DEATH IN THE VALLEY
August was hot and dazzling. Even in the mountains the sun at noonday
was more than one could bear with unprotected skin. Yet the rays of
light invigorated the very bones with their magic currents of life. Dawn
bathed daily in some mountain brook, where it ran deep between rocky
files or where the swirling waters had dug a pool that hung clear over a
white sandy bottom.
One hot Friday she abandoned the cabin and her fire lookout to Jack’s
care and recklessly flung away on Piñon, ostensibly to look down on
McGuire’s range for trespassers. But coming back, she took the trail
that led past a tiny lake lost in the cup of the peaks. She swam there
for an hour in the cold water. The surface current that lay placid under
the sun was heated so that it was no longer icy, but a dive down into
biting depths brought one up pink and gasping and full of play.
Dawn kept her woolen bathing-suit to slip on when she came out. Then she
lay warming and drying on the hot rocks. She would have none of Jack on
these swims. She’d tried him once, but some unconquerable fear of the
bottomless pools shook him till his teeth chattered. He could not nerve
himself to a plunge.
“I don’t believe that Garen Shepherd would be like that,” Dawn thought
as she wiggled her toes in the fine silvery sand that rimmed the
sapphire cup of waters upheld to the sky. But of course he was no
tenderfoot. What had become of Garen Shepherd? She’d been so busy that
she hadn’t had time to think of the irrigation engineer.
Had she made a mistake to confide so much of the mountain to him?
Suppose he were to attempt some engineering feat with the waterfall
below the sacred source, or were to tell what he had learned that day!
It was a terrible thought, and she shook it away impatiently as
something too disastrous to consider, something of which the man could
never be capable.
“_That_ fellow would _fight_,” she thought. He had a cleft in his chin
that meant something. She did not put into words the knowledge that her
father would not fight; she would have felt that fighting were not
desirable if Damon felt it so. He’d take a last stand, Dad would, but he
wouldn’t want to defy. And Jack, he would run. That was right; he’d run.
Yet she couldn’t help liking the little cuss for all of that. Poor kid,
he didn’t know any better. What could you expect? Such a life as they
led down in the cities!
Dawn had been invited down to the sportily outfitted cabin below Benty’s
where Mr. Perry had installed his family for the summer, but she did not
enjoy it. She had thought she would, had combed her hair carefully, and
had Hinray trim it round her neck. She put on a clean pongee shirt with
a new tie. But when she sat on the veranda looking at Mrs. Perry’s
manicured nails and high-heeled snakeskin shoes, unbelievably tiny they
looked, she had become unpleasantly conscious of her own dusty mountain
boots. Oiling with neatsfoot hadn’t improved them any. Well, she had
some pretty pumps herself, but did they think she was going to walk down
the mountain in them!
She was thinking of it now as she lazed in the sunshine. No, she’d not
go down there again. Rolling over to look at the sun, Dawn lay for a
moment, eyes shaded, staring up into the cloudless sky. Her dazzled
vision did not at once take in a haze that lay over the tops of the
trees. Suddenly a column of smoke shot up, a slender spiral, but with
unmistakable meaning. In a moment she was up, pulling on her clothes.
Fire! Beyond Gonzales’ pasture and the lower lake. Beyond McGuire’s
even—and Dad in the other direction! Piñon sensed the reason for his
being urged. He slid down short cuts on his haunches without drawing
back. Within an hour he trotted down into the clearing on the Cascada,
up to the stoop where Dawn tumbled off and raced to the persistently
jingling telephone.
There was no sign of Jack about. She lifted the receiver from the hook.
Her father’s voice came over the wire.
“Yes, yes, Dad. Oh, I’m so sorry. Did you have to ring long?—I left Jack
here. I was up on the west divide looking down at Gonzales’ lease and I
went swimming.”
His voice came clearly. “I can’t get away down here. We’re beating back
a slow ground fire that’s very persistent. Started by heat lightning, I
think. How’s everything up there?”
Quickly Dawn told of the column of smoke in the northeast. “I was just
hurrying to the lookout to signal you. I’m so glad you telephoned,
Damon.”
“That’s over above the canyon that leads down to James’s ranch,” Damon
replied. “There’s some dead timber there in a small patch that was
burned over years ago. I’ve been afraid of it. The scrub oak’s very dry
too. Well, I can’t get away now. We’re short-handed, as usual. I’ll
phone Benty’s for help and you better ride over at once. Take the
northeast trail from the head of Amarillo Canyon. Signal me from the
northeast lookout if you need help. We’ve got our hands full here and
over on the west slope too.
