Beth Norvell: A Romance of the West

by Randall Parrish

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  ACROSS THE DESERT TO THE END

  Never in the after years could Winston clearly recall the incidents ofthat night's ride across the sand waste. The haze which shrouded hisbrain would never wholly lift. Except for a few detached details thesurroundings of that journey remained vague, clouded, indistinct. Heremembered the great, burning desert; the stars gleaming down abovethem like many eyes; the ponderous, ragged edge of cloud in the west;the irregular, castellated range of hills at their back; the dullexpanse of plain ever stretching away in front, with no boundary otherthan that southern sky. The weird, ghostly shadows of cactus andSpanish bayonet were everywhere; strange, eerie noises were borne tothem out of the void--the distant cries of prowling wolves, themournful sough of the night wind, the lonely hoot of some far-off owl.Nothing greeted the roving eyes but desolation,--a desolation utter andcomplete, a mere waste of tumbled sand, by daylight whitened here andthere by irregular patches of alkali, but under the brooding nightshadows lying brown, dull, forlorn beyond all expression, a trackless,deserted ocean of mystery, oppressive in its drear sombreness.

  He rode straight south, seeking no trail, but guiding their course bythe stars, his right hand firmly grasping the pony's bit, andcontinually urging his own mount to faster pace. The one thoughtdominating his mind was the urgent necessity for haste--a savagedetermination to intercept that early train eastward. Beyond thissingle idea his brain seemed in hopeless turmoil, seemed failing him.Any delay meant danger, discovery, the placing of her very life inperil. He could grasp that; he could plan, guide, act in every way thepart of a man under its inspiration, but all else appeared chaos. Thefuture?--there was no future; there never again could be. The chasm ofa thousand years had suddenly yawned between him and this woman. Itmade his head reel merely to gaze down into those awful depths. Itcould not be bridged; no sacrifice, no compensation might ever undothat fatal death-shot. He did not blame her, he did not question herjustification, but he understood--together they faced the inevitable.There was no escape, no clearing of the record. There was nothing lefthim to do except this, this riding through the night--absolutelynothing. Once he had guided her into safety all was done,--doneforever; there remained to him no other hope, ambition, purpose, in allthis world. The desert about them typified that forthcomingexistence--barren, devoid of life, dull, and dead. He set his teethsavagely to keep back the moan of despair that rose to his lips, halflifting himself in the stirrups to glance back toward her.

  If she perceived anything there was not the slightest reflection of itwithin her eyes. Lustreless, undeviating, they were staring directlyahead into the gloom, her face white and almost devoid of expression.The sight of it turned him cold and sick, his unoccupied hand grippingthe saddle-pommel as though he would crush the leather. Yet he did notspeak, for there was nothing to say. Between these two was a fact,grim, awful, unchangeable. Fronting it, words were meaningless,pitiable.

  He had never before known that she could ride, but he knew it now. Hiseye noted the security of her seat in the saddle, the easy swaying ofher slender form to the motion of the pony, in apparent unconsciousnessof the hard travelling or the rapidity of their progress. She haddrawn back the long tresses of her hair and fastened them in place bysome process of mystery, so that now her face was revealed unshadowed,clearly defined in the starlight. Dazed, expressionless, as itappeared, looking strangely deathlike in that faint radiance, he lovedit, his moistened eyes fondly tracing every exposed lineament. God!but this fair woman was all the world to him! In spite of everything,his heart went forth to her unchanged. It was Fate, not lack of loveor loyalty, that now set them apart, that had made of their future apath of bitterness. In his groping mind he rebelled against it, vainlysearching for some way out, urging blindly that love could even blotout this thing in time, could erase the crime, leaving them as thoughit had never been. Yet he knew better. Once she spoke out of thehaunting silence, her voice sounding strange, her eyes still fixed inthat same vacant stare ahead into the gloom.

  "Isn't this Mercedes' pony? I--I thought she rode away on him herself?"

  With the words the recollection recurred to him that she did not yetknow about that other tragedy. It was a hard task, but he met itbravely. Quietly as he might, he told the sad story in so far as heunderstood it--the love, the sacrifice, the suffering. As she listenedher head drooped ever lower, and he saw the glitter of tears fallingunchecked. He was glad she could cry; it was better than that dull,dead stare. As he made an end, picturing the sorrowing Stutterkneeling in his silent watch at the bedside, she looked gravely acrossto him, the moisture clinging to the long lashes.

  "It was better so--far better. I know how she felt, for she has toldme. God was merciful to her;" the soft voice broke into a sob; "forme, there is no mercy."

  "Beth, don't say that! Little woman, don't say that! The future islong; it may yet lead to happiness. A true love can outlast even thememory of this night."

  She shook her head wearily, sinking back into the saddle.

  "Yes," she said soberly, "love may, and I believe will, outlast all.It is immortal. But even love cannot change the deed; nothing evercan, nothing--no power of God or man."

  He did not attempt to answer, knowing in the depths of his own heartthat her words were true. For an instant she continued gazing at him,as though trustful he might speak, might chance to utter some word ofhope that had not come to her. Then the uplifted head drooped wearily,the searching eyes turning away to stare once again straight ahead.His very silence was acknowledgment of the truth, the utterhopelessness of the future. Although living, there lay between themthe gulf of death.

