Man of the Desert: A Western Story

by Robert J. Horton

“Whose men are those out there?” asked Farman.

  “Mine,” replied Channing crisply. “They’re the best of what’s left of the Yellow Daisy outfit. The Daisy’s glory hole went broke yesterday morning, and they shut down. I was waiting for it, and I grabbed this outfit.”

  “But what’re you going to do with it?” asked Farman, wrinkling his brows. “Oh!” His face lightened. “You’re going to rebuild the dam!”

  Channing shook his head. “Not now. Later sometime. Maybe soon.”

  “Then what are you going to do, Channing?” cried the rancher. “This has gone far enough. I’ve trusted you, halfway at least, an’ given you everything you asked for. It ain’t playin’ square to keep me in the dark this way, an’ I won’t stand for it. You can’t carry on in any such high-handed . . .”

  “Wait a minute,” Channing interrupted sternly. “You called me a tramp, you as much as said I was in with Mendicott, you drove me off your ranch . . . is it so? It is. Now I’ll tell you something. Mendicott wasn’t the outlaw you thought. He pulled lots of his thefts to keep his men good-natured and with him. It gave him a hold over ’em. He’s bad, all right, but he’s smart. He wanted this ranch because it carries the water rights with it . . . understand? I . . . we want it for the same reason, and we’ve got it. Oh, you won’t have to move, you won’t lose your ranch, but you’re going to get down on your knees and bow to the desert, Nate, and you’ll maybe bow to me . . . the tramp and the waster.”

  “He wanted . . . the water an’ . . . you want it?” stammered Farman. “But if you’re not going to fix up the dam, what’s all this outfit for?” The rancher looked about in a daze. “What . . . what’re you going to do?”

  “I’m going to make this part of the country a safe place for women, and miners, and ranchers, and preachers, and gamblers, and everybody but the man who thinks he’s got it roped and hog-tied,” rang out Channing’s voice. “I’ve traveled some with Mendicott because I pretty near had to. I told him to lay off this deal . . . off this ranch and that water . . . and he laughed at me. I hate to be laughed at. Now I’m going to bring Mendicott to time, or I’ll blow him and his gang higher than the mountains where they’re hiding.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Lillian Bell sat in her room, in the soft glow of the shaded lamp, looking about at its quaint furnishings and tapping the table absently with nervous fingers. There was a light, puzzled frown on her face. Hope had received her with apparent joy; Nathan Farman had been most cordial. But Lillian felt she was intruding. It was the last place in the world she had ever expected to visit. Why had Channing brought her there? What had induced her to go with him when she had learned the destination? Her eyes became soft and luminous as she rubbed the old-fashioned, red-and-white fringed table cover. It was like entering a new world—or an old world she had long since left. After a time she went quietly to the door and slipped out into the hall. Hope and Nathan Farman also had gone to their rooms, and it was dark downstairs. She went down, out on the porch, and then walked on the soft cushion of grass in the front of the house. It seemed wondrously quiet to her—this beautiful spot where the desert and foothills met.

  Rounding the corner toward the bunkhouse, she saw Channing in the starlight. She called to him softly, and he came at once. “Channing, what’s the big idea?” she asked.

  “Which idea?” he asked in mock surprise.

  “Don’t play the Willie with me,” she said with a trace of irritation. “Oh, yes, there are two ideas. But first, what’s the idea in my being here?”

  “You didn’t have no place in particular to go, did you, Lillian?”

  “No, but I never would have selected this place.”

  “Well, this place is as good as any, and better’n most. I was coming here, and I didn’t want to leave you back there with that mob. I’ve kind of looked after you, haven’t I?”

  “Yes, and I’ve often wondered why,” said Lillian in a wistful voice. “I guess it’s because you’re always with the underdog.”

  “I wouldn’t be putting it that way,” said Channing. “I’ve always been interested in you. You’re not like other . . . that is . . .”

  “Oh, say it, Channing, old scout,” she broke in. “I know what you mean . . . don’t kick at the way I put it. But it is a rotten way to make a living. This place gives me the creeps. It’s . . . it’s too much like home . . . real home, I mean.”

