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Title: The Man of the Desert

Author: Grace Livingston Hill

Release Date: May 28, 2007 [EBook #21633]

Language: English

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The Man of the Desert



BY GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL


          AUTHOR OF
          MARCIA SCHUYLER, PHOEBE DEANE,
          DAWN OF THE MORNING, LO, MICHAEL, ETC.


[Illustration]

          GROSSET & DUNLAP
          PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

Made in the United States of America

          Copyright, 1914, by
          FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY

          New York: 158 Fifth Avenue
          Chicago: 125 North Wabash Ave.
          Toronto: 25 Richmond Street, W.
          London: 21 Paternoster Square
          Edinburgh: 100 Princes Street




Contents


          I.    PROSPECTING                    9

          II.   THE MAN                       24

          III.  THE DESERT                    43

          IV.   THE QUEST                     64

          V.    THE TRAIL                     86

          VI.   CAMP                         101

          VII.  REVELATION                   116

          VIII. RENUNCIATION                 130

          IX.   "FOR REMEMBRANCE"            148

          X.    HIS MOTHER                   162

          XI.   REFUGE                       180

          XII.  QUALIFYING FOR SERVICE       197

          XIII. THE CALL OF THE DESERT       218

          XIV.  HOME                         232

          XV.   THE WAY OF THE CROSS         253

          XVI.  THE LETTER                   267

          XVII. DEDICATION                   284




I

PROSPECTING


It was morning, high and clear as Arizona counts weather, and around the
little railroad station were gathered a crowd of curious onlookers;
seven Indians, three women from nearby shacks--drawn thither by the
sight of the great private car that the night express had left on a side
track--the usual number of loungers, a swarm of children, besides the
station agent who had come out to watch proceedings.

All the morning the private car had been an object of deep interest to
those who lived within sight, and that was everybody on the plateau; and
many and various had been the errands and excuses to go to the station
that perchance the occupants of that car might be seen, or a glimpse of
the interior of the moving palace; but the silken curtains had remained
drawn until after nine o'clock.

Within the last half hour, however, a change had taken place in the
silent inscrutable car. The curtains had parted here and there,
revealing dim flitting faces, a table spread with a snowy cloth and
flowers in a vase, wild flowers they were, too, like those that grew all
along the track, just weeds. Strange that one who could afford a private
car cared for weeds in a glass on their dining-table, but then perhaps
they didn't know.

A fat cook with ebony skin and white linen attire had appeared on the
rear platform beating eggs, and half whistling, half singing:

          "Be my little baby Bumble-bee--
           Buzz around, buzz around----"

He seemed in no wise affected or embarrassed by the natives who
gradually encircled the end of the car, and the audience grew.

They could dimly see the table where the inmates of the car
were--dining?--it couldn't be breakfast at that hour surely. They heard
the discussion about horses going on amid laughter and merry
conversation, and they gathered that the car was to remain here for the
day at least while some of the party went off on a horseback trip. It
was nothing very unusual of course. Such things occasionally occurred in
that region, but not often enough to lose their interest. Besides, to
watch the tourists who chanced to stop in their tiny settlement was the
only way for them to learn the fashions.

Not that all the watchers stood and stared around the car. No, indeed.
They made their headquarters around the station platform from whence
they took brief and comprehensive excursions down to the freight station
and back, going always on one side of the car and returning by way of
the other. Even the station agent felt the importance of the occasion,
and stood around with all the self-consciousness of an usher at a grand
wedding, considering himself master of ceremonies.

"Sure! They come from the East last night. Limited dropped 'em! Going
down to prospect some mine, I reckon. They ordered horses an' a outfit,
and Shag Bunce is goin' with 'em. He got a letter 'bout a week ago
tellin' what they wanted of him. Yes, I knowed all about it. He brung
the letter to me to cipher out fer him. You know Shag ain't no great at
readin' ef he is the best judge of a mine anywheres about."

Thus the station agent explained in low thrilling tones; and even the
Indians watched and grunted their interest.

At eleven o'clock the horses arrived, four besides Shag's, and the rest
of the outfit. The onlookers regarded Shag with the mournful interest
due to the undertaker at a funeral. Shag felt it and acted accordingly.
He gave short, gruff orders to his men; called attention to straps and
buckles that every one knew were in as perfect order as they could be;
criticized the horses and his men; and every one, even the horses, bore
it with perfect composure. They were all showing off and felt the
importance of the moment.

Presently the car door opened and Mr. Radcliffe came out on the platform
accompanied by his son--a handsome reckless looking fellow--his daughter
Hazel, and Mr. Hamar, a thick-set, heavy-featured man with dark hair,
jaunty black moustache and handsome black eyes. In the background stood
an erect elderly woman in tailor-made attire and with a severe
expression, Mr. Radcliffe's elder sister who was taking the trip with
them expecting to remain in California with her son; and behind her
hovered Hazel's maid. These two were not to be of the riding party, it
appeared.

There was a pleasant stir while the horses were brought forward and the
riders were mounting. The spectators remained breathlessly unconscious
of anything save the scene being enacted before them. Their eyes
lingered with special interest on the girl of the party.

Miss Radcliffe was small and graceful, with a head set on her pretty
shoulders like a flower on its stem. Moreover she was fair, so fair that
she almost dazzled the eyes of the men and women accustomed to brown
cheeks kissed by the sun and wind of the plain. There was a wild-rose
pink in her cheeks to enhance the whiteness, which made it but the more
dazzling. She had masses of golden hair wreathed round her dainty head
in a bewilderment of waves and braids. She had great dark eyes of blue
set off by long curling lashes, and delicately pencilled dark brows
which gave the eyes a pansy softness and made you feel when she looked
at you that she meant a great deal more by the look than you had at
first suspected. They were wonderful, beautiful eyes, and the little
company of idlers at the station were promptly bewitched by them.
Moreover there was a fantastic little dimple in her right cheek that
flashed into view at the same time with the gleam of pearly teeth when
she smiled. She certainly was a picture. The station looked its fill and
rejoiced in her young beauty.

She was garbed in a dark green riding habit, the same that she wore when
she rode attended by her groom in Central Park. It made a sensation
among the onlookers, as did the little riding cap of dark green velvet
and the pretty riding gloves. She sat her pony well, daintily, as though
she had alighted briefly, but to their eyes strangely, and not as the
women out there rode. On the whole the station saw little else but the
girl; all the others were mere accessories to the picture.

They noticed indeed that the young man, whose close cropped golden
curls, and dark lashed blue eyes were so like the girl's that he could
be none other than her brother, rode beside the older man who was
presumably the father; and that the dark, handsome stranger rode away
beside the girl. Not a man of them but resented it. Not a woman of them
but regretted it.

Then Shag Bunce, with a parting word to his small but complete outfit
that rode behind, put spurs to his horse, lifted his sombrero in homage
to the lady, and shot to the front of the line, his shaggy mane by which
came his name floating over his shoulders. Out into the sunshine of a
perfect day the riders went, and the group around the platform stood
silently and watched until they were a speck in the distance blurring
with the sunny plain and occasional ash and cottonwood trees.

"I seen the missionary go by early this mornin'," speculated the station
agent meditatively, deliberately, as though he only had a right to break
the silence. "I wonder whar he could 'a' bin goin'. He passed on t'other
side the track er I'd 'a' ast 'im. He 'peared in a turrible hurry.
Anybody sick over towards the canyon way?"

"Buck's papoose heap sick!" muttered an immobile Indian, and shuffled
off the platform with a stolid face. The women heaved a sigh of
disappointment and turned to go. The show was out and they must return
to the monotony of their lives. They wondered what it would be like to
ride off like that into the sunshine with cheeks like roses and eyes
that saw nothing but pleasure ahead. What would a life like that be?
Awed, speculative, they went back to their sturdy children and their
ill-kempt houses, to sit in the sun on the door-steps and muse a while.

Into the sunshine rode Hazel Radcliffe well content with the world,
herself, and her escort.

Milton Hamar was good company. He was keen of wit and a past-master in
the delicate art of flattery. That he was fabulously wealthy and
popular in New York society; that he was her father's friend both
socially and financially, and had been much of late in their home on
account of some vast mining enterprise in which both were interested;
and that his wife was said to be uncongenial and always interested in
other men rather than her husband, were all facts that combined to give
Hazel a pleasant, half-romantic interest in the man by her side. She had
been conscious of a sense of satisfaction and pleasant anticipation when
her father told her that he was to be of their party. His wit and
gallantry would make up for the necessity of having her Aunt Maria
along. Aunt Maria was always a damper to anything she came near. She was
the personification of propriety. She had tried to make Hazel think she
must remain in the car and rest that day instead of going off on a wild
goose chase after a mine. No lady did such things, she told her niece.

Hazel's laugh rang out like the notes of a bird as the two rode slowly
down the trail, not hurrying, for there was plenty of time. They could
meet the others on their way back if they did not get to the mine so
soon, and the morning was lovely.

Milton Hamar could appreciate the beauties of nature now and then. He
called attention to the line of hills in the distance, and the sharp
steep peak of a mountain piercing the sunlight. Then skillfully he led
his speech around to his companion, and showed how lovelier than the
morning she was.

He had been indulging in such delicate flattery since they first started
from New York, whenever the indefatigable aunt left them alone long
enough, but this morning there was a note of something closer and more
intimate in his words; a warmth of tenderness that implied unspeakable
joy in her beauty, such as he had never dared to use before. It
flattered her pride deliciously. It was beautiful to be young and
charming and have a man say such things with a look like that in his
eyes--eyes that had suffered, and appealed to her to pity. With her
young, innocent heart she did pity, and was glad she might solace his
sadness a little while.

With consummate skill the man led her to talk of himself, his hopes in
youth, his disappointments, his bitter sadness, his heart loneliness. He
suddenly asked her to call him Milton, and the girl with rosy cheeks and
dewy eyes declared shyly that she never could, it would seem so queer,
but she finally compromised after much urging on "Cousin Milton."

"That will do for a while," he succumbed, smiling as he looked at her
with impatient eyes. Then with growing intimacy in his tones he laid a
detaining hand upon hers that held the bridle, and the horses both
slackened their gait, though they had been far behind the rest of the
party for over an hour now.

"Listen, little girl," he said, "I'm going to open my heart to you. I'm
going to tell you a secret."

Hazel sat very still, half alarmed at his tone, not daring to withdraw
her hand, for she felt the occasion was momentous and she must be ready
with her sympathy as any true friend would be. Her heart swelled with
pride that it was to her he came in his trouble. Then she looked up into
the face that was bending over hers, and she saw triumph, not trouble,
in his eyes. Even then she did not understand.

"What is it?" she asked trustingly.

"Dear child!" said the man of the world impressively, "I knew you would
be interested. Well, I will tell you. I have told you of my sorrow, now
I will tell you of my joy. It is this: When I return to New York I shall
be a free man. Everything is complete at last. I have been granted a
divorce from Ellen, and there remain only a few technicalities to be
attended to. Then we shall be free to go our ways and do as we choose."

"A divorce!" gasped Hazel appalled. "Not you--divorced!"

"Yes," affirmed the happy man gaily, "I knew you'd be surprised. It's
almost too good to be true, isn't it, after all my trouble to get Ellen
to consent?"

"But she--your wife--where will she go? What will she do?" Hazel looked
up at him with troubled eyes, half bewildered with the thought.

She did not realize that the horses had stopped and that he still held
her hand which grasped the bridle.

"Oh, Ellen will be married at once," he answered flippantly. "That's the
reason she's consented at last. She's going to marry Walling Stacy, you
know, and from being stubborn about it, she's quite in a hurry to make
any arrangement to fix things up now."

"She's going to be married!" gasped Hazel as if she had not heard of
such things often. Somehow it had never come quite so close to her list
of friendships before and it shocked her inexpressibly.

"Yes, she's going to be married at once, so you see there's no need to
think of her ever again. But why don't you ask me what I am going to
do?"

"Oh, yes!" said Hazel recalling her lack of sympathy at once. "You
startled me so. What are you going to do? You poor man--what can you do?
Oh, I am so sorry for you!" and the pansy-eyes became suffused with
tears.

"No need to feel sorry for me, little one," said the exultant voice, and
he looked at her now with an expression she had never seen in his face
before. "I shall be happy as I have never dreamed of before," he said.
"I am going to be married too. I am going to marry some one who loves me
with all her heart, I am sure of that, though she has never told me so.
I am going to marry you, little sweetheart!" He stooped suddenly before
she could take in the meaning of his words, and flinging his free arm
about her pressed his lips upon hers.

With a wild cry like some terrified creature Hazel tried to draw herself
away, and finding herself held fast her quick anger rose and she lifted
the hand which held the whip and blindly slashed the air about her; her
eyes closed, her heart swelling with horror and fear. A great repulsion
for the man whom hitherto she had regarded with deep respect surged over
her. To get away from him at once was her greatest desire. She lashed
out again with her whip, blindly, not seeing what she struck, almost
beside herself with wrath and fear.

