by Grey, Zane
"Well," muttered Adam, darkly, "any man who made a woman live there was either crazy or meant her to have an awful death."
Adam strode on to the shack. It might afford shelter from sun, but not from rain or dust. Packsaddles and boxes were stacked on one side; empty cans lay scattered everywhere; a pile of mesquite, recently cut, stood in front of the aperture that evidently was a door; and on the sand lay blackened stones and blackened utensils, near the remains of a still smouldering fire.
"Hello, inside," called Adam, as he halted at the door. No sound answered. He stooped to look in, and saw bare sand floor, a rude, low table made of box boards, flat stones for seats, utensils and dishes, shelves littered with cans and bags. A flimsy partition of poles and canvas, with a door, separated this room from another and larger one. Adam saw a narrow bed of blankets raised on poles, an old valise on the sandy floor, woman's garments hanging on the brush walls. He called again, louder this time. He saw a flash of something grey through the torn canvas, then heard a low cry--a woman's voice. Adam raised his head and stepped back.
"Elliot! You've come back!" came the voice, quick, low, and tremulous, betokening relief from dread.
"No. It's a stranger," replied Adam.
"Oh!" The hurried exclamation was followed by soft footfalls. A woman in grey appeared in the doorway--a woman whose proportions were noble, but frail. She had a white face and large, deep eyes, strained and sad. "Oh--who are you?"
"Ma'am, my name's Wansfell. I'm a friend of Dismukes, the prospector who was here. I'm crossing Death Valley and I thought I'd call on you."
"Dismukes? The little miner, huge, like a frog?" she queried, quickly, with dilating eyes. "I remember. He was kind, but--And you're his friend?"
"Yes, at your service, ma'am."
"Thank--God!" she cried, brokenly, and she leaned back against the door. "I'm in trouble. I've been alone--all--all night. My husband left yesterday. He took only a canteen. He said he'd be back for supper...But--he didn't come. Oh, something has happened to him."
"Many things happen in the desert," said Adam. "I'll find your husband. I saw his tracks out here in the sand."
"Oh, can you find him?"
"Ma'am, I can track a rabbit to its burrow. Don't worry any more. I will track your husband and find him."
The woman suddenly seemed to be struck with Adam's tone, or the appearance of him. It was as if she had not particularly noticed him at first. "Once he got lost--was gone two days. Another time he was overcome by heat--or something in the air."
"You've been alone before?" queried Adam, quick to read the pain of the past in her voice.
"Alone? Many--many lonely nights," she said. "He's left me--alone often--purposely--for me to torture my soul here in the blackness...And those rolling rocks--cracking in the dead of night--and--" Then the flash of her died out, as if she had realised she was revealing a shameful secret to a stranger.
"Ma'am, is your husband just right in his mind?" asked Adam.
She hesitated, giving Adam the impression that she wished to have him think her husband irrational, but could not truthfully say so.
"Men do strange things in the desert," said Adam. "May I ask, ma'am, have you food and water?"
"Yes. We've plenty. But Elliot makes me cook--and I never learned how. So we've fared poorly. But he eats little and I less!"
"Will you tell me how he came to build your hut here where, sooner or later, it'll be crushed by rolling stones?"
A tragic shadow darkened in the large, dark-blue eyes that Adam now realised were singularly beautiful.
"I--He--This place was near the water. He cut the brush here--he didn't see--wouldn't believe the danger," she faltered. She was telling a lie, and did not do it well. The fine, sensitive, delicate lips, curved and soft, sad with pain, had not been fashioned for falsehood.
"Perhaps I can make him see," replied Adam. "I'll go find him. Probably he's lost. The heat is not strong enough to be dangerous. And he's not been gone long. Don't worry. My camp is just below. I'll fetch him back to-day--or to-morrow at farthest."
She murmured some incoherent thanks. Adam was again aware of her penetrating glance, staring, wondering even in her trouble. He strode away with bowed head, searching the sand for the man's tracks. Presently he struck them and saw that they led down toward the valley.
To follow such a plain trail was child's play for Adam's desert sight, that had received its early training in the preservation of his life. He who had trailed lizards to their holes, and snakes to their rocks, to find them and eat or die--he was as keen as a wolf on the scent. This man's trail led straight down to the open valley, out along the western bulge of slope, to a dry water hole.
From there the footprints led down to the parapet of a wide bench, under which the white crust began its level monotony toward the other side of the valley. Different here was it from the place miles below where Adam had crossed. It was lower--the bottom of the bowl. Adam found difficulty in breathing, and had sensations like intermittent rushes of blood to his head. The leaden air weighed down, and, though his keen scent could not detect any odour, he knew there was impurity of some kind on the slow wind. It reminded him that this was Death Valley. He considered a moment. If the man's tracks went on across the valley, Adam would return to camp for a canteen, then take up the trail again. But the tracks led off westward once more, straggling and aimless. Adam's stride made three of one of these steps. He did not care about the heat. That faint hint of gas, however, caused him concern. For miles he followed the straggling tracks, westward to a heave of valley slope that, according to the map of Dismukes, separated Death Valley from its mate adjoining--Lost Valley. On the left of this ridge the tracks wandered up the slope to the base of the mountain and followed it in wide scallops. The footmarks now showed the dragging of boots, and little by little they appeared fresher in the sand. This wanderer had not rested during the night.
