by Zane Grey
Cartwell spoke first, easily, in the quiet, well-modulated voice of the Indian.
“Hello! All safe, I see! Mr. Newman will be here shortly.” He seated himself on the upper step with his back against a pillar and fanned himself with his hat. “Jack’s working too hard. I want him to go to the coast for a while and let me run the ditch. But he won’t. He’s as pig-headed as a Mohave.”
“Are the Mohaves so pig-headed then?” asked DeWitt, smiling.
Cartwell returned the smile with a flash of white teeth.
“You bet they are! My mother was part Mohave and she used to say that only the Pueblo in her kept her from being as stiff-necked as yucca. You’re all over the dizziness, Miss Tuttle?”
“Yes,” said Rhoda. “You were very good to me.”
Cartwell shook his head.
“I’m afraid I can’t take special credit for that. Will you two ride to the ditch with me tomorrow? I think Miss Tuttle will be interested in Jack’s irrigation dream, don’t you, Mr. DeWitt?”
DeWitt answered a little stiffly.
“It’s out of the question for Miss Tuttle to attempt such a trip, thank you.”
But to her own as well as DeWitt’s astonishment Rhoda spoke protestingly.
“You must let me refuse my own invitations, John. Perhaps the ditch would interest me.”
DeWitt replied hastily, “Good gracious, Rhoda! If anything will interest you, don’t let me interfere.”
There was protest in his voice against Rhoda’s being interested in an Indian’s suggestion. Both Rhoda and Cartwell felt this and there was an awkward pause. This was broken by a faint halloo from the corral and DeWitt rose abruptly.
“I’ll go down and meet Jack,” he said.
“We’ll do a lot of stunts if you’re willing,” Cartwell said serenely, his eyes following DeWitt’s broad back inscrutably. “The desert is like a story-book if one learns to read it. If you would be interested to learn, I would be keen to teach you.”
Rhoda’s gray eyes lifted to the young man’s somberly.
“I’m too dull these days to learn anything,” she said. “But I—I didn’t used to be! Truly I didn’t! I used to be so alive, so strong! I believed in everything, myself most of all! Truly I did!” She paused, wondering at her lack of reticence.
Cartwell, however, was looking at her with something in his gaze so quietly understanding that Rhoda smiled. It was a slow smile that lifted and deepened the corners of Rhoda’s lips, that darkened her gray eyes to black, an unforgetable smile to the loveliness of which Rhoda’s friends never could accustom themselves. At the sight of it, Cartwell drew a deep breath, then leaned toward her and spoke with curious earnestness.
“You make me feel the same way that starlight on the desert makes me feel.”
Rhoda replied in astonishment, “Why, you mustn’t speak that way to me! It’s not—not—”
“Not conventional?” suggested Cartwell. “What difference does that make, between you and me?”
Again came the strange stirring in Rhoda in response to Cartwell’s gaze. He was looking at her with something of tragedy in the dark young eyes, something of sternness and determination in the clean-cut lips. Rhoda wondered, afterward, what would have been said if Katherine had not chosen this moment to come out on the porch.
“Rhoda,” she asked, “do you feel like dressing for dinner? Hello, Kut-le, it’s time you moved toward soap and water, seems to me!”
“Yessum!” replied Cartwell meekly. He rose and helped Rhoda from the hammock, then held the door open for her. DeWitt and Newman emerged from the orchard as he crossed to Katherine’s chair.
“Is she very sick, Mrs. Jack?” he asked.
Katherine nodded soberly.
“Desperately sick. Her father and mother were killed in a railroad wreck a year ago. Rhoda wasn’t seriously hurt but she has never gotten over the shock. She has been failing ever since. The doctor feared consumption and sent her down here. But she’s just dying by inches. Oh, it’s too awful! I can’t believe it! I can’t realize it!”
Cartwell stood in silence for a moment, his lips compressed, his eyes inscrutable.
