Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 960
He had not prayed for that. He had hardly wanted it. But as he faced the cold gray monotonous waste, stretching and rolling and breaking away, lonely, barren, lifeless, magnificent in its isolation, appalling in its desolation, stupendous in its distances and beautiful with all the strange somber mystery of the desert, he felt the link between his unquenchable instinct to survive and a spiritual consciousness stronger than anything in primal nature. While there was life there was hope, good, truth, joy, and God. It came to him. He could not deny it. His bitterness was of no avail. The pagan specter that had hovered like a shadow on his trail faded away.
Clifton began the tasks of the day, lighter here by reason of the fact that there was to be a break in the drive south, a two-day stop at Gray Rocks.
“Buenos días, señor,” said the Mexican lad, in his soft liquid accents, as he came with his arms full of firewood.
Clifton discarded his limited Spanish and spoke to the boy in his own tongue. A subtle change affected him. Nevertheless, he went at his camp tasks with slow guarded movements. The lean dogs came down to sit on their haunches and watch him. They were ragged, thin mongrel canines, bred by the Indians and trained by Mexicans, antagonistic to white men. It had been the province of Julio to govern these shepherd dogs, so that Clifton had made no attempt to lessen their animosity. Julio was a son of Don Lopez, and had been brought up with the dogs and the sheep.
Clifton saw them all less aloofly this morning. They had accepted him. Why had he not accepted them? He spoke to the dogs. How clear-eyed, watchful, knowing! Were they only hungry beasts?
The camp fire was a comfort. It sent up a thin column of fragrant smoke — the scent of burning sage. It crackled and blazed, and burned red. It warmed Clifton’s cold feet and took the sting out of his fingers. The water left in the pan had become solid ice. All around, the sage and brittle-bush and creeping vines glistened with silvery frost. What would the desert have been without fire? The earliest man-creatures must have developed in a tropic clime.
After breakfast the bleating, restless sheep were released. With a tiny trampling roar they poured in a woolly stream down out of the rocky fastness, to spread out over the shallow wash. They nipped the grass, the weeds, the brush, and the sage.
In number the flock approached three thousand, a very large one, especially to belong to a Mexican. But as food and water were abundant, two shepherds with trained dogs could easily care for the flock, their main duty being vigilance. Straggling sheep sometimes got lost in the brush, to become prey for coyotes, and wildcats and cougars that occasionally stole down from the cliffs, and a wolf now and then that came from out the desert.
Julio carried a light rifle and always ranged out at the fore of the grazing flock, accompanied by the young dog. Clifton, with a heavier rifle, which had been a burden, followed in the rear, keeping to high places, always watchful, true to the trust imposed in him. The other three dogs, older, marvelously trained, did not require to be ordered about. They knew their work. Seldom could a sheep straggle away from the main flock into the sage. When one did it was promptly chased back.
Grazing of sheep was slow, as far as travel was concerned. Clifton had to walk and stand and sit to suit their convenience. Over barren ground they were driven consistently until good grazing was again encountered.
On cold mornings like this one Clifton was hard put to it to keep from freezing. His blood was thin and apparently there was not much of it. The necessity of keeping continually in action was what had made it so desperately hard to stand up under this job. During the middle of sunny days, however, he could rest often. But back beneath the forbidding mountains there had been much cloudy and windy weather, which had been the greatest factor in breaking him down.
Around Gray Rocks there was ample feed. Clifton chose a high point and patrolled it, his eye ever alert for prowling beasts. Sometimes, despite the vigilance of the shepherds, a lamb would be snatched by a coyote and carried off. Usually, however, in daylight the dogs kept the flock condensed and safe from depredations.
He had a bitter few hours before the sun offered him a respite. Still he watched even while he rested, for at this season cottontail rabbits were wholesome eating and furnished welcome change from sheep meat. In fact a shepherd on that range developed into something of a hunter.
An hour’s scanning of this apparently barren desert would have surprised an inexperienced traveler. Clifton espied a gray fox stepping through the sage, and several hungry, sneaking coyotes afar, jack rabbits in plenty, several cottontails, one of which he shot, packrats and gophers, and some skulking animal which he could not name. Hawks sailed by, and ravens croaked from the rocks. A flock of blackbirds winged irregular flight down the wash; a lonely gray speckled bird flitted through the sage.
