She was startled to hear Brood calling to her. He had stopped just ahead, and she reined in her horse.
“We’re goin’ down a tricky piece of trail here,” he said, nodding soberly. “Keep lookin’ at the rocks on the left . . . on the left, understand? An’ let your horse pick his own way.” He waved a signal to the others, and they started on.
Hope was puzzled, but her perplexity lasted only until they turned down the west side of the ridge. The descent was so steep that at times the horses actually slipped along, their shoes striking fire from the smooth rock. On the left was an almost sheer wall of rock; on the right was a yawning gulf, seemingly hundreds of feet deep. The girl held her breath and followed Brood’s advice by looking to the left. She felt that, if she looked down the precipice on the right, she would grow so dizzy she would topple from the saddle. It seemed hours, although it was only minutes that their horses carefully picked their way along that narrow, rocky trail of peril.
Eventually it widened, and the girl breathed deeply in relief. They came down into a basin or cup in the high hills. There was a stream in the basin, and through the pines and firs that studded its steep sides Hope could see the silver flash of a waterfall. The basin was carpeted with rich grass, and horses were grazing there among the cottonwoods, alders, and small firs. She glimpsed a number of small buildings that proved to be log cabins and realized that they had arrived at their destination. It was a natural rendezvous. She suspected that the steep, treacherous trail down which they had come was the only means of entrance to the place. It would not be difficult to defend the retreat against invasion if such were the case.
When they reached the group of buildings among the cottonwoods on the banks of the little stream, Brood signaled them to stop.
“Wait here till I come back,” he said sharply, and rode to a larger cabin up the stream from the others.
He was gone but a few minutes when he galloped back. Hope had seen men near some of the cabins and among the horses, and there was no longer any doubt in her mind but that she was in the mountain hiding place of the outlaw Mendicott. Well, she said to herself with a measure of relief, I’ll soon know what he wishes to see me about.
Brood rode up to her and indicated that she was to follow him. They proceeded to one of the cabins, and there she was asked to dismount. Again she had to accept Brood’s assistance, and, when she was on the ground, he bowed to her and made an exaggerated gesture toward the cabin.
“There’s your quarters,” he said with a grin. “Make yourself right at home.”
She left him, her chin in the air, and entered the cabin. She had resolved to accept the situation with as good grace as possible. Certainly it would do her no good to exhibit fear. Even an outlaw would be likely to admire spirit in a prisoner. She would face every new move calmly.
She was surprised to find the cabin well furnished. The bunk had a clean white spread on it; the table was covered by a runner, hand woven, and on it was a lamp with an ornamental shade. There were white muslin curtains on the single window, a good rug on the floor, a homemade bureau with a mirror, an armchair, and two other chairs. There was a fireplace, too, and closet space. The white chinking between the logs seemed to give it an added air of cheerfulness. It was altogether such a cabin as Hope would never have expected to find in such a place, and she surmised that it was furnished and well-kept purposely for guests. There were even comb and brush and other toilet articles on the bureau. The few pictures on the walls were magazine covers, but they were attractively arranged. There was a white stone outside the door. Neither window nor door was barred, and there was nothing to indicate that it was intended as a place for imprisonment.
Hope frowned in fresh perplexity. Did they intend to let her have the run of the place? Then she remembered the narrow, dangerous trail by which they had entered the basin. It was probably the only entrance and constantly guarded. Therefore the whole basin was a prison in itself. It didn’t add any to her peace of mind to reflect that Mendicott was more than apt to be clever. The fact that he was reputed to be inexorable in his depredations did not necessarily mean that he lacked cunning, or wisdom.
She took off her hat and jacket and made a fresh discovery. On one side of the closet was a washstand with wash basin, soap, a mirror, and a pail of water that was cool, evidently freshly drawn. There were clean towels, also. She bathed her face and hands, drank a glass of water, and felt greatly refreshed, although she was stiff and sore from the many hours in the saddle.
There came a knock at the door, and, when she answered it, she found a man with a tray of food over which was a snowy napkin. He placed it on the table, looked at her for a moment, and went out. The girl was surprised by his appearance, for he looked not unlike an Eastern waiter. He had red jowls, his eyes were mild and blue, he was clean-shaven, and his hair slicked back. But her greatest surprise came when she inspected her breakfast. There were two fried eggs, some sausages and bacon, a plate of hot cakes, syrup, plenty of butter, a pot of steaming coffee, and a little pitcher of pure cream. The china was good, and so was the silver. She couldn’t resist a smile as she sat down to eat. The china and silver undoubtedly had been stolen on a raid, and the food, too, for that matter, or purchased with the proceeds of a robbery. But this did not affect her appetite.
She ate with relish and found the food of excellent quality, splendidly prepared and served. Her respect for Mendicott increased. He was clever enough to feed his men the best, evidently. It was one way of keeping them satisfied and loyal.
After breakfast she went out in the shade of the trees by the little stream. The sun was shining brightly, the pines on the steep slopes were a vivid green, the big meadow was splashed with wildflowers, there were birds and bees, and she saw a herd of cows that looked like thoroughbreds. It was a wondrously peaceful scene. It might have been such a spot as the monks of Switzerland would select for a retreat. It was altogether too peaceful, for its quiet was disturbing. The girl was obsessed by the sense of waiting—waiting for what?
