The cloth of gold above the purple hulks of the mountains, where the sun had disappeared, silvered. The sky blushed a faint pink that deepened into crimson till the peaks ran with the red blood of the dying day. Higher and higher into the great arch above flared the vermilion fires. Then they wavered, pennons of gold broke through, appearing like spangles on a carnival robe, lengthening into streamers, drifting on a sea of fading red. The desert was pink, and blue, and amethyst—spotted with tints of orange. Then the skies grew lighter, admitting the faint violet tones that betray the twilight.
Hope drew a long breath and looked about her. To northward she saw what appeared to be a lake of silver in the waste of sage and greasewood. She looked along the ridge and saw Channing standing, his hat pulled low over his eyes, staring into the west. He had been watching the sunset, and he appeared to the girl to be symbolic of the silent majesty of the desert. He approached her and she greeted him cheerily.
“I’ve got two more questions, Mister Channing. Will you please answer them?”
He frowned at the challenge in her eyes. “You seem to be made of questions, Miss Farman. What are they? I won’t promise to answer ’em.”
“Some birds flew over my head,” said the girl. “I was wondering what they were.”
“Desert doves, ma’am. They breed here and then go away. They’re about due to leave now.”
“And that sheet of silver up there in the north, Mister Channing?”
“That’s a deposit,” he said, gazing toward it.
“A deposit? A deposit of what?”
“Potash . . . borax . . . some salt,” he said casually.
“Is there any gold around here, Mister Channing?” asked the girl with interest.
“Gold!” he said with a snort. “That’s all most folks who come to the desert think of . . . just gold, gold, gold. Why, there’s more silver than gold. And hundreds of other things. There’s a man down below the line in Arizona who has a soap mine. He sends that soap clear to India because the Hindus, or whatever they are, won’t use soap with grease in it. You’ll see plenty of gold in Bandburg from the Yellow Daisy glory hole, but that isn’t all they find in this country.”
He appeared so vindictive about it that she forbore questioning him further. They walked back to the cabin in the twilight. He took the tarpaulin and a blanket and spread them for himself behind some trees.
“If there should be . . . anything bother you in the night, call me,” he told her. “I’m a light sleeper. You better get all the sleep you can for we’ve got another hard ride tomorrow,” he added almost gruffly.
Hope retired to the cabin after bidding him good night. She was tired, but sleep did not come readily. It was still rather warm in the cabin and she left the door open.
She slept fitfully. Once when she woke and looked through the door at a patch of sky alive with stars, she saw the unmistakable form of Channing on the ridge, and knew he was keeping vigil.
Chapter Fifteen
When Hope woke in the morning, she heard Channing singing. He was not singing opera this time, but humming homely ditties of the cow camps and other native airs. She was not so much interested in the quaint wording of the songs as in his voice, which was undoubtedly an excellent tenor.
The sun was rising when Hope came out of the cabin and greeted him. He barely nodded to her in response, and she felt piqued, but she tossed her head and went to the overflowing spring for water. On her way back she stopped near him. He was bending over the little fire where he was getting breakfast. His hat was off and she noted that the luxuriant, copper-colored hair was combed. Finally he looked up inquiringly.
“I see your hair is combed,” she remarked, pushing back her own tousled strands.
His face broke into an amiable grin. “You wouldn’t think of using my comb, would you, ma’am?”
“I might, if it were offered to me.”
He went to his coat and took the comb from an inside pocket, handing it to her gravely. “I haven’t got a looking glass, ma’am.”
“I’ll try to make out without one,” said Hope, and retreated into the cabin.
I must be a sight, she thought. Well, what difference does it make? Nobody around but him, and he doesn’t care, and I wouldn’t care if he did. But she took a great deal of care with her hair, just the same. At breakfast she asked him why the place was called Ghost Wash.
“Man died of thirst within twenty feet of that water hole,” he explained. “The old desert rats think his ghost walks here.”
“The rats here must be quite smart, if they can think about such things,” said Hope.
“We call an old prospector a desert rat,” Channing replied smoothly.
“I believe I saw the ghost walking on the ridge last night,” Hope observed quietly.
He looked at her quickly. “Didn’t you sleep, ma’am?”
“Did you?” she parried.
He shrugged and went on eating.
“I bet you stayed up all night,” she accused. “Do you think they will come after us here?”
“Dunno. That outfit doesn’t know the desert any too well . . . that is, this part right in here. They’re better acquainted with the southern part where the towns are.”
“But . . . Mendicott knows it all, does he not?”
Channing scowled. “Miss Farman, you’d make a good lady lawyer if there is any such thing.”
Hope’s laugh echoed in the cabin. “Mister Channing, you have a way of ignoring questions that answers them,” she said lightly. “But I certainly have learned lots about the desert from you. How long have you been in this country?”
“I was born here,” he said simply.
Something in his tone caused her to look at him quickly. Was he proud or ashamed of the fact? Or was he reproving her in some way? There were many times when he was too deep for her, and that made him all the more interesting.
After breakfast Hope attended to the dishes while he packed the sacks. When everything was packed away, he stood up. The sunlight grew fainter and he looked quickly at the sky.
