IN THE SOLITUDES OF THE CANYON
The great wall of the Esmeraldas is split at one point by a ragged
chasm opening out into the foothills and the grass plains to the
north. This was the outlet of Shoestring Creek, a small stream of
water which flowed out into the plain and was finally lost in the
sands. It ran back into the range almost to the top of the main
divide, forming a sort of natural pathway through the rugged
mountains, a pathway much followed by the sheep-herders in driving
their flocks from winter to summer range.
There was no road, properly speaking. In fact, when one had penetrated
a few miles into the canyon passage was rendered arduous and difficult
by a series of rocky terraces down which the stream tumbled. At many
points the sheep trails winding along the slopes of the canyon walls
formed the only practical thoroughfare.
Farther up, the canyon became more level, but no one had ever built a
road through it. A good trail ran along it, generally at the level of
the stream. Once past the terraced and rough part, there were no
difficulties worthy of mention, at least in other seasons than
winter.
It was into this entrance to the Esmeraldas that Solange and her
cavaliers rode, pushing on steadily so as to be able to make camp
above the obstructions. Sucatash and Dave, finding that the girl was a
capable horsewoman and apparently able to bear any reasonable amount
of fatigue, had pushed their first day's travel relentlessly, covering
the twenty miles between the ranch and the mountains, and aiming to
penetrate another ten miles into the hills on the first day.
There had been little conversation. The two boys had the habit of
their kind and kept silence for the most part while on the trail. As
for Solange, though interested in the strange and wild country, she
was engrossed in her own thoughts, aloof from all about her, wondering
ceaselessly what her search would eventually develop.
There had been many times, even after starting on her pilgrimage, when
the whole adventure had appealed to her as one that was no better than
a weird, senseless obsession, one that she would do well to turn back
from and forget. Probably, at first, she had only been kept to the
task by a certain spirit of adventure, a youthful and long-repressed
urge for romance, fortified by inherited traditions of the sacredness
of vengeance. It is even probable that, had it not been for the
fortuitous advent of De Launay and the wild impulse which had led her
to enlist him in the affair, she would have remained at home and
settled down to--what?
It was that memory of what her fate must be at home that had always
furnished the final prick to her faltering resolution. Better to
wander, lonely and helpless, fighting and struggling to achieve some
measure of independence, than remain to what her existence must be in
France, whether it was the drab life of a seamstress or shopgirl, the
gray existence of a convent, the sluggish grind of a sordid
marriage--provided she could find a man to marry--or the feverish
degradation of the _demi-monde_.
But now, as she rode under the frowning, yellow-brown, black-patched
rocks of the Esmeraldas, or looked backward over the drab plain behind
her, she felt an ever-increasing exaltation and tingling sense of
expectation. She could not guess what was going to happen. She had no
idea of what awaited her among those mountains, but she had a strong
and distinct impression that fate was leading her on to a final
accounting.
Why De Launay should be inextricably entangled in that settlement she
could not imagine but he was always there. Her recollections of him
were those of disgust and contempt. To her he was merely a fallen,
weak, dissipated man, criminally neglectful of opportunities,
criminally indifferent to his obligations. She recalled him as he had
stood in the cell of the jail, unkempt, shattered of nerve, and she
shivered to think that he had been a man who was once considered
great. The fact that she was bound to him, even though the affair was
one purely of form, should have affected her as something degrading.
Peculiarly, however, it did not. Most of the time she never considered
the marriage at all. When she did it was with a feeling of mingled
security and comfort. It was convenient and, somehow, she felt that,
in De Launay, she had the one husband who would not have been a
nuisance or have endeavored to take advantage of the circumstances.
The marriage being a matter of form, a divorce was inevitable and
simple, yet, when she considered that matter of divorce, she felt a
queer sort of reluctance and distaste, as though it were best to shove
consideration of that point into the future as far as possible.
