The horse breathed slowly, dropping his head and closing his eyes, and the man sat thinking, trying to fill his soul with the beauty of the desert and crowd out the longings that had pressed upon him.
Then he raised his head and said quietly, “Lord, You know what this loneliness is. You were lonely, too. It’s the way You chose. I’ll walk with You, and it will be good!”
He sat for a moment with his face toward the sky, until his features were touched with a tender light, changing sadness into peace. Then with his old cheerfulness he turned to the matters at hand.
“Billy, it’s time we’re getting on,” he told his horse. “We’re due at the fort tonight if we can make it. We had too much vacation, and now we’re spoiled and lazy. But we have to get to work. How about it? Can we make it to that waterhole in half an hour? Let’s try, old fellow, and then we’ll have a good drink, a bite to eat, and maybe ten minutes for a nap before we take the short trail home. You have some of that corn chop left, so hustle up, old boy, and get there.”
With a snort Billy responded to his master’s words and carefully picked his way over boulders and rocks down to the valley below.
But within a half mile of the waterhole, the young man halted his horse and dismounted. Something gleaming in the sand beside a tall yucca had caught his eye and held his attention. It might only be a bit of broken glass from an empty flask flung carelessly aside, but he must see.
He stooped down as the sun glanced off a bit of bright gold on the handle of a riding whip. Picking it up, he turned it in his hand. How did the whip get there? he wondered. It had to belong to a woman and a wealthy one at that, as far removed from this scene as possible, for the people of that region didn’t carry such dainty whips. Set in the end of the handle was a single clear stone of transparent yellow, a topaz likely, he thought. That had probably caught the light and his attention. Looking closely, he saw a handsome monogram engraved on the side and made out the letters H.R. But that told him nothing.
He lingered, one foot in the stirrup, the other still on the desert, surveying the elegant whip. Now who would be so foolish as to bring a thing like that into the desert? No lady riders were anywhere about that he knew, except the major’s sister at the military station, and she was given to simple accessories. This wasn’t hers, and tourists seldom came this way. What did it mean?
He sprang into the saddle and scanned the plain, but only the warm shimmer of sun-heated earth appeared. Nothing living could be seen. What should he do, and how could he find the owner and restore the lost property?
Soon they arrived at the waterhole. Brownleigh dismounted, his thoughts still on the little whip.
“It’s very strange, Billy. I can’t figure out a theory that suits me,” he mused aloud. “If someone’s ridden out this way and lost it, will that person return and look for it? Yet if I leave it where I found it, the sand might drift over it, or someone might steal it. Surely, in this sparsely settled country, I’ll hear of any strangers who might have carried such a foolish thing. Well, I guess we’ll take it with us, Billy. We’ll likely hear of its owner somewhere.”
The horse answered with a snort of satisfaction as he lifted his moist muzzle from the water’s edge and looked contentedly about.
The missionary unstrapped his saddle and flung it on the ground, unfastening the bag of corn chop and spreading it before his companion. Then he gathered a few sticks and started a small blaze. In a few minutes the water was bubbling in his folding tin cup for tea, and a bit of bacon was frying in a skillet beside it. Corn bread, tea, and sugar came from the capacious saddle pockets, and the two travelers had a good meal beneath the bright sky.
After Billy finished the corn chop, his long lashes drooped, and his nose hung down until it almost touched the ground. But his master, stretched at full length on that same ground nearby with his hat drawn over his eyes, couldn’t sleep. His thoughts were on the jeweled whip. He reached over for it and, shoving back his hat, watched the glinting of lights in the topaz, as the sun caught and tangled its beams in the sharp facets of the cutting. One reads life by details in that wide and lonely land, and this might mean something. But what? he wondered.
At last he dropped his hand and sat up, saying aloud with an upward glance, “Father, if there’s any reason why I should look for the owner, guide me.”
He spoke as if addressing someone present in his consciousness, with whom he was intimate. Then he stood up and, with a lighter heart, packed his things in the saddle, for he knew the burden was no longer his to bear.
They were soon on their way again, Billy swinging along with the realization of the nearness of home.
The trail now led toward hazy blue lines of mesas with crags and ridges here and there. Across the valley, looking like a cloud-shadow in the distance, lay a long black streak, the line of the canyon gorge. Its dim presence seemed to grow in the missionary’s thought as he drew closer. He hadn’t been to that canyon for over a month.
A few scattered Indians lived there with their families in corners where there was little soil. The thought of them drew him now. He must visit them soon. If Billy hadn’t traveled so far already, he’d go up there this afternoon. But the horse needed rest if the man didn’t, and there was, of course, no real hurry. He could go in the morning. Meanwhile it would be good to get to his own fireside and attend to a few letters that should be written.
He was invited to the fort that night for dinner, honoring some visitors from the East. He’d promised to come if he reached home in time, and he probably would. He’d rather read and go to sleep early, and in his present mood the festivities at the fort didn’t appeal to him. But such opportunities were infrequent in this lonely land. It meant a ride of ten miles farther, but of course he’d go.
