by Zane Grey
A long hour passed by, and time wore on toward a second. Adam stretched his long frame in the hammock, spreading it and lying diagonally across, so that his body rested on a level, after the custom of the Mexicans. But Merryvale grew restless. He sat and walked and sat again, only to rise and pace the stone floor, always listening for footsteps.
The clip-clop of horses’ hoofs passed faintly on the outside; the distant bray of a burro rang into the growing silence; the murmur of unseen life lulled at intervals.
At length quick steps on the stones! Augustine entered, blowing cigarette smoke, his dark face heated, his eyes like black daggers.
“Ah, Senor. I have kept you waiting,” he said, and drew a bench close to Adam, who lurched up.
Merryvale came near, warming to this friend in need, marveling at the loyalty of a Mexican. But he knew that if a Mexican’s heart was touched he had not treachery.
“Senor Adam, Collishaw’s driver is Manuel Gomez, distant kin of mine. We are long acquainted.”
“That is well. But tell me, Augustine,” replied Adam, leaning forward.
“Has Senor Adam’s sweetheart a face like the Virgin—hair like the Lluvia d’oro of the Spaniards—eyes deep and purple like the canyon gates at sunset?” Adam stared at his questioner, checked by that verbose eloquence. But Merryvale filled in the breach.
“Augustine, the woman he seeks has the face of an angel. Shore her hair is like the Spaniards’ Shower of Gold, an’ her eyes are the shadows of the desert.”
“She is here,” he replied, and flicked the ashes from his cigarette.
“At the Del Toro?” queried Adam, with deep agitation.
“Gomez does not know,” returned Augustine. “Sit down, Senor … He told me this, knowing I would protect him.”
Collishaw, according to Gomez, had left Lost Lake to travel north, but when night fell he had turned back and waited till late. Then he had gone on past the post to stop by the water-trough. Here Collishaw left the wagon and went off into the darkness. He came back with another man, and they were carrying a woman wrapped in a blanket. They got in the wagon, where Collishaw held the woman. Gomez drove rapidly out upon the desert, taking, as directed, the Yuma road. Then they removed the blanket from the woman, who appeared half smothered. They laid her down upon the hay in the bed of the wagon. At length she came to, and screamed and fought the two men like a she-panther. They handled her brutally until she fell back, spent and half naked. Both men then seemed affected at once and in the same degree by her allurement and helplessness. Each protected her from the other.
They drove all night. No one slept. At dawn they turned off into a canyon, well back from the road. Water and food, feed for the horses, had been provided for this occasion. The woman drank, but refused to eat. They tied her hands. All day she lay in the wagon, sometimes moaning, sometimes asleep. The men watched and slept by turns.
When night came they resumed their journey, and reached Yuma long after midnight, halting at the edge of the town. The younger man lifted the woman out of the wagon. Then Collishaw took her away from him. They cursed each other and disappeared in the darkness.
“Senor, that is all,” concluded Augustine, dropping his burnt-out cigarette.
“Did your Gomez hear word of another man involved in this deal?” queried Adam, his mien dark and terrible.
“No, Senor.”
“You think Collishaw took her to the Del Toro?”
“If he wanted her for himself—no. If for some one else—yes.”
“How can we find out?”
“Senor, it is hardly possible tonight,” returned the Mexican, spreading wide his hands.
“I could take a sledge and wreck the Del Toro in short order.”
“Si, Senor. It would be one grand bull-fight. But if the senorita was not there?”
“Augustine, you are my friend,” returned Adam, hoarsely.
“Wait. Tomorow I can find out where the Senorita is hidden. Then we will make plans. It is well to go slow—be sure. Your Lluvia d’oro is in a sad plight. Quien sabe?…. Perhaps—but you must think of her life.”
Adam acquiesced with a bend of head, and stood looking at the blank stone wall, with eyes that saw through it.
“My friend—Augustine will want to see the grande senor kill that one-eyed Gringo,” said the Mexican, with the softness of a woman.
