She lifted herself and cried out in horror. The buckboard had overturned. The horses were dragging it, and behind it she saw a bobbing object on the ground. It was Jim, still holding to the lines! The dust closed in and shut off the sight.
She rose from the ground, pains shooting through her left shoulder, a queer tightening in her throat. She saw the gray ledge of rock that had caused the catastrophe. She looked at it dully. A loud bellow sounded above the thundering rumble of flying hoofs and instantly she was aware of her peril. She started to run, stumbled in the sage, fell. In that moment she felt it was no use; she could not hope to escape; the herd was plunging down upon her to pound her to death. And suddenly she was cool. It was as if her mind could not fully grasp the horror of her predicament. It had all happened with such suddenness that it seemed unreal—impossible! In swift retrospect her well-ordered life—calm, punctilious, devoid of thrills, exact—flashed before her in kaleidoscopic review. She felt the hard, sun-baked earth shake under her. The sensation reminded her vaguely of her danger. She gained her feet and a red-hot iron pricked at her right ankle. A sprain! Her temples throbbed. It was almost dark in the swirling dust—so dark she could hardly see the shadow that suddenly loomed over her. She closed her eyes.
But, instead of the impact of horns or hoofs that she calmly awaited, she felt herself caught up, rudely, unceremoniously, held tightly within an arm, and pressed against leather under which was the feel of playing muscles. Then came motion. She swayed, but the arm held her securely. She recognized the motion. She was on a horse. She opened her eyes, red and smarting, and looked up into the face of a man. Then darkness descended upon her and she was drifting—drifting—slowly out on the tide of oblivion.
* * * * *
From a distance, a great distance, it seemed, she heard the ripple of water. It became more and more distinct, closer and closer. It seemed good to hear the water. Gradually she became aware of a luxurious sense of lassitude. It took possession of all her body, and she reveled in it. She felt a soothing coolness on her forehead, her face, her hair, her hands—at her temples. Then a twinge of pain in her right ankle and a dull, aching throb in her left shoulder, and she abruptly regained her normal senses. Her thoughts flashed back to the long, tiresome ride, the wind and dust, the bellowing of the stampeding cattle, the crash of the buckboard, Jim being dragged on the ground, the sprain, the shadow above her.
She opened her eyes with an effort to see a man leaning over her, applying a wet handkerchief to her temples, holding a canteen in one hand in which water gurgled. She looked into gray eyes—gray eyes, shot with brown. She saw regular features, strong, clear-cut, and a bronzed skin—hair a shade darker than the color of copper against the gray of a big hat, pushed back from the forehead. She saw white, even teeth, a neckerchief of blue, dark blue silk, perhaps.
“Here, drink some of this.” The voice was a modulated bass, musical in its varying inflections. He held the canteen to her lips and she drank eagerly, watching him the while. When he drew back the canteen, she tried to grasp it, then pouted.
“In a minute,” he promised. And then: “If I had any whiskey, I’d give you a shot of that, but I guess you don’t need it.”
She knew she was lying on the ground, but she felt something cushioning her head. She twisted about and saw that it was a coat. His coat, of course. She saw a big, bay horse standing with bridle reins dangling. She had been on that horse, and so had the man. He had come just in time. She remembered the horseman she had seen riding up from the basin. He was doubtless the same rider, she reasoned. It all seemed clear enough—and plausible.
“Now you can have some more,” came the agreeable, deep voice. “I guess you can have all you want.”
She drank as much as she wished and, with returning strength, smiled up at him. “Thank you,” she said in a faint voice.
