IV

They could hear from far ahead a sound as of roaring waters.

"That," said Saterlee dryly, "will be Gila River. Mebbe we'll have to

think about getting across that first. It's a river now, by the sound of

it, if it never was before."

"Fortunately it's not dark yet," said Mrs. Kimbal.

"The last time I had trouble with a river," said Saterlee, "was when my

first wife died. That was the American River in flood. I had to cross it

to get a doctor. We'd gone prospectin'--just the old woman and me--more

for a lark than profit."

"Yes?" said Mrs. Kimbal sympathetically.

"She took sick in an hour," he went on. "From what I've heard since, I

guess it was appendicitis. Anyway, I rode off for help, hell for

leather, and when I come to the river the whole thing was roaring and

foaming like a waterfall. My horse, and he was a good one, couldn't make

it. But I did. And when I come to it on the return trip with the doctor,

he gave one look and folded his arms. 'Mark,' he said, 'I'm no boaster,

but my life is not without value. I think it's my duty not to attempt

this crossing.' 'Jim,' I said, 'if you don't your soul will be

scotched. Don't you know it? Folks'll point at you as the doctor that

didn't dare.' 'It's not the daring, Mark,' he says, 'it's wanting to be

sure that I make the right choice.' I says: 'She was in terrible pain,

Jim. Many a time she's done you a good turn; some you know of, some you

don't.' That fetched him. He caught up his bridle and drove his spurs

into his horse, and was swept down-stream like a leaf. I rode along the

bank to help if I could. But he got across on a long diagonal--horse and

all. I waved to him to go on and not mind about me. And he rode off at

the gallop. But I was too heavy, I guess. I lost my second horse in that

flood, and had to foot it into camp. I was too late. Pain had made her

unconscious, and she was dead. But before givin' in she'd wrote me a

letter." He broke off short. "And there's Gila River," he said.

"I hoped you were going to tell me what your poor wife said in her

letter," said Mrs. Kimbal.

"Oh, Ma'am," he said, hesitated, cleared his throat, and became routed

and confused.

"If you'd rather not--" said Mrs. Kimbal.

"It isn't that," he said. "It would seem like bragging."

"Surely not," she said.

Saterlee, with his eyes on the broad, brown flood which they were

approaching, repeated like a lesson:

"'Mark--I'm dying. I want it to do good, not harm. Jenny always thought

the world of you. You'll be lonely when I'm gone. I don't want you to be

lonely. You gave me peace on earth. And you can't be happy unless you've

got a woman to pet and pamper. That's your nature--'"

He paused.

"That was all," he said, and wiped his forehead with the palm of his

hand. "It just stopped there."

"I'm glad you told me," said Mrs. Kimbal gently. "It will be a lesson

to me not to spring to conclusions, and not to make up my mind about

things I'm not familiar with."

When they came to where the road disappeared under the swift unbroken

brown of Gila River, the old horse paused of her own accord, and,

turning her bony and scarred head a half revolution, stared almost

rudely at the occupants of the buggy.

"It all depends," said Saterlee, "how deep the water runs over the road,

and whether we can keep to the road. You see, it comes out higher up

than it goes in. Can you swim, Ma'am?"

Mrs. Kimbal admitted that, in clothes made to the purpose, and in very

shallow water, she was not without proficiency.

"Would you rather we turned back?" he asked.

"I feel sure you'll get me over," said she.

"Then," said Saterlee, "let's put the hood down. In case we do capsize,

we don't want to get caught under it."

Saterlee on his side, and Mrs. Kimbal, not without exclamations of

annoyance, on hers, broke the toggle-joints that held the dilapidated

hood in place, and thrust it backward and down. At once the air seemed

to circulate with greater freshness.

For some moments Saterlee considered the river, up-stream, down-stream,

and across, knitting his brows to see better, for the light was failing

by leaps and bounds. Then, in an embarrassed voice:

"I've _got_ to do it," he said. "It's only right."

"What?" said Mrs. Kimbal.

"I feel sure," he said, "that under the circumstances you'll make every

allowance, Ma'am."