Men passed, looked at her curiously, went on about their business. They were rough-appearing, roughly dressed. None seemed to hurry. She found herself conjecturing what Mendicott would look like. She pictured him as big of body, cruel-eyed, domineering. Wouldn’t he have to be some such person to rule these men with an iron hand?
She saw a rider trotting his horse up the other bank of the stream. Something about his posture in the saddle and his horse appeared familiar. She stepped behind a small fir tree and watched him. As he rode across the stream, she recognized him with an incoherent cry. She gazed after him till he disappeared among the trees in the direction of the large cabin up the creek. Then she hurried back to her quarters and sat on the bunk, staring straight ahead with a baffled expression in her eyes. The rider had been Channing!
When the man came for the breakfast dishes, she roused herself and started to ask a question.
“I am not supposed to talk to you,” he said politely, with a short bow. And he left at once, carrying the tray above his head in best approved style.
Hope Farman sat on the bunk and laughed. But her laughter soon changed to tears, and later she slept.
While she slept, a man strolled to the door, looked in while he rolled a cigarette, then walked away up the stream, smoking idly. Men he met nodded and stepped aside, but he gave no sign of recognition.
Chapter Nine
It was sunset when Hope Farman awoke. She was amazed to find she had slept for a good eight hours. But she felt rested and refreshed, and, after she had bathed her face and hands with cool, fresh water she brought from the creek, she found herself looking forward to the evening meal with real anticipation.
The basin was aglow with the reflected color of the sunset, and banners of crimson and gold hung over the western rim of rock high above the floor of the cup in the mountaintops. She saw some riders go down on the farther bank of the stream, and surmised it was the change of guard proceeding to the trail from the rid
ge.
The long twilight had descended when the man came with her supper. It proved to be another excellent meal, even to a salad, with a pitcher of fresh milk.
She lighted the lamp, closed the door, and ate in quiet seclusion.
After supper her spirits had revived to a point where she was much less worried about her own situation than she was anxious as to her uncle’s fate, and acutely interested in the presence of Channing in the rendezvous. She tried to put thoughts of her uncle from her mind, realizing that under the circumstances nothing could be accomplished by worrying. She speculated at length on Channing. If she were in the retreat of the outlaw, Mendicott, then Channing’s presence could mean but one thing—he was connected with the band.
She remembered he had taken a trail toward the hills when he left the ranch. There was a possibility that he had been taken prisoner by the bandit, perhaps because of his altercation with Brood. She hoped this would prove to be the case, for she did not like to think of him as an outlaw himself, although it would explain the mystery surrounding him. But, if he was not a prisoner like herself, she had only her first deduction as an alternative. And if she were indeed in Mendicott’s camp, why didn’t the outlaw appear and make known the reason for her abduction? Her thoughts were interrupted by a light knock at the door. She rose with quickened pulse and answered it. It proved to be the man for the supper dishes. When he had taken up the tray and was prepared to depart, he turned suddenly. “Is there anything you want?” he asked in the same polite voice he had spoken in that morning.
“Yes, I’d like to ask a question,” she said pleasantly, smiling.
“I don’t think I can answer it unless it has something to do with your quarters or something you want,” said the man uneasily.
“Whose place is this?” she asked.
“Yours for the time being,” he answered, bowing.
“But I mean . . . who has charge here?”
The man merely shook his head and smiled faintly.
“Is it Mendicott’s place?” she persisted. “If you don’t answer, I’ll assume that it is.”
“I’ll answer by saying that I can’t answer such questions and you can assume what you want to,” replied the man with a slight frown. “Now, is there anything you want here?”
“Yes,” said the girl in a tone of resignation. “I’d like to have something to read.”
The man bowed and was gone.
She went outside to find the twilight had deepened into night and the bowl of the sky over the basin was filled with stars. She noticed a man standing nearby, looked at him as closely as she could, and decided she would go back in her cabin. She had a peculiar feeling of confidence that she would not be harmed, but she also suspected she was being watched now that night had come. It was an uncomfortable sensation.
Inside the cabin she made sure the window was fastened and pulled down the shade. The door had a latch, and she found the latch could be secured. This gave her a sense of security, for one to enter would have to make his presence known either by knocking or forcing the door or window. She sat at the table in the soft glow of the shaded lamp. She was restive and not at all sleepy. The table and the lamp reminded her of her home in New England. Then the whole affair seemed incredible—a dream. But the illusion was immediately dispelled by a knock at the door, and, when she opened it cautiously, she found the man with some reading matter.
She thanked him and he departed with a curt: “Good night.”
There were three magazines of recent dates. Hope glanced casually at the covers; she wasn’t sure that she wanted to read. Then she started and stared at a name written on one of the covers. Channing. The name was lettered in a bold hand; it seemed to stand out more forcibly than the flaming illustration and the magazine’s title. She remembered his last message—to think of his name if she were in trouble. She realized with a thrill that she was, indeed, in trouble, and here was his name staring at her, doubtless put there by his hand and intended, perhaps, to convey a message. Had the man who brought the magazines gathered them at random, and chanced upon one belonging to Channing, or had Channing learned of her wish and sent one with his name purposely lettered upon it? It might contain a further message.
