the picture. And there, sharply outlined before him, were the stark,
barren hills of the desert. Volcanic rubble in the foreground, and
stunted sage, and a lizard ducking its head with a queer, ticking
motion while it watched him from a rock; soft shadows lying at the
foot of great boulders, and all the magic tints of distance; the two
burros shuffling before him, picking their way daintily, setting tiny
feet between the rocks; Sister Mitchell, horny and gray and solemn,
clinging to the canvas with claws thrust out from her shell the size
of a dinner plate; and Luella, a vivid bit of green in the gray
monotone, riding gallantly the pack of Wise One and talking gravely of
things a parrot shouldn't know; and Hez, solemnly herding the little
company and believing himself indispensable,--Bill's teeth came down
hard on his under lip.
"You're homesick," Baker Cole's voice shattered the vision for the
moment.
Bill swallowed and could not meet his eyes. He threw away his
cigarette, gone cold between his lips--bitten, too, in the sharp pain
of remembrance--and reached for his sack of tobacco.
"I want the crunch of gravel under my feet," he admitted, smiling a
twisted smile. "The ocean kind of filled the hankering for
distance--but I want to get out and walk and walk---- Aw, hell! A man
can't have everything at once. I had the desert, and all the while I
dreamed of being rich and not having to eat beans and bacon. I was
almost as sick of that country as Mrs. Dale was. But somehow--she
takes to this life better than I do. She hates to be reminded of
Nevada, and has been trying to coax her folks to sell out and come to
the Coast. I don't blame her--not for one minute. It's no place for a
woman, back there."
Baker Cole rose and flicked cigar ashes off his vest.
"You're dated up with me for a little trip down Bakersfield way," he
grinned. "I'll show you desert--and a game you'll like to play. It's
going to be a stag party, so you'll have to get your wife's
permission. We'll be gone a week, maybe. You'll have to sleep on the
ground and cook over a camp fire. Bring a roll of blankets, if you
like. Can you make it to-morrow?"
Doris thought it was rather sudden. She had several things on for the
week, however,--things which Bill-dear would not enjoy at all.
Moreover, she had learned that close friendship with the Baker Coles
was like being favored by royalty, and the necessity of explaining
that her husband was off somewhere with Baker Cole for a week would
cause the other women to twitter enviously and draw her closer within
their hallowed circle.
"It'll be awfully lonesome, dear man, but I do think you'll enjoy the
change. Don't worry one minute about me, Bill-dear. With my maid and
chauffeur, I shall be all right. And Mrs. Baker Cole has asked me to
stay with her, if I feel at all strange here at the hotel. Perhaps I
shall. I haven't decided, yet."
Had she met the situation with a shade less equanimity, Bill would not
have gone with Baker Cole. And that would have made a great
difference, later on. But Destiny has a way of providing for the
seemingly unimportant things of life,--which are never unimportant,
whether we know it or not. He went with Baker Cole down into a region
where men were pumping wealth from the ground deep under the
sage-covered plains. His going was the beginning of several changes in
Bill's life.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
"MARY'S GOING TO HAVE A HOME!"
Bill sat in a deep chair and held out his arms. Timorously, as if she
were taking a great risk, a white-capped nurse stooped starchily and
placed within the curve of them a soft little bundle. Bill held his
breath until the precious, warm little body lay cuddled against his
chest.
Once each day, for a stingy ten minutes or so, Bill was permitted to
hold his daughter in his arms. Sometimes, if the nurse and Doris
forgot their vigilance for a space, Bill could fumble and uncover the
smallest, pinkest, squirmiest feet he had ever seen in his life. On
one memorable occasion, when fire engines went clanging past the
silk-hung windows, he had been left unobserved long enough to brush
the soft pink soles against his lips.
Little Miss Mary Dale was growing at the astonishing rate of a pound a
week, which Bill considered phenomenal and told of whenever he decided
that it would not be a breach of etiquette to admit that he was human
enough to be proud of his baby; which tells the story of Bill's
servitude to conventions which he hated even while he meekly obeyed
the rules.