“Be careful, won’t you?” His worried voice lingered on the wire.
“Surely, Dad. Don’t worry about me. It’s an easy ride; you’ll hear from
me by four o’clock, I expect. ’Bye.”
She hung up the receiver, chained Shep to the stoop, setting a pan of
water, some stew, and a dog biscuit near, and looked about to see if
there was any message from Jack. Yes, a note on the desk. They’d phoned
him that a party from home had arrived, and he had to go straight down
to the cabin. Dawn read the note again incredulously. He’d gone away,
from fire guard at the phone, because visitors had come!
She threw the note down impatiently, rushed into the kitchen for some
bread or crackers to thrust into her saddle bag—you couldn’t tell, she
might be out all night—then down to the stream where Damon had built a
cooling cabin over the rushing water. She was ravenous after her swim,
but there was little time to eat. She broke two eggs into a cup of milk,
tossed it down, and stuffing two bananas into her shirt, ran back where
Piñon was waiting for her. Her slicker, she might need it! She snatched
it from the hook inside the door, tied it behind the saddle, and in a
moment more they were off, trotting down the trail along the Cascada.
She made speed while she could. The ride was uneventful; she met no one.
A slow steady climb up the steeps at the head of the canyon, then a
rocky trail over the mountain side, during which she could no longer see
the spiral of smoke which she’d spied from Lake Peak. But once in the
clear at the top of the mountain she took out her field glasses, and as
she brought them down to the right focus the purple layers of atmosphere
were dispelled as if by magic, her sharpened vision pierced them, and
she could see over one succeeding spur after another to where a column
of smoke arose on the east slope.
Dropping down into a box canyon which was the only pass to the northeast
slope for which she was bound, Dawn could still see the smoke ascending
over the tree tops. The end of the Box Canyon was seemingly a solid wall
of weathered rock. Dawn rode straight up to it and squeezed behind one
of the rounded conical pillars that stood out from the main cliff. There
was just room for Piñon’s plump flanks to push through the passageway.
This trail was Dawn’s secret, her discovery; it had been worn into
grooves by Rocky Mountain sheep, and by wild horses, in the days when
the Cordilleran passes were threaded by those splendid creatures.
Dawn and Piñon emerged from this granite-walled passageway into a
different region. The eastern slope of the mountain was rocky and
barren. It had been devastated by fire and erosion. Only a few stanch
cypress remained, the tree that is anchored to the rocks. The
shallow-rooted hemlock which had formerly covered the slope had been
swept away. These steeps swept sheer up to the mountain meadows from
which Dawn had driven out the goats at the beginning of the summer.
Above them lay the divide, but this slope was the sole watershed into
the valley beneath.
Now Dawn could smell the smoke and so could Piñon. They made their way
toward the ridge above a canyon that led out through the foothills to
the plains below. A crown fire had swept through this region several
years before, taking off the Engleman spruce and Douglas fir and leaving
the stumps which Damon O’Neill had feared might take fire. These stumps
were now smoldering down into the dried cover of the soil. The fire had
eaten into what remained of the scant cover about the head of the canyon
and might spread through the oak brush to the yellow pines on the far
side. Every stick was as dry as tinder.
As she dropped down into the canyon Dawn could see the little forest
creatures scurrying from the smoldering area. The small stream which had
flowed at the bottom of the canyon even in the driest times had
vanished. She could see where the last freshet, that had followed the
heavy rain in June, had torn its way, leaving new stones, a high water
line, and nothing else. Dawn sighed. It was all gone, the lifegiving
water, into the thirsty plain below.
This stream had been fed gradually by melting snows from above, but now
the slopes were furrowed with a thousand hurrying lines that showed
where rain and snow water had torn their way down the stricken mountain
to evaporate or rush to a burning end in the desert. The tragedy was
plain to Dawn.
But how was she to stop this crawling fire? With a man or two it could
be beaten out. She’d have to cross the canyon to get to the fire signal
station anyway. At the foot of the canyon, where it widened out into the
plain, she could see a faint thread of blue smoke. She pushed ahead. It
came from a house. That must be James’s place. It was closer than the
fire signal station on the other side of the canyon. Maybe James would
be there and could rustle another man to help root out the burning
stumps above.
