CHAPTER XXI
WE WAIT THE SUMMONS
The Sioux had quieted. They let the hollow alone, tenanted as it was withdeath; there was for us a satisfaction in that tribute to our defense.Quite methodically, and with cruel show of leisure they distributedthemselves by knots, in a half-encircling string around our asylum; theyposted a sentry, ahorse, as a lookout; and lolling upon the bare ground inthe sun glare they chatted, laughed, rested, but never for an instant werewe dismissed from their eyes and thoughts.
"They will wait, too. They can afford it," she murmured. "It is cheaperfor them than losing lives."
"If they knew we had only the two cartridges----?"
"They don't, yet."
"And they will find out too late," I hazarded.
"Yes, too late. We shall have time." Her voice did not waver; it heartenedwith its vengeful, determined mien.
Occasionally a warrior invoked us by brandishing arm or weapon in suretyof hate and in promise of fancied reprisal. What fools they were! Now andagain a warrior galloped upon the back trail; returned gleefully, perhapsto flourish an army canteen at us.
"There probably is water where we heard the frogs last night," sheremarked.
"I'm glad we didn't try to reach it, for camp," said I.
"So am I," said she. "We might have run right into them. We are betterhere. At least, I am."
"And I," I confirmed.
Strangely enough we seemed to have little to say, now in this preciousdoldrums where we were becalmed, between the distant past and the unloggedfuture. We had not a particle of shade, not a trace of coolness: the sunwas high, all our rocky recess was a furnace, fairly reverberant with theheat; the flies (and I vaguely pondered upon how they had existed,previously, and whence they had gathered) buzzed briskly, attracted by thedead mule, unseen, and captiously diverted to us also. We lay tolerablybolstered, without much movement; and as the Sioux were not firing uponus, we might wax careless of their espionage.
Her eyes, untroubled, scarcely left my face; I feared to let mine leavehers. Of what she was thinking I might not know, and I did not seek toknow--was oddly yielding and content, for our decisions had been made. Andstill it was unreal, impossible: we, in this guise; the Sioux, watching;the desert, waiting; death hovering--a sudden death, a violent death, theend of that which had barely begun; an end suspended in sight like theDionysian sword, with the single hair already frayed by the greedy shearsof the Fate. A snap, at our own signal; then presto, change!
It simply could not be true. Why, somewhere my father and mother busied,mindless; somewhere Benton roared, mindless; somewhere the wagon traintoiled on, mindless; the stage road missed us not, nor wondered; therailroad graders shoveled and scraped and picked as blithely as if thesame desert did not contain them, and us; cities throbbed, people workedand played, and we were of as little concern to them now as we would be ayear hence.
Then it all pridefully resolved to this, like the warming tune of a finebattle chant: That I was here, with my woman, my partner woman, the muchdesirable woman whom I had won; which was more than Daniel, or Montoyo, orthe Indian chief, or the wide world of other men could boast.
Soon she spoke, at times, musingly.
"I did make up to you, at first," she said. "In Omaha, and on the train."
"Did you?" I smiled. She was so childishly frank.
"But that was only passing. Then in Benton I knew you were different. Iwondered what it was; but you were different from anybody that I had metbefore. There's always such a moment in a woman's life."
I soberly nodded. Nothing could be a platitude in such a place and such anhour.
"I wished to help you. Do you believe that now?"
"I believe you, dear heart," I assured.
"But it was partly because I thought you could help me," she said, like aconfession. And she added: "I had nothing wrong in mind. You were to be afriend, not a lover. I had no need of lovers; no, no."
We were silent for an interval. Again she spoke.
"Do you care anything about my family? I suppose not. That doesn't matter,here. But you wouldn't be ashamed of them. I ran away with Montoyo. Ithought he was something else. How could I go home after that? I tried tobe true to him, we had plenty of money, he was kind to me at first, but hedragged me down and my father and mother don't know even yet. Yes, I triedto help him, too. I stayed. It's a life that gets into one's blood. Ifeared him terribly, in time. He was a breed, and a devil--a gentlemandevil." She referred in the past tense, as to some fact definitely bygone."I had to play fair with him, or---- And when I had done that, hoping,why, what else could I do or where could I go? So many people knew me."She smiled. "Suddenly I tied to you, sir. I seemed to feel--I took thechance."