Then, “I’ve met her at last,” he said. “It makes me believe in Fate.”
Katherine’s pretty lips parted in amazement.
“Goodness! Are you often taken this way!” she gasped.
“Never before!” replied Cartwell serenely. “Jack said she’d broken her engagement to DeWitt because of her illness, so it’s a fair war!”
“Kut-le!” exclaimed Katherine. “Don’t talk like a yellow-backed novel! It’s not a life or death affair.”
“You can’t tell as to that,” answered Cartwell with a curious little smile. “You mustn’t forget that I’m an Indian.”
And he turned to greet the two men who were mounting the steps.
CHAPTER II
THE CAUCASIAN WAY
When Rhoda entered the dining-room some of her pallor seemed to have left her. She was dressed in a gown of an elusive pink that gave a rose flush to the marble fineness of her face.
Katherine was chatting with a wiry, middle-aged man whom she introduced to Rhoda as Mr. Porter, an Arizona mining man. Porter stood as if stunned for a moment by Rhoda’s delicate loveliness. Then, as was the custom of every man who met Rhoda, he looked vaguely about for something to do for her. Jack Newman forestalled him by taking Rhoda’s hand and leading her to the table. Jack’s curly blond hair looked almost white in contrast with his tanned face. He was not as tall as either Cartwell or DeWitt but he was strong and clean-cut and had a boyish look despite the heavy responsibilities of his five-thousand-acre ranch.
“There,” he said, placing Rhoda beside Porter; “just attach Porter’s scalp to your belt with the rest of your collection. It’ll be a new experience to him. Don’t be afraid, Porter.”
Billy Porter was not in the least embarrassed.
“I’ve come too near to losing my scalp to the Apaches to be scared by Miss Tuttle. Anyhow I gave her my scalp without a yelp the minute I laid eyes on her.”
“Here! That’s not fair!” cried John DeWitt. “The rest of us had to work to get her to take ours!”
“Our what?” asked Cartwell, entering the room at the last word. He was looking very cool and well groomed in white flannels.
Billy Porter stared at the newcomer and dropped his soup-spoon with a splash. “What in thunder!” Rhoda heard him mutter.
Jack Newman spoke hastily.
“This is Mr. Cartwell, our irrigation engineer, Mr. Porter.”
Porter responded to the young Indian’s courteous bow with a surly nod, and proceeded with his soup.
“I’d as soon eat with a negro as an Injun,” he said to Rhoda under cover of some laughing remark of Katherine’s to Cartwell.
“He seems to be nice,” said Rhoda vaguely. “Maybe, though, Katherine is a little liberal, making him one of the family.”
“Is there any hunting at all in this open desert country?” asked DeWitt. “I certainly hate to go back to New York with nothing but sunburn to show for my trip!”
“Coyotes, wildcats, rabbits and partridges,” volunteered Cartwell. “I know where there is a nest of wildcats up on the first mesa. And I know an Indian who will tan the pelts for you, like velvet. A jack-rabbit pelt well tanned is an exquisite thing too, by the way. I will go on a hunt with you whenever the ditch can be left.”
“And while they are chasing round after jacks, Miss Tuttle,” cut in Billy Porter neatly, “I will take you anywhere you want to go. I’ll show you things these kids never dreamed of! I knew this country in the days of Apache raids and the pony express.”
“That will be fine!” replied Rhoda. “But I’d rather hear the stories than take any trips. Did you spend your b
oyhood in New Mexico? Did you see real Indian fights? Did you—?” She paused with an involuntary glance at Cartwell.
Porter, too, looked at the dark young face across the table and something in its inscrutable calm seemed to madden him.
“My boyhood here? Yes, and a happy boyhood it was! I came home from the range one day and found my little fifteen-year-old sister and a little neighbor friend of hers hung up by the back of their necks on butcher hooks. They had been tortured to death by Apaches. I don’t like Indians!”
