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[Illustration: DICK IN THE DESERT
James Otis]
SUNSHINE LIBRARY.
THE BLIND BROTHER.
By Homer Greene $0.50
THE CAPTAIN'S DOG.
By Louis Enault .50
DEAR LITTLE MARCHIONESS.
The Story of a Child's Faith and Love .50
DICK IN THE DESERT.
By James Otis .50
THE GOLD THREAD.
By Norman McLeod, D.D. .50
HOW TOMMY SAVED THE BARN.
By James Otis .50
J. COLE.
By Emma Gellibrand .50
JESSICA'S FIRST PRAYER.
By Hesba Stretton .50
LADDIE.
By the Author of "Miss Toosey's Mission" .50
LITTLE PETER.
By Lucas Malet .50
MASTER SUNSHINE.
By Mrs. C. F. Fraser .50
MISS TOOSEY'S MISSION.
By the Author of "Laddie" .50
MUSICAL JOURNEY OF DOROTHY AND DELIA.
By Bradley Gilman .50
A SHORT CRUISE.
By James Otis .50
THE WRECK OF THE CIRCUS.
By James Otis .50
THOMAS Y. CROWELL & COMPANY,
NEW YORK AND BOSTON.
DICK IN THE DESERT
BY
JAMES OTIS
AUTHOR OF "HOW TOMMY SAVED THE BARN," ETC.
NEW YORK: 46 EAST 14TH STREET
THOMAS Y. CROWELL & COMPANY
BOSTON: 100 PURCHASE STREET
COPYRIGHT, 1893,
BY THOMAS Y. CROWELL & COMPANY.
TYPOGRAPHY BY C. J. PETERS & SON, BOSTON.
PRESSWORK BY S. J. PARKHILL & CO.
[Illustration: "THANKS TO THE TIMELY ATTENTION, DICK SOON OPENED HIS
EYES."--Page 48.]
For the lad to whom I have given the name of Dick Stevens this
little story has been written, with the hope that he may enjoy
the reading of it even as I did his modest manner of telling it.
JAMES OTIS.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. DICK'S DADDY 1
II. A LONELY VIGIL 17
III. A SAND-STORM 34
IV. AT ANTELOPE SPRING 52
V. DICK "PULLS THROUGH" 69
DICK IN THE DESERT.
CHAPTER I.
DICK'S DADDY.
Between Fox Peak and Smoke Creek Desert, on the western edge of the
State of Nevada, is a beautiful valley, carpeted with bunch grass,
which looks particularly bright and green to the venturesome traveller
who has just crossed either of the two deserts lying toward the east.
"Buffalo Meadows" the Indians named it, because of the vast herds of
American bison found there before the white men hunted simply for the
sport of killing; but those who halt at the last watercourse prior to
crossing the wide stretches of sand on the journey east, speak of it
as "Comfort Hollow."
To a travel-stained party who halted at the water-pool nearest the
desert on a certain afternoon in September two years ago, this last
name seemed particularly appropriate.
They had come neither for gold nor the sport of hunting; but were
wearily retracing their steps, after having wandered and suffered
among the foot-hills of the Sierras in a fruitless search for a home,
on which they had been lured by unscrupulous speculators.
Nearly two years previous Richard Stevens--"Roving Dick" his
acquaintances called him--had first crossed the vast plain of sand,
with his wife, son, and daughter.
His entire worldly possessions consisted of a small assortment of
household goods packed in a stout, long-bodied wagon, covered with
canvas stretched over five poles bent in a half-circle, and drawn by
two decrepit horses.
The journey had been a failure, so far as finding a home in the wilds
was concerned, where the head of the family could live without much
labor; and now the homeless ones, decidedly the worse for wear, were
returning to Willow Point, on the Little Humboldt River.
The provisions had long since been exhausted; the wagon rudely
repaired in many places; the cooking utensils were reduced to one pot
and a battered dipper; the canvas covering was torn and decaying, and
the horses presented a skeleton-like appearance.
The family had suffered outwardly quite as much as the goods. Young
Dick and his father wore clothing which had been patched and repatched
with anything Mrs. Stevens could push a needle through, until it would
have been impossible to say what was the original material; but to a
boy thirteen years of age this seemed a matter of little consequence,
while his father preferred such a costume rather than exert himself to
tan deer-hides for one more serviceable.