These living creatures, and the various aspects of the desert, had begun to interest Clifton. It was an indication of release from himself, fragmentary at first, then more and more frequent.
At high noon he drew from his pocket a hard biscuit and some chops, well cooked and salted. These constituted his midday meal. He gnawed the bones with a relish, suddenly to be struck with the fact that he was nearly always hungry, and particularly so this day. In the past he had not cared for mutton. The tastes of a man varied according to his needs.
The sheep, however, did not linger in one place. They nibbled and nipped while passing on. Soon Clifton had to follow. He caught up with the flock, found a rock to sit on, and basked in the warm sun for a few moments. Many times he repeated this. As the afternoon began to wane Julio led back in a circle, and at sundown they were approaching camp. And by dark Clifton was through with work for the day, warming his palms over the coals, weary and dark-faced again, prone to the dejection that accompanied fatigue. Yet this night he did not crawl to bed.
Every desert day was a whole by itself; and the next was bleak, raw, windy, with flurries of snow. The sheep favored sheltered slopes and banks, and the beds of arroyos and the leeward of rocks. Clifton huddled in sheltered nooks to build little fires of dried sage and warm his numb hands and feet. It was a profitable day for the coyotes. More than once Clifton started up at an uproar from the dogs; and one well-aimed shot laid a coyote low. Julio skinned the dead beast and stretched the skin on a frame.
As the afternoon waned a lowering black cloud swooped across the desert, trailing a gray whirling pall of snow that whitened sage and ground, and quickly vanished. The squall passed away and the sun burst out, flushing the desert gold and red, with the promise of a better morrow.
The flock was laggard and difficult to drive back to camp in the face of wind. But for the faithful dogs it never could have been accomplished. Then for the shepherds the blessing of fire and food and rest!
The following morning while Clifton cooked breakfast Julio brought in the burros. The shepherds ate, packed, and with their flock headed south on the long trail. The morning was glorious. No wind! A bright sun tempered the nipping air. The cool fragrance of dry sage floated over the desert. The ridges were diamond white in frost, that quickly melted on the south slopes. Endless soft gray stretches led down to the purple landmarks above the horizon. Wild mustangs trooped to a rise of ground, there to stand and whistle, and then race away with manes and tails flying.
They had traveled six miles by sunset, and Clifton was not down at the finish. On warm days he lasted longer. They were now well over a hundred miles south of their own range.
One forenoon, several days later, the sheep crossed the last road which transversed that section of the desert. Clifton, following slowly, reached the road just as an automobile came by. He would have passed on, but the occupants of the car hailed him and stopped. He guessed the muddy old car belonged to a rancher and that the three were Westerners.
“Hey, Pedro, come over an’ say hello!” called one. Then as Clifton approached closer he added: “Excuse me. I took you for a greaser.”
“Howdy!” replied Clifton as he looked to see if he knew one or more of them.
“Fine bunch of sheep. Whose are they?” queried the eldest of the three.
“They belong to Don Lopez.”
“Ahuh. I thought so. Lopez’ last flock workin’ south. You must be young Forrest — Clay Forrest’s son?”
“Yes, I am.”
They appeared kindly, curious, and interested. “We heerd you got in a muss at Watrous some while back.”
“I’m afraid I did,” returned Clifton, reluctantly. “But as I left San Luis next day, I’ve never heard how bad the muss was...I thought you might be a sheriff.”
“Not much,” laughed one, “we’re glad to say. I reckon, though, you’re worryin’ fer nothin’. Mason wasn’t bad hurt in thet scrap an’ anyways you didn’t shoot him.”
“Wal, Forrest, there’s not many people who’re against you fer thet little cowhidin’ stunt,” added another of the three.
“I’m glad to hear it,” rejoined Clifton.
“Whar you drivin’?”
“Guadaloupe Springs.”
“Say, that’s an all-winter job! Shore, you’re goin’ back?”
