by Grey, Zane
Adam faced the west as the sun was setting. The mountain, standing magnificently above the bold knobs and ridges around it, was a dark purple mass framed in sunset gold; and from its frowning summit, notched and edged, streamed a long ruddy golden ray of sunlight that shone down through a wind-worn hole. With the sun blocked and hidden except for that small aperture there was yet a wonderful effect of sunset. A ruddy haze, shading the blue, filled the canyons and the spaces. Picacho seemed grand there, towering to the sky, crowned in gold, aloof, unscalable, a massive rock sculptured by the ages.
Arallanes laughed at Adam, then sauntered on. Mexicans jabbered as they passed, and some of the white men made jocular comment at the boy standing there so wide-eyed and still. A little Irishman gaped at Adam and said to a comrade:
“Begorra, he’s after seein’ a peanut atop ole Picacho…. What-th’-hell now, me young fri’nd? Come hev a drink.”
The crowd passed on, and Arallanes lingered, making himself a cigarette the while.
Adam had not been prepared for such a spectacle of grandeur and desolation. He seemed to feel himself a mite flung there, encompassed by colossal and immeasurable fragments of upheaved rock, jagged and jutted, with never a softening curve, and all steeped in vivid and intense light. The plateau was a ridged and scarred waste, lying under the half circle of range behind, and sloping down toward where the river lay hidden. The range to the left bore a crimson crest, and it lost itself in a region of a thousand peaks. The range to the right was cold pure purple and it ended in a dim infinity. Between these ranges, far flung across the Colorado, loomed now with exquisite clearness in Adam’s sight the mountain world he had gotten a glimpse of from below. But now he perceived its marvelous all-embracing immensity, magnified by the transparent light, its limitless horizon line an illusion, its thin purple distances unbelievable. The lilac-veiled canyons lay clear in his sight; the naked bones of the mountains showed hungrily the nature of the desert earth; and over all the vast area revealed by the setting sun lay the awful barrenness of a dead world, beautiful and terrible, with its changing rose and topaz hues only mockeries to the lover of life.
A hand fell upon Adam’s shoulder.
“Come, let us look at games of gold and women,” said Arallanes.
Then he led Adam into a big, poorly lighted, low-ceiled place, as crudely constructed as a shed, and full of noise and smoke. The attraction seemed to be a rude bar, various gambling games, and some hawk-faced, ghastly spectacles of women drinking with men at the tables. From an adjoining apartment came discordant music. This scene was intensely interesting to Adam, yet disappointing. His first sight of a wild frontier gambling hell did not thrill him.
It developed that Arallanes liked to drink and talk loud and laugh, and to take a bold chance at a gambling game. But Adam refused, and meant to avoid drinking as long as he could. He wandered around by himself, to find that everybody was merry and friendly. Adam tried not to look at any of the women while they looked at him. The apartment from which came the music was merely a bare canvas-covered room with a board floor. Dancing was going on.
Adam’s aimless steps finally led him back to the sand-floored hall, where he became absorbed in watching a game of poker that a bystander said had no limit. Then Adam sauntered on, and presently was attracted by a quarrel among some Mexicans. To his surprise, it apparently concerned Ar-allanes. All of them showed the effects of liquor, and, after the manner of their kind, they were gesticulating and talking excitedly. Suddenly one of them drew a knife and lunged toward Arallanes. Adam saw the movement, and then the long shining blade, before he saw what the man looked like. That action silenced the little group.
The outstretched hand, quivering with the skewer-like dagger, paused in its sweep as it reached a point opposite Adam. Instinctively he leaped, and quick as a flash he caught the wrist in a grip so hard that the fellow yelled. Adam, now that he possessed the menacing hand, did not know what to do with it. With a powerful jerk he pulled the Mexican off his feet, and then, exerting his strength to his utmost, he swung him round, knocking over men and tables, until his hold loosened. The knife flew one way and the Mexican the other. He lay where he fell. Arallanes and his comrades made much of Adam.
“We are friends. You will drink with me,” said Arallanes, grandly.