"Thank God you did," I encouraged.
"But I would not have wronged myself, or you, or him," she eagerlypursued. "I never did wrong him." She flushed. "No man can convict me. Youhurt me when you refused me, dear; it told me that you didn't understand.Then I was desperate. I had been shamed before you, and by you. You weregoing, and not understanding, and I couldn't let you. So I did follow youto the wagon train. You were my star. I wonder why. I did feel that you'dget me out--you see, I was so madly selfish, like a drowning person. Iclutched at you; might have put you under while climbing up, myself."
"We have climbed together," said I. "You have made me into a man."
"But I forced myself on you. I played you against Daniel. I foresaw thatyou might have to kill him, to rid me of him. You were my weapon. And Iused you. Do you blame me that I used you?"
"Daniel and I were destined to meet, just as you and I were destined tomeet," said I. "I had to prove myself on him. It would have happenedanyway. Had I not stood up to him you would not have loved me."
"That was not the price," she sighed. "Maybe you don't understand yet. I'mso afraid you don't understand," she pleaded. "At the last I had resignedyou, I would have left you free, I saw how you felt; but, oh, it happenedjust the same--we were fated, and you showed that you hated me."
"I never hated you. I was perplexed. That was a part of love," said I.
"You mean it? You are holding nothing back?" she asked, anxious.
"I am holding nothing back," I answered. "As you will know, I think, intime to come."
Again we reclined, silent, at peace: a strange peace of mind and body, towhich the demonstrations by the waiting Sioux were alien things.
She spoke.
"Are we very guilty, do you think?"
"In what, dearest?"
"In this, here. I am already married, you know."
"That is another life," I reasoned. "It is long ago and under differentlaw."
"But if we went back into it--if we escaped?"
"Then we should--but don't let's talk of that."
"Then you should forget and I should return to Benton," she said. "I havedecided. I should return to Benton, where Montoyo is, and maybe findanother way. But I should not live with him; never, never! I should askhim to release me."
"I, with you," I informed. "We should go together, and do what was best."
"You would? You wouldn't be ashamed, or afraid?"
"Ashamed or afraid of what?"
She cried out happily, and shivered.
"I hope we don't have to. He might kill you. Yes, I hope we don't have to.Do you mind?"
I shook my head, smiling my response. There were tears in her eyes,repaying me.
Our conversation became more fitful. Time sped, I don't know how, exceptthat we were in a kind of lethargy, taking no note of time and hangingfast to this our respite from the tempestuous past.
Once she dreamily murmured, apropos of nothing, yet apropos of much:
"We must be about the same age. I am not old, not really very old."
"I am twenty-five," I answered.
"So I thought," she mused.
Then, later, in manner of having revolved this idea also, more distinctlyapropos and voiced with a certain triumph:
"
I'm glad we drank water when we might; aren't you?"
"You were so wise," I praised; and I felt sorry for her cracked lips. Itis astonishing with what swiftness, even upon the dry desert, amid the dryair, under the dry burning sun, thirst quickens into a consuming firescorching from within outward to the skin.
We lapsed into that remarkable patience, playing the game with the Siouxand steadily viewing each other; and she asked, casually:
"Where will you shoot me, Frank?"
This bared the secret heart of me.
"No! No!" I begged. "Don't speak of that. It will be bad enough at thebest. How can I? I don't know how I can do it!"
"You will, though," she soothed. "I'd rather have it from you. You must bebrave, for yourself and for me; and kind, and quick. I think it should bethrough the temple. That's sure. But you won't wait to look, will you?You'll spare yourself that?"
This made me groan, craven, and wipe my hand across my forehead to brushaway the frenzy. The fingers came free, damp with cold sticky sweat--aprodigy of a parchment skin which puzzled me.
We had not exchanged a caress, save by voice; had not again touched eachother. Sometimes I glanced at the Sioux, but not for long; I dreaded tolose sight of her by so much as a moment. The Sioux remained virtually asfrom the beginning of their vigil. They sat secure, drank, probably ate,with time their ally: sat judicial and persistent, as though dependingupon the progress of a slow fuse, or upon the workings of poison, whichindeed was the case.
