CHAPTER XL
A MESSAGE
The women of Malapi responded generously to the call Joyce made upon themto back their men in the fight against the fire in the chaparral. Theywere simple folk of a generation not far removed from the pioneer onewhich had settled the country. Some of them had come across the plains inwhite-topped movers' wagons. Others had lain awake in anxiety on accountof raiding Indians on the war-path. All had lived lives of frugalusefulness. It is characteristic of the frontier that its inhabitantshelp each other without stint when the need for service arises. Now theycooked and baked cheerfully to supply the wants of the fire-fighters.
Joyce was in command of the commissary department. She ordered and issuedsupplies, checked up the cooked food, and arranged for its transportationto the field of battle. The first shipment went out about the middle ofthe afternoon of the first day of the fire. A second one left town justafter midnight. A third was being packed during the forenoon of thesecond day.
Though Joyce had been up most of the night, she showed no signs offatigue. In spite of her slenderness, the girl was possessed of a fineanimal vigor. There was vitality in her crisp tread. She was a decisiveyoung woman who got results competently.
A bustling old lady with the glow of winter apples in her wrinkled cheeksremonstrated with her.
"You can't do it all, dearie. If I was you I'd go home and rest now. Takea nice long nap and you'll feel real fresh," she said.
"I'm not tired," replied Joyce. "Not a bit. Think of those poor men outthere fighting the fire day and night. I'd be ashamed to quit."
The old lady's eyes admired the clean, fragrant girl packing sandwiches.She sighed, regretfully. Not long since--as her memory measured time--shetoo had boasted a clear white skin that flushed to a becoming pink on hersmooth cheeks when occasion called.
"A--well a--well, dearie, you'll never be young but once. Make ye themost of it," she said, a dream in her faded eyes.
Out of the heart of the girl a full-throated laugh welled. "I'll do justthat, Auntie. Then I'll grow some day into a nice old lady like you."Joyce recurred to business in a matter-of-fact voice. "How many moreof the ham sandwiches are there, Mrs. Kent?"
About sunset Joyce went home to see that Keith was behaving properly andsnatched two hours' sleep while she could. Another shipment of food hadto be sent out that night and she did not expect to get to bed till wellinto the small hours.
Keith was on hand when she awakened to beg for permission to go out tothe fire.
"I'll carry water, Joy, to the men. Some one's got to carry it, ain'tthey, 'n' if I don't mebbe a man'll haf to."
The young mother shook her head decisively. "No, Keithie, you're toolittle. Grow real fast and you'll be a big boy soon."
"You don't ever lemme have any fun," he pouted. "I gotta go to bed an'sleep an' sleep an' sleep."
She had no time to stay and comfort him. He pulled away sulkily from hergood-night kiss and refused to be placated. As she moved away into thedarkness, it gave Joyce a tug of the heart to see his small figure onthe porch. For she knew that as soon as she was out of sight he wouldbreak down and wail.
He did. Keith was of that temperament which wants what it wants when itwants it. After a time his sobs subsided. There wasn't much use cryingwhen nobody was around to pay any attention to him.
He went to bed and to sleep. It was hours later that the voice of someone calling penetrated his dreams. Keith woke up, heard the sound of aknocking on the door, and went to the window. The cook was deaf asa post and would never hear. His sister was away. Perhaps it was amessage from his father.
A man stepped out from the house and looked up at him. "Mees Crawford,ees she at home maybeso?" he asked. The man was a Mexican.
"Wait a jiffy. I'll get up," the youngster called back.
He hustled into his clothes, went down, and opened the door.
"The senorita. Ees she at home?" the man asked again.
"She's down to the Boston Emporium cuttin' sandwiches an' packin' 'em,"Keith said. "Who wants her?"
"I have a note for her from Senor Sanders."
Master Keith seized his opportunity promptly. "I'll take you down there."
The man brought his horse from the hitching-rack across the road. Side byside they walked downtown, the youngster talking excitedly about thefire, the Mexican either keeping silence or answering with a brief "Si,muchacho."
Into the Boston Emporium Keith raced ahead of the messenger. "Joy, Joy, aman wants to see you! From Dave!" he shouted.
Joyce flushed. Perhaps she would have preferred not to have her privatebusiness shouted out before a roomful of women. But she put a good faceon it.
"A letter, senorita," the man said, presenting her with a note which hetook from his pocket.
The note read:
MISS JOYCE:
Your father has been hurt in the fire. This man will take you to him.
