ELLO, Dick!”
“Hello, Reddy!”
Seven little gray burros—browsing upon the dust-covered chamiso—lifted their heads at the words; and turned seven mealy noses and seven pairs of inquisitive ears toward the speakers in indolent curiosity.
The two men who met upon the mesa had been drawing slowly together on the long white road winding up toward the mountain a dozen miles away. The dust, raised by the shuffling feet of their horses, floated—a long streamer of white—down toward the muddy, crooked river in the valley far below. The dust had whitened, too, the slouch hats and worn blue overalls they wore; and their faces were marked with furrows, burned deep by the harsh, relentless sun of the plains. It was pouring its rays down now with the fierce malignance of some demon bent on destroying every vestige of plant-life that had the temerity to put forth its young shoots; and save for the scant bunch-grass, and the sage, and the greasewood, and a few distant and scattering junipers that grew dark upon the mountains beyond, no growth of vegetation was to be seen. It was within an hour of noon, and the scorching rays descended upon the blistered earth through a silver-gray haze that—reaching across the valley—quivered over the scene like the heat that comes through an open furnace-door.
Little gray lizards with black, shining eyes; little horned toads with prickly backs, lay with palpitating bodies in the scant shade. The saucy Paiute squirrels which earlier in the day darted in and out of their burrows, had now disappeared into subterranean darkness. Jack-rabbits, with limp ears lying back, crouched under the edges of the greasewood. The three horses stood with listless, drooping heads; the two men sat with listless, drooping bodies—one leaning forward to rest his crossed arms on the horn of the Mexican saddle he bestrode; the other, with loosely held reins between his fingers, leaned with his elbows on his knees.
After the brief Western greeting, the one on the buckskin horse asked carelessly:
“Been in with some hides, Reddy?”
“Yep.”
“What luck you been havin’?”
“Poor. Tell you what ’tis, Dick, I ain’t seen more’n fifty head o’ horses sence we been a-campin’ at Big Deer Spring; an’ the’re so wild you can’t git to within a mile of ’em. Tommy an’ me are goin’ to move. They’re waterin’ over to them deep springs north.”
“Yaas,” drawled the other, “they’ve been shot among so much they’re gittin’ scarry. Me an’ my pardner are campin’ over at the mine with them Dagos there; but we don’t see many bunches of horses around, nohow. Guess we’ll skin out next week, an’ go over to The Cedars. I don’t s’pose——” he moved his horse nearer to the wagon, and bent a contemplative gaze upon one of the front wheels—“I don’t s’pose Austin an’ the Kid’ll kick if we do crowd over on their lay-out a little; for there must be near a thousand head o’ mustangs over ’round them Cedars that ain’t never heard a gun yit. So’t there’d be good shootin’ for all of us, an’ plenty o’ horses to go ’round. Hey?”
The other nodded his head affirmatively.
“But that Austin’s a queer sort of a feller! Wanted him to come in with my pardner an’ me (he’s an all-fired good shot—good as I am myself; an’ I c’n shoot all I c’n skin in a day), an’ I thought him an’ me could do the shootin’, an’ my pardner an’ the Kid could do the skinnin.’ But, no sir-ee; he wouldn’t have it! Just said the Kid couldn’t come; an’ ’t two was enough in a camp, anyway. He’s about as stand-offish as anybody I ever see. I ain’t sorry now’t he didn’t take up with my offer; for the boys say that the Kid wouldn’t be no ’count along anyway. He can’t shoot; and he just nat’rally won’t skin ’em—too squeamish an’ ladylike. Aw!”
“I know. He just tags ’round after Austin all day; an’ don’t never seem to want to git more’n a hunderd yards from him. An’ Austin’s just about as bad stuck on the Kid,” said Reddy.
“Yaas, I know it; an’ that’s what beats me. I don’t see what they’re stuck so on each other for,” said Dick, as he leaned back in the saddle and rammed a hand into the depths of a pocket of his overalls. As he drew forth a section of “star plug” he tapped the buckskin’s flanks with his heels to urge the sorry specimen of horseflesh closer to the wagon.
“Chaw?”
The smaller man accepted. Turning the square over and giving each side a cursory glance, he picked off the tin tag—a tiny star—and set his jaws into an inviting corner, bending it back and forth in his endeavor to wrench off a generous mouthful. Passing it in silence back to the owner (who regaled himself also with a like quantity before returning it to his pocket), and having—with the aid of thumbnail and forefinger—snapped the shining little star at a big horse-fly that was industriously sucking blood from the roan’s back, he remarked:
“Hides is gone up.”
“That so?” exclaimed Dick, with animation; “what they worth now?”
“Dollar an’ a quarter, to a dollar an’ six bits; and three dollars for extra big ones. Manes is worth two bits a pound. What you comin’ in for?”