  “I thought a rest in a place like this would do you good, Lillian,” he said earnestly. “You’ll have a place of your own someday . . .”

  “Don’t start pulling the sentimental stuff, Channing. You know I ain’t that kind. Say, are you really going after Mendicott?”

  “I sure am,” he replied grimly.

  “Well, you’ve got nerve,” she said in a tone of admiration. “But I always knew you two would meet up one of these days. I guess it’s come so soon because you want to help these people out. Channing, are you doing it just because they’re the underdog in this case?”

  He looked at her searchingly in the starlight. “What’re you driving at, Lillian?” he asked.

  “Oh, Channing, it’s no use. You know what I mean. But I figure you’ll play fair.” The girl’s tone was one of resignation. It even hinted of weariness. It subtly conveyed such an impression of loneliness as one becomes conscious of when the wind whines in the naked branches of the trees on a dreary day in late autumn.

  Channing put his hands on her shoulders. “You need a rest, Lillian. Stop thinking so much. You’re with friends here. Go up and go to bed and get a good sleep. The change from that mining camp is going to do you a heap of good. Maybe it’ll start you thinking different.”

  “Maybe you’re right, Channing,” said the girl, turning to go. “In some ways you’re sensible, and in other ways you’re a regular devil. I guess I like the devil best.”

  Hope had been watching from the window of her room. She, too, had felt that peculiar sense of a strange loneliness when she saw them together. It was a feeling that was new to her. She could not analyze it exactly, but it suggested the desert wastes and the solitary figure of a man and horse, the man drooping in the saddle. She marveled at this mental picture. Then a fragment of Channing’s words at the parting with Lillian came to her.

  After Lillian had returned to the house, Hope stole down the stairs. A fragment of song came to her from in front of the house. Channing was singing.

  Last night I was dreaming,

  My love, dear, was dreaming. . . .

  It was a song Hope loved, and he sang it beautifully—with fine feeling. She went out on the porch. Channing saw her at once and came to her. “Isn’t it a little late to be up?” he asked, taking off his hat.

  Hope remembered he hadn’t removed his hat when talking with Lillian. She bit her lip. But, pshaw—Lillian and he were old friends. Doubtless the girl hadn’t expected it. Very likely it wasn’t the custom in Bandburg. But the copper-colored hair exposed in the light of the stars was a compliment to her. “I saw you and Lillian talking,” she said, “and I was wondering if she . . . if everything was pleasant for her here. I . . . we will do anything to make her comfortable and happy.”

  “Oh, she’s all right. Just wondered why I brought her here. I told her you were glad to have her. The rest will do her good.”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Hope, “and we are glad to have her here. I want her to know that.” She paused. “You were singing just before I came out,” she said. “I like to hear you sing.”

  “Well, that’s right nice, Miss Farman. But I reckon it’s too late for a concert and, besides, I don’t sing half good with an audience. I mean . . . I sing worse than ever with an audience,” he stammered in conclusion.

  “You don’t sing half good at any time, Mister Channing. You sing real well. I like to hear you.”

  “Ma’am, you’re plumb full of good words this night.” He bowed quite low in acknowledgment of the compliment.

  “Another reason why I came out,”
she said, “is I wanted to tell you how glad I was to hear what you said to Uncle tonight. But I knew all the time that you were not associated with Mendicott.”

  “Don’t be too sure,” he said, shaking his head. “Remember where you saw me for the second time.”

  “I know,” she admitted. “It was at his place in the hills. But I believe you were there for other reasons than to help him in any of his schemes.”

  “You’re right,” he said after a pause. “I was there to talk and argue about a business deal against my will. But I could have gone there anyway . . . with no business at all.”

  “You can’t mystify me any longer as to whether you’re one of those bad men or not,” she said, laughing softly. “As we say in the East, I have your number, Mister Channing.”

  He appeared puzzled for a spell. “You mean you’re wise to me?”

