Dick in the Desert

by James Otis

  Produced by David Edwards, Larry B. Harrison and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive)

  DICK IN THE DESERT

  James Otis]

  SUNSHINE LIBRARY.

  THE BLIND BROTHER. By Homer Greene $0.50

  THE CAPTAIN'S DOG. By Louis Enault .50

  DEAR LITTLE MARCHIONESS. The Story of a Child's Faith and Love .50

  DICK IN THE DESERT. By James Otis .50

  THE GOLD THREAD. By Norman McLeod, D.D. .50

  HOW TOMMY SAVED THE BARN. By James Otis .50

  J. COLE. By Emma Gellibrand .50

  JESSICA'S FIRST PRAYER. By Hesba Stretton .50

  LADDIE. By the Author of "Miss Toosey's Mission" .50

  LITTLE PETER. By Lucas Malet .50

  MASTER SUNSHINE. By Mrs. C. F. Fraser .50

  MISS TOOSEY'S MISSION. By the Author of "Laddie" .50

  MUSICAL JOURNEY OF DOROTHY AND DELIA. By Bradley Gilman .50

  A SHORT CRUISE. By James Otis .50

  THE WRECK OF THE CIRCUS. By James Otis .50

  THOMAS Y. CROWELL & COMPANY, NEW YORK AND BOSTON.

  DICK IN THE DESERT

  BY JAMES OTIS AUTHOR OF "HOW TOMMY SAVED THE BARN," ETC.

  NEW YORK: 46 EAST 14TH STREET THOMAS Y. CROWELL & COMPANY BOSTON: 100 PURCHASE STREET

  COPYRIGHT, 1893, BY THOMAS Y. CROWELL & COMPANY.

  TYPOGRAPHY BY C. J. PETERS & SON, BOSTON.

  PRESSWORK BY S. J. PARKHILL & CO.

  "THANKS TO THE TIMELY ATTENTION, DICK SOON OPENED HISEYES."--Page 48.]

  For the lad to whom I have given the name of Dick Stevens this little story has been written, with the hope that he may enjoy the reading of it even as I did his modest manner of telling it.

  JAMES OTIS.

  CONTENTS.

  CHAPTER PAGE

  I. DICK'S DADDY 1

  II. A LONELY VIGIL 17

  III. A SAND-STORM 34

  IV. AT ANTELOPE SPRING 52

  V. DICK "PULLS THROUGH" 69

  DICK IN THE DESERT.

  CHAPTER I.

  DICK'S DADDY.

  Between Fox Peak and Smoke Creek Desert, on the western edge of theState of Nevada, is a beautiful valley, carpeted with bunch grass,which looks particularly bright and green to the venturesome travellerwho has just crossed either of the two deserts lying toward the east.

  "Buffalo Meadows" the Indians named it, because of the vast herds ofAmerican bison found there before the white men hunted simply for thesport of killing; but those who halt at the last watercourse prior tocrossing the wide stretches of sand on the journey east, speak of itas "Comfort Hollow."

  To a travel-stained party who halted at the water-pool nearest thedesert on a certain afternoon in September two years ago, this lastname seemed particularly appropriate.

  They had come neither for gold nor the sport of hunting; but werewearily retracing their steps, after having wandered and sufferedamong the foot-hills of the Sierras in a fruitless search for a home,on which they had been lured by unscrupulous speculators.

  Nearly two years previous Richard Stevens--"Roving Dick" hisacquaintances called him--had first crossed the vast plain of sand,with his wife, son, and daughter.

  His entire worldly possessions consisted of a small assortment ofhousehold goods packed in a stout, long-bodied wagon, covered withcanvas stretched over five poles bent in a half-circle, and drawn bytwo decrepit horses.

  The journey had been a failure, so far as finding a home in the wildswas concerned, where the head of the family could live without muchlabor; and now the homeless ones, decidedly the worse for wear, werereturning to Willow Point, on the Little Humboldt River.

  The provisions had long since been exhausted; the wagon rudelyrepaired in many places; the cooking utensils were reduced to one potand a battered dipper; the canvas covering was torn and decaying, andthe horses presented a skeleton-like appearance.

  The family had suffered outwardly quite as much as the goods. YoungDick and his father wore clothing which had been patched and repatchedwith anything Mrs. Stevens could push a needle through, until it wouldhave been impossible to say what was the original material; but to aboy thirteen years of age this seemed a matter of little consequence,while his father preferred such a costume rather than exert himself totan deer-hides for one more serviceable.