The gaunt, bare canyon thrilled her. She felt as though she were
breaking into some mysterious, Bluebeard region where danger,
adventure and intrigue awaited her. The mine, indeed, remained a mere
vague possibility, hoped for but hardly expected. But her father's
slayer and the vengeance that she had nursed so long became realities.
The rocks that blocked the way might hide him and, somewhere in those
hills, rode De Launay, who would lead her to that evil beast who had
blighted her life.
Again, why De Launay? She did not know, except that she felt that the
drunken soldier held the key to the search. Probably he was to be the
instrument of vengeance; the slayer of the criminal; the settler of
the blood feud. He was hers by marriage, and in marrying her had
wedded the vendetta. Besides, he was the type. A légionnaire, probably
a criminal, and certainly one who had killed without compunction in
his time. The instrument of Providence, in fact!
Ahead of her rode Sucatash, ahead of him the long string of laden pack
horses and ahead of them the silent Dave. The two cow-punchers had
jogged throughout the day with silent indifference to their
surroundings, but after they had entered the foothills and were
creeping into the shadow of the canyon they evinced more animation.
Every now and then Solange observed that one or the other cast a
glance up into the air and ahead of them, toward the interior of the
range. She was riding closer to Sucatash who motioned toward the
distant crest of the range which showed through the gap of the canyon.
She nodded. She was mountain born and bred and recognized the signs.
"There will be a storm, monsieur."
Sucatash rewarded her with an admiring glance. "Afraid we're headed
into it," he said. "Better turn back?"
"It will take more than storms to turn me back," she answered.
Sucatash nodded and turned again to look at the sky turning gray and
gradually blackening above the dim line of the ridge. Even as they
watched it, the sky seemed to descend upon the crest and to melt it.
The outlines became vague, broken up, changed.
"Snowing up there," he said. "By'n by, it'll be snowin' down here.
Snow ain't so bad--but----"
"But what?"
"She drifts into this here canyon pretty bad. There ain't no road and
down hereaways where these rocks make the goin' hard at the best of
times, the drifts sure stack up bad."
"What is it that you mean, Monsieur Sucatash?"
"I mean that we ain't goin' to have no trouble gettin' in,
mad'mo'selle, but we may have a fierce time gettin' out. In two days
the drifts will be pilin' up on the divide and the trail on the other
side, and in a coupla days more they'll be blockin' the canyon down
this a way."
Solange shrugged her shoulders. "We have food," she answered. "At any
rate, I am going on. I have promised that I would meet Monsieur de
Launay in this canyon. I cannot keep him waiting."
Sucatash accepted her ultimatum without protest. But, after a
momentary silence, he turned once more in his saddle.
"Say, mad'mo'selle," he said, "this here De Launay, now; he's sure
enough your husband?"
"Of course."
"But he ain't noways a regular, honest-to-God husband, is he?"
"We are married," said Solange. "Is that not enough?"
"I reckon so. Still, there's Dave and me--we would sure admire to know
how this feller stands with you."
Solange looked at him, and he found difficulty, as usual, in
concentrating on what she said or on anything but the fathomless eyes.
Yet he comprehended that she was speaking, that she was smiling
kindly, and yet that speech and smile were both destructive of his
immature romance.
"He stands--not at all, monsieur, except as an instrument. But--that
way--he and I are bound together forever."
It was in her eyes that Sucatash read meaning. Somewhere in their
depths he found a knowledge denied even to her, perhaps. He heaved a
profound sigh and turned to yell at Dave.
"Get a wiggle on, old-timer! You an' me are just hired hands on this
pasear. _Madame de Launay_ will be gettin' hungry before we make
camp."
Dave swung quickly around, catching the slight emphasis on the strange
name. Over the backs of the pack horses his and his companion's eyes
met. Then he turned back and jogged up the pace a trifle.
By five o'clock in the evening they had passed the worst stages of the
journey and were well up into the canyon. But the storm was worse than
they had thought. Already occasional snowflakes were drifting down,
and the chill was beginning to bite even through the warm fleece that
lined mademoiselle's coat. The men decided to make camp.