“Dog gone!” he exclaimed. “We’re in for a storm.”
Hope looked up and saw a large black cloud riding down from the north. Elsewhere the sky was clear.
“I guess it’ll only be a shower,” she remarked.
“That’s all,” he said. “Just a shower, ma’am. I’ll have to tie the jack.”
He left and came back shortly leading the burro. He tied the little animal behind the cabin where there was a shelter roof.
“I thought you said that animal could take care of itself,” said Hope.
He looked at her curiously, started to reply, changed his mind, and hurriedly carried the packs, saddles, bedroll, and bridles into the cabin.
“Any burro’s liable to stray in a storm,” he said when he had finished. “I don’t want to have to go out and hunt him up. It’s natural with ’em.”
The huge, black cloud raced down upon them, obscuring the sun. The desert took on a weird, saffron-tinted haze, and then darkened. They stood in the little green plot before the cabin watching. Hope looked at the sides of the ridge that formed a crescent about the dry lakebed and saw that they were corrugated. There were deep gullies leading into the wash. The storm signals reminded her of the fact that there was water in the draws and dry riverbeds of the desert at times.
It grew darker rapidly as the cloud came overhead. Then the storm broke. There were no preliminaries—only a very short period of sprinkling. As they stepped back into the cabin, the heavens opened and the world was suddenly gray and filled with water. The rain came in a deluge. In a very short interval the water was rushing down the sides of the ridge and into the gullies leading to the lakebed. Another interval and these gullies were roaring torrents, pouring into the lake that began slowly, almost imperceptibly to rise.
Hope had heard of the wild ferocity of the sudden storms occurring in the desert. She was seeing one for the first time. Its violence amazed and ap
palled her. It was a veritable cloudburst. She looked at Channing, who grinned at her. “Nice little shower!” he shouted above the uproar of rushing water and pound of the deluge on the roof.
“How long will it last?” she called.
He threw up a hand in a gesture signifying that he didn’t know.
The flood now came racing down past the cabin. The horses were plunging about, restricted by their hobbles. Channing watched them through the doorway. Hope went to one of the windows and looked down into the wash. She estimated there was a foot or more of water in the lakebed. She could hardly believe what she saw with her own eyes; it was an extraordinary contrast to the heat and customary aridity. In a remarkably short time the downpour began to slacken, the rain fell with less force. And then, as if by magic, it ceased.
They went out on the sodden grass plot. The cloud rolled on and the sun shone again on the desert. The air was cool, stimulating—amazingly clear. The mountains to westward seemed miles nearer and were sharply outlined against a cloudless sky. There was a haze in the south where the storm was sweeping on. Water still poured into the wash from the gullies, but this stopped by the time they were ready to start. It was a lake of white.
They rode around the wash below the ridge and were nearly at its lower end when Channing, looking back, cried out in surprise. Hope looked back and saw three horsemen on the other side of the wash. They were making gestures that she took to be hostile. She looked askance at Channing. He was frowning, urging the burro to a faster pace. She knew by his look and manner that the three riders were pursuing them. That could mean but one thing. Some of the outlaws had discovered their means of escape and had taken the trail.
She looked again across the wash and saw an interesting sight. One of the men had pushed into the lake. His horse slipped and fell, sending its rider headlong into the water with its white surface of alkali. He got to his feet and made his way back out of the wash, the horse following him. Hope could see him gesticulating to the others who were pointing around the wash.
She heard Channing indulge in a short laugh. “They want to go around and he wants to cut across,” said Channing. “I hope he does. Lot he knows about that stuff. It’s slippery as greased ice in there.”
The two mounted men continued to argue with the man on foot, and the latter finally stepped into the wash and slowly started across. The water was about up to his knees. He made slow progress but would be in range of the fugitives before the others, if he intended to shoot. The others proceeded to gallop around the wash.
Channing turned toward the ridge, driving the burro as fast as he could, which was at a fast walk. Major swung in behind his master with Hope. When they had climbed a gully a short distance up the slope of the ridge, they found a projection of the hard, baked earth. Channing drove the burro in behind this. He got down and swiftly removed the packs and pack saddle. Then he mounted and led the way back down the ridge.
“We may have to run for it!” he called to Hope. “If we do, just hold on as tight as you can and Major’ll carry you.”
The two riders coming around the draw were almost in range. The man who was crossing through the water was about a third of the way across. The fugitives had to make the lower end of the ridge ahead of the two horsemen to gain the open desert, for the sides of the ridge here were too steep for their horses to scale. Channing put the spurs to his mount and the horse broke into a gallop. Hope’s horse did likewise, and she clung to the saddle horn as they dashed for the end of the ridge. Then they heard the sharp reports of guns and lead whistled over their heads. The shots came from the man in the wash. Hope’s heart was in her throat as she saw Channing look across at the man and draw his gun. There was something about the man in the wash that struck her as familiar. She looked fixedly at the big form outlined against the white surface of the lake and started with surprise. It was Brood, or else she was very much mistaken.
If it was Brood, why wasn’t he at the ranch trying to close the deal for its sale? The man in the wash stopped shooting and put a hand across his eyes as if dazed. She heard Channing laugh again.
