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The Water Hole

Page 16

by Zane Grey

“Where’s your bed?” asked Chauncey.

  “Mine is high up on this ledge behind,” replied Cherry.

  “Couldn’t you let Chauncey fetch it down by ours?” inquired the mother.

  “Black Dick might not like that.”

  A bright campfire dispelled the gloom under the cliff if not that in the minds of the captives. Cherry, at last, stole away to be alone. Her heart was full—full of what she knew not. Yet some of it was mischief and a great overwhelming lot was a deep rich emotion that seemed strange and stingingly sweet. It threatened to take charge of her wholly; therefore, rebelliously, finding it real and true, not to be denied, she compromised by putting off resignation until later. Very difficult was it to crush down this feeling, to resist the most amazingly kindly feelings toward the Sarlands, to scorn forgiving her poor old dad, who had erred only in his love for her, and to fight off generally an avalanche of softness.

  What could be expected to happen?—that was the question. Heftral had settled down to a waiting game, and he would stick there if they all starved. After all, he had been tempted into this thing; there were excuses for him, though, of course, no excuse whatever for the atrocious punishment he had meted out to her. The mask of night hid Cherry’s blush, but she felt its heat. Contemplation of that would not stay before her consciousness.

  Indians might drop in upon them, or tourists, or sheepmen, or possibly roving riders of doubtful character. The possibility of any or all of these occurrences was remote, but anything could happen. The cowboys would surely come. Cherry wanted that, yet she feared it. There was no hope of Heftral keeping up his deception for any considerable length of time. So Cherry was in a quandary. She desired the Sarlands to have a right good scare and leave Arizona under the impression they now entertained. She wanted dire and multiple punishments to fall upon Heftral’s head. If it pleased her to assuage them later, that was aside from the question. If he could be reduced to abject abasement, to want really to be hanged, as he said, to drink the very bitterest cup of repentance, then would be the time for her denouement. For although he had not the slightest inkling, even the remotest hope, of the gratification of his two driving passions, Cherry knew. Cherry herself had done the discovering of Beckyshibeta and of the true state of her heart, but that did not make them any the less his. What a profound thought! Cherry trembled with it. There was a bigness about these discoveries that began to divorce her from the old Cherry Winters. She would, she must have her revenge; she fought this subtle changing, as it seemed, of her very nature. She still hated, but the trouble was she could not be sure of what. Cherry sighed. Oh, what a fall this would be! Cherry Winters, on a pedestal of modern thought, freedom, independence, equality—crash!

  Nevertheless, despite everything, Cherry sought her bed, happy. For a while she sat on the ledge and gazed down into the circle of campfire light. Mrs. Sarland and her son huddled there, keeping the blaze bright, whispering, gazing furtively out into the black shadows, obviously afraid to seek their beds. Presently Heftral strode out of the gloom. Cherry tingled at sight of him. She marveled at herself—that any man could make her feel as she did. Pretty soon she must inquire into this state of mind that could revel in the presence of any male creature.

  “Madam, the hour grows late,” Heftral declared harshly, to the cowering woman. “Must I put you to bed?”

  Whereupon Mrs. Sarland, exclaiming incoherently, made hasty retreat to her bed, which was under the ledge out of Cherry’s sight.

  “Young fellar, you sit up and keep watch,” continued Heftral as he unrolled his camp bed near the fire. “And remember, no shenanigans. I always sleep with one eye open.”

  When Cherry took a last look, Heftral lay prone in the fire light, assuredly asleep, and Chauncey was nailed to the martyrdom of night watch.

  The shadows flickered above Cherry on the stone wall, played and danced and limned stories there. If she could have chosen, she would rather have been here in this bed than anywhere else in the world. But all the strangeness and sweetness of the present at Beckyshibeta could not suffice to keep her awake.

  Cherry’s slumbers were disrupted by a loud voice. Heftral was calling his captives to breakfast. Cherry sat up and made herself as presentable as possible. The face that smiled at her from the little mirror did not require any paint or powder. It was acquiring a beautiful golden tan. Her eyes danced with delight.

  She went down to breakfast. Heftral did not glance up, at least while she was close. She was glad for he easily could have penetrated her thin disguise. Chauncey was heavy-eyed and somber, and Mrs. Sarland was a wreck.