There was a windmill pump turning fitfully as the slight breeze struck
it. Surely there would be men there to beat out the smoldering fire
above before it spread. James was a good fellow; strange he hadn’t
noticed the smoke himself and put out the fire.
Dawn drew Piñon up on the canyon’s brink to take a quick survey. From
the plains that stretched beneath them a hot breath came surging up.
Poised almost motionless in the sky, some great condors hovered, waiting
for a feast that was still alive on the desert below. An eerie cry from
above drew Dawn’s eyes upward. There, so close overhead that she could
see its striped fantail, a splendid hawk was winging to the heights, in
its talons a writhing rattler five or six feet long.
As she reached the bottom of the canyon Dawn urged Piñon into a canter,
but he suddenly stopped and began to back.
“Steady there, old boy. What’s the matter?” His legs stiffened and she
knew from experience he was making ready to jump. In the moment of
silence a dry rattle sounded and there in the sandy bed of the canyon a
great black-tailed rattler was coiled, swaying, ready to strike. Piñon
side-stepped, and they raced ahead.
As Piñon clattered out of the canyon’s mouth the James place lay before
them. It was strangely quiet. Must be no man about; hard luck. But
evidently the womenfolks were inside because smoke still rose from the
chimney. As she let herself and Piñon into the corral Dawn saw stretched
under the trough below the mill, where water dripped, another snake.
After water, of course; dry weather when they’d do that.
She rode across the corral, thinking ranch women were always quiet. A
few cattle stood about the trough, and Dawn saw that the reservoir was
very low. There was little wind to work the pumps, fortunately at that
time, on account of the fire. As she looked toward the house Dawn saw a
strange sight.
A woman was creeping on hands and knees across the space between the
sheds and the back door of the ranch house. Her head was hanging down,
and as Dawn stared her arms gave way, and she fell on her face. Dawn
found her voice and called out, but the woman apparently did not hear.
She struggled up to a sitting posture and dragged herself on. She
reached the corner of the adobe house and disappeared under the porch
while Dawn tumbled off Piñon and fumbled with nervous fingers at the
corral gate. She flew through and ran after the woman.
Where was she? What could the trouble be? Fear clutched Dawn at the
ominous silence. Plunging round the corner, she saw the woman ahead of
her. She was on her knees before a window, peering in. Against her
shoulder a rifle was pressed; she must have taken it down from the
outside of the house, where so many ranch people keep a gun ready
loaded, to use against wolf, coyote, snake, or unwelcome visitor in an
emergency.
Now she was aiming it at something inside the house. Dawn was afraid to
call. Something kept her from screaming aloud. She crept up behind the
woman, who did not seem to hear her, and peered over her shoulder. What
terrible thing was there? Little children played inside in the cool and
darkened room. Two little girls! Good heavens, the woman was aiming to
shoot them! With an involuntary shout Dawn threw up the muzzle of the
gun, then wrenched the barrel from the unresisting fingers of the woman,
who fell forward at Dawn’s feet, her half-glazed eyes closing.
Dawn caught her, laid her flat; the woman was ghastly pale. There had
been two pails of water at the back of the house, Dawn remembered. She
dashed around the corner, seized a pailful, which she threw over her. In
her hip pocket was the thin little flask, long uncorked, which Damon had
always insisted on her carrying. Whiskey. Thank God for it. She forced a
little down the woman’s throat, then more, till she gasped. Her eyes
opened; terror lingered in them. She looked at Dawn heartbrokenly,
pitifully.
“Too late.” Her lips were stiff and she barely articulated. “You come
too late. I been bit by a rattler. Big fellow.” Her strength seemed to
be returning slightly. Leaning sympathetically above her, Dawn heard the
story in a few disjointed sentences.
Hal James, her husband, had gone to town to be gone a week or ten days.
She’d gone out to the faucet above the trough to get some water. The
cows were lowing and she hadn’t heard any rattle; the snake had bit her
from behind, in the leg. She’d tried to crank the old car, to take the
babies and make it into town. She couldn’t. She felt that she was dying,
and that the only thing to do was to shoot the babies first.
She couldn’t leave them there all alone, to starve; just babies, all by
themselves, cryin’. Afraid of the wolves and the coyotes. She’d scrawled
a note to her husband, begging him to forgive her. Her anguish was
pitiable.
