Man of the Desert: A Western Story

by Robert J. Horton

  “Good night, Brood,” said Channing evenly.

  Brood, apparently on the point of making a hot retort, caught himself with an effort, looked at Channing narrowly, and swung on his heel. In another moment he was in the saddle and his horse galloped away, cruelly spurred. Channing’s laugh carried after him.

  Long after the fire had died and all sounds had ceased, Hope Farman lay in the little tent and puzzled over the quality of that laugh.

  Chapter Four

  In the morning Hope was awake in time to witness the desert dawn, and saw the sun come up blood red on the far eastern horizon across countless leagues of saffron-colored wastelands, spotted with the never-ending sage and greasewood, presenting a panorama so vast and weirdly beautiful that it caused her to catch her breath in awed wonder.

  Channing already was getting breakfast. He paused in his work over the fire and looked at her curiously before he nodded good morning.

  He brought her water for her makeshift toilet. “How’s the ankle?” he inquired perfunctorily.

  Hope displayed the swelling and smiled at him.

  “It’ll take a few days for it to come around,” he said with a shrug. Then he grinned boyishly in a way she liked. “You got quite an introduction to the country,” he observed. He sobered as she laughed, and returned to his duties at the fire.

  Hope could see no sign of the cattle. Jim Crossley called to her in a cheerful voice, and she asked him about his arm.

  “I ain’t goin’ to have it cut off,” he replied laconically as Channing brought their breakfasts.

  When they had eaten, Channing broke camp, bringing in the burros and packing his outfit on their backs. He saddled his own horse and strapped blankets on the two grays that had drawn the buckboard.

  “Your vehicle’s a wreck,” he told Jim. “The harness is pretty well broken up and we’ll have to leave Miss Farman’s trunk here to be sent for. We haven’t got any way to pack it, and it’s not so far to the ranch.”

  Jim nodded and looked at Hope, who smiled her consent and approval.

  “You and I’ll ride the grays,” Channing was saying, speaking again to Jim. “There’s halters and bridles for both of ’em and we can take it easy. You can make it all right. Miss Farman, you can ride my horse.” He turned to Hope and indicated his splendid mount.

  The girl looked at the tall animal, champing his bit impatiently, and felt a tremor of doubt. But Channing read her thought and shook his head.

  “He wouldn’t be any too gentle with a strange man, maybe,” he said in a tone of assurance, “but a woman can handle him like he was a kitten. Maybe that’s because he sees so few of them,” he added as an afterthought. Then he helped Jim mount one of the grays and came toward her. Her right ankle had swollen so that she couldn’t put on her shoe. He noticed it at once. “You won’t have to put that foot in the stirrup,” he told her. “We’ll walk the distance an’ Major rides like a rocking chair.”

  “I have a riding habit in my trunk,” Hope suggested.

  “Sure enough!” he exclaimed. “You ought to have riding clothes on, and that’s a fact. We’ll go up that way where your trunk is and you can get your outfit.”

  With that he picked her up and put her side-fashion in the saddle. Hope gathered her skirts about her, picked up the reins in her right hand, grasped the horn of the saddle with her left, and sat looking straight ahead, her face flaming.

  Channing mounted the other gray, started the burros out, closed in after them with Jim following, and Hope’s horse struck along in the rear of its own accord. Thus they proceeded to where Hope’s trunk reposed on the ground. There they halted, and Channing helped her to dismount.

  “Jim and I’ll ride over that ridge ahead and wait till you call us,” he said. “You can slip on your riding outfit and be all set for the trip.”

  When they were gone, Hope quickly opened the trunk, took out her riding habit, donned it, put her dress in the trunk, and called. Channing and Jim came riding back and soon they were on their way again. Hope rode man-fashion in the deep stock saddle and let her injured right ankle swing freely.

  From time to time Channing looked back at Jim and herself. But they had no trouble. They rode for nearly two hours before Channing called a halt for the first rest. He brought out a canteen and they all drank. The sun was mounting, and Hope thought this day was warmer than the day before.