  Mrs. Stevens and six-year-old Margie were in a less forlorn condition asto garments; but they also needed a new outfit sadly, and nearly everyday young Dick told them confidentially that he would attend to thematter immediately after arriving at Willow Point, even if it becamenecessary for him to sell his rifle, the only article of value he owned.

  "Once across the desert, mother," he said, as the sorry-looking team wasdrawn up by the side of the pool, and he began to unharness the horseswhile his father went in search of game for supper, "and then we shallbe well on our way to the old home we had no business to leave."

  "It is this portion of the journey that worries me most, Dick. Youremember what a hard time we had when the animals were in goodcondition; and now that they are hardly able to drag their own bonesalong, the danger is great."

  "No more than when we crossed the river; and even though father didfeel afraid there, we got along all right," was the cheerful reply."There should be plenty of game here, and after a square feed thingswon't look so bad."

  Mrs. Stevens turned wearily away to make preparations for the eveningmeal in case the hunter should bring in a supply of meat, but made noreply. She understood why young Dick spoke encouragingly, and felt proudthat the boy displayed so much tenderness for her; yet the fact couldnot be disguised that dangers beset the little party on every hand.

  It required but a small amount of labor in order to make ready for thenight.

  Tired as the horses were, there was no likelihood of their strayingvery far; and Dick simply removed the harness, allowing the animals toroam at will. The wagon served as a camp; and the most arduous taskwas that of gathering materials with which to make a fire, whennothing larger than a bush could be seen on either hand.

  Then there was no more to be done save await the return of thehunter, and it was not until the shadows began to lengthen into thegloom of night that young Dick felt seriously alarmed.

  He knew his father would not have gone very far from the camp insearch of game, because he was on foot, and there was no morepromising place for sport than within the radius of a mile from wherethey had halted. Besides, when hunting took the form of labor whichmust be performed, Richard Stevens was not one who would continue itlong, unless he was remarkably hungry.

  Young Dick's mother gave words to her anxiety several times; but theboy argued with her that no harm could have befallen the absent one inthat vicinity, and for a time her fears were allayed.

  When another hour passed, however, and nothing was heard from hisfather, even Dick lost courage, and believed that the culminatingpoint in their troubles had been reached.

  His mother and Margie had entered the wagon when night was fully come,knowing they must go supperless to bed unless the hunter returned; andto Dick the thought that these two whom he loved so dearly werehungry, bro
ught him almost as much sorrow as the unaccountable absenceof his father.

  He believed, however, that it was his duty to appear unconcerned, asif confident his father's prolonged absence did not betoken danger.He trudged to and fro in the immediate vicinity of the vehicle, attimes whistling cheerily to show there was no trouble on his mind; andagain, when it was impossible to continue the melody because of thesorrow in his heart, repeated to his mother that nothing serious couldhave befallen the absent one, that probably he had unconsciouslywandered a long distance from the camp on the trail of game.

  "It don't stand to reason he will try to make his way now it is dark,mother dear; but within an hour or two after sunrise he'll be here, andthe breakfast we shall then have will make up for the loss of supper."

  Mrs. Stevens made no reply; and listening a moment, Dick heard thesound of suppressed sobs.

  His mother was in distress, and he could do no more toward comfortingher than repeat what he did not absolutely believe.

  He knew full well that unless some accident had befallen him, hisfather would have returned before dark; that he would not have allowedhimself to be led so far away from the camping-place that he could notreadily return; and the boy's sorrow was all the greater because itwas impossible to console his mother.

  Clambering into the wagon, he put his arms around her neck, pressinghis cheek close against hers, and during what seemed a very long whilethe two remained silent, not daring to give words to their fears.

  Then Dick bethought himself of a plan which offered some slight degreeof hope, and starting up suddenly, said,--

  "I ought to have done it before, an' it ain't too late now."

  "Done what, Dick dear?"

  "Gone out in the direction father took, and fired the rifle two orthree times. It may be he has lost his bearings, and the report of thegun would be enough to let him know where we are."

  "But you must not go now that it is dark, my boy. Suppose you shouldlose your way? Then what would become of Margie and me?"

  "There's no danger of that, mother. I've been in the woods oftenenough to be able to take care of myself, surely."

  "Your father would have said the same thing when he set out; but yetwe know some accident must have befallen him."

  "Let me go only a little way, mother."

  "Of what avail would that be, my son? If the purpose is to dischargeyour rifle, hoping father may hear the report, why not do it here?"

