The Zane Grey Megapack, page 247
“Hello, Dick. I woke some late this mornin’. Where’s Laddy? Dick, you ain’t a-goin’ to say—”
“Laddy’s alive—that’s about all,” replied Dick.
“Where’s Thorne an’ Mercedes? Look here, man. I reckon you ain’t packin’ this crippled outfit down that awful trail?”
“Had to, Jim. An hour’s sun—would kill—both Laddy and Thorne. Come on now.”
For once Jim Lash’s cool good nature and careless indifference gave precedence to amaze and concern.
“Always knew you was a husky chap. But, Dick, you’re no hoss! Get me a crutch an’ give me a lift on one side.”
“Come on,” replied Gale. “I’ve no time to monkey.”
He lifted the ranger, called to Yaqui to follow with some of the camp outfit, and once more essayed the steep descent. Jim Lash was the heaviest man of the three, and Gale’s strength was put to enormous strain to carry him on that broken trail. Nevertheless, Gale went down, down, walking swiftly and surely over the bad places; and at last he staggered into the arroyo with bursting heart and red-blinded eyes. When he had recovered he made a final trip up the slope for the camp effects which Yaqui had been unable to carry.
Then he drew Jim and Mercedes and Yaqui, also, into an earnest discussion of ways and means whereby to fight for the life of Thorne. Ladd’s case Gale now considered hopeless, though he meant to fight for him, too, as long as he breathed.
In the labor of watching and nursing it seemed to Gale that two days and two nights slipped by like a few hours. During that time the Indian recovered from his injury, and became capable of performing all except heavy tasks. Then Gale succumbed to weariness. After his much-needed rest he relieved Mercedes of the care and watch over Thorne which, up to that time, she had absolutely refused to relinquish. The cavalryman had high fever, and Gale feared he had developed blood poisoning. He required constant attention. His condition slowly grew worse, and there came a day which Gale thought surely was the end. But that day passed, and the night, and the next day, and Thorne lived on, ghastly, stricken, raving. Mercedes hung over him with jealous, passionate care and did all that could have been humanly done for a man. She grew wan, absorbed, silent. But suddenly, and to Gale’s amaze and thanksgiving, there came an abatement of Thorne’s fever. With it some of the heat and redness of the inflamed wound disappeared. Next morning he was conscious, and Gale grasped some of the hope that Mercedes had never abandoned. He forced her to rest while he attended to Thorne. That day he saw that the crisis was past. Recovery for Thorne was now possible, and would perhaps depend entirely upon the care he received.
Jim Lash’s wound healed without any aggravating symptoms. It would be only a matter of time until he had the use of his leg again. All these days, however, there was little apparent change in Ladd’s condition unless it was that he seemed to fade away as he lingered. At first his wounds remained open; they bled a little all the time outwardly, perhaps internally also; the blood did not seem to clot, and so the bullet holes did not close. Then Yaqui asked for the care of Ladd. Gale yielded it with opposing thoughts—that Ladd would waste slowly away till life ceased, and that there never was any telling what might lie in the power of this strange Indian. Yaqui absented himself from camp for a while, and when he returned he carried the roots and leaves of desert plants unknown to Gale. From these the Indian brewed an ointment. Then he stripped the bandages from Ladd and applied the mixture to his wounds. That done, he let him lie with the wounds exposed to the air, at night covering him. Next day he again exposed the wounds to the warm, dry air. Slowly they closed, and Ladd ceased to bleed externally.
Days passed and grew into what Gale imagined must have been weeks. Yaqui recovered fully. Jim Lash began to move about on a crutch; he shared the Indian’s watch over Ladd. Thorne lay haggard, emaciated ghost of his rugged self, but with life in the eyes that turned always toward Mercedes. Ladd lingered and lingered. The life seemingly would not leave his bullet-pierced body. He faded, withered, shrunk till he was almost a skeleton. He knew those who worked and watched over him, but he had no power of speech. His eyes and eyelids moved; the rest of him seemed stone. All those days nothing except water was given him. It was marvelous how tenaciously, however feebly, he clung to life. Gale imagined it was the Yaqui’s spirit that held back death. That tireless, implacable, inscrutable savage was ever at the ranger’s side. His great somber eyes burned. At length he went to Gale, and, with that strange light flitting across the hard bronzed face, he said Ladd would live.