Hamar's horse reared and plunged, almost unseating his rider, and as he
struggled to keep his seat, having necessarily released the girl from
his embrace, the second cut of the whip took him stingingly across the
eyes, causing him to cry out with the pain. The horse reared again and
sent him sprawling upon the ground, his hands to his face, his senses
one blank of pain for the moment.

Hazel, knowing only that she was free, followed an instinct of fear and
struck her own pony on the flank, causing the little beast to turn
sharply to right angles with the trail he had been following and dart
like a streak across the level plateau. Thereafter the girl had all she
could do to keep her seat.

She had been wont to enjoy a run in the Park with her groom at safe
distance behind her. She was proud of her ability to ride, and could
take fences as well as her young brother; but a run like this across an
illimitable space, on a creature of speed like the wind, goaded by fear
and knowing the limitations of his rider, was a different matter. The
swift flight took her breath away, and unnerved her. She tried to hold
on to the saddle with her shaking hands, for the bridle was already
flying loose to the breeze, but her hold seemed so slight that each
moment she expected to find herself lying huddled on the plain with the
pony far in the distance.

Her lips grew white and cold; her breath came short and painfully; her
eyes were strained with trying to look ahead at the constantly receding
horizon. Was there no end? Would they never come to a human habitation?
Would no one ever come to her rescue? How long could a pony stand a pace
like this? And how long could she hope to hold on to the furious flying
creature?

Off to the right at last she thought she saw a building. It seemed hours
they had been flying through space. In a second they were close by it.
It was a cabin, standing alone upon the great plain with sage-brush in
patches about the door and a neat rail fence around it.

She could see one window at the end, and a tiny chimney at the back.
Could it be that any one lived in such a forlorn spot?

Summoning all her strength as they neared the spot she flung her voice
out in a wild appeal while the pony hurled on, but the wind caught the
feeble effort and flung it away into the vast spaces like a little torn
worthless fragment of sound.

Tears stung their way into her wide dry eyes. The last hairpin left its
mooring and slipped down to earth. The loosened golden hair streamed
back on the wind like hands of despair wildly clutching for help, and
the jaunty green riding cap was snatched by the breeze and hung upon a
sage-bush not fifty feet from the cabin gate, but the pony rushed on
with the frightened girl still clinging to the saddle.




II

THE MAN


About noon of the same day the missionary halted his horse on the edge
of a great flat-topped mesa and looked away to the clear blue mountains
in the distance.

John Brownleigh had been in Arizona for nearly three years, yet the
wonder of the desert had not ceased to charm him, and now as he stopped
his horse to rest, his eyes sought the vast distances stretched in every
direction, and revelled in the splendour of the scene.

Those mountains at which he was gazing were more than a hundred miles
from him, and yet they stood out clear and distinct in the wonderful
air, and seemed but a short journey away.

Below him were ledges of rock in marvellous colours, yellow and gray,
crimson and green piled one upon another, with the strange light of the
noonday sun playing over them and turning their colours into a blaze of
glory. Beyond was a stretch of sand, broken here and there by
sage-brush, greasewood, or cactus rearing its prickly spines
grotesquely.

Off to the left were pink tinted cliffs and a little farther dark
cone-like buttes. On the other hand low brown and white hills stretched
away to the wonderful petrified forest, where great tracts of fallen
tree trunks and chips lay locked in glistening stone.

To the south he could see the familiar water-hole, and farther the
entrance to the canyon, fringed with cedars and pines. The grandeur of
the scene impressed him anew.

"Beautiful, beautiful!" he murmured, "and a grand God to have it so!"
Then a shadow of sadness passed over his face, and he spoke again aloud
as had come to be his habit in this vast loneliness.

"I guess it is worth it," he said, "worth all the lonely days and
discouraging months and disappointments, just to be alone with a
wonderful Father like mine!"

He had just come from a three days' trip in company with another
missionary whose station was a two days' journey by horseback from his
own, and whose cheery little home was presided over by a sweet-faced
woman, come recently from the East to share his fortunes. The delicious
dinner prepared for her husband and his guests, the air of comfort in
the three-roomed shack, the dainty touches that showed a woman's hand,
had filled Brownleigh with a noble envy. Not until this visit had he
realized how very much alone his life was.

He was busy of course from morning till night, and his enthusiasm for
his work was even greater than when nearly three years before he had
been sent out by the Board to minister to the needs of the Indians.
Friends he had by the score. Wherever a white man or trader lived in the
region he was always welcome; and the Indians knew and loved his coming.
He had come around this way now to visit an Indian hogan where the
shadow of death was hovering over a little Indian maiden beloved of her
father. It had been a long way around and the missionary was weary with
many days in the saddle, but he was glad he had come. The little maid
had smiled to see him, and felt that the dark valley of death seemed
more to her now like one of her own flower-lit canyons that led out to a
brighter, wider day, since she had heard the message of life he brought
her.

But as he looked afar over the long way he had come, and thought of the
bright little home where he had dined the day before, the sadness still
lingered in his face.

"It would be good to have somebody like that," he said, aloud again,
"somebody to expect me, and be glad,--but then"--thoughtfully--"I
suppose there are not many girls who are willing to give up their homes
and go out to rough it as she has done. It is a hard life for a
woman--for that kind of a woman!" A pause, then, "And I wouldn't want
any other kind!"

His eyes grew large with wistfulness. It was not often thus that the
cheery missionary stopped to think upon his own lot in life. His heart
was in his work, and he could turn his hand to anything. There was
always plenty to be done. Yet to-day for some inexplicable reason, for
the first time since he had really got into the work and outgrown his
first homesickness, he was hungry for companionship. He had seen a light
in the eyes of his fellow-missionary that spoke eloquently of the
comfort and joy he himself had missed and it struck deep into his heart.
He had stopped here on this mesa, with the vast panorama of the desert
spread before him, to have it out with himself.

The horse breathed restfully, drooping his head and closing his eyes to
make the most of the brief respite, and the man sat thinking, trying to
fill his soul with the beauty of the scene and crowd out the longings
that had pressed upon him. Suddenly he raised his head with a quiet
upward motion and said reverently:

"Oh, my Christ, you knew what this loneliness was! You were lonely too!
It is the way you went, and I will walk with you! That will be good."

He sat for a moment with uplifted face towards the vast sky, his fine
strong features touched with a tender light, their sadness changing into
peace. Then with the old cheery brightness coming into his face again he
returned to the earth and its duties.

"Billy, it's time we were getting on," he remarked to his horse
chummily. "Do you see that sun in the heavens? It'll get there before we
do if we don't look out, and we're due at the fort to-night if we can
possibly make it. We had too much vacation, that's about the size of it,
and we're spoiled! We're lazy, Billy! We'll have to get down to work.
Now how about it? Can we get to that water-hole in half an hour? Let's
try for it, old fellow, and then we'll have a good drink, and a bite to
eat, and maybe ten minutes for a nap before we take the short trail
home. There's some of the corn chop left for you, Billy, so hustle up,
old boy, and get there."

Billy, with an answering snort, responded to his master's words, and
carefully picked his way over boulders and rocks down to the valley
below.

But within a half mile of the water-hole the young man suddenly halted
his horse and sprang from the saddle, stooping in the sand beside a tall
yucca to pick up something that gleamed like fire in the sunlight. In
all that brilliant glowing landscape a bit of brightness had caught his
eye and insistently flung itself upon his notice as worthy of
investigation. There was something about the sharp light it flung that
spoke of another world than the desert. John Brownleigh could not pass
it by. It might be only a bit of broken glass from an empty flask flung
carelessly aside, but it did not look like that. He must see.

Wondering he stooped and picked it up, a bit of bright gold on the
handle of a handsome riding whip. It was not such a whip as people in
this region carried; it was dainty, costly, elegant, a lady's riding
whip! It spoke of a world of wealth and attention to expensive details,
as far removed from this scene as possible. Brownleigh stood still in
wonder and turned the pretty trinket over in his hand. Now how did that
whip come to be lying in a bunch of sage-brush on the desert? Jewelled,
too, and that must have given the final keen point of light to the flame
which made him stop short in the sand to pick it up. It was a single
clear stone of transparent yellow, a topaz likely, he thought, but
wonderfully alive with light, set in the end of the handle, and looking
closely he saw a handsome monogram engraved on the side, and made out
the letters H. R. But that told him nothing.

With knit brows he pondered, one foot in the stirrup, the other still
upon the desert, looking at the elegant toy. Now who, _who_ would be so
foolish as to bring a thing like that into the desert? There were no
lady riders anywhere about that he knew, save the major's sister at the
military station, and she was most plain in all her appointments. This
frivolous implement of horsemanship never belonged to the major's
sister. Tourists seldom came this way. What did it mean?

He sprang into the saddle and shading his eyes with his hand scanned the
plain, but only the warm shimmer of sun-heated earth appeared. Nothing
living could be seen. What ought he to do about it? Was there any way he
might find out the owner and restore the lost property?

Pondering thus, his eyes divided between the distance and the glittering
whip-handle, they came to the water-hole; and Brownleigh dismounted, his
thoughts still upon the little whip.

"It's very strange, Billy. I can't make out a theory that suits me," he
mused aloud. "If any one has been riding out this way and lost it, will
they perhaps return and look for it? Yet if I leave it where I found it
the sand might drift over it at any time. And surely, in this sparsely
settled country, I shall be able to at least hear of any strangers who
might have carried such a foolish little thing. Then, too, if I leave it
where I found it some one might steal it. Well, I guess we'll take it
with us, Billy; we'll hear of the owner somewhere some time no doubt."

The horse answered with a snort of satisfaction as he lifted his moist
muzzle from the edge of the water and looked contentedly about.

The missionary unstrapped his saddle and flung it on the ground,
unfastening the bag of "corn chop" and spreading it conveniently before
his dumb companion. Then he set about gathering a few sticks from near
at hand and started a little blaze. In a few minutes the water was
bubbling cheerfully in his little folding tin cup for a cup of tea, and
a bit of bacon was frying in a diminutive skillet beside it. Corn bread
and tea and sugar came from the capacious pockets of the saddle. Billy
and his missionary made a good meal beneath the wide bright quiet of the
sky.

When the corn chop was finished Billy let his long lashes droop lower
and lower, and his nose go down and down until it almost touched the
ground, dreaming of more corn chop, and happy in having his wants
supplied. But his master, stretched at full length upon the ground with
hat drawn over his eyes, could not lose himself in sleep for a second.
His thoughts were upon the jewelled whip, and by and by he reached his
hand out for it, and shoving back his hat lay watching the glinting of
lights within the precious heart of the topaz, as the sun caught and
tangled its beams in the sharp facets of the cutting. He puzzled his
mind to know how the whip came to be in the desert, and what was meant
by it. One reads life by details in that wide and lonely land. This whip
might mean something. But what?

At last he dropped his hand and sitting up with his upward glance he
said aloud:

"Father, if there's any reason why I ought to look for the owner, guide
me."

He spoke as if the One he addressed were always present in his
consciousness, and they were on terms of the closest intimacy.

He sprang up then and began putting the things together, as if the
burden of the responsibility were upon One fully able to bear it.

They were soon on their way again, Billy swinging along with the full
realization of the nearness of home.

The way now led towards hazy blue lines of mesas with crags and ridges
here and there. Across the valley, looking like a cloud-shadow, miles
distant lay a long black streak, the line of the gorge of the canyon.
Its dim presence seemed to grow on the missionary's thought as he drew
nearer. He had not been to that canyon for more than a month. There were
a few scattered Indians living with their families here and there in
corners where there was a little soil. The thought of them drew him now.
He must make out to go to them soon. If it were not that Billy had been
so far he would go up there this afternoon. But the horse needed rest
if the man did not, and there was of course no real hurry about the
matter. He would go perhaps in the morning. Meantime it would be good to
get to his own fireside once more and attend to a few letters that
should be written. He was invited to the fort that night for dinner.
There was to be some kind of a frolic, some visitors from the East. He
had said he would come if he reached home in time. He probably would,
but the idea was not attractive just now. He would rather rest and read
and go to sleep early. But then, of course he would go. Such
opportunities were none too frequent in this lonely land, though in his
present mood the gay doings at the fort did not appeal to him strongly;
besides it meant a ride of ten miles further. However, of course he
would go. He fell to musing over the whip again, and in due time he
arrived at his own home, a little one-roomed shanty with a chimney at
the back and four big windows. At the extreme end of the fenced
enclosure about the structure was a little shed for Billy, and all about
was the vast plain dotted with bushes and weeds, with its panorama of
mountain and hill, valley and gorge. It was beautiful, but it was
desolate. There were neighbours, a few, but they lived at magnificent
distances.

"We ought to have a dog, Billy! Why don't we get a dog to welcome us
home?" said Brownleigh, slapping the horse's neck affectionately as he
sprang from the saddle; "but then a dog would go along with us, wouldn't
he, so there'd be three of us to come home instead of two, and that
wouldn't do any good. Chickens? How would that do? But the coyotes would
steal them. I guess we'll have to get along with each other, old
fellow."

The horse, relieved of his saddle, gave a shake of comfort as a man
might stretch himself after a weary journey, and trotted into his shed.
Brownleigh made him comfortable and turned to go to the house.