  "I will, if you won't let me go farther."

  "I can't, Dick dear. I might be braver under other circumstances, butnow the thought of your leaving me is more than I can bear."

  "I won't go so far but that I can see the wagon," Dick said, kissinghis mother and little Margie much as though bidding them good-by; anda few moments later the report of his rifle almost startled theoccupants of the wagon.

  During the next hour Dick discharged his weapon at least twelve times,but there was no reply of whatsoever nature.

  If his father was alive and within hearing, he was too badly disabledto give token of his whereabouts.

  The supply of cartridges was not so large that very many could be usedwithout making a serious inroad upon the store; and realizing theuselessness of further efforts in this direction, Dick went back tothe wagon.

  Margie had fallen asleep, her head pillowed in her mother's lap; andMrs. Stevens, unwilling to disturb the child, was taking such rest aswas possible while she leaned against the canvas covering of the wagon.

  Dick seated himself beside her. It was not necessary he should speakof his failure, for she knew that already.

  He had thought it his duty to join her for a few moments, and then gooutside again to act the part of sentinel, although such labor couldbe of little avail; but before he had been nestling by her side fiveminutes his eyes were closed in slumber; and the mother, her mindreaching out to the absent father, spent the hours of the night inwakefulness, watching over her children.

  The sun had risen before Dick's eyes were opened; and springing to hisfeet quickly, ashamed of having slept while his mother kept guard, hesaid,--

  "I didn't mean to hang on here like a baby while you were awake,mother, but my eyes shut before I knew it."

  "It is well you rested, my son. Nothing could have been done had youremained awake."

  "Perhaps not; but I should have felt better, because if anything hashappened to father, though I don't say it can be possible, I'm the onewho must take care of you and Margie."

  Mrs. Stevens kissed the boy, not daring to trust herself to speak; andhe hurried out, for there was before him a full day's work, if he woulddo that which he had decided upon in his mind the evening previous.

  There was no reasonable hope any one would come that way for manydays--perhaps months.

  They were alone, and whatever was done must be accomplished by thisthirteen-year-old boy.

  "I'm going after something for breakfast, mother, and then count ontrying to follow father's trail," Dick said, after looking around inevery direction, even though he knew there was no possibility ofseeing any human being.

  "There is no reason why you should spend the time in trying to getfood for us, Dick dear. Margie and I can get on very well withoutbreakfast, and you will have the more time to hunt for your father;but remember, my boy, that you are the only one we can depend uponnow, and without you we might remain here until we starved."

  "I'll take good care not to go so far from the wagon but that I canfind my way back; for surely I'll be able to follow on my own trail,if there's no other. Hadn't I better do a little hunting first?"

  "Not unless you are very, very hungry, Dick. Food would choke me justnow, and there is enough of the bread we baked yesterday morning togive you and Margie an apology for a breakfast."

  "I can get along without; you shall eat my share. Now, don't worry ifI'm not back until near sunset. The horses are close at hand, and youmay be certain they won't stray while the feed is plentiful. Stay inthe wagon, even though there is nothing to harm you if you walkaround. We must be careful that no more trouble comes upon us; so keepunder cover, mother dear, and I'll be here again before night comes."

  Dick was not as confident he could follow his father's trail as hewould have it appear to his mother; but he decided upon the directionin which he would search, and set bravely out heading due west,knowing he could hold such a course by aid of the sun's position, ashis father had often explained to him.

  Dick was hungry, but scorned to let his mother know it, and tried todull the edge of his appetite by chewing twigs and blades of grass.

  After walking rapidly ten minutes, more careful as to direction thanhe ever had been, because of the responsibility that rested upon him,he stopped and shouted his father's name; then listened, hoping tohear a reply.

  Save for the hum of insect life, no sound came to his anxious ears.

  Once more he pressed forward, and again shouted, but without avail.

  He continued on until, seeing the trail made by the wagon when theyhad come in from the stream, he knew he was very near to the border ofthe valley.

  Surely his father would not have gone outside, because he had saidbefore they arrived that only in the Buffalo Meadows were they likelyto find game.

  Then Dick turned, pushing on in a northerly direction at right angleswith the course he had just been pursuing, and halting at five-minuteintervals to shout.

  His anxiety and hunger increased equally as the day grew older. Try ashe might, he could not keep the tears from over-running his eyelids.

