OUT OF THE DESERT
"Good horse. Good horse. Good boy. Goldbug--go it! I know you're
dying, but so am I. Keep it up a little while longer--Good boy."
The young man encouraged his horse, while half asleep from utter
weariness and faint with hunger and thirst. The poor beast scrambled
over the rocks up a steep trail that seemed to have been long unused,
or indeed it might be no trail at all, but only a channel worn by
fierce, narrow torrents during the rainy season, now sun-baked and
dry.
The fall rains were late this year, and the yellow plains below
furnished neither food nor drink for either man or beast. The herds of
buffalo had long since wandered to fresher spaces nearer the river
beds. The young man's flask was empty, and it was twenty-seven hours
since either he or his horse had tasted anything. Now they had reached
the mountains he hoped to find water and game if he could only hold
out a little longer. Up and still up the lean horse scrambled with
nose to earth and quivering flanks, and the young man, leaning forward
and clinging to his seat as he reeled like one drunken, still murmured
words of encouragement. "Good boy--Goldbug, go it. Good horse, keep it
up."
All at once the way opened out on a jutting crest and made a sharp
turn to the right, and the horse paused on the verge so suddenly that
his rider lost his hold and fell headlong over into a scrub oak that
caught him and held him suspended in its tough and twisted branches
above a chasm so deep that the buzzards sailed on widespread wings
round and round in the blue air beneath him.
He lay there still and white as death, mercifully unconscious,
while an eagle with a wild scream circled about and perched on a
lightning-blasted tree far above and looked down on him.
For a moment the yellow horse swayed weakly on the brink, then feeling
himself relieved of his burden, he stiffened himself to a last great
effort and held on along the path which turned abruptly away from the
edge of the cliff and broadened out among low bushes and stunted
trees. Here again the horse paused and stretched his neck and bit off
the tips of the dry twigs near him, then turned his head and whinnied
to call his master, and pricked his ears to listen; but he only heard
the scream of the eagle overhead, and again he walked on, guided by an
instinct as mysterious and unerring as the call of conscience to a
human soul.
Good old beast! He had not much farther to go. Soon there was a sound
of water in the air--a continuous roar, muffled and deep. The path
wound upward, then descended gradually until it led him to an open,
grassy space, bordered by green trees. Again he turned his head and
gave his intelligent call. Why did not his master respond? Why did he
linger behind when here was grass and water--surely water, for the
smell of it was fresh and sweet. But it was well he called, for his
friendly nicker fell on human ears.
A man of stalwart frame, well built and spare, hairy and grizzled, but
ruddy with health, sat in a cabin hidden among the trees not forty
paces away, and prepared his meal of roasting quail suspended over the
fire in his chimney and potatoes baking in the ashes.
He lifted his head with a jerk, and swung the quail away from the
heat, leaving it still suspended, and taking his rifle from its pegs
stood for a moment in his door listening. For months he had not heard
the sound of a human voice, nor the nicker of any horse other than his
own. He called a word of greeting, "Hello, stranger!" but receiving no
response he ventured farther from his door.
Goldbug was eagerly grazing--too eagerly for his own good. The man
recognized the signs of starvation and led him to a tree, where he
brought him a little water in his own great tin dipper. Then he
relieved him of saddle and bridle and left him tied while he hastily
stowed a few hard-tack and a flask of whisky in his pocket, and taking
a lasso over his arm, started up the trail on his own horse.
"Some poor guy has lost his way and gone over the cliff," he
muttered.
The young man still lay as he had fallen, but now his eyes were open
and staring at the sky. Had he not been too weak to move he would have
gone down; as it was, he waited, not knowing if he were dead or in a
dream, seeing only the blue above him, and hearing only the scream of
the eagle.
"Lie still. Don't ye move. Don't ye stir a hair. I'll get ye. Still
now--still."
The big man's voice came to him as out of a great chasm, scarcely
heard for the roaring in his head, although he was quite near. His
arms hung down and one leg swung free, but his body rested easily
balanced in the branches. Presently he felt something fall lightly
across his chest, slip down to his hand, and then crawl slowly up his
arm to the shoulder, where it tightened and gripped. A vague hope
awoke in him.