Merryvale jumped out of his rigidity shot through and through with a bursting hot sensation along his veins. But Adam, if he heard the Mexican’s deliberate speech, gave no heed to it.
“Senors, come, you must sleep,” said their host, rising.
They were conducted to a room with American couches, for which Merryvale was grateful, because he never could get straightened out in the Mexican hammocks. Not that he expected to sleep! The look of Adam caused him great concern. Merryvale removed his boots and outer garments, but Adam stood gazing out of a window.
“Pard, shore the chances are that Ruth ain’t been harmed yet,” said Merryvale, with strong solicitude.
“Her body may not be,” replied Adam, heavily.
“Wal, what else matters?” exclaimed Merryvale, irritated and impatient with his friend. “My Gawd, this heah is the southwest an’ Yuma to boot. What could you expect? The men are few, I tell you, who think of anythin’ in this heah desert but their flesh. An’ I’ll bet there’s not one woman who thinks of anythin’ else. So if Ruth ain’t been hurt—or—or wuss—I’ll swear we’re lucky.”
“Blow out the lamp, friend, and sleep. Not the least of my griefs comes from the suffering you endure for me.”
Merryvale had no reply for that. With the room black, except where wan moonlight fell upon the motionless Adam at the window, he lay down to rest and compose himself. Yes—he was old. He felt it in the ache of his bones, in the dull pang of his heart. Not so very many more journeys could he take out into the wearing wasteland that he loved and feared. If he could only help Adam and Ruth to their freedom, to the fruition of their love, to know before he lay down for the last time that they were gone from the blasting sand realm, to a home among sweet-scented clover fields and green pastures and murmuring streams!
He found that sleep would not hold aloof. His eyelids seemed weighted. Despite his efforts to keep them open they would close and stick for moments, until by sheer will power he could lift them again. The time came when Adam no longer kept his vigil at the window. Had he lain down to rest? A shaft of moonlight shone in to fall upon Adam’s bed. Merryvale saw the long dark form. That persuaded him to succumb to the all-pervading need for sleep. The last thing he heard was a low hum of Yuma’s night life.
Merryvale was awakened by a call from the door of his room. “Come pard, the day’s broken.”
Augustine did not appear while they were at breakfast, but later he came in with new clothing and boots for Adam.
“Wal, I’m most as ragged as you,” said Merryvale. “We’d shore make good scare-crows for a Texas cornfield.”
Adam gave Merryvale some money. “We look worse than that, and old clothes can’t hang on forever. Buy what you need. Get a gun—a forty-five like mine, and some shells. Also razors, towels, soap and things we need so much.”
“Fine. But how aboot the risk of bein’ seen?” returned Merryvale.
“No one but Collishaw or Stone would know you. See them first and dodge.”
“Wal, I’ll go pronto. Anythin’ more, Adam?”
“Wait. I must not forget Ruth.”
Merryvale remembered then the story of the driver, Gomez, and that Ruth’s clothes had been torn.
“It’s not likely these men would get clothes for Ruth,” went on Adam. “When we leave Yuma she may be exposed to cold at night—the sun and wind by day…. Merryvale, buy a veil for Ruth and one of those long linen coats—the kind she had on that day.”
“Adam, I reckon Ruth had on them light things she wears hot evenin’s at Lost Lake. Thin little slippers an’ stockin’s. I’d better buy shoes an’ stockin
’s.”
“Yes, anything you think you can pick out—that would—”
“Wal,” interrupted Merryvale. “It’s been long since I bought clothes for a lady, but I can shore make a stab at it. When do you aim to leave Yuma?”
“Tomorrow morning. Augustine will arrange to have the stage stop here in front of his place.”
“Huh. That depends on gettin’ Ruth?”
“We are going to get her today,” returned Adam.
“Si, Senor,” verified Augustine.
Merryvale eyed the Mexican skeptically. There was such a thing as being worse than too swift, and that was too sure. Assuredly if Ruth could be located, Adam would rescue her, if he had to level the Del Toro.