Thirst and heat tortured unceasingly. The sun had passed the zenith--thissun of a culminating summer throughout which he had thrived regal andlustful. It seemed ignoble of him that he now should stoop to torment onlyus, and one of us a small woman. There was all his boundless domain forhim.
But stoop he did, burning nearer and nearer. She broke with sudden passionof hoarse appeal.
"Why do we wait? Why not now?"
"We ought to wait," I stammered, miserable and pitying.
"Yes," she whispered, submissive, "I suppose we ought. One always does.But I am so tired. I think," she said, "that I will let my hair down. Ishall go with my hair down. I have a right to, at the last."
Whereupon she fell to loosening her hair and braiding it with hurriedfingers.
Then after a time I said:
"We'll not be much longer, dear."
"I hope not," said she, panting, her lips stiff, her eyes bright andfeverish. "They'll rush us at sundown; maybe before."
"I believe," said I, blurring the words, for my tongue was gettingunmanageable, "they're making ready now."
She exclaimed and struggled and sat up, and we both gazed. Out there theSioux, in that world of their own, had aroused to energy. I fancied thatthey had palled of the inaction. At any rate they were upon their feet,several were upon their horses, others mounted hastily, squad joined squadas though by summons, and here came their outpost scout, galloping in, hisblanket streaming from one hand like a banner of an Islam prophet.
They delayed an instant, gesticulating.
"It will be soon," she whispered, touching my arm. "When they arehalf-way, don't fail. I trust you. Will you kiss me? That is only theonce."
I kissed her; dry cracked lips met dry cracked lips. She laid herself downand closed her eyes, and smiled.
"I'm all right," she said. "And tired. I've worked so hard, for only this.You mustn't look."
"And you must wait for me, somewhere," I entreated. "Just a moment."
"Of course," she sighed.
The Sioux charged, shrieking, hammering, lashing, all of one purpose:that, us; she, I; my life, her body; and quickly kneeling beside her (Iwas cool and firm and collected) I felt her hand guide the revolverbarrel. But I did not look. She had forbidden, and I kept my eyes uponthem, until they were half-way, and in exultation I pulled the trigger, myhand already tensed to snatch and cock and deliver myself under their verygrasp. That was a sweetness.
The hammer clicked. There had been no jar, no report. The hammer had onlyclicked, I tell you, shocking me to the core. A missed cartridge? An emptychamber? Which? No matter. I should achieve for her, first; then, myself.I heard her gasp, they were very near, how they shouted, how the bulletsand arrows spatted and hissed, and I had convulsively cocked the gun, shehad clutched it--when looking through them, agonized and blinded as Iwas--looking through them as if they were phantasms I sensed another soundand with sight sharpened I saw.
Then I wrested the revolver from her. I fired pointblank, I fired again(the Colt's did not fail); they swept by, hooting, jostling; they thuddedon; and rising I screeched and waved, as bizarre, no doubt, as anyanimated scarecrow.
It had been a trumpet note, and a cavalry guidon and a rank of bobbingfigures had come galloping, galloping over an imperceptible swell.
She cried to me, from my feet.
"You didn't do it! You didn't do it!"
"We're saved," I blatted. "Hurrah! We're saved! The soldiers are here."
Again the trumpet pealed, lilting silvery. She tottered up, clinging tome. She stared. She released me, and to my gladly questing gaze her facewas very white, her eyes struggling for comprehension, like those of oneawakened from a dream.
"I must go back to Benton," she faltered. "I shall never get away fromBenton."
We stood mute while the blue-coats raced on with hearty cheers and braveclank of saber and canteen. We were sitting composedly when the lieutenantscrambled to us, among our rocks; the troopers followed, curiouslyscanning.
His stubbled red face, dust-smeared, queried us keenly; so did his curtvoice.
"Just in time?"
"In time," I croaked. "Water! For her--for me."
There was a canteen apiece. We sucked.
"You are the two from the Mormon wagon train?" he asked.
"Yes, sir. You know?" I uttered.
"We came on as fast as we could. The Sioux are raiding again. By God, youhad a narrow squeak, sir," he reproved. "You were crazy to try it--you anda woman, alone. We'll take you along as soon as my Pawnees get in fromchasing those beggars."
