For an instant she forgot the cause of her flight. Then suddenly she remembered with a sickening thought. He’d been a hero to her, suffering daily through a wife’s carelessness and lack of understanding, but he stepped down from his pedestal and became the lowest of the low. He dared to kiss her! He said he’d marry her—he, a married man! Her whole soul revolted against him again, and now she was glad she’d run away and the horse had taken her so far, glad she showed him how terrible the whole thing had seemed to her.
She was even glad her father and brother were far away just now, until she adjusted to life once more. How could she face them after what happened? How could she ever live in the same world with that man again? How could she have thought so much of him? She’d almost worshipped him and was so pleased when he seemed to enjoy her company and complimented her! And he’d meant—this—all the time! He’d looked at her with that thought in his mind!
Hazel closed her eyes and shuddered at the memory of his voice and face. Tears ran down her face as she sobbed aloud. Her head bowed lower over the horse’s neck; her hair fell down about her shoulders and beat against the animal’s chest and sides as he ran; her stiffened fingers clutched his mane to keep her balance. The girl’s weary form drooped over his neck in growing exhaustion, while her entire being alternated between waves of anger, revulsion, and fear.
Perhaps all this had its effect on the animal. Perhaps somewhere within lay a spot, call it instinct or whatever, that responded to the distress of the human creature he carried. Or perhaps he simply grew tired. For he slowed his pace, until he was walking and finally stopped. Then he turned his head about with a neigh.
She was startled not to be moving anymore and clutched the horse’s mane even tighter, frightened by the vast spaces about her, the loneliness of the spot and her own desolate condition. She had wanted the horse to stop and let her get down to solid ground. But now she didn’t dare. As the tension in her nerves and muscles lessened, however, she felt as if she couldn’t sit up any longer and must lie down. Perhaps then her body would stop trembling all over.
The horse turned his nose toward her again with a snuff and a snort. Then a panic seized her. What if he started to run again? She’d surely be thrown this time, for her strength was almost gone. She must get down and take hold of the reins. Then she might hope to guide his movements and prevent any more wild riding.
Slowly she took her foot out of the stirrup and slipped to the ground. Her cramped feet refused to hold her weight, and she fell. The horse then sidled away from her and began cropping the grass hungrily.
The girl sank down at full length on the ground and for a moment felt as if she’d never rise again. She was too weary to lift her hand or move the foot that was twisted under her into a more comfortable position or even think. Then suddenly the sound of the animal moving away roused her. She must secure him or he might get away, leaving her helpless in this vast desolation.
She gathered her flagging energy and stood up, despite the pain in her feet. The horse was several yards from her, moving slowly as he ate. He lifted his head restlessly now and then to look off in the distance and take a few steps before stopping for another bite. He appeared to have something on his mind and was heading toward it, without a thought of her. She must look out for herself. She’d never had to do that before, but the instinct came with the need.
She stole toward him, plucking a handful of grass and holding it as she used to hold a lump of sugar or an apple for her finely groomed mare in New York. But the grass was like all that about him, and the horse wasn’t raised a pet. He tossed his head as she drew near and stepped away a pace or two.
Cautiously she tried again, talking to him gently. “You’re a good horse, a lovely horse!”
But he only edged away.
And so they continued until Hazel almost despaired of catching him. At last, however, her fingers touched the loose reins. She felt the horse’s quick jerk, strained every muscle to hold on, and won. He was in her hands. For how long was a question, for he was strong enough to drag her off, and she knew too little about managing him. Furthermore, her muscles were so sore from the long ride that she could scarcely cope with the beast. She dreaded getting on his back again. But it seemed the only way to stay with the horse or get anywhere, for she couldn’t hope to detain him by mere physical force if he decided otherwise.
She stood beside him for a moment, looking about her. Everything looked alike, yet different from anything she’d ever seen before. She must certainly get on the horse’s back, or she’d never find safety. The desert frightened her unreasonably.
Turning to the horse, she measured the space from the ground to the saddle and wondered how people mounted without a groom. Milton Hamar’s strong arm had helped her swing into the saddle that morning, and his hand had held her foot for that instant of her swing. The memory of it sent another shudder through her. If she’d known then what she did now, he never would have touched her! The blood rushed into her face and made her conscious of the heat of the day and her burning thirst. She must get water somewhere. She couldn’t stand this much longer.
Securing the reins over her arm, she reached up and took hold of the saddle, doubtfully at first and then desperately. She tried to reach the stirrup with one foot, failed and tried again, and struggled in vain to climb back into the saddle. But the impatient horse, with a toss of his head, reared, almost throwing the girl to the ground.
Desperate, she struggled up again and almost gained her seat, when the horse began to circle her, making her dizzy with trying to keep up with him.
Twice she lost the reins and had to get them again by stealthful means, and once she almost gave up in utter exhaustion.
Finally he lifted his head, stood stock-still, and let her struggle up his side. For a moment she sat there, astonished she’d made it. She decided to stay on his back until she reached safety. But the horse started off at a rapid pace, nearly upsetting his rider and almost causing her to lose the reins again. She gripped the reins and the saddle for some time, though, to keep her seat before trying to direct the horse.