As he walked along by the fence he caught sight of a small dark object
hanging on a sage-bush a short distance from the front of his house. It
seemed to move slightly, and he stopped and watched it a second thinking
it might be some animal caught in the bush, or in hiding. It seemed to
stir again as objects watched intently often will, and springing over
the rail fence Brownleigh went to investigate. Nothing in that country
was left to uncertainty. Men liked to know what was about them.

As he neared the bush, however, the object took on a tangible form and
colour, and coming closer he picked it up and turned it over clumsily in
his hand. A little velvet riding cap, undoubtedly a lady's, with the
name of a famous New York costumer wrought in silk letters in the
lining. Yes, there was no question about its being a lady's cap, for a
long gleaming golden hair, with an undoubted tendency to curl, still
clung to the velvet. A sudden embarrassment filled him, as though he had
been handling too intimately another's property unawares. He raised his
eyes and shaded them with his hand to look across the landscape, if
perchance the owner might be at hand, though even as he did so he felt a
conviction that the little velvet cap belonged to the owner of the whip
which he still held in his other hand. H. R. Where was H. R., and who
could she be?

For some minutes he stood thinking it out, locating the exact spot in
his memory where he had found the whip. It had not been on any regular
trail. That was strange. He stooped to see if there were any further
evidences of passers-by, but the slight breeze had softly covered all
definite marks. He was satisfied, however, after examining the ground
about for some distance either way, that there could have been but one
horse. He was wise in the lore of the trail. By certain little things
that he saw or did not see he came to this conclusion.

Just as he was turning to go back to his cabin he came to a halt again
with an exclamation of wonder, for there close at his feet, half hidden
under a bit of sage, lay a small shell comb. He stooped and picked it up
in triumph.

"I declare, I have quite a collection," he said aloud. "Are there any
more? By these tokens I may be able to find her after all." And he
started with a definite purpose and searched the ground for several rods
ahead, then going back and taking a slightly different direction, he
searched again and yet again, looking back each time to get his bearings
from the direction where he had found the whip, arguing that the horse
must likely have taken a pretty straight line and gone at a rapid pace.

He was rewarded at last by finding two shell hairpins, and near them a
single hoof print, that, sheltered by a heavy growth of sage, had
escaped the obliteration of the wind. This he knelt and studied
carefully, taking in all the details of size and shape and direction;
then, finding no more hairpins or combs, he carefully put his booty into
his pocket and hurried back to the cabin, his brow knit in deep
thought.

"Father, is this Thy leading?" He paused at the door and looked up. He
opened the door and stepped within. The restfulness of the place called
to him to stay.

There was the wide fireplace with a fire laid all ready for the touch of
a match that would bring the pleasant blaze to dispel the loneliness of
the place. There was the easy chair, his one luxury, with its leather
cushions and reclining back; his slippers on the floor close by; the
little table with its well-trimmed student lamp, his college paper and
the one magazine that kept him in touch with the world freshly arrived
before he left for his recent trip, and still unopened. How they called
to him! Yet when he laid the whip upon the magazine the slanting ray of
sun that entered by the door caught the glory of the topaz and sent it
scintillating, and somehow the magazine lost its power to hold him.

One by one he laid his trophies down beside the whip; the velvet cap,
the hairpins and the little comb, and then stood back startled with the
wonder of it and looked about his bachelor quarters.

It was a pleasant spot, far lovelier than its weather-stained exterior
would lead one to suppose. A Navajo blanket hung upon one wall above
the bed, and another enwrapped and completely covered the bed itself,
making a spot of colour in the room, and giving an air of luxury. Two
quaint rugs of Indian workmanship upon the floor, one in front of the
bed, the other before the fireplace where one's feet would rest when
sitting in the big chair, did much to hide the discrepancies of the ugly
floor. A rough set of shelves at the side of the fireplace handy to
reach from the easy chair were filled with treasures of great minds, the
books he loved well, all he could afford to bring with him, a few
commentaries, not many, an encyclopedia, a little biography, a few
classics, botany, biology, astronomy and a much worn Bible. On the wall
above was a large card catalogue of Indian words; and around the room
were some of his own pencil drawings of plants and animals.

Over in the opposite end of the room from the bed was a table covered
with white oilcloth; and on the wall behind, the cupboard which held his
dishes, and his stock of provisions. It was a pleasant spot and well
ordered, for he never liked to leave his quarters in disarray lest some
one might enter during his absence, or come back with him. Besides, it
was pleasanter so to return to it. A rough closet of goodly proportions
held his clothes, his trunk, and any other stores.

He stood and looked about it now and then let his eyes travel back to
those small feminine articles on the little table beside him. It gave
him a strange sensation. What if they belonged there? What if the owner
of them lived there, was coming in in a minute now to meet him? How
would it seem? What would she be like? For just an instant he let
himself dream, and reaching out touched the velvet of the cap, then took
it in his hand and smoothed its silken surface. A faint perfume of
another world seemed to steal from its texture, and to linger on his
hands. He drew a breath of wonder and laid it down; then with a start he
came to himself. Suppose she did belong, and were out somewhere and he
did not know where? Suppose something had happened to her--the horse run
away, thrown her somewhere perhaps,--or she might have strayed away from
a camp and lost her way--or been frightened?

These might be all foolish fantasies of a weary brain, but the man knew
he could not rest until he had at least made an attempt to find out. He
sank down in the big chair for a moment to think it out and closed his
eyes, making swift plans.

Billy must have a chance to rest a little; a fagged horse could not
accomplish much if the journey were far and the need for haste. He could
not go for an hour yet. And there would be preparations to make. He must
repack the saddle-bags with feed for Billy, food for himself and a
possible stranger, restoratives, and a simple remedy or two in case of
accident. These were articles he always took with him on long journeys.
He considered taking his camping tent but that would mean the wagon, and
they could not go so rapidly with that. He must not load Billy heavily,
after the miles he had already come. But he could take a bit of canvas
strapped to the saddle, and a small blanket. Of course it might be but a
wild goose chase after all--yet he could not let his impression go
unheeded.

Then there was the fort. In case he found the lady and restored her
property in time he might be able to reach the fort by evening. He must
take that into consideration also.

With alacrity he arose and went about his preparations, soon having his
small baggage in array. His own toilet came next. A bath and fresh
clothing; then, clean shaven and ready, all but his coat, he flung
himself upon his bed for ten minutes of absolute relaxation, after which
he felt himself quite fit for the expedition. Springing up he put on
coat and hat, gathered up with reverent touch the bits of things he had
found, locked his cabin and went out to Billy, a lump of sugar in his
hand.

"Billy, old fellow, we're under orders to march again," he said
apologetically, and Billy answered with a neigh of pleasure, submitting
to the saddle as though he were quite ready for anything required of
him.

"Now, Father," said the missionary with his upward look, "show us the
way."

So, taking the direction from the hoof print in the sand, Billy and his
master sped away once more into the westering light of the desert
towards the long black shadowed entrance of the canyon.




III

THE DESERT


Hazel, as she was borne along, her lovely hair streaming in the wind and
lashing her across the face and eyes now and again, breath coming
painfully, eyes smarting, fingers aching in the vise-like hold she was
compelled to keep upon the saddle, began to wonder just how long she
could hold out. It seemed to her it was a matter of minutes only when
she must let go and be whirled into space while the tempestuous steed
sped on and left her.

Nothing like this motion had ever come into her experience before. She
had been run away with once, but that was like a cradle to this tornado
of motion. She had been frightened before, but never like this. The
blood pounded in her head and eyes until it seemed it would burst forth,
and now and again the surging of it through her ears gave the sensation
of drowning, yet on and on she went. It was horrible to have no bridle,
and nothing to say about where she should go, no chance to control her
horse. It was like being on an express train with the engineer dead in
his cab and no way to get to the brakes. They must stop some time and
what then? Death seemed inevitable, and yet as the mad rush continued
she almost wished it might come and end the horror of this ride.

It seemed hours before she began to realize that the horse was no longer
going at quite such a breakneck speed, or else she was growing
accustomed to the motion and getting her breath, she could not quite be
sure which. But little by little she perceived that the mad flying had
settled into a long lope. The pony evidently had no intention of
stopping and it was plain that he had some distinct place in mind to
which he was going as straight and determinedly as any human being ever
laid out a course and forged ahead in it. There was that about his whole
beastly contour that showed it was perfectly useless to try to deter him
from it or to turn him aside.

When her breath came less painfully, Hazel made a fitful little attempt
to drop a quiet word of reason into his ear.

"Nice pony, nice, good pony----!" she soothed, but the wind caught her
voice and flung it aside as it had flung her cap a few moments before,
and the pony only laid his ears back and fled stolidly on.

She gathered her forces again.

"Nice pony! Whoa, sir!" she cried, a little louder than the last time
and trying to make her voice sound firm and commanding.

But the pony had no intention of "whoa-ing," and though she repeated the
command many times, her voice growing each time more firm and normal, he
only showed the whites of his eyes at her and continued doggedly on his
way.

She saw it was useless; and the tears, usually with her under fine
control, came streaming down her white cheeks.

"Pony, good horse, _dear_ pony, won't you stop!" she cried and her words
ended with a sob. But still the pony kept on.

The desert fled about her yet seemed to grow no shorter ahead, and the
dark line of cloud mystery, with the towering mountains beyond, were no
nearer than when she first started. It seemed much like riding on a
rocking-horse, one never got anywhere, only no rocking-horse flew at
such a speed.

Yet she realized now that the pace was much modified from what it had
been at first, and the pony's motion was not hard. If she had not been
so stiff and sore in every joint and muscle with the terrible tension
she had kept up the riding would not have been at all bad. But she was
conscious of most terrible weariness, a longing to drop down on the sand
of the desert and rest, not caring whether she ever went on again or
not. She had never felt such terrible weariness in her life.

She could hold on now with one hand, and relax the muscles of the other
a little. She tried with one hand presently to do something with that
sweeping pennant of hair that lashed her in the face so unexpectedly now
and then, but could only succeed in twisting it about her neck and
tucking the ends into the neck of her riding habit; and from this frail
binding it soon slipped free again.

She was conscious of the heat of the sun on her bare head, the smarting
of her eyes. The pain in her chest was subsiding, and she could breathe
freely again, but her heart felt tired, so tired, and she wanted to lie
down and cry. Would she never get anywhere and be helped?

How soon would her father and brother miss her and come after her? When
she dared she looked timidly behind, and then again more lingeringly,
but there was nothing to be seen but the same awful stretch of distance
with mountains of bright colour in the boundaries everywhere; not a
living thing but herself and the pony to be seen. It was awful.
Somewhere between herself and the mountains behind was the place she had
started from, but the bright sun shone steadily, hotly down and
shimmered back again from the bright earth, and nothing broke the awful
repose of the lonely space. It was as if she had suddenly been caught up
and flung out into a world where was no other living being.

Why did they not come after her? Surely, surely, pretty soon she would
see them coming. They would spur their horses on when they found she had
been run away with. Her father and brother would not leave her long in
this horrible plight.

Then it occurred to her that her father and brother had been for some
time out of sight ahead before she began her race. They would not know
she was gone, at once; but of course Mr. Hamar would do something. He
would not leave her helpless. The habit of years of trusting him assured
her of that. For the instant she had forgotten the cause of her flight.
Then suddenly she remembered it with sickening thought. He who had been
to her a brave fine hero, suffering daily through the carelessness of a
wife who did not understand him, had stepped down from his pedestal and
become the lowest of the low. He had dared to kiss her! He had said he
would marry her--he,--a married man! Her whole soul revolted against him
again, and now she was glad she had run away--glad the horse had taken
her so far--glad she had shown him how terrible the whole thing looked
to her. She was even glad that her father and brother were far away too,
for the present, until she should adjust herself to life once more. How
could she have faced them after what happened? How could she ever live
in the same world with that man again,--that fallen hero? How could she
ever have thought so much of him? She had almost worshipped him, and had
been so pleased when he had seemed to enjoy her company, and
complimented her by telling her she had whiled away a weary hour for
him! And he? He had been meaning--_this_--all the time! He had looked at
her with that thought in his mind! Oh--awful degradation!

There was something so revolting in the memory of his voice and face as
he had told her that she closed her eyes and shuddered as she recalled
it, and once more the tears went coursing down her cheeks and she sobbed
aloud, piteously, her head bowing lower and lower over the pony's neck,
her bright hair falling down about her shoulders and beating against the
animal's breast and knees as he ran, her stiffened fingers clutching his
mane to keep her balance, her whole weary little form drooping over his
neck in a growing exhaustion, her entire being swept by alternate waves
of anger, revulsion and fear.

Perhaps all this had its effect on the beast; perhaps somewhere in his
make-up there lay a spot, call it instinct or what you please, that
vibrated in response to the distress of the human creature he carried.
Perhaps the fact that she was in trouble drew his sympathy, wicked
little willful imp though he usually was. Certain it is that he began to
slacken his pace decidedly, until at last he was walking, and finally
stopped short and turned his head about with a troubled neigh as if to
ask her what was the matter.

