THE GIRL AT HEART'S DESIRE
_The Story of a Surprise, a Success, and Something Else Very Much
Better_
As Curly stumped away, his spurs clinking on the gallery floor, he
encountered Mr. Ellsworth, who held out his hand in recognition.
"I just heard some one was down from the town," he began. "How are you,
and what's the news?"
"Mighty bad," said Curly, "mighty bad." Then to himself: "O Lord! I'm
in for it again, and worse. I'd a heap rather lie to a woman than a
man--it seems more natural."
"Bring any word down with you from up there?" asked Ellsworth. Curly
nodded. "I brung a letter," said he.
"That so? What's it about?"
"Well, sir, it bein' a letter to a lady--"
"You mean my daughter? Now, what--"
"Yes, it's for her," admitted Curly; "but it's personal."
"Well, I didn't know but it might be news from that young man, Anderson.
You know he went with the posse. Do you happen to know?"
"You ask her. It is, though."
"Did he send you down here?"
"I'm almighty hungry; I ain't had no breakfast, nor nothing." Whereupon
Curly bolted.
Ellsworth, disturbed, went in search of Constance. He found her, a
crumpled and pathetic figure. The news then had, indeed, been bad!
"Now, now, child," he began, "what's up here? You've a letter, the man
tells me."
She covered it with her hand as it lay in her lap. "Is it from him,
young Anderson?" he asked. She nodded.
"It's written by a friend of his," she answered presently. "He himself
couldn't write. He was too--ill."
"Sent for you?" His voice was grave.
"Yes," she whispered, "when it was too late."
"We'll go," he said with decision. "Get ready. Maybe there is some
mistake."
"Don't," she begged, "there is no mistake. I knew it would happen; I
felt it."
"By Jove, I hope it's not true; I was beginning to think a good deal of
that boy myself."
Constance was passing through the door on her way to her room. She
turned and blazed at him. "Then why didn't you talk that way before?"
She disappeared, and left him staring after her, through the open door.
An hour later a buckboard, driven by a silent Mexican, rolled down the
Sky Top cañon, bound for the northern trail.
Curly finished his breakfast, and then went out in search of his horse,
which presently he found standing dejectedly, close where it had been
left, apparently anchored by the reins thrown down over its head and
dragging on the ground. Curly seated himself on the ground near by and
addressed his misanthropic steed in tones of easy familiarity.
"Pinto," said he, "you remind me of a heap of folks I know. You think
them reins holds you, but they don't. They ain't tied to nothing.
You're just like them, hitched tight to a fool notion, that's all. If I
don't take your bridle off, you'll stand there and starve to death, like
a good many fool folks I've heard of. You've got to eat, Pinto."
Curly arose and with a meditative finger traced the outlines of the
continental maps displayed on Pinto's parti-colored flanks. That
cynical beast, with small warning, kicked at him viciously.
"Oh, there you go!" remonstrated Curly; "can't you get tired enough to
be decent? Git on away--_vamos_!"
He stripped off the bridle from Pinto's head, and again gave him a
friendly slap, as he drove him off to graze, without any precaution to
prevent his running away. As for himself, Curly lay down upon the
ground, his face on his arm, and was soon fast asleep in the glaring
sun. Pinto, misanthropic as he was, did not abuse the confidence
reposed in him. He walked off to a trickle of water which came down
from a mountain spring, and grazed steadily upon the coarse mountain
grass, but every now and then, under the strange bond which sometimes
exists between horse and man, wandered around to look inquiringly at his
sleeping master, whom he would gladly have brained upon occasion, but
upon whom, none the less, he relied blindly.
