THE HARDSHIPS OF THE TRAIL
In the night, far out to the northward, a storm descended like a
cataclysm. Torrential rains were poured upon the hills from a
cloudburst exceptionally savage. Only the scattered outposts, as it
were, of the storm were blown as far as Goldite. A sprinkle of rain
that dried at once was the most those mountains received.
Van made an early start from the "Laughing Water" claim, to deliver
Beth's letter in Starlight. Her note to himself he read once more as
his pony jogged down the descent.
"Dear Mr. Van: I wonder if I dare to ask a favor--from one who has done
so much already? My brother, in Starlight, is ill. He has hurt
himself, I do not know how badly. A letter I sent has never been
received, and I am worried. The effort I made to see him--well--at
least, I'm glad I made the effort. But meantime, what of poor Glen?
Some little fear I have may be groundless. I shall therefore keep it
to myself--but I have it, perhaps because I am a woman. I must know
the truth about my brother--how he is--what has been happening. It is
far more important than I dare confess. I have written him a letter
and sent it to you in the hope you may not find it impossible to carry
it to Glen in person. If I am asking too much, please do not hesitate
to say so. I am sure you will be friendly enough for that--to say 'no'
if need be to another friend--_your_ friend, BETH KENT."
She did not regret that desert experience--that was almost enough for
him to know! He had lived in a glow since that wonderful night--and
this letter provided another. He rode like a proud young crusader of
old, with his head in a region of sunshine and gold, his vision
transfixed by a face. Her love had become his holy grail--and for that
he would ride to death itself.
His way he shortened, or thought to shorten, by dropping down from the
reservation heights to the new-made town a mile below. He came upon
the place abruptly, after dipping once into a canyon, and looked with
amazement on the place. In the past twelve hours it had doubled in
size and increased twenty-fold in its fever. The face of the desert
was literally alive with men and animals. Half of Goldite and
practically all of a dozen lesser camps were there. Confusion,
discomfort, and distraction seemed hopelessly enthroned. The "rush"
was written in men's faces, in their actions, in their baggage, words,
and rising temperature.
A dozen stalwart stampeders pounced upon Van like wolves. They wanted
to know what he thought of the reservation, where to go, whether or not
there was any more ground like that of the "Laughing Water" claim, what
he had heard from his Indian friends, and what he would take for his
placer. The crowd about him rapidly increased. Men in a time of
excitement such as this flock as madly as sheep whenever one may lead.
Anything is news--any man is of interest who has in his pocket a piece
of rock, or has in his eye a wink. No man is willing to be left
outside. He must know all there is to be known.
It was utterly useless for Van to protest his ignorance of the
reservation ground. He owned a deposit of placer gold. Success had
crowned his efforts. It was something to get in touch with success,
rub shoulders with a man who had the gold.
His friends were there in the red-faced mob. They said they were his
friends, and they doubtless knew. Some were, indeed, old acquaintances
whom Van would gladly have assisted towards a needed change of fortune.
He was powerless, not only to aid these men, but also to escape.
Despite his utmost endeavors they held him there an hour, and to make
up the time, he chose the hottest, roughest trail through the range,
when at last he was clear of the town.
The climb he made on his pony to slice a few miles from his route was
over a mountain and through a gulch that was known as The Devil's
Slide. It was gravel that moved underfoot with never-failing
treachery, gravel made hot by the rays of the sun, and flinging up a
scorching heat while it crawled and blistered underfoot. On midsummer
days men had perished here, driven mad by the dancing of the air and
the dread of the movement where they trod. The last two miles of this
desolate slope Van walked and led his broncho.
He entered "Solid Canyon" finally, and mounting once more let Suvy pick
the way between great boulders, where gray rattlesnakes abounded in
exceptional numbers. These were the hardships of the ride, all there
were that Van felt worth the counting. He had reckoned without that
far-off storm, which had raged in the darkness of the night.
He came to the river, the ford between the banks where he and Beth had
found a shallow stream. For a moment he stared at it speechlessly. A
great, swiftly-moving flood was there, tawny, roiled with the mud torn
down and dissolved in the water's violence, and foaming still from a
plunge it had taken above.