“He’s going snow-blind!” he cried.
Hope saw that this might be the case. The sun was dazzling white on the surface of the lake, whiter and more brilliant than it could be shining on snow. She saw the man stop and start to grope about. There was no further danger to be expected from him then. But the other two horsemen were coming around the lower end of the wash at a furious pace. Channing looked back at Hope.
“Hold him in!” he shouted, checking his horse until the girl could get a tight rein on Major. “Hold him back all you can.”
Then while Hope held the horse she was riding with all her strength, Channing spurred his mount and dashed ahead. She saw flecks of white float back from the oncoming riders and the dull echoes of shots came to her. Then she saw Channing veer to the left. His right hand and arm went out and his gun spoke—once, twice, three times. Hope gasped as one of the approaching riders lurched in his saddle, then fell forward on his horse’s neck and was thrown to the ground. He lay motionlessly while the horse fled with reins flying. The other rider checked his pace quickly, turned, firing as he did so, and started to retreat. Channing shot three times more and the fleeing rider forced his horse to a mad gallop, running around the wash.
Hope had brought Major almost to a stop. She could see the man in the wash standing helplessly, trying to shade his eyes from the terrific glare of the sun on the white surface of the water. She heard Channing calling to her and saw him beckoning. She rode swiftly toward him.
“We’ll leave the burro and hit for Bandburg,” he told her, setting a stiff pace.
When they reached the end of the ridge, she looked back and caught a glimpse of the hostile rider dismounting at the edge of the wash on the farther side. Evidently he was going into the wash to bring out Brood, or whoever it might be, who was helpless.
They rode around the end of the ridge and Channing headed east toward a low range of black hills. They reached these in an hour and took a path that led across them. On the east side of the hills they again turned south, preceding at a sharp trot.
“We’ll get to Bandburg quicker without having to bother with the jack,” Channing told her.
Hope nodded in reply. She was sore from the ride of the day before, and the swift riding had been a hardship. Again she sweltered and gasped in the intense heat of the desert. Channing continually twisted in his saddle to look back. His face was grim, his eyes narrowed. The girl wondered if he had killed the man who had been shot from his horse. She shuddered at the recollection of Channing’s merciless marksmanship. This, then, was the way of these wild spirits. It did little good to take into consideration the fact that he had shot while protecting her escape. She suspected that the time required to get the man out of the wash, and for the two to ascertain how badly their companion had been hurt, would give Channing and herself sufficient of a start to enable them to reach Bandburg before they could be overtaken. She did not want to see another gun battle.
Shortly after noon they came to an oasis in the desert. There was little shade, and very little green about the spring, but there was water. Channing stopped here.
“We’ll water the horses and eat a cold bite,” he said. Then he laughed. “I mean we’ll water the horses,” he amended. “We won’t eat no cold bite because it’s in the pack sacks, and they’re a piece behind.”
“Will you get them back?” she asked. “And how about the burro?”
“Maybe I’ll pick ’em up later. The jack’ll mosey along into Bandburg. He knows enough for that.”
When they were ready to resume the journey, he turned to her. “I ain’t asking you to promise anything, Miss Farman,” he said seriously, “but you don’t need to say any more about all this than you want to. I mean about our getting away up there and what’s happened afterward.”
“You mean you don’t want me to tell Uncle when I see him?”
“No, I don’
t mean that. I don’t care what you tell your uncle. I mean . . . when we get to Bandburg. You don’t have to promise not to say anything, and I don’t know as if it’d make much difference. Well, we’ll let it go at that.”
“I’ll say nothing to anyone except my uncle,” she promised.
She thought he favored her with a look of admiration as he helped her into the saddle, but she wasn’t sure.
Late in the afternoon they crossed a granite ridge and dropped down into the desert mining town of Bandburg.
Chapter Sixteen
Bandburg was a typical boom camp, although it had one very well-established mine, the Yellow Daisy. It was built on the side of a barren hill and its one main street was steep and short, but studded with buildings on either side. Cabins and shacks and tents perched upon the side of the hill above the street, and also below it. The street was thronged and a strange medley of sound came from the numerous resorts that lined the thoroughfare. Channing led the way along the side of the hill below the street until he reached its upper end. He pointed out the famous Yellow Daisy, above town, where the sun struck saffron gleams from the sides of a great hole in the hill.
“They’re taking out ten million in gold up there,” he told her.
At the upper end of the street they rode up to it, crossed it, and picked their way between cabins and shacks till they reached one lone cabin that was higher on the hillside than any of the others. Here he reined in his horse and spoke to her in a low, earnest voice.
“I’m bringing you to the one place in Bandburg where I’m sure you’ll be safe, Miss Farman. You can depend upon being safe here till I come back for you.” He dismounted and started for the door of the cabin. “I reckon Lillian’s still asleep, but we’ll sure have to wake her up.”
Before he had a chance to rap on the door, however, it was opened and a flaxen-haired girl appeared. Hope saw that she looked at her at once. The girl was pretty, and had baby-blue eyes. She was larger than Hope and wore a blue gingham dress with a blue ribbon band around her head.
Man of the Desert: A Western Story Page 10