The sudden cessation of the motion almost threw her from her seat; and
with new fear gripping her heart she clutched the pony's mane the
tighter and looked about her trembling. She was conscious more than
anything else of the vast spaces about her in every direction, of the
loneliness of the spot, and her own desolate condition. She had wanted
the horse to stop and let her get down to solid ground, and now that he
had done so and she might dismount a great horror filled her and she
dared not. But with the lessening of the need for keeping up the tense
strain of nerve and muscle, she suddenly began to feel that she could
not sit up any longer, that she must lie down, let go this awful strain,
stop this uncontrollable trembling which was quivering all over her
body.

The pony, too, seemed wondering, impatient that she did not dismount at
once. He turned his nose towards her again with a questioning snuff and
snort, and showed the wicked whites of his eyes in wild perplexity. Then
a panic seized her. What if he should start to run again? She would
surely be thrown this time, for her strength was almost gone. She must
get down and in some way gain possession of the bridle. With the bridle
she might perhaps hope to guide his movements, and make further wild
riding impossible.

Slowly, painfully, guardedly, she took her foot from the stirrup and
slipped to the ground. Her cramped feet refused to hold her weight for
the moment and she tottered and went into a little heap on the ground.
The pony, feeling his duty for the present done, sidled away from her
and began cropping the grass hungrily.

The girl sank down wearily at full length upon the ground and for a
moment it seemed to her she could never rise again. She was too weary to
lift her hand or to move the foot that was twisted under her into a more
comfortable position, too weary to even think. Then suddenly the sound
of the animal moving steadily away from her roused her to the necessity
of securing him. If he should get away in this wide desolation she would
be helpless indeed.

She gathered her flagging energy and got painfully upon her feet. The
horse was nearly a rod away, and moving slowly, steadily, as he ate,
with now and then a restless lifting of his head to look off into the
distance and take a few determined steps before he stopped for another
bite. That horse had something on his mind and was going straight
towards it. She felt that he cared little what became of her. She must
look out for herself. This was something she had never had to do before;
but the instinct came with the need.

Slowly, tremblingly, feeling her weakness, she stole towards him, a
bunch of grass in her hand she had plucked as she came, holding it
obviously as she had fed a lump of sugar or an apple to her finely
groomed mare in New York. But the grass she held was like all the grass
about him, and the pony had not been raised a pet. He tossed his nose
energetically and scornfully as she drew near and hastened on a pace or
two.

Cautiously she came on again talking to him gently, pleadingly,
complimentarily: "Nice good horsey! Pretty pony so he was!" But he only
edged away again.

And so they went on for some little way until Hazel almost despaired of
catching him at all, and was becoming more and more aware of the
vastness of the universe about her, and the smallness of her own being.

At last, however, her fingers touched the bridle, she felt the pony's
quick jerk, strained every muscle to hold on, and found she had
conquered. He was in her hands. For how long was a question, for he was
strong enough to walk away and drag her by the bridle perhaps, and she
knew little about tricks of management. Moreover her muscles were so
flabby and sore with the long ride that she was ill-fitted to cope with
the wise and wicked little beast. She dreaded to get upon his back
again, and doubted if she could if she tried, but it seemed the only way
to get anywhere, or to keep company with the pony, for she could not
hope to detain him by mere physical force if he decided otherwise.

She stood beside him for a moment, looking about her over the wide
distance. Everything looked alike, and different from anything she had
ever seen before. She must certainly get on that pony's back, for her
fear of the desert became constantly greater. It was almost as if it
would snatch her away in a moment more if she stayed there longer, and
carry her into vaster realms of space where her soul would be lost in
infinitude. She had never been possessed by any such feeling before and
it frightened her unreasoningly.

Turning to the pony, she measured the space from the ground to the queer
saddle and wondered how people mounted such things without a groom. When
she had mounted that morning it had been Milton Hamar's strong arm that
swung her into the saddle, and his hand that held her foot for the
instant of her spring. The memory of it now sent a shudder of dislike
over her whole body. If she had known, he never should have touched
her! The blood mounted uncomfortably into her tired face, and made her
conscious of the heat of the day, and of a burning thirst. She must go
on and get to some water somewhere. She could not stand this much
longer.

Carefully securing the bridle over her arm she reached up and took hold
of the saddle, doubtfully at first, and then desperately; tried to reach
the stirrup with one foot, failed and tried again; and then wildly
struggling, jumping, kicking, she vainly sought to climb back to the
saddle. But the pony was not accustomed to such a demonstration at
mounting and he strongly objected. Tossing his head he reared and dashed
off, almost throwing the girl to the ground and frightening her
terribly.

Nevertheless the desperation of her situation gave her strength for a
fresh trial, and she struggled up again, and almost gained her seat,
when the pony began a series of circles which threw her down and made
her dizzy with trying to keep up with him.

Thus they played the desperate game for half an hour more. Twice the
girl lost the bridle and had to get it again by stealthy wiles, and once
she was almost on the point of giving up, so utterly exhausted was she.

But the pony was thirsty too, and he must have decided that the quickest
way to water would be to let her mount; for finally with lifted head he
stood stock still and let her struggle up his side; and at last,
well-nigh falling from sheer weariness, she sat astonished that she had
accomplished it. She was on his back, and she would never dare to get
down again, she thought, until she got somewhere to safety. But now the
animal, his courage renewed by the bite he had taken, started snorting
off at a rapid pace once more, very nearly upsetting his rider at the
start, and almost losing her the bridle once more. She sat trembling,
and gripping bridle and saddle for some time, having enough to do to
keep her seat without trying to direct her bearer, and then she saw
before her a sudden descent, steep but not very long, and at its bottom
a great puddle of dirty water. The pony paused only an instant on the
brink and then began the descent. The girl cried out with fear, but
managed to keep her seat, and the impatient animal was soon ankle deep
in the water drinking long and blissfully.

Hazel sat looking in dismay about her. The water-hole seemed to be
entirely surrounded by steep banks like that they had descended, and
there was no way out except to return. Could the horse climb up with her
on his back? And could she keep her seat? She grew cold with fear at the
thought, for all her riding experience had been on the level, and she
had become more and more conscious of her flagging strength.

Besides, the growing thirst was becoming awful. Oh, for just one drop of
that water that the pony was enjoying! Black and dirty as it was she
felt she could drink it. But it was out of her reach and she dared not
get down. Suddenly a thought came to her. She would wet her handkerchief
and moisten her lips with that. If she stooped over quite carefully she
might be able to let it down far enough to touch the water.

She pulled the small bit of linen from the tiny pocket of her habit and
the pony, as if to help her, waded into the water farther until her
skirt almost touched it. Now she found that by putting her arm about the
pony's neck she could dip most of her handkerchief in the water, and
dirty as it was it was most refreshing to bathe her face and hands and
wrists and moisten her lips.

But the pony when he had his fill had no mind to tarry, and with a
splash, a plunge and a wallow that gave the girl an unexpected shower
bath, he picked his way out of the hole and up the rocky side of the
descent, while she clung frightened to the saddle and wondered if she
could possibly hang on until they were up on the mesa again. The dainty
handkerchief dropped in the flight floated pitifully on the muddy water,
another bit of comfort left behind.

But when they were up and away again, what with the fright, and the fact
that they had come out of the hole on the opposite side from that which
they had entered it, the girl had lost all sense of direction, and
everywhere stretched away one vast emptiness edged with mountains that
stood out clear, cold and unfriendly.

The whole atmosphere of the earth seemed to have changed while they were
down at the drinking hole, for now the shadows were long and had almost
a menacing attitude as they crept along or leaped sideways after the
travellers. Hazel noticed with a startled glance at the sky that the sun
was low and would soon be down. And that of course where the sun hung
like a great burning opal must be the west, but that told her nothing,
for the sun had been high in the heavens when they had started, and she
had taken no note of direction. East, west, north or south were all one
to her in her happy care-free life that she had hitherto led. She tried
to puzzle it out and remember which way they had turned from the
railroad but grew more bewildered, and the brilliant display in the west
flamed alarmingly as she realized that night was coming on and she was
lost on a great desert with only a wild tired little pony for company,
hungry and thirsty and weary beyond anything she had ever dreamed
before.

They had been going down into a broad valley for some little time, which
made the night seem even nearer. Hazel would have turned her horse back
and tried to retrace her steps, but that he would not, for try as she
might, and turn him as she would he circled about and soon was in the
same course again, so that now the tired hands could only hold the reins
stiffly and submit to be carried where the pony willed. It was quite
evident he had a destination in view, and knew the way thereto. Hazel
had read of the instinct of animals. She began to hope that he would
presently bring her to a human habitation where she would find help to
get to her father once more.

But suddenly even the glory of the dying sun was lost as the horse
entered the dimness of the canyon opening, whose high walls of red
stone, rising solemnly on either hand, were serrated here and there with
long transverse lines of grasses and tree-ferns growing in the crevices,
and higher up appeared the black openings of caves mysterious and
fearsome in the twilight gloom. The way ahead loomed darkly. Somewhere
from out the memories of her childhood came a phrase from the
church-service to which she had never given conscious attention, but
which flashed vividly to mind now: "Though I walk through the valley of
the shadow--the Valley of the Shadow!" Surely this must be it. She
wished she could remember the rest of it. What could it have meant? She
shivered visibly, and looked about her with wild eyes.

The cottonwoods and oaks grew thickly at the base of the cliffs, almost
concealing them sometimes, and above the walls rose dark and towering.
The way was rough and slippery, filled with great boulders and rocks,
around which the pony picked his way without regard to the branches of
trees that swept her face and caught in her long hair as they went by.

Vainly she strove to guide him back, but he turned only to whirl again,
determinedly. Somewhere in the deep gloom ahead he had a destination
and no mere girl was to deter him from reaching it as soon as possible.
It was plain to his horse-mind that his rider did not know what she
wanted, and he did, so there were no two ways about it. He intended to
go back to his old master as straight and as fast as he could get there.
This canyon was the shortest cut and through this canyon he meant to
walk whether she liked it or not.

Further and further into the gloom they penetrated, and the girl,
frenzied with fear, cried out with the wild hope that some one might be
near and come to her rescue. But the gloomy aisle of the canyon caught
up her voice and echoed it far and high, until it came back to her in a
volume of sepulchral sound that filled her with a nameless dread and
made her fear to open her lips again. It was as if she had by her cry
awakened the evil spirit who inhabited the canyon and set it searching
for the intruder. "Help! Help!" How the words rolled and returned upon
her trembling senses until she quaked and quivered with their echoes!

On went the pony into the deepening shadows, and each moment the
darkness shut down more impenetrably, until the girl could only close
her eyes, lower her head as much as possible to escape the branches--and
pray.

Then suddenly, from above where the distant sky gave a line of light and
a single star had appeared to pierce the dusk like a great jewel on a
lady's gown, there arose a sound; blood-curdling and hideous, high,
hollow, far-echoing, chilling her soul with horror and causing her heart
to stand still with fear. She had heard it once before, a night or two
ago, when their train had stopped in a wide desert for water or repairs
or something and the porter of the car had told her it was coyotes. It
had been distant then, and weird and interesting to think of being so
near real live wild animals. She had peered from the safety of her berth
behind the silken curtains and fancied she saw shadowy forms steal over
the plain under the moonlight. But it was a very different thing to hear
the sound now, out alone among their haunts, with no weapon and none to
protect her. The awfulness of her situation almost took away her senses.

Still she held to the saddle, weak and trembling, expecting every minute
to be her last; and the horrid howling of the coyotes continued.

Down below the trail somewhere she could hear the soft trickling of
water with maddening distinctness now and then. Oh, if she could but
quench this terrible thirst! The pony was somewhat refreshed with his
grass and his drink of water, but the girl, whose life up to this day
had never known a want unsatisfied, was faint with hunger and burning
with thirst, and this unaccustomed demand upon her strength was fast
bringing it to its limit.

The darkness in the canyon grew deeper, and more stars clustered out
overhead; but far, so very far away! The coyotes seemed just a shadow
removed all about and above. Her senses were swimming. She could not be
sure just where they were. The horse slipped and stumbled on in the
darkness, and she forgot to try to turn him from his purpose.

By and by she grew conscious that the way was leading upward again. They
were scrambling over rough places, large rocks in the way, trees growing
close to the trail, and the pony seemed not to be able to avoid them, or
perhaps he didn't care. The howling of the coyotes was growing clearer
every minute but somehow her fear of them was deadened, as her fear of
all else. She was lying low upon the pony, clinging to his neck, too
faint to cry out, too weak to stop the tears that slowly wet his mane.
Then suddenly she was caught in the embrace of a low hanging branch, her
hair tangled about its roughness. The pony struggled to gain his
uncertain footing, the branch held her fast and the pony scrambled on,
leaving his helpless rider behind him in a little huddled heap upon the
rocky trail, swept from the saddle by the tough old branch.

The pony stopped a moment upon a bit of shelving rock he had with
difficulty gained, and looked back with a troubled snort, but the
huddled heap in the darkness below him gave forth no sign of life, and
after another snort and a half neigh of warning the pony turned and
scrambled on, up and up till he gained the mesa above.