What Bill wanted to do was carry his daughter down into the lobby and
show her off to everybody who came in. Why not, since there wasn't
another baby in San Francisco that could come within a mile of her for
looks and intelligence? What he did do was sneak up to the room set
aside for the nursery--they were still living in a hotel, which at
this particular time was the Palace--and pull down the silken
coverlets and gaze at little Mary until he was discovered and shooed
away. After two months of this, Bill was beginning to feel abused. She
was _his_ baby, as well as Doris'. He believed that he had a right to
look at her now and then, since Doris assumed the privilege of rocking
her and talking unintelligibly to her by the hour.
Still, Bill was accustomed to carrying a proper sense of his
limitations about with him. A year had convinced him that husbands
didn't amount to much, after all; that they were frequently a real
obstacle to a woman's pursuit of happiness. And since his whole soul
was still fixed upon making Doris completely happy, he eliminated
himself from the scene whenever he saw a certain look in the eyes of
his wife, and ministered to her happiness as unobtrusively as
possible. One deep hurt remained with Bill, do what he would to forget
it. Doris had not been pleased about little Mary,--until she had
actually arrived and won her own place in the family. That had hurt
Bill terribly and made his own eagerness seem a fault which he must
hide as best he could.
Well, women had their own ideas of things, their own hopes and
ambitions. Doris didn't seem to have had enough of the glitter of
life, yet. She didn't want to have a house and settle down to real
home life. Bill was beginning to feel that he did not understand her
at all. Home life would be lonely, she complained; would shut her away
from the things she loved best. For instance, Doris never tired of the
big, beautiful dining places with the music and the soft lights, the
flash of jewels and the hovering, obsequious servants. She wanted the
deference that bowed and waited for largess. She loved the smiles and
the nods from rich diners at other tables. She loved to have her maid
telephone to the steward that he would please lay so many extra covers
at the William Gordon Dale table. And would he please see that there
were just a few orchids peeping out from dark-green foliage, massed
very low,--that glossy green which Mrs. Dale likes so well?
And then she liked to forget all about the dinner until the guests
had actually arrived, and to know that the arrangements would be
perfect to the slightest detail,--with Doris herself the most perfect
part of it, smiling and showing the dimple in her left cheek, and
sparkling across at her husband, addressing him humorously as
Bill-dear. Doris, Bill observed (because the good Lord gave him powers
of observation which worked automatically) had begun calling him
Bill-dear openly, in social gatherings, immediately after she heard
Mrs. Baker Cole say "angel husband" in an adorably quizzical tone that
never failed to bring a smile. It rather spoiled the Bill-dear for him
in private, but Doris never guessed that.
Neither did she guess Bill's inner shame that his child should be born
in a hotel. Bill flushed in secret over the thought that, years
afterward, when little Mary asked about her birthplace, her parents
must refer her to suite E, Palace Hotel,--which had housed thousands
before their baby opened her eyes there, and would house thousands
after she had been carried away. Being born in a hotel, in Bill's
estimation, was a little better than being born on a train, but not
much.
So Bill's dream of a home with Doris--a place of their very
own--seemed as far off as ever; and the fact that he could have bought
a mansion fine enough even for Doris with the money he had paid to
hotel cashiers in the past twelve months did not help him to
resignation.
A nomadic life; a life that to Bill seemed inexcusably shiftless,
temporary. They had sampled several hotels, in the several cities they
had visited during the first few months. They were all
alike,--luxurious shelters for the traveling rich. He went about
thinking how all the other guests had homes somewhere; places where
they dropped anchor occasionally, at least, and took stock of
themselves. He began to try and hide the fact that he and Doris had no
home; that they were always tagged with a number and their mail messed
up with forwarding addresses. And now, here was little Miss Mary
without a home that she could look back to afterwards with affection.
To Bill the thing was becoming a disgrace, the blame resting on his
own shoulders. He had promised Doris that she should live where she
pleased. Now he owed another duty to his daughter.
"She's beginning to notice things, Bill-dear." Doris came up and sat
on the arm of a near-by chair. "To-day her eyes followed the flash of
my rings--I tried her out, and she really did notice. Wake up, s'eepy
thing! Show daddy how 'em can smile!"
