The Man of the Desert (5 page)

They were a long distance from any human habitation. Whatever made the horse take this lonely trail was puzzling. It led to a distant Indian settlement, and doubtless the animal was returning to his former master. But why didn’t the rider turn him back?

Then he looked down at the frail girl asleep on the ground and sobered as he thought of the dangers she must have passed through alone and unprotected. The delicacy of her face touched him, and for an instant he forgot everything but her beauty: the lovely profile resting lightly against her raised arm; the fineness and length of her hair, like spun gold in the glint of the sunshine just peering over the rim of the mountain; her clear skin, so white and different from the women in that region; the downward curve of the lips showing her utter exhaustion.

He longed to comfort, guard, and restore her to happiness. A strange, joyful tenderness for her filled him, so he could scarcely draw his gaze from her face. Then all at once he realized she wouldn’t like a stranger to stare at her, and with a quick reverence he lifted his eyes toward the sky.

It was a peculiar morning and beautiful. The clouds were tinted pink almost like a sunset and lasted that way for over an hour, as if the dawn were coming gently that it mightn’t awaken the one who slept.

With one more glance to see if his patient was comfortable, Brownleigh slipped away to gather more wood, bring more water, and prepare for breakfast later when she woke up. In an hour he tiptoed back to see if all was well and, stooping, laid a practiced finger on the delicate wrist to note the flutter of her pulse. If he concentrated he could count it, for it was feeble, as if the heart had been under a heavy strain. But it seemed to be growing steadier. She was doing well to sleep. It was better than any medicine he could administer.

Meanwhile, he must keep a sharp lookout for travelers. They were a good distance off the trail, which was old and almost unused. It might be days before anyone passed that way. No human habitation was within call, and he dared not leave his charge to go for help. He must simply wait here till she could travel.

He, of course, wondered where she belonged and why she was alone. And wouldn’t a search party come soon with some kind of conveyance to carry her home? He must signal any passing rider.

Thus he moved away from the sleeping girl as far as he dared and called out occasionally, but no answer came. He didn’t dare use his rifle for signaling lest he run out of ammunition before he got her safely back. He felt it wise, however, to combine hunting with signaling. When a rabbit scooted across his path he shot it. The sound echoed in the clear morning, but no answering signal came.

He shot two rabbits and dressed them for dinner later. Then he replenished the fire, set the rabbits to roasting on his own curious device, and lay down on the opposite side of the fire. He was weary beyond measure himself, but he didn’t think of it. The excitement of the occasion kept him awake. He lay still, wondering about the strangeness of his position and what he’d learn when the girl woke up. He almost dreaded for her to do so lest she not be as perfect as she looked asleep. But he was thankful he found her before some terrible fate overtook her.

As he lay there resting, his mind wandered to the previous day, his fellow worker’s adobe home with its pleasant atmosphere and his own longing for companionship. Then he glanced shyly toward 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’d found in the desert wilderness. What if his Father had answered his prayer and sent her to him! A thrill of tenderness passed through him.

Then he realized what foolishness that was. Only dreams! He tried to sober himself, but he couldn’t keep from thinking about this lovely girl in his little shack, to share his joys and comfort his sorrows, for him to love, care for, and protect.

The stirring of the blanket and a quiet sigh brought his reverie to a close, and the muscles in his chest tightened at the thought of facing her awake.

She’d turned over toward him slightly, her cheeks flushed with sleep. One hand was thrown back over her head, and the sun caught the sparkle of her jewels, like drops of morning dew when the sun is new upon them. The flash of the jewels reminded him of what he knew already. She was a daughter of a different world from his. They seemed to hurt him as he looked, for they pierced his heart and told him they were set on a wall of separation that might rise forever between them.

Then suddenly he came to himself and was the missionary again, keenly aware that it was high noon and his patient was waking up. He must have slept, too, although he thought he was wide awake the whole time. The time 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. He must fulfill his duty to this needy one now.

Quietly he brought a cup of water and stood beside the girl, speaking softly, as though he’d 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, though her voice was weak. “Oh, yes—I’m so thirsty. I thought we never would get anywhere!”

She let him lift her head and drank eagerly, then she 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’s almost ready. Do you think you can sit up to eat, or would you rather lie still?”

“Dinner!” she said. “I thought it was night. Did I dream it all? 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.

“I feel so strange and tired, as if I never want to move again,” she murmured.

“Don’t move,” he told her. “Wait until you’ve had something to eat. I’ll bring it at once.”

He brought a cup of steaming hot beef extract with 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, after she swallowed the last spoonful.

“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 tin cup first. The supply of dishes is limited.”

His genial smile and hearty words reassured her, and she smiled.

A missionary!
she thought and opened her eyes to watch him as he knelt before the fire. She’d never seen a missionary before, to her knowledge. She always imagined them 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, pleasant, and handsome as a fine bronze statue. His brown flannel shirt fit easily over well-knit muscles and matched his thick brown wavy hair in which the sun was setting glints of gold. His wide-brimmed felt hat pushed back on his head, the corduroy trousers and leather chaps, and the belt with a brace of pistols all fit the picture. The girl felt she’d suddenly left her own country and been dropped into an unknown land with a strong, kind angel to look after her.