The tracks grew deeper, more dragging, wavering from side to side. Here the man had fallen. Adam saw the imprints of his hands and a smooth furrow where evidently he had dragged a canteen across the sand. Then came the tell-tale signs of where he had again fallen and had begun to crawl.
"Looks like the old story," muttered Adam. "I'll just about find him dying or dead...Better so--for that woman who called him husband!...I wonder--I wonder."
Adam's years of wandering had led him far from the haunts of men, along the lonely desert trails and roads where only a few solitary humans like himself dared the elements, or herded in sordid and hard camps; but, nevertheless, by some virtue growing out of his strife and adversity, he had come to sense something nameless, to feel the mighty beat of the heart of the desert, to hear a mourning music over the silent wastes--a still, sad music of humanity. It was there, even in the grey wastelands.
He strode on with contracted eyes, peering through the hot sunlight. At last he espied a moving object. A huge land turtle toiling along! No, it was a man crawling on hands and knees.
Chapter XV
Adam ran with the strides of a giant. And he came up to a man, ragged and dirty, crawling wearily along, dragging a canteen through the sand.
"Say, hold on!" called Adam, loudly.
The man halted, but did not lift his head, Adam bent down to peer at him.
"What ails you?" queried Adam, sharply.
"Huh!" ejaculated the man, stupidly. Adam's repeated question, accompanied by a shake, brought only a grunt. Adam lifted the man to his feet and, supporting him, began to lead him over the sand. His equilibrium had been upset, and, like all men overcome on the desert, he wanted to plunge off a straight line. Adam persevered, but the labour of holding him was greater than that of supporting him.
At length Adam released the straining fellow, as much out of curiosity to see what he would do as from a realisation that time would not be wasted in this manner. He did not fall, but swayed and staggered around in a circle, like an animal that had been struck on the head. The texture of his rag
ged garments, the cut of them, the look of the man, despite his soiled and unkempt appearance, marked him as one not commonly met with in the desert.
The coppery sun stood straight overhead and poured down a strong and leaden heat. Adam calculated that they were miles from the camp and would never reach it at this rate. He pondered. He must carry the man. Suiting action to thought, he picked him up and, throwing him over his shoulder, started to plod on. The weight was little to one of Adam's strength, but the squirming and wrestling of the fellow to get down made Adam flounder in the sand.
"You poor devil!" muttered Adam, at last brought to a standstill. "Maybe I can't save your life, anyway."
With that he set the man down and, swinging a powerful blow, laid him stunned upon the sand. Whereupon it was easy to lift him and throw him over a shoulder like an empty sack. Not for a long distance over the sand did that task become prodigious. But at length the burden of a heavy weight and the dragging sand and the hot sun brought Adam to a pass where rest was imperative. He laid the unconscious man down while he recovered breath and strength. Then he picked him up and went on.
After that he plodded slower, rested oftener, weakened more perceptibly. Meanwhile the hours passed, and when he reached the huge gateway in the red iron mountain wall the sun was gone and purple shadows were mustering in the valley. When he reached the more level field where the thick-strewn boulders lay, all before his eyes seemed red. A million needles were stinging his nerves, running like spears of light into his darkened sight.
The limit that he had put upon his endurance was to reach the shack. He did so, and he was nearly blind when the woman's poignant call thrilled his throbbing ears. He saw her--a white shape through ruddy haze. Then he deposited his burden on the sand.
"Oh!" the woman moaned. "He's dead!"
Adam shook his head. Pity, fear, and even terror rang in her poignant cry, but not love.
"Ah!...You've saved him, then...He's injured--there's a great bruise--he breathes so heavily."
While Adam sat panting, unable to speak, the woman wiped her husband's face and worked over him.
"He came back once--and fell into a stupor like this, but not so deep. What can it be?"
"Poison--air," choked Adam.
"Oh, this terrible Death Valley!" she cried.
Adam's sight cleared and he saw the woman, clad in a white robe over her grey dress, a garment clean and rich, falling in thick folds--strange to Adam's sight, recalling the past. The afterglow of sunset shone down into the valley, lighting her face. Once she must have been beautiful. The perfect lines, the noble brow, the curved lips, were there, but her face was thin, strained, tragic. Only the eyes held beauty still.
"You saved him?" she queried, with quick-drawn breath.
"Found him--miles and miles--up the--valley--crawling on--his hands and knees," panted Adam. "I had--to carry him."
"You carried him!" she exclaimed, incredulously. Then the large eyes blazed. "So that's why you were so livid--why you fell? Oh, you splendid man! You giant!...He'd have died out there--alone. I thank you with all my heart."
She reached a white worn hand to touch Adam's with an exquisite eloquence of gratitude.
"Get water--bathe him," said Adam. "Have you ammonia or whisky?" And while he laboriously got to his knees the woman ran into the shack. He rose, feeling giddy and weak. All his muscles seemed beaten and bruised, and his heart pained. Soon the woman came hurrying out, with basin and towel and a little black satchel that evidently contained medicines. Adam helped her work over her husband, but, though they revived him, they could not bring him back to intelligent consciousness.