Mrs. Stevens and six-year-old Margie were in a less forlorn condition as
to garments; but they also needed a new outfit sadly, and nearly every
day young Dick told them confidentially that he would attend to the
matter immediately after arriving at Willow Point, even if it became
necessary for him to sell his rifle, the only article of value he owned.
"Once across the desert, mother," he said, as the sorry-looking team was
drawn up by the side of the pool, and he began to unharness the horses
while his father went in search of game for supper, "and then we shall
be well on our way to the old home we had no business to leave."
"It is this portion of the journey that worries me most, Dick. You
remember what a hard time we had when the animals were in good
condition; and now that they are hardly able to drag their own bones
along, the danger is great."
"No more than when we crossed the river; and even though father did
feel afraid there, we got along all right," was the cheerful reply.
"There should be plenty of game here, and after a square feed things
won't look so bad."
Mrs. Stevens turned wearily away to make preparations for the evening
meal in case the hunter should bring in a supply of meat, but made no
reply. She understood why young Dick spoke encouragingly, and felt proud
that the boy displayed so much tenderness for her; yet the fact could
not be disguised that dangers beset the little party on every hand.
It required but a small amount of labor in order to make ready for the
night.
Tired as the horses were, there was no likelihood of their straying
very far; and Dick simply removed the harness, allowing the animals to
roam at will. The wagon served as a camp; and the most arduous task
was that of gathering materials with which to make a fire, when
nothing larger than a bush could be seen on either hand.
Then there was no more to be done save await the return of the
hunter, and it was not until the shadows began to lengthen into the
gloom of night that young Dick felt seriously alarmed.
He knew his father would not have gone very far from the camp in
search of game, because he was on foot, and there was no more
promising place for sport than within the radius of a mile from where
they had halted. Besides, when hunting took the form of labor which
must be performed, Richard Stevens was not one who would continue it
long, unless he was remarkably hungry.
Young Dick's mother gave words to her anxiety several times; but the
boy argued with her that no harm could have befallen the absent one in
that vicinity, and for a time her fears were allayed.
When another hour passed, however, and nothing was heard from his
father, even Dick lost courage, and believed that the culminating
point in their troubles had been reached.
His mother and Margie had entered the wagon when night was fully come,
knowing they must go supperless to bed unless the hunter returned; and
to Dick the thought that these two whom he loved so dearly were
hungry, brought him almost as much sorrow as the unaccountable absence
of his father.
He believed, however, that it was his duty to appear unconcerned, as
if confident his father's prolonged absence did not betoken danger.
He trudged to and fro in the immediate vicinity of the vehicle, at
times whistling cheerily to show there was no trouble on his mind; and
again, when it was impossible to continue the melody because of the
sorrow in his heart, repeated to his mother that nothing serious could
have befallen the absent one, that probably he had unconsciously
wandered a long distance from the camp on the trail of game.
"It don't stand to reason he will try to make his way now it is dark,
mother dear; but within an hour or two after sunrise he'll be here, and
the breakfast we shall then have will make up for the loss of supper."
Mrs. Stevens made no reply; and listening a moment, Dick heard the
sound of suppressed sobs.
His mother was in distress, and he could do no more toward comforting
her than repeat what he did not absolutely believe.
He knew full well that unless some accident had befallen him, his
father would have returned before dark; that he would not have allowed
himself to be led so far away from the camping-place that he could not
readily return; and the boy's sorrow was all the greater because it
was impossible to console his mother.
Clambering into the wagon, he put his arms around her neck, pressing
his cheek close against hers, and during what seemed a very long while
the two remained silent, not daring to give words to their fears.
Then Dick bethought himself of a plan which offered some slight degree
of hope, and starting up suddenly, said,--
"I ought to have done it before, an' it ain't too late now."
"Done what, Dick dear?"
"Gone out in the direction father took, and fired the rifle two or
three times. It may be he has lost his bearings, and the report of the
gun would be enough to let him know where we are."
"But you must not go now that it is dark, my boy. Suppose you should
lose your way? Then what would become of Margie and me?"
"There's no danger of that, mother. I've been in the woods often
enough to be able to take care of myself, surely."
"Your father would have said the same thing when he set out; but yet
we know some accident must have befallen him."
"Let me go only a little way, mother."
"Of what avail would that be, my son? If the purpose is to discharge
your rifle, hoping father may hear the report, why not do it here?"