“No. I have only a boy with me. Lopez gave me the job and I’ll stick. I’ll drive back in the spring.”
“Wal, excuse me, Forrest,” said the elder man, feelingly. “It’s shore your own bizness. But I want to give you a hunch. If you’re hidin’ out — it’s all fer nothin’. There ain’t any sheriff lookin’ fer you.”
“Thank you. That’s a relief.”
“But if I was you I’d chuck this herdin’ job. Somebody in Watrous told me the other day thet Malpass was tryin’ to buy Lopez out. Reckon it’s only a rumor, but I wouldn’t risk it.”
“I’ve got to. Work is necessary, and jobs I can fill are few. Lopez trusted me. I’ll trust him. I don’t think he’d sell without sending me word.”
“Wal, Don Lopez is white, you can lay to thet. But Malpass has a hold over these greasers. Better throw your pack in the car hyar an’ come with us.”
“No. You’re very good. But I’ll go on.”
“Are you well, Forrest? You look pretty worked out.”
“I’m all right. It was hard at first — for a man in my shape. But I’ll pull through.”
“Ahuh. — Wal, good luck to you. Any message we can take back? We’re goin’ on to Kelsey’s Ranch, then right back to town.”
“If you meet anyone I know — tell them I’m all right,” replied Clifton, haltingly. This was too sudden for him. He would have liked to be prepared for such a meeting.
“Shore will, an’ go out of my way...How’re you off fer smokes?”
“I’ve quit. But my boy Julio — a pack of cigarettes would be most welcome.”
“Hyar you are...Bill, fork out. An’ you too, Pedlar.”
Three packages came flipping to Clifton’s feet.
“Thanks. But I didn’t mean to hold you up.”
“So long, Forrest. Don’t forgit. You’re solid back thar.”
“Wait!” called Clifton, as they were about to start. He stepped closer, suddenly gripped by awakening realization. “What’s the talk — about me?”
“Not bad at all, Forrest,” heartily returned the one who had been the most loquacious. “Most died out now. But it was some talk, believe me. An’ the sum of it was thet you an’ Miss Lundeen fell in love — which was quite proper — an’ because of your parents hatin’ each other you had to marry secret. Wal, Malpass, who was always sweet on Lundeen’s gal, found it out an’ had Hartwell fire you — insultin’ your wife to boot. You jest beat hell out of Malpass, in accordance with Western ways. An’ the dirty half-breed throwed his gun, near killin’ poor old Jim Mason. Everybody is sorry you didn’t use a gun yourself, instead of a whip...Wal, then your respective fathers, sore as hell because you’d married, throwed you out...I reckon thet’s about all.”
“Do you know — did you hear what became of — of Miss Lundeen?” queried Clifton, hoarsely.
“I’m sorry, Forrest, but I never heerd.”
“Wal, I know,” added the man called Bill, and he grinned happily. “I seen her get on the train thet very night. It was Number Four, goin’ East, an’ I was thar. She was dressed like one of them girls in the pictures, an’ she shore looked white an’ proud.”
“Thar! She beat it, Forrest,” declared the eldest man, with satisfaction. “Didn’t you worry none about your wife!...So long now. Good luck.”
They left Clifton standing beside the road, staring after the speeding car. It was long before he remembered the sheep, and longer before he could see to follow them.
Guadaloupe Springs lay four weeks’ sheep travel from Gray Rocks. It was three thousand feet lower, and the winter climate was the perfect one of early autumn in high altitude, marred on rare occasions by a storm.
A vast bowl of uneven land held Guadaloupe Springs in its center, where many groves of cottonwoods and long wandering lines of willows marked the presence of the water that gave life to the desert. The trees lately touched by frost shone in a wondrous variety of greens and golds, strong contrast to the monotonous gray of wasteland.
From the height of the bowl, far over the broken red walls that rimmed it, could be seen the beginning of the arid zone of sand and stone and cactus, of that glimmering delusive region of the Journado del Muerte, which led on and on over the bad lands of the south and the border to Mexico.