There were long shadows slanting toward the eastward when Curly arose
and again saddled up his misfit mount. He knew that the buckboard was
well in advance of him in time, but it must take the longer wagon trail
to the westward of Sky Top, while for himself there were shorter paths
across the mountains. He rode on until night fell, and the moon arose,
flooding all the mountain range with wondrous silvery light, which grew
the plainer as he left the whispering pines and came into the dwindled
piñons of the lower levels. Then up and down, over and over, he crossed
the edges of other spurs, coming down from the great backbone of the
range. It was past midnight when he reached the flat-topped mesa near
the Nogales divide, where there were no trees at all, and where ancient
pottery, relics of a forgotten Heart's Desire of another race and time,
crumbled beneath his horse's hoofs. Here Curly loosened the saddle
cinches, flung down the bridle-rein over Pinto's head again, and himself
lay down to sleep, uncovered, but hardy as any mountain bear that roamed
the hills.
When he awoke the red sun hung poised on the shoulder of Blanco, far
away, as though to receive the ghostly worship of those who once lived
and loved, and prayed here, in the long ago. So now he ate as he might,
and drank at the Rio Bonito, a dozen miles farther on, and went his way
comforted.
Dropping down rapidly on the farther side of the Nogales, Pinto
shambling along discontentedly but steadily, Curly at length came to the
wagon trail which led along the edge of the plain on the western side of
these ranges which he had threaded. He leaned forward and examined the
trail for wheel marks.
"By Jinks! Pinto," he muttered, "the old man and the girl is shore
hittin' the trail hard for that there death-bed. I'll bet that pore
girl's tired, for they must have made a short camp last night. _Vamos,
caballo_!" and so he spurred on to the northward along the hot low
flats.
By noon he sighted a dust cloud on ahead, which told him that he had the
other party well in hand if he liked, in spite of the speed they were
making.
"They travelled all night, that's what they did! If that Mexican don't
kill his team, it's a lucky thing." He did not seek to close the gap
between them, but on the other hand pulled up and rode more slowly.
"Now, Pinto," he pondered, "whatever in the world am I goin' to do when
we all pull into town? Deathbed--and him like enough settin' up and
playin' solitaire, or out pitchin' horse shoes. Shucks! If I could git
around behind Dan Anderson's house, I believe I'd shoot him a few for
luck, so's to make some sort of death-bed scene like is announced in the
small bills. We've been playin' it low down on them two folks, and for
one, I wish't I was out of it. Pinto, this here particular trusted
henchman has shore got cold feet right here."
He trailed behind the buckboard hour after hour, dropping back into a
gully for concealment now and then, and putting off the unpleasant hour
of meeting as long as possible. He kept in the rear until the vehicle
turned in at the mouth of the cañon which led up to the valley of
Heart's Desire. Then Curly hastened, and so finally clattered up
alongside the buckboard. Ellsworth was gray with fatigue, and Constance
worn and pale; seeing which Curly cursed himself, Tom Osby, and all
animate and inanimate things. "It's a shame, that's what it is!" he
muttered to himself reproachfully, and averted his face when Constance
smiled at him bravely and disclaimed fatigue.
The sun was beginning to sink beyond Baxter peak as they came in view of
the little straggling town, clinging hard to the earth as it had through
so many years of oblivion. It was an enchanted valley upon which they
gazed. The majestic robes of the purple shadows, tremendous,
wide-spreading, yet soft as the texture of thrice-piled velvet, were
falling upon the shoulders of the hills. An unspeakable, stately calm
came with the hour of evening. It was a world apart, beautiful, unreal,
sweet and full of peace. Far, far from here were all the tinselled
trappings of an artificial world, distant the clamorings of a disturbing
civilization with its tears and terrors. Battle and striving, anxiety
and doubt, apprehension and repinings--the envy and the jealousies and
little fears of life--none of these lay in the lap of old and calm
Carrizo. Peace, rest, and pause,--these things were here.
The ravens of the Lord had cared for those who had come hither, pausing,
dreaming, for a pulse-beat in a frenzied century of rapacity and greed.
Would the ravens care for a now pale-faced, trembling girl?
"It's perty, ain't it, ma'am?" said Curly. She looked at him and
understood many things.
