Bransford of Rainbow Range, Page 2

  CHAPTER I

  THE PITCHER THAT WENT TO THE WELL

  "When I bend my head low and listen at the ground, I can hear vague voices that I used to know, Stirring in dim places, faint and restless sound; I remember how it was when the grass began to grow."

  --_Song of The Wandering Dust_, ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH.

  The pines thinned as she neared Rainbow Rim, the turfy glades grewwider; she had glimpses of open country beyond--until, at last, crossinga little spit of high ground, she came to the fairest spot in all hervoyage of exploration and discovery. She sank down on a fallen log witha little sigh of delight.

  The steep bank of a little canyon broke away at her feet--a canyon whichhere marked the frontier of the pines, its farther side overgrown withmahogany bush and chaparral--a canyon that fell in long, sinuous curvesfrom the silent mystery of forest on Rainbow Crest behind her, to widenjust below into a rolling land, parked with green-black powderpuffs ofjuniper and cedar; and so passed on to mystery again, twisting awaythrough the folds of the low and bare gray hills to the westward, erethe last stupendous plunge over the Rim to the low desert, a mile towardthe level of the waiting sea.

  Facing the explorer, across the little canyon, a clear spring bubbledfrom the hillside and fell with pleasant murmur and tinkle to a poolbelow, fringed with lush emerald--a spring massed about with wildgrapevine, shining reeds of arrow-weed; a tangle of grateful greenery,jostling eagerly for the life-giving water. Draped in clinging vines,slim acacias struggled up through the jungle; the exquisite fragrance oftheir purple bells gave a final charm to the fairy chasm.

  But the larger vision! The nearer elfin beauty dwindled, was lost,forgotten. Afar, through a narrow cleft in the gray westward hills, theexplorer's eye leaped out over a bottomless gulf to a glimpse of shiningleagues midway of the desert greatness--an ever-widening triangle thatrose against the peaceful west to long foothill reaches, to a mistymountain parapet, far-beckoning, whispering of secrets, things dreamedof, unseen, beyond the framed and slender arc of vision. A land ofenchantment and mystery, decked with strong barbaric colors, blue andred and yellow, brown and green and gray; whose changing ebb and flow,by some potent sorcery of atmosphere, distance and angle, altered,daily, hourly; deepening, fading, combining into new and fantasticlines and shapes, to melt again as swiftly to others yet morebewildering.

  The explorer? It may be mentioned in passing that any other would havefound that fairest prospect even more wonderful than did the explorer,Miss Ellinor Hoffman. We will attempt no clear description of MissEllinor Hoffman. Dusky-beautiful she was; crisp, fresh and sparkling;tall, vigorous, active, strong. Yet she was more than merelybeautiful--warm and frank and young; brave and kind and true. Perhaps,even more than soft curves, lips, glory of hair or bewildering eyes, orall together, her chiefest charm was her manner, her frank friendliness.Earth was sweet to her, sweeter for her.

  This by way of aside and all to no manner of good. You have no pictureof her in your mind. Remember only that she was young--

  "The stars to drink from and the sky to dance on"

  --young and happy, and therefore beautiful; that the sun was shining ina cloudless sky, the south wind sweet and fresh, buds in the willow.

  * * * * *

  The peace was rent and shivered by strange sounds, as of a giant fallingdownstairs. There was a crash of breaking boughs beyond the canyon, aglint of color, a swift black body hurtling madly through theshrubbery. The girl shrank back. There was no time for thought, hardlyfor alarm. On the farther verge the bushes parted; an apparition hurledarching through the sunshine, down the sheer hill--a glorious andacrobatic horse, his black head low between his flashing feet; rednostrils wide with rage and fear; foam flecks white on the blackshoulders; a tossing mane; a rider, straight and tall, superb--to allseeming an integral part of the horse, pitch he never so wildly.

  The girl held her breath through the splintered seconds. She thrilled atthe shock and storm of them, straining muscles and white hoofs,lurching, stumbling, sliding, lunging, careening in perilous arcs. Shesaw stones that rolled with them or bounded after; a sombrero whirledabove the dust and tumult like a dilatory parachute; a six-shooterjolted up into the air. Through the dust-clouds there were glimpses of awatchful face, hair blown back above it; a broken rein snapped besideit, saddle-strings streamed out behind; a supple body that swung fromcurve to easy curve against shock and plunge, that swayed and poised andclung, and held its desperate dominion still. The saddle slippedforward; with a motion incredibly swift, as a hat is whipped off in agust of wind, it whisked over withers and neck and was under the furiousfeet. Swifter, the rider! Cat-quick, he swerved, lit on his feet, leapedaside.

