The sun had long since sunk beneath the sheen of the ocean and one by
one the distant stars pricked sharp and clear through the azure veil
that made the world a unit in the depths of space. From their spanless
heights, moonlight and starlight plunged like hissing shafts of water
and, like shafts of water falling on the softly resisting air, broke in
diffused mantles that half concealed and half revealed the softened
contours of the slumbering world. The gently falling radiance disclosed
no detail of the swelling plains below, yet each tumid roll, crowned
with its aureole of lustrous light voiced with tongueless words an
everlasting peace.
Winston was busy until far into the night. There was a strange sense of
oppression as he passed from point to point of the now completed dam.
The machinery that had for so long a time been pulsing with life, was
now stilled. There were no banked fires under the boilers, to speak of
rest for the labor of the morrow, for the labor was completed. In the
laborer's camp, the men were packing their few belongings for an early
start in the morning. Some were busy touching up the machines for their
long rest. These were not to be dismantled at once, but were to wait a
more convenient time. The lanterns of the men twinkled through clumps of
mountain pine where the shadows lay thick and deep; then faded to a dim
point in the white moonlight. The occasional clink of a hammer, and the
voices of the men drifted across the water, softened by distance. It was
funereal, after all! And he had looked forward to these very sounds with
an impatient thrill. Now it was all completed. The last stone of the dam
had been laid, from the dam to the terminal canal every gate had been
put in, every trestle had been built, every tunnel had been driven.
Tomorrow, with the men, he would go over every foot of the canal for a
final inspection. If this was satisfactory, and he knew it would be, in
two days the gates would be opened and the water turned into the canal.
Winston was standing on the apron of the dam looking out over the great
reservoir that in the moonlight lay like a plate of burnished steel
between the pine-clad granite hills that dipped steeply into the water.
The dam was already filled to the brim, and the full volume of the
Sangre de Cristo was sweeping through the weir and plunging into the
canyon below. The sights and sounds only deepened Winston's oppression.
His work was done; the work he loved so well. The future held nothing so
bright as the past had held. Only, in the future, was there to be the
dull routine of office work, the laying off of orange groves, the
running out of ditches that would lead the water to them; simple work
this that any tyro who could set a level and read an angle, could
perform. No intricate problems that absorbed every energy of an active
mind, that blotted out consciousness of time and self in delicious
oblivion of existence; no obstacles of nature that lifted a forbidding
hand "thus far and no farther;" no thrill of determined battle that
rushed against these obstacles and bore them down. His field had been
sown; the harvest was waiting for him to thrust in and reap, what?
Money; that was all. Money that would only intensify his consciousness
of an existence that like rank vegetation throve aimlessly only to rot
and thrive again. What would love, even Helen's love, mean to him? Would
that, assured, satisfy him, or would it, possessed, be to him like his
work that was done? What had drawn them together but an intense,
absorbing, common interest?
This mood was strange to Winston. He could, and did, reason himself out
of it; but its influence remained. In his cabin, which was his office as
well, he wrapped his blankets around him and lay down to sleep.
Helen's night was sleepless. She had retired early, not to sleep, as she
knew, but that in solitude she might try to think out more clearly her
course of action. Her admiration for Winston had increased a
thousand-fold, if that were possible; and he had offered her his love to
crown it all, and she had seemed to weigh it in her hands, as a Jew
might bite a piece of gold to try its worth. She had done this when
every fiber of her heart cried out against it, demanding that she should
render to Ralph his own. Why had she turned even seemingly against
Ralph, against herself?
Only that she might do penance for her sin. Was not that it after all?
But she was innocent of any intentional wrong. Was it not selfishness,
this penance which she was imposing upon herself? Was she not compelling
Ralph to bear a part of her punishment, demanding that he wait in doubt
till she could declare herself purified? Was it not pride and selfish
pride which demanded that through Elijah's redemption she should be
declared free?
Then a thought came to her which quickened every nerve to painful
throbs. Was it not worse than selfishness, was it not a crime? Was not
this shielding of Elijah a crime against others, innocent? What if she
should fail? Her heart was beating with great, painful throbs. She
thought of what Ralph had told her as he had showed her the weak points
of the dam. "If the waste weir should be choked, in a few hours the dam
would be gone." He had pointed out to her just how simple a thing it was
to wedge the gates and to choke the weir. And she had listened, and to
protect herself,--that was the pitiful part of it,--to protect herself,
she had warned him to be on his guard. She began dressing herself with
trembling fingers. She would go to him and tell him all. Let him think
what he might, she would tell him all, unsparing of herself. She parted
the flaps of the tent and stepped out into the night. Outside, she
paused for a moment. The soft gray of the moonlight, lying white on the
silent tents, the sighing of the pines, the distant, bell-like notes of
calling wood-birds, spoke to her of peace that stilled her acute fears.