"I will, if you won't let me go farther."
"I can't, Dick dear. I might be braver under other circumstances, but
now the thought of your leaving me is more than I can bear."
"I won't go so far but that I can see the wagon," Dick said, kissing
his mother and little Margie much as though bidding them good-by; and
a few moments later the report of his rifle almost startled the
occupants of the wagon.
During the next hour Dick discharged his weapon at least twelve times,
but there was no reply of whatsoever nature.
If his father was alive and within hearing, he was too badly disabled
to give token of his whereabouts.
The supply of cartridges was not so large that very many could be used
without making a serious inroad upon the store; and realizing the
uselessness of further efforts in this direction, Dick went back to
the wagon.
Margie had fallen asleep, her head pillowed in her mother's lap; and
Mrs. Stevens, unwilling to disturb the child, was taking such rest as
was possible while she leaned against the canvas covering of the wagon.
Dick seated himself beside her. It was not necessary he should speak
of his failure, for she knew that already.
He had thought it his duty to join her for a few moments, and then go
outside again to act the part of sentinel, although such labor could
be of little avail; but before he had been nestling by her side five
minutes his eyes were closed in slumber; and the mother, her mind
reaching out to the absent father, spent the hours of the night in
wakefulness, watching over her children.
The sun had risen before Dick's eyes were opened; and springing to his
feet quickly, ashamed of having slept while his mother kept guard, he
said,--
"I didn't mean to hang on here like a baby while you were awake,
mother, but my eyes shut before I knew it."
"It is well you rested, my son. Nothing could have been done had you
remained awake."
"Perhaps not; but I should have felt better, because if anything has
happened to father, though I don't say it can be possible, I'm the one
who must take care of you and Margie."
Mrs. Stevens kissed the boy, not daring to trust herself to speak; and
he hurried out, for there was before him a full day's work, if he would
do that which he had decided upon in his mind the evening previous.
There was no reasonable hope any one would come that way for many
days--perhaps months.
They were alone, and whatever was done must be accomplished by this
thirteen-year-old boy.
"I'm going after something for breakfast, mother, and then count on
trying to follow father's trail," Dick said, after looking around in
every direction, even though he knew there was no possibility of
seeing any human being.
"There is no reason why you should spend the time in trying to get
food for us, Dick dear. Margie and I can get on very well without
breakfast, and you will have the more time to hunt for your father;
but remember, my boy, that you are the only one we can depend upon
now, and without you we might remain here until we starved."
"I'll take good care not to go so far from the wagon but that I can
find my way back; for surely I'll be able to follow on my own trail,
if there's no other. Hadn't I better do a little hunting first?"
"Not unless you are very, very hungry, Dick. Food would choke me just
now, and there is enough of the bread we baked yesterday morning to
give you and Margie an apology for a breakfast."
"I can get along without; you shall eat my share. Now, don't worry if
I'm not back until near sunset. The horses are close at hand, and you
may be certain they won't stray while the feed is plentiful. Stay in
the wagon, even though there is nothing to harm you if you walk
around. We must be careful that no more trouble comes upon us; so keep
under cover, mother dear, and I'll be here again before night comes."
Dick was not as confident he could follow his father's trail as he
would have it appear to his mother; but he decided upon the direction
in which he would search, and set bravely out heading due west,
knowing he could hold such a course by aid of the sun's position, as
his father had often explained to him.
Dick was hungry, but scorned to let his mother know it, and tried to
dull the edge of his appetite by chewing twigs and blades of grass.
After walking rapidly ten minutes, more careful as to direction than
he ever had been, because of the responsibility that rested upon him,
he stopped and shouted his father's name; then listened, hoping to
hear a reply.
Save for the hum of insect life, no sound came to his anxious ears.
Once more he pressed forward, and again shouted, but without avail.
He continued on until, seeing the trail made by the wagon when they
had come in from the stream, he knew he was very near to the border of
the valley.
Surely his father would not have gone outside, because he had said
before they arrived that only in the Buffalo Meadows were they likely
to find game.
Then Dick turned, pushing on in a northerly direction at right angles
with the course he had just been pursuing, and halting at five-minute
intervals to shout.
His anxiety and hunger increased equally as the day grew older. Try as
he might, he could not keep the tears from over-running his eyelids.
The sun was sinking toward the west before he heard aught of human
voice save his own; and then a cry of joy and relief burst from his
lips as he heard faintly in the distance his own name spoken.