Though no one would have suspected it, Adam was really in need of something bracing.
“Señor is only a boy, but he has an arm,” said Arallanes, as he clutched Adam’s shoulder and biceps with a nervous hand. “When señor becomes a man he will be a giant.”
Adam’s next change of emotion was from fright to a sense of foolishness at his standing there. Then he had another drink, and after his feelings changed again, and for that matter the whole complexion of everything changed.
He never could have found the narrow path leading down into the canyon. Arallanes was his guide. Walking on the sandy floor was hard work and made him sweat. The loose sand and gravel dragged at his feet. Not long was it before he had walked off the effects of the strong liquor. He became curious as to why the Mexican had threatened Arallanes and was told that during the day the foreman had discharged this fellow.
“He ran after Margarita,” added Arallanes, “and I kicked him out of the house. The women, señor—ah! they do not mind what a man is! … Have a care of Margarita. She has as many loves and lives as a spotted cat.”
For the most part, however, the two men were silent on this laborious walk. By and by the canyon widened out so that Adam could view the great expanse of sky, fretted with fire, and the mountain spurs, rising on all sides, cold and dark against the blue. At last Arallanes announced that they were home. Adam had not seen a single house in the grey shadows. A few more steps, however, brought tangible substance of walls to Adam’s touch. Then he drew a long deep breath and realized how tired he was. The darkness gradually changed from pitch black to a pale obscurity. He could see dim, spectral outlines of mesquites, and a star shining through. At first the night appeared to be absolutely silent, but after a while, by straining his ears, he heard a rustling of mice or ground squirrels in the adobe walls. The sound comforted him, however, and when one of them, or at least some little animal, ran softly over his bed, the feeling of utter loneliness was broken.
“I’ve begun it,” he whispered, and meant the lonely life that was to be his. The silence, the darkness, the loneliness seemed to give him deeper thought. The thing that puzzled him and alarmed him was what seemed to be swift changes going on in him. If he changed his mind every hour, now cast down because of memories he could not wholly shake, or lifted to strange exaltation by the beauty of a desert sunset, or again swayed by the appeal of a girl’s dusky eyes, and then instinctively leaping into a fight with a Mexican—if he were going to be as vacillating and wild as these impulses led him to suppose he might be, it was certain that he faced a hopeless future.
But could he help himself? Then it seemed his fine instincts, his fine principles, and the hopes and dreams that would not die, began to contend with a new uprising force in him, a wilder something he had never known, a strange stirring and live emotion.
“But I’m glad,” he burst out, as if telling his secret to the darkness. “Glad to be rid of Guerd—damn him and his meanness! … Glad to be alone! … Glad to come into this wild desert! … Glad that girl made eyes at me! I’ll not lie to myself. I wanted to hug her—to kiss her—and I’ll do it if she’ll let me … That gambling hell disgusted me, and the sight of the greaser’s knife scared me cold. Yet when I got hold of him—felt my strength—how helpless he was—that I could have cracked his bones—why, scared as I was, I felt a strange wild something that is not gone yet … I’m changing. It’s a different life. And I’ve got to meet things as they come, and be game.”
Next morning Adam went to work and it developed that this was to copy MacKay’s lead-pencil scrawls, and after that was done to keep accurate account of ore mined and operated.
Several days passed be
fore Adam caught up with his work to the hour. Then MacKay, true to his word, said he would set him on a man’s job part of the time. The job upon which MacKay put Adam was no less than keeping up the fire under the huge boilers. As wood had to be used for fuel and as it was consumed rapidly, the task of stoking was not easy. Besides, hot as the furnace was, it seemed the sun was hotter. Adam sweat till he could wring water out of his shirt.
That night he made certain MacKay was playing a joke on him. Arallanes confided this intelligence, and even Margarita had been let into the secret. MacKay had many laborers for the hard work, and he wanted to cure the tenderfoot of his desire for a man’s job, such as he had asked for. It was all good-natured and amused Adam. He imagined he knew what he needed, and while he was trying to find it he could have just as much fun as MacKay.