They pitched Solange's tent in a sheltered spot not far above the
stream. They themselves slept in the open under heavy tarps. Sucatash
sighed again when, during that evening, Solange showed that she was no
helpless creature of civilization but could fully perform her part of
any tasks that were to be done. She cooked over a camp fire as though
she had been born to it, and the food was better in consequence.
But Sucatash was uneasy. In the morning he consulted Dave and that
young man shared his fears.
"It ain't goin' to be bad for several days," he said. "But when she
drifts in earnest we all are liable to be stuck in here until spring.
I ain't aimin' to get anxious, Dave, but we ain't fixed to buck
snow."
"She ain't goin' to turn back, so what can we do?" asked the other.
"This here De Launay will probably be up near the crater. Once we get
her up there we ain't responsible. But there ain't no telling how soon
the snow'll drift. I'm thinkin' one of us ought to mosey back to the
ranch and bring in webs and dogs."
"He'd better get a-going, then," said Dave.
"You'd better stay with the lady and take her on. I hate to leave her
alone with a feller like you, but I reckon she'll meet up with her
husband by night and he can settle you if necessary. I'll pull my
freight out o' here and git the snowshoes and a dog sled and team.
We'll maybe need a heap more grub than we've got if we hole up here
too long."
"You're shoutin'," agreed Dave.
Mademoiselle, when the plan was broached to her, made no objection.
She was constitutionally fearless where men were concerned, and the
departure of Sucatash did not in the least alarm her. She also
recognized the wisdom of taking precautions against their being snowed
in.
Thus the party broke up in the morning. Sucatash, before departing,
took his rifle and a full belt of ammunition and fastened it to the
girl's saddle.
"If Dave gets gay," he said, with a grin, "just bust him where he
looks biggest with this here 30-30."
After assisting in packing the horses, he mounted and rode down the
canyon while Solange and Dave resumed their journey in the opposite
direction.
Sucatash, as soon as he had passed out of sight, quartered up the side
of the canyon where sheep trails promised somewhat easier going than
the irregular floor of the gulch. Thus he was enabled to get an
occasional glimpse of them by looking backward whenever favorable
ground exposed the valley. But he was soon past all hope of further
vision, and when the distraction was removed settled down to make the
best speed on his journey.
He gave no heed to anything but the route ahead of him and that was
soon a task that engrossed him. It had been snowing some all night,
and it was now slithering down in great flakes which made the air a
gray mystery and the ground a vague and shadowy puzzle. Sucatash did
not care to linger. Without the girl to care for he was one who would
take chances, and he rushed his horse rapidly, slogging steadily along
the trails, without attention to anything but the ribbon of beaten
path immediately ahead of him.
There was every reason to believe that the hills were empty of all
humankind except for their own party and De Launay, who was ahead and
not behind them. Sucatash was entirely ignorant of the fact that,
among the rocky terraces of the canyon, Jim Banker camped, after having
followed their trail as long as the light would allow him to do so.
The prospector was up and on the move as soon as Sucatash. He and his
burros were trudging along among the rocks, the old man muttering and
talking to himself and shaking his head from side to side as one whose
brain has been affected by years of solitude and unending search for
gold. His eyes were never still, but swept the trail ahead of him or
the slopes on either hand, back and forth, back and forth, restlessly
and uneasily as though there were something here that he looked for
and yet feared to see.
Far ahead of him and high on the slope he finally beheld Sucatash,
riding alone and at a rapid trot along a sheep trail, his long, lean
figure leaning forward, raised in his stirrups, and his hands on
saddle horn. He was evidently riding in haste, for that gait and
attitude on the part of a cow hand means that he is in a hurry and has
a long way to go.
The prospector hurriedly unslung a field glass and focused it on
Sucatash. When he was sure of the man and of his route he grinned
evilly.
"One of 'em right into my hands," he chuckled.
