Arizona Nights

by White, Stewart Edward

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE RAWHIDE

  First of all he unhitched the horses from the buckboard and turned them loose. Then, since he was early trained in Indian warfare, he dragged Palmer to the wagon wheel, and tied him so closely to it that he could not roll over. For, though the bronco-buster was already so fettered that his only possible movement was of the jack-knife variety, nevertheless he might be able to hitch himself along the ground to a sharp stone, there to saw through the rope about his wrists. Estrella, her husband held in contempt. He merely supplemented her wrist bands by one about the ankles.

  Leisurely he mounted Button and turned up the wagon trail, leaving the two. Estrella had exhausted herself. She was capable of nothing more in the way of emotion. Her eyes tight closed, she inhaled in deep, trembling, long-drawn breaths, and exhaled with the name of her Maker.

  Brent Palmer, on the contrary, was by no means subdued. He had expected to be shot in cold blood. Now he did not know what to anticipate. His black, level brows drawn straight in defiance, he threw his curses after Johnson’s retreating figure.

  The latter, however, paid no attention. He had his purposes. Once at the top of the arroyo he took a careful survey of the landscape, now rich with dawn. Each excrescence on the plain his half-squinted eyes noticed, and with instant skill relegated to its proper category of soapweed, mesquite, cactus. At length he swung Button in an easy lope toward what looked to be a bunch of soapweed in the middle distance.

  But in a moment the cattle could be seen plainly. Button pricked up his ears. He knew cattle. Now he proceeded tentatively, lifting high his little hoofs to avoid the half-seen inequalities of the ground and the ground’s growths, wondering whether he were to be called on to rope or to drive. When the rider had approached to within a hundred feet, the cattle started. Immediately Button understood that he was to pursue. No rope swung above his head, so he sheered off and ran as fast as he could to cut ahead of the bunch. But his rider with knee and rein forced him in. After a moment, to his astonishment, he found himself running alongside a big steer. Button had never hunted buffalo—Buck Johnson had.

  The Colt’s forty-five barked once, and then again. The steer staggered, fell to his knees, recovered, and finally stopped, the blood streaming from his nostrils. In a moment he fell heavily on his side—dead.

  Senor Johnson at once dismounted and began methodically to skin the animal. This was not easy for he had no way of suspending the carcass nor of rolling it from side to side. However, he was practised at it and did a neat job. Two or three times he even caught himself taking extra pains that the thin flesh strips should not adhere to the inside of the pelt. Then he smiled grimly, and ripped it loose.

  After the hide had been removed he cut from the edge, around and around, a long, narrow strip. With this he bound the whole into a compact bundle, strapped it on behind his saddle, and remounted. He returned to the arroyo.

  Estrella still lay with her eyes closed. Brent Palmer looked up keenly. The bronco-buster saw the green hide. A puzzled expression crept across his face.

  Roughly Johnson loosed his enemy from the wheel and dragged him to the woman. He passed the free end of the riata about them both, tying them close together. The girl continued to moan, out of her wits with terror.

  “What are you going to do now, you devil?” demanded Palmer, but received no reply.

  Buck Johnson spread out the rawhide. Putting forth his huge strength, he carried to it the pair, bound together like a bale of goods, and laid them on its cool surface. He threw across them the edges, and then deliberately began to wind around and around the huge and unwieldy rawhide package the strip he had cut from the edge of the pelt.

  Nor was this altogether easy. At last Brent Palmer understood. He writhed in the struggle of desperation, foaming blasphemies. The uncouth bundle rolled here and there. But inexorably the other, from the advantage of his position, drew the thongs tighter.

  And then, all at once, from vituperation the bronco-buster fell to pleading, not for life, but for death.

  “For God’s sake, shoot me!” he cried from within the smothering folds of the rawhide. “If you ever had a heart in you, shoot me! Don’t leave me here to be crushed in this vise. You wouldn’t do that to a yellow dog. An Injin wouldn’t do that, Buck. It’s a joke, isn’t it? Don’t go away and leave me, Buck. I’ve done you dirt. Cut my heart out, if you want to; I won’t say a word, but don’t leave me here for the sun—”

  is voice was drowned in a piercing scream, as Estrella came to

  herself and understood. Always the rawhide had possessed for her an occult fascination and repulsion. She had never been able to touch it without a shudder, and yet she had always been drawn to experiment with it. The terror of her doom had now added to it for her all the vague and premonitory terrors which heretofore she had not understood.

  The richness of the dawn had flowed to the west. Day was at hand. Breezes had begun to play across the desert; the wind devils to raise their straight columns. A first long shaft of sunlight shot through a pass in the Chiricahuas, trembled in the dust-moted air, and laid its warmth on the rawhide. Senor Johnson roused himself from his gloom to speak his first words of the episode.

  “There, damn you!” said he. “I guess you’ll be close enough together now!”

