Lost Pueblo (1992) (27 page)

A thought flashed by--was this trifling with her happiness--going too far, risking too much? No! If Phillip worshiped her--and how thrillingly she believed it--dared not yield to it!--a few more days on the desert and then that marvelous climax she must devise to follow their marriage in Flagerstown, would make him more miserable, more lovelorn, more wholly hers. How she must rack her brain to make her victory complete--something for which he could only love her more!

Janey lay long awake. Sleep would have robbed her. The night wore on. The silver gleam on the walls paled, darkened, vanished. And the canyon grew black, mysterious, silent as a tomb. But by intense concentration Janey managed to hear a very low murmur of running water and then the faintest of mournful winds. How wonderful the night, the darkness, the loneliness and wildness, the meaning of these old walls, the echo of past life there, the living powerful love in her heart, and the intimation that nothing died!

Then, as if by magic, the gray dawn came, the brightening of the canyon.

Janey lay in bed and thought and dreamed, and smiled, and pinched herself to prove she was awake. Presently she became aware of sounds of camp stirring below. They were early this morning. But she was loath to leave the warm blankets, and would rather have lingered there with her thoughts.

Then her father appeared on the ledge, carrying her riding habit and boots.

"Hello, you're awake," he said.

"Good morning, Father," she replied, demurely peeping from behind the edge of her blanket. He did not look happy and the smile he usually had for her was wanting.

"We're breaking camp. Randolph acquainted me with your wishes and intentions. We will leave for the post and Flagerstown at once."

"So soon! Leave Beckyshibeta today?" she exclaimed, in dismay.

"Assuredly. I daresay you will appreciate this place--and some other things--after you have lost them. Hurry and dress yourself. Breakfast is waiting."

Janey stared after his retreating form rather blankly. "Well!" she soliloquized. Then she laughed. What could she have expected? He was tremendously disappointed in her. All the better! Things were working out magnificently. She would certainly teach him a lesson that would last for life. Yet she was very glad indeed that he was so disappointed. She could endure a little longer that he and Randolph should continue to be sad about her and the mess she was going to make out of her life.

Janey got into her riding habit and boots with extraordinary pleasure and satisfaction. What a transformation! The scant garb she had been wearing did not harmonize with dignity, and certainly had not enhanced her good looks. All the same she would keep that shrunken skirt and torn blouse and the soiled stockings. She rolled them in the blankets. The worn shoes, too! Some distant future day she would don them to surprise and delight Phil.

Her little mirror showed a golden-tanned face, with glad eyes and a glorious smile; and shiny rippling hair, all the prettier for being wayward and free. Janey did not need to hide her feelings any longer. She would let Randolph and her father make their own deductions regarding her happiness.

As she descended the ledge she heard Mrs. Durland squeal with delight. Something had excited her. Randolph and Bennet were busy packing. Breakfast steamed on the fire. The Indians were coming up with the horses. A pang tore Janey's heart. Only an hour more, perhaps less, of these gleaming canyon walls! But she would come back. The gentlemen were not blind to her changed attire and mood, though they did not fuss over her. Indeed she could not catch Randolph's eye.

Mrs. Durland came up almost running, breathless, triumphant, and radiant. "Oh, my dear, how different--you look!" she panted. "What do you think?--That villain Black Dick forgot to take our money--and jewels. My bag was hanging on a cedar twig. Imagine! I was simply overcome...and here's your diamond ring."

"Well, of all the luck!" cried Janey, surprised and pleased, as she took the ring. "I'm very glad for you, Mrs. Durland. Of course my loss would have been little... So our desperado forgot to take what he stole? Well, he was a queer one."

"I can almost forgive him now," replied Mrs. Durland, fervently.

Bert came up and tipped his sombrero to Janey. But his sour look did not fit his graceful gesture. Janey did not need to be told that her father had passed on the important news. The Durlands might be civil, but Bert, at least, would never forgive her. Janey reflected that it might not matter how they felt or what they did. She would be careful, however, to make it plain to Randolph and her father that she feared the Durlands and desired to placate them.