"I'm coming! I'm coming!" he cried at the full strength of his lungs,
as he dashed forward, exultant in the thought that his father was
alive, for he had begun to believe that he would never see him again
in this world.
Mr. Stevens continued to call out now and then to guide the boy on the
way, and as he drew nearer Dick understood from the quavering tones
that his father was in agony.
"I'm coming, daddy! I'm coming!" he shouted yet louder, as if
believing it was necessary to animate the sufferer, for he now knew
that some painful accident had befallen his father; and when he
finally ended the search his heart literally ceased beating because of
his terror and dismay.
Dick believed he had anticipated the worst, but yet was unprepared for
that which he saw.
Lying amid the blood-stained sage-grass, his shirt stripped into
bandages to tie up a grievously injured limb, lay "Roving Dick," his
face pallid, his lips bloodless, and his general appearance that of
one whom death has nearly overtaken.
"Daddy! daddy!" Dick cried piteously, and then he understood that
consciousness had deserted the wounded man.
He had retained possession of his faculties until aid was near at
hand, and then the long strain of physical and mental agony had
brought about a collapse.
Dick raised his father's head tenderly, imploring him to speak--to
tell him what should be done; but the injured man remained silent as
if death had interposed to give him relief.
Looking about scrutinizingly, as those born and bred on the frontier
learn to do early in life, Dick saw his father's rifle twenty feet or
more away, and between it and him a trail of blood through the
sage-brush, then a sinister, crimson blotch on the sand.
Mr. Stevens's right leg was the injured member, and it had been
wrapped so tightly with the improvised bandages that the boy could
form no idea as to the extent of the wound; but he knew it must indeed
be serious to overcome so thoroughly one who, though indolent by
nature, had undergone much more severe suffering than he could have
known since the time of leaving the wagon to search for game.
It seemed to Dick as if more than ten minutes elapsed before his
father spoke, and then it was to ask for water.
He might as well have begged for gold, so far as Dick's ability to
gratify the desire was concerned.
"To get any, daddy, I may have to go way back to the wagon, for I
haven't come upon a single watercourse since leaving camp this morning."
"Your mother and Margie?"
"I left them at the camp. How did you get here?"
"It was just before nightfall. I had been stalking an antelope; was
crawling on the ground dragging my rifle, when the hammer must have
caught amid the sage-brush; the weapon was discharged, and the bone of
my leg appears to be shattered."
"Poor, poor daddy!" and Dick kissed him on the forehead.
"We must be four miles from the camp," Mr. Stevens said, speaking with
difficulty because of his parched and swollen tongue.
"I should say so; but I went toward the west, and after travelling
until noon struck across this way, so have no idea of the distance."
"I shall die for lack of water, Dick, even though the wound does not
kill me."
"How shall I get it, daddy?" the boy cried piteously. "I can't leave
you here alone, and I don't believe there's a drop nearer than where
we are camped."
"You _must_ leave me, Dick; for you can do no good while staying here,
and the thought that help is coming, even though there may be many
hours to wait, will give me strength. Can you find your way to the
camp and back after nightfall?"
"I'll do it somehow, daddy! I'll do it!"
"Then set out at once, and bring one of the horses back with you. I
should be able to ride four miles, or even twice that distance, since
it is to save my life."
"But you'll keep up a brave heart, daddy dear, won't you? Don't think
you are going to die; but remember that mother and I, and even little
Margie, will do all we can to pull you through."
"I know it, Dick, I know it. You are a good lad--far better than I
have been father; and if it should chance that when you come back I've
gone from this world, remember that you are the only one to whom the
mother and baby can look for protection."
"You know I'd always take care of them; but I am going to save you,
daddy dear. People have gotten over worse wounds than this, and once
you are at the camp we will stay in Buffalo Meadows till it is
possible for you to ride. I'll look out for the whole outfit, and from
this on you sha'n't have a trouble, except because of the wound."
"Give me your hand, my boy, and now go; for strong as may be my will,
I can't stand the loss of much more blood. God bless you, Dick, and
remember that I always loved you, even though I never provided for you
as a father should have done."
Dick hastily cleared the mist from his eyes, and without speaking
darted forward in the direction where he believed the wagon would be
found, breaking the sage-brush as he ran in order that he might make
plain the trail over which he must return.