The late moon rose and hunted its way through the canyon till it found
the gold of her hair spread about on the rocky way, and touched her
sweet unconscious face with the light of cold beauty; the coyotes howled
on in solemn chorus, and still the little figure lay quiet and
unconscious of her situation.




IV

THE QUEST


John Brownleigh reached the water-hole at sunset, and while he waited
for his horse to drink he meditated on what he would do next. If he
intended to go to the fort for dinner he should turn at once sharply to
the right and ride hard, unless he was willing to be late. The lady at
the fort liked to have her guests on hand promptly, he knew.

The sun was down. It had left long splashes of crimson and gold in the
west, and their reflection was shimmering over the muddy water below him
so that Billy looked as if he quaffed the richest wine from a golden
cup, as he satisfied his thirst contentedly.

But as the missionary watched the painted water and tried to decide his
course, suddenly his eye caught a bit of white something floating, half
clinging to a twig at the edge of the water, a bit of thin
transparentness, with delicate lacy edge. It startled him in that desert
place much as the jewel in its golden setting in the sand had startled
him that morning.

With an exclamation of surprise he stooped over, picked up the little
wet handkerchief and held it out--dainty, white and fine, and in spite
of its wet condition sending forth its violet breath to the senses of a
man who had been in the wilds of the desert for three years. It spoke of
refinement and culture and a world he had left behind him in the East.

There was a tiny letter embroidered in the corner, but already the light
was growing too dim to read it, and though he held it up and looked
through it and felt the embroidery with his finger-tip he could not be
sure that it was either of the letters that had been engraved on the
whip.

Nevertheless, the little white messenger determined his course. He
searched the edge of the water-hole for hoof prints as well as the dying
light would reveal, then mounted Billy with decision at once and took up
his quest where he had almost abandoned it. He was convinced that a lady
was out alone in the desert somewhere.

It was long past midnight when Billy and the missionary came upon the
pony, high on the mesa, grazing. The animal had evidently felt the need
for food and rest before proceeding further, and was perhaps a little
uneasy about that huddled form in the darkness he had left.

Billy and the pony were soon hobbled and left to feed together while the
missionary, all thought of his own need of rest forgotten, began a
systematic search for the missing rider. He first carefully examined the
pony and saddle. The saddle somehow reminded him of Shag Bunce, but the
pony was a stranger to him; neither could he make out the letter of the
brand in the pale moonlight. However, it might be a new animal, just
purchased and not yet branded--or there might be a thousand
explanations. The thought of Shag Bunce reminded him of the handsome
private car he had seen upon the track that morning. But even if a party
had gone out to ride how would one of them get separated? Surely no lady
would venture over the desert alone, not a stranger at any rate.

Still in the silver and black of the shadowed night he searched on, and
not until the rosy light of dawning began to flush and grow in the east
did he come to stand at the top of the canyon where he could look down
and see the girl, her green riding habit blending darkly with the dark
forms of the trees still in shadow, the gold of her hair glinted with
the early light, and her white, white face turned upward.

He lost no time in climbing down to her side, dreading what he might
find. Was she dead? What had happened to her? It was a perilous spot
where she lay, and the dangers that might have harmed her had been many.
The sky grew pink, and tinted all the clouds with rose as he knelt
beside the still form.

A moment served to convince him that she was still alive; even in the
half darkness he could see the drawn, weary look of her face. Poor
child! Poor little girl, lost on the desert! He was glad, glad he had
come to find her.

He gathered her in his strong arms and bore her upward to the light.

Laying her in a sheltered spot he quickly brought water, bathed her face
and forced a stimulant between the white lips. He chafed her cold little
hands, blistered with the bridle, gave her more stimulant, and was
rewarded by seeing a faint colour steal into the lips and cheeks.
Finally the white lids fluttered open for a second and gave him a
glimpse of great dark eyes in which was still mirrored the horror and
fright of the night.

He gave her another draught, and hastened to prepare a more comfortable
resting place, bringing the canvas from Billy's pack, and one or two
other little articles that might make for comfort, among them a small
hot water bottle. When he had her settled on the canvas with sweet ferns
and grass underneath for a pillow and his own blanket spread over her he
set about gathering wood for a fire, and soon he had water boiling in
his tin cup, enough to fill the rubber bottle. When he put it in her
cold hands she opened her eyes again wonderingly. He smiled reassuringly
and she nestled down contentedly with the comfort of the warmth. She was
too weary to question or know aught save that relief from a terrible
horror was come at last.

The next time he came to her it was with a cup of strong beef tea which
he held to her lips and coaxed her to swallow. When it was finished she
lay back and slept again with a long drawn trembling sigh that was
almost like a sob, and the heart of the young man was shaken to its
depths over the agony through which she must have passed. Poor child,
poor little child!

He busied himself with making their temporary camp as comfortable as
possible, and looking after the needs of the horses, then coming back
to his patient he stood looking down at her as she slept, wondering what
he ought to do next.

They were a long distance from any human habitation. Whatever made the
pony take this lonely trail was a puzzle. It led to a distant Indian
settlement, and doubtless the animal was returning to his former master,
but how had it come that the rider had not turned him back?

Then he looked down at the frail girl asleep on the ground and grew
grave as he thought of the perils through which she had passed alone and
unguarded. The exquisite delicacy of her face touched him as the vision
of an angelic being might have done, and for an instant he forgot
everything in the wonder with which her beauty filled him; the lovely
outline of the profile as it rested lightly against her raised arm, the
fineness and length of her wealth of hair, like spun gold in the glint
of the sunshine that was just peering over the rim of the mountain, the
clearness of her skin, so white and different from the women in that
region, the pitiful droop of the sweet lips showing utter exhaustion.
His heart went out from him with longing to comfort her, guard her, and
bring her back to happiness. A strange, joyful tenderness for her
filled him as he looked, so that he could scarcely draw his gaze from
her face. Then all at once it came over him that she would not like a
stranger thus to stand and gaze upon her helplessness, and with quick
reverence he turned his eyes away towards the sky.

It was a peculiar morning, wonderfully beautiful. The clouds were tinted
pink almost like a sunset and lasted so for over an hour, as if the dawn
were coming gently that it might not waken her who slept.

Brownleigh, with one more glance to see if his patient was comfortable,
went softly away to gather wood, bring more water, and make various
little preparations for a breakfast later when she should waken. In an
hour he tiptoed back to see if all was going well, and stooping laid a
practiced finger on the delicate wrist to note the flutter of her pulse.
He could count it with care, feeble, as if the heart had been under
heavy strain, but still growing steadier on the whole. She was doing
well to sleep. It was better than any medicine he could administer.

Meantime, he must keep a sharp lookout for travellers. They were quite
off the trail here, and the trail was an old one anyway and almost
disused. There was little likelihood of many passers. It might be days
before any one came that way. There was no human habitation within call,
and he dared not leave his charge to go in search of help to carry her
back to civilization again. He must just wait here till she was able to
travel.

It occurred to him to wonder where she belonged and how she came to be
thus alone, and whether it was not altogether probable that a party of
searchers might be out soon with some kind of a conveyance to carry her
home. He must keep a sharp lookout and signal any passing rider.

To this end he moved away from the sleeping girl as far as he dared
leave her, and uttered a long, clear call occasionally, but no answer
came.

He dared not use his rifle for signalling lest he run out of ammunition
which he might need before he got back with his charge. However, he felt
it wise to combine hunting with signalling, and when a rabbit hurried
across his path not far away he shot it, and the sound echoed out in the
clear morning, but no answering signal came.

After he had shot two rabbits and dressed them ready for dinner when his
guest should wake, he replenished the fire, set the rabbits to roasting
on a curious little device of his own, and lay down on the opposite side
of the fire. He was weary beyond expression himself, but he never
thought of it once. The excitement of the occasion kept him up. He lay
still marvelling at the strangeness of his position, and wondering what
would be revealed when the girl should wake. He almost dreaded to have
her do so lest she should not be as perfect as she looked asleep. His
heart was in a tumult of wonder over her, and of thankfulness that he
had found her before some terrible fate had overtaken her.

As he lay there resting, filled with an exalted joy, his mind wandered
to the longings of the day before, the little adobe home of his
co-labourer which he had left, its homeyness and joy; his own loneliness
and longing for companionship. Then he looked shyly towards the tree
shade where the glint of golden hair and the dark line of his blanket
were all he could see of the girl he had found in the wilderness. What
if his Father had answered his prayer and sent her to him! What miracle
of joy! A thrill of tenderness passed through him and he pressed his
hands over his closed eyes in a kind of ecstasy.

What foolishness! Dreams, of course! He tried to sober himself but he
could not keep from thinking how it would seem to have this lovely girl
enthroned in his little shack, ready to share his joys and comfort his
sorrows; to be beloved and guarded and tenderly cared for by him.

A stir of the old blanket and a softly drawn sigh brought this delicious
reverie to a close, and himself to his feet flushing cold and hot at
thought of facing her awake.

She had turned over towards him slightly, her cheeks flushed with sleep.
One hand was thrown back over her head, and the sun caught and flashed
the sparkle of jewels into his eyes, great glory-clear gems like drops
of morning dew when the sun is new upon them, and the flash of the
jewels told him once more what he had known before, that here was a
daughter of another world than his. They seemed to hurt him as he
looked, those costly gems, for they pierced to his heart and told him
they were set on a wall of separation which might rise forever between
her and himself.

Then suddenly he came to himself and was the missionary again, with his
senses all on the alert, and a keen realization that it was high noon
and his patient was waking up. He must have slept himself although he
thought he had been broad awake all the time. The hour had come for
action and he must put aside the foolish thoughts that had crowded in
when his weary brain was unable to cope with the cool facts of life. Of
course all this was stuff and nonsense that he had been dreaming. He
must do his duty by this needy one now.

Stepping softly he brought a cup of water that he had placed in the
shade to keep cool, and stood beside the girl, speaking quietly, as
though he had been her nurse for years.

"Wouldn't you like a drink of water?" he asked.

The girl opened her eyes and looked up at him bewildered.

"Oh, yes," she said eagerly, though her voice was very weak. "Oh,
yes,--I'm so thirsty.--I thought we never would get anywhere!"

She let him lift her head, and drank eagerly, then sank back exhausted
and closed her eyes. He almost thought she was going to sleep again.

"Wouldn't you like something to eat?" he asked. "Dinner is almost ready.
Do you think you can sit up to eat or would you rather lie still?"

"Dinner!" she said languidly; "but I thought it was night. Did I dream
it all, and how did I get here? I don't remember this place."

She looked around curiously and then closed her eyes as if the effort
were almost too much.

"Oh, I feel so queer and tired, as if I never wanted to move again," she
murmured.

"Don't move," he commanded. "Wait until you've had something to eat.
I'll bring it at once."

He brought a cup of steaming hot beef extract with little broken bits of
biscuit from a small tin box in the pack, and fed it to her a spoonful
at a time.

"Who are you?" she asked as she swallowed the last spoonful, and opened
her eyes, which had been closed most of the time, while he fed her, as
if she were too tired to keep them open.

"Oh, I'm just the missionary. Brownleigh's my name. Now don't talk until
you've had the rest of your dinner. I'll bring it in a minute. I want to
make you a cup of tea, but you see I have to wash this cup first. The
supply of dishes is limited." His genial smile and hearty words
reassured her and she smiled and submitted.

"A missionary!" she mused and opened her eyes furtively to watch him as
he went about his task. A missionary! She had never seen a missionary
before, to her knowledge. She had fancied them always quite a different
species, plain old maids with hair tightly drawn behind their ears and a
poke bonnet with little white lawn strings.

This was a man, young, strong, engaging, and handsome as a fine piece of
bronze. The brown flannel shirt he wore fitted easily over well knit
muscles and exactly matched the brown of the abundant wavy hair in which
the morning sun was setting glints of gold as he knelt before the fire
and deftly completed his cookery. His soft wide-brimmed felt hat pushed
far back on the head, the corduroy trousers, leather chaps and belt with
brace of pistols all fitted into the picture and made the girl feel that
she had suddenly left the earth where she had heretofore lived and been
dropped into an unknown land with a strong kind angel to look after her.

A missionary! Then of course she needn't be afraid of him. As she
studied his face she knew that she couldn't possibly have been afraid of
that face anyway, unless, perhaps, she had ventured to disobey its
owner's orders. He had a strong, firm chin, and his lips though kindly
in their curve looked decided as though they were not to be trifled
with. On the whole if this was a missionary then she must change her
ideas of missionaries from this time forth.

She watched his light, free movements, now sitting back upon his heels
to hold the cup of boiling water over the blaze by a curiously contrived
handle, now rising and going to the saddle pack for some needed article.
There was something graceful as well as powerful about his every motion.
He gave one a sense of strength and almost infinite resource. Then
suddenly her imagination conjured there beside him the man from whom she
had fled, and in the light of this fine face the other face darkened and
weakened and she had a swift revelation of his true character, and
wondered that she had never known before. A shudder passed over her, and
a gray pallor came into her face at the memory. She felt a great
distaste for thinking or the necessity for even living at that moment.

Then at once he was beside her with a tin plate and the cup of steaming
tea, and began to feed her, as if she had been a baby, roast rabbit and
toasted corn bread. She ate unquestioningly, and drank her tea, finding
all delicious after her long fast, and gaining new strength with every
mouthful.

