“Hello, Dick!”
“Hello, Reddy!”
Seven little gray burros--browsing upon the dust-covered
chamiso--lifted their heads at the words; and turned seven mealy noses
and seven pairs of inquisitive ears toward the speakers in indolent
curiosity.
The two men who met upon the mesa had been drawing slowly together on
the long white road winding up toward the mountain a dozen miles away.
The dust, raised by the shuffling feet of their horses, floated--a
long streamer of white--down toward the muddy, crooked river in the
valley far below. The dust had whitened, too, the slouch hats and worn
blue overalls they wore; and their faces were marked with furrows,
burned deep by the harsh, relentless sun of the plains. It was pouring
its rays down now with the fierce malignance of some demon bent on
destroying every vestige of plant-life that had the temerity to put
forth its young shoots; and save for the scant bunch-grass, and the
sage, and the greasewood, and a few distant and scattering junipers
that grew dark upon the mountains beyond, no growth of vegetation
was to be seen. It was within an hour of noon, and the scorching
rays descended upon the blistered earth through a silver-gray haze
that--reaching across the valley--quivered over the scene like the heat
that comes through an open furnace-door.
Little gray lizards with black, shining eyes; little horned toads
with prickly backs, lay with palpitating bodies in the scant shade.
The saucy Paiute squirrels which earlier in the day darted in and out
of their burrows, had now disappeared into subterranean darkness.
Jack-rabbits, with limp ears lying back, crouched under the edges of
the greasewood. The three horses stood with listless, drooping heads;
the two men sat with listless, drooping bodies--one leaning forward to
rest his crossed arms on the horn of the Mexican saddle he bestrode;
the other, with loosely held reins between his fingers, leaned with his
elbows on his knees.
After the brief Western greeting, the one on the buckskin horse asked
carelessly:
“Been in with some hides, Reddy?”
“Yep.”
“What luck you been havin’?”
“Poor. Tell you what ’tis, Dick, I ain’t seen more’n fifty head o’
horses sence we been a-campin’ at Big Deer Spring; an’ the’re so wild
you can’t git to within a mile of ’em. Tommy an’ me are goin’ to move.
They’re waterin’ over to them deep springs north.”
“Yaas,” drawled the other, “they’ve been shot among so much they’re
gittin’ scarry. Me an’ my pardner are campin’ over at the mine with
them Dagos there; but we don’t see many bunches of horses around,
nohow. Guess we’ll skin out next week, an’ go over to The Cedars. I
don’t s’pose----” he moved his horse nearer to the wagon, and bent a
contemplative gaze upon one of the front wheels--“I don’t s’pose Austin
an’ the Kid’ll kick if we do crowd over on their lay-out a little; for
there must be near a thousand head o’ mustangs over ’round them Cedars
that ain’t never heard a gun yit. So’t there’d be good shootin’ for all
of us, an’ plenty o’ horses to go ’round. Hey?”
The other nodded his head affirmatively.
“But that Austin’s a queer sort of a feller! Wanted him to come in
with my pardner an’ me (he’s an all-fired good shot--good as I am
myself; an’ I c’n shoot all I c’n skin in a day), an’ I thought him
an’ me could do the shootin’, an’ my pardner an’ the Kid could do
the skinnin.’ But, no sir-ee; he wouldn’t have it! Just said the Kid
couldn’t come; an’ ’t two was enough in a camp, anyway. He’s about as
stand-offish as anybody I ever see. I ain’t sorry now’t he didn’t take
up with my offer; for the boys say that the Kid wouldn’t be no ’count
along anyway. He can’t shoot; and he just nat’rally won’t skin ’em--too
squeamish an’ ladylike. Aw!”
“I know. He just tags ’round after Austin all day; an’ don’t never seem
to want to git more’n a hunderd yards from him. An’ Austin’s just about
as bad stuck on the Kid,” said Reddy.
“Yaas, I know it; an’ that’s what beats me. I don’t see what they’re
stuck so on each other for,” said Dick, as he leaned back in the saddle
and rammed a hand into the depths of a pocket of his overalls. As he
drew forth a section of “star plug” he tapped the buckskin’s flanks
with his heels to urge the sorry specimen of horseflesh closer to the
wagon.
“Chaw?”