  “Exactly, so far as your relations toward us are concerned, anyway. No, you still mystify me in some ways. Your singing, your silences . . . I suppose you’ve inherited some of the desert’s mystery.”

  “The desert has no mysteries if you know it, ma’am.”

  “But you can’t readily explain its appeal, can you?”

  “Shucks, you have to fight it to learn that, I reckon.”

  “Do you really like to fight, Mister Channing?”

  “Why, in some ways . . . yes. Yes, I guess I’m just naturally cussed ornery thataway.”

  “I’ve come to feel something the same way,” said Hope, laughing.

  “Then you’re coming to like this country, ma’am.”

  She started. “Why, I believe I am coming to like the country. But it could never take the place of my love for my native state.”

  “Of course not,” he agreed. “But you would like this country in a different way. I was born in the desert south of here where almost every kind of cactus grows. There were lots of paloverdes and mesquite. The hills were green with desert cedar, juniper. Lots of water holes. Pretty as a picture. Here it’s all sage and greasewood, and nothing else. But I wouldn’t want to go back down there to live. I’ve been in here too long. But I like to think of that place down there and it’s got to be with a sort of reverence, I guess you’d call it. It’s hard to explain, I reckon.”

  She was astonished at his simple explanation that was nevertheless so clear. She could come to love this new country, and in time her memory of the green trees and flowers and still waters of her old home would take on the nature of a reverence. “I understand you,” she said finally. “It’s a new way of looking at it, original and convincing. But, now that I think of it, in all the years I lived back there I don’t believe I ever heard one speak so feelingly and display such quiet, abiding pride in their country as you do in yours.”

  “It’s my religion, ma’am.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes filled with wonder. The man was baring his soul, all naturally, unassuming, quite as a matter of fact. “I believe you have a good religion . . . of your own,” she said.

  “You’ve been very kind to believe in me, ma’am,” he said in a low voice. “I’ve learned a lot since I met you, and I reckon it’s all good.”

  “But you believed in me, too,” said Hope, experiencing a little thrill because of the note in his voice. “You had to, to give me the envelopes.”

  “Why shouldn’t I believe in you, Miss Hope?”

  It was the first time he had spoken her first name. Somehow it seemed to draw them closer together. She remembered certain things Lillian Bell had said, and her uncle’s hints. Her cheeks flushed. “I believe I’ll go in,” she said softly.

  “I won’t bother you with any more singing tonight, Miss Hope.”

  “You’re trying to tease me,” she accused at the door. “Well, you can’t do it. You know I like your singing, and, besides, you were singing one of my favorites. It’s called ‘A Dream’ . . . as you know . . . and this is a country of dreams, it seems to me.”

  “I know it is,” he answered. “And it’s getting more that way every day.”

  Hope hurried inside and up to her room. She stood at the window. The moon had come up, silvering the rugged landscape. His religion! Did she understand it? And, in understanding it, did she understand him and her own confused thoughts? Or was she merely bewitched by this land of desert and mountain and characters so new to her?

  From the deep shadow near the window at the front of the hall, Lillian Bell stole silently to her own door and let herself in. She sat down in the chair in the soft glow of the shaded lamp, spread her hands upon the old-fashioned, red-and-white fringed table cover, and rested her face upon them.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The men were stirring long before dawn. Fires were started and preparations for breakfast under way while it was still dark. Channing himself had slept but two hours. The crucial test was soon to come, for the big majority of the men did not know the nature of the expedition. And Channing knew that Mendicott was probably already aware of the fact that some movement was afoot. Brood had ridden out of town with some companions, and it was safe to assume that he was headed for the rendezvous. However, Channing had not hinted of their destination before Brood had left Bandburg. Mendicott might assume it was to be an attempt to rebuild the dam at once. It was probable that he would laugh at the idea of the miners attacking his stronghold.