"Help me carry him in," said Adam.
Inside the little shack it was almost too dark to see plainly. "Have you a light?" he added.
"No," she replied.
"I'll fetch a candle. You watch over him while I move my camp up here. You might change his shirt, if he's got another. I'll be back right away, and I'll start a fire--get some supper for us."
By the time Adam had packed and moved his effects darkness had settled down between the slopes of the mountains. After he had unpacked near the shack, his first move was to light a candle and take it to the door.
"Here's a light, ma'am," he called.
She glided silently out of the gloom, her garments gleaming ghostlike and her white face with its luminous eyes, dark and strange as midnight, looking like a woman's face in tragic dreams. As she took the candle her hand touched Adam's.
"Thank you," she said. "Please don't call me ma'am. My name is Magdalene Virey."
"I'll try to remember...Has your husband come to yet?"
"No. He seems to have fallen into a stupor. Won't you look at him?"
Adam followed her inside and saw that she marked his lofty height. The shack had not been built for anyone of his stature.
"How tall you are!" she murmured.
The candle did not throw a bright light, yet by its aid Adam made out the features of the man whose life he had saved. It seemed to Adam to be the face of a Lucifer whose fiendish passions were now restrained by sleep. Whoever this man was, he had suffered a broken heart and ruined life.
"He's asleep," said Adam. "That's not a trance or stupor. He's worn out. I believe it 'd be better not to wake him."
"You think so?" she replied with quick relief.
"I'm not sure. Perhaps if you watch him awhile you can tell...I'll get some supper and call you."
Adam's habitual dexterity over camp tasks failed him this evening. Presently, however, the supper was ready, and he threw brush on the fire to make a light.
"Mrs. Virey," he called at the door, "come and eat now."
When had the camp fire of his greeted such a vision, except in his vague dreams? Tall, white-gowned, slender, and graceful, with the poise of a woman aloof and proud and the sad face of a Madonna--what a woman to sit at Adam's camp fire in Death Valley! The shadowed and thick light hid the ravages that had by day impaired her beauty. Adam placed a canvas pack for her to sit upon, and then he served her, with something that was not wholly unconscious satisfaction. Of all men, he of the desert could tell the signs of hunger; and the impression had come to him that she was half starved. The way she ate brought home to Adam with a pang the memorable days when he was starving. This woman sitting in the warm, enhancing glow of the camp fire had an exquisitely spiritual face. She had seemed all spirit. But self-preservation was the first instinct and the first law of human nature, or any nature.
"When have I eaten so heartily!" she exclaimed at last. "But, oh! it all tasted so good...Sir, you are a capital cook."
"Thank you," replied Adam, much gratified.
"Do you always fare so well?"
"No. I'm bound to confess I somewhat outdid myself to-night. You see, I seldom have such opportunity to serve a woman."
She rested her elbows on her knees, with her hands under her chin, and looked at him with intense interest. In the night her eyes seemed very full and large, supernaturally bright and tragic. They were the eyes of a woman who still preserved in her something of inherent faith in mankind. Adam divined that she had scarcely looked at him before as an individual with a personality, and that some accent or word of his had struck her singularly.
"It was that miner, Dis--Dis--"
"Dismukes," added Adam.
"Yes. It was he who sent you here. Are you a miner, too?"
"No. I, care little for gold."
"Ah!...What are you, then?"
"Just a wanderer. Wansfell, the Wanderer, they call me."
"They? Who are they?"
"Why, I suppose they are the other wanderers. Men who tramp over the desert--men who seek gold or forgetfulness or peace or solitude--men who are driven--or who hide. These are few, but, taken by the years, they seem many."
"Men of the desert have passed by here, but none like you." she replied, with gravity, and her eyes pierced him. "Why did you come?"
"Years ago my life was ruined," said Adam
, slowly. "I chose to fight the desert. And in all the years the thing that helped me most was not to pass by anyone in trouble. The desert sees strange visitors. Life is naked here, like those stark mountain-sides...Dismukes is my friend--he saved me from death once. He is a man who knows this wasteland. He told me about your being here. He said no white woman could live in Death Valley...I wondered--if I might--at least advise you, turn you back--and so I came."
His earnestness deeply affected her.
"Sir, your kind words warm a cold and forlorn heart," she said. "But I cannot be turned back. It's too late."
"No hour is ever too late...Mrs. Virey, I'll not distress you with advice or importunities. I know too well the need and the meaning of peace. But the fact of your being here--a woman of your evident quality--a woman of your sensitiveness and delicate health--why, it is a terrible thing! This is Death Valley. The month is April. Soon it will be May--then June. When midsummer comes you cannot survive here. I know nothing of why you are here--I don't seek to know. But you cannot stay. It would be a miracle for your husband to find gold here, if that is what he seeks. Surely he has discovered that."
"Virey does not seek gold," the woman said.
"Does he know that a white woman absolutely cannot live here in Death Valley? Even the Indians abandon it in summer."