“Ca’tridges. Shot mine all away.”
“I c’n let you have some till you git your’n, if you want. What’s your gun—forty-five eighty-five Marlin?” asked Reddy.
“Nope—won’t do,” answered Dick; “mine’s Remington forty-ninety. Much ’bliged, though.”
“Say, Dick!” exclaimed Reddy, “them Mexicans down on the river are comin’ out to run mustangs. I saw that Black Joaquin an’ his brother yist’day, an’ told ’em if they wanted to run ’em anywheres out on our lay-out, that we wouldn’t make no kick if they’d let us in for a share. See? They think they c’n run in about a hunderd an’ fifty head, anyway. An’ they’ll furnish the manada, an’ the saddle horses, an’ all, for the whole crowd. So, I told ’em. ‘All right! go ahead, as far as me an’ my pardner are concerned.’ He says Austin’s agreed. How are you an’ Johnny? Willin’?”
“Oh, yes; I’m willin’,” answered Dick, as he jerked at the bridle-rein, disturbing the buckskin’s doze. “Well, good luck to you! See you again!”
“Same to yourself. So long!” answered Reddy.
The saddle-horse fell into a jog trot again to the pricking of the spur; and the sorry span started the wagon groaning and rattling on its way up the road whose furrows were cut deep by the great teams that hauled sulphur and borax from the furthest mountains down to the railroad in the valley.
The creaking and rattling of the wagon had only just recommenced, when Reddy stopped his team to call back.
“Oh, Dick!”
“Hello!”
The little burros that had returned to nibbling on the brush, again lifted their heads at this second interruption.
“Say! Austin ast me to git him a San Fr’ncisco paper so as he could see what hides is quoted at; an’ I plum clean forgot it. Wisht you’d bring out one to him when you come!”
“All right! So long!”
“So long!”
The men moved on again. And the two streamers of white dust grew farther and farther apart, till they had faded out of sight in the hazy distance.
The burros were left in undisturbed possession of the mesa the rest of the stifling hot day, while they browsed along on the greasewood. Late in the afternoon their little hoofs turned into a wild horse trail which led them, single-file, down to the river where the mealy muzzles were plunged into the swift, muddy current for a drink.
But while they had been munching the uninviting brush and sage, and flicking the flies away with their absurd paint-brush tails, Harvey Austin, over on the foothills near the Cedars, sat in the tent which was now the only home he knew; and with his hat fanned the face of the one whom the horse-hunters had named “The Kid.”
The boy, who had been ailing, was asleep now; but the flushed cheeks, and parched lips that were always calling for water, were cause enough for the fear that came over Austin as he sat there. What if this were but the beginning of a long fever? Suppose there should be a serious illness for him?
Again Austin asked himself the same questions that he was putting to himself daily. What had the future in store for them? From here, where were they to go? To stay through the long winter, with the mercury below zero, and the wild blasts of wind about their tent—perhaps to be buried in deep snow—all these things were not to be considered for a moment. Before the coming of winter they must go. But where? Only away from civilization were they safe.
He had come to see, at last, that they had both made a horrible mistake of life. In the beginning of this, it had not seemed so; things looked differently—at first. But, at times, of late there had come a feeling of repulsion over him for which he could not account. Was it the aftermath of wrong-doing? Well, he must make the best of it; it was too late to undo all that had been done. He must bear it—the larger share—as best he could. He said to himself that, thank God! at least he was enough of a man to hide from the “little one” what he himself was beginning to feel.
It is the great immutable law that the fruits of pleasure, plucked by the hands of sin, shall turn to bitterness between the lips. For sin, there is suffering; and for wrong-doing, regret. None escape the great law of compensation. Justice must have payment for the defiance of her laws.
Austin drew his breath in sharply. Oh, merciful God! how long was this way of living to last? Why, he might live on thirty—forty—fifty years yet! Penniless, what was their future to be? To return to that world which, through their past years, had surrounded them with all those things that make life worth living, would be to tempt a worse fate than awaited them here. The desolation which spread around them in the foothills of the bare, lonely mountains was as naught to the humiliation of returning to the peopled places where most would know them, yet few would choose to recognize.
It had not seemed that the price they would have to pay would be so dear when first he had faced the possible results of their rash act. Was it only a twelve-month ago? Why, it might have been twelve times twelve, so long ago did it seem since he was walking among men holding his head up, and looking fearlessly into the eyes of honest fellows who greeted him with warm hand-clasps.
His face had a strained look as he let his eyes fall on the unconscious figure beside him; and a strange expression—almost one of aversion—swept across his features. But he drew himself up quickly, tossing his head back with a movement as though—by the act—he could cast off something which might, perhaps, master him. For some time he sat there, his sensitive, refined face rigid and set, fixing his eyes on vacancy. Then he sank back, sighing wearily.
