by Zane Grey
Having communed with the night, the girl withdrew her gaze from the sky and hearkened to her companion. His voice, now remarkably eager and young for a man of his years, came to her clearly through the clumps of bushes.
‘It is amazing, my dear! Positively. You never heard of such a thing. The horse, the tall, slender one, ran away, from me. I hastened in pursuit, calling to him to wait for me. It appeared that he had become suddenly refractory: they do that sometimes. I was going to reprimand him; I thought that it might be necessary to chastise him, as sometimes a man must do to retain the mastery. But I stayed my hand. The animal had not run away at all! He actually knew what he was doing. He came straight here. And what do you think he discovered? What do you imagine brought him? You would never guess.’
‘Water?’ suggested the girl, coming on.
Something of the man’s excitement had gone from his voice when he answered. He was like a child who has propounded a riddle that has been too readily guessed.
‘How did you know?’
‘I didn’t know. But the horses must be thirsty. Of course they would go straight to water. Animals can smell it, can’t they?’
‘Can they?’ He looked to her inquiringly when she stood at his side. ‘It is amazing, nevertheless. Positively, my dear,’ he added with a touch of dignity.
The two horses, side by side, were drinking noisily from a small depression into which the water oozed slowly. The girl watched them a moment abstractedly, sighed and sat down in the sand, her hands in her lap.
‘Tired, Helen?’ asked the man solicitously.
‘Aren’t you?’ she returned. ‘It has been a hard day, papa.’
‘I am afraid it has been hard on you, my dear,’ he admitted, as his eyes took stock of the drooping figure. ‘But,’ he added more cheerfully, ‘we are getting somewhere, my girl; we are getting somewhere.’
‘Are we?’ she murmured to herself rather than for his ears. And when he demanded ‘Eh?’ she said hastily: ‘Anyway, we are doing something. That is more fun than growing moss, even if we never succeed.’
‘I tell you,’ he declared forensically, lifting his hand for a gesture, ‘I know! Haven’t I demonstrated the infallibility of my line of action? If a man wants to—to gather cherries, let him go to a cherry tree; if he seeks pearls, let him find out the favourite habitat of the pearl oyster; if he desires a—a hat, let him go to the hatter’s. It is the simplest thing in the world, though fools have woven mystery and difficulty about it. Now——’
‘Yes, pops.’ Helen sighed again and saw wisdom in rising to her feet. ‘If you will begin unpacking I’ll make our beds. And I’ll get the fire started.’
‘We can dispense with the fire,’ he told her, setting to work with the first knot to come under his fingers. ‘There is coffee in the thermos bottle and we can open a tin of potted chicken.’
‘The fire makes it cosier,’ Helen said, beginning to gather twigs. Last night coyotes had howled fearsomely, and even dwellers of the cities know that the surest safeguard against a ravening beast is a camp-fire. For a little while the man strove with his tangled rope; she was lost to him through the mesquite. Suddenly she came running back.
‘Papa,’ she whispered excitedly. ‘There’s some one already here.’
She led him a few paces and pointed, making him stoop to see. Under the tangle of a thin brush patch he made out what she had seen. But a short distance from the spot they had elected for their camp site was a tiny fire blazing merrily.
‘Ahem,’ said Helen’s father, shifting nervously and looking at his daughter as though for an explanation of this oddity. ‘This is peculiar. It has an air of—of——’
‘Why, it is the most natural thing in the world,’ she said swiftly. ‘Where would you expect to find a camp-fire if not near a spring?’
‘Yes, yes, that part of it is all right,’ he admitted grudgingly. ‘But why does he hold back and thereby give one an impression of a desire on his part for secrecy? Why does he not come forward and make himself known? I do not mean to alarm you, my dear, but this is not the way an honest fellow-wayfarer should behave. Wait here for me; I shall investigate.’ Intrepidly he walked toward the fire. Helen kept close to his side.
‘Hello!’ he called, when they had taken a dozen steps. They paused and listened. There was no reply, and Helen’s fingers tightened on his arm. Again he looked to her as though once more he asked the explanation of her; the look hinted that upon occasion the father leaned on the daughter more than she on him. He called again. His voice died away echoless, the silence seeming heavier than before. When one of the horses behind them, turning from the water, trod upon a dry twig, both man and girl started. Then Helen laughed and went forward again.
Since the fire had not lighted itself, it merely bespoke the presence of a man. Men had no terror to her. In the ripe fullness of her something less than twenty years she had encountered many of them. While with due modesty she admitted that there was much in the world that she did not know, she considered that she ‘knew’ men.
The two pressed on together. Before they had gone far they were greeted by the familiar and vaguely comforting odours of boiling coffee and frying bacon. Still they saw no one. They pushed through the last clump of bushes and stood by the fire. On the coals was the black coffee-pot. Cunningly placed upon two stones over a bed of coals was the frying-pan. Helen stooped instinctively and lifted it aside; the half-dozen slices of bacon were burned black.
‘Hello!’ shouted the man a third time, for nothing in the world was more clear than that whoever had made the fire and begun his supper preparations must be within call. But no answer came. Meantime the night had deepened; there was no moon; the taller shrubs, aspiring to tree proportions, made a tangle of shadow.