There was an awkward pause at the dinner table. Li Chung removed the soup-plates noiselessly. Cartwell’s brown fingers tapped the tablecloth. But he was not looking at Porter’s scowling face. He was watching Rhoda’s gray eyes which were fastened on him with a look half of pity, half of aversion. When he spoke it was as if he cared little for the opinions of the others but would set himself right with her alone.
“My father,” he said, “came home from the hunt, one day, to find his mother and three sisters lying in their own blood. The whites had gotten them. They all had been scalped and were dead except the baby, three years old. She—she—my father killed her.”
A gasp of horror went round the table.
“I think such stories are inexcusable here!” exclaimed Katherine indignantly.
“So do I, Mrs. Jack,” replied Cartwell. “I won’t do it again.”
Porter’s face stained a deep mahogany and he bowed stiffly to Katherine.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Newman!”
“I feel as if I were visiting a group of anarchists,” said Rhoda plaintively, “and had innocently passed round a bomb on which to make conversation!”
Jack Newman laughed, the tension relaxed, and in a moment the dinner was proceeding merrily, though Porter and Cartwell carefully avoided speaking to each other. Most of the conversation centered around Rhoda. Katherine always had been devoted to her friend. And though men always had paid homage to Rhoda, since her illness had enhanced her delicacy, and had made her so appealingly helpless, they were drawn to her as surely as bee to flower. Old and young, dignified and happy-go-lucky, all were moved irresistibly to do something for her, to coddle her, to undertake impossible missions, self-imposed.
Porter from his place of vantage beside her kept her plate heaped with delicacies, calmly removed the breast of chicken from his own plate to hers, all but fed her with a spoon when she refused to more than nibble at her meal.
DeWitt’s special night-mare was that drafts were blowing on her. He kept excusing himself from the table to open and close windows and doors, to hang over her chair so as to feel for himself if the wind touched her.
Katherine and Jack kept Li Chung trotting to the kitchen for different dainties with which to tempt her. Only Cartwell did nothing. He kept up what seemed to be his usual fire of amiable conversation and watched Rhoda constantly through inscrutable black eyes. But he made no attempt to serve her.
Rhoda was scarcely conscious of the deference showed her, partly because she had received it so long, partly because that detached frame of mind of the hopeless invalid made the life about her seem shadowy and unreal. Nothing really mattered much. She lay back in her chair with the little wistful smile, the somber light in her eyes that had become habitual to her.
After dinner was finished Katherine led the way to the living-room. To his unspeakable pride, Rhoda took Billy Porter’s arm and he guided her listless footsteps carefully, casting pitying glances on his less favored friends. Jack wheeled a Morris chair before the fireplace—desert nights are cool—and John DeWitt hurried for a shawl, while Katherine gave every one orders that no one heeded in the least.
Cartwell followed after the others, slowly lighted a cigarette, then seated himself at the piano. For the rest of the evening he made no attempt to join in the fragmentary conversation. Instead he sang softly, as if to himself, touching the keys so gently that their notes seemed only the echo of his mellow voice. He sang bits of Spanish love-songs, of Mexican lullabies. But for the most part he kept to Indian melodies—wistful love-songs and chants that touched the listener with strange poignancy.
There was little talk among the group around the fire. The three men smoked peacefully. Katherine and Jack sat close to each other, on the davenport, content to be together. DeWitt lounged where he could watch Rhoda, as did Billy Porter, the latter hanging on every word and movement of this lovely, fragile being, as if he would carry forever in his heart the memory of her charm.
Rhoda herself watched the fire. She was tired, tired to the inmost fiber of her being. The only real desire left her was that she might crawl off somewhere and die in peace. But these good friends of hers had set their faces against the inevitable and it was only decency to humor them. Once, quite unconscious that the others were watching her, she lifted her hands and eyed them idly. They were almost transparent and shook a little. The group about the fire stirred pityingly. John and Katherine and Jack remembered those shadowy hands when they had been rosy and full of warmth and tenderness. Billy Porter leaned across and with his hard brown palms pressed the trembling fingers down into Rhoda’s lap. She looked up in astonishment.