"Now, wait. I'll get ye; don't move. I'll have a noose around ye'r leg
next,--so." The voice had grown clearer, and seemed nearer, but the
young man could make no response with his parched throat.
"Now if I hurt ye a bit, try to stand it." The man carried the long
loop of his lasso around the cliff and wound it securely around
another scrub oak, and then began slowly and steadily to pull, until
the young man moaned with pain,--to cry out was impossible.
"I'll have ye in a minute--I'll have ye--there! Catch at my hand. Poor
boy, poor boy, ye can't. Hold on--just a little more--there!" Strong
arms reached for him. Strong hands gripped his clothing and lifted him
from the terrible chasm's edge.
"He's more dead than alive," said the big man, as he strove to pour a
little whisky between the stranger's set teeth. "Well, I'll pack him
home and do for him there."
He lifted his weight easily, and placing him on his horse, led the
animal to the cabin where he laid him in his own bunk. There, with
cool water, and whisky carefully administered, the big man restored
him enough to know that he was conscious.
"There now, you'll come out of this all right. You've got a good body
and a good head, young man,--lie by a little and I'll give ye some
broth."
The man took a small stone jar from a shelf and putting in a little
water, took the half-cooked quail from the fire, and putting it in the
jar set it on the coals among the ashes, and covered it. From time to
time he lifted the cover and stirred it about, sprinkling in a little
corn meal, and when the steam began to rise with savory odor, he did
not wait for it to be wholly done, but taking a very little of the
broth in a tin cup, he cooled it and fed it to his patient drop by
drop until the young man's eyes looked gratefully into his.
Then, while the young man dozed, he returned to his own uneaten meal,
and dined on dried venison and roasted potatoes and salt. The big man
was a good housekeeper. He washed his few utensils and swept the
hearth with a broom worn almost to the handle. Then he removed the jar
containing the quail and broth from the embers, and set it aside in
reserve for his guest. Whenever the young man stirred he fed him again
with the broth, until at last he seemed to sleep naturally.
Seeing his patient quietly sleeping, the big man went out to the
starving horse and gave him another taste of water, and allowed him to
graze a few minutes, then tied him again, and returned to the cabin.
He stood for a while looking down at the pallid face of the sleeping
stranger, then he lighted his pipe and busied himself about the cabin,
returning from time to time to study the young man's countenance. His
pipe went out. He lighted it again and then sat down with his back to
the stranger and smoked and gazed in the embers.
The expression of his face was peculiarly gentle as he gazed. Perhaps
the thought of having rescued a human being worked on his spirit
kindly, or what not, but something brought him a vision of a pale
face with soft, dark hair waving back from the temples, and large gray
eyes looking up into his. It came and was gone, and came again, even
as he summoned it, and he smoked on. One watching him might have
thought that it was his custom to smoke and gaze and dream thus.
At last he became aware that the stranger was trying to speak to him
in husky whispers. He turned quickly.
"Feeling more fit, are you? Well, take another sup of broth. Can't let
you eat anything solid for a bit, but you can have all of the broth
now if you want it."
As he stooped over him the young man's fingers caught at his shirt
sleeve and pulled him down to listen to his whispered words.
"Pull me out of this--quickly--quickly--there's a--party--down
the--mountain--dying of thirst. Is this Higgins' Camp? I--I--tried to
get there for--for help." He panted and could say no more.
The big man whistled softly. "Thought you'd get to Higgins' Camp?
You're sixty miles out of the way--or more,--twice that, way you've
come. You took the wrong trail and you've gone forty miles one way
when you should have gone as far on the other. I did it myself once,
and never undid it."
The patient looked hungrily at the tin cup from which he had been
taking the broth. "Can you give me a little more?"
"Yes, drink it all. It won't hurt ye."
"I've got to get up. They'll die." He struggled and succeeded in
lifting himself to his elbow and with the effort he spoke more
strongly. "May I have another taste of the whisky? I'm coming
stronger now. I left them yesterday with all the food--only a
bit--and a little water--not enough to keep them alive much longer.