  Channing conferred at length with Sam Irvine, erstwhile day-shift boss of the Yellow Daisy, and his score of friends, all of whom were his lieutenants. Irvine then singled out a score of powder men and miners and took them aside, with Channing, for a second conference. These men were seasoned, strong, fearless—hard customers, but nevertheless men who were opposed to open outlawry, as were most of the crowd for that matter. An offer of $100 was made to each of them for the work outlined, providing they were ready to engage in any fighting that might occur. Every man accepted. It was then arranged that these men should go ahead with Channing and his friends and Irvine was to follow with the balance. Irvine was to inform the men in his detachment of what was wanted with them after all preparations had been made.

  Breakfast was soon over, the horses attended to, and the work of packing the burros completed just before dawn. The men in Channing’s detachment were taken a distance up the foothill trail, and there provided with revolvers. Half of the rifles were packed on the burros. The other arms were in charge of Irvine.

  Nathan Farman, who had been watching the preparations with excited interest, attempting to assist, but finding no opportunity to do so, now approached Channing as the latter came back down the foothill trail.

  “Don’t I get a hand in this?” he demanded indignantly.

  Channing grinned and put a hand on the rancher’s shoulder. “Listen, Nate, somebody’s got to stay here with the women. Besides, you’re not in any too good shape and haven’t been for some time. I expect if Brood hadn’t sneaked that shot at you, there’d have been the devil to pay around here long before this. You were always a fighter and still are, I reckon. But you’re not in shape for anything like this. Besides, it’s my party, and I want to run it my own way.”

  Farman took his hand and shook it warmly. “You’re a go-getter, Channing, an’ that’s no mistake. I have been at a disadvantage an’ that’s a fact. They’ve had me down an’ almost out. An’ you can’t blame me for being suspicious, sort of, the way things were sizing up. I’m still pretty much in the dark. You’re not hiring these men, I know that . . . or I don’t think you are . . . unless you’ve sold the option.” He looked at Channing speculatively.

  Channing shook his head with a smile. “No . . . not yet, Nate.”

  “Well, then, who in thunder is behind all this?” asked the rancher.

  “Turner and Wescott, owners of the gutted Yellow Daisy, and . . . the desert. The desert’s behind me, too, Nate, don’t forget that.”

  Channing turned quickly as the sound of a horse, descending the foothill trail, came to them. A minute later little Jim Crossley rode up and got off
his horse stiffly. He spoke in Channing’s ear.

  “Nothin’ stirring on the trail yet,” he said in a low tone. “I hustled up there right after you gave the word last night an’ didn’t see a sign of anything doin’. Looks like you have a clear trail.”

  “Good boy, Jimmy,” Channing commended him. “Now do you think you can stand it to guide Irvine and his men to the divide after you’ve had some breakfast and a lot of hot coffee?”

  “Sure thing,” said Crossley quickly. “But I’ll have to have another horse.”

  Channing turned to Nathan Farman. “See that he gets one of the best horses you’ve got,” he instructed.

  The rancher nodded, and Channing took Crossley to Irvine and introduced him. Then the little man went in the house to breakfast and Channing waved to the two girls, standing in the kitchen door. He took Farman’s hand in his strong grasp.

  “They say all ain’t gold that glitters, Nate, but there’re things that don’t glitter that’re gold . . . pure gold.”

  With this puzzling speech he mounted and rode rapidly up the foothill trail.

  The sun was not yet up when Channing started with his detachment of forty-one men into the hills. He rode ahead, followed by his friends and the picked crew. The burros, driven by a grizzled prospector, brought up the rear. They proceeded slowly, in single file. For two hours they proceeded up the trail, and then turned into another trail leading to the right and started due north. This trail widened after a time, and they were permitted to travel two abreast. It led along the crests of ridges and through ravines and fragrant meadows, screened by pines and firs. It was a good trail, and they made good time. Almost imperceptibly it led upward.

  Channing, schooled in hill sign as well as desert sign, rode well in advance. His was the gift of the sense of danger that is often the heritage and attribute of the man whose whole life has been spent following the trails of silence. This day he did not look so much for sign in the trail as for sign that they were being watched, or riding into ambush. He had little fear of the latter, however, for they were not following the trail to the rendezvous.