  She mentioned this to Channing, and it brought a quick response from the man. For the first time he smiled in genuine mirth, his teeth flashing white against his bronzed skin, his gray eyes laughing. “Ma’am,” he said slowly, looking at her with a quizzical expression, “this is downright cold to what’s coming. This is winter. Summer, when it comes, will come in a day, and then . . . well, Miss Farman, then it’ll be warm.”

  He concluded rather grimly, she thought. It was as if he was making a promise, rather than stating a fact or prediction. She remembered much of what she had read of the desert, and she looked at him with more respect as she realized that here was a man who knew the desert—the inferno—who laughed in the face of its menace as he braved its perils and fought it. She wondered why? A derelict of that land of desolation, what did he see in it? What was there so acute about the mystery that shrouded him? Was it merely because he was the first of his kind she had met? She accepted the last deduction as the most plausible and resumed the journey, feeling less concerned about him.

  They stopped more frequently as the day wore on, and then, in the late afternoon, they turned suddenly up a ridge, and, when they gained the crest, Hope cried out in glad wonder. There was water somewhere ahead, for there were trees—tall, stately trees, from which little fluffs of white were drifting on the breeze.

  Jim Crossley was looking back at her with a wide grin.

  “Cottonwoods,” he called, “an’ pines higher up! We’re comin’ to the ranch!”

  They descended the west side of the ridge into a wide cañon up which they rode. Then they came to the water—a thin trickle of stream that gradually widened up the cañon. They now were in the trees, and higher up on the slopes Hope could see the stands of pine—great, green steps that led up the mountains. The cañon widened, and they came out into a great plateau—a mesa. Below the mesa, on the east, separated from it by the ridge they had crossed, lay the desert. On the west the foothills ranged up to the mountains. The great, level space was carpeted with green grass, and irrigating ditches ran through it. Many of the ditches were lined with red, desert willows, and there were clumps of cottonwoods and alders. The road followed the stream that flowed straight across the mesa, and midway the length of the fertile plain stood the ranch house and other buildings, nestling under a magnificent growth of towering cottonwoods.

  As they approached it, Hope saw that it was built of stone, and it looked substantial, cool, and inviting with a wide verandah on two sides. Flowers were blooming below the verandah, and there was a tamarack hedge, a brilliant band of pink and green, on either side of the branch of the road leading to the front of the house.

  A man came out on the verandah as they drew up. When he saw Hope, he hurried out to greet them, but his look of welcome was tempered by anxiety and perplexity.

  “Is this Hope?” he boomed as he hurried toward her horse.

  “Yes,” said the girl cheerfully, “what’s left of me. I would know you anywhere, Uncle Nathan, although I haven’t seen you since I was a little girl.”

  “What happened?” he asked as he helped her from her horse and kissed her. He looked questioningly at Jim Crossley and Channing.

  “I guess you’d better tell him,” said Channing to Jim. “Do you want to sit on the porch while I put up the horses?” He helped Crossley down.

  Nathan Farman stood staring at the little driver’s right arm in the sling. The rancher was a large man, gray of hair and mustache, blue-eyed, of medium height and square of chin. He wore gray clothes, a huge, high-crowned hat, and was collarless. As he looked at Crossley, then at Channing a
nd Hope, little lines appeared at the corners of his eyes and he appeared to squint.

  In a few words Jim Crossley explained what had happened.

  “Sit down on the porch,” Nathan Farman commanded. “Missus McCaffy . . . oh, Missus McCaffy!” he called. He gave Hope his arm and helped her toward the steps to the verandah. “My dear child,” he said to her, “I wouldn’t have had anything like this happen for anything. I’ll look into it, you bet, I’ll look into it right an’ proper. Oh, Missus McCaffy, take my niece here into the house. She’s been hurt an’ I’ve got to find out about it. Be careful, Hope . . . there.”

  A large, florid woman had come out of the house. She came toward Hope, who had gained the verandah, with arms outstretched. “You poor dear,” she said in a mannish voice that hinted of a brogue. “I was worrying my brains out. I always said that little shrimp would get himself busted up an’ kill somebody else the way he drives.” She looked at Jim Crossley in distinct disapproval.

  “But it wasn’t his fault,” said Hope, coming to the little man’s rescue. “It really couldn’t be helped, Missus McCaffy, and I’m not much hurt.”

