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Buck Johnson stood staring at the paper for a much longer time

than was necessary merely to absorb the meaning of the words.



His senses, sharpened by the stress of the last sixteen hours,

were trying mightily to cut to the mystery of a change going on



within himself. The phrases of the letter were bald enough, yet

they conveyed something vital to his inner being. He could not



understand what it was.

Then abruptly he raised his eyes.



Before him lay the desert, but a desert suddenly and miraculously

changed, a desert he had never seen before. Mile after mile it



swept away before him, hot, dry, suffocating, lifeless. The

sparse vegetation was grey with the alkali dust. The heat hung



choking in the air like a curtain. Lizards sprawled in the sun,

repulsive. A rattlesnake dragged its loathsome length from under



a mesquite. The dried carcass of a steer, whose parchment skin

drew tight across its bones, rattled in the breeze. Here and



there rock ridges showed with the obscenity of so many skeletons,

exposing to the hard, cruel sky the earth's nakedness. Thirst,



delirium, death, hovered palpable in the wind; dreadful,

unconquerable, ghastly.



The desert showed her teeth and lay in wait like a fierce beast.

The little soul of man shrank in terror before it.



Buck Johnson stared, recalling the phrases of the letter,

recalling the words of his foreman, Jed Parker. "It's too



lonesome for me," "I'm afraid," "I hate it all," "I'd go crazy

here," "The desert would make anyone bad," "The country is



awful." And the musing voice of the old cattleman, "I wonder if

she'll like the country!" They reiterated themselves over and



over; and always as refrain his own confident reply, "Like the

country? Sure! Why SHOULDN'T she?"



And then he recalled the summer just passing, and the woman

who had made no fuss. Chance remarks of hers came back to him,



remarks whose meaning he had not at the time grasped, but which

now he saw were desperate appeals to his understanding. He had



known his desert. He had never known hers.

With an exclamation Buck Johnson turned abruptly back to the



arroyo. Button followed him, mildly curious, certain that his

master's reappearance meant a summons for himself.



Down the miniature cliff the man slid, confidently" target="_blank" title="ad.有信心地;自信地">confidently, without

hesitation, sure of himself. His shoulders held squarely, his



step elastic, his eye bright, he walked to the fearful, shapeless

bundle now lying motionless on the flat surface of the alkali.



Brent Palmer had fallen into a grim silence, but Estrella still

moaned. The cattleman drew his knife and ripped loose the bonds.



Immediately the flaps of the wet rawhide fell apart, exposing to

the new daylight the two bound together. Buck Johnson leaned



over to touch the woman's shoulder.

"Estrella," said he gently.



Her eyes came open with a snap, and stared into his, wild with

the surprise of his return.



"Estrella," he repeated, "how old are you?"

She gulped down a sob, unable to comprehend the purport of his



question.

"How old are you, Estrella?" he repeated again.



"Twenty-one," she gasped finally.

"Ah!" said he.



He stood for a moment in deep thought, then began methodically,

without haste, to cut loose the thongs that bound the two



together.

When the man and the woman were quite freed, he stood for a



moment, the knife in his hand, looking down on them. Then he

swung himself into the saddle and rode away, straight down the



narrow arroyo, out beyond its lower widening, into the vast

plains the hither side of the Chiricahuas. The alkali dust was



snatched by the wind from beneath his horse's feet. Smaller and

smaller he dwindled, rising and falling, rising and falling in



the monotonous cow-pony's lope. The heat shimmer veiled him for

a moment, but he reappeared. A mirage concealed him, but he



emerged on the other side of it. Then suddenly he was gone. The

desert had swallowed him up.



End



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