She searched the magazine carefully, page by page, several times, but it contained no other written word. Just the name on the cover. But she felt that it had got there by more than mere chance—that he was reassuring her. And it caused her to feel easier, and after a time she did read for an hour. Then she unlatched the door softly, turned down the light in the lamp, and peered outside. She glimpsed the moving shadow before the door and quickly withdrew into the cabin. She had ascertained to her complete satisfaction that she was being watched.
She sat up for two hours more, and then went to bed. Reaction from the worry that had been visited upon her, the continual thinking and puzzling, the loneliness and uncertainty of it all soon asserted itself and she fell into troubled slumber. But she slept until dawn.
It was another wonderfully beautiful morning in the secluded basin. Hope was out in time to see the sun’s first, early rays strike the slopes and cliffs. There had been a heavy dew, and grass blades and leaves gleamed with diamonds. She picked some wild roses that grew in profusion in the big meadow and put them in a glass of water in the cabin.
Her ankle was so far near well that she walked a way down the bank of the stream. The guard who had watched the cabin during the night was not in sight. There were cabins below the one she occupied, and, as she neared one of these, she came suddenly upon Brood. He had been to the stream for water and was carrying a pail filled.
He stared at her a minute and grinned broadly. She started back, then turned suddenly. “Have you heard anything from the ranch?” she asked with a note of pleading in her voice.
“The telegraph ain’t workin’, I reckon,” he replied with a smirk.
“But you must know something,” she said, trying to be pleasant, but unable to keep the loathing out of her eyes.
“I’m not givin’ out any information,” he said, scowling.
“It seems to me you all might be decent enough to tell me who is in charge of this place,” she said, stamping her left foot in irritation. “You have me captive here, and it surely cannot do any harm to tell me who is responsible for it. I’m certain to know sooner or later and . . . if you’ll tell me, I won’t let on as if I knew.”
Brood shook his head. “Can’t be done. Just take it easy. You’ve got things pretty nice, isn’t that so?”
She turned from him impatiently just as a horseman rode across the stream and stopped near them. She saw it was Channing and halted abruptly.
Brood had started back as if he had been struck. He looked at Channing in amazement—astonishment so genuine that it left him open-mouthed, appearing ludicrous. It was all too plain that he had seen Channing there for the first time. And it was doubly mystifying to the girl.
“Go to your cabin,” Channing ordered, speaking to Brood.
Brood’s surprise still held him rooted to the spot.
“Did you hear me? Go to your cabin,” Channing commanded.
His look and tone caused Brood to obey, muttering to himself in wonder.
Then Channing rode back across the stream without so much as a look at Hope, whose spirits had risen only to fall again when he failed to recognize her. It appeared that he was merely ordering Brood to remember the admonition of someone not to talk with her. Anyway, it was now apparent that he wasn’t a prisoner. He was there as a member of the band, perhaps a lieutenant of Mendicott’s.
She walked slowly back to her cabin convinced that she could expect no help from him. She did not relish her breakfast so much this morning. The worry had returned when Channing deliberately ignored her. And how she hated Brood! She never knew she could feel so toward a human being. But he was probably her uncle’s murderer.
Hope walked again that morning, returned for lunch, dozed and read by spells during the quiet, lazy
afternoon. No one visited her. It was nearly maddening—this futile waiting. She tried without avail to get the man who brought her supper to talk to her. She wanted to talk to him about anything, even if he wouldn’t answer her questions. But he was obdurate, and she was left alone, conscious only of the guard pacing outside.
The third day passed the same way, and the girl finally resolved to bring something about by walking to the trail leading out of the basin. She tried this in the afternoon, but was turned back by horsemen before she had reached the lower end of the big meadow. She gave it up and returned to the cabin.
Then she had another idea. She would skirt the trees and get to the large cabin up the stream. In this, too, she was detected and escorted back to her quarters by two men who gave her to understand by their looks that she had been on dangerous ground.
One of the men remained near her cabin, and she realized that her two ventures had resulted only in a guard being stationed over her during the day as well as at night.
After supper she sat, disconsolate and discouraged, by the table. The inaction, loneliness, isolation, doubt, and uncertainty were telling on her. Her spirits were low and she was on the verge of tears when she heard a sharp rap on the door.
She knew it was not the man who served her meals, for he had taken away the tray and bade her good night. It was a different rap, too—a rap that rang of authority. It was repeated before she could reach the door. When she opened it, a man stepped in.
She retreated to her chair by the table as he closed the door, removed his hat, and stood looking at her keenly. He was a small man, sunburned rather than tanned, his face showing the scars left by smallpox. His eyes held her gaze. They gave her a chill. They were cruel eyes, piercing—penetrating. He was dressed in worn riding clothes such as affected by men of the cities, and he wore military boots, a cartridge belt, and a gun.
For some reason she could not have explained, he reminded her of a wasp. “Will you sit down?” he asked. “I want to talk to you.”
Man of the Desert: A Western Story Page 6