Man of the Desert: A Western Story

by Robert J. Horton

  A breeze had sprung up from somewhere. It blew its hot breath in the anxious faces of the watchers on the desert ridge. And it brought the notes of a song. Hope’s hands flew to her bosom. Channing was coming toward his enemy a singing devil. And he was singing her song—the one she had told him was one of her favorites. She could almost see his eyes—she imagined—cold, glinting, narrowed eyes, locked with those of his enemy. His clear tenor rode sweetly on the breeze. Mendicott seemed to hunch his shoulders, yet he walked almost jauntily, with just a hint of swagger. Channing was singing a song of love when swift moments would surely bring death from smoking guns. She could see the white pockmarks on Mendicott’s face, his fierce, black eyes, his sneer—the look was burned into her memory, even though she could not see his face. The men were walking more slowly. They were much closer. They seemed to measure each step. The sun made the cup a bowl of gold. Closer. The wind changed and took away the notes of Channing’s voice.

  The watchers on the ridge held their breath. The men were barely thirty feet apart. Mendicott stopped. Channing took a step—another. Mendicott’s right hand darted down in a move swifter than the eye could follow. Hope saw it and gasped with a pain of fear in her heart. A loud report came up to them. She saw smoke at Channing’s hip. There was smoke at Mendicott’s hip. They must have fired together.

  Mendicott leaned back. The gun at his hip spoke again, but Channing stood still. Then Mendicott dropped to a knee. He fired again and fell forward on his face. Channing suddenly went to the ground in a heap.

  With a choking cry Hope spurred her horse down into the cup, rode madly to where Channing was lying, flung herself from the saddle, and gathered his head in her arms.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  It was Nathan Farman who first spoke to the sobbing girl when the posse reached them. He talked to her soothingly as she held Channing’s head against her breast. A stain of red slowly widened on her dress.

  “Let’s look at him,” said the rancher. “He isn’t dead, child. Come, he must have attention.”

  Nathan Farman and Sheriff Kemp made an examination of Channing’s wound. Hope looked on with wide, dry eyes. The others stood about them. Once she looked away from the head in her lap and saw the crimson banners of the sunset flying above the western peaks. Once before she had looked at the sunset from this place—or nearby—and Channing had watched with her. Now . . .

  “He’s hit over the left ear,” she heard her uncle say as if from a distance. “But I don’t believe it’s very deep. It’s bleeding a lot, naturally, but I don’t think it’s serious. Looks to me like he’s just creased.”

  “Well, we better get him over to that cabin where there’s water,” said the sheriff. “Come on, some of you, an’ help us carry him.”

  Hope walked behind them, holding Channing’s head with her handkerchief over the wound. The linen soon was stained a deep red.

  “It was that last chance shot of Mendicott’s that hit him,” the sheriff said. “Channing popped him over the heart first crack. He knew it an’ wouldn’t shoot again. It’s a wonder to me how Mendicott managed to stand long enough to shoot twice afterward.”

  Mendicott was dead then, Hope realized dully. But what of it?

  They spread saddle blankets on the bunk in the cabin and rested the inert form upon it. Hope, cool now, helped them wash the wound with water from the spring.

  “Just as I figured,” said Nathan Farman in tones of satisfaction. “It’s a crease. Just deep enough to knock him out for a time. He’ll come around all right. That boy’s good for many an’ many a hard year yet, I’ll say.”

  Hope’s heart gave a great bound. It appeared to be true. Already the bleeding was checked. She bandaged the wound herself. Then she sat by the side of the bunk while the men prepared a meal from the emergency provisions that were in the cabin.

  Then came the long, desert twilight—and a lessening of heat. Hope ate a little, but refused the hot coffee they urged upon her. Nathan Farman came in and sat down on the bench. He smiled at her with a fatherly look in his eyes. She was bathing Channing’s temples with water. His eyes were closed, the bronzed features immobile, but occasionally his lips twitched as if he were going to speak, yet no word came.

