Roy Milford pulled the brim of his faded sombrero further over his blue
eyes and urged Scamp into a trot, though it was broiling hot. Roy had left
the town two miles behind, and three more miles stretched between him and
home. From the cantle of his saddle hung the two paper parcels which, with
the mail in his pocket, explained his errand.
Not a breath of air stirred the dusty leaves of the cottonwoods along the
road. Roy was barely fourteen years old; but his six years in Colorado had
taught him what such weather foretold, and there were plenty of other signs
of the approaching storm. In the uncultivated fields the little mounds
before the prairie dog holes were untenanted; the silver poplars, weather
wise, were displaying the under sides of their gleaming leaves; the birds
were silent; and the still, oppressive air was charged with electricity.
But, most unmistakable sign of all, over the flat purple peaks of the Mesa
Grande, hung a long bank of sullen, blackish clouds. There was the storm,
already marshaling its forces. Roy was certain that, after the month of
rainless weather just passed, the coming deluge would be something to
wonder at.
Where the road crossed the railroad track Roy touched his buckskin pony
with the quirt and loped westward until he reached a rail gate leading into
an uncultivated field. Here he leaped nimbly out of the saddle, threw open
the gate, sent Scamp through with a pat on the shoulder, closed the bars
again, remounted, and trotted over the sun-cracked adobe. Two hundred yards
away a fringe of greasewood bushes marked what, at this distance, appeared
to be a water course. Such, in a way, it was. But Roy had never seen more
water in it than he could have jumped across. It was a narrow arroyo or
gully, varying in width from twelve to twenty feet, and averaging fifteen
feet in depth. It ran almost due north and south for a distance of five
miles, through a bare, level prairie tenanted only by roving cattle and
horses--if one excepts rabbits, prairie dogs, rattlesnakes, owls, lizards,
and scorpions. There was no vegetation except grease-wood, cactus, and
sagebrush. In heavy rains or during sudden meltings of the snow back on the
mountains, each of several small gullies bore its share of water to the
junction at the beginning; of the arroyo, from whence it sped, tumbling and
churning through the miniature gorge, southward to the river.
To Roy, who loved adventure, the arroyo was ever a source of pleasure, with
its twilit depths and firm sandy bed. He knew every inch of it. Many were
the imaginary adventures he had gone through in its winding depths, now as
a painted Arapahoe on the warpath, now as a county sheriff on the trail of
murderous desperadoes, again as a mighty hunter searching the sandy floor
for the tracks of bears and mountain lions. He had found strange things in
the arroyo--rose-quartz arrow heads, notched like saws; an old, rusted
Colt's revolver, bearing the date 1858, and a picture of the holding up of
a stagecoach engraved around the chamber; queer, tiny shells of some long
gone fresh-water snail; bits of yellow pottery, their edges worn smooth and
round by the water; to say nothing of birds' nests, villages of ugly
water-white scorpions; and lizards, from the tiny ones that change their
color, chameleonlike, to "racers" well over a foot long.
From end to end of the arroyo there were but two places where it was
possible to enter or leave. Both of these had been made by cattle crossing
from side to side. One was just back of Roy's home and the other was nearly
two miles south. It was toward the latter that Roy was heading his horse.
He thought with pleasure of the comparative comfort awaiting him in the
shaded depths. Brushing the perspiration out of his eyes, he glanced
northward. Even as he looked the summits of the peaks were blurred from
sight by a dark gray veil of rain. Above, all was blackness save when for
an instant a wide, white sheet of lightning blazed above the mesa, and was
followed a moment later by the first tremendous roar of thunder. Scamp
pricked up his drooping ears and mended his pace.
"We are going to get good and wet before we get home," muttered Roy. "Come
on, Scamp!"
They reached the edge of the arroyo and the little pony, lurching from side
to side, clambered carefully down the narrow path to the bottom. Once
there, Roy used his quirt again, and the horse broke into a gallop that
carried them fast over the sandy bed. On both sides the walls of adobe and
yellow clay rose as straight as though of masonry. Along the brink grew
stunted bushes of greasewood and of sage. Here and there the tap root of a
greasewood was half exposed for its entire length, just as it had been left
by the falling earth. Many of these yellow-brown roots, tough as hempen
rope, descended quite to the bottom of the arroyo, for the greasewood
perseveres astonishingly in its search for moisture.
As Scamp hurried along the brown and gray lizards darted across his path,
and the mother scorpions, taking the air at the entrances of their holes,
scuttled out of sight. Roy took off his hat and let the little draught of
air that blew through the chasm dry the perspiration on face and hair.