"How did I get here?" she asked suddenly, rising to one elbow and
looking around. "I don't seem to remember a place like this."

"I found you hanging on a bush in the moonlight," he said gravely, "and
brought you here."

Hazel lay back and reflected on this. He had brought her here. Then he
must have carried her! Well, his arms looked strong enough to lift a
heavier person than herself--but he had brought her here!

A faint colour stole into her pale cheeks.

"Thank you," she said at last. "I suppose I wasn't just able to come
myself." There was a droll little pucker at the corner of her mouth.

"Not exactly," he answered as he gathered up the dishes.

"I remember that crazy little steed of mine began to climb straight up
the side of a terrible wall in the dark, and finally decided to wipe me
off with a tree. That is the last I can recall. I felt myself slipping
and couldn't hold on any longer. Then it all got dark and I let go."

"Where were you going?" asked the young man.

"Going? I wasn't going anywhere," said the girl; "the pony was doing
that. He was running away, I suppose. He ran miles and hours with me and
I couldn't stop him. I lost hold on the bridle, you see, and he had
ideas about what he wanted to do. I was almost frightened to death, and
there wasn't a soul in sight all day. I never saw such an empty place in
my life. It can't be this is still Arizona, we came so far."

"When did you start?" the missionary questioned gravely.

"Why, this morning,--that is--why, it must have been yesterday. I'm sure
I don't know when. It was Wednesday morning about eleven o'clock that we
left the car on horseback to visit a mine papa had heard about. It seems
about a year since we started."

"How many were in your party?" asked the young man.

"Just papa and my brother, and Mr. Hamar, a friend of my father's,"
answered the girl, her cheeks reddening at the memory of the name.

"But was there no guide, no native with you at all?" There was anxiety
in the young man's tone. He had visions of other lost people who would
have to be looked after.

"Oh, yes, there was the man my father had written to, who brought the
horses, and two or three men with him, some of them Indians, I think.
His name was Bunce, Mr. Bunce. He was a queer man with a lot of wild
looking hair."

"Shag Bunce," said the missionary thoughtfully. "But if Shag was along I
cannot understand how you came to get so widely separated from your
party. He rides the fastest horse in this region. No pony of his outfit,
be he ever so fleet, could get far ahead of Shag Bunce. He would have
caught you within a few minutes. What happened? Was there an accident?"

He looked at her keenly, feeling sure there was some mystery behind her
wanderings that he ought to unravel for the sake of the girl and her
friends. Hazel's cheeks grew rosy.

"Why, nothing really happened," she said evasively. "Mr. Bunce was ahead
with my father. In fact he was out of sight when my pony started to run.
I was riding with Mr. Hamar, and as we didn't care anything about the
mine we didn't hurry. Before we realized it the others were far ahead
over a hill or something, I forget what was ahead, only they couldn't be
seen. Then we--I--that is--well, I must have touched my pony pretty hard
with my whip and he wheeled and started to run. I'm not sure but I
touched Mr. Hamar's horse, too, and he was behaving badly. I really
hadn't time to see. I don't know what became of Mr. Hamar. He isn't much
of a horseman. I don't believe he had ever ridden before. He may have
had some trouble with his horse. Anyway before I knew it I was out of
sight of everything but wide empty stretches with mountains and clouds
at the end everywhere, and going on and on and not getting any nearer to
any thing."

"This Mr. Hamar must have been a fool not to have given an alarm to your
friends at once if he could do nothing himself," said Brownleigh
sternly. "I cannot understand how it could happen that no one found you
sooner. It was the merest chance that I came upon your whip and other
little things and so grew anxious lest some one was lost. It is very
strange that no one found you before this. Your father will have been
very anxious."

Hazel sat up with flaming cheeks and began to gather her hair in a knot.
A sudden realization of her position had come upon her and given her
strength.

"Well, you see," she stumbled, trying to explain without telling
anything, "Mr. Hamar might have thought I had gone back to the car, or
he might have thought I would turn back in a few minutes. I do not think
he would have wanted to follow me just then. I was--angry with him!"

The young missionary looked at the beautiful girl sitting upright on the
canvas he had spread for her bed, trying vainly to reduce her bright
hair to something like order, her cheeks glowing, her eyes shining now,
half with anger, half with embarrassment, and for a second he pitied the
one who had incurred her wrath. A strange unreasoning anger towards the
unknown man took possession of him, and his face grew tender as he
watched the girl.

"That was no excuse for letting you go alone into the perils of the
desert," he said severely. "He could not have known. It was impossible
that he could have understood or he would have risked his life to save
you from what you have been through. No man could do otherwise!"

Hazel looked up, surprised at the vehemence of the words, and again the
contrast between the two men struck her forcibly.

"I am afraid," she murmured looking off towards the distant mountains
thoughtfully, "that he isn't much of a man."

And somehow the young missionary was relieved to hear her say so. There
was a moment's embarrassed silence and then Brownleigh began to search
in his pocket, as he saw the golden coil of hair beginning to slip loose
from its knot again.

"Will these help you any?" he asked handing out the comb and hairpins he
had found, a sudden awkwardness coming upon him.

"Oh, my own comb!" she exclaimed. "And hairpins! Where did you find
them? Indeed they will help," and she seized upon them eagerly.

He turned away embarrassed, marvelling at the touch of her fingers as
she took the bits of shell from his hand. No woman's hand like that had
touched his own, even in greeting, since he bade good-bye to his invalid
mother and came out to these wilds to do his work. It thrilled him to
the very soul and he was minded of the sweet awe that had come upon him
in his own cabin as he looked upon the little articles of woman's toilet
lying upon his table as if they were at home. He could not understand
his own mood. It seemed like weakness. He turned aside and frowned at
himself for his foolish sentimentality towards a stranger whom he had
found upon the desert. He laid it to the weariness of the long journey
and the sleepless night.

"I found them in the sand. They showed me the way to find you," he said,
trying vainly to speak in a commonplace tone. But somehow his voice
seemed to take on a deep significance. He looked at her shyly, half
fearing she must feel it, and then murmuring something about looking
after the horses he hurried away.

When he came back she had mastered the rebellious hair, and it lay
shining and beautiful, braided and coiled about her shapely head. She
was standing now, having shaken down and smoothed out the rumpled riding
habit, and had made herself look quite fresh and lovely in spite of the
limited toilet conveniences.

He caught his breath as he saw her. The two regarded one another
intensely for just an instant, each startlingly conscious of the other's
personality, as men and women will sometimes get a glimpse beyond mere
body and sight the soul. Each was aware of a thrilling pleasure in the
presence of the other. It was something new and wonderful that could not
be expressed nor even put into thoughts as yet but something none the
less real that flashed along their consciousness like the song of the
native bird, the scent of the violet, the breath of the morning.

The instant of soul recognition passed and then each recovered
self-possession, but it was the woman who spoke first.

"I feel very much more respectable," she laughed pleasantly. "Where is
my vicious little horse? Isn't it time we were getting back?"

Then a cloud of anxiety came over the brightness of the man's face.

"That is what I was coming to tell you," he said in a troubled tone.
"The wicked little beast has eaten off his hobble and fled. There isn't
a sight of him to be seen far or wide. He must have cleared out while we
were at dinner, for he was munching grass peaceably enough before you
woke up. It was careless of me not to make him more secure. The hobble
was an old one and worn, but the best I had. I came back to tell you
that I must ride after him at once. You won't be afraid to stay alone
for a little while, will you? My horse has had a rest. I think I ought
to be able to catch him."




V

THE TRAIL


But the look of horror in the eyes of the girl stopped him.

She gave a quick frightened glance around and then her eyes besought
him. All the terror of the night alone in the wideness returned upon
her. She heard again the howl of the coyotes, and saw the long dark
shadows in the canyon. She was white to the lips with the thought of it.

"Oh, don't leave me alone!" she said trying to speak bravely. "I don't
feel as if I could stand it. There are wild beasts around"--she glanced
furtively behind her as if even now one was slyly tracking her--"it was
awful--awful! Their howls! And it is so alone here!--I never was alone
before!"

There was that in her appealing helplessness that gave him a wild desire
to stoop and fold her in his arms and tell her he would never leave her
while she wanted him. The colour came and went in his fine bronzed face,
and his eyes grew tender with feeling.

"I won't leave you," he said gently, "not if you feel that way, though
there is really no danger here in daytime. The wild creatures are very
shy and only show themselves at night. But if I do not find your horse
how are you to get speedily back to your friends? It is a long distance
you have come, and you could not ride alone."

Her face grew troubled.

"Couldn't I walk?" she suggested. "I'm a good walker. I've walked five
miles at once many a time."

"We are at least forty miles from the railroad," he smiled back at her,
"and the road is rough, over a mountain by the nearest way. Your horse
must have been determined indeed to take you so far in one day. He is
evidently a new purchase of Shag's and bent on returning to his native
heath. Horses do that sometimes. It is their instinct. I'll tell you
what I'll do. It may be that he has only gone down in the valley to the
water-hole. There is one not far away, I think. I'll go to the edge of
the mesa and get a view. If he is not far away you can come with me
after him. Just sit here and watch me. I'll not go out of your sight or
hearing, and I'll not be gone five minutes. You'll not be afraid?"

She sat down obediently where he bade her, her eyes large with fear, for
she dreaded the loneliness of the desert more than any fear that had
ever visited her before.

"I promise I'll not go beyond your sight and call," he reassured her and
with a smile turned towards his own horse, and swinging himself into the
saddle galloped rapidly away to the edge of the mesa.

She watched him riding away, her fears almost forgotten in her
admiration of him, her heart beating strangely with the memory of his
smile. The protection of it seemed to linger behind him, and quiet her
anxiety.

He rode straight to the east, and then more slowly turned and skirted
the horizon, riding north along the edge of the mesa. She saw him shade
his eyes with his hand and look away in all directions. At last after a
prolonged gaze straight north he wheeled his horse and came quickly back
to her.

His face was grave as he dismounted.

"I've sighted him," he said, "but it's no use. He has three or four
miles start, and a steep hill climbed. When he reaches the top of the
next mesa he has a straight course before him, and probably down-hill
after that. It might take me three or four hours to catch him and it's a
question if I could do it then. We'll have to dismiss him from our
arrangements and get along with Billy. Do you feel equal to riding now?
Or ought you to rest again?"

"Oh, I can ride, but--I cannot take your horse. What will you do?"

"I shall do nicely," he answered smiling again; "only our progress will
be slower than if we had both horses. What a pity that I had not taken
off his saddle! It would have been more comfortable for you than this.
But I was searching so anxiously for the rider that I took little heed
to the horse except to hastily hobble him. And when I found you you
needed all my attention. Now I advise you to lie down and rest until I
get packed up. It won't take me long."

She curled down obediently to rest until he was ready to fold up the
canvas on which she lay, and watched his easy movements as he put
together the few articles of the pack, and arranged the saddle for her
comfort. Then he strode over to her.

"With your permission," he said and stooping picked her up lightly in
his arms and placed her on the horse.

"I beg your pardon," he said, "but you are not equal to the exertion of
mounting in the ordinary way. You will need every bit of strength for
the ride. You are weaker than you realize."

Her laugh rippled out faintly.

"You make me feel like an insignificant baby. I didn't know what was
happening until you had me here. You must have the strength of a giant.
I never felt so little before."

"You are not a heavy burden," he said smiling. "Now are you quite
comfortable? If so we'll start."

Billy arched his neck and turned his head proudly to survey his new
rider, a look of friendliness on his bay face and in his kindly eye.

"Oh, isn't he a beauty!" exclaimed the girl reaching out a timid hand to
pat his neck. The horse bowed and almost seemed to smile. Brownleigh
noticed the gleam of a splendid jewel on the little hand.

"Billy is my good friend and constant companion," said the missionary.
"We've faced some long, hard days together. He is wanting me to tell you
now that he is proud to carry you back to your friends."

Billy bowed up and down and smiled again, and Hazel laughed out with
pleasure. Then her face grew sober again.

"But you will have to walk," she said. "I cannot take your horse and
let you walk. I won't do that. I'm going to walk with you."

"And use up what strength you have so that you could not even ride?" he
said pleasantly. "No, I couldn't allow that, you know, and I am pleased
to walk with a companion. A missionary's life is pretty lonesome
sometimes, you know. Come, Billy, we must be starting, for we want to
make a good ten miles before we stop to rest if our guest can stand the
journey."

With stately steppings as if he knew he bore a princess Billy started;
and with long, easy strides Brownleigh walked by his side, ever watchful
of the way, and furtively observing the face of the girl, whose strength
he well knew must be extremely limited after her ride of the day before.

Out on the top of the mesa looking off towards the great mountains and
the wide expanse of seemingly infinite shades and colourings Hazel drew
her breath in wonder at the beauty of the scene. Her companion called
her attention to this and that point of interest. The slender dark line
across the plain was mesquite. He told her how when once they had
entered it it would seem to spread out vastly as though it filled the
whole valley, and that then looking back the grassy slope below them
would seem to be an insignificant streak of yellow. He told her it was
always so in this land, that the kind of landscape through which one was
passing filled the whole view and seemed the only thing in life. He said
he supposed it was so in all our lives, that the immediate present
filled the whole view of the future until we came to something else; and
the look in his eyes made her turn from the landscape and wonder about
him and his life.

