When Margaret was a very little girl her father and mother had left her
alone for an hour with a stranger while they went out to make a call in
a strange city through which they were passing on a summer trip. The
stranger was kind, and gave to the child a large green box of bits of
old black lace and purple ribbons to play with, but she turned
sorrowfully from the somber array of finery, which was the only thing in
the way of a plaything the woman had at hand, and stood looking drearily
out of the window on the strange, new town, a feeling of utter
loneliness upon her. Her little heart was almost choked with the
awfulness of the thought that she was a human atom drifted apart from
every other atom she had ever known, that she had a personality and a
responsibility of her own, and that she must face this thought of
herself and her aloneness for evermore. It was the child's first
realization that she was a separate being apart from her father and
mother, and she was almost consumed with the terror of it.
As she rose now from her bed on the ground and looked out across that
vast waste, in which the only other living creature was that sinister,
watching eagle, the same feeling returned to her and made her tremble
like the little child who had turned from her box of ancient finery to
realize her own little self and its terrible aloneness.
For an instant even her realization of God, which had from early
childhood been present with her, seemed to have departed. She could not
grasp anything save the vast empty silence that loomed about her so
awfully. She was alone, and about as far from anywhere or anything as
she could possibly be in the State of Arizona. Would she ever get back
to human habitations? Would her friends ever be able to find her?
Then her heart flew back to its habitual refuge, and she spoke aloud and
said, "God is here!" and the thought seemed to comfort her. She looked
about once more on the bright waste, and now it did not seem so dreary.
"God is here!" she repeated, and tried to realize that this was a part
of His habitation. She could not be lost where God was. He knew the way
out. She had only to trust. So she dropped upon her knees in the sand
and prayed for trust and courage.
When she rose again she walked steadily to a height a little above the
camp-fire, and, shading her eyes, looked carefully in every direction.
No, there was not a sign of her recent companions. They must have stolen
away in the night quite soon after she fell asleep, and have gone fast
and far, so that they were now beyond the reach of her eyes, and not
anywhere was there sign of living thing, save that eagle still sweeping
in great curves and poising again above the distant mesa.
Where was her horse? Had the Indians taken that, too? She searched the
valley, but saw no horse at first. With sinking heart she went back to
where her things were and sat down by the dying fire to think, putting a
few loose twigs and sticks together to keep the embers bright while she
could. She reflected that she had no matches, and this was probably the
last fire she would have until somebody came to her rescue or she got
somewhere by herself. What was she to do? Stay right where she was or
start out on foot? And should she go backward or forward? Surely, surely
the Brownleighs would miss her pretty soon and send out a search-party
for her. How could it be that they trusted an Indian who had done such a
cruel thing as to leave a woman unprotected in the desert? And yet,
perhaps, they did not know his temptation to drink. Perhaps they had
thought he could not get any firewater. Perhaps he would return when he
came to himself and realized what he had done.
And now she noticed what she had not seen at first--a small bottle of
water on a stone beside the blackened bread. Realizing that she was very
hungry and that this was the only food at hand, she sat down beside the
fire to eat the dry bread and drink the miserable coffee. She must have
strength to do whatever was before her. She tried not to think how her
mother would feel if she never came back, how anxious they would be as
they waited day by day for her letters that did not come. She reflected
with a sinking heart that she had, just before leaving, written a hasty
note to her mother telling her not to expect anything for several days,
perhaps even as much as two weeks, as she was going out of civilization
for a little while. How had she unwittingly sealed her fate by that! For
now not even by way of her alarmed home could help come to her.
She put the last bit of hard corn bread in her pocket for a further time
of need, and began to look about her again. Then she spied with delight
a moving object far below her in the valley, and decided it was a horse,
perhaps her own. He was a mile away, at least, but he was there, and she
cried out with sudden joy and relief.
