LOST IN THE BURNING DESERT.
Jack’s first thought when he rose to his feet had been, as we know, to
signal the Mexican whom he had left behind him, and try to assure him
by sign language that he would do all in his power to bring rescuers
to the valley. Not that the boy had any particular affection for the
swarthy Alvarez; but naturally, with his warm, forgiving temperament,
he hated the idea of leaving a fellow being behind without hope of
succor.
But the dark shadows of evening hid the valley from him, and the boy
was forced to set forward without having had a chance to signal the
Mexican, or to witness a scene that would have interested him in an
extraordinary degree, namely, the arrival of his chums and Captain
Atkinson.
Naturally enough, the first thing that Jack did when he found himself
at the top of the dread precipice was to look about him and see what
kind of country it was into which he had fallen, or rather, climbed.
While it was rapidly growing dark in the valley below, the sun still
shone brightly on the heights above, although the luminary of day was
not far from the horizon.
So far as Jack could see, the country round about was not dissimilar in
the main from that across the Border. It was a rolling country, grown
with bunch grass and here and there a ghostly–looking yucca stretching
its gaunt arms out against the sky. As far as the eye could reach this
sort of country extended, except that in the distance was a purplish
mass of what might have been either mountains or low–lying clouds.
But to the boy’s dismay there was not a sign of a human dwelling, nor
of anything to indicate that life existed in that dreary plain.
“Gracious,” thought Jack, “this is really serious. I feel weak for want
of food and I’m thirsty enough to drink a well dry. Surely, there must
be some human beings in the vicinity. At least I’ll not give up hope.”
With a great sigh the boy struck out toward the east. He chose this
direction because he thought it was as good as any other, and not for
any particular reason. He trudged pluckily on across arid, rocky plains
till the sun sank in a blaze of copper and gold behind his back.
It was then, and not till then, that Jack gave way. He flung himself
down despairingly on the hot ground under the cheerless arms of a huge
yucca.
“What is to become of me?” he cried in a dismayed tone. “What shall I
do? Evidently this part of the country is good for neither ranching or
mining, and is uninhabited. I might tramp on for days without finding a
soul to help me. Am I doomed to end my life in this dreary place?”
These and a hundred other gloomy thoughts flitted through the boy’s
mind as, utterly exhausted and unnerved, he lay on the ground beneath
the yucca. What were his chums doing? he wondered. No doubt by this
time a search party had been organized to seek for him, but Jack
owned, with a sinking of the heart, that it was beyond the range of
possibilities, almost, that they should ever find the Pool of Death and
the secret valley.
“No,” he owned with bitter resignation, “my bones will bleach in this
God–forgotten place, and none will ever know my fate.”
Then he thought of his home and his father, the stalwart ranchman, and
tears welled up in his eyes and a great lump rose in his throat.
“Oh, it’s hard to have to die like this,” he moaned, “and yet there
is nothing to be done. True, I may live for a day or two yet. I can
start out again to–morrow morning and go on stumbling along till I drop
exhausted.”
It was at this bitter moment that a sudden recollection of a favorite
saying of his father’s came into the boy’s mind: “Never give up while
you’ve a kick left in you.”
Jack thought of the bluff ranchman as the saying came back to him with
poignant force.
“Never give up while you’ve a kick left in you.”
“For shame, Jack Merrill,” he said half aloud, “for shame, to be giving
up this way. You’ve a kick left in you, many of them perhaps. What
would your dad say if he saw you sitting down like a girl or a baby and
giving in before you had to? Don’t you dare to do it again.”
Having thus scolded himself, Jack felt somewhat better, though there
was still the great dread of a death in the desert upon him. But at
least some of his spirit had returned. He resolved to struggle on as
soon as he was sufficiently rested.
With this determination in his mind, the boy tried to compose himself
for sleep. He knew that a good spell of slumber would refresh him
almost as much as food or drink. Thus he unconsciously echoed the
sentiments of the philosopher who declared that “He who sleeps, dines.”
At any rate, the practical Jack Merrill wished to be at his best
when he started off once more on his wanderings, so he laid down and
composed himself as comfortably as he could. Strange as it may seem
that he could sleep under such conditions, slumber he did, although all
sorts of wild dreams beset his rest. At one moment he was toiling over
a burning desert under a pitiless sun, calling aloud for water. Then
again he was in the shade of a delightful group of trees while bright
crystal springs flashed and rippled. He was dreaming that he felt
the delightful cooling sensation of a cold plunge into one of these
rivulets when he awoke with a start.
Above him the stars glittered coldly. The yuccas, like grim sentinels,
outstretched their gaunt, semaphore–like arms against the night sky. A
breeze that seemed chilly after the heat of the day swept the dismal
plain. The sensation of coming from that dream of cool green places to
that dry, desolate, stony waste gave Jack a fresh shock; but, true to
his determination to act as he knew his father would wish him to do,
he shook off his gloomy depression and struck out once more toward the
east, taking his direction from the North Star, which he sighted by
means of the “pointers” in the Dipper.
As he strode forward the poor boy whistled “Marching Thro’ Georgia”
to keep up his spirits. But the tune soon wavered and died out. His
lips were too dry and cracked to make whistling anything but a painful
process. Thereafter he trudged along in silence. Soon a rosy flush
appeared in the east, and before long the sun rushed up and it was a
new day.
But to Jack the coming of the sun meant fresh disappointment. He had
hoped that with daylight he might perceive some house, however rough,
or at least a road he could follow. But none appeared. He mounted to
the highest bit of rocky land he could find in the vicinity in the hope
that the elevation might aid him in surveying the country.
It did give him a wider outlook, it is true, but the extended range of
vision brought no glad tidings of civilization to the boy. Nothing but
that same dreary expanse of brush, yuccas, sand and rocks met his eye.
Jack set his teeth grimly. He faced the truth now squarely and without
flinching. Unless by some miracle a human being came that way he was
doomed. There was no evading the fact. Already his thirst had passed
the uncomfortable stage and had become a mad craving for water.
He tried cutting the yucca stalks and extracting some moisture from
them. But though they yielded some acrid juice, it did little to
assuage his pangs. It was about a mile from the spot where he had
mounted the little hill that Jack’s collapse came. For some time
before he had been certain that his mind was acting strangely. He was
distinctly conscious of another self, a second Jack Merrill walking by
his side. He talked wildly to this visionary being. His talk was like
the ravings of a boy in a high fever.
So weak had he become that the last mile had taken more than an hour
to traverse. Hardly conscious of what he was doing, the boy had toiled
doggedly on. But as the sun grew higher his strength grew less. At last
his knees fairly buckled under him and he sank down in that stony,
sun–bitten place, utterly incapable of further locomotion.
“It is the end,” he muttered, through scorched and blackened lips, as
he sank, “oh, great heavens, it is the end!”
The sun beat pitilessly down on his form as it lay there in that
shadeless expanse. Tiny lizards darted in and out among the scanty,
dusty brush and glanced speculatively at him with their tiny bright
eyes.
High in the burning blue vault of the sky a buzzard paused in its
ceaseless wheelings, and, gazing down, saw that motionless form. By the
magic that summons these birds of prey the sky above Jack’s still form
was soon filled with them.
For a time they swung round and round; but gradually the boldest, from
mere dots high in the air, became great black–winged birds with foul
looking heads of bare red flesh and hideous curved beaks. First one
and then another dropped to the ground a short distance from the boy’s
form.
They hopped in a curious flopping fashion about him.
“Was the boy dead?” That was the question that they asked themselves as
they eyed his still form with greedy, deep–set eyes.