by Zane Grey
“Don’t stand on ceremony, Helen. Stick out your foot. . . . My dear woman, this is purely kindness on my part. I really don’t want to do it.”
“You’ve changed somehow since Star Ranch,” she mused. “Very well, thank you.” And she put out her small feet.
Jim lost no time in pressing them down into the cold, salt water, which made her cry out, and what he lacked in gentleness he made up in effectiveness. And he had to use his scarf to dry them because he had no towel and hers was in her bundle. Then he rubbed her feet until they were red, during which operation she did not exactly squeal, though she emitted sounds which were similar.
“Put your stockings back on and sleep in your clothes,” he said.
“I could scarcely do anything else, Mr. Jim. . . . Tell me, did you ever have a wife?”
“My God, no!” ejaculated Jim, hastily.
“Or sweetheart?”
Jim dropped his head. “Not really — not one I could speak of to you. . . . Long ago, before I became a thief—”
“Nonsense! You’re not a thief. I asked you because you did that in such a — a detached manner. I once had pretty feet, if I remember rightly. But you did not notice them. Oh, how silly of me! . . . Jim, I can’t help talking. My tongue appears to be freed!”
“Talk all you want, but no more tonight. We’ll have a tough day tomorrow. . . . Wait before you crawl in — I’ll bring the stone.”
He kicked the round rock out of the fire, and wrapping it in burlap, he laid it under her blankets. “Push that down.”
“Ooooo!” She stretched out with a slow, final movement, and pulled the blankets up under her chin. Her eyes were purple pools, unfathomable with emotion and thought.
“Go to sleep,” he said, gazing down at her, conscious that these involuntary words were not what he thought he wanted to say. “I can’t swear we’re safe or that I’ll get you out alive. But if we’re caught I’ll kill you before they do me.”
“In any case you are my savior. I grew hopeless back there. I could pray no more. But I shall tonight. God has — not — forsaken — me.”
And it appeared that almost instantly she fell asleep with the flickering firelight upon her face, and her white hands clasped over the edge of the blankets.
Much of Jim Wall’s life, since he was sixteen, had been spent in the open around camp fires. But there had never been any night comparable to this. He could not understand the oppression upon his heart. His moods changed in a trice.
He walked out to find the horses close to camp and making out fairly well on the grass. Rain was falling steadily now, though not copiously. No stars showed. Far off down the desert fitful flares of lightning ran across the horizon, revealing black, weird buttes and long, level escarpments. In the south thunder still rumbled. Probably tomorrow the storm would set in. The place appeared more desolate than the roost because there rustling leaves and tinkling water seemed to break the solitude, while here there was nothing. Even the rain fell silently.
Jim gathered a quantity of dead cedar wood which he stowed away to keep dry. Then he unrolled the bed he had brought for himself. This one had belonged to Smoky. Jim thought of the implacable little gunman, lion-hearted, going out to save his comrades because he felt that he alone could do it. Lying stark and stiff now, out on the naked rock, with the rain beating down upon his face! That was his creed toward men. His creed toward women could not have been very different.
Jim paced to and fro, unmindful of the misty rain. He put another billet upon the fire and some bits of dry brush. The flame licked up through the twigs and brightened the shadow, and appeared to cast a halo round the girl’s white face. But that was the gold sheen of her hair. Softly Jim took a step or two closer, to peer down. Deep in slumber as any child! Strangely his mother’s face stood out in the dim years — as she had looked when she lay dead. Fugitive from the law, he had risked liberty to see her once more. A sad and heart-broken face it was, yet not as this sleeping girl’s, helpless in his power, trusting him as she would have trusted her brother.
He patrolled his beat between the flickering fire and the sleeping girl, up and down from shadow to shadow, bowed, plodding heedless of the rain, sleepless for hours, on guard, almost as ruthless to himself as he would have been to marauders of the night. And after that when he slept it was with one eye open.
Toward dawn he got up and rolled his bed. The air was raw and cold, blowing a fine rain in his face. It was still too early to begin preparations for breakfast and too dark to look up the horses. So he strode again the beat of the preceding hours, which seemed farther back in the past than one night.