It was ten to twenty feet deep. This Van realized as he sat there on
his sweating horse, measuring up the banks. The depth had encroached
upon the slope whereon he was wont to ascend the further side. There
was one place only where he felt assured a landing might be achieved.
"Well, Suvy," he said to the animal presently, "it looks more like a
swim than a waltz quadrille, and neither of us built web-footed."
Without further ado he placed Beth's letter in his hat, then rode his
pony down the bank and into the angry-looking water. Suvy halted a
moment uncertainly, then, like his master, determined to proceed.
Five feet out he was swimming, headed instinctively up the stream and
buried deep under the surface. Van still remained in the saddle. He
was more than waist under, loosely clinging to his seat and giving the
pony the reins.
Suvy was powerful, he swam doggedly, but the current was tremendous in
its sheer liquid mass and momentum. Van slipped off and swam by the
broncho's side. Together the two breasted the surge of the tide, and
now made more rapid progress. It required tremendous effort to forge
ahead and not be swept headlong to a choppy stretch of rapids, just
below.
"Up stream, boy, up stream," said Van, as if to a comrade, for he had
noted the one likely place to land, and Suvy was drifting too far
downward.
They came in close to the bank, as Van had feared, below the one fair
landing. Despite his utmost efforts, to which the pony willingly
responded, they could not regain what had been lost. The broncho made
a fine but futile attempt to gain a footing and scramble up the almost
perpendicular wall of rock and earth by which he was confronted. Time
after time he circled completely in the surge, to no avail. He may
have become either confused or discouraged, Whichever it was, he
turned about, during a moment when Van released the reins, and swam
sturdily back whence he come.
Van, in the utmost patience, turned and followed. Suvy awaited his
advent on the shore.
"Try to keep a little further up, boy, if you can," said the man, and
he mounted and rode as before against the current.
The broncho was eager to obey directions, eager to do the bidding of
the man he strangely loved. All of the first hard struggle was
repeated--and the current caught them as before. Again, as formerly,
Van slipped off and swam by his pony's side. He could not hold his
shoulder against the animal, and guide him thus up the stream, but was
trailed out lengthwise and flung about in utter helplessness, forming a
drag against which the pony's most desperate efforts could not prevail.
They came to the bank precisely as they had before, and once again,
perhaps more persistently, Suvy made wild, eager efforts to scramble
out where escape was impossible. Again and again he circled, pawed the
bank, and turned his eyes appealingly to Van, as if for help or
suggestions.
At last he acknowledged defeat, or lost comprehension of the struggle.
He swam as on the former trial to the bank on the homeward side.
There was nothing for Van but to follow as before. When he came out,
dripping and panting, by the animal, whose sides were fairly heaving as
he labored for breath, he was still all cheer and encouragement.
"Suvy," said he, "a failure is a chap who couldn't make a fire in hell.
We've got to cross this river if we have to burn it up."
He took the broncho's velvety nose in his hands and gave him a rough
little shake. Then he patted him smartly on the neck.
"For a pocket-size river," he said as he looked at the flood, "this is
certainly the infant prodigy. Well, let's try it again."
Had the plunge been straight to sudden death that broncho would have
risked it unswervingly at the urging of his master. Suvy was somewhat
exhausted by the trials already made, in vain. But into the turgid
down-sweep he headed with a newly conjured vigor.
Van now waited merely for the pony to get started on his way, when he
lifted away from the saddle, with the water's aid, and clung snugly up
to the stirrup. He swam with one hand only. To keep himself afloat
and offer no resistance to the broncho was the most that he could do,
and the best.
The struggle was tremendous. Suvy had headed more obliquely than
before against the current, and having encountered a greater
resistance, with his strength somewhat sapped, was toiling like an
engine.
Inch by inch, foot by foot, he forged his way against the liquid wall
that split upon him. Van felt a great final quiver of muscular energy
shake the living dynamic by his side, as Suvy poured all his fine young
might into one supreme effort at the end. Then he came to the landing,
got all his feet upon the slope, and up they heaved in triumph!