"We'll have to get a place of our own," Bill began tentatively,
consciously treading thin ice. "We can't have her think a hotel like
this is all the kind of home there is in the world. Honey, don't you
think a nice house up on the hill--or maybe in some other town----"
"Oh, Bill, please don't start that! You're gone half the time,
almost--running around the country playing you're doing important
things. What would I do in a great big house with nobody around but
servants? I'd go crazy, that's all. And then, if we wanted to go
somewhere, like New York or Europe, there would be the house to worry
about. As it is, all we have to do is pack our trunks--and we can hire
professional packers to do that. We have every comfort we could
possibly have at home, and a lot besides. And I can see people, Bill,
without giving a dinner or a card party or something. I'm going to
have an at-home day--lots of permanent guests here do. And if I want
to entertain, look at the advantages.
"Besides," she added artfully, "you know you couldn't keep in touch
with men half so easily if you were struck off in a big house on Nob
Hill or somewhere."
Bill did not answer for a minute. He was apparently quite absorbed
with the baby's hands; he had never seen such tiny, soft hands
before.
"I wouldn't run around so much, honey, if I had a home," he said
quietly, looking up at Doris.
"Oh, fudge! Men with homes are gone _more_. You can't fool me! I've
heard the women talk who have homes. Their husbands are always gone
somewhere, their servants are always stealing them blind or quitting,
and the house is a white elephant. Besides, I don't know where I'd
like to live permanently. I can't picture myself settling down in any
one town--can you, Bill? Now be honest."
"Yes. Parowan."
Well, she had wanted him honest, and she got the truth. Nor did she
relish it, judging from the look on her face.
"Parowan! Of all the places in the world----"
"It's where we got the money to spend here," Bill stated stubbornly.
"I've had some mighty happy times there, even if I did eat bacon and
beans and hike a hundred miles after them sometimes. It made our stake
for us--that same Parowan. Only for that mountain, you'd still be
hazing your dad's cattle away from the _loco_ patches, maybe, and
helping your mother with the dishes. I don't wish you were--I'm
tickled to death that you can wear diamonds and hire a nigger to comb
your hair for you. But just the same, Doris, let's not get our heads
so high in the air we can't see what Parowan ought to mean to us.
"This baby's mine--and yours. We've got her, and we haven't got a roof
for her to sleep under, except what we hire by the week. Only for
Parowan, we couldn't have married at all; don't forget that. You
wouldn't have married a poor prospector, and if you would, I wouldn't
have let you. It was the gold I found on that mountain side that made
it possible for me to ask you to marry me. And it was the gold that
made you say yes."
He swallowed as if there were some obstruction in his throat and went
on, staring straight before him,--seeing that cut in the gulch's side,
perhaps, and the slim girl in the stained khaki riding skirt and
cotton shirt waist staring at the vein of yellow-flecked rock.
"You can't think of any place where you want to give our child a home.
Well, I can! She's going to have one, whether it's ever lived in or
not. It's going to be at Parowan, on the spot where her daddy lived
when he found the gold that made her possible. I wouldn't do it for
you, against your wish. You like this froth, and I want you to have
what you like best. But _Mary's going to have a home_."
He did not raise his voice; indeed he almost whispered the words. Yet
they struck Doris like a lash. Never before had Bill opposed her
wishes, or declared that he would do a thing which Doris had not first
decided to do.
"You can't take her away from me," she said breathlessly.
"I don't intend to take her away from you." Bill's tone was flat,
emotionless, because he dared not slip the leash from his emotions.
"Some day, when she's old enough to know what she's missing, the kid
may want to come--home. There's going to be one for her. It's her
right."
"In that case," said Doris coldly, "why not build it in civilization,
at least, where she can use it?"
"I'm hoping," said Bill, very quietly, "that when my girl grows up
she'll have some sense."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SO BILL GOES BACK
Parowan sprawled over the slope of the mountain without much
regularity in her streets and with no dignity whatever. Bill had read
faithfully each copy of the _Parowan Record_ as soon as he received
it, and he had calmly believed that he was keeping in close touch with
the town. For instance, he had studied the picture of the new,
two-story concrete schoolhouse with its graded yard and young shade
trees and the cement walks and all. He had told Doris proudly that the
building would reflect credit on any California town,--which was true,
so far as the picture went.