But Curly left them traitorously, almost as soon as they entered the
lower end of the street, intent upon plans of his own. Those in the
slower buckboard, whose tired team could ill afford any gait beyond a
walk, saw him set spurs to his horse and dash ahead. There came more
and more plainly to their ears the sound of a vast confused shouting,
mingled with rapid punctuation of revolver fire. As they came into full
view of the middle portion of the street, they saw it occupied by the
entire population of Heart's Desire, all apparently gone mad with some
incomprehensible emotion.
"What's the matter? What's the matter?" Mr. Ellsworth called out to
one man after another as they passed; but none of them answered him.
Coherent speech seemed to have deserted all. "Here, you, Curly!" he
shouted. "What's all this about?"
Curly, after a swift dash up the street, was now spurring back madly,
his hat swinging in the air, himself crazed as the others.
"He's in!" he yelled. "We done it!"
"Who's in? What've you done?"
"Dan Anderson--nomernated him for Congress--day 'fore yestidday, over to
Cruces. Whole convention went solid--Cruces and Doña Ana, Blanco--whole
kit and b'ilin' of 'em. Ben Stillson done it--boys just heard--heard
the news!" After which Curly relapsed into a series of yells which
closed the incident.
Constance listened, open-eyed and silent. So then, he had succeeded!
The joy in his success, the pride in his victory, brought a flush to her
cheek; but in the same moment the light faded from her eye. She caught
her father by the shoulder almost fiercely. "Look at them!" she
exclaimed. "They're proud of their victory, but they do not think of
_him_. See! He is not here."
Her father, sniffing politics, was forgetting all else; but sobered at
this speech, he now motioned the driver to move on. McKinney was there,
Doc Tomlinson, Uncle Jim Brothers--the man from Leavenworth--many whom
they knew, but not Dan Anderson.
As they turned from the street to cross the _arroyo_, they saw
following at a respectful distance both Curly and Tom Osby, the latter
walking at Curly's saddle-skirt, for reasons not visible at a distance.
Tom Osby was still continuing his protestations. "You go on over,
Curly," said he. "You've done mighty well; now go on and finish up. I
ain't in on the messenger part."
"Maybe not," replied Curly, "but both halfs of this here amanyensis is
goin' over there together. I told that girl that Dan Anderson was shot
to a finish and just about to cash in. Now here's all this hoorah about
his bein' put up for Congress! I dunno _what_ she'll find when she
gets into that house, but whichever way it goes, she's due to think I'm
a damned liar. You come along, or I'll take _you_ over on a rope."
The two conspirators crossed the _arroyo_ and paused at the path which
led up to Dan Anderson's little cabin. They saw Mr. Ellsworth and
Constance leave the buckboard and stop uncertainly at the door. They
saw him knock and step half within, then withdraw and gently push his
daughter ahead of him. Then he stood outside, his hat in hand,
violently mopping his brow. As he caught sight of the two laggards he
beckoned them peremptorily.
"O Lord!" moaned Tom Osby; "now here's what that sheepherder done to us,
with his missive and his signet ring."
Constance Ellsworth had grown deadly pale as she approached the
dwelling. The open door let in upon a darkened interior. There was no
light, no ray of hope to comfort her. There, as it seemed to her, in
that tomblike abode, lay the end of all her happiness. In her heart was
only the prayer that she might find him able, still to recognize her.
At her father's gesture she stepped to the door--and stopped. The blood
went first to her heart, and then flamed back into her face. Her cheeks
tingled. Her hand fell lax from the door jamb, and she half staggered
against it for support, limp and helpless.
There before her, and busily engaged in writing--so busy that he had
merely called out a careless invitation to enter when he heard the knock
of what he presumed to be a chance caller--there, perhaps a trifle pale,
but certainly well, and very much himself, sat Dan Anderson!
"He's alive!" whispered Constance to her heart.
"He's going to live!"