  She had surmised at once that the big Irishwoman was the housekeeper at Rancho del Encanto. As they went inside, she saw her uncle bending over Crossley, who was talking in an undertone. Channing was taking the horses around the house.

  “Sit right down here,” said Mrs. McCaffy, putting her in a large chair in the cool living room. “I’ll get the arnicy an’ have the swelling in that ankle down in no time. Just don’t you worry. You’re home, dearie.”

  She hurried out of the room, and Hope looked out the door to where the pink of the tamarack hedge showed vividly against the green of the grass in front of the house. Already she felt a sense of comfort. The big room was home-like. Mrs. McCaffy she had liked the moment she had seen her and heard her speak. Rancho del Encanto—the ranch of enchantment. She believed she knew why it was so named.

  She saw Channing come up on the porch. He passed out of sight, and the low hum of voices came to her ears, but she could not distinguish what was being said. Then Mrs. McCaffy returned and began to treat the injured ankle, indulging in a vast amount of talk, meanwhile, and adroitly drawing out the story of what had taken place from the girl by clever questioning.

  “That Brood!” she exclaimed. “I never did take to him much. I bet he did it on purpose!”

  “Why . . . why should he do anything like that?” asked Hope in amazement.

  “Oh, he’s queer,” said the housekeeper. “There’s a lot of ’em around here that’s queer. They’ve been queerer than ever this spring.” The housekeeper paused in her work of bandaging the sprained ankle. For a few moments she looked out the door. “There, dearie, that’ll fix your ankle in no time. It’s a wonder an’ a blessing that you didn’t get killed.”

  Hope heard her uncle’s voice raised on the porch. The tone implied that he was angry. Channing appeared at the top of the steps.

  “You’re staying to supper, I reckon,” she heard her uncle say.

  “I hadn’t figured on it,” Channing replied.

  “Then you better start figuring powerful quick, for it’ll be ready in half an hour, an’ I’m expecting you to stay,” said Nathan Farman.

  The two of them left the porch with Jim Crossley between them.

  “Missus McCaffy,” said Hope impulsively, “is there liable to be any trouble because of me . . . because of what happened?”

  “Don’t you worry about any trouble,” said the housekeeper. “How could there be any trouble because of you, dear? As for that, there’s liable to be trouble any time in this country. Your Uncle Nate is just naturally mad over this business, what with you coming West for the first time and his wanting you to have a good time. You can’t blame him.”

  “This man Brood, Missus McCaffy . . . he is Uncle’s foreman, isn’t he?”

  “He is that, an’ so far’s you an’ me is concerned he’ll be doing well to stick to his cows.”

  “But last night . . . last night,” said the girl in a worried voice, “he came to where we were camped in the desert and had some words with Jim and Mister Channing. He seemed to blame us because the cattle ran away.”

  “He’s got his nerve,” responded the housekeeper. “I guess he didn’t know who you was, Miss Hope. He’ll soon find out for keeps. But Brood’s queer. I don’t like a man with his kind of eyes.”

  “Missus McCaffy, if he is Uncle’s foreman, why should he want to have trouble with Jim, or anybody else working on the ranch?”

  “Child, there’s things I know an’ things I don’t know,” said the housekeeper, throwing up her hands. “Usually I can guess at what I don’t know an’ come pretty close to hitting the nail on the head. But this spring my guesser has been worked overtime, an’ I’ve given up. The best thing for a woman on a ranch to do is take things as they come, especially if she’s to have any peace of mind. If you try to figure out what the men are thinking an’ doing in this country, an’ why, you’ll go crazy. Now I’ll show you to your room an’ you can get ready for supper. If there’s one thing Encanto is noted for, it’s its table, an’ I don’t mind saying it a bit.”

  Hope laughed with her as the housekeeper helped her upstairs.

  Chapter Five

  If Nathan Farman’s welcome to his niece had seemed somewhat perfunctory upon her arrival at Rancho del Encanto, it was due to the fact that he was intensely interested in the accident and its cause. He made up for it in abounding measure when Hope came down to supper. They sat in the living room for a time talking of the East, of John Farman, who had been Hope’s father, of Nathan Farman’s last trip to New England years before when Hope’s mother had died. He had wanted to bring her West then, but she was too young. Only once did Hope’s uncle speak of his own misfortune in losing his wife, but the girl could see that he still felt his loss and that he hungered for his own kin.