Janey had her breakfast alone. One of the Indians left his work and stood nearby, apparently fascinated at the sight of her. Randolph kept his back turned and worked hard on the packs.

"Phil, please get me another cup of coffee," she called.

He hurriedly complied and fetched it to her.

"You make such lovely coffee," she said, looking up at him. "I'll miss that, at least, when I'm home again."

"Bennet made this coffee," replied Randolph, brusquely.

"Oh!" But nothing could have hurt Janey this wonderful morning. Nothing except leaving her canyon! She went aside by herself so that she could feel and think, unaffected by Randolph or her father. The gleaming walls spoke to her. The great red corner of rock that led off toward Beckyshibeta beckoned for her to come. And she went far enough to peep round. How wild and ragged and rocky! It was a wilderness of broken stones. Yet for her they had a spirit and a voice. The stream murmured from the gorge, the canyon swifts darted by, their wings shining in the sunlight, the sweet dry sage fragrance filled her nostrils.

Janey gazed all around and upward, everywhere, with deep reverence for this lonely chasm in the rock crust of the earth. She would return soon, and often thereafter while Randolph was at work on the excavation of the ruined pueblo. She would like to plan her future, her home, her usefulness in the world, here under the spell of her canyon.

How soon would that be? Not yet had she planned any farther than Flagerstown. No farther than the hour which would make her Phil's wife! The tumultuousness of that thought had inhibited a completion of her plan. But was not that the climax--the end? It did not satisfy Janey. It entailed confession, total surrender, both of which she would be glad to give, yet--. Suddenly she had an inspiration. It absolutely dazzled her. It swept her away. It was a perfect solution to her problem, and she could have laughed her joy to these watching jealous walls. But--was it possible? Could she accomplish it? How strange she had not thought of it before! Easy as it was wonderful! Whereupon she gave herself up to a mute reverent farewell to Beckyshibeta.

A lusty shout interrupted Janey's rapt mood: "Come on, Janey. We're off!" called her father.

Very soon then Janey was astride a horse, comfortable and confident in her riding outfit, going down the trail through the cedars. She was the last of the cavalcade. Randolph and the Indians were ahead, driving the pack animals. Bennet was looking after the Durlands. Endicott rode ahead of Janey. They crossed the boulder-strewn stream bed, climbed the dusty soft red trail, and wound away through cedars. Janey did not look back. It would not have been any use, for her eyes were blinded by tears. They did not wholly clear until she rode out of the rock walls, up on to the desert.

Janey rode alone all day. And surely it was the fullest and sweetest day of all her life. Forty miles of sage to traverse to the next camp--purple color and wondrous fragrance all around--red and gold walls beckoning from the horizons--the sweep and loneliness of vast stretches--sometimes all by herself on the trail, far behind the others--these were the splendid accompaniments of her happy dreams and thoughts, of long serious realizations, of the permanent settling of convictions and ideals, of consciousness of a softened and exalted heart.

Sunset fell while they were yet upon the trail--one of the incomparable Arizona sunsets that Janey had come to love. A black horizon-wide wall blocked the West. The red and golden rays of sunlight swept down over it, spreading light over the desert. Above masses of purple cloud with silver edges hid the sky. And it all gloriously faded into dusk.

A flock of black and white sheep crossed the trail in front of Janey. The shepherds were a little Indian boy and girl both mounted on the same pony. How wild and shy! The dogs barked at Janey. The sheep trooped over the ridge top. And lastly the little shepherds and their pony stood silhouetted against the afterglow. Janey waved and waved. The little girl answered--a fleeting shy flip of hand. Then they were gone.

Soon after that a bright campfire greeted Janey from a bend in the trail. She rode into camp and dismounted, to discover she felt no fatigue, no aches, no pains--and that the exhilaration of the morning had not worn away in that long ride. Mrs. Durland was bemoaning her state; Bert limped to his tasks; and Bennet showed the effect of long sitting in a saddle. The Westerners were active.