He mused over the whip again and in due time arrived at his own home, a one-room shanty with a chimney at the back and four large windows. At the extreme end of the fenced enclosure about the structure stood a shed for Billy, and all about was the vast plain dotted with bushes and weeds, with its panorama of mountain and hill, valley and gorge. It was beautiful, but desolate. His few neighbors lived at great distances.
“We should have a dog to welcome us home, Billy,” said Brownleigh, slapping the horse’s neck affectionately as he dismounted. “But then a dog would go along with us, wouldn’t he? So there’d be three of us to come home instead of two, and that wouldn’t do any good. How about chickens? But the coyotes would steal them. I guess we’ll have to get along with each other, old fellow.”
The horse, relieved of his saddle, shook himself, as a man might stretch after a weary journey, and trotted off into his shed. Brownleigh made him comfortable and turned to go to the house.
As he walked along by the fence he caught sight of a small dark object hanging on a sagebrush not far from the front of his house. It moved slightly, and he stopped to watch, thinking an animal might be hiding in the bush. It seemed to stir again as watched objects often will. Brownleigh climbed over the rail fence to investigate. Nothing in that country was left to uncertainty. Men liked to know what was around them.
As he neared the bush, however, the object took on form and color. Coming closer he picked it up and turned it over clumsily in his hand. It was a velvet riding cap, with the name of a famous New York costumer worked in silk letters in the lining. It doubtless belonged to a woman, for a long golden hair still clung to the velvet. His face flushed with embarrassment, as though he were handling someone else’s property too intimately. Then he raised his hand to shade his eyes and search the landscape, in case the owner might be near. But even as he did so, he knew the velvet cap belonged to the owner of the whip which he still held in his other hand. H.R. Where was H.R., and who could she be?
For some minutes he stood thinking, locating the exact spot in his memory where he found the whip. It wasn’t on any regular trail. That was strange. He stooped to see if there were any further evidences of passersby, but the breeze had stirred the sand over
any definite marks. He was satisfied, however, after examining the ground for some distance either way, that only one horse passed. He concluded this by certain things he saw or didn’t see.
As he was turning back to his cabin he stopped again, exclaiming, for at his feet, half hidden under a bit of sage, lay a small shell comb. He stooped and picked it up.
“I declare—I have quite a collection now,” he said aloud. “Are there any more? With all these clues I may find her after all.”
He searched the ground for several rods ahead, then went back and took a slightly different direction. He searched again and again, looking back each time to the direction where he found the whip, arguing that the horse must have taken a fairly straight line at a rapid pace.
He was rewarded at last by finding two shell hairpins and near them a single hoofprint that, sheltered by a heavy growth of sage, had escaped the wind’s effects. This he knelt and studied carefully, taking in size, shape, and direction. Then, finding no more hairpins or combs, he carefully put his loot in his pocket and hurried back to the cabin, his brow furrowed.
“Father, is this Your leading?” he asked, pausing at the door. Then he opened it and stepped inside. The restful atmosphere beckoned to him.
A wide fireplace stood at one end of the room with the wood ready for the strike of a match and the pleasant blaze that would dispel the loneliness of the place. An easy chair, his one luxury, with its leather cushions and reclining back; his slippers on the floor close by; the small table with its well-trimmed lamp, his college paper, and a magazine still unopened—all spoke of rest. The magazine kept him in touch with the world and had arrived just before he left on his recent trip.
Yet when he laid the whip on the magazine, the slanting ray of sun through the open door captured the glory of the topaz, and somehow the magazine lost its power to hold him. One by one he laid the womanly items down beside the whip—the velvet cap, the comb, and the hairpins—and then stepped back, startled, glancing about his bachelor cabin.
It was more pleasant inside than its weather-stained exterior would lead one to suppose. A Navajo blanket hung on one wall above the bed, and another covered the bed, adding color to the room and an air of luxury. Two rugs of Indian craftsmanship lay on the floor, one in front of the bed, the other before the fireplace, and hid the ugly floor’s discrepancies.
A rough set of shelves at the side of the fireplace held treasures from great minds, all his well-loved books he could bring with him: a few commentaries, an encyclopedia, a biography, a few classics, books on botany, biology, and astronomy, and a much-worn Bible. On the wall above was a large card catalog of Indian words, and on the other walls some of his own pencil drawings of plants and animals were displayed. At the opposite end of the room from the bed was a table covered with a white oilcloth, and the cupboard on the wall behind it held his dishes and provisions. A crude closet against the wall contained his clothes, trunk, and other supplies.
Everything was pleasant and neat. He liked to leave his cabin in order in case someone entered during his absence or came back with him. And he found it more pleasant to return to it that way.
He looked about it now and then let his eyes travel back to those feminine articles on the table beside him. It gave him a strange sensation. What if they belonged there? What if their owner lived there and was coming inside in a minute to meet him? How would it seem? What would she be like? He reached out and touched the velvet cap and then took it in his hand and smoothed its surface. A faint perfume from another world seemed to steal from its texture and linger on his hands. He drew a breath of wonder and laid it down.