Two days’ travel, sixty miles, without delay, ought to take them out of the brakes. Would the girl be able to make it? He had to choose between a serious break-down for her and the possibility of being held up in the brakes by the rainy season. His decision was instant. He would carry her in his arms, if she gave out, but if the floods came, their predicament would be deplorable. All this region, except the rock, when it got thoroughly wet, became what the riders called gumbo mud. And the overdue rains appeared about to burst upon them.
Under the cliff the deep shadows grew gray as dawn approached. As soon as it was light enough to see, Jim looked at Helen. She lay exactly as she had fallen asleep ten hours before; even her hands had not come unclasped. Her face made a pale blotch against the dark blanket. She might be dead. A pang rent him. Bending low, he listened, to be rewarded by the sound of soft breathing. Then he sprang erect, conscious that former emotions stirred. Must he have them to fight every day?
Jim hurried out to find the horses. It was a sodden, wet world, overhung by clouds as gray as the shrouded ridges and dismal flats. The horses had strayed and he felt alarmed. Still, he could track them by daylight. Leaving Helen alone, however, small as the risk was, he hated to consider. As luck would have it, he came upon all four animals grazing in another little valley. Taking off their rope hobbles, he drove them back to camp, an easy task with horses that had been fed grain the night before. He had four square pieces of canvas upon which he spilled a quart of grain for each horse. Then he strapped on the pack-saddles. The riding-saddles, however, he left for the last task.
By the time breakfast was cooking, daylight had broken. The rain had ceased. There were breaks in the gray canopy of cloud, but no blue showed. The air seemed to be pregnant with storm. Finding a thin, flat rock, Jim placed Helen’s breakfast upon it and carried it to her bedside. Then he called her. No answer! A second call did not pierce her deep slumber; whereupon he had to give her a little shake. At that her eyes opened. Jim recoiled from the purple depths. She had awakened as on the mornings past. Then as he knelt there came a transformation in her gaze, which, when he realized the absolute reversal in it, flayed him more bitterly than had the other. No help for him! He seemed at the mercy of uncontrollable vagaries of feeling.
“You were hard to awaken,” he said. “I’ve brought some food and strong coffee. You must get it down somehow.”
“I heard you call. I felt your hand. I thought—” She broke off and struggled to sit up. “I’ll eat if it tastes like sawdust.”
Jim repaired to his own breakfast, after which he wrapped up biscuits and meat to take on the day’s ride.
“Did you steal my boots, Mr. Robber?” she called.
He made haste to get them from the fire, where he had placed them to dry.
“I am more of a robber than you think,” he replied.
“You’ve dried them. Thank you. . . . Play your strange part, Jim Wall, but I know what I know. . . . Oh, I’m so stiff and sore! My bones! But I’ll do or die.”
She pulled on her boots, and crawling out and straightening up with slow, painful effort she asked for a little hot water. Jim fetched it, and also the bundle that contained her things.
Free then to pack, Jim applied himself with swift, methodical hands, his mind at once both busy and absent. At length all was ready except her bundle, which he turned to get.
He saw her coming along the shelving wall, walking slowly, her hat shading her features.
“I did better this morning,” she said, presently, as she reached him.
“Let’s see if you can get on your horse,” he replied, and led the gray up. “You can put on the slicker after you’re up.”
She did mount unassisted. Jim helped her into the long slicker, and tucked the ends round her boots.
“It’ll be a tough day,” he went on. “But we’re starting dry and if you don’t fall off in a puddle you’ll stay dry. Hang on as long as you can. Then I’ll pack you, if necessary. We absolutely must get out of these brakes.”
With that he tied her canvas bundle back of his saddle, and donning the slicker that had been Smoky’s he lined up the pack-animals, and they were off.