Before him was memory’s moving panorama of a splendid past. Out of the many pictures—plainer than all the rest—rose the face of the man who had befriended him; the one to whom he owed all he had ever been, or enjoyed. The one but for whom he would have been left, when a boy, to the chill charity of strangers. From that generous hand he had received an education befitting the heir to great wealth, and that noble heart had given such love and care as few sons receive from a parent. He could now, in recollection, see the austere face of his guardian softening into affectionate smiles as his tender gaze fell on his two wards—himself, and the pretty, willful Mildred. Only they whom he so fondly loved knew the great depths of tenderness and gentleness in his nature. It stung Austin now to think of it; it shamed him as well.
And was he—this coward hiding in the mountains of the West, leading a hateful existence hunting wild horses for the few dollars that the hides would bring, that he might be able to buy the necessaries of life, since he had failed to get work in any other calling—was he the one whom John Morton had once loved and trusted? He shuddered with disgust; no man could feel a greater contempt for him, than he felt for himself.
He rose abruptly and walked to the opening of the tent, looking out on the sweep of sagebrush-covered foothills about him. It was useless to think of the past, or to give way to remorse or idle regrets. What was done could not be undone. He must arrange, as best he could, for the future years, and provide for the needs of the present. He must do his best in caring for and protecting the one for whom this life was harder—far harder—than for himself.
He turned his back on the dreary landscape before him, and came back into the tent, busying himself about camp duties till the other awoke. And the young eyes—wistful and sad—that kept seeking Austin’s, saw no trace of the heartache and remorse he was bravely trying to bury.
When the sun had gone down behind their mountain, and a welcome coolness had settled itself over the burning ground, they went to sit by the spring that bubbled out of the hillside. All through the twilight they sat without speaking, their thoughts far away. Then darkness came and hid the barren hills, mercifully shutting from their sight the pitiful poverty of the life that was now theirs. A soft west wind sprung up; and the balmy night air, cool and dry, seemed to have driven away much of the illness the boy had felt through the day. They sat in a silence unbroken only by the crickets’ perpetual shrilling, the hoot of a ground owl, and a coyote yelping to its mate across the cañon. When the first prolonged cry pierced the air, the slight form had nestled instinctively closer to Austin. Then the mournful wail of the little gray ghost of the plains grew fainter and fainter, and finally ceased altogether, as he trotted away over the ridge, in quest of a freshly-skinned carcass where some unfortunate horse had fallen a victim to the sure aim of some horse hunter.
They sat for nearly an hour in the silence of night in the mountains, Austin wondering if the time would ever come when the “little one” would guess how miserably tired of it he had become in less than a year. He hoped—prayed, the other would never know. And (worse still) would a sickening disgust ever find its way into that other heart, as it had into his own? With all his soul he silently prayed it might never be so.
“Come, little one,” he said, gently, “we must go in. It is late.”
The other made no response.
“Don’t you want to go yet? Are you not sleepy—and a little bit tired, poor child?”
Still no answer, though Austin knew he was heard. He waited. Then——
“Harvey,”—the voice was almost a whisper—“we have seen some happy days—sometimes—and you have always been good to me; but, do you—— I mean, when you remember what we have lost, and what we are and must always remain, do you find in this life we are living, compensation enough for all that we suffer? Do you? Tell me!”
So! it had come to the other one, too.
A day of fast, hard riding had drawn to its close. Reddy and Dick, and their “pardners,” and Black Joaquin and his brother, together with two or three others had made their first day’s run of wild mustangs. Three or four “bunches” of native wild horses had been surrounded and driven with a rush, in a whirl of alkali dust, into a juniper corral far down in the cañon. Then the circling riatas had brought them—bucking and kicking—down to the earth; and biting and striking at their captors, they fought for their liberty till exhausted and dripping with sweat—their heads and knees skinned and mouths bleeding—they found themselves conquered, necked to gentler horses, or else hoppled.
At early morning Dick had come to Austin’s camp, bringing the newspaper; and the two had ridden away together. And now that each man had made his selection in the division of the day’s spoils, Austin turned his pony’s head toward the far-off tent—a little white speck in the light of the sunset on one of the distant foothills.
“Well, good-night, boys! I’ll join you again in the morning.” He loped away to the place where the “little one” was awaiting him.