Just at first he did not recognize the schoolhouse as he came up the
street from the pagoda-roofed, cement depot with its arches that
purported to be Moorish or Mission, no one seemed to know which. The
depot had looked cunning in the picture, Doris had thought, and Bill
had enthusiastically agreed with her. It did not look so cunning in
reality; merely pretentious in a cheap way that irritated him. When
he failed to recognize the schoolhouse, a cracker-box edifice of ugly
cement blocks surrounded by raw, unpainted shacks, Bill was shocked.
He had mistaken it for the jail until he observed the absence of bars
at the windows, and the trampled ground in front.
He strode up the board walk--hastily laid, of cheap lumber and already
showing wide cracks and broken sections where knot holes had weakened
the wood and much trampling had done the rest. The Parowan Security
and Trust Savings Bank stared at him from the next corner. This
building he recognized the moment he saw it, and with reason. Parowan
Consolidated occupied the entire front of the second story, and the
building was printed in miniature upon the Company's letterheads, with
the sign showing distinctly across the upper windows.
Across from the bank, the O'Hara House floated a green pennant with
the O'Hara in white upon it; which was the sign of the O'Hara House in
cities all through the West. Bill and Doris had tried one in Portland,
and had found it almost good enough for Doris, although
"two-rooms-and-bath" were the best accommodations the place afforded,
with the bath connecting, which was terrible. But the cuisine was
above criticism. O'Hara food always was perfect and immaculately
served. Nevertheless, Bill curled his lips at the sign and went into a
grocery store and bought a can of tomatoes, a pound of coffee, a
little flour and butter and onions and potatoes and such other
supplies as he happened to see or remember, and called a loafing
Mexican to carry the stuff to his old camp, Bill walking ahead with
his suitcase to show the way.
Tommy, it appeared, had been faithful to his trust. The camp was
enclosed by a highboard fence, and there were signs which said, "KEEP
OUT!! THIS MEANS YOU!!" Bill grinned happily and had the Mexican set
the things down by the gate and go back whence he had come, an extra
dollar in his overalls pocket and a wide smile on his face.
Tommy had sent the extra padlock key to Bill, perhaps in proof of his
good faith. Bill opened the gate and was set upon with deadly intent
by Hezekiah, who evidently failed to remember him until Bill spoke his
name. Then his joy became hysterical and brought a lump into Bill's
throat.
His tent stood just as he had left it, with the forge under the
juniper tree and the dugout cellar in the bank. His bunk was neatly
spread with his blankets, though dust lay on the calico-covered
pillow. His dishes were placed in orderly rows upon the box shelves,
a pile of dry wood lay behind the cook stove. And from the ridgepole,
suspended by a bit of rope tied through the handle, hung a black
leather case,--the silver saxophone.
Bill laughed a little when he glanced up and saw the symbol of one
secret hope, but there was no mirth in the laughter. He was thinking
what a fool he had been to dream of playing "Love's Old, Sweet Song"
with Doris. Doris never sang nowadays. She would not sing the old
songs Bill loved, because they were so absolutely back-woodsy and she
did not seem to care about learning the new ones. Besides, she
explained, her voice had never been cultivated; an omission for which
Bill thanked God in his heart, after hearing other women strain their
vocal chords with technical skill and little melody. Doris did not
even know about the saxophone. It seemed unlikely now that she ever
would know.
Bill started a fire, laid his coat across the pillow, removed his
cuffs and his collar and began to peel the potatoes. He missed Luella,
but he knew that she was down in Tommy's Place, in the back room where
her speech would not be too corrupted, and he did not want to meet any
one until he had eaten and smoked and planned exactly what he would
do. Until he was actually on the ground he could not choose a site
for the home he meant to build,--a home worthy his little Mary.
Doris had not seemed to mind his coming, and she had made no open
objection to his errand. She had adopted a neutral attitude, a
slightly tolerant manner toward Bill and his plan. If he wanted to
build a house for the baby, years before the baby would be able to
appreciate the gift, that was his own affair. She supposed he realized
that the house would be all out of date long before Mary was big
enough to live in it,--and did he actually mean to furnish the thing?
"It's going to be ready to step into and hang up your hat and the
baby's bonnet, before I leave it," Bill had assured her steadfastly.
"Whether you ever see the inside of it or not makes no difference.
