The Heart of the Desert, Page 2

  CHAPTER II

  THE CAUCASIAN WAY

  When Rhoda entered the dining-room some of her pallor seemed to have lefther. She was dressed in a gown of an elusive pink that gave a rose flushto the marble fineness of her face.

  Katherine was chatting with a wiry, middle-aged man whom she introducedto Rhoda as Mr. Porter, an Arizona mining man. Porter stood as ifstunned for a moment by Rhoda's delicate loveliness. Then, as was thecustom of every man who met Rhoda, he looked vaguely about for somethingto do for her. Jack Newman forestalled him by taking Rhoda's hand andleading her to the table. Jack's curly blond hair looked almost white incontrast with his tanned face. He was not as tall as either Cartwell orDeWitt but he was strong and clean-cut and had a boyish look despite theheavy responsibilities of his five-thousand-acre ranch.

  "There," he said, placing Rhoda beside Porter; "just attach Porter'sscalp to your belt with the rest of your collection. It'll be a newexperience to him. Don't be afraid, Porter."

  Billy Porter was not in the least embarrassed.

  "I've come too near to losing my scalp to the Apaches to be scared byMiss Tuttle. Anyhow I gave her my scalp without a yelp the minute I laideyes on her."

  "Here! That's not fair!" cried John DeWitt. "The rest of us had to workto get her to take ours!"

  "Our what?" asked Cartwell, entering the room at the last word. He waslooking very cool and well groomed in white flannels.

  Billy Porter stared at the newcomer and dropped his soup-spoon with asplash. "What in thunder!" Rhoda heard him mutter.

  Jack Newman spoke hastily.

  "This is Mr. Cartwell, our irrigation engineer, Mr. Porter."

  Porter responded to the young Indian's courteous bow with a surly nod,and proceeded with his soup.

  "I'd as soon eat with a nigger as an Injun," he said to Rhoda under coverof some laughing remark of Katherine's to Cartwell.

  "He seems to be nice," said Rhoda vaguely. "Maybe, though, Katherine_is_ a little liberal, making him one of the family."

  "Is there any hunting at all in this open desert country?" asked DeWitt."I certainly hate to go back to New York with nothing but sunburn to showfor my trip!"

  "Coyotes, wildcats, rabbits and partridges," volunteered Cartwell. "Iknow where there is a nest of wildcats up on the first mesa. And I knowan Indian who will tan the pelts for you, like velvet. A jack-rabbitpelt well tanned is an exquisite thing too, by the way. I will go on ahunt with you whenever the ditch can be left."

  "And while they are chasing round after jacks, Miss Tuttle," cut in BillyPorter neatly, "I will take you anywhere you want to go. I'll show youthings these kids never dreamed of! I knew this country in the days ofApache raids and the pony express."

  "That will be fine!" replied Rhoda. "But I'd rather hear the storiesthan take any trips. Did you spend your boyhood in New Mexico? Did yousee real Indian fights? Did you--?" She paused with an involuntaryglance at Cartwell.

  Porter, too, looked at the dark young face across the table and somethingin its inscrutable calm seemed to madden him.

  "My boyhood here? Yes, and a happy boyhood it was! I came home from therange one day and found my little fifteen-year-old sister and a littleneighbor friend of hers hung up by the back of their necks on butcherhooks. They had been tortured to death by Apaches. I don't likeIndians!"

  There was an awkward pause at the dinner table. Li Chung removed thesoup-plates noiselessly. Cartwell's brown fingers tapped the tablecloth.But he was not looking at Porter's scowling face. He was watchingRhoda's gray eyes which were fastened on him with a look half of pity,half of aversion. When he spoke it was as if he cared little for theopinions of the others but would set himself right with her alone.

  "My father," he said, "came home from the hunt, one day, to find hismother and three sisters lying in their own blood. The whites had gottenthem. They all had been scalped and were dead except the baby, threeyears old. She--she--my father killed her."

  A gasp of horror went round the table.

  "I think such stories are inexcusable here!" exclaimed Katherineindignantly.

  "So do I, Mrs. Jack," replied Cartwell. "I won't do it again."

  Porter's face stained a deep mahogany and he bowed stiffly to Katherine.

  "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Newman!"

  "I feel as if I were visiting a group of anarchists," said Rhodaplaintively, "and had innocently passed round a bomb on which to makeconversation!"

