Man of the Desert: A Western Story

by Robert J. Horton

  The invaders swarmed around the captives, and Channing, after a search of all the cabins, gave crisp orders to Sam Irvine to look after the wounded, take the horses in the rendezvous, send for the others, and proceed leisurely to Rancho del Encanto. He called to three men he knew, and the four of them saddled four of the outlaws’ horses and rode up the trail out of the cup.

  On the divide Channing hesitated. He wanted his own horse, Major. But Major was with the other horses on the shelf under the ridge near the hole into the cave. It would take time to go and get him.

  “Can’t do it,” he muttered, and spurred his mount down the divide. They made excellent time, Channing taking chances that perhaps he would not have taken if he had not been in a hurry. He wanted to get to Rancho del Encanto as quickly as possible.

  “Tough luck,” he told one of his companions over his shoulder as they were climbing a hard bit of trail, “not finding Mendicott, I mean. Had a hunch he wasn’t there when we didn’t get a rise out of ’em on the divide last night and when they didn’t come at us pronto in the basin this morning. But he hasn’t left. He’s not that kind. He’d quit the rest of ’em if it suited his purpose. I know him.”

  The sun had barely journeyed halfway in its climb to the zenith when they reached the ranch. Channing slung himself from his horse and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Nathan Farman come to the kitchen door. As the rancher came out, the two girls appeared behind him.

  “Missed him!” Channing ejaculated. “I was afraid he’d come here.”

  “Who you meaning?” asked Farman. “Oh . . . you didn’t find Mendicott? You got into his place?”

  Channing nodded. “Mendicott and Brood and a few others that don’t count were gone. Went out last night. They were clever enough to slip around Crossley. I wonder . . .” His face clouded and his brow wrinkled for a moment. Then his jaw squared again and his face grew stern. “I have an idea,” he said, looking at first one and then another. He smiled at Hope, who looked radiant in the morning sun with her hair of gold and her white dress. Lillian looked beautiful, too. She nodded at Channing with a languid air.

  Then Channing looked again at Nathan Farman. “He wouldn’t leave,” he said slowly, with a peculiar glint in his eyes. “He wouldn’t leave until he’d seen me. Mendicott’s no coward. And he’s wise. He’s seen the game is up. He’s figuring on handing us one more wallop and beating it for good. But first he’ll call on me. I can bank on that call, I reckon, only I’m going to beat him to the front door.”

  He called to Crossley to look after the horses. Then they went out to the corrals and procured fresh mounts. Channing picked the best. He did not see Hope’s horse, Firefly, which was in the stall.

  Hope came out to him. “Wouldn’t you like to take my horse?” she asked. “It’s supposed to be the fastest on the ranch. It’s in the barn.”

  Channing’s eyes glowed as he looked at her. “Nope. I can’t be riding no woman’s horse on this trip. It might kill him.”

  “Are . . . are you going far?” she asked. His insinuations about a meeting with Mendicott had not been lost upon her. She was struck now by the cheerfulness of his manner. Did he know where the outlaw chief was? Was he deliberately going to meet him? Did he welcome that meeting? Her eyes fell upon the butt of the gun on his right thigh. She shuddered and turned away.

  She felt his hand upon her arm. “Don’t worry,” he said in her ear. “And remember those envelopes.” He turned to his work of saddling the horse.

  Five minutes later he rode away from the ranch with his three companions.

  “Uncle!” Hope exclaimed. “There’s going to be trouble.”

  Nathan Farman put his arm about her shoulder. “He can take care of himself, child. Don’t worry.”

  “That’s . . . what . . . he said,” Hope said with a catch in her voice. “But he said something right afterward that makes me think there’s . . . cause to worry.” It was his remark about the envelopes. If Mendicott should kill him, she would have to open them. It was a disturbing thought—the thought of Mendicott as the probable victor.

  Nathan Farman held her off and looked at her. His own eyes held a strange light. “There, there, child, go in the house an’ take his advice an’ mine an’ don’t worry.”

