CHAPTER XXVI
THE NIGHT IN THE DESERT
At ten o'clock that night the moon had not yet risen. Its glow was onthe eastern sky, however, and at length it appeared, a broken orb withits waning side lopped from its bulk.
Beth was still in the saddle. She was utterly exhausted; she couldscarcely remain in her seat. For more than an hour Van had ploddedonward without even turning to speak. They had talked intermittently,and he had told her his name. Far off in the dimness of the desertlevel--the floor of a second mighty valley--a lone coyote began hisdismal howling. Beth, on the horse, felt a chill go down her spine.Van seemed not to hear. The howl was repeated from time to timeintermittently, like the wail of a ghost, forever lost to hope.
When the moon at last shone fairly on the broncho and the girl, Vancast a glance at her face. He was startled. The young rider looked somuch like Beth--and looked so utterly tired!
Van halted, and so did the pony. The man looked up at his companion.
"You're in no fit condition to go on," he said. "What's the use of ourtrying to make it? To camp right here is as good as going on allnight, which don't suit my legs worth a cent."
Beth was wearied almost to collapse. But--to camp out here--allnight!--they two! Aside from the terrors that had crept to her soul atsound of the distant coyote, this present aspect of the situation wasappalling. Indeed, she began to see that whether they went on orremained, she must spend the night in this man's company.
She was almost too tired to care how such a thing would appear. Hethought her a man--it had been inescapable--there was nothing she coulddo to prevent the course of events. And come what might she mustpresently slip from that saddle, in her weakness, faintness, andhunger, if the penalty were all but life itself.
"I'm--sure I can walk--and let you ride," she said. "I'd like to goon, but I know I can't sit here any longer."
She tried to dismount by herself--as any man must do. In her stiffnessshe practically fell from the saddle, sinking on her side upon theground. Only for a second was she prostrate thus at his feet, but hercoat fell back from her kahki vest--and a gleam of the moonlight fellupon a bright little object, pinned above her heart.
Van beheld it--and knew what it was--his nugget, washed from the"Laughing Water" claim!
The truth seemed to pour upon him like the waters of an all-engulfingwave--the overwhelming, wonderful truth that was also almost terrible,in what it might mean to them both.
There was one thing only the man could do--ignore this fact that he haddiscovered and treat her like a man. This he knew instantly. Heturned with a man's indifference to one of his sex and vaulted toSuvy's back.
"Come on," he said, "if you're anxious to get under cover."
He could trust himself to say no more. He rode ahead.
Beth did her best to follow, and make no complaint. The broncho,however, was a rapid walker. This she had not realized while Van wasstriding on in the lead. She fell behind repeatedly, and Van wasobliged to halt his horse and wait. She began to be lame. It had beena torture to ride; it was agony to walk.
Van now became strangely urgent. He had never loved her more. Hislove had taken on a sacredness, out here in the night, with Beth soweary and helpless. More than anything he had ever desired in his lifehe wished to keep her sacred--spared from such a complication as theirnight out here alone might engender.
Yet he saw the first little limp when she began to falter. He waswatching backward constantly, his whole nature eager to protecther--save her from hurt, from this merciless toil across the desert.He longed to take her in his arms and carry her thus, securely. He wastorn between the wish to hasten her along, for her own greater ease ofmind, and the impulse to halt this hardship. He knew not what to do.
They had gone much less than a mile when he brought up his pony at herside.
"Here, Kent," he said, "you walk like a bride-groom going up the aisle.You'll have to get up here and ride." He dismounted actively.
Beth could have dropped in her tracks for weariness. She was tired tothe marrow of her bones.
"I can't," she answered. "Perhaps--we'd better camp." A hot flushrushed upward to her very scalp, fortunately, however, unseen.
Van regarded her sternly.
"I've changed my mind. I haven't time to camp out here to-night.You'll have to ride."
It seemed to Beth that, had it been to save her life, she couldscarcely have climbed to that saddle. To remain on the horse would,she knew, be far beyond her strength. She continued on her feet onlyby the utmost exertion of her will. Someway since Van had found her inthis dreadful place she had lost strength rapidly--perhaps for theleaning on him. With Van's ultimatum now to confront, she could summonno nerve or resolution.
Her face paled. "You'd better go on, if you have to be at your claim,"she said, aware that she could offer no argument, no alternative planto his wish for an onward march. "I'm--not used to riding--much. Ican't ride any more tonight."
He knew she told the truth, knew how gladly she would have continuedriding, knew what a plight of collapse she must be approaching tosubmit to a thought of remaining here till morning. He could not goand leave her here. The thought of it aroused him to something likeanger. He realized the necessity of assuming a rougher demeanor.