  Jack Newman laughed, the tension relaxed, and in a moment the dinner wasproceeding merrily, though Porter and Cartwell carefully avoided speakingto each other. Most of the conversation centered around Rhoda.Katherine always had been devoted to her friend. And though men alwayshad paid homage to Rhoda, since her illness had enhanced her delicacy,and had made her so appealingly helpless, they were drawn to her assurely as bee to flower. Old and young, dignified and happy-go-lucky,all were moved irresistibly to do something for her, to coddle her, toundertake impossible missions, self-imposed.

  Porter from his place of vantage beside her kept her plate heaped withdelicacies, calmly removed the breast of chicken from his own plate tohers, all but fed her with a spoon when she refused to more than nibbleat her meal.

  DeWitt's special night-mare was that drafts were blowing on her. He keptexcusing himself from the table to open and close windows and doors, tohang over her chair so as to feel for himself if the wind touched her.

  Katherine and Jack kept Li Chung trotting to the kitchen for differentdainties with which to tempt her. Only Cartwell did nothing. He kept upwhat seemed to be his usual fire of amiable conversation and watchedRhoda constantly through inscrutable black eyes. But he made no attemptto serve her.

  Rhoda was scarcely conscious of the deference showed her, partly becauseshe had received it so long, partly because that detached frame of mindof the hopeless invalid made the life about her seem shadowy and unreal.Nothing really mattered much. She lay back in her chair with the littlewistful smile, the somber light in her eyes that had become habitual toher.

  After dinner was finished Katherine led the way to the living-room. Tohis unspeakable pride, Rhoda took Billy Porter's arm and he guided herlistless footsteps carefully, casting pitying glances on his less favoredfriends. Jack wheeled a Morris chair before the fireplace--desert nightsare cool--and John DeWitt hurried for a shawl, while Katherine gave everyone orders that no one heeded in the least.

  Cartwell followed after the others, slowly lighted a cigarette, thenseated himself at the piano. For the rest of the evening he made noattempt to join in the fragmentary conversation. Instead he sang softly,as if to himself, touching the keys so gently that their notes seemedonly the echo of his mellow voice. He sang bits of Spanish love-songs,of Mexican lullabies. But for the most part he kept to Indianmelodies--wistful love-songs and chants that touched the listener withstrange poignancy.

  There was little talk among the group around the fire. The three mensmoked peacefully. Katherine and Jack sat close to each other, on thedavenport, content to be together. DeWitt lounged where he could watchRhoda, as did Billy Porter, the latter hanging on every word and movementof this lovely, fragile being, as if he would carry forever in his heartthe memory of her charm.

  Rhoda herself watched the fire. She was tired, tired to the inmost fiberof her being. The only real desire left her was that she might crawl offsomewhere and die in peace. But these good friends of hers had set theirfaces against the inevitable and it was only decency to humor them.Once, quite unconscious that the others were watching her, she lifted herhands and eyed them idly. They were almost transparent and shook alittle. The group about the fire stirred pityingly. John and Katherineand Jack remembered those shadowy hands when they had been rosy and fullof warmth and tenderness. Billy Porter leaned across and with his hardbrown palms pressed the trembling fingers down into Rhoda's lap. Shelooked up in astonishment.

  "Don't hold 'em so!" said Billy hoarsely. "I can't stand to
see 'em!"

  "They _are_ pretty bad," said Rhoda, smiling. It was her rare, slow,unforgetable smile. Porter swallowed audibly. Cartwell at the pianodrifted from a Mohave lament to _La Paloma_.

  "The day that I left my home for the rolling sea, I said, 'Mother dear, O pray to thy God for me!' But e'er I set sail I went a fond leave to take Of Nina, who wept as if her poor heart would break!"

  The mellow, haunting melody caught Rhoda's fancy at once, as Cartwellknew it would. She turned to the sinewy figure at the piano. DeWitt waswholesome and strong, but this young Indian seemed vitality itself.

  "Nina, if I should die and o'er ocean's foam Softly at dusk a fair dove should come, Open thy window, Nina, for it would be My faithful soul come back to thee----"

  Something in Cartwell's voice stirred Rhoda as had his eyes. For thefirst time in months Rhoda felt poignantly that it would be hard to becut down with all her life unlived. The mellow voice ceased andCartwell, rising, lighted a fresh cigarette.

  "I am going to get up with the rabbits, tomorrow," he said, "so I'll trotto bed now."

  DeWitt, impelled by that curious sense of liking for the young Indianthat fought down his aversion, said, "The music was bully, Cartwell!" butCartwell only smiled as if at the hint of patronage in the voice andstrolled to his own room.

  Rhoda slept late the following morning. She had not, in her three nightsin the desert country, become accustomed to the silence that is not theleast of the desert's splendors. It seemed to her that the namelessunknown Mystery toward which her life was drifting was embodied in thisinfinite silence. So sleep would not come to her until dawn. Then thestir of the wind in the trees, the bleat of sheep, the trill ofmocking-birds lulled her to sleep.