Then she became conscious of another sound; a throbbing, muffled roar
that made the night air tremulous.
She changed the direction of her steps. On the bridge that spanned the
waste weir, she looked down on the swirling waters that rushed over the
floor of the weir. For a moment she paused, then went out over the
foot-board of the dam. The gate house rose black from the waters that
lapped against the dam. Inside the gate house, every wheel and gear was
in place. Once more in the open air, her tense feelings relaxed. She
laughed at her fears. Her resolution hardened. In the morning she would
tell Ralph everything. The relaxation from the strain of the night
induced a sleep that kept her late in bed. When she joined the others,
Ralph had gone. The party were to camp that night at the mouth of the
canyon, where he would meet them the following day for lunch. Helen was
disappointed. At first she thought of riding ahead and hunting out
Ralph, but she knew him, and the idea of overtaking him was absurd. She
restrained herself with as much patience as she could command, but her
senses were on the alert.
The ponies were saddled and bridled, waiting for them when breakfast was
over. Helen was surprised at this. She well knew the spirit of manana,
which, with the lesser virtues had come down to the descendants of the
Spanish cavaliers. She was therefore surprised at the alert, beady eyes
of the swarthy Mexicans, in place of the dreamy lassitude to which she
was accustomed. The surprise was ephemeral and soon passed away; but she
was to recall it later.
The following morning when the party was again under way, Helen rode up
to Uncle Sid.
"Uncle Sid, you ride down to the camp with the crowd, and I'll meet you
there at noon. I'm going this way." She pointed to a trail which
branched off from the main line.
"What for?" Uncle Sid asked bluntly.
Helen could hardly answer satisfactorily to herself much less to Uncle
Sid.
"Oh," she replied, "because I want to. Won't that do?"
"You'd better come along with us," Uncle Sid protested. "You might meet
some more dried beef."
"I'm not afraid; besides I'm mounted now." Then they parted.
The trail which Helen had chosen, followed the canal. For a distance it
was squeezed tight between the walls of the steep-sloped, cedar-tufted
barranca. The bed was dry now; but when the water should be turned on,
this trail would be impassable. A little further, and the gorge opened
into a deep arroyo which the canal bridged, then turned and followed the
opposite bank.
Helen had followed this trail for two reasons. In the first place, she
wanted to be alone. Then, this was the trail over which she had ridden
with Ralph when he had first shown her his work. The head of the arroyo
was clad with a thicket of cedars, so dense as to be almost
impenetrable. As the last foot-fall sounded on the bridge, Helen's pony
halted abruptly, and with swelling nostrils and forward pointing ears,
whinnied a short, sharp challenge. There was an answering whinny, and
Helen's eyes followed the direction of the sound. Almost hidden by the
dull leaves of the cedars, was a draggled looking pony, saddled, with
the reins trailing on the ground. At first, Helen hardly noticed the
figure squatting limply beside the pony. His dishevelled clothing was
stuck full of gray needles, like those scattered on the ground, whence
the figure had evidently just risen to a sitting posture. The man raised
his eyes and Helen's heart stood still. In the gray, drawn face, the
dull, lusterless eyes, she recognized Elijah Berl. As she looked
wonderingly at him, in spite of the knowledge of his misdeeds, a great
wave of womanly pity swept over her heart. A single glance at the
pitiful figure, with the knowledge that had come to her from her
associations with him, told her the struggle he had lived through, a
struggle that had unbalanced his reason and left him lower than the
beasts of the field.
"Oh, Elijah! Why weren't you at the dam?" Her voice was tremulous, in
spite of her efforts to control it.
The answer to her words was a vacant, uncomprehending stare.
"Every one missed you," she continued. "Every one was asking for you."
Again she paused, eagerly searching her soul for words that would bring
the light of reason to the listless eyes.
There was no response, save a dropping of the dull eyes, an aimless
picking of the fingers at the needles that clung to his garments.
Helen reined her pony close to the abutment of the bridge, and
dismounting, trailed the bridle on the stones. She trembled at what she
was about to do, but the spirit of atonement forced her on. Another
moment, and she was beside the limp figure, one hand resting on the
bowed shoulders.
"Elijah, listen! I have something to tell you. Listen, for you must not
miss a single word. Go back to Ysleta, go back to Amy. You are free. Mr.