  Gray, misty, and silent came the dawn, stealing across the widedesolation like some ghostly presence--the dawn of a day which held forthese two nothing except despair. They greeted its slow coming withdulled, wearied eyes, unwelcoming. Drearier amid that weird twilightthan in the concealing darkness stretched the desolate waste ofencircling sand, its hideous loneliness rendered more apparent, itsscars of alkali disfiguring the distance, its gaunt cacti lookingdeformed and merciless. The horses moved forward beneath the constanturging of the spur, worn from fatigue, their heads drooping, theirflanks wet, their dragging hoofs ploughing the sand. The woman neverchanged her posture, never seemed to realize the approach of dawn; butWinston roused up, lifting his head to gaze wearily forward. Beneaththe gray, out-spreading curtain of light he saw before them the dingyred of a small section-house, with a huge, rusty water-tank outlinedagainst the sky. Lower down a little section of vividly green grassseemed fenced about by a narrow stream of running water. At firstglimpse he deemed it a mirage, and rubbed his half-blinded eyes to makesure. Then he knew they had ridden straight through the night, andthat this was Daggett Station.

  He helped her down from the saddle without a word, without the exchangeof a glance, steadying her gently as she stood trembling, and finallyhalf carried her in his arms across the little platform to the rest ofa rude bench. The horses he turned loose to seek their own pasturageand water, and then came back, uncertain, filled with vague misgiving,to where she sat, staring wide-eyed out into the desolation of sand.He brought with him a tin cup filled with water, and placed it in herhand. She drank it down thirstily.

  "Thank you," she said, her voice sounding more natural.

  "Is there nothing else, Beth? Could you eat anything?"

  "No, nothing. I am just tired--oh, so tired in both body and brain.Let me sit here in quiet until the train comes. Will that be long?"

  He pointed far off toward the westward, along those parallel rails nowbeginning to gleam in the rays of the sun. On the outer rim of thedesert a black spiral of smoke was curling into the horizon.

  "It is coming now; we had but little time to spare."

  "Is that a fast train? Are you certain it will stop here?"

  "To both questions, yes," he replied, relieved to see her exhibit somereturning interest. "They all sto
p here for water; it is a long runfrom this place to Bolton Junction."

  She said nothing in reply, her gaze far down the track where thosespirals of smoke were constantly becoming more plainly visible. In theincreasing light of the morning he could observe how the long night hadmarked her face with new lines of weariness, had brought to it newshadows of care. It was not alone the dulled, lustreless eyes, butalso those hollows under them, and the drawn lips, all combining totell the story of physical fatigue, and a heart-sickness well-nighunendurable. Unable to bear the sight, Winston turned away, walking tothe end of the short platform, staring off objectless into the grimdesert, fighting manfully in an effort to conquer himself. This was astruggle, a remorseless struggle, for both of them; he must do nothing,say nothing, which should weaken her, or add an ounce to her burden.He came back again, his lips firmly closed in repression.

  "Our train is nearly here," he said in lack of something better withwhich to break the constrained silence.

  She glanced about doubtfully, first toward the yet distant train, thenup into his face.

  "When is the local east due here? Do you know?"

  "Probably an hour later than the express. At least, I judge so fromthe time of its arrival at Bolton," he responded, surprised at thequestion. "Why do you ask?"

  She did not smile, or stir, except to lean slightly forward, her eyesfalling from his face to the platform.

  "Would--would it be too much if I were to ask you to permit me to takethis first train alone?" she asked, her voice faltering, her handstrembling where they were clasped in her lap.

  His first bewildered surprise precluded speech; he could only look ather in stupefied amazement. Then something within her lowered facetouched him with pity.

  "Beth," he exclaimed, hardly aware of the words used, "do you meanthat? Is it your wish that we part here?

  "Oh, no, not that!" and she rose hastily, holding to the back of thebench with one hand, and extending the other. "Do not put it in thatway. Such an act would be cruel, unwarranted. But I am so tired, socompletely broken down. It has seemed all night long as though mybrain were on fire; every step of the horse has been torture. Oh, Iwant so to be alone--alone! I want to think this out; I want to faceit all by myself. Merciful God! it seems to me I shall be driveninsane unless I can be alone, unless I can find a way into some peaceof soul. Do not blame me; do not look at me like that, but bemerciful--if you still love me, let me be alone."

  He grasped the extended hand, bending low over it, unwilling in thatinstant that she should look upon his face. Again and again he pressedhis dry lips upon the soft flesh.

  "I do love you, Beth," he said at last, chokingly, "love you always, inspite of everything. I will do now as you say. Your train is alreadyhere. You know my address in Denver. Don't make this forever,Beth--don't do that."

  She did not answer him; her lips quivered, her eyes meeting his for asingle instant. In their depths he believed he read the answer of herheart, and endeavored to be content. As the great overland trainpaused for a moment to quench its thirst, the porter of the Pullman,who, to his surprise, had been called to place his carpeted step on theplatform of this desert station, gazed in undisguised amazement atthose two figures before him--a man bareheaded, his clothing tatteredand disreputable, half supporting a woman who was hatless, white-faced,and trembling like a frightened child.

  "Yas, sah; whole section vacant, sah, Numbah Five. Denvah; yas, sah,suttinly. Oh, I'll look after de lady all right. You ain't a-goin''long wid us, den, dis trip? Oh, yas; thank ye, sah. Sure, I'll seedat she gits dere, don't you worry none 'bout dat."

  Winston walked restlessly down the platform, gazing up at thecar-windows, every ounce of his mustered resolve necessary to hold himoutwardly calm. The curtains were many of them closed, but at last hedistinguished her, leaning against the glass, that same dull, listlesslook in her eyes as she stared out blindly across the waste of sand.As the train started he touched the window, and she turned and saw him.There was a single moment when life came flashing back into her eyes,when he believed her lips even smiled at him. Then he was alone,gazing down the track after the fast disappearing train.