The camp was in the open desert, in the lee of some low rocks. Coyotes were wailing and yelping out in the darkness. A cold wind swept round the rocks and pierced through Janey. How good the blazing bits of sage. She was ravishingly hungry.

Janey ate her supper sitting on an uncomfortable pack, and she had to eat it quickly while it stayed warm. Firewood appeared to be scarce, and the desert wind grew colder. There was little or no gayety in the company. Bennet tried to make a few facetious remarks to Mrs. Durland, but they fell flat. Janey edged so close to the fire that she almost burned her boots. Randolph kept in the shadow. She felt him watching her, and needed no more to keep her spirits high. Endicott huddled on the ground on the other side of the fire, and his head dropped. Bert was silent and dejected. Mrs. Durland complained of the awful effects of the ride, the food, the cold, the wind and everything.

"Are those terrible wild creatures going to keep that din up all night?" she asked.

"Wal, I reckon so," replied Bennet. "Coyotes are noisy an' they'll come right up an' pull at your hat, when you're in bed."

"Heavens! And we must sleep on the flat ground!"

"You might bunk up on the rock. It'll be tolerable windy... Miss Janey, aren't you scared and frozen stiff?"

"Both," laughed Janey. "But I think this is great. I love to hear those wild coyotes."

"No more desert for me," sighed Mrs. Durland.

"Bert, surely you will come back to Arizona someday?" asked Janey, curiously.

"What for?" he asked, fixing her with gloomy eyes.

"Of course, Janey, you'll be coming back often to see your husband digging in that heap of stones?" added Mrs. Durland.

"Y-yes, but not very soon," replied Janey. "Father is coming back shortly to start the excavating of Beckyshibeta. Aren't you, Dad?"

"Sure. I'm going to dig a grave for myself out here," growled her father.

"Haw! Haw! Haw!" bawled the trader. "Did you heah that, Randolph?... Wal, folks, you'll all come back to Arizona. I've yet to see the man or woman who'd slept out on this desert an' didn't want to come back."

"You all better turn in," said Randolph. "Firewood scarce, and you'll be called at dawn."

"I forgot about bed," exclaimed Janey, giving her palms a last toast over the red coals. "Phil, where's my couch?"

"Here," he replied, and led her a few steps.

"Ugh, it's windy. I hate to think of bed on the cold rocks," returned Janey, trying to see in the dark.

"Yours won't be windy or cold or hard," he replied, briefly. "Here. There's a foot of sage under your blankets, and a thick windbreak. You'll be comfortable."

"Oh!... You found time to do this for me?" she asked, looking up at him. The starlight showed his face dark and troubled, his eyes sad.

"Certainly. It was little enough."

"Thank you, Phil. You are good to me," she said, softly, and held out her hand.

Randolph gave a start, clasped her hand convulsively, and strode away without even saying good night.

Janey gazed a moment at his vanishing form. Then she plumped down on her bed. "Gee," she whispered, "I want to be careful. He might grab me--and then it would be the end!"

Removing only her boots Janey slipped down into the bed. How soft and fragrant of sage! Her pillow was a fleecy sheepskin, one she had seen in Randolph's pack. Then her feet, bravely stretching down, suddenly came in contact with something hot. It startled her. Presently she ascertained it was a hot stone wrapped in canvas. Randolph had heated this and put it in her bed. Let the desert wind blow! The white stars blinked down at her from the deep blue dome above. Had she ever thought them pitiless, indifferent, mocking? The wind swept with low moans through the sage; the coyotes kept up their wild staccato barks; the campfire died out and low voices of men ceased. Tranquil, cold, beautiful night enfolded the scene. And Janey lay there wide-eyed, watching the heavens, wondering at the beauty and mystery of nature, at the glory of love, marveling at the happiness that had been bestowed upon her unworthy self.

Next day about mid-afternoon they rode across the wide barren stretch of desert to the post, the pack train far ahead with Randolph in the lead, and Bennet trying to hold Mrs. Durland in the saddle to the last. Janey brought up the rear, so late that when she reached the last level all the others had disappeared in the green grove that surrounded the post.