She went over to her blanket and bags, which had been beside her during
the night, and stood a moment trying to think what to do. Should she
carry the things to the horse or risk leaving them here while she went
after the horse and brought him to the things? No, that would not be
safe. Some one might come along and take them, or she might not be able
to find her way back again in this strange, wild waste. Besides, she
might not get the horse, after all, and would lose everything. She must
carry her things to the horse. She stooped to gather them up, and
something bright beside her bag attracted her. It was the sun shining on
the silver dollar she had given to the Indian woman. A sudden rush of
tears came to her eyes. The poor creature had tried to make all the
reparation she could for thus hastily leaving the white woman in the
desert. She had given back the money--all she had that was valuable!
Beside the dollar rippled a little chain of beads curiously wrought, an
inanimate appeal for forgiveness and a grateful return for the kindness
shown her. Margaret smiled as she stooped again to pick up her things.
There had been a heart, after all, behind that stolid countenance, and
some sense of righteousness and justice. Margaret decided that Indians
were not all treacherous. Poor woman! What a life was hers--to follow
her grim lord whither he would lead, even as her white sister must
sometimes, sorrowing, rebelling, crying out, but following! She wondered
if into the heart of this dark sister there ever crept any of the
rebellion which led some of her white sisters to cry aloud for "rights"
and "emancipation."
But it was all a passing thought to be remembered and turned over at a
more propitious time. Margaret's whole thoughts now were bent on her
present predicament.
The packing was short work. She stuffed everything into the two bags
that were usually hung across the horse, and settled them carefully
across her shoulders. Then she rolled the blanket, took it in her arms,
and started. It was a heavy burden to carry, but she could not make up
her mind to part with any of her things until she had at least made an
effort to save them. If she should be left alone in the desert for the
night the blanket was indispensable, and her clothes would at least do
to drop as a trail by which her friends might find her. She must carry
them as far as possible. So she started.
It was already high day, and the sun was intolerably hot. Her heavy
burden was not only cumbersome, but very warm, and she felt her strength
going from her as she went; but her nerve was up and her courage was
strong. Moreover, she prayed as she walked, and she felt now the
presence of her Guide and was not afraid. As she walked she faced a
number of possibilities in the immediate future which were startling,
and to say the least, undesirable. There were wild animals in this land,
not so much in the daylight, but what of the night? She had heard that a
woman was always safe in that wild Western land; but what of the
prowling Indians? What of a possible exception to the Western rule of
chivalry toward a decent woman? One small piece of corn bread and less
than a pint of water were small provision on which to withstand a siege.
How far was it to anywhere?
It was then she remembered for the first time that one word--"Walpi!"
uttered by the Indian as he came to a halt the night before and pointed
far to the mesa--"Walpi." She lifted her eyes now and scanned the dark
mesa. It loomed like a great battlement of rock against the sky. Could
it be possible there were people dwelling there? She had heard, of
course, about the curious Hopi villages, each village a gigantic house
of many rooms, called pueblos, built upon the lofty crags, sometimes
five or six hundred feet above the desert.
Could it be that that great castle-looking outline against the sky
before her, standing out on the end of the mesa like a promontory above
the sea, was Walpi? And if it was, how was she to get up there? The rock
rose sheer and steep from the desert floor. The narrow neck of land
behind it looked like a slender thread. Her heart sank at thought of
trying to storm and enter, single-handed, such an impregnable fortress.
And yet, if her friends were there, perhaps they would see her when she
drew near and come to show her the way. Strange that they should have
gone on and left her with those treacherous Indians! Strange that they
should have trusted them so, in the first place! Her own instincts had
been against trusting the man from the beginning. It must be confessed
that during her reflections at this point her opinion of the wisdom and
judgment of the Brownleighs was lowered several notches. Then she began
to berate herself for having so easily been satisfied about her escort.
She should have read the letter more carefully. She should have asked
the Indians more questions. She should, perhaps, have asked Jasper
Kemp's advice, or got him to talk to the Indian. She wished with all her
heart for Bud, now. If Bud were along he would be saying some comical
boy-thing, and be finding a way out of the difficulty. Dear, faithful
Bud!