A missionary! Then of course she needn’t fear him. As she studied his face she knew she couldn’t be afraid of that face anyway, unless, perhaps, she ventured to disobey its owner’s orders. He had a strong chin and a firm but kind mouth, giving him the appearance of someone not to be trifled with. If this was a missionary, she decided, then she must change her ideas of missionaries.

She watched his light, free movements, first sitting back on his heels to hold the cup of boiling water over the blaze, then rising and crossing to the saddle pack for some needed article. Something both graceful and powerful was present in his every motion. He gave one a sense of strength and almost infinite resource.

Then suddenly she pictured there beside him the man she’d fled, and in the light of this fine face the other darkened and weakened. She had a swift revelation of his true character and wondered that she hadn’t known before. She shuddered, and a gray pallor spread over her face at the memory.

Then at once he was beside her with a tin plate and the cup of steaming tea and began to feed her roast rabbit and toasted corn bread. She ate without question and drank the tea, satisfying her hunger and thirst after the 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 remember a place like this.”

“I found you hanging on a bush in the moonlight and brought you here.”

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

A faint color stole into her pale cheeks.

“Thank you,” she said at last. “I suppose I wasn’t just able to come myself.” The corner of her mouth puckered a bit.

“Not exactly,” he answered as he gathered up the dishes.

“I remember my crazy little steed started climbing straight up the side of a terrible wall in the dark and finally decided to wipe me off with a tree. That’s the last thing I remember. I was slipping and couldn’t hold on any longer. Then everything got dark, and I let go.”

“Where were you going?” asked the young man.

“Going? I wasn’t going anywhere,” said the girl. “The horse was doing that. He was running away, I suppose. He ran miles and miles with me, and I couldn’t stop him. I lost the reins, 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. This can’t still be Arizona—we came so far.”

“When did you start?” the man asked seriously.

“Why, this morning—that is—why, it must have been yesterday. I’m sure I don’t know when. We left the car on horseback Wednesday morning about eleven o’clock to visit a mine Papa had heard about. It seems about a year since we started.”

“How many were in your party?”

“Just Papa and my brother, and Mr. Hamar, a friend of my father’s,” answered the girl, her cheeks reddening at the name.

“But wasn’t there a guide, a native, with you?” The young man’s tone was anxious. He envisioned other lost people needing to be looked after.

“Oh yes, the man my father wrote 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 an odd man with a lot of wild-looking hair.”

“Shag Bunce,” said the missionary thoughtfully. “But if Shag was along I can’t understand how you got separated from your party. He rides the fastest horse in this region. No horse in his outfit, no matter how fast, could get far ahead of Shag Bunce. He’d have caught you within a few minutes. What happened? Was there an accident?”

He looked at her keenly, feeling sure some mystery lay behind her wanderings that he should unravel for the sake of the girl and her friends. Hazel’s cheeks grew pink.

“Why, nothing really happened,” she said evasively. “Mr. Bunce was ahead with my father. In fact he was out of sight when my horse 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 horse pretty hard with my whip, and he wheeled around and started to run. I might have touched Mr. Hamar’s horse, too, and he was behaving badly. I really didn’t have time to see and don’t know what became of Mr. Hamar. He isn’t much of a horseman and may have had some trouble with his horse. I don’t think he’d ridden before. Anyway, before I knew it, I was out of sight of everything but wide empty stretches with mountains and clouds at the ends everywhere, and going on and on and not getting any closer to anything.”

“This Mr. Hamar must have been a fool not to signal your friends at once if he couldn’t do anything himself,” said Brownleigh sternly. “I can’t understand why no one found you sooner. It was just a chance I found your whip and other little things. That’s what made me worry that someone was lost. Your father will be very anxious.”

Hazel sat up with flaming cheeks and started gathering her hair in a knot.

“Well, you see,” she stumbled, trying to explain without telling anything, “Mr. Hamar might have thought I went back to the car, or he might have thought I’d turn back in a few minutes. I don’t think he 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’d spread for her bed, as she tried in vain to bring order to her hair. Her cheeks were glowing, her eyes shining, with both anger and embarrassment, and for a second he pitied the one who incurred her wrath. Then a strange unreasoning anger toward the unknown man took hold of him, and his face grew tender as he watched the girl.

“That was no excuse for letting you go alone into the desert,” he said severely. “He couldn’t have known, or he’d have risked his life to save you from what you’ve 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.

“I’m afraid,” she murmured, gazing toward the distant mountains thoughtfully, “that he isn’t much of a man.”

The young missionary was relieved to hear her say so. There was a moment’s embarrassed silence, and then Brownleigh reached into his pocket when he saw the golden coil of her hair slipping loose from its knot again.

“Will these help?” he asked quietly, handing her the comb and hairpins he’d found.

“Oh, my comb!” she exclaimed. “And hairpins! Where did you find them? Indeed they will help.” And she grasped them eagerly.

He turned away embarrassed, marveling at her touch as she took the bits of shell from his hand. No woman’s hand like that had touched his, even in greeting, since he bid his invalid mother good-bye and came out to the desert to do his work. It reminded him of the sweet awe he felt when he gazed at the womanly articles lying on the table in his cabin as if they were at home. He couldn’t understand his mood. It seemed like weakness. He turned aside and frowned at himself for his foolish sentimentality toward a stranger he found on the desert. He attributed it to the long, weary journey and the sleepless night.