Presently the sunlight above gave way to a sullen, silent shadow. The air
grew strangely quiet; even the lizards no longer moved. Roy gazed straight
upward into the slowly rolling depths of a dark cloud, and heartily wished
himself at home. He had seen many a storm; but the one that was approaching
now made him almost afraid. The little twigs of greasewood shivered and
bent, and a cool breath fanned his cheek. There came a great drop,
splashing against his bare brown hand; then another; then many, each
leaving a spot of moisture on the dry sand as big as a silver dollar. Roy
put his sombrero on and drew the string tightly back of his head. He
buttoned his blue-flannel shirt at the throat, patted Scamp encouragingly
on his reeking neck, and rode on.
For the last ten minutes the thunder had been roaring at intervals, drawing
nearer and nearer, and now it crashed directly overhead with a mighty sound
that shook the earth and sent Scamp bounding out of his path in terror.
Then down came the rain. It was as though a million buckets had been
emptied upon him; it fell in livid, hissing sheets and walls, taking
strange shapes, like pillars and columns that came from a dim nowhere and
rushed past him into the gray void behind. He was drenched ere he could
have turned in his saddle; his eyes were filled with rain, it ran dripping
from his soaking hat brim and coursed down his arms and chest and back. For
a moment even Scamp, experienced cow pony that he was, plunged and snorted
loudly, until Roy's voice shouted encouragement. Then he raced forward
again. But almost at once his gait shortened; the bed of the arroyo was
running with water and the softened sand made heavy going. Roy could
scarcely distinguish the walls on either side; but he knew that when the
storm had broken the path leading up out of the arroyo was about a half
mile ahead of him.
As suddenly as it had begun the deluge lessened. The walls, running with
mud, were crumbling and falling here and there in miniature landslides.
Scamp was plunging badly in the soft ground, and so Roy slowed him down to
a trot. He could not, he told himself grimly, get one speck wetter. There
was little use in hurrying. With sudden recollection of his bundles, Roy
glanced back. Only a wisp of wet brown paper sticking to the cantle
remained; the water had soaked the wrappings--baking powder, flavoring
extract, dried fruit, and all the rest of it, had utterly disappeared.
But Roy's regrets were cut short by Scamp. That animal suddenly stopped
short, pricked his ears forward, and showed every symptom of terror. Roy,
wondering, urged him onward. But two steps beyond the horse again stopped
and strove to turn. Roy quieted him and, peering forward up the gully,
through the driving mist of rain, tried to account for the animal's fright.
Was it a bear? he wondered. He knew that there were some in the foothills,
and it was quite possible that one had taken shelter here in the arroyo.
Then, as he looked, a roaring sound, which the boy had mistaken for the
beat of the rain, rose and grew in volume until it drowned the hissing of
the storm and filled the arroyo. Around a bend of the gully only a few
yards ahead came a wave of turbid, yellow water, bearing above it a great
rolling bank of white froth.
For an instant Roy gazed. Then, heart in mouth, he swung Scamp on his
haunches and tore madly back the way he had come. He knew on the instant
what had happened. There had been a cloud-burst on the mesa or among the
foothills, and all the little gullies had emptied their water into the
mouth of the arroyo. He knew also that if the flood caught him there
between those prisonlike walls he would be drowned like a rat. The nearest
place of refuge was a mile and a half away!
After the first moment of wild terror he grew calm. On his courage and
coolness rested his chance for life. He crouched far over the saddle horn
and lashed Scamp with the dripping quirt. Urging was unnecessary, for it
seemed the horse knew that Death was rushing along behind them. He raced as
Roy had never seen him run before. The walls rushed by, dim and misty. In a
minute Boy gathered courage to glance back over his shoulder. His heart
sank--only a yard or two behind them rushed the foam-topped wave. Here and
there the sides of the arroyo melted in the flood and toppled downward,
yards at a time, sending the yellow water high in air, but making no sound
above its roaring. Behind the first wave, perhaps a half hundred feet to
the rear, came a second, showing no froth on its crest, but higher and
mightier. And farther back the arroyo seemed filled almost to the tops of
the banks with the rushing waters. Roy used the quirt ruthlessly, searching
the banks as they sped by in the forlorn hope of finding some place that
would offer a means of egress, yet knowing well as he did so that the
nearest way out was still a full mile distant.