  It was from Lillian Bell that she received the most comfort. “Don’t worry, Hope,” she said. “If he’s going after Mendicott, and I guess he is, he’s going as a different person than you know. Mendicott won’t have no more chance with him than a jack rabbit.” She finished in tones that snapped.

  Hope looked at her in surprise. “How do you mean he’s going different?” she asked, although she believed she knew.

  “He’s going after him a singing devil,” said Lillian fiercely. “That’s the way I like him.” Then, to Hope’s amazement, the girl burst into tears. Hope put her arms around her, but Lillian brushed her away. “I’m silly,” she said with a light laugh. “I’ve always been that way about men . . . when they’ve been devils. Come on, kid, let’s go out and water the flowers.”

  The pound of hoofs came from the entrance to Rancho del Encanto, and a number of horsemen swept up the road to the house. Nathan Farman met them.

  “Why, it’s Sheriff Kemp from Kernfield!” he exclaimed, as the official dismounted. “I reckon you’re too late, Sheriff.”

  “Oh, he’s beat it, has he?” said the sheriff with a frown.

  “Guess he has. They blew up his place up there in the hills this morning an’ didn’t find him.”

  “Who are you talking about, Farman?”

  “Why, Mendicott, of course,” replied Nathan Farman, surprised.

  “Well, I want that man Channing first,” said the sheriff, scowling. “I’ve a warrant for him, an’, when I get him good an’ tight in jail, I’ll think about the other fellow.”

  Hope was listening in startled amazement. The sheriff wanted Channing? He was going to put him in jail? And then she saw a pair of evil black, beady eyes looking at her and recognized Mendez, the Mexican, among the sheriff’s men.

  “I think there’s some mistake, Sheriff,” Nathan Farman was saying coldly. “I’ve no complaint against Channing. You wouldn’t do anything when I asked you to, but he took hold of things an’ did do something.”

  “No doubt,” said the sheriff wryly. “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know,” answered Farman truthfully.

  The sheriff frowned and looked at the girls and Jim Crossley. “None of you know?” he questioned.

  There was no answer.

  “All right, men, we’ll tie up here a piece to rest the horses an’ get something to eat, if Farman here’ll offer us his hospitality,” said the sheriff.

  Nathan Farman nodded, his face dark as a thundercloud.

  The men rode on toward the barn.

  Suddenly the Mexican wheeled his horse and rode back to the front of the house where the sheriff was standing on the porch with Nathan Farman.

  “Channing, he ees maybe gone to Ghost Wash, where he took the cattle,” Mendez suggested.

  The sheriff looked at him thoughtfully.

  “He maybe ees goin’ away with them, or . . . somet’ing,” continued the Mexican.

  “There might be something in it,” pondered the sheriff. “Where is Ghost Wash?”

  “I show you,” said the Mexican eagerly.

  “All right,” snapped out the sheriff. “We eat an’ rest first.”

  Hope had hurried to the front of the house and had heard what Mendez had said. How had he known? A slip of the tongue of one of the men, of course. Yet Ghost Wash would be a practical place to hide the cattle. It was some distance away, protected by ridges, and there was grass there, and white sage, and there was water. She went into the house, stole up to her room, and put on her hat and riding clothes. She had been riding often of late, and no one would think anything of it. The sheriff was after Channing! Somehow she could not bear to associate the word jail with Channing—he who was so essentially of th
e great outdoors. Channing—and jail.

  Her heart beat fast as she went down the stairs and out to the barn. Jim Crossley saddled Firefly willingly and hung the usual canteen of water on the saddle horn. She rode away from the house on her usual route, which led to the top of the ridge across the mesa. There she was accustomed to dismount and pet her horse and think. This morning she did not dismount. She guided Firefly down the ridge and struck north along the edge of the desert toward Arsenic Spring and the black lava hills.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  There was but one consuming thought in Hope’s mind as she headed north. Channing must know the sheriff was coming for him. She did not stop to reason what the sheriff wanted him for, or what it was that prompted her to ride forth to warn him. Her Puritanical instincts of convention were submerged in some instinct more primitive and more powerful. She had acted on impulse—an uncontrollable impulse. She was excited, eager, glad. As she left the ranch behind, the hot breath of the desert smote her. It was veritably a blast from a furnace, for the desert now was the fiery inferno of summer. She turned her head away with a little gasp, but the heat did not deter her. She thought of it only for a moment and pushed on.