The morrow’s sun shone blood-red—an enormous ruby disc, in the east through the smoky haze that hung over the valley still. By eight o’clock the air was stifling, and the men standing about camp ready for the second day’s run were impatient to be off. It was easier to endure the heat when in the saddle and in action, than to be idling here at the corral. They were wondering at Austin’s delay. And most of them had been swearing. Finally, Black Joaquin was told to go across to the white speck on the foothills, and “hustle him up;” for they were short of men to do the work, if he did not come. So the Mexican threw himself across the saddle, and digging his spurs into the flanks of the ugly-looking sorrel, loped over the hill to Austin’s camp.
Half an hour later he came back at racing speed to tell a story which made the men look at each other with startled glances, and even with suspicion at himself (so surely are evil deeds laid at the door of one with an evil reputation); but when they rode over to where the stilled forms lay beside the rifle whose aim had been true, they saw it had not been Black Joaquin.
Who, then? Too plainly, they saw. But why?
The newspaper Dick had brought lay folded open at an article that told the pitiful story of their love, and their sin, and their shame. It was Johnny, Dick’s partner, who saw it, and read:
“Living among Horse Hunters—An Erring Couple Traced to Nevada—Harvey Ashton and Mrs. John Q. Morton Seen—The Woman in Male Attire.
“The public no doubt remembers press dispatches of a year ago from Boston, regarding the sensational elopement of Harvey Ashton and the young and beautiful wife of John Q. Morton, a prominent and wealthy commission merchant of that city. All parties concerned moved in the most exclusive circles of society.
“Young Ashton had returned home from a prolonged tour of Europe to find that Morton (who, though not related to him, has always assumed the part of an indulgent father) had just wedded his ward, Miss Mildred Walters, a handsome young woman many years his junior; and whose play-fellow he—Ashton—had been when a boy, but whom she had not seen for a number of years. She had matured into a beautiful, attractive woman, and Ashton soon fell a willing victim to her charms. Soon after, society of the Hub was startled and shocked to hear of the elopement of Harvey Ashton with his benefactor’s wife.
“Subsequently they were discovered to have been in San Francisco, where all traces of them, for the time, were lost. Nothing was heard of them again till, some two months ago, when they were seen in Reno, Nevada, by an old acquaintance who cannot be mistaken in their identity.
“He states he had come down from Virginia City, and was waiting to take the train for the East, when he saw Ashton pass by the station once or twice, in company with what was apparently a small, slightly-built young man, but who, he is positive, is none other than Mrs. Morton in male attire. He purposely avoided the couple, but inquiries elicited the facts that Ashton was passing under the name of Austin, and had stated that his companion was a young brother. It was also learned that they were practically without means, and were leaving Reno for the interior part of the State. Later reports locate them in a range of mountains a short distance from the railroad, where they are with a number of cowboys and sheep-herders who are out of work, and who are at present engaged in shooting wild horses, furnishing hides for the San Francisco market.
“The friend who recognized the couple at once communicated with the deserted husband, who, it is reported, is on his way West in quest of the erring pair.”
This was their story, then! The story waiting in the newspaper for Austin when he got back to the “little one” the evening before.
The afternoon’s shadows were slanting down the valley when the seven little burros saw Reddy’s wagon come down the long, dusty road leading toward the river. From where they browsed they could see it go over the bridge and the alkali flats, on its way to the railroad station in the hazy valley. The big sheet of canvas, taken from Dick’s bed, covered something that lay in the bottom of the wagon. Two somethings there were—side by side, rigid and cold—sharply outlined under the folds of white canvas.
The wagon creaked, and rattled, and groaned on its way. The afternoon sun parched and burned the earth, as it had done for weeks. Rabbits hid under the edges of the greasewood on the side where the greater shadows fell. The burros still flicked with their absurd tails at the sand-flies. Buzzing above the canvas were some big green flies that followed the wagon till after the sun went down. A buzzard circled overhead; and a lean coyote trotted behind the wagon on the mesa for a mile or more.
The burros, too, crossed the bridge that night, and morning found them browsing along the foothills nestling against the mountains across the valley, where feed was better. Near the base of the mountain, and not far from the little railroad station, was a graveyard. Treeless, flowerless, unfenced. There were no headstones, ’tis true; but the graves were well banked with broken rock, to keep the hungry coyotes and badgers from digging up the dead.
At the station Black Joaquin had helped lift the new pine boxes into the wagon. As he watched them start on their ride to the place of rock-covered mounds near the foothills, he said to the men gathered about:
“Por Dios! Not so muchos hombres to shoot mostang now!”
And his brother Domingo, who had been drinking, answered with more freedom:
“’Sta ’ueno! Not so muchos hombres; more mostang por me. ’Sta ’ueno; si, ’sta muy ’ueno!”
He laughed slyly. Then he went over to the saloon, followed by the other men.
The little gray burros watched the wagon for a long time, as it went rattle—rattle—rattle over the stony road. By and by it stopped. Then they began nibbling again on the scant bunch-grass and white sage.
