Shadow Mountain

by Dane Coolidge

  CHAPTER XXIX

  ACROSS DEATH VALLEY

  The way to the Ube-Hebes lay across a low flat, glistening white withcrystals of alkali; and as his car trundled on Wiley came to a strip ofsand, piled up in the lee of a prostrate salt bush. Other bushesappeared, and more sand about them, and then a broad, smooth wave. Itmounted up from the north, gently scalloped by the wind, and on thesouth side it broke off like a wall. He drove along below it, glancingup as it grew higher, until at last it cut off his view. All the northwas gone, and the Gateway to his hiding-place; but the south and westwere there. To the south lay mud flats, powdery dry but packed hard; andthe west was a wilderness of sand.

  A giant mesquite tree, piled high with clinging drifts, rose up beforethe crest of his wave, and as he plowed in between them the edge of thecrest poured down in a whispering cascade. Then more trees loomed up,and hundreds of white bushes each mounted on its pedestal of sand; andat the base of each salt-bush there were kangaroo-rat holes and thetracery of their tails in the dust. Men called it Death Valley, but forsuch as these it was a place of fullness and joy. They had caperedabout, striking the ground with their tails at the end of each playfuljump, and the dry, brittle salt-bushes had been feast enough to them,who never knew the taste of grass or water.

  The sand-wave rose higher, leaving a damp hollow behind it whereice-plants grew green and rank; and as he crept along the thunder ofhis exhaust started tons of sliding silt. His wheels raced andburrowed as he struck a soft spot, and then abruptly they sank. He dugthem out carefully and backed away, but a mound of drifted sand barredhis way. Twist and turn as he would he could not get around it and atlast he climbed to its summit. The sun was setting in purple and firebehind the black shoulder of the Panamints and like a path of gold itmarked out the way, the only way to cross the Valley. At the south wasthe Sink with its treacherous bog-holes and further north thesand-hills were limitless--the only way, where the wagon-wheels hadcrossed, was buried deep in the sand. Three great mountains of sand,like huge breakers of the sea, had swept in and covered thewheel-tracks; and far to the west in the path of the sun their summitsloomed two hundred feet high.

  He went back to his car and drove it desperately at the slope, only tobury the rear wheels to the axles; and as he dug them out the sand fromthe wave crest began to whisper and slip and slide. He cleared a greatspace and started his motor, but at the first shuddering tug the sandbegan to tremble and in a rush the wave was upon him. It buried him deepand as he leapt from his machine little rills of singing sand flowedaround it. So far it had carried him, this high-powered, steel-springedracer; but now he must leave it for the sand to cover over and cross thegreat Valley alone. On many a rocky slope and sliding sand-hill it hadclutched and plunged and fought its way, but now it was smothered in thetreacherous, silt-fine sand and he must leave it, like a partner, todie. Yet if die it must, then in its desert burial the last trace ofWiley Holman would be lost. The first wind that blew would wipe out hisfootprints and the racer would sink beneath the waves. Wiley took hiscanteen, and Charley's bottle of whiskey, his rifle and a small sack offood and dared the great silence alone.

  While his motor had done the work he had not minded the heat and thepressure of blood in his head, but as he toiled up the sandy slope,sinking deeper at each stride, he felt the breath of the sand. All dayit had lain there drinking in the sun's rays and now in the evening,when the upper air was cool, it radiated a sweltering heat. Wileymounted to the summit of wave after wave, fighting his way towards theGateway to the north; and then, beaten at last and choking with theexertion, he turned and followed a crest. The sand piled up before himin a vortex of sharp-edged ridges, reaching their apex in a huge pyramidto the west, and as he toiled on past its flank he felt a gusty rush ofair, sucking down through Emigrant Wash. It was the wind, after all,that was king of Death Valley; for whichever way it blew it swept thesand before it, raising up pyramids and tearing them down. Along thecrest of the high wave a feather-edge of sand leapt out like a plumeinto space and as he stopped to watch it Wiley could see that themountain was moving by so much across the plain.

  A luminous half-moon floated high in the heavens and the sky wasstudded thick with pin-point stars. In that myriad of little stars,filling in between the big ones, the milky way was lost and reduced toobscurity--the whole sky was a milky way. Wiley sank down in the sandand gazed up sombrely as he wetted his parching lips from his canteen,and the evening star gleamed like a torch, looking down on the worldhe had fled. Across the Funeral Range, not a day's journey to theeast, that same star lighted Virginia on her way while he, a fugitive,was flung like an atom into the depths of this sea of sand. It wasdeeper than the sea, scooped out far below the level of the coolbreakers that broke along the shore; deep and dead, except for thewind that moved the drifting sand across the plains. And even as helay there, looking up at the stars and wondering at the riddle of theuniverse, the busy wind was bringing grains of sand and burying him,each minute by so much.

  He rose up in a panic and hurried along the slope, where the sand of thewave was packed hardest, and he did not pause till he had passed thelast drift and set his foot on the hard, gravelly slope. The wind wascooler now, for the night was well along and the bare ground hadradiated its heat; but it was dry, powder dry, and every pore of hisskin seemed to gasp and cry out for water. There was water, even yet, inthe bottom of his canteen; but he dared not drink it till the Gatewaywas in sight, and the sand-wash that led to the valley beyond.

  An hour passed by as he toiled up the slope, now breaking into a runfrom impatience, now settling down doggedly to walk; and at last, clearand distinct, he saw the Gateway in the moonlight, and stopped to takehis drink. It was cool now, the water, and infinitely sweet; yet he knewthat the moment he drained the last drop he would feel the clutch offear. It is an unreasoning thing, that fear of the desert which comeswhen the last drop is gone; and yet it is real and known to everywanderer, and guarded against by the bravest. He screwed the cap on hiscanteen and hurried up the slope, which grew steeper and rockier witheach mile, but the phantom gateway seemed to lead on before him andrecede into the black abyss of night. It was there, right before him,but instead of getting nearer, the Gateway loomed higher and higher; anddaylight was near before he passed through its portals and entered thedark valley beyond.

