Man of the Desert: A Western Story

by Robert J. Horton

  And the letter had been sent! If she had known this, had even anticipated anything of the sort, she would not have signed the letter. But it was now too late, she realized with dismay. Too late—unless she could reach the ranch before her uncle acted.

  She took the magazines into the cabin, destroyed the evidences of the message, and sat down to think it over. But she had to keep moving because of her excitement. She walked idly about under the trees the rest of the day. Again she found herself wondering about the outlet of the stream at the lower end of the basin. But she quickly forgot it.

  She did not see Mendicott again that day, nor did she see Channing. At supper the messenger again asked if there was anything she wanted.

  “I’d like to ask a question, and I don’t care whether you answer it or not,” she replied with a yawn. “It’s just curiosity, but if this place is a sort of bowl in the mountains, where does that stream out in front go to, how does it get out?”

  The man considered a few moments. “It disappears in a hole in the rock wall at the lower end,” he replied finally. “An’ it’s never seen again,” he added as he gathered the dishes.

  She nodded and yawned again, to give the impression she was sleepy. “I don’t want any callers tonight,” she said as he departed.

  It was to allay suspicion and prevent another visit by Mendicott, as she suspected her conversation would be reported to the outlaw chief. She looked out but once and saw that she had not lost her night guard. Then she put out her light and waited in the semidarkness with the window shade up and the muslin curtains pulled aside so she could see the stars.

  It seemed hours and hours that she lay on the bunk, her heart beating fast, and sleep luckily out of the question. She had no watch or clock and was unable to tell the time. She had given up hope, thinking midnight long since past, when there was a shadow at the window and a light tapping on the glass. It startled her. She rose hurriedly and, looking out, recognized the form of Channing. She thrilled at the thought that he had come to her aid.

  He was motioning to her to open the window. She unfastened the catch noiselessly and pulled the window upward.

  “Climb out ready to go,” he whispered swiftly, and dropped into the shadow near the ground.

  She put on her coat and hat, placed a chair before the window, and climbed through. He helped her from outside. But, as she wriggled across the sill, the window came down with a crash.

  Channing pushed her down to the ground in the shadow and stood with his back closely against the wall of the cabin. Almost in that instant a shadow appeared at the corner of the cabin nearest him, and he leaped. Hope heard a muffled cry and saw Channing strike out. The other man reeled back, his right hand came up, and the girl caught the glint of the starlight on dull metal. Her heart was in her throat as Channing darted in and caught the wrist that held the gun. There was a flash of flame, and a sharp report shattered the stillness in the basin. The two men went to the ground, and rolled over and over in a mighty struggle. They were so close that Hope could hear their labored breathing. She heard something hit the ground at her feet. She reached down and felt cold metal. She hurriedly picked up the gun.

  Then the struggle ceased as quickly as it had begun. Channing was groping about on the ground while the form of his opponent lay still. In a few moments Channing straightened, stepped to her side, and took her arm.

  They hurried back from the cabin into the shelter of a grove of poplars. Shouts came from upstream and once, looking back, Hope saw the gleam of a light. She had no chance to think of anything but her footing, for Channing almost ran with her through the trees. They got through the poplars and he guided her down the basin to a stand of firs. They skirted these, keeping on the side toward the wall of the basin, and hastened on.

  When they reached an open space, Channing whispered: “Can you run?” For answer, Hope ran as fast as she could toward the next grove of trees. She stumbled and nearly fell once, but her companion caught her and steadied her. The mishap caused her to lose the gun she had been carrying.

  More shouts rode down the basin on the light breeze, then came the barking of guns in a general alarm. They had discovered she had gone. It seemed to her that they reached the rock wall at the lower end of the basin in remarkably short time. Here Channing directed her to the right, which was south. She knew the trail out of the basin was on that side in the direction they were following. They were screened now by the trees to westward. They heard another sound—a sound that caused the girl to shiver with excitement and fear. She was nearly out of breath. Louder and nearer came the sound, off to the southwest of them. It was the pounding of flying hoofs. The horsemen would surely beat them to the trail, and even if they didn’t, there were the guards on the trail.

  Channing halted suddenly. They were at the stream. Hope could see a yawning cavity in the rock wall through which the water rushed. “We’re going in here,” said Channing in a low voice. “Trust me, I know. It’s the only chance. We’ll only be in the water a minute . . . less than that, I guess. Get down with me, put your arms around my neck, and hold on. Choke me to death but hold on!” He knelt down at the edge of the stream. After an instant of hesitation she clasped him tightly about the neck and closed her eyes. He moved forward and they were in the swift-running stream. The inky blackness of the hole in the wall of rock swallowed them. They plunged downward, the roar of the rushing stream in their ears, and then Hope felt the water close over her with tremendous force. She was thrown away from Channing, and her hold loosened, but he caught her by the arm, struck out to the left with his own free arm, and as she started to strangle they came out of the water and were swept upon a bar of sand.