Much to MacKay’s surprise, Adam presented himself next afternoon, in boots, overalls, and undershirt, to go on with his job of firing the engine.
“Wasn’t yesterday enough?” queried the boss.
“I can stand it.”
Then it pleased Adam to see a considerable evidence of respect in the rough mill operator’s expression. For a week Adam kept up with his office work and labored each afternoon at the stoking job. No one suspected that he suffered, though it was plain enough that he lost flesh and was exceedingly fatigued. Then Margarita’s reception of him, when he trudged home in the waning sunset hour, was sweet despite the fact that he tried to repudiate its sweetness. Once she put a little brown hand on his blistered arm, and her touch held the tenderness of woman. All women must be akin. They liked a man who could do things, and the greater his feats of labor or fight the better they liked him.
The following week MacKay took a Herculean laborer off a strenuous job with the ore and put Adam in his place. MacKay maintained his good humor, but he had acquired a little grimness. This long-limbed tenderfoot was a hard nut to crack. Adam’s father had been a man of huge stature and tremendous strength; and many a time had Adam heard it said that he might grow to be like his father. Far indeed was he from that now; but he took the brawny and seasoned laborer’s place and kept it. If the other job had been toil for Adam, this new one was pain. He learned there what labor meant. Also he learned how there was only one thing that common men understood and respected in a laborer, and it was the grit and muscle to stand the grind. Adam was eighteen years old and far from having reached his growth. This fact might have been manifest to his fellow workers, but it was not that which counted. He realized that those long hours of toil at which he stubbornly stuck had set his spirit in some immeasurable and unquenchable relation to the strange life that he divined was to be his.
Two weeks and more went by. MacKay, in proportion to the growth of his admiration and friendship for Adam, gradually weakened on his joke. And one day, when banteringly he dared Adam to tip a car of ore that two Mexicans were laboring at, and Adam in a single heave sent the tons of ore roaring into the shaft, then MacKay gave up and in true Western fashion swore his defeat and shook hands with the boy.
So in those few days Adam made friends who changed the color and direction of his life. From Merryvale he learned the legend and history of the frontier. MacKay opened his eyes to the great health for mind and body in sheer toil. Arallanes represented a warmth of friendship that came unsought, showing what might be hidden in any man. Margarita was still an unknown quantity in Adam’s development. Their acquaintance had gone on mostly under the eyes of the señora or Arallanes. Sometimes at sunset Adam had sat with her on the sand of the riverbank. Her charm grew. Then the unexpected happened. A break occurred in the machinery, and a small but invaluable part could not be repaired. It had to come from San Francisco.
Adam seemed to be thrown back upon his own resources. He did not know what to do with himself. Arallanes advised him not to go panning for gold, and to be cautious if he went up to Picacho, for the Mexican Adam had so roughly handled was the ringleader in a bad gang that it would be well to avoid. All things conspired, it seemed, to throw Adam into the company of Margarita, who always waited around the corner of every hour watching with her dusky eyes.
Chapter
IV
So as the slow, solemn days drifted onward, like the wonderful river which dominated the desert valley, it came to pass that the dreaming, pondering Adam suddenly awakened to the danger in this dusky-eyed maiden.
The realization came to Adam at the still sunset hour when he and Margarita were watching the river slide like a gleam of gold out of the west. They were walking among the scattered mesquites along the sandy bank, a place lonesome and hidden from the village behind, yet open to the wide space of river and valley beyond. The air seemed full of marvelous tints of gold and rose and purple. The majestic scene, beautiful and sad, needed life to make it perfect. Adam, more than usually drawn by Margarita’s sympathy, was trying to tell her something of the burden on his mind, that he was alone in the world, with only a hard grey future before him, with no one to care whether he lived or died.