Merryvale wound his way out of the patio and corridors through the arches to the street. The blinding white light of the sun struck him by surprise. It had been shady and cool inside those thick stone and adobe walls. The pavement and street were hot stifling with dust, colorful and noisy as the main thoroughfare of a country town on circus day.
He turned to the right, favoring the shade when there was any, and found himself indeed amazed at the activity and increase of life in Yuma.
A motley and picturesque stream of human beings thronged the pavement, passing up and down. Mexicans predominated, of all sizes and ages, with more female than male. Most of the men and boys wore big sombreros, white cotton shirts, trousers held by a sash or belt, where a knife or machete hung, and bare feet in sandals. Some Mexicans were adorned by the boots, huge spurs, chaps, and the braided vestments of the vaquero. The women were clad in loose flowing gowns, mantillas and scarves, mostly in bright colors. Interspersed among these towered occasional Yuma Indians, very tall in stature, none under six feet in height. They were striking to observe—so wonderful in physique, clad in slovenly white man’s garments, with their large faces, almost black, wrinkled like dried leather, and with the coils of black hair on their heads and the flat lumps of damp mud on top of the coils. This queer headdress of the Yumas always amused Merryvale. But they knew how to keep their heads cool, if not clean. The Papago Indians, of whom he saw several, were smaller, clad more like savages of the desert, and remarkable for their inscrutable faces, handsome, impassive, with eyes that seemed not to meet those of a white man. Merryvale encountered one Yaqui, a short powerful man, in vaquero costume, broad and brown of face, with fierce eyes.
White men—miners, ranchers, cowboys, teamsters, moved in the throng, adding their attractive garb to the scene. Merryvale, with his wide slouch hat pulled well down over his face, to conceal it partly, peered out from the brim with the eyes of a hawk. He saw every person moving toward him.
He entered one large general merchandise store where clerks were few and purchasers many. Men bought tobacco, hardware, harness, guns, ammunition. Miners sorted out equipment; prospectors chose and rejected with a necessity for careful husbanding of money that Merryvale appreciated; hunters from the East were purchasing an outfit to use across the border in Mexico.
At last Merryvale got waited upon, and left with a gun belted under his coat, and shells, and a heavy parcel of clothing and boots, and other necessities Adam and he had so long lacked. He returned with them to Augustine’s. Adam was nowhere to be found. Merryvale cut off his mustache, shaved his grizzled beard, and making a complete change of old for new attire, he surveyed himself with much satisfaction. He was willing to wager ten to one that Collishaw would not recognize him.
This accomplished, he went out again. If anything, there was an increase in bustle, in number of passers-by, brightness and variety of color, and most certainly of heat, dust and wind. He awaited his opportunity to cross the street.
This famous main thoroughfare of Yuma was ankle deep in dust. It rose in sheets and puffs and clouds from the hoofs of the horses and mules and oxen, to form a yellow haze that obscured even the buildings on the other side. Indians came riding by on ponies; cowboys on spirited horses that pranced and reared, hating the dust; prospectors, leading laden burros; freighters with their six mule wagons; buckboards and buggies of the Mexicans from the ranchos down the valley; and then a stagecoach white with dust.
Merryvale risked his neck to get across. “By gum!” he ejaculated, spitting out the taste of dust. “That Hank Day was shore correct. Yuma is one hell of a hole!”
In another store Merryvale essayed to purchase the articles he considered necessary for Ruth. The veil and linen coat were easily chosen, but when it came to shoes, stockings, gloves and a dress of some kind, he had indeed assumed appalling responsibility. The shoes seemed the most difficult. Merryvale’s recollection of Ruth’s feet was that they were small and shapely. He finally made a choice, not without trepidation, and paying for his goods left the store.
Again he had to run the gauntlet across the dusthazed street. Upon entering Augustine’s house, Merryvale was mightily concerned to find that Adam and the Mexican were still absent. Where had Adam gone? He was known in Yuma. Moreover the town was such a mecca for desert wanderers, prospectors and other travelers who might recognize Adam, that the risk was considerable. Adam certainly could not very well disguise himself. Still what did it matter, after all? For some wayfarer to meet Adam and remember him could hardly be calculated to hinder the work at hand. It would take an avalanche to stop Adam, once he started.