The sun rose higher and the morning grew hotter. As she descended to the
valley her burdens grew intolerable, and several times she almost cast
them aside. Once she lost sight of her pony among the sage-brush, and it
was two hours before she came to him and was able to capture him and
strap on her burdens. She was almost too exhausted to climb into the
saddle when all was ready; but she managed to mount at last and started
out toward the rugged crag ahead of her.
The pony had a long, hot climb out of the valley to a hill where she
could see very far again, but still that vast emptiness reigned. Even
the eagle had disappeared, and she fancied he must be resting like a
great emblem of freedom on one of the points of the castle-like
battlement against the sky. It seemed as if the end of the world had
come, and she was the only one left in the universe, forgotten, riding
on her weary horse across an endless desert in search of a home she
would never see again.
Below the hill there stretched a wide, white strip of sand, perhaps two
miles in extent, but shimmering in the sun and seeming to recede ahead
of her as she advanced. Beyond was soft greenness--something
growing--not near enough to be discerned as cornfields. The girl drooped
her tired head upon her horse's mane and wept, her courage going from
her with her tears. In all that wide universe there seemed no way to go,
and she was so very tired, hungry, hot, and discouraged! There was
always that bit of bread in her pocket and that muddy-looking, warm
water for a last resort; but she must save them as long as possible, for
there was no telling how long it would be before she had more.
There was no trail now to follow. She had started from the spot where
she had found the horse, and her inexperienced eyes could not have
searched out a trail if she had tried. She was going toward that distant
castle on the crag as to a goal, but when she reached it, if she ever
did, would she find anything there but crags and lonesomeness and the
eagle?
Drying her tears at last, she started the horse on down the hill, and
perhaps her tears blinded her, or because she was dizzy with hunger and
the long stretch of anxiety and fatigue she was not looking closely.
There was a steep place, a sharp falling away of the ground unexpectedly
as they emerged from a thicket of sage-brush, and the horse plunged
several feet down, striking sharply on some loose rocks, and slipping to
his knees; snorting, scrambling, making brave effort, but slipping, half
rolling, at last he was brought down with his frightened rider, and lay
upon his side with her foot under him and a sensation like a red-hot
knife running through her ankle.
Margaret caught her breath in quick gasps as they fell, lifting a prayer
in her heart for help. Then came the crash and the sharp pain, and with
a quick conviction that all was over she dropped back unconscious on the
sand, a blessed oblivion of darkness rushing over her.
When she came to herself once more the hot sun was pouring down upon her
unprotected face, and she was conscious of intense pain and suffering in
every part of her body. She opened her eyes wildly and looked around.
There was sage-brush up above, waving over the crag down which they had
fallen, its gray-greenness shimmering hotly in the sun; the sky was
mercilessly blue without a cloud. The great beast, heavy and quivering,
lay solidly against her, half pinning her to earth, and the helplessness
of her position was like an awful nightmare from which she felt she
might waken if she could only cry out. But when at last she raised her
voice its empty echo frightened her, and there, above her, with
wide-spread wings, circling for an instant, then poised in motionless
survey of her, with cruel eyes upon her, loomed that eagle--so large, so
fearful, so suggestive in its curious stare, the monarch of the desert
come to see who had invaded his precincts and fallen into one of his
snares.
With sudden frenzy burning in her veins Margaret struggled and tried to
get free, but she could only move the slightest bit each time, and every
motion was an agony to the hurt ankle.
It seemed hours before she writhed herself free from that great,
motionless horse, whose labored breath only showed that he was still
alive. Something terrible must have happened to the horse or he would
have tried to rise, for she had coaxed, patted, cajoled, tried in every
way to rouse him. When at last she crawled free from the hot, horrible
body and crept with pained progress around in front of him, she saw that
both his forelegs lay limp and helpless. He must have broken them in
falling. Poor fellow! He, too, was suffering and she had nothing to give
him! There was nothing she could do for him!
Then she thought of the bottle of water, but, searching for it, found
that her good intention of dividing it with him was useless, for the
bottle was broken and the water already soaked into the sand. Only a
damp spot on the saddle-bag showed where it had departed.
Then indeed did Margaret sink down in the sand in despair and begin to
pray as she had never prayed before.