  The sun was sinking toward the west before he heard aught of humanvoice save his own; and then a cry of joy and relief burst from hislips as he heard faintly in the distance his own name spoken.

  "I'm coming! I'm coming!" he cried at the full strength of his lungs,as he dashed forward, exultant in the thought that his father wasalive, for he had begun to believe that he would never see him againin this world.

  Mr. Stevens continued to call out now and then to guide th
e boy on theway, and as he drew nearer Dick understood from the quavering tonesthat his father was in agony.

  "I'm coming, daddy! I'm coming!" he shouted yet louder, as ifbelieving it was necessary to animate the sufferer, for he now knewthat some painful accident had befallen his father; and when hefinally ended the search his heart literally ceased beating because ofhis terror and dismay.

  Dick believed he had anticipated the worst, but yet was unprepared forthat which he saw.

  Lying amid the blood-stained sage-grass, his shirt stripped intobandages to tie up a grievously injured limb, lay "Roving Dick," hisface pallid, his lips bloodless, and his general appearance that ofone whom death has nearly overtaken.

  "Daddy! daddy!" Dick cried piteously, and then he understood thatconsciousness had deserted the wounded man.

  He had retained possession of his faculties until aid was near athand, and then the long strain of physical and mental agony hadbrought about a collapse.

  Dick raised his father's head tenderly, imploring him to speak--totell him what should be done; but the injured man remained silent asif death had interposed to give him relief.

  Looking about scrutinizingly, as those born and bred on the frontierlearn to do early in life, Dick saw his father's rifle twenty feet ormore away, and between it and him a trail of blood through thesage-brush, then a sinister, crimson blotch on the sand.

  Mr. Stevens's right leg was the injured member, and it had beenwrapped so tightly with the improvised bandages that the boy couldform no idea as to the extent of the wound; but he knew it must indeedbe serious to overcome so thoroughly one who, though indolent bynature, had undergone much more severe suffering than he could haveknown since the time of leaving the wagon to search for game.

  It seemed to Dick as if more than ten minutes elapsed before hisfather spoke, and then it was to ask for water.

  He might as well have begged for gold, so far as Dick's ability togratify the desire was concerned.

  "To get any, daddy, I may have to go way back to the wagon, for Ihaven't come upon a single watercourse since leaving camp this morning."

  "Your mother and Margie?"

  "I left them at the camp. How did you get here?"

  "It was just before nightfall. I had been stalking an antelope; wascrawling on the ground dragging my rifle, when the hammer must havecaught amid the sage-brush; the weapon was discharged, and the bone ofmy leg appears to be shattered."

  "Poor, poor daddy!" and Dick kissed him on the forehead.

  "We must be four miles from the camp," Mr. Stevens said, speaking withdifficulty because of his parched and swollen tongue.

  "I should say so; but I went toward the west, and after travellinguntil noon struck across this way, so have no idea of the distance."

  "I shall die for lack of water, Dick, even though the wound does notkill me."

  "How shall I get it, daddy?" the boy cried piteously. "I can't leaveyou here alone, and I don't believe there's a drop nearer than wherewe are camped."

  "You _must_ leave me, Dick; for you can do no good while staying here,and the thought that help is coming, even though there may be manyhours to wait, will give me strength. Can you find your way to thecamp and back after nightfall?"

  "I'll do it somehow, daddy! I'll do it!"

  "Then set out at once, and bring one of the horses back with you. Ishould be able to ride four miles, or even twice that distance, sinceit is to save my life."

  "But you'll keep up a brave heart, daddy dear, won't you? Don't thinkyou are going to die; but remember that mother and I, and even littleMargie, will do all we can to pull you through."

  "I know it, Dick, I know it. You are a good lad--far better than Ihave been father; and if it should chance that when you come back I'vegone from this world, remember that you are the only one to whom themother and baby can look for protection."

  "You know I'd always take care of them; but I am going to save you,daddy dear. People have gotten over worse wounds than this, and onceyou are at the camp we will stay in Buffalo Meadows till it ispossible for you to ride. I'll look out for the whole outfit, and fromthis on you sha'n't have a trouble, except because of the wound."

  "Give me your hand, my boy, and now go; for strong as may be my will,I can't stand the loss of much more blood. God bless you, Dick, andremember that I always loved you, even though I never provided for youas a father should have done."

  Dick hastily cleared the mist from his eyes, and without speakingdarted forward in the direction where he believed the wagon would befound, breaking the sage-brush as he ran in order that he might makeplain the trail over which he must return.