Without further hesitation--in fact, with almost desperate haste, as if

wishing to dispose of a disagreeable duty--he ripped open the buttons of

his waistcoat and removed it at the same time with his coat, as if the

two had been but one garment. He tossed them into the bottom of the

buggy in a disorderly heap. But Mrs. Kimbal rescued them, separated

them, folded them neatly, and stowed them under the seat.

Saterlee made no comment. He was thinking of the state of a shirt that

he had had on since early morning, and was wondering how, with his

elbows pressed very tightly to his sides, he could possibly manage to

unlace his boots. He made one or two tentative efforts. But Mrs. Kimbal

seemed to divine the cause of his embarrassment.

"_Please_," she said, "don't mind anything--on my account."

He reached desperately, and regardlessly, for his boots, unlaced them,

and took them off.

"Why," exclaimed Mrs. Kimbal, "_both_ your heels need darning!"

Saterlee had tied his boots together, and was fastening them around his

neck by the remainder of the laces.

"I haven't anybody to do my darning now," he said. "My girls are all at

school, except two that's married. So--" He finished his knot, took the

reins in his left hand and the whip in his right.

At first the old mare would not budge. Switching was of no avail.

Saterlee brought down the whip upon her with a sound like that of small

cannon. She sighed and walked gingerly into the river.

The water rose slowly (or the river bottom shelved very gradually), and

they were half-way across before it had reached the hubs of the wheels.

But the mare appeared to be in deeper. She refused to advance, and once

more turned and stared with a kind of wistful rudeness. Then she saw the

whip, before it fell, made a desperate plunge, and floundered forward

into deep water--but without the buggy.

One rotten shaft had broken clean off, both rotten traces, and the

reins, upon which hitherto there had been no warning pull, were jerked

from Saterlee's loose fingers. The old mare reached the further shore

presently, swimming and scrambling upon a descending diagonal, stalked

sedately up the bank, and then stood still, only turning her head to

look at the buggy stranded in mid-stream. The sight appeared to arouse

whatever of youthful mischief remained in the feeble old heart. She

seemed to gather herself for a tremendous effort, then snorted once, and

kicked thrice--three feeble kicks of perhaps six inches in the

perpendicular.

Mrs. Kimbal exploded into laughter.

"Wouldn't you know she was a woman?" she said.

But Saterlee was climbing out of the buggy.

"Now," said he, "if you'll just tie my coat round your neck by the

sleeves--let the vest go hang--and then you'll have to let me

carry you."

Mrs. Kimbal did as she was told. But the buggy, relieved at last of all

weight, slid off sidewise with the current, turned turtle, and was

carried swiftly down-stream. Saterlee staggering, for the footing was

uncertain, and holding Mrs. Kimbal high in his arms, started for shore.

The water rose above his waist, and kept rising. He halted, bracing

himself against the current.

"Ma'am," he said in a discouraged voice, "it's no use. I've just got to

let you get wet. We've got to swim to make it."

"All right," she said cheerfully.

"Some folks," he said, "likes to go overboard sudden; some likes to go

in by degrees."

"Between the two for me," said Mrs. Kimbal. "Not suddenly, but firmly

and without hesitation."

She gave a little shivery gasp.

"It's not really cold," she said. "How strong the current pulls. Will

you have to swim and tow me?"

"Yes," he said.

"Then wait," she said. "Don't let me be carried away."

He steadied her while she drew the hat-pins from her hat and dropped it

as carelessly on the water as if that had been her dressing-table. Then

she took down her hair. It was in two great brown, shining braids. The

ends disappeared in the water, listing down-stream.

Shorn of her hat and her elaborate hair-dressing, the lady was no longer

showy, and Saterlee, out of the tail of an admiring eye, began to see

real beauties about her that had hitherto eluded him. Whatever other

good qualities and virtues she may have tossed overboard during a stormy

and unhappy life, she had still her nerve with her. So Saterlee

told himself.

"It will be easier, won't it," she said, "if you have my hair to hold

by? I think I can manage to keep on my back."

"May I, Ma'am?" said Saterlee.