Yesterday--God help them--was it yesterday--or days ago?"
The older man had a slow, meditative manner of speech as if he had
long been in the way of speaking only to himself, unhurried, and at
peace. "It's no use your trying to think that out, young man, and I
can't tell you. Nor you won't be able to go for them in a while. No."
"I must. I must if I die. I don't care if I die--but they--I must go."
He tried again to raise himself, but fell back. Great drops stood out
on his forehead and into his eyes crept a look of horror. "It's
there!" he said, and pointed with his finger.
"What's there, man?"
"The eye. See! It's gone. Never mind, it's gone." He relaxed, and his
face turned gray and his eyes closed for a moment, then he said again,
"I must go to them."
"You can't go. You're delirious, man."
Then the stranger's lips twitched and he almost smiled. "Because I saw
it? I saw it watching me. It often is, and it's not delirium. I can
go. I am quite myself."
That half smile on the young man's face was reassuring and appealing.
The big man could not resist it.
"See here, are you enough yourself to take care of yourself, if I
leave you and go after them--whoever they are?"
"Yes, oh, yes."
"Will you be prudent--stay right here, eat very sparingly? Are they
back on the plain? If so, there is a long ride ahead of me, but my
horse is fresh. If they are not off the trail by which you came, I can
reach them."
"I did not once leave the trail after--there was no other way I could
take."
"Would they likely stay right where you left them?"
"They couldn't move if they tried. Oh, my God--if I were only myself
again!"
"Never waste words wishing, young man. I'll get them. But you must
give me your promise to wait here. Will you be prudent and wait?"
"Yes, yes."
"You'll be stronger before you know it, and then you'll want to leave,
you know, and go for them yourself. Don't do that. I'll give your
horse a bit more to eat and drink, and tie him again, then there'll be
no need for you to leave this bunk until to-morrow. I'm to follow the
trail you came up by, and not leave it until I come to--whoever it is?
Right. Do you give me your word, no matter how long gone I may be, not
to leave my place here until I return, or send?"
"Oh, yes, yes."
"Good. I'll trust you. There's a better reason than I care to give you
for this promise, young man. It's not a bad one."
The big man then made his preparations rapidly, pausing now and then
to give the stranger instructions as to where to find provisions and
how to manage there by himself, and inquiring carefully as to the
party he was to find. He packed saddlebags with supplies, and water
flasks, and, as he moved about, continued to question and admonish.
"By the time I get back you'll be as well as ever you were. A
couple of days--and you'll be fuming round instead of waiting in
patience--that's what I tell you. I'll fetch them--do you hear?
I'll do it. Now what's your name? Harry King? Harry King--very
well, I have it. And the party? Father and mother and daughter. Family
party. I see. Big fools, no doubt. No description needed, I guess.
Bird? Name Bird? No. McBride,--very good. Any name with a Mac to it
goes on this mountain--that means me. I'm the mountain. Any one I
don't want here I pack off down the trail, and _vice versa_."
Harry King lay still and heard the big man ride away. He heard his own
horse stamping and nickering, and heaving a great sigh of relief his
muscles relaxed, and he slept soundly on his hard bed. For hours he
had fought off this terrible languor with a desperation born of terror
for those he had left behind him, who looked to him as their only
hope. Now he resigned their fate to the big man whose eyes had looked
so kindly into his, with a childlike feeling of rest and content. He
lay thus until the sun rose high in the heavens the next morning, when
he was awakened by the insistent neighing of his horse which had risen
almost to a cry of fear.
"Poor beast. Poor beast," he muttered. His vocal chords seemed to have
stiffened and dried, and his attempt to call out to reassure the
animal resulted only in a hoarse croak. He devoured the meat of the
little quail left in the jar and drank the few remaining drops of
broth, then crawled out to look after the needs of his horse before
making further search for food for himself. He gathered all his little
strength to hold the frantic creature, maddened with hunger, and
tethered him where he could graze for half an hour, then fetched him
water as the big man had done, a little at a time in the great
dipper.