  Chapter Twelve

  Channing drew Hope up on the sand where it was dry. They were soaking wet. The place was pitch dark and filled with the sound of rushing water. Hope marveled that she had had the courage to follow her rescuer’s instructions and brave the torrent in the dark. But now she trusted him.

  A match flared into flame, and she saw Channing reach above his head. He brought down something that looked like a stick, and the match went out. He lighted a second one and applied it to the wood. There was a little tongue of flame that rapidly swelled into a torch of fire, and she saw he had lighted a piece of pitch pine. The pine torch illuminated the place and disclosed a subterranean passage. Its ceiling was low, and directly above them was a ledge where Hope made out the ends of several more pine knots. Evidently Channing knew the place well and perhaps had gone out of the rendezvous that way before. The sand they were on stretched along the side of the stream. It was a strip about three feet wide that narrowed at a point below them.

  She finished her inspection of their location and looked up to find Channing inspecting his gun, which had gotten wet. She remembered having seen him use a small, metal matchbox and so knew that it was waterproof and had prevented the matches from getting wet. She remembered another matchbox—the one used by Mendicott. It gave her a start. Surely the outlaw must know of this means of exit from the basin, if it was an exit. In that event they could surely expect pursuit.

  “I reckon we better be moving, Miss Farman,” said Channing. He helped her to her feet. She was wet and shivering, for it was cold in the passage. “We’ll walk fast to keep warm till we get out of here,” he told her. “Just follow me and keep close behind.”

  They started off at a brisk pace. Hope was thrilled to know they were to leave by another way than the basin outside. That meant they were leaving the rendezvous of the outlaw. She walked close behind Channing, who led the way along the narrow strip of hard sand, holding the pine torch over his head.

  Weird shadows played in grotesque shapes upon the walls and ceiling of the long, narrow cavern. The cavern twisted and turned to left and right. It seemed to the girl that it was miles long. She was on the point of breathlessly calling a halt to rest when they rounded a turn to the left and came into a cave leading off from the stream. It was a big cave and the ceiling was
high. Channing paused to rest and looked at Hope keenly to see how she was standing the ordeal. She smiled at him and wondered to herself how he had managed to keep his hat in the wild torrent of water. She had lost her own, and her hair was about her shoulders. He pointed ahead and above them. She looked and saw a small square of starlit sky. It was the means of egress from the cave.

  “Will they follow us here?” she asked anxiously. “They must know of this way out, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, I reckon they do, ma’am,” Channing replied. “But I don’t think they’ll try to make it in the night. There’s none of ’em very good in the water. They used ropes when they explored this place. I guess we’ve got about four hours’ start of them. Now we’ll get out of here.”

  He led her up a long slope, taking her arm and helping her over the boulders that strewed the path. Thus they climbed to the ceiling of the cave, and there he lifted her through a narrow opening and she climbed out on a slab of granite to find herself on a ridge with the forest about her and the moon and stars overhead.

  “We’ve got to keep exercising while you’re wet,” said Channing as he pulled himself up through the aperture.

  He had thrown the pine torch back into the cave and now he led the way across a rocky plateau and down the east side of the ridge by a thin, hard, steep trail leading through the timber. Several times Hope fell against him. He stopped and asked if she was too tired to go on and wanted to rest. She denied her weariness. Her joy and excitement at having escaped from the basin kept up her spirits and lent her strength. They could get to the ranch in time to stop proceedings for its sale. Even though the messengers had started back to the rendezvous to report to Mendicott, they could still reach Rancho del Encanto before the next important move was made. That thought gave her courage. She kept her eyes on the tall, broad-shouldered man ahead—the man of the desert. She upbraided herself, mentally, for having mistrusted him. He had kept his word with her even if he was an outlaw. And wouldn’t Mendicott hunt him to earth for this? Wasn’t he risking his life for her? How well he had planned it! The others might never have known they had left the basin had it not been for the slamming of the window of the cabin that attracted the attention of the guard. She wondered if Channing had killed him. She was surprised at herself because of the fact that she didn’t care whether the guard had been killed or not!

  The trail widened on a level and came out into a small meadow. Hope saw horses standing in the center and breathed a sigh of relief. The rapid travel had kept up her circulation. She did not feel the cold. Her clothes did not feel so wet.

  “Wait here a minute,” Channing ordered.

  She stood near the horses while he hurried to the edge of the timber. He returned with a saddle and quickly saddled one of the horses. He went back for the other saddle and soon both horses were ready for the trail. From the rear of one of the saddles he untied a Mackinaw coat. He took a cap from the coat pocket and insisted that she put on both coat and cap. Then he assisted her to mount, swung on his own horse, and they were again on their way.

  Hope was becoming accustomed to riding for long distances, and she liked the stock saddles of the West. She liked the horses, too, and she was pleased to find herself once again on Channing’s own splendid mount. She thought how fortunate it was that she had been wearing her riding habit. They wound down into the foothills. She saw that they were not taking the trails by which the outlaws had escorted her to the rendezvous. Channing was making no attempt to conceal their tracks, but was proceeding by the most direct way.