From the beautiful valley, like an oasis, where Lopez’ flock was to spend the winter months, no ghastly stretch or black butte of the southern desert could be seen. Only the slow-rising gray slopes, and the mounds of red rock, and the enclosing yellow walls, and the blue phantoms of peaks that resembled inverted cloud mountains in the sky, greeted the keen eyes of the sheep-herders.
Clifton was nine weeks out of San Luis. It seemed nine years. It was Julio who kept track of days. For the will that had upheld Clifton, the scorn of weakness and agony and death, the toil which dwarfed the trenches, the effort he owed himself, and the desert with its boundless horizons, its cruelty, its solitude, its lonely nights and solemn days, its piercing wind and cold and storm, its tormenting demand to be conquered — all these had worked upon Clifton’s body and mind, to begin a transformation which, if completed, would be a miracle.
They pitched camp under a cottonwood that stormed Clifton’s heart, so like was it to the one in the valley at home — the gnarled, low-branched old monarch which Virginia Lundeen had climbed as a bare-legged girl, and under which as a woman she had tempted him to make her his wife. No hope ever to forget her here!
A little clear stream babbled over rocks and left faint traces of white alkali along the sand. Rabbits and quail darted away into the green brush. Robins and larks and swamp blackbirds, on the way south, still lingered here, and a killdee sounded his piercing melancholy note.
At the head of the stream was a natural corral in a triangle of the rocks, where the bare ground, packed hard by countless thousands of tiny hoofs, attested to the shepherds’ flocks of the past. Here Clifton and Julio drove their flock, shouting their gladness to be there, answering the barks of the dogs. The down journey was ended. In the spring the sheep would be fat and strong, and the return trip a reward of the months.
“Julio, your Virgin Saint spoke true. All is well,” said Clifton.
“Eet es well, señor,” replied the lad.
Clifton surveyed the fallen cottonwoods and willows, the driftwood that had come down the stream in flood, and smiled at the thought of luxurious camp fires during the winter. What had he ever known of cold? As the worth of a fire! It took the desert to teach a man.
Then, with trepidation of heart, he swung an ax. It strained him. It made him pant and sweat and labor. But he could swing it! A terrible, incomprehensible ecstasy assailed him. No man could ever tell what might happen. Life was sweet. Just to see and feel and smell! To be able to stand up like a man and work! Love was not necessary. The affection and understanding of a father could be dispensed with. The thought of mother must always be sad. No compensation for her! Friends were nothing. It was just enough to feel life flowing back through the veins, hot, throbbing, thrilling. To conquer physical obstacles — to be able to chop a log! In place of the God he imagined had failed him, he thanked Julio’s Virgin Saint.
This vast shut-in basin was a desert paradise. There would be Indians and other sheep-herders, but they would not spoil the solitude, the long, long nights with the wind in the cottonwoods, the long, long days, solemn and still, empty of the hate and greed of men.
Julio came and stood in amaze to see him swing the ax, to watch with his soft dark eyes, and to cry out, “Ah, señor ez grande again!”
Clifton saw it through, and fell with the ax in his hands. He was weak. But how infinitely stronger than he had ever hoped to be! And as he lay there, panting, there was born in him an unutterable and ineffably passionate love for the raw, ruthless, flinty desert that had saved him.
Chapter Fourteen
SUNRISES OF PALE rose with fan rays, ice on the still pools that soon melted, lonesome full hours with the bleating sheep, sunsets of gold and red over the purple walls — so the days sped.
In January, one morning, Julio discovered a loss of sheep. At first Clifton believed they had strayed, but Julio shook his head, and soon he pointed to moccasin tracks in the sand. The sheep had been stolen.
“I will go fetch them back,” said Clifton, with heat.
“No, señor. Mucho malo,” returned the lad, and with impressive gesture indicated a flight far over the Guadaloupe walls, across the border into Mexico.
“But the sheep can’t travel fast. I’ll catch up with the thieves,” protested Clifton.
“Mebbe no. Injuns shoot.” Plain it was that Julio did not think the loss of a few sheep worth the risk. But Clifton did. The Mexican lad seemed to be trying to tell him that little thefts like this one were always happening at Guadaloupe, but he did not implicate the herders and Indians in the valley. The raiders came from far and were never trailed.