“Tell James—take care my babies.” Her head fell back against Dawn’s arm.
Grief and fear came like a chill wave over Dawn. Was this to be death
that she had come upon?—death that she had always hated. Oh, help, oh,
God, help her! She lifted her eyes to the mountains. What must she do?
The mother’s bare leg thrust out from beneath her calico skirt, the
cotton stocking pulled down. An ugly red mark showed, two small
indentations. That was where she had been bitten. Dawn pulled off her
neckerchief and made a tourniquet about the leg several inches above the
marks. She knew what she must do. In the corral a small branding-iron
lay beside the gate. She ran and fetched it, and opening the kitchen
door, went for the first time into the room where the little girls were
playing.
Beans were simmering on the stove and a bed of hard burning embers
glowed beneath. She thrust the iron into them. The little girls ran to
hide in a corner and would not speak. Dawn spoke to them reassuringly.
“I’ll be back in a minute, honey,” she called to the eldest; “stay right
here. I’m helping your mamma.”
The iron was glowing in a few moments, and it took but a few moments
more to burn out the poison wound. Damon had done this for Hinray once,
and she’d never forgotten it. Mrs. James winced and moaned. More
whiskey; the curved flask held more than you’d have thought. Well, that
was all that could be done. Sudden memory brought her father’s medicine
shelf before her. What was that stuff Dad used? She could see the
glass-stoppered bottle that stood there. Often she’d read the label.
“Potassium Permanganate, rattler antidote.” Into the house, a bedroom;
she was searching for a shelf, a likely place. There, above an old
bureau, were some dusty bottles. Boracic acid, compound licorice; a
faded label, potassium permanganate! Just a little left. Tremblingly she
dissolved it in a little water left in the pail, lifted Mrs. James’s
head, and poured it down her throat. She poured the last drop down the
unconscious woman’s throat, lifted the slender body, not so heavy as her
own, and carried her past the two terrified children into the bedroom.
The tragic accident was clear to her now. Since the canyon was dry the
snakes had been coming to the trough to drink. Dawn went out to the
children, who still cowered in the corner. “Well, honey—” she stooped
down to the eldest, who took her hand shyly—“your mamma got hurt, but
she’s going to be all right.”
“Going be all right?” the little girl echoed. She came out of her
corner, smiling at the bright pretty face of the new lady; but the baby
wept inconsolably behind her chair. They were pretty little things, with
a fluff of light hair like dandelions. Dawn looked about for something
to distract the baby. “You want some chocolate, honey baby?” She ran out
and got a bar of milk chocolate from her saddle bag. The novelty and
delight of this comforted and diverted the baby. There was very little
furniture in the ranch house; the old stove, a few chairs, the
clean-scrubbed table. The little white beds were spotless. The children
too were clean; they were pale from the heat, but their baby faces were
luminous with health and good care.
What could she do with them? Their mother might die, left here alone.
Yet she ought to have help, a doctor ought to see her. But the children
couldn’t be left, and how could she take them? The fire! Dawn had not
thought of it for the past hour. It must be past four o’clock now. What
would Damon be thinking? He would be frantic. Through the door she could
see a growing cloud of smoke over the foothills.
What could she do? It was impossible to take the mother. Piñon could
carry herself and the little girls, but the mother could not hold on to
the horse. Well, there were the children to be fed at any rate. The
older one was announcing with shy confidence, “I’m hungry.”
“What do you have to eat at night?” Dawn questioned.
“Milk. Mommy lets Dora milk the nanny. And eggs, or mush. Do you got a
orange? My Daddy is going to b’ing us back oranges from town.”
No, but she had two bananas still. The goat had come into the house. It
was five o’clock and she wanted to be milked. She butted Dora gently.
Dora ran to get her pail and knelt down beside the goat, milking her
most efficiently, her baby fingers pressing a swift stream that pattered
and foamed into the pail. Yet there was barely a quart. Nanny was going
dry.
“You cunning!” Dawn knelt by the little girl and hugged her when she
pronounced the nanny all milked.
Dawn went into the bedroom and looked anxiously at the mother. She
seemed to be asleep now. Her face was flushed as with fever, but she lay
quietly.
“I gave her quite a lot of whiskey after all,” Dawn consoled herself.