The second day after Ladd had been given such thin nourishment as he could swallow he recovered the use of his tongue.
“Shore—this’s—hell,” he whispered.
That was a characteristic speech for the ranger, Gale thought; and indeed it made all who heard it smile while their eyes were wet.
From that time forward Ladd gained, but he gained so immeasurably slowly that only the eyes of hope could have seen any improvement. Jim Lash threw away his crutch, and Thorne was well, if still somewhat weak, before Ladd could lift his arm or turn his head. A kind of long, immovable gloom passed, like a shadow, from his face. His whispers grew stronger. And the day arrived when Gale, who was perhaps the least optimistic, threw doubt to the winds and knew the ranger would get well. For Gale that joyous moment of realization was one in which he seemed to return to a former self long absent. He experienced an elevation of soul. He was suddenly overwhelmed with gratefulness, humility, awe. A gloomy black terror had passed by. He wanted to thank the faithful Mercedes, and Thorne for getting well, and the cheerful Lash, and Ladd himself, and that strange and wonderful Yaqui, now such a splendid figure. He thought of home and Nell. The terrible encompassing red slopes lost something of their fearsomeness, and there was a good spirit hovering near.
“Boys, come round,” called Ladd, in his low voice. “An’ you, Mercedes. An’ call the Yaqui.”
Ladd lay in the shade of the brush shelter that had been erected. His head was raised slightly on a pillow. There seemed little of him but long lean lines, and if it had not been for his keen, thoughtful, kindly eyes, his face would have resembled a death mask of a man starved.
“Shore I want to know what day is it an’ what month?” asked Ladd.
Nobody could answer him. The question seemed a surprise to Gale, and evidently was so to the others.
“Look at that cactus,” went on Ladd.
Near the wall of lava a stunted saguaro lifted its head. A few shriveled blossoms that had once been white hung along the fluted column.
“I reckon according to that giant cactus it’s somewheres along the end of March,” said Jim Lash, soberly.
“Shore it’s April. Look where the sun is. An’ can’t you feel it’s gettin’ hot?”
“Supposin’ it is April?” queried Lash slowly.
“Well, what I’m drivin’ at is it’s about time you all was hittin’ the trail back to Forlorn River, before the waterholes dry out.”
“Laddy, I reckon we’ll start soon as you’re able to be put on a hoss.”
“Shore that’ll be too late.”
A silence ensued, in which those who heard Ladd gazed fixedly at him and then at one another. Lash uneasily shifted the position of his lame leg, and Gale saw him moisten his lips with his tongue.
“Charlie Ladd, I ain’t reckonin’ you mean we’re to ride off an’ leave you here?”
“What else is there to do? The hot weather’s close. Pretty soon most of the waterholes will be dry. You can’t travel then.… I’m on my back here, an’ God only knows when I could be packed out. Not for weeks, mebbe. I’ll never be any good again, even if I was to get out alive.… You see, shore this sort of case comes round sometimes in the desert. It’s common enough. I’ve heard of several cases where men had to go an’ leave a feller behind. It’s reasonable. If you’re fightin’ the desert you can’t afford to be sentimental… Now, as I said, I’m all in. So what’s the sense of you waitin’ here, when it means the old desert story? By goin’ now mebbe you’ll get home. If you wait on a chance of takin’ me, you’ll be too late. Pretty soon this lava’ll be one roastin’ hell. Shore now, boys, you’ll see this the right way? Jim, old pard?”
“No, Laddy, an’ I can’t figger how you could ever ask me.”
“Shore then leave me here with Yaqui an’ a couple of the hosses. We can eat sheep meat. An’ if the water holds out—”
“No!” interrupted Lash, violently.
Ladd’s eyes sought Gale’s face.
“Son, you ain’t bull-headed like Jim. You’ll see the sense of it. There’s Nell a-waitin’ back at Forlorn River. Think what it means to her! She’s a damn fine girl, Dick, an’ what right have you to break her heart for an old worn-out cowpuncher? Think how she’s watchin’ for you with that sweet face all sad an’ troubled, an’ her eyes turnin’ black. You’ll go, son, won’t you?”
Dick shook his head.
The ranger turned his gaze upon Thorne, and now the keen, glistening light in his gray eyes had blurred.
