrise was eastward and he
might reach it by morning. He doubted if his horse could make it and
tried to shake off the conviction that the beast could not. He was
nearly spent himself and just began to realize it.
The junipers gave way to sage and greasewood. The heat increased, drove
in upon him like a wall of fire. His mouth and throat were dry. He dared
take but a sip at a time of the scanty supply of water in the canteen
which hung from the horn of his saddle. With each sip he had to tilt it
a bit higher, and he was tilting it dangerously close to straight up. He
had ridden long and far, and he was weary, and was beginning to slump in
the saddle as he dreamed of cool mountain brooks, and ice-cold
springs—lakes, rivers, oceans of water! _Water!_ He brought himself to
with a jerk and looked about with eyes that were rapidly becoming
bloodshot. It seemed to him that the terrific heat struck him suddenly
like a blast out of a furnace.
He had reached the floor of the desert—the inferno. What a fool he had
been to come south in August! He should have taken to the high
mountains. He could see the glistening peaks, the tall stands of pine
and fir, the flower-splashed meadows with their ambling brooks, the
foothills——
Why, there they were straight ahead! Tall trees and a lake! He spurred
his horse toward the mirage. The animal stumbled and threw him. He
sprawled on his hands and knees in the hard, burning sands. He had been
thrown by a horse! He—Louis Lane—had been thrown by a horse—by his _own_
horse! Had been thrown——
He toppled forward on the hot floor of the desert. Then he scrambled
unsteadily to his feet. This would not do. What was the matter with him?
He had been too long in the north and the inferno was getting him fast.
But could the thing he feared happen so quickly? Everywhere was that
bluish haze, and at hand was the dazzling sunlight, thrown up into his
eyes by the yellow floor of the desert. And ahead, or far behind, were
the trees and the water. But he knew them for what they were—the deadly,
deceitful lures of the desert. To try to reach them was the first sign
of the end. He knew that end: swollen lips and black tongue, tearing off
of clothes, digging in the sand, and at the finish—the Death Watchman.
When _he_ came, it was over.
He staggered to his drooping horse and clutched the canteen. He
unscrewed the cap and tipped the canteen to his lips. He would take just
a sip, just a sip. The bottom of the canteen tilted upward, and upward.
He had not the power to draw it from his lips. He would have to save at
least one drink. And now nothing came. He was looking straight up into
the mocking, blazing sky. Gone! He threw the empty canteen down.
But the drink had refreshed him and some of his strength returned. He
climbed into the saddle. His horse lurched ahead, wavered, and stood
trembling. He dismounted and, walking slowly, led his mount. Relieved of
his weight, the beast followed well enough. But Lane’s lips were pressed
tightly. This would be the last phase. Who would give out first, himself
or the horse? What was that in the sky? A dark speck—no, two specks, and
three—buzzards!
Lane laughed, and the hoarse, unearthly cackle that came from his lips
frightened him. It was his imagination, of course. There were no
buzzards. Why should they come so soon? Why should they come at all? It
was all trash, this buzzard business. Desert gossip. Like the coyotes on
the northern ranges. Buzzards and coyotes! Bosh! But the specks did not
disappear. They continued to drift about up there in the sky. But Lane
no longer looked up. He looked at the ground just ahead, nodding. There
was cactus now, towering giants which lifted their spiny arms above him;
las chollas, and ocotillo, and yucca. And straight ahead were feathery
pepper trees. It was only a picture of hope, but it lured him on.
Lane cackled again, stumbled and fell. He got to his feet with
difficulty. The mirages were getting close, coming to him. And yet—he
croaked in excitement and staggered on. They _were_ trees! Pepper trees
close at hand! _An oasis!_ He tried to run, fell—crawled on his hands
and knees——
It was Will French who came running to help him. He got Lane to his feet
and supported him so he could walk in under the trees of the oasis. He
put him down in the flickering shade of the peppers and called loudly in
Spanish. A Mexican appeared shortly and French snapped out an order in
the same language. The Mexican took the horse away.
Lane looked up out of blurred eyes. “Don’t—give that horse—too—too much
water to start,” he breathlessly mumbled.
“Don’t worry,” said Will. “We know how to take care of your horse, an’
you, too.”
“Touch—of sunstroke,” Lane muttered.
“Sure.” Will nodded grimly. “But it would have been more than that if
you hadn’t stumbled on this place when you did.”
The Mexican returned presently with a canteen of water. Lane grasped it
eagerly as Will French held it to his lips. “Easy,” said Will,
withdrawing it after Lane had had a swallow. “You’re not so strong at
present that you can take this away from me. You talk about watching out
for your horse an’ then try to make a fool of _yourself_. Now, take
another swallow.”
It was fully half an hour before Lane had had two cupfuls of water. His
eyes had cleared. “Thanks, old-timer,” he said, surveying his rescuer.
“It got me all of a sudden out there,” he explained wryly, with a yawn.
“I’d had a long ride,” he added.
“What you need now is some sleep, an’ plenty of it,” said French. “When
you’ve had it, you can talk, if you want to. I guess you can walk.”
Lane waved aside the proffered aid and got to his feet. But he was still
unsteady and French took his arm and led him to the house. They turned
into a room directly off the patio. The thick adobe walls shut out the
heat. There was a bed, a table with a lamp upon it, two chairs.
Lane took off his coat and hat. But he had to be helped with his boots
and the rest of his clothes. He was asleep before French could get him
into bed. French examined the gun and belt he had thrown on the table.