The future delegate from the Territory had slunk away from the noisy
street to pen some line of acknowledgment to his friend the sheriff of
Blanco. He had succeeded, so he reasoned with himself insistently; and
yet a strange apathy, a sadness rather than exultation, enveloped him.
The world lay dull and gray around him. The price of his success had
been the sight of a face worth more to him than all else in the world.
He had won something, but had lost everything. His hand stopped, his
pencil fell upon the paper. He looked up--to see _her_ standing at his
door!
Dumb, unbelieving, he gazed and gazed. She turned from red to pale,
before his eyes, and still he could not speak. He knew that in an
instant the vision would fade away.
"Oh, why, hello!" said he at last, weakly.
"How--that is, how do you do?" Constance said, flushing adorably again.
"I didn't expect--I didn't know you were coming," stammered Dan Anderson.
She chilled at this, but went on wonderingly. "I got your letter--" she
began.
"Letter? My letter--_what_ letter?"
Constance looked at him fairly now, agitation sufficiently gone to
enable her to notice details. She saw that Dan Anderson's left arm was
supported upon the table, but apparently not seriously injured. And he
had been writing--with his _right_ hand--at this very moment! She
almost sank to the ground. There had been some cruel misunderstanding!
Was she always to be repudiated, shamed? She stood faltering, and would
have turned away.
But by this time Dan Anderson's own numbed faculties came back to him
with a rush. With a bound he was at her side, his right arm about her,
holding her close, strong.
"Constance!" he cried. "Constance! You! You!" He babbled many
things, his cheek pressed against hers. She could not speak.
"You see--you see--" exclaimed Dan Anderson, at length, half freeing her
to look the more directly into her eyes, and to assure himself once more
that it all was true--"I didn't understand at first. Of _course_, I
sent the letter. I wrote it. I couldn't wait--I couldn't endure it any
longer. Darling, I couldn't _live_ without you--and so I wrote, I
wrote! And you've come!"
"But your handwriting--" she murmured.
"Of course! of course!" said Dan Anderson. He was lying beautifully
now. "But of course you know I'm left-handed, and my left arm got hurt
a while ago, so I couldn't use that hand. I don't suppose my
handwriting did look quite natural to you."
Her eyes were solemn but contented as she looked into his face, and saw
that in spite of his words he was as much mystified as herself. Slowly
she presented to him the letter which he had never seen. His face grew
grave and tender as he read it line for line.
"It is mine!" he said. "I wrote it. I sent it. I've sent it a
thousand times to you before now, across the mountains."
"Is it signed with your heart, Dan?" she whispered.
"With my heart--yes, yes!"
"It is beautiful," said she, simply. And so they dropped between them
the letter to the queen. Hand in hand they stepped to the door, the
room too small now to contain their happiness.
Two stumbling figures fleeing, pigeon-toed and sharp-heeled, on the
further side of the _arroyo_ meant much to Dan Anderson. A laugh
choked in his throat as he caught her once more in his arms.
"It looks like Willie had made good!" said Tom Osby to Curly, as he took
a swift glance back over his shoulder.
But Constance and her lover had forgotten all the world, as they stepped
out now into the glory of the twilight of Heart's Desire.
"You remember," said he--"up there--the other time?" He nodded toward
the head of the _arroyo_, where lay the garden of the Littlest Girl.
"You broke my heart," she murmured. "I loved you, Dan. What could I
do?"
"Don't!" he begged as he tightened his arm about her. "I loved _you_,
Constance--what could _I_ do? We've been through the fire together.
It has all come right. It's all so beautiful."
They stood together at the little garden spot. Two brave red roses now
blossomed there, and he plucked them both, pinning them at her throat
with hands that trembled. They turned and looked out over the little
valley, and to them it seemed a golden cup overrunning with joy.
"Heart's Desire," he murmured, and once more his cheek rested against
hers.
"Yes," she whispered vaguely, "all, all--your Heart's Desire, I
hope--and mine--_mine_."
"It's the world," he murmured. "It is the Beginning. We are the very
first. Oh, Eve! Eve!"