  He turned away to look for his horse.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE DESERT

  Button was a trusty of Senor Johnson’s private animals. He was never known to leave his master in the lurch, and so was habitually allowed certain privileges. Now, instead of remaining exactly on the spot where he was “tied to the ground,” he had wandered out of the dry arroyo bed to the upper level of the plains, where he knew certain bunch grasses might be found. Buck Johnson climbed the steep wooded bank in search of him.

  The pony stood not ten feet distant. At his master’s abrupt appearance he merely raised his head, a wisp of grass in the corner of his mouth, without attempting to move away. Buck Johnson walked confidently to him, fumbling in his side pocket for the piece of sugar with which he habitually soothed Button’s sophisticated palate. His hand encountered Estrella’s letter. He drew it out and opened it.

  “Dear Buck,” it read, “I am going away. I tried to be good, but I can’t. It’s too lonesome for me. I’m afraid of the horses and the cattle and the men and the desert. I hate it all. I tried to make you see how I felt about it, but you couldn’t seem to see. I know you’ll never forgive me, but I’d go crazy here. I’m almost crazy now. I suppose you think I’m a bad woman, but I am not. You won’t believe that. Its’ true though. The desert would make anyone bad. I don’t see how you stand it. You’ve been good to me, and I’ve really tried, but it’s no use. The country is awful. I never ought to have come. I’m sorry you are going to think me a bad woman, for I like you and admire you, but nothing, NOTHING could make me stay here any longer.” She signed herself simply Estrella Sands, her maiden name.

  Buck Johnson stood staring at the paper for a much longer time than was necessary merely to absorb the meaning of the words. His senses, sharpened by the stress of the last sixteen hours, were trying mightily to cut to the mystery of a change going on within himself. The phrases of the letter were bald enough, yet they conveyed something vital to his inner being. He could not understand what it was.

  Then abruptly he raised his eyes.

  Before him lay the desert, but a desert suddenly and miraculously changed, a desert he had never seen before. Mile after mile it swept away before him, hot, dry, suffocating, lifeless. The sparse vegetation was grey with the alkali dust. The heat hung choking in the air like a curtain. Lizards sprawled in the sun, repulsive. A rattlesnake dragged its loathsome length from under a mesquite. The dried carcass of a steer, whose parchment skin drew tight across its bones, rattled in the breeze. Here and there rock ridges showed with the obscenity of so many skeletons, exposing to the hard, cruel sky the earth’s nakedness. Thirst, delirium, death, hovered palpa
ble in the wind; dreadful, unconquerable, ghastly.

  The desert showed her teeth and lay in wait like a fierce beast. The little soul of man shrank in terror before it.

  Buck Johnson stared, recalling the phrases of the letter, recalling the words of his foreman, Jed Parker. “It’s too lonesome for me,” “I’m afraid,” “I hate it all,” “I’d go crazy here,” “The desert would make anyone bad,” “The country is awful.” And the musing voice of the old cattleman, “I wonder if she’ll like the country!” They reiterated themselves over and over; and always as refrain his own confident reply, “Like the country? Sure! Why SHOULDN’T she?”

  And then he recalled the summer just passing, and the woman who had made no fuss. Chance remarks of hers came back to him, remarks whose meaning he had not at the time grasped, but which now he saw were desperate appeals to his understanding. He had known his desert. He had never known hers.

  With an exclamation Buck Johnson turned abruptly back to the arroyo. Button followed him, mildly curious, certain that his master’s reappearance meant a summons for himself.

  Down the miniature cliff the man slid, confidently, without hesitation, sure of himself. His shoulders held squarely, his step elastic, his eye bright, he walked to the fearful, shapeless bundle now lying motionless on the flat surface of the alkali.

  Brent Palmer had fallen into a grim silence, but Estrella still moaned. The cattleman drew his knife and ripped loose the bonds. Immediately the flaps of the wet rawhide fell apart, exposing to the new daylight the two bound together. Buck Johnson leaned over to touch the woman’s shoulder.

  “Estrella,” said he gently.

  Her eyes came open with a snap, and stared into his, wild with the surprise of his return.

  “Estrella,” he repeated, “how old are you?”

  She gulped down a sob, unable to comprehend the purport of his question.

  “How old are you, Estrella?” he repeated again.

  “Twenty-one,” she gasped finally.

  “Ah!” said he.

  He stood for a moment in deep thought, then began methodically, without haste, to cut loose the thongs that bound the two together.

  When the man and the woman were quite freed, he stood for a moment, the knife in his hand, looking down on them. Then he swung himself into the saddle and rode away, straight down the narrow arroyo, out beyond its lower widening, into the vast plains the hither side of the Chiricahuas. The alkali dust was snatched by the wind from beneath his horse’s feet. Smaller and smaller he dwindled, rising and falling, rising and falling in the monotonous cow-pony’s lope. The heat shimmer veiled him for a moment, but he reappeared. A mirage concealed him, but he emerged on the other side of it. Then suddenly he was gone. The desert had swallowed him up.

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