‘He has probably gone off to picket his horse,’ said Helen’s father. ‘Nothing could be more natural.’
Helen, more matter-of-fact and less given to theorizing, looked about her curiously. She found a tin cup; there was no bed, no pack, no other sign to tell who their neighbour might be. Close by the spot where she had set down the frying-pan she noted a second spring. Through an open space in the stunted desert growth the trail came in from the north. Glancing northward she saw for the first time the outline of a low hill. She stepped quickly to her father’s side and once more laid her hand on his arm.
‘What is it?’ he asked, his voice sharpening at her sudden grip.
‘It’s—it’s spooky out here,’ she said.
He scoffed. ‘That’s a silly word. In a natural world there is no place for the supernatural.’ He grew testy. ‘Can I ever teach you, Helen, not to employ words utterly meaningless?’
But Helen was not to be shaken.
‘Just the same, it is spooky. I can feel it. Look there.’ She pointed. ‘There is a hill. There will be a little ring of hills. In the centre of the basin they make would be the pool. And you know what we heard about it before we left San Juan. This whole country is strange, somehow.’
‘Strange?’ he queried challengingly. ‘What do you mean?’
She had not relaxed her hand on his arm. Instead, her fingers tightened as she suddenly put her face forward and whispered defiantly:
‘I mean spooky!’
‘Helen,’ he expostulated, ‘where did you get such ideas?’
‘You heard the old Indian legends,’ she insisted, not more than half frightened but conscious of an eerie influence of the still loneliness and experiencing the first shiver of excitement as she stirred her own fancy. ‘Who knows but there is some foundation for them?’
He snorted his disdain and scholarly contempt.
‘Then,’ said Helen, resorting to argument, ‘where did that fire come from? Who made it? Why has he disappeared like this?’
‘Even you,’ said her father, quick as always to
join issue where sound argument offered itself as a weapon, ‘will hardly suppose that a spook eats bacon and drinks coffee,’
‘The—the ghost,’ said Helen, with a humorous glance in her eyes, ‘might have whisked him away by the hair of the head!’
He shook her hand off and strode forward impatiently. Again and again he shouted ‘Hello!’ and ‘Ho, there! Ho, I say!’ There came no answer. The bacon was growing cold; the fire burning down. He turned a perplexed face towards Helen’s eager one.
‘It is odd,’ he said irritably. He was not a man to relish being baffled.
Helen had picked up something which she had found near the spring, and was studying it intently. He came to her side to see what it was. The thing was a freshly-peeled willow wand, left upright where one end had been thrust down into the soft earth. The other end had been split; into the cleft was thrust a single feather from a bluebird’s wing.
Helen’s eyes looked unusually large and bright. She turned her head, glancing over her shoulder.
‘Some one was here just a minute ago,’ she cried softly. ‘He was camping for the night. Something frightened him away. It might have been the noise we made. Or—what do you think, papa?’
‘I never attempt to solve a problem until the necessary data are given me,’ he announced academically.
‘Or,’ went on Helen, at whose age one does not bother about such trifles as necessary data, ‘he may not have run away at all. He may be hiding in the bushes, listening to us. There are all kinds of people in the desert. Don’t you remember how the sheriff came to San Juan just before we left? He was looking for a man who had killed a miner for his gold dust.’
‘You must curb a proclivity for such fanciful trash.’ He cleared his throat for the utterance. He put out his hand and Helen hastily slipped her own into it. Silently they returned to their own camp site, the girl carrying in her free hand the wand tipped with the bluebird feather. Several times they paused and looked back. There was nothing but the glow of the dwindling fire and the sweep of sand, covered sparsely with ragged bushes. New stars flared out; the spirit of the night descended upon the desert. As the world seemed to draw further and further away from them, these two beings, strange to the vastness engulfing them, huddled closer together. They spoke little, always in lowered voices. Between words they were listening, awaiting that which did not come.
CHAPTER II
Superstition Pool
Physically tired as they were, the night was a restless one for both Helen and her father. They ate their meal in silence for the most part, made their beds close together, picketed their horses near by and said their listless ‘good nights’ early. Each heard the other turn and fidget many times before both went to sleep. Helen saw how her father, with a fine assumption of careless habit, laid a big new revolver close to his head.
The girl dozed and woke when the pallid moon shone upon her face. She lifted herself upon her elbow. The moonlight touched upon the willow stick she had thrust into the sand at her bedside; the feather was upright and like a plume. She considered it gravely; it became the starting-point of many romantic imaginings. Somehow it was a token; of just exactly what, to be sure, she could not decide. Not definitely, that is; it was always indisputable that the message of the bluebird is one of good fortune.