“Thorne, it’s different with you. Jim’s a fool, an’ young Gale has been punctured by choya thorns. He’s got the desert poison in his blood. But you now—you’ve no call to stick—you can find that trail out. It’s easy to follow, made by so many shod hosses. Take your wife an’ go.… Shore you’ll go, Thorne?”
Deliberately and without an instant’s hesitation the cavalryman replied “No.”
Ladd then directed his appeal to Mercedes. His face was now convulsed, and his voice, though it had sunk to a whisper, was clear, and beautiful with some rich quality that Gale had never heard in it.
“Mercedes, you’re a woman. You’re the woman we fought for. An’ some of us are shore goin’ to die for you. Don’t make it all for nothin’. Let us feel we saved the woman. Shore you can make Thorne go. He’ll have to go if you say. They’ll all have to go. Think of the years of love an’ happiness in store for you. A week or so an’ it’ll be too late. Can you stand for me seein’ you?… Let me tell you, Mercedes, when the summer heat hits the lava we’ll all wither an’ curl up like shavin’s near a fire. A wind of hell will blow up this slope. Look at them mesquites. See the twist in them. That’s the torture of heat an’ thirst. Do you want me or all us men seein’ you like that?… Mercedes, don’t make it all for nothin’. Say you’ll persuade Thorne, if not the others.”
For all the effect his appeal had to move her Mercedes might have possessed a heart as hard and fixed as the surrounding lava.
“Never!”
White-faced, with great black eyes flashing, the Spanish girl spoke the word that bound her and her companions in the desert.
The subject was never mentioned again. Gale thought that he read a sinister purpose in Ladd’s mind. To his astonishment, Lash came to him with the same fancy. After that they made certain there never was a gun within reach of Ladd’s clutching, clawlike hands.
Gradually a somber spell lifted from the ranger’s mind. When he was entirely free of it he began to gather strength daily. Then it was as if he had never known patience—he who had shown so well how to wait. He was in a frenzy to get well. He appetite could not be satisfied.
The sun climbed higher, whiter, hotter. At midday a wind from gulfward roared up the arroyo, and now only palos verdes and the few saguaros were green. Every day the water in the lava hole sank an inch.
The Yaqui alone spent the waiting time in activity. He made trips up on the lava slope, and each time he returned with guns or boots or sombreros, or something belonging to the bandits that had fallen. He never fetched in a saddle or bridle, and from that the rangers concluded Rojas’s horses had long before taken their back trail. What speculation, what consternation those saddled horses would cause if they returned to Forlorn River!
As Ladd improved there was one story he had to hear every day. It was the one relating to what he had missed—the sight of Rojas pursued and plunged to his doom. The thing had a morbid fascination for the sick ranger. He reveled in it. He tortured Mercedes. His gentleness and consideration, heretofore so marked, were in abeyance to some sinister, ghastly joy. But to humor him Mercedes racked her soul with the sensations she had suffered when Rojas hounded her out on the ledge; when she shot him; when she sprang to throw herself over the precipice; when she fought him; when with half-blinded eyes she looked up to see the merciless Yaqui reaching for the bandit. Ladd fed his cruel longing with Thorne’s poignant recollections, with the keen, clear, never-to-be-forgotten shocks to Gale’s eye and ear. Jim Lash, for one at least, never tired of telling how he had seen and heard the tragedy, and every time in the telling it gathered some more tragic and gruesome detail. Jim believed in satiating the ranger. Then in the twilight, when the campfire burned, Ladd would try to get the Yaqui to tell his side of the story. But this the Indian would never do. There was only the expression of his fathomless eyes and the set passion of his massive face.
Those waiting days grew into weeks. Ladd gained very slowly. Nevertheless, at last he could walk about, and soon he averred that, strapped to a horse, he could last out the trip to Forlorn River.
There was rejoicing in camp, and plans were eagerly suggested. The Yaqui happened to be absent. When he returned the rangers told him they were now ready to undertake the journey back across lava and cactus.
Yaqui shook his head. They declared again their intention.
“No!” replied the Indian, and his deep, sonorous voice rolled out upon the quiet of the arroyo. He spoke briefly then. They had waited too long. The smaller waterholes back in the trail were dry. The hot summer was upon them. There could be only death waiting down in the burning valley. Here was water and grass and wood and shade from the sun’s rays, and sheep to be killed on the peaks. The water would hold unless the season was that dreaded ano seco of the Mexicans.