  And suddenly Hope remembered the letters. She felt of the bosom of her dress to make sure they were there. He had said to open them if anything serious happened to him. Should she open them? Wasn’t this serious? She thought for a few moments, and then told her uncle.

  Nathan Farman was surprised, and he, too, thought for a time.

  “Well,” he said finally, “it might be that there’s something we should do while he’s out of business. Maybe that’s what he meant. I guess it’d be all right to open them, Hope.”

  He lighted some of the stubs of candles he found on a shelf, and Hope drew out the envelopes. She opened the first one he had given her. It contained the option on Rancho del Encanto and a note that read:

  If anything happens to me give this option to your uncle and tell him to take it to Turner & Wescott in Kernfield. They will know what to do. I am hiding the cattle at Ghost Wash.

  Channing

  Hope handed the option and the note to her uncle with a smile of joy. Nathan Farman recognized the option with a start of astonishment. Then he read the note and jumped up from the bench.

  “Hey, Sheriff!” he called. “Come here . . . hurry up!”

  When the sheriff hurried in with a look of concern on his face, Farman handed him the option and the note. “Square as a die!” he exclaimed. “Gave the option to my niece in case anything happened to him. He must have got it for Turner an’ Wescott, accordin’ to that, an’ from what he said the other day, what they want are the water rights, or part of it. Tells there what he was going to do with the cattle. An’ you thought he was tryin’ to steal ’em! Square as they make ’em, Sheriff, an’ a danged, all-fired good friend of mine.”

  “I guess you’re right, Farman,” the sheriff agreed. “What’s that other envelope you’ve got, young lady . . . if it’s any of my business.”

  Hope quickly told them about the mysterious filings the day they were in Kernfield, when Channing had taken Crossley and herself to an office in the federal building.

  “Let’s look at ’em,” suggested the sheriff.

  Hope opened the envelope and handed him the papers.

  “Why, these are potash claims!” he ejaculated. “Potash claims on this deposit right up here north. I wonder now if Turner an’ Wescott are interested in that lake . . . an’ what good is it? Too far from a railroad an’ it’d soon be worked out. Can’t understand it.”

  A great light dawned on Hope, and she smiled happily. She told them of the time Channing had brought her to the cabin after the escape from the rendezvous, how she had mentioned the gold of the desert, and he had flared up and told her how many other things there were in the desert besides gold. She had asked him what the lake was, and he had said it was a deposit of potash, borax, and salt. She remembered now there had been a sparkle in his eyes when he had looked at the white lake. “And that’s what it is,” she finished in triumph. “It’s something about that lake with the potash and salt and borax. It must be that Turner and Wescott are going to develop it some way, and that they need the good water that Rancho del Encanto owns. And that must be why Mendicott wanted the ranch. He knew about it and probably wanted to get control of it and sell it at a big price. I’ll bet that’s why Channing was up there in the first place, to talk to him about it. Remember he said Mendicott laughed at him?”

  The question was addressed to her uncle, who was sitting dumbfounded. Nathan Farman nodded open-mouthed.

  “And that’s why Channing put such a big price in the option,” Hope continued. “He wouldn’t tell you all about it, Uncle, because you know you didn’t believe in the desert, and would have made fun of the idea. Why, he told you once he wouldn’t explain because you’d laugh at him. Remember he said he hated to be laughed at?”


  Nathan Farman smiled wryly. “The end of Mendicott proves it,” he said. “Well, girlie, it all sounds sensible enough . . . don’t it, Sheriff?”

  “It does, sure enough,” agreed the official. “And what’s more, he’s benefiting this country in here if he puts over whatever deal he’s got on. I should have known better than to listen to that confounded Mexican’s story about Channing planning to steal the cattle.”

  Hope laughed. Then she put a hand on Channing’s forehead and began to cry softly. But they were tears of gladness. The rancher and the sheriff went out.

  Night settled down and the desert cooled under the stars.