  Alas, oh, rider beyond compare, undefeated champion, Pride of Rainbow!Alas, that such thing should be recorded! He leaped aside to shun theblack frantic death at his shoulder; his feet were in the treacherousvines: he toppled, grasped vainly at an acacia, catapulted out and down,head first; so lit, crumpled and fell with a prodigious splash into thewaters of the pool! _Ay di mi, Alhama!_

  The blankets lay strewn along the hill; but observe that the long leadrope of the hackamore (a "hackamore," properly _jaquima_, is, for yourbetter understanding, merely a rope halter) was coiled at thesaddle-horn, held there by a stout hornstring. As the black reached thelevel the saddle was at his heels. To kick was obvious, to go away notless so; but this new terror clung to the maddened creature in hisfrenzied flight--between his legs, in the air, at his heels, his hip,his neck. A low tree leaned from the hillside; the aerial saddle caughtin the forks of it, the bronco's head was jerked round, he was pulled tohis haunches, overthrown; but the tough hornstring broke, the freed coilsnapped out at him; he scrambled up and bunched his glorious muscles ina vain and furious effort to outrun the rope that dragged at his heels,and so passed from sight beyond the next curve.

  Waist-deep in the pool sat the hatless horseman, or perhaps horselesshorseman were the juster term, steeped in a profound calm. That lastphrase has a familiar sound; Mark Twain's, doubtless--but, all thingsconsidered, steeped is decidedly the word. One gloved hand was in thewater, the other in the muddy margin of the pool: he watched the finalevolution of his late mount with meditative interest. The saddle wasfreed at last, but its ex-occupant still sat there, lost in thought.Blood trickled, unnoted, down his forehead.

  The last stone followed him into the pool; the echoes died on the hills.The spring resumed its pleasant murmur, but the tinkle of its fall wasbroken by the mimic waves of the pool. Save for this troubled sloshingagainst the banks, the slow-settling dust and the contemplative bust ofthe one-time centaur, no trace was left to mark the late disastrousinvasion.

  The invader's dreamy and speculative gaze followed the dust of thetrailing rope. He opened his lips twice or thrice, and spoke, afterseveral futile attempts, in a voice mild, but clearly earnest:

  "Oh, you little eohippus!"

  The spellbound girl rose. Her hand was at her throat; her eyes were bigand round, and her astonished lips were drawn to a round, red O.

  Sharp ears heard the rustle of her skirts, her soft gasp of amazement.The merman turned his head briskly, his eye met hers. One gloved handbrushed his brow; a broad streak of mud appeared there, over which theblood meandered uncertainly. He looked up at the maid in silence: insilence the maid looked down at him. He nodded, with a pleasant smile.

  "Good-morning!" he said casually.

  At this cheerful greeting, the astounded maid was near to tumblingafter, like Jill of the song.

  "Er--good-morning!" she gasped.

  Silence. The merman reclined gently against the bank with a comfortableair of satisfaction. The color came flooding back to her startled face.

  "Oh, are you hurt?" she cried.

  A puzzled frown struggled through the mud.

  "Hurt?" he echoed. "Who, me?... Why, no--leastwise, I guess not."

  He wiggl
ed his fingers, raised his arms, wagged his head doubtfully andslowly, first sidewise and then up and down; shook himself guardedly,and finally raised tentative boot-tips to the surface. After thispainstaking inspection he settled contentedly back again.

  "Oh, no, I'm all right," he reported. "Only I lost a big, black, fine,young, nice horse somehow. You ain't seen nothing of him, have you?"

  "Then why don't you get out?" she demanded. "I believe you are hurt."

  "Get out? Why, yes, ma'am. Certainly. Why not?" But the girl was alreadybeginning to clamber down, grasping the shrubbery to aid in the descent.

  Now the bank was steep and sheer. So the merman rose, tactfullyclutching the grapevines behind him as a plausible excuse for turninghis back. It followed as a corollary of this generous act that he mustneeds be lame, which he accordingly became. As this mishap became acute,his quick eyes roved down the canyon, where he saw what gave him pause;and he groaned sincerely under his breath. For the black horse had takento the parked uplands, the dragging rope had tangled in a snaggytree-root, and he was tracing weary circles in bootless effort to befree.

  Tactful still, the dripping merman hobbled to the nearest shadewherefrom the luckless black horse should be invisible, eclipsed by theintervening ridge, and there sank down in a state of exhaustion, hisback to a friendly tree-trunk.