Beyond the ridge the country looked the same as it had to the rear — hummocks of rotting shale, ridges of brush and gravel, swales and flats and little valleys on each side, with the difference that as they enlarged to the west and to the east they roughened up into the dark red, irregularly streaked brakes. Jim traveled as best he could, keeping to no single direction, though the trend was northerly, and following ground that appeared passable. The pack-horses led, and one of them scented water or knew where he was going, possibilities not lost upon Jim. He followed them, and Helen brought up the rear. Watching her at first, Jim lost something of his anxiety. For the present she would not retard their progress.
It began to rain and that did not cause Jim to spare the girl. They had to travel as fast as the pack-horses could walk on rough ground and trot where possible. Jim could not see more than half a mile to the fore. Dim mounds stood up in that cloud that overhung the whole country. Jim conceived the idea he was swinging to the west, but for the time being could not make sure.
The rain fell all morning, and let up at intervals. Again the clouds broke their solid, dull phalanx, to let light through. Once a rift of blue sky showed far ahead, with sunlight gilding a very tall, strangely tipped butte. Jim marveled at this, and believed it was one he had seen from the high slope under the Henry Mountains, a hundred miles and more to the southward.
Shortly after this, black clouds gathered, and a storm, with thunder and lightning, burst upon them. The thirsty horses soon had opportunity to drink. Water ran in sheets off the rocks, where Jim, without dismounting, filled the empty canteens.
Soon down every gully and wash rushed a muddy torrent. The lead pack-horse knew his business and earned Jim’s respect. Jim was sure now that he had traveled this way before. The rain slackened, but the floods increased. At length the fugitives came to a veritable river at which the lead horse balked. Bay, however, did not show any qualms. The flood was fifty yards across, evidently a shallow gully, down which rocks bumped and rumbled in the current. All about was desolation. No shelter or wood or grass could Jim see. So he put Bay to the task. The big horse made it easily, with water coming up to his flanks. Whereupon Jim rode him back, after which, the pack-horses, intelligent and sensible, essayed the ford. The one with the heavier load was all but swept away. Luckily, he kept his feet, and lunged out in a great splash, snorting his terror.
Then Jim returned for Helen.
“I’ll carry you while you hang on to your bridle,” said Jim, riding close to the gray. “Slip your feet free and come on.” He had to lift her sheer off her horse and around in front of him, where he upheld her with his left arm. “Here’s your bridle. Hang on. . . . Get up, Bay, you old water-dog.”
They made it, with the splendid horse staggering out under his double burden just in the nick of time. A perceptible rise in the flood, like a wave, swelled by them. He let Helen down.
“Look at that!” exclaimed Jim. “See the water come up? If we’d been in the middle then it’d been good-by.”
“To what?”
“I don’t know. All that’s ahead. Hear the water roaring below, where it drops into a gulch? . . . I tell you luck is with us.”
“God and luck,” she corrected.
“Are you afraid?” asked Jim.
“Not in the least. Under happier circumstances this would be an adventure. . . . I must move about a little. My legs are gone. And I have a terrible pain in my side.”
“You are doing fine. We have come eighteen or twenty miles. But I don’t like the look ahead. We’re climbing all the time. I think I hear the Dirty Devil.”
“That dull, distant rumble? . . . If we had gone down the way he — the way we came — we’d surely have been lost. Could those men have made it?”
“No. They might be marooned on some high bank, or they might have turned back. In which case they would see our tracks.”
“Would they follow us?”
“I don’t know. Not soon. But we can’t afford to waste any time.”
“We will get out safely. I feel it. Please help me up.”
When once more they were on the way Jim gave her a biscuit and a strip of meat. “Eat. The rain will be on us soon.”
And it was, a deluge that obliterated objects at a few paces. The lead pack-horse did not show himself at fault. He had indeed been along there. Jim saw evidences of an old trail and this encouraged him. It must lead somewhere. That storm passed, leaving a drizzle in its wake. Wide pools stood on the flats and cataracts leaped off the rocks. But the washes were shallow.
Late in the afternoon there was a momentary brightening of massed clouds in the west. Dull red and purple gloomed over the dun hills.