  Firefly went ahead at a swinging lope. She had learned the horse’s gaits—learned to ride like a man in the saddle, and learned to love the feel of horseflesh under her. The baked earth was firm, and Firefly had no trouble in picking a path between the clumps of sage and greasewood.

  Hope remembered that Channing had ridden out of the entrance to Rancho del Encanto, and that was positive proof that he was going into the desert. She had no doubt but that Ghost Wash was his destination. Channing had mentioned something about Mendicott’s taking one last wallop at them. What other blow could he deal now than to attack the men with the cattle and possibly steal them? It was logical. There had been logic in Channing’s voice, cool conviction in his eyes. But he must know about the sheriff. Did the sheriff want him for something about which Hope knew nothing? For some deed of the past? For—perhaps—murder? Hope tossed her head. She did not care, she told herself—she did not care! And the realization gave her a thrill.

  She took up the canteen and unscrewed the cap, but she drank very sparingly. She would have to conserve her water. Perhaps, though, she could overtake Channing. If he should see her, he would certainly turn back to meet her. He must have gone that way. It was the way they had gone the day after the escape from the rendezvous. Straight east from Arsenic Spring, that was it. She would hurry to Arsenic Spring and turn east—away from the mountains. She remembered he had pointed out a small pyramid or cone of rock on the far horizon beyond Ghost Wash, which he had called Button Butte. He had used that as a mark. She could use it as a mark, too. And she could take a mark behind her, as he had done, and thus keep in a straight line.

  The heat weighed down upon her. It was almost stifling. It was even more severe for one like herself who was not accustomed to it—who was braving it alone for the first time. But the purpose of her mission gave her courage. At last she saw the ghastly waters of Arsenic Spring. The burning ball of the sun was almost directly overhead, and she was miles from the ranch. She looked into the spring and shuddered. What a mockery in this waterless land for one dying of thirst to find this water, a few swallows of which would cause death. But perhaps it would be a more merciful death than to die of thirst. Instinctively she unscrewed the cap of her canteen and sipped.

  She turned east. Through the shimmering heat waves she thought she saw Button Butte on the dim, hazy eastern horizon. She looked behind and selected a high peak as another mark. She must keep riding toward the butte with the peak directly ahead. In this way she could make Ghost Wash, and there—she had no doubt—she would find Channing.

  She rode on, buoyed up by the thought. The horse now proceeded at a walk, and its head drooped. Heat, heat—heat! The sun hurled it upon the desert and the desert threw it back in a burning glare. Hope pulled her hat down over her eyes. The lava hills to northward were bathed in a slimy-appearing haze, and haze hung in streamers to southward and draped the mountains behind; it seemed in the very air except close at hand, where everything was clear-cut and brilliant, dazzling in its brightness. Hope saw something move, and screamed. Then they had passed around it—a long, blunt-nosed lizard with a pointed tail, yellowish-pink, ugly, repulsive, death dealing. It was the first time she had seen one, but she recognized it instantly by the descriptions she had read and heard—a Gila monster.

  For the first time she wavered. But she soon forgot the incident. It seemed she could think of nothing but the everlasting heat. The air was on fire with the scorching rays of that brazen sun in its glassy sky. She looked for the butte on the eastern horizon and sat up suddenly in the saddle. It had disappeared! She wiped her eyes and looked again and again. No use. Her mark to eastward was gone. She looked around at the mountains. They appeared to have changed, assumed new aspects; she could not for a certainty distinguish her peak—her marker. There was no trace back there of Arsenic Spring.

  She halted Firefly. Her first thought was of water. She took a little. Oh, if she could only drink the whole canteen! She felt she could drink several canteens of water—barrels of it. Tears came to her eyes. She would have to turn back. And Firefly was acting as though dead. The horse wasn’t a desert horse, perhaps. Of course not! Her uncle had no use for the desert, did not go upon it, did not rear horses for it. She would have to turn back. She reeled in the saddle. This brought her sharply to her senses. She would have to use all her will power to endure the heat for even the ride back to the foothills. She marveled that they should appear so far away.