Distant whoops from a pursuit drifted in to us, out of the desert.
"Captain Adams sent you?" I inquired.
"Yes, sir."
"I will go back," I agreed. "I will go back, but there's no need of Mrs.Montoyo. If you could see her safely landed at a stage station, and forBenton----?"
"We'll land you both. I have to report at Bridger. The train is all right.It has an escort to Bitter Creek."
"I can overtake it, or join it," said I. "But the lady goes to Benton."
"Yes, yes," he snapped. "That's nothing to me, of course. But you'll dobetter to wait for the train at Bridger, Mr. ----? I don't believe I haveyour name?"
"Beeson," I informed, astonished.
"And the lady's? Your sister? Wife?"
"Mrs. Montoyo," I informed. And I repeated, that there should be nomisunderstanding. "Mrs. Montoyo, from Benton. No relative, sir."
He passed it over, as a gentleman should.
"Well, Mr. Beeson, you have business with the train?"
"I have business with Captain Adams, and he with me," I replied. "Asprobably you know. Since he sent you, I shall consider myself underarrest; but I will return of my own free will as soon as Mrs. Montoyo issafe."
"Under arrest? For what?" He blankly eyed me.
"For killing that man, sir. Captain Adams' son. But I was forced to it--Idid it in self-defense. I should not have left, and I am ready to face thematter whenever possible."
"Oh!" said he, with a shrug, tossing the idea aside. "If that's all! I didhear something about that, from some of my men, but nothing from Adams.You didn't kill him, I understand; merely laid him out. I saw him, myself,but I didn't ask questions. So you can rest easy on that score. His oldman seemed to have no grudge against you for it. Fact is, he scarcelyallowed me time to warn him of the Sioux before he told me you and a womanwere out and were liable to lose your scalps, if nothing worse. I think,"the lieutenant added, narrowing upon m
e, "that you'll find those Mormonsare as just as any other set, in a show down. The lad, I gathered from thetalk, drew on you after he'd cried quits." He turned hastily. "You spoke,madam? Anything wanted?"
The trumpeter orderly plucked me by the sleeve. He was a squat,sun-scorched little man, and his red-rimmed blue eyes squinted at me withpainful interest. He whispered harshly from covert of bronzed hand.
"Beg your pardon, sorr. Mrs. Montoyo, be it--that lady?"
"Yes."
"From Benton City, sorr, ye say?"
"From Benton City."
"Sure, I know the name. It's the same of a gambler the vigilantes strungup last week; for I was there to see."
I heard a gusty sigh, an exclamation from the lieutenant. My Lady hadfainted again.
"The reaction, sir," I apologized, to the lieutenant, as we worked.
"Naturally," answered he. "You'll both go back to Benton?"
"Certainly," said I.
CHAPTER XXII
STAR SHINE
It was six weeks later, with My Lady all recovered and I long sincehealed, and Fort Bridger pleasant in our memories, when we two rode intoBenton once more, by horse from the nearest stage point. And here we satour saddles, silent, wondering; for of Benton there was little significantof the past, very little tangible of the present, naught promising of itsfuture.
Roaring Benton City had vanished, you might say, utterly. The irontendrils of the Pacific Railway glistened, stretching westward into thesunset, and Benton had followed the lure, to Rawlins (as had been toldus), to Green River, to Bryan--likely now still onward, for the track wastraveling fast, charging the mountain slopes of Utah. The restless dusthad settled. The Queen Hotel, the Big Tent, the rows of canvas, plank,tin, sheet metal, what-not stores, saloons, gambling dens, dance halls,human habitations--the blatant street and the station itself had subsidedinto this: a skeleton company of hacked and weazened posts, a fantasticoutcrop of coldly blackened clay chimneys, a sprinkling of battered cans.The fevered populace who had ridden high upon the tide of rapid life hadremained only as ghosts haunting a potter's field, and the turmoil offrenzied pleasure had dwindled to a coyote's yelp mocking the twilight.
"It all, all is wiped out, like he is," she said. "But I wished to see."
"All, all is wiped out, dear heart," said I. "All of that. But here areyou and I."
Through star shine we cantered side by side eastward down the old, emptyfreighting road, for the railway station at Fort Steele.
THE END
Desert Dust Page 21