The Man of the Desert (3 page)

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.

The Desert

H
azel’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, never 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.

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.