The smaller man accepted. Turning the square over and giving each side
a cursory glance, he picked off the tin tag--a tiny star--and set
his jaws into an inviting corner, bending it back and forth in his
endeavor to wrench off a generous mouthful. Passing it in silence back
to the owner (who regaled himself also with a like quantity before
returning it to his pocket), and having--with the aid of thumbnail and
forefinger--snapped the shining little star at a big horse-fly that was
industriously sucking blood from the roan’s back, he remarked:
“Hides is gone up.”
“That so?” exclaimed Dick, with animation; “what they worth now?”
“Dollar an’ a quarter, to a dollar an’ six bits; and three dollars for
extra big ones. Manes is worth two bits a pound. What you comin’ in
for?”
“Ca’tridges. Shot mine all away.”
“I c’n let you have some till you git your’n, if you want. What’s your
gun--forty-five eighty-five Marlin?” asked Reddy.
“Nope--won’t do,” answered Dick; “mine’s Remington forty-ninety. Much
’bliged, though.”
“Say, Dick!” exclaimed Reddy, “them Mexicans down on the river are
comin’ out to run mustangs. I saw that Black Joaquin an’ his brother
yist’day, an’ told ’em if they wanted to run ’em anywheres out on our
lay-out, that we wouldn’t make no kick if they’d let us in for a share.
See? They think they c’n run in about a hunderd an’ fifty head, anyway.
An’ they’ll furnish the manada, an’ the saddle horses, an’ all, for the
whole crowd. So, I told ’em. ‘All right! go ahead, as far as me an’
my pardner are concerned.’ He says Austin’s agreed. How are you an’
Johnny? Willin’?”
“Oh, yes; I’m willin’,” answered Dick, as he jerked at the bridle-rein,
disturbing the buckskin’s doze. “Well, good luck to you! See you again!”
“Same to yourself. So long!” answered Reddy.
The saddle-horse fell into a jog trot again to the pricking of the
spur; and the sorry span started the wagon groaning and rattling on
its way up the road whose furrows were cut deep by the great teams
that hauled sulphur and borax from the furthest mountains down to the
railroad in the valley.
The creaking and rattling of the wagon had only just recommenced, when
Reddy stopped his team to call back.
“Oh, Dick!”
“Hello!”
The little burros that had returned to nibbling on the brush, again
lifted their heads at this second interruption.
“Say! Austin ast me to git him a San Fr’ncisco paper so as he could see
what hides is quoted at; an’ I plum clean forgot it. Wisht you’d bring
out one to him when you come!”
“All right! So long!”
“So long!”
The men moved on again. And the two streamers of white dust grew
farther and farther apart, till they had faded out of sight in the hazy
distance.
The burros were left in undisturbed possession of the mesa the rest
of the stifling hot day, while they browsed along on the greasewood.
Late in the afternoon their little hoofs turned into a wild horse trail
which led them, single-file, down to the river where the mealy muzzles
were plunged into the swift, muddy current for a drink.
But while they had been munching the uninviting brush and sage, and
flicking the flies away with their absurd paint-brush tails, Harvey
Austin, over on the foothills near the Cedars, sat in the tent which
was now the only home he knew; and with his hat fanned the face of the
one whom the horse-hunters had named “The Kid.”
The boy, who had been ailing, was asleep now; but the flushed cheeks,
and parched lips that were always calling for water, were cause enough
for the fear that came over Austin as he sat there. What if this were
but the beginning of a long fever? Suppose there should be a serious
illness for him?
Again Austin asked himself the same questions that he was putting to
himself daily. What had the future in store for them? From here, where
were they to go? To stay through the long winter, with the mercury
below zero, and the wild blasts of wind about their tent--perhaps to be
buried in deep snow--all these things were not to be considered for a
moment. Before the coming of winter they must go. But where? Only away
from civilization were they safe.
He had come to see, at last, that they had both made a horrible mistake
of life. In the beginning of this, it had not seemed so; things looked
differently--at first. But, at times, of late there had come a feeling
of repulsion over him for which he could not account. Was it the
aftermath of wrong-doing? Well, he must make the best of it; it was
too late to undo all that had been done. He must bear it--the larger
share--as best he could. He said to himself that, thank God! at least
he was enough of a man to hide from the “little one” what he himself
was beginning to feel.
It is the great immutable law that the fruits of pleasure, plucked by
the hands of sin, shall turn to bitterness between the lips. For sin,
there is suffering; and for wrong-doing, regret. None escape the great
law of compensation. Justice must have payment for the defiance of her
laws.