Then with a start he came to himself. Suppose she did belong and was outside somewhere. Suppose something had happened to her—the horse ran away or threw her, or she might have strayed from camp and lost her way or been frightened?
These might be foolish fantasies of a weary brain, but the man knew he couldn’t rest until he’d at least tried to find out. He sank down in the big chair for a moment to think it out and closed his eyes, making swift plans.
Billy must rest first; a tired horse would accomplish little if the journey was far and haste was needed. He’d wait an hour and meanwhile make preparations. He must repack the saddlebags with feed for Billy, food for himself and a possible stranger, and a simple remedy or two in case of an accident. He always took these with him on long journeys. He considered taking his camping tent, but that would mean the wagon, too, and would slow them down. He mustn’t load Billy heavily, after the miles he’d already come. But he could take a bit of canvas strapped to the saddle and a small blanket. Of course it might be only a wild goose chase. But he couldn’t let his impression go unheeded.
Then there was the fort. In case he found the woman and restored her property in time, he might still reach the fort by evening. He must consider that also.
Soon he had his small baggage ready. Then he bathed and put on fresh clothing. Clean-shaven and ready, all but his coat, he laid down on his bed and relaxed for ten minutes, after which he felt fit for the expedition. He put on his coat and hat, gathered up the items he’d found, locked his cabin, and strode out to Billy with a lump of sugar in his hand.
“Billy, old fellow, we’re under orders to march again,” he said apologetically.
Billy answered with a neigh, submitting to the saddle as though ready for anything needed.
“Now, Father,” said the missionary with his upward look, “show us the way.”
So, taking the direction from the hoofprint in the sand, Billy and his master rode into the westering light of the desert toward the long, black, shadowed entrance of the canyon.
Chapter 3
The Desert
Hazel’s hair streamed in the wind, whipping across her face and eyes. Her breath came painfully, her eyes smarted, and her fingers ached in the viselike grip she was forced to keep on the saddle. She wondered just how long she could hold out. She felt as if she must let go and be whirled into space while the tempestuous steed sped on and left her.
She had never experienced anything like this. A horse ran away with her once, but that was a cradle to this tornado. She’d been frightened before but never like this. The blood pounded in her head and eyes until she thought it would burst forth, and its surging through her ears gave her a sensation of drowning. Without reins she was helpless to direct or even control her horse. It was like being on an express train with the engineer dead in the cab and no way to reach the brakes. They must stop sometime, and what then? Death seemed inevitable. Yet as the horse rushed madly on, she almost wished for death to end the horrifying ride.
It seemed hours before she realized the horse was no longer going at such a breakneck speed. The mad flying had settled into a long lope. He evidently had no intention of stopping and was heading to some distinct place as straight and determined as any human being ever laid out a course and forged ahead on it. Something about his whole beastly contour showed it was useless to try to turn him aside from it.
When her breath came less painfully, Hazel made a fitful attempt to drop a quiet, soothing word into his ear.
“Nice horse, good horse!” she called. But the wind caught her voice and flung it aside as it had flung her cap a few moments before, and the horse only laid his ears back and kept on.
She gathered her forces again.
“Nice horse! Whoa!” she cried a little louder.
But the horse had no intention of “stopping,” and though she repeated the command many times, her voice becoming more firm and normal, he only kept doggedly on his way.
She saw it was useless, and tears, usually for her under control, streamed down her pale cheeks.
“Horse, won’t you stop?” she cried, and her words ended with a sob.
The desert fled about her; yet it seemed to grow no shorter ahead. And the dark line of clouds, with the towering mountains beyond, were no nearer than when she first started. She felt almost as if she were riding on a rocking horse, neve
r getting anywhere; but no rocking horse flew at such speed.
Suddenly she realized the pace had slackened, and the horse’s motion wasn’t as hard. If she weren’t so stiff and sore in every joint and muscle from being so tense, the riding wouldn’t have been all bad. But she was weary and longed to drop down on the desert sand and rest.
She could hold on now with one hand and relax the muscles of the other a little. With that hand she tried to do something with the hair that whipped about her face. She managed to twist it about her neck and tuck the ends into the neck of her riding habit, but from this frail binding it soon slipped free again.
She was conscious of the sun’s heat on her bare head and her eyes smarting. The pain in her chest was subsiding, and she could breathe freely again.
How soon would her father and brother miss her and hunt for her? She’d started somewhere between here and the mountains behind her. When she dared, she looked in that direction, hesitant at first, then lingering. But all she could see was the same stretch of distance with mountains in the boundaries everywhere—not a living thing except her and the horse. And the sun shone steadily, hotly down and shimmered back again from the bright earth, and nothing broke the awful repose of the lonely space. It was as if she’d suddenly been caught up and flung out into a world where no other living being dwelt.
Why didn’t they come after her? Surely she’d see them coming soon. Then she recalled that her father and brother were ahead and out of sight for some time before her race started and wouldn’t know she was gone at first. But of course Mr. Hamar would do something; he wouldn’t leave her helpless. Years of trusting him assured her of that.
The Man of the Desert Page 2