He then dismounted and ran to one of the burros. From the pack he
dragged a roll of wire which he carried there for some purpose or
other, probably for the construction of a short length of fence
whenever he stopped long enough to make it desirable. He glanced up at
the gray sky, noting the swirl of snowflakes which settled down like a
cloud. A few moments ago they had almost ceased, enabling him to
glimpse the rider at a distance and now they were providentially
falling again. Luck was surely with him.
Above him, about fifty yards up the slope of the canyon wall, was a
long bench, rather narrow and beaten flat by the passage of countless
sheep. Under it the hill sloped sharply, almost precipitously. It was
as though made to order for his purpose.
He mounted his horse and spurred it around and quartering up the hill
even as Sucatash wound in and out among the swales and depressions of
the canyon wall, now coming into dim view and now vanishing behind a
bend. Banker had plenty of time.
He reached the bench and hurriedly dismounted, to run to a scrubby
cedar growing almost on the edge of the ledge. Round this, at no more
than six inches above the ground, he twisted an end of the wire. Then
he ran with the other end across the bench and snubbed it around a
scrub oak growing on the slope. The branches of the little tree were
thick, and the tough, prickly leaves still hung to it in some
quantity.
He dropped the wire and went out and led his horse back among the
scrub oaks. He then stood up close to the tree, almost invisible
against the tangled branches and dead leaves. In one hand he held the
coil of wire snubbed about the roots of the scrub oak while the other
was clutching the nose of his horse.
Finally out of the smother of snow Sucatash came driving, head bent
and hat brim pulled down to avoid the snow. The road was easy enough
and he thought of nothing but getting along with all the speed
possible. He did not notice that his horse, when emerging onto the
bench, broke its stride and threw up its head as though seeking
something. Instead he sank his spurs and urged the beast on.
The horse broke into a lope on the level stretch in answer to the
spur. They came sweeping down until opposite where the prospector
crouched.
Banker released his hold on his horse's nose and tightened the pull on
the wire at the same time. His horse neighed.
Shrilly and loud, Sucatash's mount answered. Head thrown high and
turned to the side he half checked his stride at the call of his kind.
Startled, Sucatash also threw up his head and turned.
Then the wire clutched the forelegs of the horse and, with a crash, he
went down. Sucatash went with him, and, catlike, strove to throw
himself from the saddle. Unfortunately, he leaped on the outer side
where the ledge fell away steeply.
He freed himself from the plunging horse, but his head struck hard
against the gnarled trunk of a juniper and, half stunned, his body
slid over the edge and dropped.
Chuckling and mouthing, rubbing his hands together, Banker slunk from
his ambush. He retrieved his wire and then looked at the horse kicking
on the ground.
"No use lettin' him go back to the ranch," he said, slyly. Then he
drew his six-shooter and shot the animal.
Leading his own horse he climbed carefully down the slope and worked
his way to where the body must have fallen. But it took him some time
to find it, as Sucatash had rolled far after striking the slope.
He came upon it at last wedged against a clump of greasewood. There
was blood on the head and the sightless eyes stared up to the gray
sky. Snowflakes fell steadily and melted against the white cheeks. The
body lay awkwardly twisted.
"Dead!" chuckled Banker. "All of 'em die! Old Jim don't die, though!
Old Jim'll find it! He'll find the gold. French Pete hid it; Panamint
hid it; this here Frog lady is hidin' it. But old Jim'll find it. Old
Jim'll find it after all of 'em's dead. Dead! Dead! Dead!"
He burst out into shrill laughter, and his horse snorted and tried to
pull away. He instantly broke off laughing to curse foully, mouthing
obscenities and oaths as he jerked cruelly at the spade bit. The
trembling horse squatted back and then stood with wildly rolling
eyes.
Muttering, Jim stamped heavily down the hill, dragging the horse with
him and leaving the still form to the mercies of the snow. The falling
flakes were already filling up the trail that he left. In an hour or
two there would be no sign of his presence.