Merryvale waited for a while, then restless, and growing uncertain, he went out again. The hours had flown. Already it was mid-afternoon, and the street activity had markedly decreased. Still there were numerous individuals passing, and many loungers under the arcades and in the areaways. Merryvale sauntered along, keener than ever. There wedged into his mind a possibility of his rendering some service for Ruth. He had always been lucky. Why waste precious time when he might learn something himself?
To that end he walked by the Del Toro, across the intersecting street, and down, to turn back again. Viewed by daylight Sanchez’s place looked its reputation. It was a very old building, with painted and whitewashed plaster covering the walls. There were many patches. At some points the plaster had fallen off to disclose bricks of adobe.
Merryvale proceeded down the side street, so as to get a view of the rear of the building. A wide alley separated this from a high vine-covered wall running along the back of the other half of the square. Down this side street there were but few pedestrians. Merryvale ventured to cross and enter the alley, where he discovered that Sanchez’s house had two wings overlooking a courtyard. A stairway led up to a double-decked porch. What easy means of entrance and egress from the rear!
Merryvale continued along the alley to the end, and turning out was soon on the main street once more. When he again neared the main entrance of the Del Toro, to see the dark stairway leading to the upper floors he experienced a sensation that not only thrilled him but drew the prickling cold tightness to his skin. He halted to lean against the dirty whitewashed arched doorway. There were men going in and coming out of the saloon. No one entered the stairway. Why not risk going up? He could make some plausible excuse, if he were questioned. The idea took him by storm, in a most unaccountable manner.
With stealthy glance to and fro, Merryvale ascertained that no one appeared to be noticing him. Then he mounted the stairway. It was wide, high and old. The steps were cement or stone and worn into hollows. When he reached the first landing he faced a long corridor, blank painted wall on one side, with doors of rooms widely separated on the other. Behind Merryvale the corridor ended at a second stairway leading up. The hand of a giant might have been pulling Merryvale.
Walking naturally he ascended this flight of steps, which were of wood and very badly worn, and from the top looked down another corridor, identical with the one below, except that the ceiling was lower. It looked and smelled like many Mexican hallways Merryvale had seen.
What should he do now? He had gotten thus far without the slightest idea of any preconceived plan. He had followed an inexplicable impulse, which still beat at his blood vessels a
nd tingled his nerves. Ruth might be, and probably was a prisoner behind one of these massive doors.
Merryvale did not stop to reason with himself, to consider risk of meeting Collishaw or Stone. He never thought of either. He had a cold tight knot within his breast, which, had he but been conscious of its meaning, boded ill to any man who might cross him now.
Stepping to the first door he knocked with bold, yet trembling hand. No answer. He went on to the next door, with like result. At the third rap he heard voices and steps inside, and waited with all his blood rushing back to a contracted heart.
The door opened, and a young Mexican, lean and yellow of face, with beady little eyes, encountered Merryvale’s gaze.
“Excuse me, Senor,” said Merryvale, bowing. “I seek one Senor Garcia.”
The Mexican shook his head and closed the door.
This incident emboldened Merryvale. On down the corridor he proceeded, keen-eyed, alert, succumbing more to the spell of the thing that drew him, until he reached a point where arched doorways opened out upon the porch he had observed from the alley.
Merryvale heard voices of women, laughing. He located the room and knocked. The sounds within ceased and the door was not opened, nor was there any response from the other doors on that side.
Merryvale went out upon the porch. Then he perceived that there were two outside doors, far apart, on the section of the house between the two wings. Merryvale kept on round the porch, looking everywhere, until he came opposite to the first door. It was of solid heavy wood, with large brass knob and big keyhole.
He knocked. Again and nervously! A slight rustling step caught his keen ear. He knocked a third time.
“Who’s there?” came the query in a voice that made Merryvale’s tongue cleave to the roof of his mouth. Fearfully he gazed everywhere, forgetting to be natural.