Then had come his awakening. It did not speak well for Margarita’s conceptions of behavior, but it proved her a creature of heart and blood. To be suddenly enveloped by a wind of flame, in the slender twining form of this girl of Spanish nature, was for Adam at once a revelation and a catastrophe. But if he was staggered, he was also responsive, as in a former moment of poignancy he had vowed he would be. A strong and shuddering power took hold of his heart, and he felt the leap, the beat, the burn of his blood. When he lifted Margarita and gathered her in a close embrace it was more than a hot upflashing of boyish passion that flushed his face and started tears from under his tight-shut eyelids. It was a sore hunger for he knew not what, a gratefulness that he could express only by violence, a yielding to something deeper and more far-reaching than was true of the moment.
Adam loosened Margarita’s hold upon his neck and held her back from him so he could see her face. It was sweet, rosy. Her eyes were shining, black and fathomless as night, soft with a light that had never shone upon Adam from any other woman’s.
“Girl, do you—love me?” he demanded, and if his voice broke with the strange eagerness of a boy, his look had all the sternness of a man.
“Ah … !” whispered Margarita.
“You—you big-hearted girl!” he exclaimed, with a laugh that was glad, yet had a tremor in it. “Margarita, I—I must love you, too—since I feel so queer.”
Then he bent to her lips, and from these first real kisses that had ever been spent upon him by a woman he realized in one flash his danger. He released Margarita in a consideration she did not comprehend; and in her pouting reproach, her soft-eyed appeal, her little brown hands that would not let go of him, there was further menace to his principles.
Adam, gay and teasing, yet kindly and tactfully, tried to find a way to resist her.
“Señorita, someone will see us,” he said.
“Who cares?”
“But, child, we—we must think.”
“Señor, no woman ever thinks when love is in her heart and on her lips.”
Her reply seemed to rebuke Adam, for he sensed in it what might be true of life, rather than just of this one little girl, swayed by unknown and uncontrollable forces. She appeared to him then subtly and strongly, as if there was infinitely more than willful love in her. But it did not seem to be the peril of her proffered love that restrained Adam so much as the strange consciousness of the willingness of his spirit to meet hers halfway.
Suddenly Margarita’s mood changed. She became like a cat that had been purring under a soft, agreeable hand and then had been stroked the wrong way.
“Señor think he love me?” she flashed, growing white.
“Yes—I said so—Margarita. Of course I do,” he hastened to assure her.
“Maybe you—a gringo liar!”
Adam might have resented this insulting hint but for his uncertainty of himself, his consequent embarrassment, and his thrilling sense of the nearness of her bl
azing eyes. What a little devil she looked! This did not antagonize Adam, but it gave him proof of his impudence, of his dreaming carelessness. Margarita might not be a girl to whom he should have made love, but it was too late. Besides, he did not regret that. Only he was upset; he wanted to think.
“If the grande señor trifle—Margarita will cut out his heart!”
This swift speech, inflexible and wonderful with a passion that revealed to Adam the half-savage nature of a woman whose race was alien to his, astounded and horrified him, and yet made his blood tingle wildly.
“Margarita, I do not trifle,” replied Adam, earnestly. “God knows I’m glad you—you care for me. How have I offended you? What is it you want?”
“Let señor swear he love me,” she demanded, imperiously.
Adam answered to that with the wildness that truly seemed flashing more and more from him; and the laughter and boldness on his lips hid the gravity that had settled there. He was no clod. Under the softness of him hid a flint that struck fire.
As Margarita had been alluring and provocative, then as furious as a barbarian queen, so she now changed again to another personality in which it pleased her to be proud, cold, aloof, an outraged woman to be wooed back to tenderness. If, at the last moment of the walk home, Margarita evinced signs of another sudden transformation, Adam appeared not to note them. Leaving her in the dusk at the door where the señora sat, he strode away to the bank of the river. When he felt himself free and safe once more, he let out a great breath of relief.
“Whew! Now I’ve done it! … So, she’d cut my heart out? And I had to swear I loved her! The little savage! … But she’s amazing—and she’s adorable, with all her cat claws. Wouldn’t Guerd rave over a girl like Margarita? … And here I am, standing on my two feet, in possession of all my faculties, Adam Larey, a boy who thought he had principles—yet now I’m a ranting lover of a dark-skinned, black-eyed slip of a greaser girl! It can’t be true!”