He rose to his full length, and she looked with wonder at his neat, glove-fitting riding boots, his leather chaparejos, the heavy belt about his slim waist—and then she started. The pearl-handled butt of a huge revolver protruded from a holster strapped about his right thigh over the leather chaps. Then she saw what made the belt heavy. It held a row of cartridges. It was the first time she had seen a man wear a deadly weapon in plain sight, exposed to the view of any who might choose to look, and he wore it naturally, without concern, as a matter of fact. But there was nothing in his bearing to indicate that he wore it as an ornament. Her gaze ranged upward to the soft flannel shirt that covered his broad shoulders, open at the neck, where the scarf was knotted low. Then she looked at him again and found him surveying her coolly while he fashioned a cigarette in his brown, tapering fingers. He was studying her frankly and, she surmised with resentment, curiously. But why should she resent his critical inspection when she had just subjected him to the same examination? She laughed and raised herself on her hands.
The wind still was blowing, but it was less filled with dust. The cattle were nowhere to be seen. The entrance to the opening in the hills, Lost Cañon, was clear. There was a peculiar stillness, save for the drone of the wind in the endless sage and greasewood. High above the towering hulks of the mountains in the west, billowing white clouds rode the sky like vagrant ships. Crimson spangles strewed the blue with the sunset’s phosphorescence. Streamers of gold wavered like telltale pennants, flinging their reflections to the eastern horizon to crown the lava hills that swam in a sea of color. Her attention was diverted from the glory of the desert sunset as the man snapped a match into flame and held it to his cigarette.
“You’ll be all right now,” he told her. “I must look after your man.”
“Is he . . . badly hurt?” she called as he moved away.
“He’s busted up some, but I reckon he’ll make the grade,” he said over his shoulder.
As he walked rapidly away, Hope rose unsteadily to her feet. She sat down again promptly, for the pain in her swollen ankle was unbearable. She unlaced and removed her shoe. After this operation, which relieved her to an extent, she saw her rescuer returning, bearing a limp burden in his arms. As he approached, she recognized the white face of Jim Crossley, the little driver. She started to cry out, but the man stopped her with a shake of his head.
He deposited his burden near her and put the coat under Jim’s head. It was a hard struggle for Hope to keep back the tears as she saw Jim open his eyes and wince with pain as the man cut the right sleeve of his shirt and felt of the arm. She knew by his look that the arm was broken. With remarkable dispatch the man improvised splints, set the bone, and completed the job of binding it fast with his scarf and the scarf worn by Jim. Then he gave the little driver a drink of water, and she saw Jim whisper to him.
“The horses are all right,” said the man. “I’ll have them up here after I make camp. We can’t start on for the ranch till morning.”
Jim sighed with relief, twisted his head, and beckoned to Hope. She crept to his side, and leaned over to him to catch his words.
“There’s one of your buckaroos,” he said faintly, indicating the stranger.
She looked up at the tall man with a smile, and he motioned her away. But she heard him when he again spoke to Jim.
“Is there anything you want, now, pardner?”
“The devil, yes!” answered the little driver in a stronger voice. “Get that woman out of sight an’ give me a chew of terbaccy!”
Chapter Three
Hope could not help laughing softly to herself as she turned away so that Jim could realize his desire. When she looked at the little driver again, she found him regarding her with a quizzical expression in his mild blue eyes. The stranger disappeared on his horse. The desert twilight came swiftly, and as swiftly the shadows of night descended. When the stranger returned, he was driving two burros, heavily laden. The little animals stood quietly while he removed the packs. They wore no halters, and, when he relieved them of their burdens and the pack saddles, they turned away to graze. He unsaddled his horse, hobbled it, and turned
it out. Then he built a fire.
His movements were methodic, deliberate, but quickly executed, showing plainly that he knew exactly what he was about. He gave the girl an impression of quiet, cool confidence.
Hope felt thirsty and voiced her want. He brought a canteen, unscrewed the cap, and offered it to her. As she drank, she looked up at him—at his clear-cut profile under the wide brim of his hat, in sharp relief against the ruddy light of the campfire.
“Thank you,” she said when she had drunk. “Do you know who I . . . who we are?”
“I know Jimmy, yonder, by sight,” he said casually, screwing the cap on the canteen.
“I’m Hope Farman,” she volunteered. “I’m going to visit my uncle, Nathan Farman, on Rancho del Encanto.”