Austin drew his breath in sharply. Oh, merciful God! how long was this
way of living to last? Why, he might live on thirty--forty--fifty
years yet! Penniless, what was their future to be? To return to that
world which, through their past years, had surrounded them with all
those things that make life worth living, would be to tempt a worse
fate than awaited them here. The desolation which spread around them
in the foothills of the bare, lonely mountains was as naught to the
humiliation of returning to the peopled places where most would know
them, yet few would choose to recognize.
It had not seemed that the price they would have to pay would be so
dear when first he had faced the possible results of their rash act.
Was it only a twelve-month ago? Why, it might have been twelve times
twelve, so long ago did it seem since he was walking among men holding
his head up, and looking fearlessly into the eyes of honest fellows who
greeted him with warm hand-clasps.
His face had a strained look as he let his eyes fall on the
unconscious figure beside him; and a strange expression--almost one of
aversion--swept across his features. But he drew himself up quickly,
tossing his head back with a movement as though--by the act--he could
cast off something which might, perhaps, master him. For some time he
sat there, his sensitive, refined face rigid and set, fixing his eyes
on vacancy. Then he sank back, sighing wearily.
Before him was memory’s moving panorama of a splendid past. Out of the
many pictures--plainer than all the rest--rose the face of the man who
had befriended him; the one to whom he owed all he had ever been, or
enjoyed. The one but for whom he would have been left, when a boy, to
the chill charity of strangers. From that generous hand he had received
an education befitting the heir to great wealth, and that noble heart
had given such love and care as few sons receive from a parent. He
could now, in recollection, see the austere face of his guardian
softening into affectionate smiles as his tender gaze fell on his two
wards--himself, and the pretty, willful Mildred. Only they whom he so
fondly loved knew the great depths of tenderness and gentleness in his
nature. It stung Austin now to think of it; it shamed him as well.
* * * * *
And was he--this coward hiding in the mountains of the West, leading
a hateful existence hunting wild horses for the few dollars that the
hides would bring, that he might be able to buy the necessaries of
life, since he had failed to get work in any other calling--was he the
one whom John Morton had once loved and trusted? He shuddered with
disgust; no man could feel a greater contempt for him, than he felt for
himself.
He rose abruptly and walked to the opening of the tent, looking out
on the sweep of sagebrush-covered foothills about him. It was useless
to think of the past, or to give way to remorse or idle regrets. What
was done could not be undone. He must arrange, as best he could, for
the future years, and provide for the needs of the present. He must do
his best in caring for and protecting the one for whom this life was
harder--far harder--than for himself.
He turned his back on the dreary landscape before him, and came back
into the tent, busying himself about camp duties till the other awoke.
And the young eyes--wistful and sad--that kept seeking Austin’s, saw no
trace of the heartache and remorse he was bravely trying to bury.
When the sun had gone down behind their mountain, and a welcome
coolness had settled itself over the burning ground, they went to
sit by the spring that bubbled out of the hillside. All through the
twilight they sat without speaking, their thoughts far away. Then
darkness came and hid the barren hills, mercifully shutting from their
sight the pitiful poverty of the life that was now theirs. A soft west
wind sprung up; and the balmy night air, cool and dry, seemed to have
driven away much of the illness the boy had felt through the day. They
sat in a silence unbroken only by the crickets’ perpetual shrilling,
the hoot of a ground owl, and a coyote yelping to its mate across the
cañon. When the first prolonged cry pierced the air, the slight form
had nestled instinctively closer to Austin. Then the mournful wail
of the little gray ghost of the plains grew fainter and fainter, and
finally ceased altogether, as he trotted away over the ridge, in quest
of a freshly-skinned carcass where some unfortunate horse had fallen a
victim to the sure aim of some horse hunter.
They sat for nearly an hour in the silence of night in the mountains,
Austin wondering if the time would ever come when the “little one”
would guess how miserably tired of it he had become in less than a
year. He hoped--prayed, the other would never know. And (worse still)
would a sickening disgust ever find its way into that other heart, as
it had into his own? With all his soul he silently prayed it might
never be so.
“Come, little one,” he said, gently, “we must go in. It is late.”
The other made no response.
“Don’t you want to go yet? Are you not sleepy--and a little bit tired,
poor child?”