He wondered what death by drowning was like. Somewhere he had read that it
was painless and quick; but that was in a story. Then he wondered what his
mother would do without him to fetch the water from the cistern back of the
kitchen, and feed the chickens and look after the hives. He wondered, too,
if they would ever find his body--and Scamp's! The thought that poor,
gallant old Scamp must die too struck him as the hardest thing of all. He
loved Scamp as he loved none else save father and mother; they had had
their little disagreements, when Scamp refused to come to the halter in the
corral and had to be roped, but they always made up, with petting and sugar
beets from Roy and remorseful whinnies and lipping of the boy's cheek from
Scamp. And now Scamp must be drowned!
It was difficult going now, for the turbid stream reached above the horse's
knees; but the animal was mad with fright, and he plunged desperately
onward. Roy looked up toward the gray skies, through a world of gleaming
rain, and said both the prayers he knew. After that he felt better,
somehow, and when the second wave caught them, almost bearing Scamp from
his sturdy feet, he looked calmly about him, searching the uncertain
shadows which he knew were the walls of the chasm. He had made up his mind
to give Scamp a chance for life. He tossed aside his quirt, patted the wet
neck of the plunging animal and whispered a choking "Good-by." Then, as the
flood swept the horse from his feet and swung him sideways against one
wall, Roy kicked his feet from the stirrups and sprang blindly toward the
bank, clutching in space.
He struck against the soggy earth and, still clutching with his hands, sank
downward inch by inch, his crooked fingers bringing the moist clay with
them and his feet finding no lodgment. The water swept him outward then,
tearing at his writhing legs. Just as his last clutch failed him his other
hand encountered something that was not bare, crumbling earth, and held it
desperately. The flood buffeted him and tossed the lower half of his body
to and fro like a straw. The muddy water splashed into his face, blinding,
choking him. But the object within his grasp remained firm. For a moment he
swung there, gasping, with closed eyes. Then he blinked the water from his
lids and looked. His left hand was clutching the thick tap root of a
greasewood. In an instant he seized it with his other hand as well, and
looked about him. Scamp was no longer in sight. The water was rising
rapidly. The noise was terrific. All about him the walls, undermined by the
flood, were slipping down in wet, crumbling masses. He wondered if the root
would hold him, and prayed that it might. Then the water came up to his
breast, and he knew that if he were to save himself he must manage somehow
to crawl upward. Perhaps--perhaps he might even climb quite out of the
chasm! If only the earth and the root would hold!
Taking a deep breath he clutched the tap root a foot higher and tried his
weight upon it. It held like a rope. He pulled himself a foot higher from
the waters. Once more, and then he found that he had command of his legs
and could dig his feet into the unstable clay. Then, inch by inch, scarce
daring to hope, he pulled himself up, up until he was free of the flood and
between him and the ground above only a scant yard remained. Below him the
rushing torrents roared, as though angry at his escape, and tossed horrid
yellow spray upon him.
Once more he took fresh grip of the slippery root, watching anxiously the
low bush at the edge of the bank. Each moment he thought to see it give
toward him and send him tossing back into the water. But still it held. At
last, hours and hours it seemed since he had first begun his journey, his
hand clutched the edge of the bank, but the earth came away in wet handfuls
at every clutch. At length his fingers encountered a sprawling root or
branch, he knew not which, just beyond his sight; and, digging his toes
into the wall in a final despairing effort, he scrambled over the brink and
rolled fainting to the rain-soaked ground.
How long he lay there he never knew. But presently a tremor of the earth
roused him. Stumbling to his feet, he rushed away from the arroyo just as
the bank, for yards behind him, disappeared. After that he struggled onward
through the driving rain until he sank exhausted to the ground, burying his
head in his arms.
They found him there, hours afterwards, fast asleep, his wet clothes
steaming in the hot afternoon sunlight. They put him into the wagon of the
nearest rancher and jolted him home, his head in his father's lap and the
great horse blankets thrown over him, making him dream that he was a loaf
of bread in his mother's oven.
"When Scamp came in, wet and almost dead, we feared you were gone." They
were sitting about the supper table. Roy had told his story to a wondering
audience, and now, with his plate well filled with mother's best watermelon
preserve and citron cake, he was supremely contented, if somewhat tired and
sobered. His father continued, his rugged face working as he recalled the
anxiety of the day: "I can't see how that broncho ever got out of there
alive; can you, boys? And to think," he added wonderingly, "that it was the
root of a pesky greasewood bush that saved your life! Boy, I don't reckon
I'll ever have the heart again to grub one of 'em up!"