  Then she turned back. There seemed to be thought now only of the heat—of getting back. But she hadn’t proceeded far when she saw horsemen approaching from the southwest. Her interest was awakened. Who—why, the posse, of course! And they were on their way to get Channing.

  Hope halted her horse and waited for them. Firefly drooped and seemed to sleep. The heat waves danced. Already the sun had begun its dip to the west. But Hope had made a resolve. She would go with the posse if it killed her.

  Sheriff Kemp was in the lead, and to her surprise Hope saw that her uncle was with him. She caught a glimpse of Mendez’s leering features, and bit her lip.

  Her uncle appeared stupefied. “Why, child, what are you doing out here? Did you get lost? You shouldn’t ride out on the desert like this. I wouldn’t dare do it myself. One of the men’ll take you back. You . . .”

  Hope managed to laugh while the sheriff looked at her suspiciously.

  “This is nothing, Uncle. I’ve been farther out than this. I often ride on the desert. I was just turning back as you came along, but now I’ll go along with you.”

  “No, indeed,” said Nathan Farman sternly. “You’ll go back, young lady.”

  But Hope was obdurate, although it required all her strength, and her uncle stormed to no avail.

  Finally the sheriff broke in. “If she wants to go, let her,” he said crisply. “We’re losing time.”

  This settled it, and Hope rode on with the posse, which was guided by the Mexican. And now that she was with someone who knew the way, she felt better. The presence of the others gave her confidence. She did not believe she felt the heat so much, although it was there—and it was terrible. She knew now why Channing had laughed when she had spoken of that light heat the time they had ridden together from Arsenic Spring to Ghost Wash.

  The sun was well down in the west when they finally came in sight of the white surface of Ghost Wash from the crest of the west ridge that hemmed it in. It was deserted.

  “The wrong hunch!” cried the sheriff, looking angrily at Mendez.

  The Mexican shrugged, and keen disappointment shone in his eyes.

  The sounds came to them from beyond the ridge on the other side of the wash—the sharp staccato of pistol shots. Hope looked northward and saw cattle running toward the white lake that Channing had called a deposit. She cried out and poin
ted.

  “They’re runnin’ ’em off!” shouted the sheriff. “I thought so.”

  He spurred his horse across the wash with the others following. Hope smiled to herself. So that was what the sheriff thought. He surmised that Channing was stealing the cattle. She laughed aloud as they plunged up the opposite ridge. From its crest a strange sight met their eyes. The cattle were scattering everywhere in the north. Riders were hurrying after them. But there were other men who were lying prone on the ground, and several horses were down. There had been a fight. And there were two other men. Hope cried out again when she saw them. The sheriff swore, and Nathan Farman reined in his horse with a jerk. In a shallow wash or cup in the desert just ahead, the two men were walking slowly toward each other—one from the west, one from the east. They were some distance apart, and were walking slowly, cautiously, each keeping his eyes upon the other. They were not walking as men walk up to each other to extend greeting. On the rim of the cup in the east was a horse with reins dangling. Hope knew that horse. And she knew the man who was walking from the east, with the light of the dying sun in his face. It was Channing. She did not need to look closer at the other man. His horse, too, stood on the rim of the cut—in the west. She knew it was Mendicott.

  The outlaw’s last blow had been struck at the cattle and now the two rivals of the lightning draw were walking slowly to their last meeting—it would mean death to one of them, perhaps both.

  Nathan Farman said something under his breath. The sheriff looked at him and shook his head.

  “No way to stop it . . . now,” said the official. “Maybe it’s just as well this way.”

  Channing’s hat was pulled low over his eyes to shade them from the rays of the setting sun. He slowly began to circle toward the north. As he did so, Mendicott circled toward the south. Even Hope, inexperienced, realized the significance of this. Channing respected his adversary too much to give him the advantage of having the sun at his back, while he, Channing, was looking into it.