  “I’ve sent Carlos with a team to get your trunk,” he told her, “an’ the Mexican will have it back here before morning. It was pure luck you wasn’t killed, child.” His face darkened.

  Hope remembered the shadow over her as she stood before the onrushing cattle, the arm that grasped her, the play of muscles beneath leather chaps, and smiled. “No, I don’t think it was all luck, Uncle Nathan. And if there was any luck, it was in Mister Channing’s arriving when he did.”

  Her uncle nodded absently. “I know . . . Crossley told me.”

  “And Jim was a hero, Uncle,” said Hope enthusiastically. “He did the only thing he could do, and he held onto the horses till he was knocked unconscious.”

  “Jim’s a good ranch hand,” said Farman dryly. “We’ve got his arm fixed up best we can. The nearest doctors are in the county seat on the other side of the mountains an’ in Bandburg, across the desert. Both places are too far for him to ride for a few days yet. I’ll send him to Bandburg soon’s he’s able to travel, I reckon. We’re sort of isolated here. El Encanto is the only ranch in a hundred miles or more. There’s the supper bell. Let’s go in.”

  There were four places at the long dining table. Nathan Farman placed Hope at the right of his seat at the head. Mrs. McCaffy stood behind her chair at the foot, so to speak, of the table, and the place at Farman’s left was unoccupied.

  “Where’s Channing?” he asked Mrs. McCaffy.

  “Hasn’t answered the bell,” said the housekeeper.

  She had hardly spoken when Channing entered from the kitchen.

  “I was shaving,” he said soberly, and took his place while Farman regarded him curiously.

  Mrs. McCaffy had not understated the facts when she had said that Rancho del Encanto set a good table, as Hope soon discovered. She told the housekeeper so and Mrs. McCaffy beamed.

  “We live tolerably well,” she said. “I’d’ve left this god-forsaken spot long ago if it wasn’t for your uncle flattering me about the cooking.”

  “It’s one way I keep my men,” said Farman to Hope. “Whe
n a man on this ranch makes an especial good showing some way, I invite him to eat in the house. Once he eats in here, he’s tryin’ for another such meal from then on.” The rancher laughed loudly and looked quickly at Channing. “If I could get you to settle down here, I might let you eat in the house right along,” he said, chuckling.

  “It’d be worth considering,” Channing commented.

  “Then we’ll consider it!” exclaimed Farman, striking the table with his palm. “You come on here an’ that place is yours as long as you stay.”

  Channing’s white teeth gleamed against his tan. “I’m afraid I can’t be so lucky,” he said slowly.

  Channing’s look and tone had been a bit wistful. Nathan Farman appeared provoked. “Don’t you figure on settling down sometime, Channing?” the rancher asked.

  “I reckon we all have hopes,” replied Channing with a faint smile, “but Old Man Time keeps his finger in the pie.”

  “Yes, an’ time’s going on right along,” Farman observed with a frown. “Channing, you’re a waster. You ought to be making a future for yourself. You’re a regular desert tramp. I can’t see anything in the desert. I never could. I hate it. I want grass an’ water an’ I’ve got ’em both. You can make a future for yourself right here on grass an’ water if you want to, my boy, an’ you’re a fool to go on like you are.”

  Channing raised his eyes slowly to look into Farman’s. “Your future is built on cattle, Nate, so far’s you know. Isn’t that so?”

  Farman nodded. “You can build yours on the same thing,” he said.

  “Where would your cattle be if it wasn’t for the bunch grass and the white sage?” Channing drawled out. “The desert supplies that.”

  Farman put down his knife and fork, looked at him searchingly, and shook his head. “You’re hopeless,” he said. “The desert’s got you.”

  “I’m not complaining,” said Channing with a swift smile at Hope. The girl was puzzled by the look in his eyes, by something his tone implied but did not reveal, by the adroitness of his replies and his apparent tolerant disdain of Nathan Farman’s offer and opinions. Her uncle had called him a waster. Did he then lack ambition? Was he content to be a derelict?