  “Good heavens, you look like you’ve slept,” was Mrs. Sarland’s reply to Cherry’s greeting.

  “I sure have,” Cherry returned, and forthwith went at her breakfast with a will.

  “Lord preserve me from another such night,” Mrs. Sarland prayed fervently. “I lay on the rocks…turned from side to side. My body is full of holes, I know. Mosquitoes devoured me. Some kind of animals crawled over me. I nearly froze to death. And I never closed an eye.”

  “That’s too bad,” replied Cherry. “But you’ll get used to it after a while. Won’t she, Mister Black Dick?”

  “Wise men say a human being can get used to any kind of suffering, but I don’t believe it myself,” the supposed outlaw astonishingly replied, with his somber accusing eyes piercing Cherry in a fleet look.

  “Mister Black Dick, you were a better man once?” Mrs. Sarland ventured almost with sympathy.

  “Yes. Much better. I was ruined by a woman,” he replied.

  This startling revelation enjoined silence for a while, which was broken by the sound of hoofs cracking the rocks.

  “Indians coming down the cañon,” said Heftral, who had arisen.

  “Oh, gracious! Are they hostile?” cried Mrs. Sarland.

  “Well, about half friendly Navajos,” returned Heftral.

  Three picturesque riders rode from the cedars into camp. One of them, particularly, caught Cherry’s eye, as he dismounted in a sinuous action. He was tall with a ponderous head that made him appear topheavy. He wore brown moccasins, corduroy trousers, a leather belt with a large silver buckle and shields, and a maroon-colored velveteen shirt. His huge sombrero with ornamented band hid his features, but Cherry could discern that his face was red.

  “Better eat while the eating is good,” warned Heftral.

  Then he spoke to the Indians in Navajo. Their actions then signified that he had asked them to partake of the meal. Cherry was glad she had about finished hers. The meat, the biscuits, the potatoes disappeared as if by magic. Mrs. Sarland, who had filled her plate, but had scarcely tasted anything, appeared electrified to see her portion of breakfast disappear with the rest. To do the Indians justice, however, she was not holding the plate at the moment. She had set it on a rock by the campfire.

  “Ugh,” grunted the big Indian after each bite.

  Heftral had made fair-size biscuits, but one bite sufficed for each.

  “That wretch appropriated all my breakfast,” declared Mrs. Sarland, astounded and angry. Evidently she took it for granted that these Navajos could neither speak nor understand English.

  “Of all the hogs.” ejaculated young Sarland. “Mother, that Indian made away with nine biscuits. I counted them.”

  “Mister Dick said they were half friendly,” complained Mrs. Sarland. “I declare I don’t see it.”

  Heftral contrived in an aside to whisper to Cherry: “That big Indian is smart. Keep your mouth shut and for that matter stay right here.”

  “Don’t worry, Stephen,” whispered Cherry. “I’ll stay in camp. What’s his name?”

  “The cowboys call him Ham Face.”

  Presently Cherry had an opportunity to get a good look at him. The sobriquet was felicitous. He certainly had a face that resembled a ham. But it was also a record for desert life. Cherry could not dec
ide whether he was young or old. He had great black eyes, piercing and bold, yet somehow melancholy. There were sloping lines of strength and he had a thoughtful brow. Seating himself before Mrs. Sarland, he spoke to her in Navajo.

  “What’d he say?” she asked, half fascinated and half frightened.

  “Missus Sarland, I regret I do not translate Navajo well,” replied Heftral. “But he wanted to know something or other about why you wore men’s pants.”

  Cherry did not believe a word of that. She could tell when Stephen was lying.

  “The impudent savage!” ejaculated the woman indignantly.

  Ham Face addressed her again, gravely, with a face like a mask.

  “He wants to know if you are any man’s squaw,” explained Heftral.

  “Mother, you’ve made a conquest,” young Sarland laughed.

  That affronted his mother who got up from beside the Navajo and left the campfire. Ham Face followed her, much fascinated evidently, by her general appearance. It was to be admitted, Cherry thought, that Mrs. Sarland in tailored riding breeches, much too small for her portly figure, was nothing, if not a spectacle. When she became aware she was being followed, she grew greatly perturbed, and hastened this way and that, though not far from the others. Ham Face pursued her.

  “What’s the fool traipsing after me for?” she cried.