  The men of the posse had been sent north by the sheriff to help gather the cattle. The sheriff now rode north himself. He returned near midnight and told Nathan Farman and Hope that their surmises had been correct. Mendicott and half a dozen of his men, including Brood, had attacked McDonald and the other men with the cattle. McDonald had shot down two of them before he was killed himself. They had stampeded the herd north, and then Channing had arrived. He had gone into the fight and routed the outlaws, all except Mendicott. Then had come the meeting between them. All the raiders had been killed or wounded except Mendicott and Brood. The latter’s horse had been shot down under him, but he himself had disappeared.

  “But we’ll get him,” said the sheriff convincingly. “An’ Channing’s shooting of Mendicott was mighty good riddance . . . a service to the state.”

  “I was afraid they’d get McDonald sooner or later,” said the rancher soberly. “He was marked from the time he shot that man at the ranch. I reckon he knew it, the way he acted at times.”

  Hope was sorry to hear of McDonald’s death, but she had little time to think of it. Channing was stirring and muttering, evidently in delirium. She laved his temples with the water and fanned him. All night she sat at his side. He quieted down in the hours of the early morning, and Hope dozed in her chair.

  When she awoke, she saw the first faint light of dawn through the open door of the cabin. Her right hand was lying on the bunk. She felt a light pressure upon it, looked down at it, and saw that it was covered by Channing’s hand. Then she looked at him. His eyes were open, and he smiled.

  “You’re . . . you’re better?” she said wonderingly, hardly able to realize that he had regained consciousness.

  “Good’s ever ’cept for a headache,” he murmured. “Is . . . there any water . . . handy?”

  She hurried to get him a drink and spread the good news. The men had returned with the cattle and the wounded, and her uncle and the sheriff were already about. They hurried into the cabin after her.

  “Take it easy,” Nathan Farman warned. “No, don’t try to sit up yet. We’ve got to dress that head again. I reckon you’ll part your hair over the left ear after this. He creased you plenty.”

  “Last shot,” said Channing faintly. “Didn’t think . . . he could get in another.”

  Farman nodded. “You’ll have to quit talking, too. Take it easy a few hours . . . all day . . . till we get a chance to move you to the ranch.”

  But Channing improved so fast that it was impossible to keep him quiet. He insisted on eating something and drinking two cups of strong coffee. His wound apparently had had no effect upon him except to knock him unconscious and leave him with a severe headache when he came out of it. He appeared cheerful, and by noon was sitting up and talking.

  He listened while they told of opening the envelopes and what they had deduced from the contents.

  “You’re about right,” he affirmed. “I’ve had a claim on that lake up there, and the rest of it was held by some of my friends and Brood and Mendicott. I got Turner and Wescott interested in the proposition for a potash mill . . . potash, borax, and salt are the products . . . and they were agreeable to take a chance if I could hand over claims to the whole lake and get some of your water. Mendicott got wise to it and that’s why he wanted the ranch. He couldn’t have made it stick, but I wanted to put the deal over myself, anyway, so I went into it. I’d have stuck to Rancho del Encanto anyway after . . . after meeting Miss Hope, here.” He smiled at Hope, and she flushed as red as the desert dawn. “I didn’t explain to you, Nate, because I wanted to surprise you, and then I didn’t want to give you a chance to laugh at me. I wanted to prove everything first.” Channing laughed in delight while the rancher put his tongue in his cheek. “Those filings of Miss Hope’s and Crossley’s are on what was supposed to be Mendicott’s and Brood’s claims. But they never recorded them, nor even staked them out. They were too blamed sure of themselves to take the trouble. Turner and Wescott’ll do business now. I knew they would when their Yellow Daisy glory hole petered out. I couldn’t get the men an’ supplies till that happened. Then I got the men and stuff from Bandburg. They’ll give you an’ interest for some of the water, and I believe I know how to get into that stream that flows out of the basin where Mendicott had his headquarters. That’ll about double the supply and give Turner an’ Wescott enough for drinking water and such for the mill, and you enough for your stock and crops. Anyway, we’re going to have the mill. If Mendicott could have gotten the ranch, he’d have had the water rights with it, of course, and could have asked almost any price.”

  The sheriff rose and stood over the wounded man.

  “What do you want, Sheriff . . . my gun?” asked Channing. He made a move toward his empty holster.

