Wanderer Of the Wasteland (1982)

by Grey, Zane

  "Don't!...Still a child, Genie," he said, huskily, as he disengaged himself from her wild embrace. He meant that she was not still a child. It amazed him and hurt him to see her radiance at the thought of leaving the desert oasis which had been home for so long. Fickleness of youth! Yesterday she had wanted to live there forever; to-day the enchantments of new life, people, places, called alluringly. It was what Adam had expected. It was what he wanted for her. How clear had been his vision of the future! How truly, the moment he had fought down his selfish desires, had he read her innocent heart! His own swelled with gladness, numbing out the pang. For him, some little meed of praise! Not little was it to have conquered self--not little was it to have builded the happiness of an orphan!

  Adam's burros had grown grey in their years of idle, contented life at the oasis. Like the road runners, they enjoyed the proximity of camp; and he found them shaggy and fat, half asleep while they grazed. He drove them back to the shade of the cottonwoods, where Genie, seeing this last and immutable proof of forthcoming departure, began to dance over the sand in wild glee.

  "Genie, you'll do well to save some of your nimbleness," admonished Adam. "We'll have a load. You've got to climb the mountain and walk till I can buy another burro."

  "Oh, Wanny, I'll fly!" she cried.

  "Humph! I rather think you will fly the very first time a young fellow sees you--a big girl in those ragged boy's clothes."

  Then Adam thrilled anew with the sweetness, the wonder of her. His cold heart warmed to the core. How he would live in the hope and happiness and love that surely must be awaiting this girl! His mention of a young fellow suddenly rendered Genie amazed, shy, bewildered.

  "But--but--Wanny--you--you won't let any yo--young fellow see me this way!" she pleaded.

  "How can I help it? You just wouldn't sew and make dresses. Now you're in for it. We'll meet a lot of lads...And, Genie, just the other day you didn't care how I saw you."

  "Oh, but you're different! You're my dad, my brother, old Taquitch, and everything."

  "Thank you. That makes me feel a little better." Suddenly she turned her dark eyes upon him, piercing now and dilating with thought.

  "Wanny! Are you sorry to leave?"

  "Yes," he replied, sadly.

  "Then I'll stay, if you want me--ever--always," she said, very low. The golden flush paled on her cheek. She was a child, yet on the verge of womanhood.

  "Genie, I'm sorry, but I'm glad, too. What I want most is to see you settled in a happy home, with a guardian, young friends about you--all you want."

  She appeared sober now, and Adam gathered that she had thought more seriously than he had given her credit for.

  "Wanny, you're good, and your goodness makes you see all that for me. But a guardian--a happy home--all I want!...I'll be poor. I'll have to work for a living. I won't have you!"

  Then suddenly she seemed about to weep. Her beautiful eyes dimmed. But Adam startled her out of her weakness.

  "Poor! Well, Genie Linwood, you've got a surprise in store for you."

  Wherewith he led her to the door of the hut and tearing up the old wagon boards that had served as a floor, he dug in the sand underneath and dragged forth bag after bag, which he dropped at her feet with sodden, heavy thumps.

  "Gold, Genie! Gold! Yours!...You'll be rich...All this was dug by your father. I don't know how much, but it's a fortune...Now what do you say?"

  The rapture Adam had anticipated did not manifest itself. Genie seemed glad, certainly, but the significance of the gold did not really strike her.

  "And you never told me!...Well, by the great horn spoon, I'm rich!...Wanny, will you be my guardian?"

  "I will, till I can find you one," he replied, stoutly.

  "Oh, never look for one--then I will have all I want!"

  The last sunlight, the last starlight night, the last sunrise for Adam and Genie at the oasis, were beautiful memories of the past.

  Adam, driving the burros along the dim old Indian trail, meditated on the inevitableness of the end of all things. For nearly three years he had seen that trail every few days and always he had speculated on the distant time when he would climb it with Genie. That hour had struck. Genie, with the light feet of an Indian, was behind him, now chattering like a magpie and then significantly silent. She had her bright face turned to the enchanting adventures of the calling future; she was turning her back upon the only home she could remember.