She fed the children and ate an egg herself. When she went out to the
windmill to get another pail of water before dusk she stepped carefully.
There were two snakes moving across the corral toward the trough, and in
a corner a mangled shape. Either some cow had managed to trample it, or
Piñon had caught it beneath his sharp little hoofs.
Dawn looked toward the foothills apprehensively. The bank of smoke was
mounting, denser than it had been. It was a slow smudge; no telling when
it might burst into flame. It wouldn’t come down this way, for there was
nothing left to burn, but it might spread back up, and if a wind rose—!
She had forgotten about snakes, and there seemed to be an epidemic of
them. Dawn returned to the house and told Dora and the baby not to budge
through the screen door. She would be back in a few moments.
She took down the gun from the wall, where she had replaced it, and went
back to stand on the side of the watering-tank. From there she shot four
rattlers, big and little, and stoned one that she had not killed. It was
not pleasant, but it made her feel a great deal easier. Poisonous
things, hurting mankind. She hadn’t thought much about that side of wild
life before.
Piñon came nickering and she took him down to a cluster of giant
cottonwood, the only trees as far as the eye could see. Their roots went
deep and their branches were above the reach of animals. When she got
back to the ranch house both children were crying.
“Wolf get you,” Dora wept. “Coyote eat up my nanny.”
“No, no,” Dawn comforted her; “I won’t let anything hurt you or baby or
your mommie.”
The baby kept whimpering for her mother. “I guess it’s time for you and
baby to go to bed now.” She must get them to sleep. Who could tell what
might happen?
Dora was a biddable little thing and entered into the game to surprise
mother by going to sleep before she woke up. After a long hour they
finally did fall asleep. It was dark and Mrs. James was stirring
restlessly, tossing with fever. Dawn took the only chair that was in the
bedroom and sat beside her, bathing her forehead. She thought from time
to time of Damon. Well, he would understand tomorrow. Maybe he would be
able to come, or send some one to look for her.
Just before dark she went out to gaze longingly at the mountain. The
smoke was mounting; no doubt about that. But now she simply could not
leave these helpless creatures, no matter what happened up there. Fire
on the mountain!
It was a terrible night. Dawn did not undress. She put a folded quilt
and some pillows on the floor beside the young mother’s bed, and kept
watch there. It had been a long and more than usually active day for
her, and she slept in spite of herself. During the night she heard the
children’s mother muttering and moaning and jumped up at once. She gave
her a drink of water and in covering her touched the injured leg by
chance. It was very cold. Had she made the tourniquet too tight? She
thought she had been doing the right thing but wasn’t sure. She loosened
the tourniquet.
Before five in the morning the children began to chipper like birds.
Dawn woke, but was terribly sleepy. Mrs. James was still feverish, and
as she leaned over her the poor thing opened bright eyes and rambled
deliriously. She was afraid the mountain lion would come in and get her
baby. She was afraid they’d lose the ranch and starve this winter; she
wanted to go back home down in the Mimbres Valley and go to farmin’.
What would James do to her if she’d shot her babies? She sure didn’t
want to do it, but she couldn’t leave them there to be scared and die by
themselves. The woman kept tearing at the tourniquet and trying to get
it off her leg. Dawn thought it might as well be removed; so she took it
off. She bathed Mrs. James’s head and pushed her back on the pillows.
Soon she sank into a heavy stupor. Was this to be the end? Now Dawn
could do nothing more for her; either she would get well by herself or
die.
The nanny did not come around to be milked. Had she wandered away to
browse in the foothills or had coyotes got her? Perhaps she thought it
was time to wean the children. Dawn remembered how a goat she’d had used
to butt her away, gently at first, then with quiet determination, when
she tried to milk her. There were a few chickens in an inclosed yard,
but not an egg in the nest, nor in the kitchen cupboard. Dawn found a
little cornmeal and when she had kindled a fire she made the children
some mush which she gave them with a little tin of canned milk that she
found on the shelf and that proved to be still sweet.
When she went outdoors again she could see red fire in the mountains.
Dawn was frantic. No one had come to their rescue yet, and now you could
smell the smoke from the foothills. What a lonely place! When the
children had eaten their breakfast Dawn tied on their little bonnets and
took them out to the corral where she had already brought Piñon to
drink. She was not used to human babies and handled them with the rough
fondling she would a puppy or a lion cub. But they liked it, and were
delighted when she set them up on Piñon’s neck and mounted behind. She
judged it was about eight o’clock.