"Damn it, Kent," he said, "you're no less lost than you were before.You know I can't go off and leave you. And I want to get ahead."
She only knew she could not ride, come what might.
"You didn't say so, a little while ago," she ventured, halfimploringly. "I'm sorry I'm so nearly dead. If you must go on----"
That cut him to the heart. How could he be a brute?
"I ought to go!" he broke in unguardedly. "I mean I've got tothink--I've got work to do in the morning. Don't you suppose you couldtry?"
The moonlight was full on his face. All the laughter she knew so wellhad disappeared from his eyes. In its place she saw such a look ofyearning and worry--such a tenderness of love as no woman ever yet sawand failed to comprehend. She divined in that second that he knew whoshe was--she felt it, through all her sense of intuition and the fiberof her soul. She understood his insistence on the march, the savingmarch, straight onward without a halt. She loved him for it. She hadloved him with wild intensity, confessed at last to herself, ever sincethe moment he had appeared in the desert to save her.
If a certain reckless abandon to this love rocked her splendidself-control, it was only because she was so utterly exhausted. Herjudgment was sound, unshaken. Nevertheless, despite judgment andall--to go on was out of the question. God had flung them out heretogether, she thought, for better or for worse. That Van would be thefine chivalrous gentleman she had felt him to be at the very firstmoment of their accidental acquaintance, she felt absolutely assured.She accepted a certain inevitable fatality in the situation---perhapsthe more readily now that she knew he knew, for she seemed so much moresecure.
His question remained unanswered while she thought of a thousandthings. Could she try to go on?
She shook her head. "What's the use of my riding--perhaps anothermile? You might go on and send a man to guide me in the morning."
What an effort it cost her to make such a harsh suggestion not even Vancould know. A terrible fear possessed her that he might really actupon her word. To have him stay was bad enough, but to have him gowould be terrible.
"Hell!" he said, keeping up his acting. "You talk like a woman.Haven't I wasted time enough already without sending someone out hereto-morrow morning? What makes you think you're worth it?" He turnedhis back upon her, hung the stirrup of the saddle on the horn, andbegan to loosen the cinch.
Like the woman that she was, she enjoyed his roughness, his impudence,and candor. It meant so much, in such a time as this. After a momentshe asked him:
"What do you mean to do?"
He hauled off the saddle and dropped it to the ground.
"Make up the berths,"
he answered. "Here's your bedding." He tossedthe blanket down at her feet. It was warm and moist from Suvy's body.He then uncoiled his long lasso, secured an end around the pony's neck,and bade him walk away and roll.
The broncho obeyed willingly, as if he understood. Van took up thesaddle, carried it off a bit, and dropped it as before.
Beth still remained there, with the blanket at her feet.
Van addressed her. "Got any matches?"
"No," she said. "I'm afraid----"
"Neither have I," he interrupted. "No fire in the dressing-room.Good-night. No need to set the alarm clock. I'll wake you bright andearly." Once more he took up his saddle and started off in theankle-high brush of the plain.
Beth watched him with many misgivings at her heart.
"Where--where are you going?" she called.
"To bed," he called in response. "Want room to kick around, if I getrestless."
She understood--but it was hard to bear, to be left so alone as this,in such a place. He went needlessly far, she was sure.
Grateful to him, but alarmed, made weaker again by having thus to makeher couch so far from any protection, she continued to stand there,watching him depart. He stooped at last, and his pony halted near him,like a faithful being who must needs keep him always in sight. Eventhe pony would have been some company for Beth, but when Van stretchedhimself down upon the earth, with the saddle for a pillow, she felthorribly alone.
There was nothing to do but to make the best of what the fates allowed.She curled herself down on the chilly sand with the blanket tuckedfairly well around her. But she did not sleep. She was far too tiredand alarmed.
Half an hour later three coyotes began a fearsome serenade. Beth satup abruptly, as terrified as if she had been but a child. She enduredit for nearly five minutes, hearing it come closer all the while. Thenshe could bear it no more. She rose to her feet, caught up herblanket, and almost ran towards the pony. More softly then sheapproached the place where Van lay full length upon the ground. Shebeheld him in the moonlight, apparently sound asleep.
As closely as she dared she crept, and once more made her bed upon thesand. There, in a child-like sense of security, with her fearlessprotector near, she listened in a hazy way to the prowling beasts, nowcruising away to the south, and so profoundly slept.
Van had heard her come. Into his heart snuggled such a warmth and holyjoy as few men are given to feel. He, too, went to sleep, thinking ofhis nugget on her breast.