  "Look Genie, how grey and dry the canyon is," said Adam hoping to divert her. "Just a little water in that white wash, and you know it never reaches the valley. It sinks in the sand...Now look way above you--high over the foothills. See those gleams of white--those streaks of black...Snow, Genie, and the pines and spruces!"

  They camped at the edge of the spruces and pines. How sweet and cool and damp the air to desert dwellers! The wind sang through the trees with different tone. Adam, unpacking the burros, turned them loose, sure of their delight in the rich green grass. Genie, tired out with the long climb, fell upon one of the open packs to rest.

  With his rifle Adam strode away among the scattered pines and clumps of spruce. The smell of this forest almost choked him, yet it seemed he could not smell and breathe enough. The dark-green, spear-pointed spruces and the brown-barked pines, so lofty and spreading, intoxicated his desert eyes. He looked and revelled, forgetting the gun in his hands, until his aimless steps frightened deer from right before him. Then, to shoot was habit, the result of which was regret. These deer were tame, not like the wary, telescope-eyed mountain sheep; and Adam, after his first exultant thrill--the old recurrent thrill from out the past--gazed down with sorrow at the sleek, beautiful deer he had slain. What dual character he had--what contrast of thrill and pang, of blood and brain, of desert and civilisation, of physical and spiritual, of nature and--But he did not know what!

  He laughed later, and Genie laughed too, at how ravenous he was at supper, how delicious the venison tasted, how good it was to eat.

  "Guess I'll give myself up as a bad job," he told her.

  "Wanny, for me you'll always be Taquitch, giant of the desert and god of the clouds."

  "Ah! You'll forget me in ten days after you meet him!" replied Adam, somewhat bitterly.

  Genie could only stare her amaze.

  "Forgive me, child. I don't mean that. I know you'll never forget me...But you've been my--my little girl so long that it hurts to think of your being some other man's." Then he was to see the marvel of Genie's first blush.

  It was well that Adam had thought to pack extra blankets for Genie. She had never felt the nip of frost. And when night settled down black, with the wind rising, she needed to be warmly wrapped. Adam liked the keen air, and also the feel of the camp-fire heat upon his outstretched palms. Next morning the sky was overcast with broken, scudding clouds, and a shrill wind tossed the tips of the pines. Genie crawled out of her blankets to her first experience of winter. When she dipped her hands into the water she squealed and jerked them out. Then at Adam's bantering laughter she bravely dashed into the ordeal of bathing face and hands with that icy water.

  Adam did not have any particular objective point in mind. He felt strangely content to let circumstances of travel or chance or his old wandering instinct guide him.

  They travelled leisurely through the foothills on the western side of the Sierra Madres, finding easy trails and good camp sites, and meeting Indians by the way. Six days out from the desert they reached a wagon road, and that led down to a beautiful country of soft velvety-green hills and narrow, pleasant valleys where clumps of live oaks grew, and here and there nestled a ranch.

  So they travelled on. The country grew less rugged and some of it appeared to belong to great ranches, once the homes of the Spanish grandees. Late one afternoon travel brought them within sight of Santa Ysabel. Adam turned off the main road, in search of a place to camp, and, passing between two beautiful hills, came upon a little valley, all green with live oaks and brown with tilled ground. H
e saw horses, cattle, and finally a farmhouse, low and picturesque, of the vine-covered adobe style peculiar to a country first inhabited by the Spanish.

  Adam went toward the house, which was mostly concealed by vines and oaks, and presently happened upon a scene that seldom gladdened the eyes of a desert wanderer. On a green plot under the trees several children stopped their play to stare at Adam, and one ran to the open door. There were white pigeons flying about the roof, and grey rabbits in the grass, and ducks wading in the brook. Adam heard the cackle of hens and the bray of a burro. A column of blue smoke lazily rose upward from a grey, adobe fire-blackened oven.

  Before Adam got to the door a woman appeared there, with the child at her skirts. She was middle-aged and stout, evidently a hard-working rancher's wife. She had a brown face, rather serious, but kind, Adam thought. And he looked keenly, because he was now getting into the civilised country that he expected would become Genie's home.

  "Good evening, ma'am!" he said. "Will you let me camp out there by the oaks?"