Then he stooped and pointed to a clump of soapweed, and idly broke off a
bit of another bush, handing it to her.

"The Indians call it 'the weed that was not scared,'" he said. "Isn't it
an odd suggestive name?"

"It must be a brave little weed indeed to live out here all alone under
this terribly big sky. I wouldn't like it even if I were only a weed,"
and she looked around and shivered with the thought of her fearful ride
alone in the night. But she tucked the little spray of brave green into
the buttonhole of her riding habit and it looked of prouder lineage than
any weed as it rested against the handsome darkness of the rich green
cloth. For an instant the missionary studied the picture of the lovely
girl on the horse and forgot that he was only a missionary. Then with a
start he came to himself. They must be getting on, for the sun had
already passed its zenith, and the way was long before them. His eyes
lingered wistfully on the gleam of her hair where the sun touched it
into burnished gold. Then he remembered.

"By the way, is this yours?" he asked, and brought out of his pocket the
little velvet cap.

"Oh, where did you find it?" she cried, settling it on her head like a
touch of velvet in a crown. "I dropped it in front of a tiny little
cabin when my last hope vanished. I called and called but the wind threw
my voice back into my throat and no one came out to answer me."

"It was my house," he said. "I found it on a sage-bush a few feet from
my own door. Would that I had been at home to answer your call!"

"Your house!" she exclaimed, in wonder. "Oh, why, it couldn't have been.
It wasn't big enough for anybody--not anybody like you--to live in. Why,
it wasn't anything more than a--a shed,--just a little board shanty."

"Exactly; my shack!" he said half apologetically, half comically. "You
should see the inside. It's not so bad as it looks. I only wish I could
take you that way, but the fact is it's somewhat out of the way to the
railroad, and we must take the short cut if we want to shorten your
father's anxiety. Do you feel able to go on further now?"

"Oh, yes, quite," she said with sudden trouble in her face. "Papa will
be very much worried, and Aunt Maria--oh, Aunt Maria will be wild with
anxiety. She will tell me that this is just what she expected from my
going out riding in this heathen land. She warned me not to go. She said
it wasn't ladylike."

As they went on gradually she told him all about her people, describing
their little idiosyncrasies; her aunt, her brother, her father, her maid
and even the fat man cook. The young man soon had the picture of the
private car with all its luxuries, and the story of the days of travel
that had been one long fairy tale of pleasure. Only the man Hamar was
not mentioned; but the missionary had not forgotten him. Somehow he had
taken a dislike to him from the first mention of his name. He blamed him
fiercely for not having come after the maiden, yet blessed the fortune
that had given himself that honour.

They were descending into the canyon now, but not by the steep trail up
which the pony had taken her the night before. However it was rough
enough and the descent, though it was into the very heart of nature's
beauty storehouse, yet frightened Hazel. She started at every steep
place, and clutched at the saddle wildly, pressing her white teeth hard
into her under lip until it grew white and tense. Her face was white
also, and a sudden faintness seemed to come upon her. Brownleigh noticed
instantly, and walking close beside the horse, guiding carefully his
every step, he put his free arm about her to steady her, and bade her
lean towards him and not be afraid.

His strength steadied her and gave her confidence; and his pleasant
voice pointing out the beauties of the way helped her to forget her
fright. He made her look up and showed her how the great ferns were
hanging over in a fringe of green at the top of the bare rocks above,
their delicate lacery standing out like green fretwork against the blue
of the sky. He pointed to a cave in the rocks far above, and told her of
the dwellers of old who had hollowed it out for a home; of the stone
axes and jars of clay, the corn mills and sandals woven of yucca that
were found there; and of other curious cave-houses in this part of the
country; giving in answer to her wondering questions much curious
information, the like of which she had never heard before.

Then when they were fairly down in the shadows of the canyon he brought
her a cooling draught of spring water in the tin cup, and lifting her
unexpectedly from the horse made her sit in a mossy spot where sweet
flowers clustered about, and rest for a few minutes, for he knew the
ride down the steep path had been terribly trying to her nerves.

Yet all his attentions to her, whether lifting her to and from the
saddle, or putting his arm about her to support her on the way, were
performed with such grace of courtesy as to remove all personality from
his touch, and she marvelled at it while she sat and rested and watched
him from the distance watering Billy at a noisy little stream that
chattered through the canyon.

He put her on the horse again and they took their way through the
coolness and beauty of the canyon winding along the edge of the little
stream, threading their way among the trees, and over boulders and rough
places until at last in the late afternoon they came out again upon the
plain.

The missionary looked anxiously at the sun. It had taken longer to come
through the canyon than he had anticipated. The day was waning. He
quickened Billy into a trot and settled into a long athletic run beside
him, while the girl's cheeks flushed with the exercise and wind, and her
admiration of her escort grew.

"But aren't you very tired?" she asked at last when he slowed down and
made Billy walk again. Billy, by the way, had enjoyed the race
immensely. He thought he was having a grand time with a princess on his
back and his beloved master keeping pace with him. He was confident by
this time that they were bringing the princess home to be there to
welcome them on all returns hereafter. His horse-sense had jumped to a
conclusion and approved most heartily.

"Tired!" answered Brownleigh and laughed; "not consciously. I'm good for
several miles yet myself. I haven't had such a good time in three years,
not since I left home--and mother," he added softly, reverently.

There was a look in his eyes that made the girl long to know more. She
watched him keenly and asked:

"Oh, then you have a mother!"

"Yes, I have a mother,--a wonderful mother!" He breathed the words like
a blessing. The girl looked at him in awe. She had no mother. Her own
had died before she could remember. Aunt Maria was her only idea of
mothers.

"Is she out here?" she asked.

"No, she is at home up in New Hampshire in a little quiet country town,
but she is a wonderful mother."

"And have you no one else, no other family out here with you?"

Hazel did not realize how anxiously she awaited the answer to that
question. Somehow she felt a jealous dislike of any one who might belong
to him, even a mother--and a sudden thought of sister or wife who might
share the little shanty cabin with him made her watch his face narrowly.
But the answer was quick, with almost a shadow like deep longing on his
face:

"Oh, no, I have no one. I'm all alone. And sometimes if it were not for
mother's letters it would seem a great way from home."

The girl did not know why it was so pleasant to know this, and why her
heart went out in instant sympathy for him.

"O-oo!" she said gently. "Tell me about your mother, please!"

And so he told her, as he walked beside her, of his invalid mother whose
frail body and its needs bound her to a couch in her old New England
home, helpless and carefully tended by a devoted nurse whom she loved
and who loved her. Her great spirit had risen to the sacrifice of
sending her only son out to the desert on his chosen commission.

They had been climbing a long sloping hill, and at the climax of the
story had reached the top and could look abroad again over a wide
expanse of country. It seemed to Hazel's city bred eyes as though the
kingdoms of the whole world lay spread before her awed gaze. A brilliant
sunset was spreading a great silver light behind the purple mountains in
the west, red and blue in flaming lavishness, with billows of white
clouds floating above, and over that in sharp contrast the sky was
velvet black with storm. To the south the rain was falling in a
brilliant shower like yellow gold, and to the east two more patches of
rain were rosy pink as petals of some wondrous flowers, and arching over
them a half rainbow. Turning slightly towards the north one saw the rain
falling from dark blue clouds in great streaks of white light.

"Oh-oo!" breathed the girl; "how wonderful! I never saw anything like
that before."

But the missionary had no time for answer. He began quickly to unstrap
the canvas from behind the saddle, watching the clouds as he did so.

"We are going to get a wetting, I'm afraid," he said and looked
anxiously at his companion.




VI

CAMP


It came indeed before he was quite ready for it, but he managed to throw
the canvas over horse and lady, bidding her hold it on one side while
he, standing close under the extemporized tent, held the other side,
leaving an opening in front for air, and so they managed to keep
tolerably dry, while two storms met overhead and poured down a torrent
upon them.

The girl laughed out merrily as the first great splashes struck her
face, then retreated into the shelter as she was bidden and sat quietly
watching, and wondering over it all.

Here was she, a carefully nurtured daughter of society, until now never
daring to step one inch beyond the line of conventionality, sitting afar
from all her friends and kindred on a wide desert plain, under a bit of
canvas with a strange missionary's arm about her, and sitting as
securely and contentedly, nay happily, as if she had been in her own
cushioned chair in her New York boudoir. It is true the arm was about
her for the purpose of holding down the canvas and keeping out the
rain, but there was a wonderful security and sense of strength in it
that filled her with a strange new joy and made her wish that the
elements of the universe might continue to rage in brilliant display
about her head a little longer, if thereby she might continue to feel
the strength of that fine presence near her and about her. A great
weariness was upon her and this was rest and content, so she put all
other thoughts out of her mind for the time and rested back against the
strong arm in full realization of her safety amidst the disturbance of
the elements.

The missionary wore his upward look. No word passed between them as the
panorama of the storm swept by. Only God knew what was passing in his
soul, and how out of that dear nearness of the beautiful girl a great
longing was born to have her always near him, his right to ever protect
her from the storms of life.

But he was a man of marked self-control. He held even his thoughts in
obedience to a higher power, and while the wild wish of his heart swept
exquisitely over him he stood calmly, and handed it back to heaven as
though he knew it were a wandering wish, a testing of his true self.

At the first instant of relief from necessity he took his arm away. He
did not presume a single second to hold the canvas after the wind had
subsided, and she liked him the better for it, and felt her trust in him
grow deeper as he gently shook the raindrops from their temporary
shelter.

The rain had lasted but a few minutes, and as the clouds cleared the
earth grew lighter for a space. Gently melting into the silver and
amethyst and emerald of the sky the rainbow faded and now they hurried
on, for Brownleigh wished to reach a certain spot where he hoped to find
dry shelter for the night. He saw that the excitement of travel and the
storm had sorely spent the strength of the girl, and that she needed
rest, so he urged the horse forward, and hurried along by his side.

But suddenly he halted the horse and looked keenly into the face of his
companion in the dying light.

"You are very tired," he said. "You can hardly sit up any longer."

She smiled faintly.

Her whole body was drooping with weariness and a strange sick faintness
had come upon her.

"We must stop here," he said and cast about him for a suitable spot.
"Well, this will do. Here is a dry place, the shelter of that big rock.
The rain was from the other direction, and the ground around here did
not even get sprinkled. That group of trees will do for a private room
for you. We'll soon have a fire and some supper and then you'll feel
better."

With that he stripped off his coat and, spreading it upon the ground in
the dry shelter of a great rock, lifted the drooping girl from the
saddle and laid her gently on the coat.

She closed her eyes wearily and sank back. In truth she was nearer to
fainting than she had ever been in her life, and the young man hastened
to administer a restorative which brought the colour back to her pale
cheeks.

"It is nothing," she murmured, opening her eyes and trying to smile. "I
was just tired, and my back ached with so much riding."

"Don't talk!" he said gently. "I'll give you something to hearten you up
in a minute."

He quickly gathered sticks and soon had a blazing fire not far from
where she lay, and the glow of it played over her face and her golden
hair, while he prepared a second cup of beef extract, and blessed the
fortune that had made him fill his canteen with water at the spring in
the canyon, for water might not be very near, and he felt that to have
to move the girl further along that night would be a disaster. He could
see that she was about used up. But while he was making preparations for
supper, Billy, who was hobbled but entirely able to edge about slowly,
had discovered a water-hole for himself, and settled that difficulty.
Brownleigh drew a sigh of relief, and smiled happily as he saw his
patient revive under the influence of the hot drink and a few minutes'
rest.

"I'm quite able to go on a little further," she said, sitting up with an
effort, "if you think we should go further to-night. I really don't feel
bad at all any more."

He smiled with relief.

"I'm so glad," he said; "I was afraid I had made you travel too far. No,
we'll not go further till daylight, I think. This is as good a place to
camp as any, and water not far away. You will find your boudoir just
inside that group of trees, and in half an hour or so the canvas will be
quite dry for your bed. I've got it spread out, you see, close to the
fire on the other side there. And it wasn't wet through. The blanket was
sheltered. It will be warm and dry. I think we can make you
comfortable. Have you ever slept out under the stars before--that is, of
course, with the exception of last night? I don't suppose you really
enjoyed that experience."

Hazel shuddered at the thought.

"I don't remember much, only awful darkness and howling. Will those
creatures come this way, do you think? I feel as if I should die with
fright if I have to hear them again."

"You may hear them in the distance, but not nearby," he answered
reassuringly; "they do not like the fire. They will not come near nor
disturb you. Besides, I shall be close at hand all night. I am used to
listening and waking in the night. I shall keep a bright fire blazing."

"But you--you--what will you do? You are planning to give me the canvas
and the blanket, and stay awake yourself keeping watch. You have walked
all day while I have ridden, and you have been nurse and cook as well,
while I have been good for nothing. And now you want me to rest
comfortably all night while you sit up."