At this he looked at her sharply with a show of interest. Then his face again became expressionless. He turned back to his tasks without replying.
“Aren’t you going to tell me your name?” she called to him.
He came back and stood over her, apparently in indecision. “My name is . . . Channing,” he said finally with a light frown.
“I’m sure my uncle will join me in thanking you, Mister Channing,” said Hope with a feeling that somehow this man resented having to bother with them.
“Yes, he likely will,” said Channing soberly. “Nate Farman ain’t a bad sort.”
“Oh, you know him?” said the girl eagerly.
“I know him by sight,” was the cool rejoinder.
When he left her again, Hope did not feel inclined to call him back. And Jim Crossley had referred to him as one of her buckaroos. Now that she pondered the matter, she realized that in many ways this man Channing did conform to her conception of a genuine Western man. She felt she was sure he would prove interesting. She wanted to ask him questions. But this wasn’t easy.
Channing undid the packs and put up a small miner’s tent. In this he made a bed and indicated to Hope that she was to occupy it. She demurred, saying that Crossley was hurt and should have the best accommodations.
“You’re hurt yourself, I reckon,” observed Channing.
“My ankle’s twisted, that’s all,” she returned. “It isn’t anything.”
“No, it doesn’t amount to much, but I guess you’re not as used to the outdoors as Jimmy, there,” he said. “It gets pretty cool on the desert this time of year.”
Hope’s chin tilted at this. She had at least expected a show of sympathy for her injury. But instead he had agreed it didn’t amount to much.
He had brought a canteen. “Might be a good thing if you bathed that ankle in cold water,” he said. “I reckon it hurts some.”
She looked up at him gratefully, but he had gone back to the campfire. She bathed the injured ankle, which had swollen considerably. Meanwhile, Channing busied himself at the fire with frying pans and coffee pot and soon the appetizing odors of frying bacon and strong coffee reminded the girl that she was ravenous.
He fed them bacon and beans, biscuits and jelly, and coffee.
Channing made Crossley comfortable with a blanket and the two squares of tarpaulin used as coverings for the packs. Then he again left them, riding his big horse. Hope managed to hobble to Jim’s side. There she sat down on the edge of one of the pieces of tarpaulin.
“You can look and act as mad as you want,” she said severely to the little driver, “but I’m going to ask you some questions. And don’t forget my uncle wrote me he was sending one of his best men to meet me at the station. If that’s you, I expect you to be friendly.”
“I don’t want to be anything else, ma’am,” said Jim with a grin.
The girl touched his good left hand lightly. “I’m sorry you were hurt, Jim. You were foolish to try to hold the horses after the buckboard tipped over, but I know why you did it, I believe. You’re all man, Jim . . . I think that’s a Western saying.”
“Shucks, I just didn’t have sense enough to let loose,” scoffed Jim.
Hope laughed. It was impossible not to like the diminutive driver.
“Jim, who is this man Channing?” she asked, sobering.
Jim shifted on his hard bed. “I reckon that’s a hard question, ma’am.”
“But . . . he said he knew you and my uncle,” said the girl, surprised. “That is, he said he knew you by sight, and surely you must know something about him.”
“Nobody knows much about him,” was the evasive reply. “He keeps in the desert most the time. Wanders around like . . . no place in particular, I guess.”
“But what does he do . . . what is his business, Jim?”
“I dunno. Prospector, maybe. Knows cattle, though. I heard he’d been on a ranch or two on the other side of the mountains. He’s a queer sort of duck.”
“Is he what they call a desert rat?” the girl persisted. “I’ve read of such persons somewhere.”
“No, ma’am, I don’t reckon he is,” said Jim slowly. “A desert rat is an old prospector who’s been in the desert so long he’s forgot how he got there. This Channing ain’t so old, an’ I can’t say as he’s a prospector. I do know one thing for sure, though, an’ that’s that he ain’t no man to fool with.”
“Hasn’t he any home?” asked Hope.
“Well, there’s a powerful stretch of this desert, ma’am, an’ it’s all his home. We’re in his back yard this minute, I reckon.”