She laughed at his embarrassment. And half-thrust the two great braids

into the keeping of his strong left hand.

A moment later Saterlee could no longer keep his footing.

"Now, Ma'am," he said, "just let yourself go."

And he swam to shallow water, not without great labor, towing Mrs.

Kimbal by the hair. But here he picked her up in his arms, this time

with no word spoken, and carried her ashore. Some moments passed.

"Well," she said, laughing, "aren't you going to put me down?"

"Oh!" said he, terribly confused, "I forgot. I was just casting an eye

around for that horse. She's gone."

"Never mind--we'll walk."

"It'll be heavy going, wet as you are," said he.

"I'll soon be dry in this air," she said.

Saterlee managed to pull his boots on over his wet socks, and Mrs.

Kimbal, having given him his wet coat from her neck, stooped and wrung

as much water as she could from her clothes.

It was now nearly dark, but they found the road and went on.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"My watch was in my vest," said Saterlee.

"How far to Carcasonne House?"

"'Bout thirty miles."

She did not speak again for some time.

"Well," she said, a little hardness in her voice, "you'll hardly be in

time to steer your boy away from my girl."

"No," said he, "I won't. An' you'll hardly be in time to steer your

girl away from my boy."

"Oh," she said, "you misconceive me entirely, Mr. Saterlee. As far as

I'm concerned, my only regret _now_ is that I shan't be in time to dance

at the wedding."

"Ma'am?" he said, and there was something husky in his voice.

V

About midnight they saw a light, and, forsaking what they believed in

hopeful moments to be the road, they made for it across country. Across

open spaces of sand, into gullies and out of gullies, through stinging

patches of yucca and prickly pear, through breast-high chaparral,

meshed, knotted, and matted, like a clumsy weaving together of very

tough ropes, some with thorns, and all with sharp points and elbows.

They had long since dispensed with all conversation except what bore on

their situation. Earlier in the night the darkness and the stars had

wormed a story of divorce out of Mrs. Kimbal, and Saterlee had found

himself longing to have the man at hand and by the throat.

And she had prattled of her many failures on the stage and, latterly, of

her more successful ventures, and of a baby boy that she had had, and

how that while she was off playing "on the road" her husband had come

in drunk and had given the baby the wrong medicine. And it was about

then that she had left off conversing.

For in joy it is hard enough to find the way in the dark, while for

those in sorrow it is not often that it can be found at all.

The light proved to be a lantern upon the little porch of a ramshackle

shanty. An old man with immense horn-rimmed spectacles was reading by it

out of a tattered magazine. When the couple came close, the old man

looked up from his reading, and blessed his soul several times.

"It do beat the Dutch!" he exclaimed in whining nasal tones, "if here

ain't two more."

"Two more what?" said Saterlee.

"It's the floods, I reckon," whined the old man. "There's three on the

kitchen floor and there's two ladies in my bed. That's why I'm sittin'

up. There wa'n't no bed for a man in his own house. But I found this

here old copy of the _Medical Revoo_, 'n' I'm puttin' in the time with

erysipelis."

"But," said Saterlee, "you must find some place for this lady to rest.

She is worn out with walking and hunger."

"Stop!" whined the old man, smiting his thigh, "if there ain't that

there mattress in the loft! And I clean forgot, and told the boys that I

hadn't nothin' better than a rug or two 'n the kitchen floor."

"A mattress!" exclaimed Saterlee. "Splendid! I guess you can sleep some

on anything near as good as a mattress. Can't you, ma'am?"

"Indeed I could!" she said. "But you have been through as much as I

have--more. I won't take it."

The old man's whine interrupted.

"Ain't you two married?" he said.

"Nop," said Saterlee shortly.

"Now ain't that ridiculous?" meditated the old man; "I thought you was

all along." His eyes brightened behind the spectacles. "It ain't for me

to interfere _in_ course," he said, "but hereabouts I'm a Justice of the

Peace." Neither spoke.

"I could rouse up the boys in the kitchen for witnesses," he insinuated.

Saterlee turned suddenly to Mrs. Kimbal, but his voice was very humble.

"Ma'am?" he suggested.