  As the brilliancy of the light in her room increased there drifted acrossher uneasy dreams the lilting notes of a whistled call. Pure andliquidly sweet they persisted until there came to Rhoda that faint stirof hope and longing that she had experienced the day before. She openedher eyes and finally, as the call continued, she crept languidly from herbed and peered from behind the window-shade. Cartwell, in his khakisuit, his handsome head bared to the hot sun, leaned against a peach-treewhile he watched Rhoda's window.

  "I wonder what he wakened me for?" she thought half resentfully. "Ican't go to sleep again, so I may as well dress and have breakfast."

  Hardly had she seated herself at her solitary meal when Cartwell appeared.

  "Dear me!" he exclaimed. "The birds and Mr. DeWitt have been up thislong time."

  "What is John doing?" asked Rhoda carelessly.

  "He's gone up on the first mesa for the wildcats I spoke of last night.I thought perhaps you might care to take a drive before it got too hot.You didn't sleep well last night, did you?"

  Rhoda answered whimsically.

  "It's the silence. It thunders at me so! I will get used to it soon.Perhaps I ought to drive. I suppose I ought to try everything."

  Not at all discouraged, apparently, by this lack of enthusiasm, Cartwellsaid:

  "I won't let you overdo. I'll have the top-buggy for you and we'll goslowly and carefully."

  "No," said Rhoda, suddenly recalling that, after all, Cartwell was anIndian, "I don't think I will go. Katherine will have all sorts ofobjections."

  The Indian smiled sardonically.

  "I already have Mrs. Jack's permission. Billy Porter will be in, in amoment. If you would rather have a white man than an Indian, as escort,I'm quite willing to retreat."

  Rhoda flushed delicately.

  "Your frankness is almost--almost impertinent, Mr. Cartwell."

  "I don't mean it that way at all!" protested the Indian. "It's just thatI saw so plainly what was going on in your mind and it piqued me. If itwill be one bit pleasanter for you with Billy, I'll go right out and hunthim up for you now."

  The young man's naivete completely disarmed Rhoda.

  "Don't be silly!" she said. "Go get your famous top-buggy and I'll beready in a minute."

  In a short time Rhoda and Cartwell, followed by many injunctions fromKatherine, started off toward the irrigating ditch. At a slow pace theydrove through the peach orchard into the desert. As they reached theopen trail, thrush and to-hee fluttered from the cholla. Chipmunk andcottontail scurried before them. Overhead a hawk dipped in its reelingflight. Cartwell watched the girl keenly. Her pale face was very lovelyin the brilliant morning light, though the somberness of her wide, grayeyes was deepened. That same muteness and patience in her trouble whichso touched other men touched Cartwell, but he only said:

  "There never was anything bigger and finer than this open desert, wasthere?"

  Rhoda turned from staring at the distant mesas and eyed the young Indianwonderingly.

  "Why!" she exclaimed, "I hate it! You know that sick fear that gets youwhen you try to picture eternity to yourself? That's the way thisbarrenness and awful distance affects me. I hate it!"

  "But you won't hate it!" cried Cartwell. "You must let me show you itsbigness. It's as healing as the hand of God."

  Rhoda shuddered.

  "Don't talk about it, please! I'll try to think of something else."

  They drove in silence for some moments. Rhoda, her thin hands clasped inher lap, resolutely stared at the young Indian's profile. In the unrealworld in which she drifted, she needed some thought of strength, somehope beyond her own, to which to cling. She was lonely--lonely as someoutcast watching with sick eyes the joy of the world to which he isdenied. As she stared at the stern young profile beside her, into herheart crept the now familiar thrill.

  Suddenly Cartwell turned and looked at her quizzically.

  "Well, what are your conclusions?"

  Rhoda shook her head.

  "I don't know, except that it's hard to realize that you are an Indian."

  Cartwell's voice was ironical.

  "The only good Indian is a dead Indian, you know. I'm liable to breakloose any time, believe me!"

  Rhoda's eyes were on the far lavender line where the mesa melted into themountains.

  "Yes, and then what?" she asked.

  Cartwell's eyes narrowed, but Rhoda did not see.

  "Then I'm liable to follow Indian tradition and take whatever I want, bywhatever means!"

  "My! My!" said Rhoda, "that sounds bludgy! And what are you liable towant?"

  "Oh, I want the same thing that a great many white men want. I'm goingto have it myself, though!" His handsome face glowed curiously as helooked at Rhoda.