After these efforts he rested, sitting in the doorway in the sun, and
then searched out a meal for himself. The big man's larder was well
stocked, and although Harry King did not appear to be a western man,
he was a good camper, and could bake a corn dodger or toss a flapjack
with a fair amount of skill. As he worked, everything seemed like a
dream to him. The murmuring of the trees far up the mountain side, the
distant roar of falling water that made him feel as if a little way
off he might find the sea, filled his senses with an impression of
unseen forces at work all about him, and the peculiar clearness and
lightness of the atmosphere made him feel as if he were swaying over
the ground and barely touching his feet to the earth, instead of
walking. He might indeed be in an enchanted land, were it not for his
hunger and the reality of his still hungry horse.
After eating, he again stretched himself on the earth and again slept
until his horse awakened him. It was well. The sun was setting in the
golden notch of the hills, and once more he set himself to the same
task of laboriously giving his horse water and tethering him where the
grass was lush and green, then preparing food for himself, then
sitting in the doorway and letting the peace of the place sink into
his soul.
The horror of his situation when the big man found him had made no
impression, for he had mercifully been unconscious and too stupefied
with weariness to realize it. He had even no idea of how he had come
to the cabin, or from which direction. Inertly he thought over it. A
trail seemed to lead away to the southwest. He supposed he must have
come by it, but he had not. It was only the path made by his rescuer
in going to and fro between his garden patch and his cabin.
In the loneliness and peace of the dusk he looked up and saw the dome
above filled with stars, and all things were so vast and inexplicable
that he was minded to pray. The longing and the necessity of prayer
was upon him, and he stood with arms uplifted and eyes fixed on the
stars,--then his head sank on his breast and he turned slowly into the
cabin and lay down on the bunk with his hands pressed over his eyes,
and moaned. Far into the night he lay thus, unsleeping, now and again
uttering that low moan. Toward morning he again slept until far into
the day, and thus passed the first two days of his stay.
Strength came to him rapidly as the big man had said, and soon he was
restlessly searching the short paths all about for a way by which he
might find the plain below. He did not forget the promise which had
been exacted from him to remain, no matter how long, until the big
man's return, but he wished to discover whence he might arrive, and
perhaps journey to meet him on the way.
The first trail he followed led him to the fall that ever roared in
his ears. He stood amazed at its height and volume, and its wonderful
beauty. It lured him and drew him again and again to the spot from
which he first viewed it. Midway of its height he stood where every
now and then a little stronger breeze carried the fine mist of the
fall in his face. Behind him lay the garden, ever watered thus by the
wind-blown spray. Smoothly the water fell over a notch worn by its
never ceasing motion in what seemed the very crest of the mountain far
above him. Smoothly it fell into the rainbow mists that lost its base
in a wonderful iridescence of shadows and quivering, never resting
lights as far below him.
He caught his breath, and remembered the big man's words. "You missed
the trail to Higgins' Camp a long way back. It's easily done. I did it
myself once, and never undid it." He could not choose but return over
and over to that spot. A wonderful ending to a lost trail for a lost
soul.
The next path he followed took him to a living spring, where the big
man was wont to lead his own horse to water, and from whence he led
the water to his cabin in a small flume to always drip and trickle
past his door. It was at the end of this flume that Harry King had
filled the large dipper for his horse. Now he went back and washed
that utensil carefully, and hung it beside the door.
The next trail he followed led by a bare and more forbidding route to
the place where the big man had rescued him, and he knew it must be
the one by which he had come. A sense of what had happened came over
him terrifyingly, and he shrank from the abyss, his body quivering and
his head reeling. He would not look down into the blue depth, knowing
that if he did so, by that way his sanity would leave him, but he
crawled cautiously around the projecting cliff and wandered down the
stony trail. Now and again he called, "Whoopee! Whoopee!" but only his
own voice came back to him many times repeated.