  "How d'ye do, stranger," she replied. "Yes, you're welcome. But you're only a mile or so from Santa Ysabel. There's a good inn."

  "Time enough to go there to-morrow or next day," replied Adam. "You see, ma'am, I'm not alone. I've a young girl with me. We're from the desert. And I want her to have some--some decent clothes before I take her where there are people."

  The woman laughed pleasantly.

  "Your daughter?" she asked, with interest.

  "No relation," replied Adam. "I--I was a friend of her mother, who died out on the desert."

  "Stranger, you're welcome to my house overnight."

  "Thank you, but I'd rather not trouble you. We'll be very comfortable. It's a nice place to camp."

  "Come far?" asked the woman, whose honest blue eyes were taking stock of Adam.

  "Yes, far for Genie. We've been about ten days coming over the mountains."

  "Reckon you'd like some milk and eggs for supper?"

  "Well, now, ma'am, if you only knew how I would like some," returned Adam, heartily. "And poor Genie, who has fared so long on desert grub, she'd surely appreciate your kindness."

  "I'll fetch some over, or send it by my boy," she said.

  Adam returned thoughtfully to the little grove where he had elected to camp. This woman's kindness, the glint of sympathy in her eyes, brought him up short with the certitude that they were the very virtues he was looking for in the person to whom he intended to trust Genie. It behoved him from now on to go keenly at the task of finding that person. It would not be easy. For the present he meant to hide any hint of Genie's small fortune, and had cautioned her to that end.

  Genie appeared tired and glad to sit on the green grassy bank. "I'll help--in a little while," she said. "Isn't this a pretty place? Oh, the grass feels so cool and smells so sweet!...Wanny, who'd you see at the house?"

  "Some youngsters and a nice woman," replied Adam. It was on his tongue to tell Genie about the milk and eggs for supper, but in the interest of a surprise he kept silent.

  Sunset had passed when Adam got the packs spread, the fire built, and supper under way.

  At length the supper appeared to be about ready, except for the milk and eggs that had been promised. Adam set the pot and pan aside at the edge of the fire, and went off in search of some wood that would be needed later. He packed a big log of dead oak back to camp, bending under its weight.

  When he looked up he saw a handsome, stalwart lad, bareheaded and in shirt sleeves, standing just beyond the fire, holding out with brown muscular arms a big pan of milk. The milk was spilling over the edges. And on one of his fingers hung a small bucket full of eggs. He had to balance himself carefully while he stooped to deposit the bucket of eggs on the ground.

  "Hey, Johnnie, where'll I put the milk?" he called cheerily.

  Adam was astounded, and suddenly tickled to see Genie trying to hide behind one of the packs. She succeeded in hiding all but her head, which at the moment, wore an old cap that made her look more than ever like a boy.

  "My name's not Johnnie," she flashed, with spirit.

  The lad appeared nonplussed, probably more at the tone of voice than the speech. Then he laughed. Adam liked the sound of that laugh, its ring, its heartiness.

  "Sammy, then...Come get this milk," called the boy. Genie maintained silence, but she glared over the top of the pack.

  "Look here, bub," the lad went on, plaintively, "I can't stand this way all night. Mother wants the pan...Boy, are you deaf?...Say, bub, I won't eat you."

  "How dare you call me bub!" cried Genie, hotly.

  "Well, I'll be doggoned!" exclaimed the young fellow. "Listen to the kid!...I'll call you worse than bub in a minute. Hurry, bubbie!"

  Genie made a quick movement that whirled her around with her cap flying off, and then she got to her knees. Thus with face disclosed, and blazing eyes and curls no boy ever had, she presented a vastly different aspect.

  "I'm no boy! I--I'm a--a lady!" she declared, with angry, trembling voice of outraged dignity.

  "What!" gasped the lad. Then, in his amaze and horror he dropped the pan of milk, that splashed all over, nearly drowning the fire.

  "Hello! What's the trouble?" asked Adam, genially, appearing from the oaks.

  "I--I--spilled the milk--mother sent," he replied, in confusion.

  "That's too bad! No wonder, such a lot of milk!...What's your name?"

  "It's Eugene--sir--Eugene Blair."