  “I don’t want your gun, darn it,” sputtered the sheriff. “I want your hand.”

  * * * * *

  They started back in mid-afternoon. Channing had insisted on getting up, and the others realized that his superb physical condition and iron constitution had mitigated the seriousness of his wound. He complained only of a headache. Instructions were given to the Encanto men to drive back the cattle. The seriously wounded were men left in the cabin, with two others to look after them. The spring wagon was to be sent to take them to the ranch in the cool hours of the early morning. A man was given careful instructions as to the trail, and was dispatched to Bandburg for the doctor, who was believed to be still there.

  The sheriff, Nathan Farman, Hope, Channing, and two others were in the party that started back for the ranch. Mendez was found missing that morning, but none commented on the fact.

  The sun was down behind the western mountains, and the peaks were running red when they came in sight of Arsenic Spring. They checked their horses of one accord and stared ahead.

  A figure was reeling in the desert, falling, rising, clawing at the air—the figure of a man.

  “It’s Brood,” said Channing calmly. “Tried to make it on foot, lost his way, and the sun got him . . . the sun and the thirst. He’s been digging at the ground. I can tell by the way he acts. He’s tearing off his clothes. It’s the last stage.”

  It was indeed Brood. All recognized the big form of the man even at that distance. And he was tearing off his clothes—staggering, clutching at the air, feeling of his swollen, blackened tongue, croaking in his dry throat, no doubt—always getting back at his clothes.

  They rode on at a faster pace. Brood’s coat was gone, so were his shoes and shirt and hat.

  “Doesn’t know what he’s doing!” Channing called. “Delirium . . . it’s the end.”

  There was no malignity in Channing’s tone, no hatred or contempt—only pity for one who could not fight his battle with the desert and win.

  “He’s making for the spring!” cried the sheriff.

  They all saw that he spoke the truth. In his delirium, Brood’s feverish gaze had caught sight of the mocking water. Reason was gone. He fell upon his knees and crawled—crawled inch by inch.

  They shouted in an effort to divert his attention and increased their pace. But they could not cover the distance in time. Brood wriggled on the hot floor of the desert till he had gained the edge of the stream, and buried his face in the ghastly water flowing from Arsenic Spring. As they reached him his body gave a convulsive shudder, and was still.

  Ch
apter Thirty-Eight

  They were mistaken in thinking that Channing had successfully shaken off the ill effects of his wound. He was swaying in the saddle before they reached the ranch, and that night he tossed and talked incoherently in the throes of a wild delirium.

  The doctor came from Bandburg in the morning and attended him and the wounded men who were brought to the ranch shortly after daybreak.

  Sam Irvine had brought the captives and wounded from the rendezvous, and the former Yellow Daisy men made camp in a big meadow below the shattered dam, according to orders that had previously been given by Channing. The sheriff and his deputies remained at the ranch all that day and that night. Mendez had disappeared—gone for good, it looked like.

  Both Hope and Lillian Bell watched over Channing. All day the fever raged and that night it subsided as quickly as it had come.

  “Reaction as much as anything else,” the doctor grunted. “He’ll be up and around as good as ever in three days. Lucky that bullet didn’t cut an eighth of an inch deeper.”

  Quarters for the wounded were arranged in the barn, and the doctor remained at the ranch. Next morning the sheriff started for Kernfield with the prisoners. He carried a message to Turner and Wescott dictated in a weak voice by Channing.

  Lillian Bell announced her intention of going to the county seat in one of the wagons conveying the less seriously wounded of the outlaws. Hope opposed this vigorously, and so did Channing.

  “No use, folks,” said Lillian, “it’s too dull for me here. I’ve passed the home, sweet home stage. I’ve got to be looking around for a new location.”

  “But there’s going to be a big camp here,” Channing protested. “We’re going to rebuild the dam, and then the work on the buildings for the potash plant will start, and . . .”

  “Not my kind of stuff, Channing,” said Lillian with an impudent shrug. “I’ve got to have pay dirt in mine . . . gold . . . that’s me. I’ve lived in the camps too long.”