by Zane Grey
“Good morning,” said the man politely. “I hope I haven’t disturbed your nap.”
The girl eyed him solemnly, and said nothing. This was a new kind of man. He was not like the one from whom she had fled, nor like any she had ever seen; but he might be a great deal worse. She had heard that the world was full of wickedness.
“You see,” went on the man with an apologetic smile, which lit up his eyes in a wonderfully winning way, “you led me such a desperate race nearly all day yesterday that I was obliged to keep you in sight when I finally caught you.”
He looked for an answering smile, but there was none. Instead, the girl’s dark eyes grew wide and purple with fear. He was the same one, then, that she had seen in the afternoon, the voice who had cried to her; and he had been pursuing her. He was an enemy, perhaps, sent by the man from whom she fled. She grasped her pistol with trembling fingers, and tried to think what to say or do.
The young man wondered at the formalities of the plains. Were all these Western maidens so reticent?
“Why did you follow me? Who did you think I was?” she asked breathlessly at last.
“Well, I thought you were a man,” he said; “at least, you appeared to be a human being, and not a wild animal. I hadn’t seen anything but wild animals for six hours, and very few of those; so I followed you.”
The girl was silent. She was not reassured. It did not seem to her that her question was directly answered. The young man was playing with her.
“What right had you to follow me?” she demanded fiercely.
“Well, now that you put it in that light, I’m not sure that I had any right at all, unless it may be the claim that every human being has upon all creation.”
His arms were folded now across his broad brown flannel chest, and the pistols gleamed in his belt below like fine ornaments. He wore a philosophical expression, and looked at his companion as if she were a new specimen of the human kind, and he was studying her variety, quite impersonally, it is true, but interestedly. There was something in his look that angered the girl.
“What do you want?” She had never heard of the divine claims of all the human family. Her one instinct at present was fear.
An expression that was almost bitter flitted over the young man’s face, as of an unpleasant memory forgotten for the instant.
“It really wasn’t of much consequence when you think of it,” he said with a shrug of his fine shoulders. “I was merely lost, and was wanting to inquire where I was—and possibly the way to somewhere. But I don’t know as ’twas worth the trouble.”
The girl was puzzled. She had never seen a man like this before. He was not like her wild, reckless brother, nor any of his associates.
“This is Montana,” she said, “or was, when I started,” she added with sudden thought.
“Yes? Well, it was Montana when I started, too; but it’s as likely to be the Desert of Sahara as anything else. I’m sure I’ve come far enough, and found it barren enough.”
“I never heard of that place,” said the girl seriously; “is it in Canada?”
“I believe not,” said the man with sudden gravity; “at least, not that I know of. When I went to school, it was generally located somewhere in Africa.”
“I never went to school,” said the girl wistfully; “but—” with a sudden resolve—“I’ll go now.”
“Do!” said the man. “I’ll go with you. Let’s start at once; for, now that I think of it, I haven’t had anything to eat for over a day, and there might be something in that line near a schoolhouse. Do you know the way?”
“No,” said the girl, slowly studying him—she began to feel he was making fun of her; “but I can give you something to eat.”
“Thank you!” said the man. “I assure you I shall appreciate anything from hardtack to bisque ice-cream.”
“I haven’t any of those,” said the girl, “but there are plenty of beans left; and, if you will get some wood for a fire, I’ll make some coffee.”
“Agreed,” said the man. “That sounds better than anything I’ve heard for forty-eight hours.”
The girl watched him as he strode away to find wood, and frowned for an instant; but his face was perfectly sober, and she turned to the business of getting breakfast. For a little her fears were allayed. At least, he would do her no immediate harm. Of course she might fly from him now while his back was turned; but then of course he would pursue her again, and she had little chance of getting away. Besides, he was hungry. She could not leave him without something to eat.
“We can’t make coffee without water,” she said as he came back with a bundle of sticks.
He whistled.
“Could you inform me where to look for water?” he asked.
She looked into his face, and saw how worn and gray he was about his eyes; and a sudden compassion came upon her.
“You’d better eat something first,” she said, “and then we’ll go and hunt for water. There’s sure to be some in the valley. We’ll cook some meat.”
She took the sticks from him, and made the fire in a businesslike way. He watched her, and wondered at her grace. Who was she, and how had she wandered out into this waste place? Her face was both beautiful and interesting. She would make a fine study if he were not so weary of all human nature, and especially woman. He sighed as he thought again of himself.
The girl caught the sound, and, turning with the quickness of a wild creature, caught the sadness in his face. It seemed to drive away much of her fear and resentment. A half-flicker of a smile came to her lips as their eyes met. It seemed to recognize a comradeship in sorrow. But her face hardened again almost at once into disapproval as he answered her look.
The man felt a passing disappointment. After a minute, during which the girl had dropped her eyes to her work again, he said: “Now, why did you look at me in that way? Ought I to be helping you in some way? I’m awkward, I know, but I can obey if you’ll just tell me how.”