  "Well, that's queer--Eugene Blair...My name's Wansfell, and I'm glad to meet you," said Adam, offering his hand. "Now let me make you acquainted with Miss Eugenie Linwood."

  The only acknowledgment Genie gave to her first introduction was a slow sinking down behind the pack. Her expression delighted Adam. As for the young man--he appeared to be about twenty years old--he was overcome with embarrassment.

  "Glad to--to know you Miss--Miss Linwood," he gulped. "Please ex-excuse me. Mother never said--there was a--a girl...And you looked so--I took you for a boy."

  "That's all right, son," put in Adam, kindly, "Genie did look like a boy. So I've been telling her."

  "Now--if you'll excuse me I'll run back after more milk," said the lad, hurriedly, and, grasping up the pan, he ran away.

  "Well, Miss Know-it-all," said Adam, banteringly, "what did I tell you? Didn't I tell you we'd meet some nice young fellow?"

  "He--he didn't see me--all of me," replied Genie, tragically.

  "What? Why a fellow with eyes like his could see right through that pack," declared Adam.

  "He called me bub!" suddenly exclaimed Genie, her tone changing from one of tragic woe to one of tragic resentment. "Bub!...The--the first boy I ever met in my whole life!"

  "Why shouldn't he call you bub?" queried Adam. "There's no harm in that. And when he discovered his mistake he apologised like a little man."

  "I hate him!" flashed Genie. "I'd starve to death before I'd eat his eggs and milk." With that she flounced off into the clump of oaks.

  Adam was seeing Genie in a new light. It amused him greatly, yet he could not help but look ruefully after her, somewhat uncertain. Feminine reactions were unknown quantities. Genie reminded him wonderfully of girls he had known when he was seventeen.

  Presently young Blair returned with more milk, and also considerably more self-possession. Not seeing Genie, he evidently took the hint and quickly left.

  "Come over after supper," called Adam, after him. "All right," he replied, and then was gone.

  Very shortly then Adam had supper prepared, to which he cheerfully invited Genie. She came reluctantly, with furtive eyes on the green beyond camp, and sat down to fold her feet under her, after the manner of an Indian. Adam, without any comment, served her supper, not omitting a generous quantity of fragrant fried eggs and a brimming cupful of creamy milk. Wherewith Genie utterly forgot, or magnificently disdained, any recollection of what she had said. She even asked for more. But she was vastly removed from the gay and lightsome Genie.r />
  "What 'd you ask him back here for?" she demanded.

  "I want to talk to him. Don't you?" replied Adam, innocently.

  "Me!...When he called me bub?"

  "Genie, be sensible. They're nice people. I think I'll camp here a day or so. We'll rest up, and that'll give me time to look around."

  "Look around!...What'll become of me?" wailed Genie, miserably.

  "You can watch camp. I dare say young Blair will forget your rudeness and be nice to you."

  Then Genie glared with terrible eyes upon Adam, and she seemed between tears and rage.

  "I--I never--never knew--you could be like this."

  "Like what? Genie, I declare, I'm half ashamed of you! Nothing has happened. Only this lad mistook you for a boy. Anyone would think the world had come to an end. All because you woke up and found out you had on boy's clothes. Well, you've got to take your medicine now. You would wear them. You never minded me. You didn't care how I saw you!"

  "I don't care how he saw me or sees me, either, so there," declared Genie, enigmatically.

  "Oh! Well, what's wrong, then?" queried Adam, more curious than ever.

  "I--he--it--it was what he called me," replied Genie, confusedly.

  Adam gazed at her downcast face with speculative eyes, intuitively feeling that she had not told the whole truth. He had anticipated trouble with this spirited young wild creature from the desert, once they got into civilisation.

  "Genie, I've been mostly in fun. Now I'm serious...I want you to be perfectly natural and nice with these Blairs, or anyone else we meet."

  Manifestly she took that seriously enough. Without another word she dragged her blankets and canvas away from the firelight, and at the edge of the gathering gloom under the oaks she made her bed and crawled into it.

  A little while after dark, young Blair presented himself at Adam's fire, and took a seat to which he was invited.

  "I suppose you folks are ranching it?" asked Adam, by way of opening conversation.