Once out of the corral she started off at a canter but found that that
would not do at all. The little things in front of her bounced about,
one up while the other was down; they must slow to a walk. How long
would it take to get to the signal station? Damon would see the flag
from the eastern lookout.
As they went higher and higher into the hills the smoke became thicker
and thicker. The fire was on both sides of the canyon at last, and from
the thick humus of the south side the smoke rose like a dense smudge.
Dawn stopped to pull out the wet cloths she had stuffed into the saddle
bag; she tied one across the bonnet of each child, covering its face. At
last they reached the foot of the ridge on the top of which the station
was built in a high tree. Obediently Piñon faced the ascent, although it
was plain that he disapproved. When they reached the summit Dawn spoke
sternly to Dora.
“Hold on to the horsie,” she said; “don’t budge. Sit right here on the
ground and don’t let the baby move while Dawn is up in the tree. Piñon
will take care of you.” She kissed the sober little faces looking out
from under the cloths and caressed Piñon’s neck. “Don’t stir, old boy.
Stay right here, _sabe_?”
Dawn sprang up the ladder and stopped only when she was so out of breath
that she could not climb another foot. Ah, now she was getting above the
acrid smoke that choked her. She reached the lookout nest, took the flag
from her pocket, shook it out, and raised it to the masthead. She heard
the baby crying down below. In her haste to get down she lost her hold
for a moment and slipped, held by one hand while she got a footing
again. The smoke burned her eyes and stung her throat.
When she reached the foot of the tree she found that the baby had
slipped off Piñon and that she had taken off the wet cloth, and dazed by
the smoke, was crying bitterly. The trip back was a fearful ordeal,
worse than she had imagined it could be. She herself could not see the
trail and in her anxiety became confused. Piñon lowered his head to the
ground, snorting, but in spite of his fear of fire kept ahead. Had it
not been for his surefootedness and sagacity they would never have come
out alive. Dawn regretted bitterly that she had tried to put up the
signal.
It would have been better to let the mountain side burn while they
stayed at the ranch house. At least, there the babies would have been
safe. She felt a passionate responsibility for them. She had saved them.
And she was still responsible for their baby lives. They were the most
important thing of all just now—more important than the mountain.
Piñon was finding the trail by instinct. Dawn had difficulty in keeping
little Dora from slipping forward off his neck as they descended the
steep incline, with the horse’s neck outstretched, nose to ground. At
last, the bottom of the canyon; Piñon broke into a run. They raced the
last mile down to the ranch house, Dawn holding the baby tightly before
her, while with the other hand she grasped Dora, whose own dimpled hands
clutched the pommel firmly.
The corral gate! They had been gone several hours; it must be nearly
noon. Dawn lifted the children down; carrying the baby and dragging Dora
by the hand, she flew toward the house. What would they find? She was
almost afraid to go into the bedroom. Mrs. James lay pale and still on
the bed; Dawn thrust Dora behind her, but just then the dark eyes
opened. “Dodo, baby,” the mother called. She was all right; weak, but
normal, the poison vanquished.
She hugged the children to her silently, then turned her face to the
wall so that Dawn would not see the tears that flowed down her cheeks.
“I reckon I owe you a lot, girlie,” she said thickly. “Seems like a bad
dream. I sure am sorry to have put you to so much trouble.”
Dawn’s spirits lifted. “Trouble? I guess God struck that fire with
lightning on purpose. ’Cause it’s the only time I ever heard of a fire
doing any good turn.” She didn’t say that if it hadn’t been for the fire
no one would have been likely to pass that way.
The mother told her where to find the cold cellar, where she had some
fresh food and her canned goods stored. The trapdoor was covered by the
couch so that the baby couldn’t open it and fall through. Dawn got out
salt pork, stirred up some batter bread, stewed the carrots.
The little girls were as content as kittens to snuggle beside their
mother. They seemed none the worse for their ride, although they were
very sleepy—one of the effects of smoke. While she minded the cooking
Dawn went every few minutes to the kitchen door and looked anxiously
toward the mountain. The smoke was growing denser slowly but surely.