“Wait for rain,” concluded Yaqui, and now as never before he spoke as one with authority. “If no rain—” Silently he lifted his hand.
CHAPTER XVI
MOUNTAIN SHEEP
What Gale might have thought an appalling situation, if considered from a safe and comfortable home away from the desert, became, now that he was shut in by the red-ribbed lava walls and great dry wastes, a matter calmly accepted as inevitable. So he imagined it was accepted by the others. Not even Mercedes uttered a regret. No word was spoken of home. If there was thought of loved one, it was locked deep in their minds. In Mercedes there was no change in womanly quality, perhaps because all she had to love was there in the desert with her.
Gale had often pondered over this singular change in character. He had trained himself, in order to fight a paralyzing something in the desert’s influence, to oppose with memory and thought an insidious primitive retrogression to what was scarcely consciousness at all, merely a savage’s instinct of sight and sound. He felt the need now of redoubled effort. For there was a sheer happiness in drifting. Not only was it easy to forget, it was hard to remember. His idea was that a man laboring under a great wrong, a great crime, a great passion might find the lonely desert a fitting place for either remembrance or oblivion, according to the nature of his soul. But an ordinary, healthy, reasonably happy mortal who loved the open with its blaze of sun and sweep of wind would have a task to keep from going backward to the natural man as he was before civilization.
By tacit agreement Ladd again became the leader of the party. Ladd was a man who would have taken all the responsibility whether or not it was given him. In moments of hazard, of uncertainty, Lash and Gale, even Belding, unconsciously looked to the ranger. He had that kind of power.
The first thing Ladd asked was to have the store of food that remained spread out upon a tarpaulin. Assuredly, it was a slender enough supply. The ranger stood for long moments gazing down at it. He was groping among past experiences, calling back from his years of life on range and desert that which might be valuable for the present issue. It was impossible to read the gravity of Ladd’s face, for he still looked like a dead man, but the slow shake of his head told Gale much. There was a grain of hope, however, in the significance with which he touched the bags of salt and said, “Shore it was sense packin’ all that salt!”
Then he turned to face his comrades.
“That’s little grub for six starvin’ people corralled in the desert. But the grub end ain’t worryin’ me. Yaqui can get sheep up the slopes. Water! That’s the beginnin’ and middle an’ end of our case.”
“Laddy, I reckon the waterhole here never goes dry,” replied Jim.
“Ask the Indian.”
Upon being questioned, Yaqui repeated what he had said about the dreaded ano seco of the Mexicans. In a dry year this waterhole failed.
“Dick, take a rope an’ see how much water’s in the hole.”
Gale could not find bottom with a thirty foot lasso. The water was as cool, clear, sweet as if it had been kept in a shaded iron receptacle.
Ladd welcomed this information with surprise and gladness.
“Let’s see. Last year was shore pretty dry. Mebbe this summer won’t be. Mebbe our wonderful good luck’ll hold. Ask Yaqui if he thinks it’ll rain.”
Mercedes questioned the Indian.
“He says no man can tell surely. But he thinks the rain will come,” she replied.
“Shore it’ll rain, you can gamble on that now,” continued Ladd. “If there’s only grass for the hosses! We can’t get out of here without hosses. Dick, take the Indian an’ scout down the arroyo. Today I seen the hosses were gettin’ fat. Gettin’ fat in this desert! But mebbe they’ve about grazed up all the grass. Go an’ see, Dick. An’ may you come back with more good news!”
Gale, upon the few occasions when he had wandered down the arroyo, had never gone far. The Yaqui said there was grass for the horses, and until now no one had given the question more consideration. Gale found that the arroyo widened as it opened. Near the head, where it was narrow, the grass lined the course of the dry stream bed. But farther down this stream bed spread out. There was every indication that at flood seasons the water covered the floor of the arroyo. The farther Gale went the thicker and larger grew the gnarled mesquites and palo verdes, the more cactus and greasewood there were, and other desert growths. Patches of gray grass grew everywhere. Gale began to wonder where the horses were. Finally the trees and brush thinned out, and a mile-wide gray plain stretched down to reddish sand dunes. Over to one side were the white horses, and even as Gale saw them both Blanco Diablo and Sol lifted their heads and, with white manes tossing in the wind, whistled clarion calls. Here was grass enough for many horses; the arroyo was indeed an oasis.