That will be up to you, honey. But I'm going to do my part. I'll make
the home."
Well, he was here for that purpose. He had the plans in his suitcase,
and the builders had ordered the material and shipped two carloads. He
was to choose the site and wire whether Parowan could furnish cement
workers competent to lay the foundation. He had left only one thing
undone: he had not told any one in Parowan that he was coming.
Wherefore, he was surprised to hear the gate open and shut, and to see
Tommy presently thrust his spectacled face belligerently into the
tent opening.
"An' it's yerself, is ut, Mr. Dale?" Tommy stood within the tent,
goggling at Bill, his leathery face relaxing into a wide grin. "I was
toold uh somewan makin' hisself free wit' this place, an' I left Dugan
in charrge of the s'loon an' come along over t' have it out wit' the
boorglar. I did that!"
For the first time in months, the old, sunny twinkle was back in
Bill's eyes. He would not have believed that he would ever be so glad
to see Tommy.
"You go back and get Luella, darn yuh," he commanded, trying to be
harsh about it. "And don't let on I'm back, will you, Tommy? I want to
surprise the boys. If you haven't eaten, we'll have a real feed. Good
old onions and spuds fried in bacon grease!"
"I've been stoppin' at the O'Hara House, Mr. Dale," said Tommy
stiffly. "They set a foine table--they do, that! Pie an' ice cream
bot' at the same meal, Mr. Dale, an' no extry charrge fer that same. I
been settin' the buttons forrard on my vest since I been boardin' wit'
O'Hara, an' it's the trut' I'm tellin' yuh now." He took a step toward
the doorway and stopped, loath to go.
"An' if it's the gin'ral manager uh Parowan yuh mean t' supprise, Mr.
Dale, yuh'll do that same or I mistake. I ast 'im yisterday was yuh
ever comin' back t' take holt, an' he says you was too busy makin' the
money fly. An' I says to him, I says, 'It's to Parowan he sh'd come
fer that,' I says, 'fer I never in all my born days seen the like.'"
Bill rescued the coffee from boiling over.
"Thought I was going broke or something, did he?"
"I dunno as to that, Mr. Dale. But he says you bin makin' it fly, an'
c'llectin' yoor share fast as it comes in, he says. I take it he meant
you been cuttin' a wide swathe, Mr. Dale--which nobody's got a better
right, that I know. The best has been none too good, he says to me,
an' named over the hotels yuh been boarding at. An' phwat business it
was uh hisn I dunno, fer it's yer own money yuh been spendin'. An' I
toold him that same, I did."
"I'm going to spend some more too," Bill declared, and smiled queerly
to himself.
"Yuh'll never spend more than yuh've got, Mr. Dale--well I know that,"
drawled Tommy. "My last dime'd back that statement. It would that. An'
it'd be well if I could put my good money on some others--which I
would not." With that somewhat cryptic observation, Tommy withdrew to
bring the parrot.
Bill sat himself down to what he considered the most satisfying meal
he had eaten in many a day. He was not a primitive soul, fit only to
enjoy the cruder things of life; but there was something within him
that rebelled against smiles and handshakes where no good will begot
them, and at the servility of hotel servants hoping for tips, and the
insipid, painted faces of women who bared their shoulders and
whispered malicious gossip behind jeweled hands. He could remember
some wonderful evenings filled with music or the genius of great
actors picturing life before him on the stage; and he could also
remember evenings when he had been too bored and resentful to see the
humor that lay beneath the surface of the peacock parade. And more
than anything else, Doris had made mealtime an occasion for studied
display that should seem unconscious. He had come to dread dinner
especially.
Wherefore he enjoyed his onions and potatoes, his stewed tomatoes and
fried corn all the more because he knew how certain eyebrows would
lift in astonishment could their owners look in upon the wealthy
William Gordon Dale, and see how he was enjoying his plebeian fare.
"Doris would like a taste of this grub," he told himself gayly as he
filled his plate the second time. "She's hypnotized now with the
novelty of it--dazzled with the glamor. But it's no natural life for
anybody that has lived the real thing; seen life stripped down to
reality. It's all pretense--and Doris is more than half pretending,
herself. Pretending she likes that sort of thing--when she's probably
half homesick, right now, for the desert, and won't admit it.