  Finally in sheer fright she came back to the seat beside her son, and sat there fuming, tapping the ground with her boot. Ham Face continued to walk around her and study her with grave eyes.

  “Talk about the noble red men!” she exclaimed. “They’re abominably rude…Why don’t they go away?”

  The three Navajos appeared to be in no hurry. Ham Face kept devoting himself to Mrs. Sarland, while the other two smoked cigarettes and talked in low tones to Heftral. Cherry had taken refuge behind the packs, from which only her head protruded. Chauncey was interested despite his alarm. At length Ham Face’s attention to Mrs. Sarland became so marked that the nervous high-strung woman burst into a tirade that might have been directed at the whole Indian race.

  Ham Face imperturbably lighted a cigarette and blew a puff of smoke upward. “Pardon me, Madam, if I seem to stare,” he remarked in English as fluent as her own. “But you are the most peculiar-looking old lady I’ve seen. I’d like to introduce you to my squaws. When I was in New York and Paris, during the war, I met some modern up-to-date women, but you’ve got them beaten by a mile!”

  Mrs. Sarland’s jaw dropped, her eyes popped, and with a gasp she collapsed. Cherry, standing behind the packs, stuffed her handkerchief in her mouth to keep from shouting in glee. Ham Face was assuredly one of the educated Navajos to whom the cowboys had referred.

  After that he ceased annoying Mrs. Sarland, but presently, after an enigmatical look at Cherry, he joined Heftral and his two comrades near the horses. They conversed a little longer. Then the Indians mounted and rode away. Ham Face turned to wave a hand at Mrs. Sarland.

  “Adiós, little Eva!” he called.

  When they disappeared, Mrs. Sarland came out of her trance.

  “That long-haired dirty ragged savage!” she raged. “To think he understood every word I uttered, and then talked just like a white man…He added insult to injury. Oh, this hideous Arizona with its lying traders, cowboys, Indians, outlaws, and pitfalls! Oh, my son, my son, get me out of this mess.”

  “Mother, I’ve a feeling the worst is yet to come,” replied her young hopeful.

  Cherry got up from where she had sprawled, and tried to catch Heftral’s eye. But his face was averted and he stood motionlessly in a strained attitude of one listening.

  “What is it?” whispered Cherry.

  “I thought I heard a horse,” he replied. “Not the Indians. It came from down the cañon.”

  “Hands up!” rasped out a hard voice from behind them.

  Cherry stood paralyzed. She saw Heftral extend his arms high, and then slowly turn. His ruddy tan fled. “My God…it’s really Black Dick himself,” he breathed huskily.

  Cherry’s heart skipped beating and then leaped. Turning, she saw two men in rough rider’s garb. The foremost was heavy and broad, with what seemed a black blotch for a face. He held a gun that was pointed at Heftral.

  “Howdy, Professor,” he said. “Jest stand steady-like while Snitch gets your gun.”

  The second man, a little red-faced, red-headed, bowlegged person, with a greasy, blue leather shirt, appropriated Heftral’s weapon, and then very deftly his wallet.

  “Hum. Looks flatter’n a pancake to me,” said the robber, eying the latter with disdain. “Wal, mebbe these hyar tenderfeet will be better heeled.”

  Mrs. Sarland and Chauncey stood, rigid, with hands high and startled expressions.

  “Reckon Willie White Pants ought to have a lot of money, an’ if he hain’t, Missus Hatchet Face will.”

  A swift search of Chauncey brought to light a few bills of small denomination and some change.

  “Wal, if he ain’t a two-bit sport!” exclaimed the leader in disgust. “All them fine togs an’ no yellow coin. Say, lady, have you any money an’ vallables?”

  “Not h-h-here,” stammered Mrs. Sarland. It was plain that not only was she lying but very frightened.

  “’Scuse us, lady, fer gettin’ so familiar when we ain’t even been introduced. I’m Black Dick, from the border, an’ this hyar pard of mine is Snitch Jones.”

  “Oh, my! There are two Black Dicks,” groaned Mrs. Sarland.

  “Wal, there’s only one real Black Dick an’ I’m the gent,” the robber returned with lofty humor.

  “He calls himself Black Dick,” burst out the woman, dropping a weak hand to point it at Heftral.