Then she saw a short, but steep, descent with a pool of dirty water at its bottom. The horse paused only an instant on the brink and then began the descent. Hazel cried out once but stayed on, and the impatient animal was soon ankle deep in the water, drinking quickly.
Hazel looked in dismay about her. The waterhole was surrounded by steep banks like the one they’d descended, and the only way out was to return. Could the horse climb up with her on his back? And could she stay on him? Other than the descent, she’d ridden only on level ground, and now she was more conscious of her diminishing strength.
Meanwhile, her own thirst was growing. Oh, for just one drop of that water the horse was enjoying! Black and dirty as it was, she felt she could drink it. But it was out of her reach, and she dared not get down. Suddenly a thought came to her. She’d wet her handkerchief and moisten her lips with that. If she leaned over carefully, she might be able to let it down far enough to touch the water.
She pulled the bit of linen from the pocket of her riding habit, and the horse, as if to help her, waded deeper into the water until her skirt almost touched it. By putting her arm about the horse’s neck she could dip most of her handkerchief in the water. Dirty as it was, she felt refreshed to bathe her face, hands, and wrists, and to moisten her lips.
But when the horse had his fill, he turned and, with a splash and a plunge, made his way out of the hole and up the rocky side of the descent. Wet, she clung to the saddle and wondered if she could hang on until they were up on the mesa again. Her dainty handkerchief, dropped in the flight, floated on the muddy water, another bit of comfort left behind.
But they climbed out of the hole on the opposite side from which they’d entered it, and Hazel lost all sense of direction. Everywhere stretched emptiness edged with the cold, unfriendly mountains. The shadows had lengthened now, and the sun was low in the sky. She knew that where the su
n hung like a great burning opal must be west, but that told her nothing; the sun was high in the heavens when they started, and she’d taken no note of direction. East, west, north, or south were all one to her in the carefree life she’d led before this. She tried to remember which way they’d turned from the railroad but grew more bewildered. The brilliant display in the west alarmed her as she realized night was coming. And here she was, lost on a great desert with a tired stubborn horse for company and more hungry, thirsty, and weary than she’d ever imagined.
They rode down into a broad valley for some time, making the night seem even nearer. Hazel would have turned her horse back and retraced her steps, but he refused. Every time she tried, he circled about and was soon on the same course again. So she held the reins stiffly and submitted to being carried where the horse willed. He evidently had a destination in mind. Hazel had read about the instinct of animals and hoped he’d bring her to a human habitation where she could find help and reach her father.
But suddenly even the dying sun’s glory was lost as the horse entered the dim canyon, whose high walls of red stone, rising solemnly on either hand, were serrated here and there with long lines of grasses and tree ferns growing in the crevices. Higher up appeared the gaping holes of mysterious caves, frightening in the twilight gloom. The way ahead loomed dark.
From somewhere in her childhood a phrase from a church service, to which she’d never given conscious attention, flashed through her mind: “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow—” Surely this must be it. She wished she could remember the rest of it. What could it have meant?
She shivered and looked about her wildly. The cottonwoods and oaks grew thick at the base of the cliffs, almost concealing them, and rose dark and towering above the walls. The horse picked his way through the rough, slippery boulders and rocks, without regard to the tree branches that swept across her face and caught in her long hair.
Vainly she strove to guide him another way, but he kept turning back.
Deeper they rode into the gloom, and the frightened girl cried out with the wild hope that someone might be near and rescue her. But the canyon aisle caught up her voice and echoed it far and high, until it returned to her in a volume of sepulchral sound that filled her mouth again. Each moment the deepening shadows shut down more impenetrably, until the girl could only close her eyes, lower her head as much as possible to escape the branches—and pray.
Then suddenly from above, where the distant sky gave a line of light and a single star appeared to pierce the dusk like a great jewel on a lady’s gown, a sound arose: bloodcurdling and hideous, high, sending a chill through her soul. She’d heard this once before, a night or two ago, when their train stopped in a desert for water or repairs or something and the porter told her it was coyotes. It was distant then and interesting to think of being so near wild animals. She’d peered from the safety of her berth behind the silky curtains and imagined she saw shadowy forms steal over the plain under the moonlight. But it was very different to hear the sound now, out alone among their haunts, with no weapon or person to protect her.
Still she held to the saddle, expecting every minute to be her last, while the coyotes continued to howl.
Down below the trail somewhere she could hear the soft trickling of water with maddening distinctness. Oh, if she could only quench her terrible thirst! The horse seemed refreshed from the grass and water. But the girl, who until now had never known a want unsatisfied, was faint with hunger and burning with thirst, while this unusual demand on her strength was testing her to the limit.
The canyon grew darker, and more stars clustered overhead—but so far away! The coyotes seemed only a shadow removed from around and above her. The horse slipped and stumbled on in the darkness, but she no longer tried to turn him.