  But the girl was giving his words small heed. Her eyes still were turnedtoward the desert, as though she had forgotten her companion. Sandwhirls crossed the distant levels, ceaselessly. Huge and menacing, theyswirled out from the mesa's edge, crossed the desert triumphantly, then,at contact with rock or cholla thicket, collapsed and disappeared.Endless, merciless, hopeless the yellow desert quivered against thebronze blue sky. For the first time dazed hopelessness gave way in Rhodato fear. The young Indian, watching the girl's face, beheld in it whateven DeWitt never had seen there--beheld deadly fear. He was silent fora moment, then he leaned toward her and put a strong brown hand over hertrembling little fists. His voice was deep and soft.

  "Don't," he said, "don't!"

  Perhaps it was the subtle, not-to-be-fathomed influence of the desertwhich fights all sham; perhaps it was that Rhoda merely had reached thelimit of her heroic self-containment and that, had DeWitt or Newman beenwith her, she would have given way in the same manner; perhaps it wasthat the young Indian's presence had in it a quality that roused new lifein her. Whatever the cause; the listless melancholy suddenly leftRhoda's gray eyes and they were wild and black with fear.

  "I can't die!" she panted. "I can't leave my life unlived! I can'tcrawl on much longer like a sick animal without a soul. I want to live!To live!"

  "Look at me!" said Cartwell. "Look at me, not at the desert!" Then asshe turned to him, "Listen, Rhoda! You shall not die! I will make youwell! You shall not
die!"

  For a long minute the two gazed deep into each other's eyes, and thesense of quickening blood touched Rhoda's heart. Then they both woke tothe sound of hoof-beats behind them and John DeWitt, with a wildcatthrown across his saddle, rode up.

  "Hello! I've shouted one lung out! I thought you people werepetrified!" He looked curiously from Rhoda's white face to Cartwell'sinscrutable one. "Do you think you ought to have attempted this trip,Rhoda?" he asked gently.

  "Oh, we've taken it very slowly," answered the Indian. "And we are goingto turn back now."

  "I don't think I've overdone," said Rhoda. "But perhaps we have hadenough."

  "All right," said Cartwell. "If Mr. DeWitt will change places with me,I'll ride on to the ditch and he can drive you back."

  DeWitt assented eagerly and, the change made, Cartwell lifted his hat andwas gone. Rhoda and John returned in a silence that lasted until DeWittlifted Rhoda from the buggy to the veranda. Then he said:

  "Rhoda, I don't like to have you go off alone with Cartwell. I wish youwouldn't."

  Rhoda smiled.

  "John, don't be silly! He goes about with Katherine all the time."

  John only shook his head and changed the subject. That afternoon,however, Billy Porter buttonholed DeWitt in the corral where the NewYorker was watching the Arizonian saddle his fractious horse. When thehorse was ready at the post, "Look here, DeWitt," said Billy, anembarrassed look in his honest brown eyes, "I don't want you to think I'mbuttin' in, but some one ought to watch that young Injun. Anybody withone eye can see he's crazy about Miss Rhoda."

  John was too startled to be resentful.

  "What do you mean?" he exclaimed. "Cartwell is a great friend of theNewmans'."

  "That's why I came to you. They're plumb locoed about the fellow, likethe rest of the Easterners around here."

  "Do you know anything against him?" insisted DeWitt.

  "Why, man, he's an Injun, and half Apache at that! That's enough to knowagainst him!"

  "What makes you think he's interested in Miss Tuttle?" asked John.

  Porter flushed through his tan.

  "Well," he said sheepishly, "I seen him come down the hall at dawn thismorning. Us Westerners are early risers, you know, and when he reachedMiss Turtle's door, he pulled a little slipper out of his pocket andkissed it and put it in front of the sill."

  DeWitt scowled, then he laughed.

  "He's no worse than the rest of us that way! I'll watch, him, thoughperhaps it's only your prejudice against Indians and not really a matterto worry about."

  Porter sighed helplessly.

  "All right! All right! Just remember, DeWitt, I warned you!"

  He mounted, then held in his horse while the worried look gave place toone so sad, yet so manly, that John never forgot it.

  "I hope you appreciate that girl, DeWitt. She--she's a thoroughbred! MyGod! When you think of a sweet thing like that dying and these Injunsquaws living! I hope you'll watch her, DeWitt. If anything happens toher through you not watching her, I'll come back on you for it! I ain'tgot any rights except the rights that any living man has got to take careof any white thing like her. They get me hard when they're dainty likethat. And she's the daintiest I ever seen!"

  He rode away, shaking his head ominously.