She fed the children and put them on their little cots to sleep in the
same room with their mother. Mrs. James dozed but took a cup of tea
gratefully. Her leg was now painful and feverish. The warm afternoon
passed; outside the sun was high, the desert listless under a dazzling
white heat. About four o’clock, while she was watching at the door, she
saw red glow. That meant that the fire had burst into flame. Well, there
was nothing she could do. She would mind the children. The mother seemed
exhausted and had again fallen into a stupor.
About five o’clock she heard the sound of horse’s hoofs and rushed out,
her heart pounding. Maybe it was Damon. But it was Hal James. He was
covered with dust and nervously flung himself off his horse as he saw
Dawn standing in the doorway.
“Afternoon, Miss. Anythin’ wrong with my folks?” he blurted.
Dawn shook her head, smiling. “They’re all right. But your wife had a
little accident. I just happened to ride down here; I was on my way to
the fire station.”
They glanced toward the mountains. James had heard about the fire and
had turned about and come home frantically; he had a lot of cattle loose
in the foothills. They went inside, and the cattleman sat with awkward
tenderness on the edge of the bed, stroking his wife’s hair. Not a word
was said.
After a while he whispered to Dawn, “What you reckon’s the trouble?”
Dawn told him about the rattlesnake bite and what she had done for it.
He looked at the painful leg. After a moment he asked, “What were you
aimin’ to do, mother?”
Mrs. James seemed dazed by her experience. “I—I didn’t know,” she
faltered, “that you’d be back before another ten days. I didn’t rightly
know what—to do. Tried to crank the old Ford; she wouldn’t budge. I run
around till I dropped. I was plumb crazy, I guess.” She looked pitifully
at Dawn. What had the girl told her husband. She put her hands over her
eyes and tears streamed from under them.
“Nothin’ to carry on for now,” James said gruffly, squeezing her hand.
“I guess Miss Dawn here saved things from bein’ worse.”
“Oh, yes, yes, she did,” the woman on the bed gasped. “She just about
saved me from puttin’ a bullet through each of us. But I swear, Hal, I
didn’t aim to take the children with me. But what could I do?” She was
in a pitiful state of shock and terror, the fruit of long lonely days
and nights, silent, isolated.
James sat with one hand over his eyes, the other holding his wife’s.
Tears rolled down his lean cheeks. What might he have come home to?
“You know,” he said awkwardly after a moment, “those critters aren’t
what you’d call always dead poisonous. They’ll kill a lamb, or a pig,
maybe, or a child; but they haven’t usually got enough poison in ’em to
get a full-sized human. Leastways, not a man.”
“I guess I was in a poor way, Hal,” Mrs. James faltered. “It took a
quick holt on me. And it was so warm. I guess I got frightened.”
James nodded. “This young lady’s whiskey did the trick all right—or
maybe that’s what laid you out, old lady?” And the shadow of death was
brushed off with a laugh.
“I had to get into town,” he told Dawn, “to arrange for extensions. I
lost ten head of sheep the last few weeks,” he said; “coyotes, and maybe
lobo. When I was a boy the quail came right up to our door here. And the
jacks. My father wouldn’t let any stock pasture about the house. The
coyotes were afraid of guns and human habitations then. But now they’re
so bold—”
Dawn went out to look toward the mountain and see how the fire had
advanced. It appeared to have died down, though there was still heavy
smoke lingering over the foothills. Now she must ride back at once.
There would be a bright moon tonight; she could find the way easily.
James said he had to ride up after some strays anyway, and he’d ride a
piece with her. Mrs. James’s eyes wore a beseeching look as they made
ready to leave her, but she said nothing. Hal had to think of the cattle
first. He came back from the door and patted her head. “So long, mother,
don’t get up. I’ll make it back soon’s I can.”
Dawn kissed the little girls good-by and rode quickly away. If she could
go straight through she would reach the Cascada by nine or ten. If she
had trouble it might be midnight or after before she was home. Why had
Damon not come for her or sent for her? She was more worried than she
had ever been. There must have been a long hard fight with the big fire
on the other side of the mountain. That was the only reason, and Damon
probably didn’t even know that she was not at home on the Cascada. Yet
it was not like him to fail to have her signal watched for by some one.
Thus debating and reasoning out the situation, they came to the canyon’s
end.
When Piñon scrambled up the last steep bit of the canyon trail, Dawn saw
two figures above, rather hazy through the blue smoke that still
lingered on the slopes, coming down the trail. One of them was Damon.
Was the other Jack? To her surprise her heart was beating like that of a
trapped bird.