The girl seemed puzzled; then she replied almost sullenly:
“There’s nothing more to do. It’s ready to eat.”
She gave him a piece of the meat and the last of the corn bread in the tin cup, and placed the pan of beans beside him; but she did not attempt to eat anything herself.
He took a hungry bite or two, and looked furtively at her.
“I insist upon knowing why you looked—” he paused and eyed her—“why you look at me in that way. I’m not a wolf if I am hungry, and I’m not going to eat you up.”
The look of displeasure deepened on the girl’s brow. In spite of his hunger the man was compelled to watch her. She seemed to be looking at a flock of birds in the sky. Her hand rested lightly at her belt. The birds were coming towards them, flying almost over their heads.
Suddenly the girl’s hand was raised with a quick motion, and something gleamed in the sun across his sight. There was a loud report, and one of the birds fell almost at his feet, dead. It was a sage-hen. Then the girl turned and walked towards him with as haughty a carriage as ever a society belle could boast.
“You were laughing at me,” she said quietly.
It had all happened so suddenly that the man had not time to think. Several distinct sensations of surprise passed over his countenance. Then, as the meaning of the girl’s act dawned upon him, and the full intention of her rebuke, the color mounted in his nice, tanned face. He set down the tin cup, and balanced the bit of corn bread on the rim, and arose.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I never will do it again. I couldn’t have shot that bird to save my life,” and he touched it with the tip of his tan leather boot as if to make sure it was a real bird.
The girl was sitting on the ground, indifferently eating some of the cooked pork. She did not answer. Somehow the young man felt uncomfortable. He sat do
wn, and took up his tin cup, and went at his breakfast again; but his appetite seemed in abeyance.
“I’ve been trying myself to learn to shoot during the last week,” he began soberly. “I haven’t been able yet to hit anything but the side of a barn. Say, I’m wondering, suppose I had tried to shoot at those birds just now and had missed, whether you wouldn’t have laughed at me—quietly, all to yourself, you know. Are you quite sure?”
The girl looked up at him solemnly without saying a word for a full minute.
“Was what I said as bad as that?” she asked slowly.
“I’m afraid it was,” he answered thoughtfully; “but I was a blamed idiot for laughing at you. A girl that shoots like that may locate the Desert of Sahara in Canada if she likes, and Canada ought to be proud of the honor.”
She looked into his face for an instant, and noted his earnestness; and all at once she broke into a clear ripple of laughter. The young man was astonished anew that she had understood him enough to laugh. She must be unusually keen-witted, this lady of the desert.
“If ’twas as bad as that,” she said in quite another tone, “you c’n laugh.”
They looked at each other then in mutual understanding, and each fell to eating his portion in silence. Suddenly the man spoke.
“I am eating your food that you had prepared for your journey, and I have not even said, ‘Thank you’ yet, nor asked if you have enough to carry you to a place where there is more. Where are you going?”
The girl did not answer at once; but, when she did, she spoke thoughtfully, as if the words were a newly made vow from an impulse just received.
“I am going to school,” she said in her slow way, “to learn to ‘sight’ the Desert of Sahara.”
He looked at her, and his eyes gave her the homage he felt was her due; but he said nothing. Here evidently was an indomitable spirit, but how did she get out into the wilderness? Where did she come from, and why was she alone? He had heard of the freedom of Western women, but surely such girls as this did not frequent so vast a waste of uninhabited territory as his experience led him to believe this was. He sat studying her.
The brow was sweet and thoughtful, with a certain keen inquisitiveness about the eyes. The mouth was firm; yet there were gentle lines of grace about it. In spite of her coarse, dark calico garb, made in no particular fashion except with an eye to covering with the least possible fuss and trouble, she was graceful. Every movement was alert and clean-cut. When she turned to look full in his face, he decided that she had almost beautiful eyes.
She had arisen while he was watching her, and seemed to be looking off with sudden apprehension. He followed her gaze, and saw several dark figures moving against the sky.
“It’s a herd of antelope,” she said with relief; “but it’s time we hit the trail.” She turned, and put her things together with incredible swiftness, giving him very little opportunity to help, and mounted her pony without more words.
For an hour he followed her at high speed as she rode full tilt over rough and smooth, casting furtive, anxious glances behind her now and then, which only half included him. She seemed to know that he was there and was following; that was all.
The young man felt rather amused and flattered. He reflected that most women he knew would have ridden by his side, and tried to make him talk. But this girl of the wilderness rode straight ahead as if her life depended upon it. She seemed to have nothing to say to him, and to be anxious neither to impart her own history nor to know his.
Well, that suited his mood. He had come out into the wilderness to think and to forget. Here was ample opportunity. There had been a little too much of it yesterday, when he wandered from the rest of his party who had come out to hunt; and for a time he had felt that he would rather be back in his native city with a good breakfast and all his troubles than to be alone in the vast waste forever. But now there was human company, and a possibility of getting somewhere sometime. He was content.