He hefted the money belt he had removed from about Lane’s waist. He
opened the pockets, one by one, and his eyes gleamed. He muttered to
himself in Spanish. He looked about uncertainly, stared at the face on
the pillow. Then he carefully went through Lane’s clothes. Apparently,
what he found did not interest him, for he took the money belt and went
out.
Some time afterward he returned with his father. Zeb French looked long
at the face on the pillow and shook his head. “Never saw him,” he said.
“Too young, anyway. I was scoutin’ around before he was born.”
They went out, both so tall they had to stoop going through the door.
Will French was the elder of the two boys, about thirty. His brother,
Frank, was twenty-five. Thus, Joan at twenty-two was the “baby” of the
family. This day Frank was in Sunrise and would not return until the
cool of the night—if he returned then.
The next visitor to Lane’s room was the old Mexican housekeeper. She
left a jug of water and a stone mug on Lane’s table. And she, too,
looked long at the stranger. Visitors at the rancho were few and far
between, except when friends came.
With the sunset, Lane had another visitor. It was Joan. She stole in
silently and a single glance at the sleeper’s face sufficed. She tiptoed
out, walked rapidly around a small fountain which played in the center
of the patio, made her way through an opening in the opposite wall, and
hurried to the low adobe barn. The Mexican in attendance there ran
toward her eagerly.
“Take the stallion to the lower pasture at once, an’ see that he _stays_
there, where the strange señor cannot see him,” she commanded crisply in
Spanish. She turned back for the house, her face clouded. “Might have
known he’d stumble into the place,” she said to herself.
She was not pleased over Lane’s arrival and had fully expected him to
die in the desert. For there were no springs between Smoky Butte and
Sunrise. If Lane had known it, he was the first man who ever had
surprised her playing on the butte or elsewhere. She did not like it;
she did not like men—strange men who were young and good-looking. The
very fact that she kept thinking of him annoyed her. She took her violin
from its accustomed place in the living room and put it in her bedroom.
Then she curtly told her father and Will that they were not to mention
that she played. They shrugged. They had no intention that the stranger
should even see her.
The twilight came swiftly and was brief, as is the case in the Southwest
desert areas. Stars filled the purple night sky. Lane slept on, the
sleep of utter exhaustion—deep and dreamless. But a Mexican squatted on
guard without his door until the silver light of dawn streaked the
eastern horizon and the household was astir.
Lane was sitting up in bed yawning after his long rest when Will French
came to the room. Outside the door the patio was flooded with golden
spangles as the rays of the sun broke through the trees. Birds were
singing sweetly. A soft breeze was filtering through the latticed
window.
“Morning,” Lane said to French. “I reckon I took some snooze. I was
about all in.”
“I guess you had it coming,” Will answered. “You was pretty well played
out. Better come an’ have a bath.”
“Eh?” Lane was out of bed and putting on his clothes in no time. “That’s
the sweetest invitation I’ve had since——” He bit off his words with his
hands patting his waist. Then his eyes narrowed and he looked at Will
French squarely. “Did you take it?” he asked coldly.
French smiled. “I shore did,” he answered. “Think I was going to leave
your money out here with you dead to the world? We’ve got a pretty good
bunch of Mexicans on the place, but I wouldn’t trust one of ’em on a bet
where there’s a stake in sight. Your money’s safe enough. It’s in the
house. Better leave it there till after you’ve had your bath.”
Lane looked relieved. “It’s everything I’ve got, ’cept my horse, saddle,
and gun,” he said in explanation. “An’ I had a hard enough time getting
it,” he added grimly.
French betrayed his interest only with his eyes. When Lane was ready, he
led him across the patio and out the doorway to a little adobe house
where Lane, to his surprise, saw an open pool. It was walled in with
stones and the top of the walls had been worn by countless bare feet. He
looked at French questioningly.
“_Agua caliente_,” said Will. “These hot mineral springs have been here
nobody knows how long. This one was closed in by the Indians years
before my father ever saw this country, an’ he’s eighty. Help yourself,
an’ when you’re through your grub will be ready.”
“Say, you’re white people!” Lane exploded impulsively. “Honesty an’
hospitality don’t always run together, but in this case they sure do. I
appreciate it. My name’s Louis Lane, an’ I’m just down from the northern
ranges.” He held out his hand.
French took it, looking at his guest keenly. “We’ve got to do what we
can for each other in the desert, Lane,” he said gravely. “You’re at the
French ranch, an’ my name’s Will French. We’re not bad people in some
ways.” With that he turned and went out.
On a stool was soap and a huge, rough towel. Lane undressed quickly and
plunged into the warm, soothing water. His bath lasted half an hour and
when he came out of the water he rubbed his fine, muscular body with the
rough towel until his skin was fiery. He felt fit as a man could feel as
he donned his clothes.
He came out into the bright sunlight and entered the patio to come face
to face with a dark-haired girl who stopped as if struck and stared at
him out of dark-brown eyes in which all the mysterious lights of the
desert sparkled. She was dressed in white and held an armful of flowers.
He was so taken with her beauty and freshness of youth that he forgot to
greet her. And Joan French forgot her animosity as she looked at this
man she had met the day before. His damp, tousled hair—a true bronze in
color—his hazel eyes and clean-cut features fascinated her. It was as if
he had been made anew. And she saw he didn’t recognize her.
“Good morning,” Lane stammered finally.
“Good morning,” she said in a low, sweet voice and hurried past him.
“Your breakfast is ready, Lane,” came Will French’s voice sharply from
across the patio.
Lane hurried toward his room.