They rode down out of these low gravel hills that had limited their sight, into a long, green, winding valley from the far side of which came a sullen roar. A red river, surely the Dirty Devil, ran, ridged and frothy under a steep wall of earth. As Jim looked an undermined section went sliding down with a hollow crash.
The remnant of a trail hugged the base of the hills. The valley seemed a forbidding portal to even a harsher country.
“I can’t hang on — longer,” faltered Helen, faintly.
“I’ll carry you. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” reproved Jim. He knotted her reins and dropped the loop over the pommel of her saddle. Then he lifted her off her horse onto his. She fitted in the narrow space in front of him, and he supported her with his left arm. “Come on, Gray.”
So Jim rode on, aware that her collapse and the terrible nature of the desert, and another storm at hand, were wearing away even his indomitable spirit. It might well be that he was riding into a trap — on and on up this infernal river to where it boxed in a canyon or widened into a morass of quicksand, either of which would be impassable. If he had to turn back where would it be to? There were foes behind, and anyway Robbers’ Roost was unthinkable as a refuge. Still he had faith in that lead pack-horse. They plodded on, and the rain beat in his face. He turned Helen on her side so that her back was toward the storm, and though he spoke she did not answer.
When he weathered that storm he had traveled some miles and was approaching the head of the valley. Ragged, red bluffs stood up all along his right, with acres of loose rock ready to slide. The base of these narrowed to a bank of earth, cut straight down on the outside, which fronted on a muddy flat now reduced to a width of scarcely a hundred yards by the river.
The lead pack-horse kept plodding away, apparently not sharing Jim’s growing apprehension about the abrupt turn under a huge beetling bluff. The Dirty Devil, however, swung away to the left again and could be seen sliding round a wall miles farther on. Night was not far away, being hastened by a sinister black storm.
They swung in behind the bluff, and then out again to the higher and narrower bank upon which the old trail passed around the corner. But for this lead animal Jim would never have attempted that. He knew when a horse was lost or indifferent. This horse headed for some place with which he was familiar. He disappeared around the corner where the bank was scarcely ten feet wide, slippery and wet, with streams running down from the bluff above and rocks rolling. The second pack-horse, sure of the leader, rounded the point.
As she made no reply, Jim leaned back to get a glimpse of her face. Asleep! If he had marveled at many aspects of this adventure, what did sight of her thus do to him? For one thing it shot him through and through with a fierce something which excluded further vacillation.
“Come on, Gray,” he called to the horse behind, and to Bay: “Steady, old fellow. If that narrows round there you want to step sure.”
It did narrow. Eight feet, six feet — less! Bits of the steep bank were crumbling away. But the pack-horses had gone round. A strange wrestling, lashing sound struck Jim’s ears. Water running somehow! He did not look up from the trail, but he sensed a fearful prospect ahead. It would not be safe to try to turn now. The drop on his left, over which he hung, was fifty feet or more straight down, and below an oozy flat extended outward from it.
Suddenly Jim encountered a still narrower point, scarcely five feet wide. The edge had freshly crumbled. It was crumbling now. Jim heard it slop, despite the growing hollow sound farther on.
Bay stepped carefully, confidently. He knew horses with wide packs had safely passed there. He went on. Jim felt him sink. One hind foot had crushed out a section of earth, letting him down. But with a snort he plunged ahead to wider trail.
Jim’s heart had leaped to his throat. His tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. He heard thud of hoofs behind, a heavy, sliddery rumble. Looking back, he saw the gray horse leap from a section of wall, beginning to gap outwards, to solid ground ahead. Next instant six feet of the trail, close up to the bluff, slid down in an avalanche.
“Close shave for us all!” cried Jim, huskily, and looked up to see what more lay ahead.
Right at his feet a red torrent rushed with a wrestling, clashing sound from out a deep-walled gorge of splintered, rocking walls. And the roar that had confounded Jim came from the leap of a red waterfall from the high rim-wall. Everywhere red water was pouring off the cliffs. Rocks were bounding down the stepped slope right in front of him, to hustle off the bank and plunge below. Slides of gravel, like the screech of pebbles in a tide, were running down.