Seymour--"
At the name, Elijah sprang to his feet, his hands clenched and knotted,
his eyes shining with maniacal rage.
"Curse him!" he shouted, "Curse him, curse him! Curse them all for a
pack of ravening wolves! He has done it; they have done it! The
Philistines be upon them! They be of them who would gather where I have
strewn, who would reap of the harvest I have sown. The day of wrath is
upon them, the consuming anger of a terrible God. Listen!" He seized
Helen's hand, crushing it in his fierce grasp, as he bent forward toward
the canyon of the Sangre de Cristo. His eyes were strained, his lips
parted.
Helen was half conscious of a sudden silence. The roaring waters were
stilled. She was beginning to comprehend the reason and the import of
the hushed waters. Elijah dropped the clasped hand; he stood triumphant,
his head thrown back, his eyes raised to the cloudless sky.
"It is done! 'I will tell you what I have done for my vineyard; I will
take away the hedge thereof, and it shall be eaten up; and I will break
down the wall thereof, and it shall be trodden down. And I will lay it
waste; it shall not be pruned nor digged, but there shall come up briars
and thorns. Hell hath enlarged herself and opened her mouth without
measure; and their glory and their multitude, and their pomp, and he
that rejoiceth, shall descend into it!'"
The words were chanted, rather than spoken; chanted with the resonant
triumph of him who has fought and won. He yet stood, with clenched,
outspread hands; but the color was dying from the drawn cheeks, the
fierce light fading from the gleaming eyes. Then he stood as before,
dull, listless, apathetic. The momentary fire had burned itself to
ashes.
Helen stood with every sense strained to catch the full import of
Elijah's changing moods. What was he about to do? What had he done? She
must prevent his purpose if possible, nullify it if--this was not to be
thought of now. She must read, and read quickly, the flickering light of
reason that burned fitfully through the chaos of his soul. She was
certain that reason had departed; was it beyond recall? She must try.
Precious as she felt the moments to be, she must yet try. She took one
of Elijah's hands in her own firm grasp.
"You don't understand, Elijah. He is not your enemy." She dared not use
Seymour's name again. "He is your friend. He and Ralph have sent out men
to find you; they are searching for you now. They are looking for you to
tell you that the money has been restored. They say that--" Helen
hesitated, but the pause was imperceptible, "you did the best thing, the
best thing for the company, in buying the Pico ranch; that you saw
farther than they did."
Helen was hesitating mentally, but her words went on without pause. She
was watching intently for a sign of comprehension in the stolid,
passionless face. With her last words, the light came again to the eyes
she was searching. Not the fierce passion-blaze of unchained fury, only
the peaceful glow of returning reason. He spoke slowly, stumblingly, as
one waking from a dream.
"They know now,--that I was right, that--I did right?" The eyes again
wavered between intelligence and stupor.
"Yes, Elijah, they know now."
His voice was querulous.
"Why didn't they trust me? After all I had done; why didn't they trust
me?"
"They do trust you now. Come back, Elijah. All is forgiven."
Elijah's reply was again querulous, almost peevish.
"Why didn't they trust me? Why didn't they trust me before it was too
late?" The bitterness dropped from voice and manner. His voice was loud
and terrible. "Don't you hear me? It is too late! Listen! It is too
late! Don't you know what this means? Listen! The roar of the water has
stopped! Don't you know what this means? The flood gates are closed. In
a few minutes, in a few hours, the reservoir will fill, and the water
will go over the dam. Don't you know what that means? It is too late!"
He paused! there was a strained look in his eyes. Then he sprang into
action.
"Is it too late? My God! Is it too late?"
He was in the saddle, the pony's head pointing up the canyon, his flanks
shrinking from the pounding stirrups, and from the lashings of the
bridle thongs.
Helen watched the flying horseman. For a moment she was struck
motionless with uncomprehending terror. What did it all mean? What could
she do? Oh, if Ralph were only here! For a moment she stood; then she
was on her pony and riding hard toward the camping place and Ralph.
Through scrubby sage and cedar, stumbling in burrows, shying at stinging
cactus, her horse was driving madly on. Her thoughts were all on finding
Ralph; but mingling with these, were the beady eyes of the alert
Mexicans, and the silenced waters of the Sangre de Cristo. These had a
meaning for her now.
From the summit of a low ridge, she saw below her the camp of the party
for which she was so eagerly watching. One tall figure she singled out
and kept her eyes upon him. He turned. She could almost see his
questioning eyes as he strode out from his companions. He was near
enough to hear her cry--
"Oh, Ralph! The dam! The dam! Elijah is at the dam!"