There was a ring in the young man's voice as he answered her that
thrilled her to the heart.

"I shall be all right," he said, and his voice was positively joyous,
"and I shall have the greatest night of my life taking care of you. I
count it a privilege. Many a night have I slept alone under the stars
with no one to guard, and felt the loneliness. Now I shall always have
this to remember. Besides, I shall not sit up. I am used to throwing
myself down anywhere. My clothing is warm, and my saddle is used to
acting as a pillow. I shall sleep and rest, and yet be always on the
alert to keep up the fire and hear any sound that comes near." He talked
as though he were recounting the plan of some delightful recreation, and
the girl lay and watched his handsome face in the play of the firelight
and rejoiced in it. Somehow there was something very sweet in
companionship alone in the vast silence with this stranger friend. She
found herself glad of the wideness of the desert and the stillness of
the night that shut out the world and made their most unusual
relationship possible for a little while. A great longing possessed her
to know more and understand better the fine personality of this man who
was a man among men, she was convinced.

Suddenly as he came and sat down by the fire not far from her after
attending to the few supper dishes, she burst forth with a question:

"Why did you do it?"

He turned to her eyes that were filled with a deep content and asked,
"Do what?"

"Come here! Be a missionary! Why did you do it? You are fitted for
better things. You could fill a large city church, or--even do other
things in the world. Why did you do it?"

The firelight flickered on his face and showed his features fine and
strong in an expression of deep feeling that gave it an exalted look.
There seemed a light in his eyes that was more than firelight as he
raised them upward in a swift glance and said quietly, as though it were
the simplest matter in the universe:

"Because my Father called me to this work. And--I doubt if there can be
any better. Listen!"

And then he told her of his work while the fire burned cheerfully, and
the dusk grew deeper, till the moon showed clear her silver orb riding
high in starry heavens.

The mournful voice of the coyotes echoed distantly, but the girl was not
frightened, for her thoughts were held by the story of the strange
childlike race for whom this man among men was giving his life.

He told her of the Indian hogans, little round huts built of logs on
end, and slanting to a common centre thatched with turf and straw, an
opening for a door and another in the top to let out the smoke of the
fire, a dirt floor, no furniture but a few blankets, sheepskins, and
some tin dishes. He carried her in imagination to one such hogan where
lay the little dying Indian maiden and made the picture of their barren
lives so vivid that tears stood in her eyes as she listened. He told of
the medicine-men, the ignorance and superstition, the snake dances and
heathen rites; the wild, poetic, conservative man of the desert with his
distrust, his great loving heart, his broken hopes and blind
aspirations; until Hazel began to see that he really loved them, that he
had seen the possibility of greatness in them, and longed to help
develop it.

He told her of the Sabbath just past, when in company with his distant
neighbour missionary he had gone on an evangelistic tour among the
tribes far away from the mission station. He pictured the Indians
sitting on rocks and stones amid the long shadows of the cedar trees,
just before the sundown, listening to a sermon. He had reminded them of
their Indian god Begochiddi and of Nilhchii whom the Indians believe to
have made all things, the same whom white men call God; and showed them
a book called the Bible which told the story of God, and of Jesus His
Son who came to save men from their sin. Not one of the Indians had ever
heard the name of Jesus before, nor knew anything of the great story of
salvation.

Hazel found herself wondering why it made so very much difference
whether these poor ignorant creatures knew all this or not, and yet she
saw from the face of the man before her that it did matter, infinitely.
To him it mattered more than anything else. A passing wish that she were
an Indian to thus hold his interest flashed through her mind, but he was
speaking yet of his work, and his rapt look filled her with awe. She was
overwhelmed with the greatness and the fineness of the man before her.
Sitting there in the fitful firelight, with its ruddy glow upon his
face, his hat off and the moon laying a silver crown upon his head, he
seemed half angel, half god. She had never before been so filled with
the joy of beholding another soul. She had no room for thoughts of
anything else.

Then suddenly he remembered that it was late.

"I have kept you awake far too long," he said penitently, looking at
her with a smile that seemed all tenderness. "We ought to get on our way
as soon as it is light, and I have made you listen to me when you ought
to have been sleeping. But I always like to have a word with my Father
before retiring. Shall we have our worship together?"

Hazel, overcome by wonder and embarrassment, assented and lay still in
her sheltered spot watching him as he drew a small leather book from his
breast pocket and opened to the place marked by a tiny silken cord. Then
stirring up the fire to brightness he began to read and the majestic
words of the ninety-first psalm came to her unaccustomed ears as a
charmed page.

"He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under
the shadow of the Almighty."

"He shall cover thee with His feathers and under His wings shalt thou
trust." The words were uttered with a ringing tone of trust. The
listener knew little of birds and their ways, but the phrasing reminded
her of the way she had been sheltered from the storm a little while
before and her heart thrilled anew with the thought of it.

"Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night!"

Ah! Terror by night! She knew what that meant. That awful night of
darkness, steep riding, howling beasts and black oblivion! She shuddered
involuntarily at the remembrance. Not afraid! What confidence the voice
had as it rang on, and all at once she knew that this night was free
from terror for her because of the man whose confidence was in the
Unseen.

"He shall give His angels charge over thee," and looking at him she half
expected to see flitting wings in the moonlit background. How strong and
true the face! How tender the lines about the mouth! What a glow of
inner quietness and power in the eyes as he raised them now and again to
her face across the firelight! What a thing it would be to have a friend
like that always to guard one! Her eyes glowed softly at the thought and
once again there flashed across her mind the contrast between this man
and the one from whom she had fled in horror the day before.

The reading ended, he replaced the little marker, and dropping upon one
knee on the desert with his face lifted to the sky and all the radiance
of the moon flooding over him he spoke to God as a man speaks with his
friend, face to face.

Hazel lay with open, wondering eyes and watched him, awe growing within
her. The sense of an unseen Presence close at hand was so strong that
once she lifted half frightened eyes to the wide clear sky. The light on
the face of the missionary seemed like glory from another world.

She felt herself enfolded and upborne into the Presence of the infinite
by his words, and he did not forget to commend her loved ones to the
care of the Almighty. A great peace came upon her as she listened to the
simple, earnest words and a sense of security such as she had never
known before.

After the brief prayer he turned to her with a smile and a few words of
assurance about the night. There was her dressing-room behind those
trees, and she need not be afraid; he would not be far away. He would
keep the fire bright all night so that she would not be annoyed by the
near howling of the coyotes. Then he moved away to gather more wood, and
she heard him singing, softly at first, and then gathering volume as he
got further away, his rich tenor voice ringing clear upon the night in
an old hymn. The words floated back distinctly to her listening ears:

          "My God, is any hour so sweet
             From flush of dawn to evening star,
           As that which calls me to Thy feet,
             The hour of prayer?

          "Then is my strength by Thee renewed;
             Then are my sins by Thee forgiven;
           Then dost Thou cheer my solitude
             With hopes of heaven.

          "No words can tell what sweet relief
             There for my every want I find;
           What strength for warfare, balm for grief,
             What peace of mind!"

She lay down for the night marvelling still over the man. He was singing
those words as if he meant every one, and she knew that he possessed
something that made him different from other men. What was it? It seemed
to her that he was the one man of all the earth, and how was it that she
had found him away out here alone in the desert?

The great stars burned sharply in the heavens over her, the white
radiance of the moon lay all about her, the firelight played at her
feet. Far away she could hear the howling of the coyotes, but she was
not afraid.

She could see the broad shoulders of the man as he stooped over on the
other side of the fire to throw on more wood. Presently she knew he had
thrown himself down with his head on the saddle, but she could hear him
still humming softly something that sounded like a lullaby. When the
firelight flared up it showed his fine profile.

Not far away she could hear Billy cropping the grass, and throughout the
vast open universe there seemed to brood a great and peaceful silence.
She was very tired and her eyelids drooped shut. The last thing she
remembered was a line he had read from the little book, "He shall give
His angels charge----" and she wondered if they were somewhere about
now.

That was all until she awoke suddenly with the consciousness that she
was alone, and that in the near distance a conversation in a low tone
was being carried on.




VII

REVELATION


The moon was gone, and the luminous silver atmosphere was turned into a
clear dark blue, with shadows of the blackness of velvet; but the stars
burned redder now, and nearer to the earth.

The fire still flickered brightly, with a glow the moon had paled before
she went to sleep, but there was no protecting figure on the other side
of the flames, and the angels seemed all to have forgotten.

Off at a little distance, where a group of sage-brush made dense
darkness, she heard the talking. One speaking in low tones, now
pleading, now explaining, deeply earnest, with a mingling of anxiety and
trouble. She could not hear any words. She seemed to know the voice was
low that she might not hear; yet it filled her with a great fear. What
had happened? Had some one come to harm them, and was he pleading for
her life? Strange to say it never entered her head to doubt his loyalty,
stranger though he was. Her only feeling was that he might have been
overpowered in his sleep, and be even now in need of help himself. What
could she do?

After the first instant of frozen horror she was on the alert. He had
saved her, she must help him. She could not hear any other voice than
his. Probably the enemy spoke in whispers, but she knew that she must go
at once and find out what was the matter. The distance from her pleasant
couch beside the fire was but a few steps, yet it seemed to her
frightened heart and trembling limbs, as she crept softly over towards
the sage-brush, that it was miles.

At last she was close to the bush, could part it with her cold hand and
look into the little shelter.

There was a faint light in the east beyond the mountains that showed the
coming dawn, and silhouetted against this she saw the figure of her
rescuer, dropped upon one knee, his elbow on the other and his face
bowed in his hand. She could hear his words distinctly now, but there
was no man else present, though she searched the darkness carefully.

"I found her lost out here in the wilderness," he was saying in low,
earnest tones, "so beautiful, so dear! But I know she cannot be for me.
Her life has been all luxury and I would not be a man to ask her to
share the desert! I know too that she is not fitted for the work. I know
it would be all wrong, and I must not wish it, but I love her, though I
may not tell her so! I must be resolute and strong, and not show her
what I feel. I must face my Gethsemane, for this girl is as dear to me
as my own soul! God bless and guard her, for I may not."

The girl had stood rooted to the spot unable to move as the low voice
went on with its revelation, but when the plea for a blessing upon her
came with all the mighty longing of a soul who loved absorbingly, it was
as if she were unable to bear it, and she turned and fled silently back
to her couch, creeping under the canvas, thrilled, frightened, shamed
and glad all in one. She closed her eyes and the swift tears of joy
came. He loved her! He loved her! How the thought thrilled her. How her
own heart leaped up to meet his love. The fact of it was all she could
contain for the time and it filled her with an ecstasy such as she had
never known before. She opened her eyes to the stars and they shone back
a great radiance of joy to her. The quiet darkness of the vast earth all
about her seemed suddenly to have become the sweetest spot she had
known. She had never thought there could be joy like this.

Gradually she quieted the wild throbbing of her heart and tried to set
her thoughts in order. Perhaps she was taking too much for granted.
Perhaps he was talking of another girl, some one he had met the day
before. But yet it seemed as if there could be no doubt. There would not
be two girls lost out in that desert. There could not--and her heart
told her that he loved her. Could she trust her heart? Oh, the dearness
of it if it were true!

Her face was burning too, with the sweet shame of having heard what was
not meant for her ears.

Then came the flash of pain in the joy. He did not intend to tell her.
He meant to hide his love--and for her sake! And he was great enough to
do so. The man who could sacrifice the things that other men hold dear
to come out to the wilderness for the sake of a forgotten, half-savage
people, could sacrifice anything for what he considered right. This fact
loomed like a wall of adamant across the lovely way that joy had
revealed to her. Her heart fell with the thought that he was not to
speak of this to her,--and she knew that more than for anything else in
life, more than anything she had ever known, she longed to hear him
speak those words to her. A half resentment filled her that he had told
his secret to Another--what concerned her--and would not let her know.

The heart searching went on, and now she came to the thorn-fact of the
whole revelation. There had been another reason besides care for herself
why he could not tell her of his love,--why he could not ask her to
share his life. She had not been accounted worthy. He had put it in
pleasant words and said she was unfitted, but he might as well have made
it plain and said how useless she would be in his life.

The tears came now, tears of mortification, for Hazel Radcliffe had
never before in all her petted life been accounted unworthy for any
position. It was not that she considered at all the possibility of
accepting the position that was not to be offered her. Her startled mind
had not even reached so far; but her pride was hurt to think that any
one should think her unworthy.

Then over the whole tumultuous state of mind would come the memory of
his voice throbbing with feeling as he said, "She is dear to me as my
own soul," and the joy of it would sweep everything else away.

There was no more sleep to be had for her.

The stars grew pale, and the rose dawn grew in the east. She presently
heard her companion return and replenish the fire, stirring about softly
among the dishes, and move away again, but she had turned her head away
that he might not see her face, and he evidently thought her still
sleeping.

So she lay and tried to reason things out; tried to scold herself for
thinking his words applied to her; tried to recall her city life and
friends, and how utterly alien this man and his work would be to them;
tried to think of the new day when she would probably reach her friends
again and this new friend would be lost sight of; felt a sharp twinge of
pain at the thought; wondered