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