Soon they were climbing upward again, scrambling over rough places, with large rocks on their path and trees growing close to the trail. The horse seemed oblivious to every obstacle in his path. The howling of the coyotes was clearer, but by now she felt almost numb, even to her fear. She was lying low on the horse, clinging to his neck, too faint to cry out. Then suddenly a low branch caught her, tangling her hair about it. The horse struggled to gain his footing. But the branch held her fast while the horse scrambled on, leaving his helpless rider behind him on the rocky trail, swept from the saddle by the tough old branch.
After much difficulty the horse reached a bit of shelving rock and stopped, looking back with an inquiring snort. But the girl lying in the darkness below gave no sign of life, and after another snort and a half neigh he turned and scrambled on upward till he gained the mesa above.
The late moon arose and hunted through the canyon until it rested on the golden hair spread over the rocks, touching Hazel’s face with its cold light. The coyotes howled on in solemn chorus, and still the figure lay quiet, unconscious of her surroundings.
Chapter 4
The Quest
John Brownleigh reached the waterhole at sunset, and while he waited for his horse to drink he considered what to do next. If he meant to reach the fort for dinner he should turn at once sharply to the right and ride hard, unless he was willing to be late. The woman at the fort preferred to have her guests on time, though.
The sun was down, leaving long splashes of crimson and gold in the west, with their reflection shimmering over the muddy water below him. Billy drank thirstily.
But, as the missionary watched the painted water and tried to decide his course, his eye caught a bit of white, clinging to a twig at the edge of the water. It seemed so out of place in the desert that it startled him, as the jewel in its golden setting in the sand had that morning. He bent over and picked up the wet handkerchief. Its daintiness reminded him of the refinement and culture he’d left behind in the East.
A tiny letter was embroidered in the corner, but already the light was growing too dim to read it. Though he held it up and looked through it and felt the embroidery with his fingertip, he couldn’t be sure it was either of the letters engraved on the whip.
Nevertheless, the delicate white messenger determined his course. He searched the edge of the waterhole for hoofprints in the fading light and then mounted Billy with decision and took up his quest where he’d almost abandoned it. He was convinced a woman was alone in the desert somewhere.
It was long past midnight when Billy and the missionary came upon the horse, grazing high on the mesa. The animal had evidently felt the need for food and rest before proceeding further.
Brownleigh hobbled the two horses so they could feed together. He then examined the horse and saddle. The saddle reminded him of Shag Bunce, but the horse was a stranger to him. Nor could he make out the brand in the pale moonlight. It might be a new animal, however, just purchased and not yet branded. In thinking of Shag Bunce he remembered the handsome private car he’d seen on the track that morning. But even if a party went out riding, how did one person get separated? Surely no woman would venture over the desert alone, not a stranger at any rate.
He continued his search in the silver-black shadowy night, but not until the dawn began its blush in the east did he reach the top of the canyon. From there he looked down and saw the girl, with her green riding habit blending into the dark trees, her golden hair glinted with the early light and her pale face turned upward.
He lost no time in climbing down to her, dreading what he might find. She lay in a perilous spot. The sky grew pink and tinted all the clouds with rose as he knelt beside the still form.
A moment served to convince him she was alive; even in the half darkness he could see the drawn, weary expression on her face. Poor girl, lost on the desert! He was glad he’d come to find her.
He gathered her in his arms and carried her up to level ground. Laying her in a sheltered spot, he quickly brought water, bathed her face, and forced some water between the white lips. He chafed her cold hands, blistered from the reins, gave her more water and was rewarded by seeing a faint color steal into her lip
s and cheeks. Finally the white lids fluttered open for a second, giving him a glimpse of great dark eyes that still mirrored the night’s horrors.
He gave her another drink and then prepared a more comfortable resting place, bringing the canvas from Billy’s pack and one or two other articles that might give comfort, among them a small hot-water bottle. When she was settled on the canvas with the sweet ferns and grass underneath for a pillow and his own blanket spread over her, he gathered wood for a fire. Soon water was boiling in his tin cup, enough to fill the rubber bottle. When he put it in her cold hands, she opened her eyes wide. He smiled reassuringly, and she nestled down in the warmth. She was too weary to question or know anything except that relief had come at last.
In a few minutes he brought her a cup of strong beef tea which he held to her lips and coaxed her to swallow. When she finished it she lay back and slept again with a trembling sigh that was almost like a sob. The young man’s heart was shaken.
He made their temporary camp as comfortable as possible and tended to the horses. Then, returning to his patient, he watched her as she slept and wondered what he should do next.
They were a long distance from any human habitation. Whatever made the horse take this lonely trail was puzzling. It led to a distant Indian settlement, and doubtless the animal was returning to his former master. But why didn’t the rider turn him back?
Then he looked down at the frail girl asleep on the ground and sobered as he thought of the dangers she must have passed through alone and unprotected. The delicacy of her face touched him, and for an instant he forgot everything but her beauty: the lovely profile resting lightly against her raised arm; the fineness and length of her hair, like spun gold in the glint of the sunshine just peering over the rim of the mountain; her clear skin, so white and different from the women in that region; the downward curve of the lips showing her utter exhaustion.
The Man of the Desert Page 3