The lithe, slender figure of the girl ahead seemed one with the horse it rode. He tried to think what this ride would be if another woman he knew were riding on that horse ahead, but there was very small satisfaction in that. In the first place, it was highly improbable, and the young man was of an intensely practical turn of mind. It was impossible to imagine the haughty beauty in a brown calico riding a high-spirited horse of the wilds. There was but one parallel. If she had been there, she would, in her present state of mind, likely be riding imperiously and indifferently ahead instead of by his side where he wanted her. Besides, he came out to the plains to forget her. Why think of her?
The sky was exceedingly bright and wide. Why had he never noticed this wideness in skies at home? There was another flock of birds. What if he should try to shoot one? Idle talk. He would probably hit anything but the birds. Why had that girl shot that bird, anyway? Was it entirely because she might need it for food? She had picked it up significantly with the other things, and fastened it to her saddle-bow without a word. He was too ignorant to know whether it was an edible bird or not, or she was merely carrying it to remind him of her skill.
And what sort of a girl was she? Perhaps she was escaping from justice. She ran from him yesterday, and apparently stopped only when utterly exhausted. She seemed startled and anxious when the antelopes came into sight. There was no knowing whether her company meant safety, after all. Yet his interest was so thoroughly aroused in her that he was willing to risk it.
Of course he might go more slowly and gradually, let her get ahead, and he slip out of sight. It was not likely he had wandered so many miles away from human habitation but that he would reach one sometime; and, now that he was re-enforced by food, perhaps it would be the part of wisdom to part with this strange maiden. As he thought, he unconsciously slackened his horse’s pace. The girl was a rod or more ahead, and just vanishing behind a clump of sage-brush. She vanished, and he stopped for an instant, and looked about him on the desolation; and a great loneliness settled upon him like a frenzy. He was glad to see the girl riding back toward him with a smile of good fellowship on her face.
“What’s the matter?” she called. “Come on! There’s water in the valley.”
The sound of water was good; and life seemed suddenly good for no reason whatever but that the morning was bright, and the sky was wide, and there was water in the valley. He rode forward, keeping close beside her now, and in a moment there gleamed below in the hot sunshine the shining of a sparkling stream.
“You seem to be running away from some one,” he explained. “I thought you wanted to get rid of me, and I would give you a chance.”
She looked at him surprised.
“I am running away,” she said, “but not from you.”
“From whom, then, may I ask? It might be convenient to know, if we are to travel in the same company.”
She looked at him keenly.
“Who are you, and where do you belong?”
CHAPTER IV
THE TWO FUGITIVES
“I’m not anybody in particular,” he answered, “and I’m not just sure where I belong. I live in Pennsylvania, but I didn’t seem to belong there exactly, at least not just now, and so I came out here to see if I belonged anywhere else. I concluded yesterday that I didn’t. At least, not until I came in sight of you. But I suspect I am running away myself. In fact, that is just what I am doing, running away from a woman!”
He looked at her with his honest hazel eyes, and she liked him. She felt he was telling her the truth, but it seemed to be a truth he was just finding out for himself as he talked.
“Why do you run away from a woman? How could a woman hurt you? Can she shoot?”
He flashed her a look of amusement and pain mingled.
“She uses other weapons,” he said. “Her words are darts, and her looks are swords.”
“W
hat a queer woman! Does she ride well?”
“Yes, in an automobile!”
“What is that?” She asked the question shyly as if she feared he might laugh again; and he looked down, and perceived that he was talking far above her. In fact, he was talking to himself more than to the girl.
There was a bitter pleasure in speaking of his lost lady to this wild creature who almost seemed of another kind, more like an intelligent bird or flower.
“An automobile is a carriage that moves about without horses,” he answered her gravely. “It moves by machinery.”
“I should not like it,” said the girl decidedly. “Horses are better than machines. I saw a machine once. It was to cut wheat. It made a noise, and did not go fast. It frightened me.”
“But automobiles go very fast, faster than any horses And they do not all make a noise.”
The girl looked around apprehensively.
“My horse can go very fast. You do not know how fast. If you see her coming, I will change horses with you. You must ride to the nearest bench and over, and then turn backward on your tracks. She will never find you that way. And I am not afraid of a woman.”
The man broke into a hearty laugh, loud and long. He laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks; and the girl, offended, rode haughtily beside him. Then all in a moment he grew quite grave.
“Excuse me,” he said; “I am not laughing at you now, though it looks that way. I am laughing out of the bitterness of my soul at the picture you put before me. Although I am running away from her, the lady will not come out in her automobile to look for me. She does not want me!”
“She does not want you! And yet you ran away from her?”
“That’s exactly it,” he said. “You see, I wanted her!”