Again and again he called and listened, "Whoopee! Whoopee!" and was
regretful at the thought that he did not even know the name of the man
who had saved him. Could he also save the others? The wild trail drew
him and fascinated him. Each day he followed a little farther, and
morning and evening he called his lonely cry, "Whoopee! Whoopee!" and
still was answered by the echo in diminuendo of his own voice. He
tried to resist the lure of that narrow, sun-baked, and stony descent,
which he felt led to the nethermost hell of hunger and burning thirst,
but always it seemed to him as if a cry came up for help, and if it
were not that he knew himself bound by a promise, he would have taken
his horse and returned to the horror below.
Each evening he reasoned with himself, and repeated the big man's
words for reassurance: "I'll fetch them, do you hear? I'll fetch
them," and again: "I'm the mountain. Any one I don't want here I pack
off down the trail." Perhaps he had taken them off to Higgins' Camp
instead of bringing them back with him--what then? Harry King bowed
his head at the thought. Then he understood the lure of the trail.
What then? Why, then--he would follow--follow--follow--until he found
again the woman for whom he had dared the unknown and to whom he had
given all but a few drops of water that were needed to keep him alive
long enough to find more for her. He would follow her back into that
hell below the heights. But how long should he wait? How long should
he trust the man to whom he had given his promise?
He decided to wait a reasonable time, long enough to allow for the big
man's going, and slow returning--long enough indeed for them to use up
all the provisions he had packed down to them, and then he would break
his promise and go. In the meantime he tried to keep himself sane by
doing what he found to do. He gathered the ripe corn in the big man's
garden patch and husked it and stored it in the shed which was built
against the cabin. Then he stored the fodder in a sort of stable built
of logs, one side of which was formed by a huge bowlder, or
projecting part of the mountain itself, not far from the spring, where
evidently it had been stored in the past, and where he supposed the
man kept his horse in winter. He judged the winters must be very
severe for the care with which this shed was covered and the wind
holes stopped. And all the time he worked each day seemed a month of
days, instead of a day of hours.
At last he felt he was justified in trying to learn the cause of the
delay at least, and he baked many cakes of yellow corn meal and
browned them well on the hearth, and roasted a side of bacon whole as
it was, and packed strips of dried venison, and filled his water flask
at the spring. After a long hunt he found empty bottles which he
wrapped round with husks and filled also with water. These he purposed
to hang at the sides of his saddle. He had carefully washed and mended
his clothing, and searching among the big man's effects, he found a
razor, dull and long unused. He sharpened and polished and stropped
it, and removed a vigorous growth of beard from his face, before a
little framed mirror. To-morrow he would take the trail down into the
horror from which he had come.
Now it only remained for him to look well to the good yellow horse and
sleep one more night in the friendly big man's bunk, then up before
the sun and go.
The nights were cold, and he thought he would replenish the fire on
his hearth, for he always had the feeling that at any moment they
might come wearily climbing up the trail, famished and cold. Any night
he might hear the "Halloo" of the big man's voice. In the shed where
he had piled the husked corn lay wood cut in lengths for the
fireplace, and taking a pine torch he stooped to collect a few
sticks, when, by the glare of the light he held, he saw what he had
never seen in the dim daylight of the windowless place. A heavy iron
ring lay at his feet, and as he kicked at it he discovered that it was
attached to something covered with earth beneath.
Impelled by curiosity he thrust the torch between the logs and removed
the earth, and found a huge bin of hewn logs carefully fitted and
smoothed on the inside. The cover was not fastened, but only held in
place by the weight of stones and earth piled above it. This bin was
half filled with finely broken ore, and as he lifted it in his hands
yellow dust sifted through his fingers.
Quivering with a strange excitement he delved deeper, lifting the
precious particles by handfuls, feeling of it, sifting it between his
fingers, and holding the torch close to the mass to catch the dull
glow of it. For a long time he knelt there, wondering at it, dreaming
over it, and feeling of it. Then he covered it all as he had found it,
and taking the wood for which he had come, he replenished the fire and
laid himself down to sleep.
What was gold to him? What were all the riches of the earth and of the
caves of the earth? Only one thought absorbed him,--the woman whom he
had left waiting for him on the burning plain, and a haunting memory
that would never leave him--never be stilled.