DAVE SANDERS
Joyce went white to the lips and caught at the table to steady herself."Is--is he badly hurt?" she asked.
The man took refuge in ignorance, as Mexicans do when they do not want totalk. He did not understand English, he said, and when the girl spoke inSpanish he replied sulkily that he did not know what was in the letter.He had been told to deliver it and bring the lady back. That was all.
Keith burst into tears. He wanted to go to his father too, he sobbed.
The girl, badly shaken herself in soul, could not refuse him. If hisfather was hurt he had a right to be with him.
"You may ride along with me," she said, her lip trembling.
The women gathered round the boy and his sister, expressing sympathyafter the universal fashion of their sex. They were kinder and moretender than usual, pressing on them offers of supplies and service. Joycethanked them, a lump in her throat, but it was plain that the only way inwhich they could help was to expedite her setting out.
Soon they were on the road, Keith riding behind his sister and clingingto her waist. Joyce had slipped a belt around the boy and fastened it toherself so that he would not fall from the saddle in case he slept. TheMexican rode in complete silence.
For an hour they jogged along the dusty road which led to the new oilfield, then swung to the right into the low foothills among which themountains were rooted.
Joyce was a bit surprised. She asked questions, and again received foranswers shrugs and voluble Spanish irrelevant to the matter. The youngwoman knew that the battle was being fought among the canons leadingto the plains. This trail must be a short cut to one of them. She gave uptrying to get information from her guide. He was either stupid or sulky;perhaps a little of each.
The hill trail went up and down. It dipped into valleys and meanderedround hills. It climbed a mountain spur, slipped through a notch, andplumped sharply into a small mountain park. At the notch the Mexicandrew up and pointed a finger. In the dim pre-dawn grayness Joyce couldsee nothing but a gulf of mist.
"Over there, Senorita, he waits."
"Where?"
"In the arroyo. Come."
They descended, letting the horses pick their way down cautiously throughthe loose rubble of the steep pitch. The heart of the girl beat fast withanxiety about her father, with the probability that David Sanders wouldsoon come to meet her out of the silence, with some vague prescience ofunknown evil clutching at her bosom. There had been growing in Joyce afeeling that something was wrong, something sinister was at work whichshe did not understand.
A mountain corral took form in the gloom. The Mexican slipped the bars ofthe gate to let the horses in.
"Is he here?" asked Joyce breathlessly.
The man pointed to a one-room shack huddled on the hillside.
Keith had fallen sound asleep, his head against the girl's back. "Don'twake him when you lift him down," she told the man. "I'll just let himsleep if he will."
The Mexican carried Keith to a pile of sheepskins under a shed andlowered him to them gently. The boy stirred, turned over, but did
notawaken.
Joyce ran toward the shack. There was no light in it, no sign of lifeabout the place. She could not understand this. Surely someone must belooking after her father. Whoever this was must have heard her coming.Why had he not appeared at the door? Dave, of course, might be awayfighting fire, but someone....
Her heart lost a beat. The shadow of some horrible thing was creepingover her life. Was her father dead? What shock was awaiting her in thecabin?
At the door she raised her voice in a faint, ineffective call. Her kneesgave way. She felt her body shaking as with an ague. But she clenched herteeth on the weakness and moved into the room.
It was dark--darker than outdoors. But as her eyes grew accustomed to theabsence of light she made out a table, a chair, a stove. From the farside of the room came a gurgle that was half a snore.
"Father," she whispered, and moved forward.
Her outstretched hand groped for the bed and fell on clothing warm withheat transmitted from a human body. At the same time she subconsciouslyclassified a strong odor that permeated the atmosphere. It was whiskey.
The sleeper stirred uneasily beneath her touch. She felt stifled, wantedto shout out her fears in a scream. Far beyond the need of proof she knewnow that something was very wrong, though she still could not guessat what the dreadful menace was.
But Joyce had courage. She was what the wind and the sun and a long lineof sturdy ancestors had made her. She leaned forward toward the awakeningman just as he turned in the bunk.
A hand fell on her wrist and closed, the fingers like bands of iron.Joyce screamed wildly, her nerve swept away in a reaction of terror. Shefought like a wildcat, twisting and writhing with all her supple strengthto break the grip on her arm.
For she knew now what the evil was that had been tolling a bell ofwarning in her heart.
Gunsight Pass: How Oil Came to the Cattle Country and Brought a New West Page 40