A less vivid imagination than Helen’s would have found a tang of ghostliness in the night. The crest of the ridge over which they had come through the dusk now showed silvery white; white also were some dead branches of desert growth—they looked like bones. Always through the intense silence stirred an indistinguishable breath like a shiver. Individual bushes assumed grotesque shapes; when she looked long and intently at one she began to fancy that it moved. She scoffed at herself, knowing that she was lending aid to tricking her own senses, yet her heart beat a wee bit faster. She gave her mind to large considerations: those of infinity, as her eyes were lifted heavenward and dwelt upon the brightest star; those of life and death, and all of the mystery of mysteries. She went to sleep struggling with the ancient problem: ‘Do the dead return? Are there, flowing about us, weird, supernatural influences as potent and intangible as electric currents?’ In her sleep she continued her interesting investigations, but her dreaming vision explained the evening’s problem by showing her the camp-fire made, the bacon and coffee set thereon, by a very nice young man with splendid eyes.
She stirred, smiled sleepily, and lay again without moving; after the fashion of one awakening she clung to the misty frontiers of a fading dream-country. She breathed deeply, inhaling the freshness of the new dawn. Then suddenly her eyes flew open, and she sat up with a little cry; a man who would have fitted well enough into any fancy-free maiden’s dreams was standing close to her side, looking down at her. Helen’s hands flew to her hair.
Plainly—she read that in the first flashing look—he was no less astounded than she. At the moment he made a picture to fill the eye and remain in the memory of a girl fresh from an Eastern City. The tall, rangy form was garbed in the picturesque way of the country; she took him in from the heels of the black boots with their silver spurs to the top of his head with its amazingly wide black hat. He stood against a sky rapidly filling to the warm glow of the morning. His horse, a rarely perfect creation even in the eyes of one who knew little of fine breeding in animals, stood just at its master’s heels, with ears pricked forward curiously.
Helen wondered swiftly if he intended to stand there until the sun came up, just looking at her. Though it was scarcely more than a moment that he stood thus, in Helen’s confusion the time seemed much longer. She began to grow ill at ease; she felt a quick spurt of irritation. No doubt she looked a perfect fright, taken all unawares like this, and equally indisputably he was forming an extremely uncomplimentary opinion of her. It required less than three seconds for Miss Helen to decide emphatically that the man was a horrible creature.
But he did not look any such thing. He was healthy and brown and boyish. He had had a shave and haircut no longer ago than yesterday and looked neat and clean. His mouth was quite as large as a man’s should be and now was suddenly smiling. At the same instant his hat came off in his big brown hand and a gleam of downright joyousness shone in his eyes.
‘Impudent beast!’ was Helen’s quick thought. She had given her mind last night a great deal less to matters of toilet than to mystic imaginings; it lay entirely in the field of absurd likelihood that there was a smear of black across her face.
‘My mistake,’ grinned the stranger. ‘Guess I’ll step out while the stepping’s good and the road open. If there’s one sure thing a man ought to be shot for, it’s stampeding in on another fellow’s honeymoon. Adios, señora.’
‘Honeymoon!’ gasped Helen. ‘The big fool.’
Her father wakened abruptly, sat up, grasping his big revolver in both hands, and blinked about him; he, too, had had his dreams. In the night-cap which he had purchased in San Juan, his wide, grave eyes and sun-blistered face turned up inquiringly; he was worthy of a second glance as he sat prepared to defend himself and his daughter. The stranger had just set the toe of his boot into the stirrup; in this posture he remained, forgetful of his intention to mount, while his mare began to circle and he had to hop along to keep pace with her, his eyes upon the startled occupant of the bed beyond Helen’s. He had had barely more than time to note the evident discrepancy in ages which naturally should have started his mind down a new channel for the explanation of the true relationship, when the revolver clutched tightly in unaccustomed fingers went off with an unexpected roar. Dust spouted up a yard beyond the feet of the man who held it. The horse plunged, the stranger went up into the saddle like a flash, and the man dropped his gun to his blanket and muttered in the natural bewilderment of the moment:
‘It—it went off by itself! The most amazing——’
The rider brought his prancing horse back and fo
ught with his facial muscles for gravity; the light in his eyes was utterly beyond his control.
‘I’d better be going off by myself somewhere,’ he remarked as gravely as he could manage, ‘if you’re going to start shooting a man up just because he calls before breakfast.’
With a face grown a sick white, the man in bed looked helplessly from the stranger to his daughter and then to the gun.
‘I didn’t do a thing to it,’ he began haltingly.
‘You won’t do a thing to yourself one of these fine days.’ remarked the horseman with evident relish, ‘if you don’t quit carrying that sort of life-saver. Come over to the ranch and I’ll swap you a hand-axe for it.’
Helen sniffed audibly and distastefully. Her first impression of the stranger had been more correct than are first impressions nine times out of ten; he was as full of impudence as a city sparrow. She had sat up ‘looking like a fright’; her father had made himself ridiculous; the stranger was mirthfully concerned with the amusing possibilities of both of them.
Suddenly the tall man, smitten by inspiration, slapped his thigh with one hand, while with the other he curbed rebellion in his mare and offered the explosive wager:
‘I’ll bet a man a dollar I’ve got your number, friends. You are Professor James Edward Longstreet and his little daughter Helen! Am I right?’
‘You are correct, sir,’ acknowledged the professor a trifle stiffly. His eye did not rise, but clung in a fascinated, faintly accusing way to the gun which had betrayed him.