  A gaunt row of cottonwoods rose up suddenly before him, their leaveswhispering and clacking in the wind, and at this brave promise all fearfor water left him and he drained his canteen to the bottom. Then hestrode on up the canyon, that was deep and dark as a pocket, followingthe trail that should lead him to the spring; but as one mile and twodragged along with no water, he stopped and hid his rifle among therocks. A little later he hid his belt with its heavy row of cartridges,and the sack of dry, useless food. What he needed was water and when hehad drunk his fill he could come back and collect all his possessions.Two miles, five miles, he toiled up the creek bed with the cottonwoodsrustling overhead; but though their roots were in the water, the sandwas still dry and his tongue was swelling with thirst.

  He stumbled against a stone and fell weakly to the ground, only to leapto his feet again, frightened. Already it was coming, the stupifyinglassitude, the reckless indifference to his fate, and yet he was hardlytired. The Valley had not been hot, any more than usual, and he hadwalked twice as far before; but now, with water just around the corner,he was lying down in the sand. He was sleepy, that was it, but he mustget to water first or his pores would close up and he would die. Hestripped off his pistol and threw it in the sand, and his hat, and thebottle of fiery whiskey; and then, head down, he plunged blindlyforward, rushing on up the trail to find water.

  The sun rose higher and poured down into the narrow valley with itsfringe of deceptive green; but though the trees became bigger andbushier in their tops the water did not come to the surface. It wasunderneath the sand, flowing along the bed-rock, and all that was neededwas a solid reef of country-rock to bring it up to the surface. It wouldf
low over the dyke in a beautiful water-fall, leaping and gurgling andgoing to waste; and after he had drunk he would lie down and wallow andgive his whole body a drink. He would soak there for hours, sucking itup with his parched lips that were cracked now and bleeding from thedrought; and then--he woke up suddenly, to find himself digging in thesand. He was going mad then, so soon after he was lost, and with waterjust up the stream. The creek was dry, where he had found himselfdigging, but up above it would be full of water. He hurried on againand, around the next turn, sure enough, he found a basin of water.

  It was hollowed from the rock, a round pool, undimpled, and upon itssurface a pair of wasps floated about with airy grace. Their legs wereoutstretched and on the bottom of the hole he could see the roundshadows of their tracks. It was a new kind of water, with a skin thatwould bend down and hold up the body of a wasp, and yet it seemed tobe wet. He thrust in a finger and the wasps flew away--and then hedropped down and drank deep. When he woke from his madness the poolwas half empty and the water was running down his face. He was wet allover and his lips were bleeding afresh, as if his very blood had beendry; but his body was weak and sick, and as he rose to his feet hetottered and fell down in the sand. When he roused up again the poolwas filled with water and the wasps were back, floating on itssurface.

  When he looked around he was in a little cove, shut in by toweringwalls; and, close against the cliff where the rock had been hollowedout, he saw an abandoned camp. There were ashes between the stones, andtin cans set on boxes, and a walled-in storage place behind, and as helooked again he saw a man's tracks, leading down a narrow path to thewater. They turned off up the creek--high-heeled boots soled withrawhide and bound about with thongs--and Wiley rushed recklessly at thecamp. When he had eaten last he could hardly remember, (it was a day ortwo back at the best), and as he peered into cans and found them emptyhe gave vent to a savage curse. He was weak, he was starving, and he hadthrown away his food--and this man had hidden what he had. He kickedover the boxes and plunged into the store-room, throwing beans and floursacks right and left, and then in the corner behind a huge pile of pinonnuts he found a single can of tomatoes.

  Whoever had treasured it had kept it too long, for Wiley's knife wasalready out and as he cut out the top he tipped it slowly up and drainedit to the bottom.

  "Hey, there!" hailed a voice and Wiley started and laid down the can.Was it possible the officers had followed him? "Throw up your hands!"yelled the voice in a fury. "Throw 'em up, or I'll kill you, youscoundrel!"

  Wiley held up his hands, but he raised them reluctantly and the fightinglook crept back into his eyes.

  "Well!" he challenged, "they're up--what about it?"

  A tall man with a pistol stepped out from behind a tree and advancedwith his gun raised and cocked. His hair was hermit-long, his whitebeard trembled, and his voice cracked and shrilled with helpless rage.

  "What about it!" he repeated. "Well, by Jupiter, if you sass me, I'llshoot you for a camp-robbing hound!"

  "Well, go ahead then," burst out Wiley defiantly, "if that's the way youfeel--all I took was one can of tomatoes!"

  "Yes! One can! Wasn't that all I had? And you robbed me before, yourascal!"

  "I did not!" retorted Wiley, and as the old man looked him over hehesitated and lowered his gun.

  "Say, who are you, anyway?" he asked at last and glanced swiftly atWiley's tracks in the sand. "Well--that's all right," he ran onhastily, "I see you aren't the man. There was a renegade came throughhere on the twentieth of last July and stole everything I had. Itrailed him, dad-burn him, clear to the edge of Death Valley--he wasriding my favorite burro--and if it hadn't been for a sandstorm thatcame up and stopped me, I'd have bored him through and through. Hestole my rifle and even my letters, and valuable papers besides; buthe went to his reward, or I miss my guess, so we'll leave him to themercy of hell. As for my tomatoes, you're welcome, my friend; it'slong since I've had a guest."

  He held out his hand and advanced, smiling kindly, but Wiley steppedback--it was Colonel Huff.