“Don’t hold ’em so!” said Billy hoarsely. “I can’t stand to see ’em!”
“They are pretty bad,” said Rhoda, smiling. It was her rare, slow, unforgetable smile. Porter swallowed audibly. Cartwell at the piano drifted from a Mohave lament to La Paloma.
“The day that I left my home for the rolling sea,
I said, ‘Mother dear, O pray to thy God for me!’
But e’er I set sail I went a fond leave to take
Of Nina, who wept as if her poor heart would break!”
The mellow, haunting melody caught Rhoda’s fancy at once, as Cartwell knew it would. She turned to the sinewy figure at the piano. DeWitt was wholesome and strong, but this young Indian seemed vitality itself.
“Nina, if I should die and o’er ocean’s foam
Softly at dusk a fair dove should come,
Open thy window, Nina, for it would be
My faithful soul come back to thee—”
Something in Cartwell’s voice stirred Rhoda as had his eyes. For the first time in months Rhoda felt poignantly that it would be hard to be cut down with all her life unlived. The mellow voice ceased and Cartwell, rising, lighted a fresh cigarette.
“I am going to get up with the rabbits, tomorrow,” he said, “so I’ll trot to bed now.”
DeWitt, impelled by that curious sense of liking for the young Indian that fought down his aversion, said, “The music was bully, Cartwell!” but Cartwell only smiled as if at the hint of patronage in the voice and strolled to his own room.
Rhoda slept late the following morning. She had not, in her three nights in the desert country, become accustomed to the silence that is not the least of the desert’s splendors. It seemed to her that the nameless unknown Mystery toward which her life was drifting was embodied in this infinite silence. So sleep would not come to her until dawn. Then the stir of the wind in the trees, the bleat of sheep, the trill of mocking-birds lulled her to sleep.
As the brilliancy of the light in her room increased there drifted across her uneasy dreams the lilting notes of a whistled call. Pure and liquidly sweet they persisted until there came to Rhoda that faint stir of hope and longing that she had experienced the day before. She opened her eyes and finally, as the call continued, she crept languidly from her bed and peered from behind the window-shade. Cartwell, in his khaki suit, his handsome head bared to the hot sun, leaned against a peach-tree while he watched Rhoda’s window.
“I wonder what he wakened me for?” she thought half resentfully. “I can’t go to sleep again, so I may as well dress and have breakfast.”
Hardly had she seated herself at her solitary meal when Cartwell appeared.
“Dear
me!” he exclaimed. “The birds and Mr. DeWitt have been up this long time.”
“What is John doing?” asked Rhoda carelessly.
“He’s gone up on the first mesa for the wildcats I spoke of last night. I thought perhaps you might care to take a drive before it got too hot. You didn’t sleep well last night, did you?”
Rhoda answered whimsically.
“It’s the silence. It thunders at me so! I will get used to it soon. Perhaps I ought to drive. I suppose I ought to try everything.”
Not at all discouraged, apparently, by this lack of enthusiasm, Cartwell said:
“I won’t let you overdo. I’ll have the top-buggy for you and we’ll go slowly and carefully.”
“No,” said Rhoda, suddenly recalling that, after all, Cartwell was an Indian, “I don’t think I will go. Katherine will have all sorts of objections.”
The Indian smiled sardonically.
“I already have Mrs. Jack’s permission. Billy Porter will be in, in a moment. If you would rather have a white man than an Indian, as escort, I’m quite willing to retreat.”
Rhoda flushed delicately.
“Your frankness is almost—almost impertinent, Mr. Cartwell.”
“I don’t mean it that way at all!” protested the Indian. “It’s just that I saw so plainly what was going on in your mind and it piqued me. If it will be one bit pleasanter for you with Billy, I’ll go right out and hunt him up for you now.”