“A desert derelict,” murmured the girl absently.
“What was that?” asked Jim.
Before Hope could reply, they heard horses, and Channing emerged from the shadows driving the two grays that had run away ahead of the stampeding cattle. The girl heard Jim grunt with relief and knew he had been worrying about the team. He called to her as she started back toward the tent. “Just wanted you to know, ma’am, I’m right sorry this here all happened!” He raised himself on his good arm. “I didn’t figure on anything like this an' . . .”
“That’ll do, Jim,” said Hope. “I’m from New England, but I’m not altogether stupid. Anyway, it gave me a chance to meet a buckaroo.”
She started to hobble back to the tent slowly and painfully when she was suddenly aware of Channing towering at her side.
“I reckon you’ve just naturally got to be helped,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone.
Then he picked her up and carried her to the tent, put her down just within the small opening, and left without further words. Hope, flushed and flustered, sat staring as he replenished the fire. A sudden pound of hoofs brought Channing to his full height. The girl saw him step quickly out of the circle of light into the shadow near her tent. His right hand had darted downward to rest on the butt of the gun on his thigh.
A rider came quickly into view, checked his horse abruptly, and flung himself from the saddle near the fire. He looked about him and spied Channing. In the few moments before he spoke, Hope had an opportunity to scrutinize him. He was a large man, but evidently of a muscular build. His features were swarthy, his eyes dark, and he had a bristly black mustache. He was dressed much after the manner of Channing himself and wore a gun.
“Whose outfit is this?” the newcomer demanded harshly.
Channing stepped toward him. “Who were you looking for?” he inquired.
“I’m lookin’ for whoever scared them cattle of mine tonight,” snapped out the other. “We’ve been roundin’ ’em up ever since.”
“What’d you start ’em runnin’ down Lost Cañon for in the first place?” It was the piping voice of Jim Crossley. “It took more’n just dust to stampede that herd, Brood.”
The stranger, who Jim had called Brood, strode toward the little driver. “Oh, it’s you,” he said in a sneering tone.
“Yep, it’s me,” Jim retorted angrily. “Me with a broken arm, thanks to you. Runnin’ cattle that way, Brood, ain’t no credit to a foreman.”
“Shut up, you little . . .”
“I don’t reckon I’d be too strong on the language, friend. The third member of this party happens to be a lady.” It
was Channing’s voice, smooth, almost unctuous, and carrying a peculiar drawl.
Brood turned on him with a smothered curse. Then he appeared to see Hope sitting in the opening of the little tent for the first time. He scowled. “Who’s the company?” he asked Channing.
“She hasn’t asked for any introduction to you, as I’ve heard,” replied Channing. “You’re the Encanto foreman. I take it, from what Jimmy there has said. Seems to me you’d be doing better to be looking after your cattle.”
Brood turned his eyes from the girl and surveyed Channing coldly. “If I didn’t know that little runt Crossley is workin’ for Farman, I’d say it was a put-up job,” he said meaningfully. “An’ I ain’t so sure it ain’t.”
“Meanin’ you want to put the blame on me?” called Jim shrilly.
“Meanin’ you’re cavortin’ with tramps who haven’t any business here,” snarled out Brood, thoroughly angry.
Channing stepped directly in front of him, so close that the brims of their hats almost touched. “You including the lady when you mention that word tramps?” he asked in a voice that was deceivingly pleasant.
Brood met his gaze with a glare. “Bah!” he exclaimed. “Someday you’ll get a receipt for meddlin’.”
Channing caught him by the arm as he turned away and whirled him around. The girl caught her breath as she saw the flash in the eyes of the pair.
“You haven’t answered my question,” said Channing sternly.
“An’ you haven’t told me who the company is,” returned Brood.
“She’s Nate Farman’s niece come to visit him,” said Channing after an ominous pause.
Brood stared at the girl with a frown. “I ’spect that lets her out of the tramp class,” he reflected gruffly.
Man of the Desert: A Western Story Page 2