  When dawn broke, they were in the lower foothills. From the top of a ridge Hope saw the desert stretching below them, swimming in color. They rode down into a little valley and stopped at a cabin. The girl was astonished when Channing dismounted, opened the cabin door, and a burro came out. He entered the cabin, brought out pack saddle, pack sacks, and a roll of bedding. These he secured on the burro. He again swung into his saddle, and they went on.

  Hope was puzzled, but assumed that Channing would be entering the desert after he had taken her to the ranch and was taking the packed burro because of that fact. There was no sound of pursuit; the morning was wonderful; birds were singing; a grouse whirred into the trees. Hope’s spirits were high. Soon she would be back at Rancho del Encanto again.

  They stopped at a small stream, and Channing filled two water bags. Hope had no chance to question him.

  On the trail again, they dropped over a high ridge and suddenly left the green of the hills behind. Cottonwoods, alders, willows vanished as if by some subtle magic. Ahead was the vista of endless wasteland, of sage and greasewood, of bare stretches of ground, of shimmering heat waves—the desert. Channing put his horse to a sharp trot and Hope’s mount followed. They turned to the left, where the floor of the desert was rolling, and after a time Hope saw a pool of water from which trickled a small stream. They stopped there. She stared at the pool of water in wonder. It was white, or the rocks that formed its bed were white—a ghastly white like so many bleached and polished skulls.

  “Arsenic Spring,” said Channing, noting her look of bewilderment. “A cup of that water would kill a man . . . if it took that much. We’ll stop here for breakfast.”

  He helped her dismount and she gazed at him curiously. Then she looked around. She had lost her sense of direction and could remember no such place as this near Rancho del Encanto.

  “When will we reach the ranch?” she asked.

  Channing shrugged and began to unpack the burro. “That’ll depend on how things look,” he replied enigmatically.

  She threw off the heavy coat and hurried to him.

  “But the letter!” she cried. “Mendicott made me sign a letter to my uncle stating I was in peril and he would have to sell the ranch before I could be released. The messengers took it to the ranch yesterday. We must get there before my uncle can act. We must hurry!”

  “You signed that?” he asked slowly. His look caused her to flush.

  “I signed it because it was the only way I thought I could get out of that place!” she exclaimed somewhat haughtily. “You had made no effort to help me. You had ignored me, and I was desperate. I . . . I thought there might be a way to beat Mendicott afterward, for a ranch obtained in such a way would . . . well, it all wouldn’t be legal.”

  “Mendicott could make it legal, or the next thing to legal,” said Channing with a grim smile.

  “I know that, but now that we’re out, we can get to the ranch in time to prevent my uncle from signing a deed.”

  Channing proceeded to roll a cigarette. “That would be the first place they would look for you,” he drawled.

  “But what of it?” cried Hope. “We can get there and get away before the messengers or Mendicott can get back.”

  “I reckon not,” said Channing, lighting his cigarette nonchalantly. “We’re some piece of hard riding from the ranch, Miss Farman.”

  “We can try,” Hope pleaded.

  She saw in his eyes that he did not intend to try. “Oh, then it was a trick!” she exclaimed. “And you’re taking me somewhere else at Mendicott’s command. I thought you were a common outlaw and against me . . . against all of us. Now I know it!” Her voice rang with contempt.

  Channing looked at her calmly, although his lips compressed and a shade of gray showed through his tan.

  “Where are we going?” Hope demanded.

  “We are going into the desert, ma’am,” replied Channing.

  The girl turned away from him in despair and looked down into the ghastly waters of Arsenic Spring.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Hope Farman imagined her disappointment and despair reflected in the death waters of the spring. Her trust had been betrayed. She had virtually risked her life with Channing to escape from the retreat of the outlaws only to find that he was not returning her to Rancho del Encanto. Nathan Farman would sell his home. She turned and looked fiercely at Channing, who was getting breakfast. Her Puritan training and the attend
ant conventions were momentarily overshadowed by her mortification, grief, and anger. She wished she had not lost the gun the guard had dropped in the struggle by the cabin. If she had the gun—her brows drew together with a new and puzzling thought. If Channing had taken her out at Mendicott’s order, why should he have had to fight the guard and to take her through the dangerous water passage? For the sake of appearances, she told herself, scorn flashing in her eyes. To make her think she had been rescued. But this deduction did not seem plausible, for it could have been accomplished so much easier and she would not have known the difference. Hope gazed at Channing with a new light in her eyes. Had he really rescued her—for a purpose of his own? Did he intend to take her into the desert, to some secret retreat to force a bargain with his outlaw chief? Or was it another blow aimed at her uncle from another angle?

  She started to walk thoughtfully along the bank of Arsenic Spring. A shrill sound stopped her. Instinctively she jumped back, her face blanching. Channing came bounding from the fire he had made. His gun barked twice on the still air. A thin curl of smoke drifted upward from the long barrel of his weapon as he turned to her.