  “Y-yes …so…he does,” Chauncey corroborated impressively.

  “The hell you say. Wal, now, I call that complimentary. But, folks, he was only joshin’ you. Mabbe havin’ fun with my rep.”

  “You…you mean he isn’t Black Dick and you are?” faltered Mrs. Sarland.

  “Precisely an’ exactly, lady,” Black Dick returned amiably.

  “Who is he, then?”

  “Wal, I ain’t sure, but I think he’s Stephen Heftral. The cowmen hyar aboot call him Profess or Bone Digger.”

  The guilty archaeologist dropped his hands with a laugh and sat down abruptly. Cherry realized that the cat was out of the bag. Chauncey forgot to be scared and bent glances of reproach upon Cherry and fury upon Heftral.

  “Impostor! Liar!” Mrs. Sarland burst out.

  “Wal, I’ll be dog-gone!” Black Dick ejaculated with mild interest. “Snitch, somethin’s up hyar, an’ I’ve a hunch it’s amoozin’. But we mustn’t forget to collect all vallables fust.”

  “Fork over, mum,” Snitch said, thus admonished, his eager hands extended,

  “I…I tell you I’ve nothing,” Mrs. Sarland replied weakly.

  “Search her, Snitch,” ordered Black Dick sternly. “Hey, lady…keep them hands up.”

  Whereupon the little red-headed ruffian went at Mrs. Sarland with an alacrity and verve that made Cherry nearly choke, while at the same time she felt misgivings as to what might happen to her.

  “Aha! Hyar’s a lump of somethin’ that feels heavy an’ sounds moosical,” announced Snitch, slapping at Mrs. Sarland’s hip pocket.

  “You thieving, lecherous…scoundrel!” Mrs. Sarland screeched.

  It must have positively hurt her to see that fat jingling bag brought to light. Snitch burst it open. Greenbacks, gold coins, jewelry!

  “Whoopee!” yelled the little robber. “It’s a haul, boss. This hyar lady shore didn’t bulge all over fer nothin’.”

  “Business is lookin’ up,” remarked Black Dick with satisfaction. “Now, Snitch, hand all that over to me, an’ have a look at this gurl. Looks to me she’d have a million…if you jedge by eyes…Ain’t she a looker?”


  As Snitch approached Cherry, grinning, eager, full of the devil as well as greed, she suddenly lost half of that emotion under which she had been laboring. This was not so funny.

  “Stephen!” she cried. “Don’t let him touch me.”

  “Be sensible, child. They’ve held us up,” admonished Heftral.

  Cherry slipped off her diamond ring and stretched it out at the length of her arm and let it drop in Snitch’s palm. “That’s all I’ve got. Honest,” she said earnestly, in the stress of wanting to escape those rude hands.

  “Little gurl, you don’t look like a prevaricateer, but we jest can’t trust you,” Black Dick stated soothingly.

  “Peaches, if you run it’ll be the wuss for you,” Snitch added, reaching for her.

  His touch, following the devilish little gleam in his eye, inflamed Cherry. With one wrench she tore free and struck at Snitch with all her might. A quick duck of head just saved him.

  “Whew!” he ejaculated, astounded and checked.

  “Wow!” added Black Dick in gleeful admiration. “She strikes like a sidewinder, Snitch. If that one had landed you’ve hev knowed it…Wal, now, what a fiery wench!”

  Cherry blazed at the leering astonished robber. “You damn’ little beast! If you touch me again, I’ll knock off your red head!”

  Black Dick guffawed uproariously, while Snitch, though he joined in the mirth, took her seriously.

  “Who’d ’a’ thunk it, boss?” he said. “Look at that tight little fist an’ the way she swings it.”

  “Wal, I reckon I’m noticin’,” the leader said, sheathing his gun and approaching. “We gotta be gennelmen, you know, Snitch. See hyar, mighty little gurl, are you tellin’ us true? You hain’t nothin’ on you but this ring?”

  “That’s all,” returned Cherry, breathing hard.

  “Wal, turn round fer inspection,” he ordered. Cherry did as she was bidden.

  “Do it again, an’ not so damn’ fast. This ain’t no merry-go-round.”

  Whereupon Cherry, realizing that she was to escape indignity, careened for their edification like a dress model in the Grande Maison de Blanc.

 

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